#I LOVE THE BROWN OF DEAD WINTER GRASS

[brown-little-robin]

went on a drive through the woods with windows down, overcome by the beauty of bleakness 12 times, saw ravines and cliffs, vast brown winter cornfield hills, stream paths; stopped at top of hill and saw white bark of birch trees among browns of ash and oak trees, overcome again; drove down, car gathered momentum, overcome again, howled like wolf

[a-treatise-on-velociraptors]

I want to move to as cold a place as possible. I will live in the arctic circle if it means I get consistent winter snow

[harley-kwinn]

— Winter‘s Storm: Chapter I

pairing: cregan stark x fem!cerwyn!reader (oc)

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), mentions of blood, short description of a death person, lots of heartbreak/grief, loosely hinting at a friendship/love triangle, mentions of being in love with another woman’s husband, grammar (english isn’t my first language)

word count: 2,844

taglist: @cregan-starks @gotranting @deltamoon666

•••

Late summer snow fell quietly on the still green lands of the North, slowly wrapping it in its white cloak. The increasingly harsh winds heralded the approaching winter. The quiet crunch of the frozen grass giving way under the heavy hooves of the black stallion shattered the silence of the dusk day. The castle towers of Winterfell loomed on the horizon. Its rider pulled the grey cloak further around her body and spurred the animal on. Half a day's march already lay behind steed and rider.

Their arrival was already expected as the Lord of Winterfell sat patiently outside the gates on his own steed, his black cloak attached to his broad shoulders. His deep grey eyes mirrored the soon approaching storms winter would bring. The corners of his mouth twitched barely noticeably at the sight of his expected guest. His otherwise grim expression seemed to soften, a sight the northern lands had not seen for a long time. The black steed slowed down at the sight of him. "You live dangerously, Lord Stark. Without the protection of your loyal bannermen, all alone at the gates of your castle. I could have planned an ambush and within moments —", his guest carefully ran a finger along her neck before a cheeky smile spread across her narrow lips. "You wouldn't dare, Lady Cerwyn.", he pointed to the long sword sitting on his broad back, "You'd be dead in the blink of an eye." Her almond eyes narrowed as she softly tilted her head, "Don't underestimate me."

He did not return her smile and dismounted from his steed without a word. The animal snorted softly as he let one of his calloused hands glide almost lovingly over the light brown coat. Turning his gaze back to the black stallion, he took a few step forwards and grabbed the reins made of leather close to its head before allowing the horse to sniffle his hand. After a short moment, the animal lowered its head and let him pet its mane. "I would never underestimate you.", he spoke, his voice hoarse and low, before he offered a hand and helped her to dismount. The man was now towering over her. His hand, which had been on the leather reins only mere moments before, softly gripped her shoulder and he lowered his head so their foreheads were touching. Dark strands of hair fell across his face. A gesture he had already cultivated in their childhood. "It is good to see you, Wylla.", Cregan spoke softly. A gloved hand cupped his roughened cheek, "It is good to see you, too, old friend." She took in his familiar scent of pine needles, dirt, firewood and a hint of wild berries mixed with his sweat. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand and cleared her throat. He released his own from her shoulder and straightened up before taking the horses by the reins and leading them through the open gates inside the castle. Wylla caught up to him and grabbed the fabric of her light grey dress to keep pace with her friend. "Feed and water the horses.", Cregan barked at the stable boy as he pushed the reins into his hands. The boy nodded in fright and quickly retreated to care for the horses. She sent an apologetic glance at the poor boy before hurrying after Cregan through the courtyard again who already set a heavy foot to disappear inside the brick Great Hall. "Can I not visit her first?"

