#Calloways

[silverseaming]

Summer drifts in on a warm wind, the heat climbing so subtly at first that it was hard to notice. By the middle of the harvest, though, the rays beat down with such intensity that man, beast and flower wilt beneath them. Only the wheat is uncowed, tall and golden as a sticky breeze runs ripples through the fields. It’s almost bearable in the morning — beautiful, even — when the sun only peeks over the mountaintops, glazing the crops orange as the sunrise. The stalks are still heavy with dew, Chestnut’s feathering shining with the moisture.

At midday, however, it is decidedly not beautiful. Despite setting out at dawn and having the help of the Mellors and Gillis boys, the need to harvest while the dry weather lasts means Kit can’t avoid the worst of the heat. By now his shirt sticks to his back, calluses throbbing on his palms. Even the faithful Chestnut has abandoned him to amble down to the creek, not that he can blame her. Each pile of straw tossed increases his longing for the sweet relief of cool water. It’s hard work, yes, but it must be done. This harvest, just like their first harvest, cannot be allowed to fail. Not when he’s risked so much for this, not when they need this, need— well, not even only the money. The success, the small joy of all the crops being gathered in, a bounty in one area of their lives, when others have been painfully barren. And enough to buy a Johnson self-raking reaper, he thinks, as he fiddles with the latest knot of twine. At least then Chestnut would have to pull her weight, rather than leaving everything to Kit and his scythe.

Just when he can’t take any longer, sustenance arrives in the form of Meg and Daisy, laden with freshly baked bread, jams, lemonade, and all sorts of other delights. This little ritual has quickly become Kit’s favourite part of the day — not just because of the welcome meal they bring, but for the view of watching them walk over the field, the moment before Daisy’s sticky hands grab at his where they come close enough for him to see their smiles. It makes something tighten in his chest. Gratitude. Guilt. The two never seem too far apart these days. Looking at Daisy it’s easy to forget, simply lose himself in her innocent happiness. But there are moments of sadness he catches in Meg’s eyes that bring up a whole new guilt, the old crashing harder in its wake. It’s all for them. That’s what he tells himself. It’s better Meg doesn’t worry. Not now. “Thank you, love.” Kit says, pulling Meg a little closer. “It’s no trouble,” Meg smiles, “And this way Daisy gets to be out in the fields with Pa, without driving me to distraction.” “Well, you two are my saviours all the same.”

[necessary-quotation-marks]

His mind is fucking intriguing as hell, I more than willingly follow every thread, every line of thought.

Krista and Becca Ritchie (Damaged Like Us)

[jadequarze]

Hells to the Bells

[otterlyart]

"A voice to the side goes, 'And Grogory shouldn't have been drinking before this meeting.'

[ruidusnightmare]

liam and laura's in sync head turn sends me

[yudol-skorbi]

worst tv marathon ever

[magsowo]

fearneposting

[ohbeauregard]

C3E105

Bells Hells + official titles

[therosecleric]

exandria is NOT ready for fearne and jester's combined power I fear

[suraelis]

From Critical Role C3EP110

MIGHTY NEIN I'VE MISSED YOU SO!

[sango-blep]

🙄

[silverseaming]

It had been a vain, grasping hope of Meg’s that the happiness brought by Kit’s deal with the Lermond’s Cove Company would last. It does, for a while, buoying them through the back-breaking work of ploughing and sowing, when Kit returns to the house well after dark, bone-tired, and Meg has been left to spend the days alone with Daisy. Certainly Kit seems lighter, free of whatever trouble she had been unable to get out of him. But now with the seeds safe in the soil, her old melancholy returns, like the first fingers of winter that begin to claw at the land.

It’s easy to forget during the day, when her thoughts are wholly occupied by Daisy and the house, hands moving quickly from one task to the next. Evenings like this are harder, when Daisy’s asleep, the housework is done, and despite her gentle scolding about catching his death, Kit is still out on the farm fixing fence-posts. There’s always something like that these days — a cow gone lame, a fallen fence, a rotten board in the hayloft, all these tasks that simply must be done, and she can’t say stay with me, I don’t want to be alone, because it’s true, these things must be done and they have no other hands to do them.

So instead Meg sits alone by the fire, embroidery starting to blur before her eyes. It’s something to do, but not enough to wholly occupy her mind. Disappointment is the prevailing emotion, as it is when each new month comes without the news she was hoping for. Sometimes she can make light of it, brush it aside like so many specs of dust on the hearth, but not tonight. Tonight it fills her up, an all encompassing weariness that makes rising from her seat feel almost impossible. It’s just the cold. Or the loneliness. It will pass.

It will pass, she tells herself each step of the stairs. They didn’t feel this steep yesterday, and the room at the top of them didn’t feel so cold and empty, despite the last of the fire still dancing in the grate. Yesterday Kit had been there, washing the farmyard from under his nails and singing under his breath, but not tonight.

Undressing is done without a thought for the task, fingers working mindlessly. Even with the fire the room has a chill to it that makes Meg shiver, tiredness settling in her bones.

It’s selfish, really, to long so much for another child when she already has everything she dreamed of — a husband, a home, a daughter. The thought of Daisy sleeping soundly in the next room brings back some warmth, but it’s not enough. That’s what’s hardest to admit, that despite the love, despite the gratitude, despite all the myriad reasons to be joyful, there’s still something missing.

It is the cold, she thinks, as she finally sinks to the edge of the bed. That’s a reason, at least, a way to explain this all away. Tomorrow will be better, because it has to be.

[necessary-quotation-marks]

His love for his siblings toughens him, not softens.

Krista and Becca Ritchie (Damaged Like Us)

[notherpuppet]

Radio drip 🦌📻🩸

[olessan]

"While you were out and about, trying to just spread your legs a little bit - OOP - spread your wings - aah oh no -"

"I was spreadin' my legs ALL over town-"

[wheezing]

"I was trying- I was trying to say- I was trying-"

"It was a scissoring of wings and legs-"