Her request made him stop in his tracks. Wylla noticed how his hands formed to fists and his body tensed up. A short, dark glance towards her made her almost regret her question. "Supper is already awaiting us." His scowl would have intimidated her but she knew his grumpy moods were due to the occasion of the day. Her own heart grew heavy at the thought. She didn't want to imagine how he must have felt since the death of his wife. "Please.", the girl begged him.  A sigh left his lips before he gave in. "Then at last let me accompany you." Cregan stalked past her and she followed him to the crypts. It was a dark place, lit only by torches. The place was stuffy and cold. It was the first time Wylla had entered this place after her funeral. A cold shiver ran down her spine and the powerlessness that had almost driven her out of the mind a year ago threatened to take hold of her again. She clasped the cloak around her shoulders and pulled it further around her slender body. Tears took her vision and the deeper they went into the crypt, the more short of breath she became. An icy hand wrapped around her heart and squeezed until it hurt. She wanted to scream in agony. One of her hands found the safety of the wall to her right as they reached the grave of their childhood friend. Cregan's gaze was blank as he stared at the statue that was the spitting image of his wife. Neither of them said a word. The image of Arra laying in her own pool of blood, her teal eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling and the cries of small Rickon born mere minutes before, still haunted her to this day. "I am so sorry.", she whispered almost inaudible. It was a tragedy what had occurred to her.

He did not answer anything in return, but kept staring at his late wife's face carved in stone. Quiet sobs shook Wylla's frame as hot tears burned her from the cold winds reddened cheeks. A hand pressed to her mouth to silence the sobbing yet she miserably failed to. Cregan pulled her silently into his embrace, one hand soothingly resting on her back. She clung helplessly to him and pressed her face into the hard leather of his chest-plate. His scent along with the leather filled her nostrils. Several minutes of a comforting silence passed before her tears had dried up. The girl reluctantly broke away from him and looked at the statue. "I miss her every single day of my being.", the Lord of Winterfell cut the silence quietly. She did not take her eyes off the woman that had turned to stone. "As do I." Silence filled the air between them.

Half an hour later they decided to leave the crypts into the chilly night air and returned to the Great Hall to dine the prepared food. The hot fire in the hearth lighted up the Hall and fought off the chill inside her bones. Their cloaks were brought to their chambers by the servants when they had arrived. Fresh vegetables and potatoes along with venison was served. Wylla thanked the servants for the dished food before she loaded her plate and took a bite of each as a cup of clay filled with rich ale was placed in front of her. "It tastes heavenly.", her eyelids fluttered as the taste coated her tongue. Little Rickon was sat next to his father as a maid was unsuccessfully trying to feed him yet the small boy declined the vegetables served to him. Cregan watched him out of the corner of his eyes and decided he's had enough before picking the boy up and putting him on his lap. "He's grown so much.", Wylla spoke softly as she watched the boy. His dark hair and storm-grey eyes resembled his father yet his snub nose and full lips resembled his mother, a perfect mix of both of them. "Unfortunately he has inherited the boisterous thick skull of the Starks.", his father jested as he unsuccessfully tried to bring a slice of potato to Rickon's mouth. The boy knocked the fork away and tried to wiggle out of his father grip before he began to wail. One of the maidens quickly hurried to grab him but Cregan waved her off . "He has to eat before bed."

Wylla put her fork down and pushed the chair she was sat on across the wooden floor with a loud scrape before she stood up and rounded the table. She knelt down and bent slowly towards Rickon. "You have to eat or else you will never be as strong as your father.", his big eyes watched her as she softly spoke to him. "One day you will be Lord of Winterfell and all of the lands in the North will be yours. But if you won't eat, you'll never become big and strong.", she jested quietly before she began tickling him. The boy squealed and giggled before stretching towards her and Cregan let him climb into his friend's arms. Her rosy lips pressed a kiss to his temple before she arose and carried him towards her chair on the other end of the table to take a seat again. "Now eat, Rickon. If you behave yourself, I'll read you a tale before you go to bed.", she promised him and shortly glanced at Cregan, silently asking for his approval. A short nod of his was enough and she glanced back to the boy sitting on her lap. She carefully brought the fork to the child's mouth, who looked at her with wide grey eyes before reluctantly opening his mouth. Quickly shoving the vegetables inside, she told him to close his mouth and chew. The boy obeyed and swallowed the food down his throat. Quickly opening his mouth again, Wylla was just about to spear a piece of meat on her fork as he slid restlessly back and forth on her lap. She quickly shoved another bite down his throat feeding him until he fully refused the food. "Are you fed?", her voice was soft and sweet. Rickon nodded and buried his head in her chest. She put an arm around him and gently brushed over his side. The sight of the little human snuggled up to her warmed her heart. She hurried to finish eating and then pulled the boy up onto her shoulder to carry him to bed. "Do you mind if I put him to sleep?" Cregan nodded shortly before he arose from his chair and planted a kiss on his son's dark hair. "Good night, boy. Sleep tight." The child reached out to him sleepily before letting his hand hang loosely again. "Do not fall asleep next to him. We have still have a lot to discuss.", Cregan's breath brushed her ear as he leaned in not to startle to boy in her arms. His sudden closeness caused her body goose bumps. She nodded shortly and left the room with Rickon's handmaiden.

While the handmaiden, Gilly, prepared the boy for bed, Wylla laid down on the furs on the bed with a book in hand about the mythology of 'The Children of the Forest'. She opened the book and looked at the drawings. Children with disproportionately large and expressively like green eyes and a pale gray-green skin with apparent rough to wrinkly texture, similar in appearance to plants. The tale was already read to her when she had been a child until she could read it herself. Rickon was placed next to her, covered into the furs and she moved over to him so he could see the drawings. Gilly lit the firewood in the hearth to keep the chamber warm before she left them alone inside. Wylla opened the first page and began reading to him, showing him the drawing as he pointed to it from time to time. After a while, the boy fell asleep cuddled up to her. She watched him for a short moment before she closed the book, planted a soft kiss on the crown of his head and tried to detach herself from the boy as gently as possible. The book was placed back on the shelf on the wall next to the wooden door before she left him in his peaceful slumber.

Cregan was already awaiting her in the Great Hall as she joined him an hour later. She shot him an apologetic glance before she took a seat next to him on the wooden table and took a sip of the ale she had not touched earlier. "Apologies, Rickon wanted to know everything about 'The Children in the Forest'." A deep chuckle rumbled in Cregan's chest and took a long sip of his cup of ale. "Wasn't that our favorite story when we were children?" She smiled gently and placed the cup of clay in front of her. "Yes, of course." A comfortable silence filled the room before she set to speak again. "What was it you wanted to discuss earlier?" The man next to her sighed heavily and sternly furrowed his thick brows. She noted he had taken off his leather chest protection and had rolled up his tunic sleeves to his elbows. His muscles were drawn visible underneath the thin fabric and she had to press her legs together in order to ignore the aching throb under her garments to concentrate on their conversation. She quickly took another sip of the ale to hide her heated cheeks.

"My council urges me to remarry. Yesterday, a raven from King's Landing has arrived reporting of the death of King Viserys I. and the usurpation of the throne through his firstborn son, Aegon II. The rightful heir, his daughter Rhaenyra, is said to be residing on Dragonstone. There is talk of war. Without securing my bloodline and position as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell my council fears that the lords of smaller vassal houses sworn to House Stark will turn against me and peace will be destroyed.", he paused shortly to take another sip of ale, "Besides, the harvest of this summer must be taken, winter's coming."

She swallowed thickly, fright began spreading through her. "The King is dead? Why did the Hightowers put an usurpator on the throne when your father and nearly all lords of Westerosi noble houses have sworn their loyalty to his heir Rhaenyra?" Cregan sighed deeply as he locked eyes with her for a moment. His stormy grey met her deep brown-black. "They must have been planning it for a long time. The King was already ill during my father's time as Warden of the North." She turned her gaze back to the cup of clay in her narrow hands so as not to drown in the depths of his grey. "Arra is dead for barely a year and they're already forcing you to remarry." His features darkened at the mention of her name. His heart had only begun healing itself when it was already supposed to belong to his next bride. Wylla watched him out of the corner of her eyes, the warm light of the fire dancing across his handsome features. It was improper of her to desire the husband of another woman; regardless of the woman dead or alive, loyal friend or hated enemy. Yet she had been secretly in love with him since he had reached manhood seven years ago at the age of four and ten.

"I have mourned long enough. I must make my decision wisely. This marriage must be chosen political strategically.", his voice firm and yet broken. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "You should probably discuss such matters with my brother. I am in no position to —". He interrupted her rather harsh. "You are to help me to lead the lords of our vassal houses back onto the right path. Bind them to us again by offering them gifts and my hand in marriage to their daughters. Find me a suitable bride while my council and I plan the defence of the North." Wylla had to digest his words firstly. He would obviously never consider her as a bride. Confusion and embarrassment spread through her. She was ashamed to ever have formed the thought he would ever see her as anything more than the little girl she used to be. "Cregan, I am not sure if I am the best choice for this. I am not part of your council and —". Once again the man interrupted her, this time a little softer as he cupped her narrow hand with his own big, almost massive, hand and stared at her with an intensity she wasn't sure she would be able to withstand. "You are, who knows me best." Her eyes flickered between his before she pushed his calloused hand away in anger and arose from her chair. "I am not your fool riding across the north to pick the next best woman to warm your bed while you and your stupid council plan the war.", she spat angrily before she turned to leave him. Just as her hand touched the wood of the large door leading to the courtyard, he arose from his chair. "I need you as an ally." Anger made her tremble yet she didn't turn to face him. "Acknowledge me then as an ally." With that she pushed the door open and left into the icy embrace of the night.

[balkanradfem]

So, you might remember I started fixing my abandoned garden, and I said I was going to do it in small increments, and then I never said anything about it again. This is because, after I started doing it, suddenly the temperatures dropped below zero, and we had frost! This is appropriate in November, but it was so sudden I didn't expect it. I hadn't even planted garlic yet! And now it was too cold to work the soil. Oopsie.

However this morning I woke up, opened the window, and realized the southern wind was blowing, which means it got super warm! I immediately dressed up, grabbed my garlic, and went to the garden. I couldn't plant my garlic in the area I had already cleaned, because it's the outer area of the garden, and garlic is the #1 crop that gets stolen, so I have to plant it sneakily behind other things, invisible to prying eyes. That means I'd have to clear off another area. Here's what I'm dealing with today!

I know this looks like such a flop but honestly, this is so good for nature. All of the plants have lived their life cycle, housed little bugs and insects, produced flowers for the bees, and then got obliterated by the frost, as it should be. If I just left them be, they would slowly decompose into the soil and make it more fertile. It looks chaotic but nothing bad is going on here! I am going to make space now because there are some regulations for how community gardens should look like, and if one looks abandoned for too long, it gets taken away. I'm off to work :)

I've been working on this for 20 minutes and I found some produce in here!

I'm shocked there's a whole zucchini in there, even after the frost, I've never seen that. She's a bit of a weird texture, because she's gotten frozen, but otherwise looks good! Certainly the slugs love it. I also found a little potato plant, there could be potatoes underneath her. And in the third picture, I'm holding young garlic! I usually find this in the spring, it's interesting it's already so big, I love that.

Another little task I had planned was to find basil seeds; basil will usually grow flowers when it's allowed to grow naturally, and then the flowers create little seed packets inside of them, and after those get nice and dried up, they're ready to harvest. Here's how it looks like:

If I rubbed all those little pods together, I would be able to find tiny black-brown seeds in there! I used to do that before, extract all of the tiny seeds and store them, but later I got lazy and figured I can just save this entire mess and plant it and basil still germinates just the same.

An hour of work later, I have dug out a giant lemon balm plant out of the soil, because it was taking up too much space (no worries about her, she'll grow back in no time, they're immortal), and took out most of the grass, dead plants, and weeds. Here is the cleared garden!

I've freed two small kale plants that could still thrive during the winter, and there's a few brassicas that look willing to go to seed, which would be great for me to have more seeds from them. Now I can finally focus on the task I've come here for; to plant my garlic.

I made little holes with my spoon, and grabbed two biggest heads of garlic to plant the cloves. I'm not too fussed about it, as long as the bulbs are underground, you can't stop them from growing. If they're not in too deep, then it's easier to pull them out later! And my soil is more fertile on the surface as well. Usually during the winter, little rodends will dig a few of these out, to see if they're delicious, but when they realize it's not yummy, they just leave the bulbs on the top of soil. So I have to check on them a few times to make sure I plant them back! And they're so forgiving and strong, they just go right back to growing, bulbs are incredible.

I counted the garlic here, and there's 22 cloves, which should give me 22 heads of garlic in the late spring/early summer. I couldn't take any more pictures, because my hands were too muddy, but I planted additional two rows in a different location (in case thiefs find one location), and then I also had some of the 'spring garlic', which is a late variety, meaning it grows later, but lasts longer. Usually normal garlic will start sprouting in december, after which point it starts getting inedible, but late-variety garlic will stay fresh until spring. Planting garlic is so easy! The entire venture took me 15 minutes, and you could do this anywhere, and would be guaranteed some heads of garlic.

So watching these pictures you might think 'there's still so much weeds in here, you did not clear this off' and you're correct, I don't clear everything off! This is because I employ a different tactics in stopping weeds from growing; usually during the winter, I will cover the ground in a thick layer of dry leaves, so that light won't reach any of those weeds, and they stop growing just due to lack of sunlight. I'm not doing it this year because of one particular reason, and this reason is slugs. If I cover the ground in leaves now, they won't only protect it from the light, but also protect it from the cold. They'll prevent the ground from freezing as badly as it would usually freeze. And usually I love doing that, but this time, there are so many slugs in the ground that I want cold to eliminate. I'm going to leave my garden like this, and hope that we have an exceptionally cold winter and that slugs get deleted.

I planned to make a lentil soup today for lunch, so I'm grabbing some chives, and some kale to add to it! Kale is still thriving, and I'll be able to harvest it all winter. At this point I've been working for two hours and my pain started acting up, so I figured it was enough for today, and headed home. Here's all the stuff I brought home for lunch!

Zucchini, kale, potatoes, chives, young garlic. All great additions for my lentil soup! I love being able to get fresh food in November. The soup turned out amazing, I love lentils with potatoes and kale and garlic.

[rewind-on-purpose]

Operation Lawn Replacement

All the little reddish seeds that are starting to sprout are mini white clover seeds. I threw fistfulls of these seeds all over my front yard a day ago, and they're already starting to sprout after the rain we've had.

As my update on my last post says, I recently bought a house. My first one ever. *excited squealing* One of the first things I'm doing is replacing the lawn with mini clover. This will probably irritate my neighbors, but since there is no HOA (I wouldn't have bought it if it did), I don't care. There are several reasons why I am doing this:

• mini clover only grows about 6 inches tall max, so it does not require mowing

• clover, being a legume, is a nitrogen fixer, which helps enrich the soil, and doesn't require massive amounts of fertilizer to stay green

• clover is broad leafed, so is better at shading out other undesirable plants/weeds, which means it doesn't require massive amounts of herbicides to create a uniform lawn (I am not advocating for monocultures here, but if that's what you want, then clover does it better than grass)

• clover emerges from dormancy sooner in the spring, stays green in the fall/winter longer, and requires less watering than grass, so it looks nicer when everyone else's lawns are dead and brown due to changing seasons or drought

• clover produces beautiful little white flowers that bees and butterflies love, which supports and attracts these pollinators to other areas of the garden

• clover leaves and flowers are edible

I'm sure there are other reasons I'm forgetting, but I think this is enough reason to lose the grass with its shallow roots and intensive care in favor of something simpler and prettier.

[saphirered]

for the prompts list - cinnamon sweet with Lucien please and thank you :)

Here you go! Loads of fluff and Lucien being Lucien so I hope you like it! 😘

It’s that time of the year Lucien would love to forget all together. The leaves have turned and fallen, the harvests have passed and all is in a slow state of decay. To think he once lived in a perpetual state of autumn seems a different life altogether, and one he would prefer to keep dead and buried. He’s really grown to hate autumn with a passion and he truly can’t wait until winter comes creeping in. At least frozen wastes haunting shadows bring more comfort than what he endured. Yet here you are, wrapped in your knits, wrapped him in them too, excited for the yellows and reds and oranges, the smell of autumn at its peak, the fresh harvests and festivals that accompany it. Here you are loving everything he’s avoided for so long. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you. If anything he hopes that perhaps through you he can endure and grow to like the season again and not feel like he slips into depression every time he spirals into those dark memories. It’s not your fault and he doesn’t want to spoil your fun. Maybe you can teach him how to love the autumn glow once more. 

“Remind me again why you insist in being here, outside in the cold when we could be warm and cozy inside by the hearth instead?” Lucien asks when you sit him down on the wooden bench in the garden. The majority has wilted, or been prepared to endure the coming winter, and while somewhat eery it is still beautiful in its own way. The wind blows the remaining leaves from the trees bit by bit casting a blanket upon the ground making it impossible to distinguish path from grass and unmarked flowerbeds. You hold two ceramic mugs in your hands when you take a seat next to him. Though your proximity does not quite transfer heat, he still feels warmer with you there. 

“Because, my dear Lucien, I want you to experience this properly.” He raises a questioning eyebrow but you are persistent and push the mugs into his hands. Completely at a loss of what to do with them he holds them. The contents seem to be milk. Just milk. He expected something like a tea maybe but the mugs are cold. 

“What now?” He asks when you look at him as if he’s supposed to know what to do now. 

“I need you to heat them up.” You chirp excitedly. A soft smile graces his lips but quickly turns cocky as it often does. 

“Glad to know you keep me around as your personal heater and servant. Shall it be steaming, boiling or evaporated, my dearest?” You cross your arms. Normally he would flick your nose playfully when you puff but he’s half sure you’ll kill him if he drops this mug so he refrains and instead pecks your nose and does as he’s told. Your crossed arms slack and the flush to your cheeks certainly isn’t because of the cold air.

“You have plenty of other uses too.” You tease back reaching for the box you’d brought. He’s not entirely sure how you managed to carry this all. You open the box and inside reveals two chocolate orbs. “I know you like hot chocolate but this one’s special.” You gently drop the orbs in the steaming hot milk each. Slowly but surely the chocolate begins to melt and inside, fluffy little clouds emerge floating on the surface. Lucien looks confused. 

“Dare I ask what this poison is you’re trying to feed me?” 

“They’re marshmallows. They happen to go very well with hot chocolate but there’s one more secret ingredient-“ You reach into your pocket and take the vial you’d stolen from the pantry. 

“Unconditional love and affection?” Lucien interrupts but you don’t miss a beat.

“-two more secret ingredients.” You correct yourself at his quip much to his amusement. You remove the lid from the vial of brown powder. Carefully you sprinkle a modest amount on top. When you do he catches on. Cinnamon. Curious. 

“So you are trying to cover the smell and taste of poison.” You take one of the mugs from him and clasp  it between your hands, cold fingers instantly warming. You scoff and roll your eyes. 

“While poison is poetic I think a dagger through the heart after a passionate night is far more.” You deadpan taking a sip. Lucien shrugs in agreement. 

“A satisfying end to be sure.” You snort and cough as your nose burns. The amusement in Lucien’s eyes is replaced by concern until you assure him you’re alright. “I think you might have mixed up the poisoned mug, love.” He pats your back as you recover and when you do he simply rubs circles allowing his hand to warm you and offer some relief. 

“One way to find out.” Your voice is still hoarse but you’re alright and take another sip of your drink. Finally he takes his first sip. Closely you study his reaction. First it is intrigue; the way he does a double-take, then a hint of confusion trying to figure out his senses. Next comes consideration. A raised eyebrow as he takes a second sip. Then his shoulders relax and he leans back on the bench. He nods to himself and takes another big sip when he notices you staring. 

“I take it you like it then?” You ask gingerly. He smiles and nods. 

“It reminds me of you so yes.” 

“How so?”

“You remind me of sweet things and cinnamon.” The flush to your cheeks darken. Cute. Of course he has to ruin the moment. Can’t let it get to your head. “You taste like it too.” This time you’re prepared though, unfazed you take another sip, rise to your feet and take a few steps away from him. You look over your shoulder, look him straight in the eye in a way that dares him to move. He knows he’s in trouble. 

“Let’s keep it a special treat then. Wouldn’t want you to get sick of the taste.” Now it’s his time to choke on the sip he took. Not what he was expecting, and certainly not the sultry expression on your face as you sway your hips through the invisible garden path and back to the porch, one there you take one last sip, looking at him over the edge of your mug. You step inside leaving the door open behind you. Lucien does not need to be told twice. He downs the cinnamon hot chocolate, the taste lingering on his tongue and follows your tracks inside.

[acronym49]

So many southerners are gonna make fun of me but

I f**king hate summer

The flowers? Love. Green trees? Love. The gentle heat of the sun? Hell yeah.

But noooo I'm here up NORTH in WASHINGTON. THE RAINY BlTCH STATE. The grass is dead and brown and all the flowers are already shriveled in the heat (except the exotic species those are thriving). The fruit trees are producing wonderfully all through town but I can't walk to any of them because I get lightheaded and nauseous when out for more than half an hour.

It's only 30°c out here, but the thermometer easily caps out in the sun. That same sun I was just walking under for an hour and a half and now I want to collapse.

I miss winter. The snow is beautiful, and that sharp sting of the cold burns but at the same time it feels so good. You can freeze your room by leaving the windows open and then bundle up under a cocoon of blankets without overheating and watch a movie while everything outside is icy. Walking in a snowy forest at night is ethereal, and you feel like a spirit. Walking in the forest at night in summer and you'll be tripping over trash while trying to avoid people and not get stabbed.

Lamenting rant over I needed to get this out of my system while I cooled down.

[bokettochild]

So, I have been thinking about your post about Legend and Wild looking almost like twins, Legend being Life, and Wild being Death and I can’t help but think about which of the heroes would be associated with different season. I wanted to share my thoughts: what if Wild was associated with Spring while Legend is associated with Summer? Legend is a god of growth, which takes place mostly over summer for crops and such. Wild, I tend to associate not just with Death but also Rebirth, which would fit a Spring association. Wild cares for the souls of the lost til it is time for them to become something new. Legend as summer and life, leads them on their path.

I also tend to associate Time with Fall (the old tradition of time gods being associated with harvesting) and Twilight is the one most fit for Winter cause I honestly couldn’t remember who else would be associated with that season.

Fun fact! This HC was running around in my head with almost the SAME BLOODY THOUGHTS!

I saw it a sort of different way though, because yeah, Legend would be Summer, all color and life and growth and warmth, but Wild? Wild is Fall. Fall is beautiful and nostalgic, it holds a sense of sadness as the year draws to an end, but that doesn't mean it's not happy and warm and cider and cocoa and crackling fires and crunchy leaves as well. Fall is a time of Death (the leaves die, hunting begins, gardens wither, grass turns brown) but its a beautiful sort of death that is still full of life in a strange way. And that is Wild, that is Wild so much because yeah, he's dead, he died, what came back isn't the same and he's still sort of dead (if only the man he used to be) but he's warm and happy and sweet and wonderful all the same, even though he's dead. Like crunchy leaves that whisper under your feet even though they died weeks ago.

But who is spring? Which Link is rebirth personified? Hyrule! Hyrule is like that first blossom of spring, that first patch of green grass coming up from the slush and the snow. Hyrule is a bright ray of light light in a dark world that promises that morning is coming, that the winter is defeated and it's now time to rebuild and recover and grow again. He's the one from a world still in darkness, still in destruction, a world worse off than any of the others', but it's growing again now it's recovering again now. It's still leafless trees and brown grass and barren land, but there are flowers here now, see? There is a patch of warmth here and the land is recovering, it's coming back, it's not blossoming yet but it's getting there! Hyrule is the Spring as it creeps in with slush and mud and wet and rain and only hints of the beautiful color we all long for. He's messy and raw and real and natural and beautiful not in the way we're looking for, but what is most needed.

I don't know that there are any heroes that fit the feel of winter, of death of the land but joy within, the sparks of warmth even despite the freezing cold, the brightness of a holiday amidst the death of nature, but that's okay. The Life Cycle in Mythology comes in three stages, not four. Life, Death, and Rebirth are all key. I have no clue what other stage in life there could be, but yeah.

They be Spring, Summer, and Fall, and I love that for them :)

[the-void-writes]

All That Thaws In The Cold 2024

I’ve been wanting to join Timi’s winter prompt writing for a while now, but I’ve been fighting off an awful stomach bug that’s hopefully going away. So I apologize if this makes zero sense lol.

Prompt: Visiting the Hometown

Summary: Rio and Jason are sent on a delivery mission that takes them to Rio’s second childhood home, and everything left inside of it.

WC: 3.1K

Rio spent the whole drive trying to control his breathing. His hands were stiff around the steering wheel, knuckles growing whiter the closer they got to the drop off point. It was typical for him to be grouchy or tense on delivery days— Vesely had all of the tech in the world, but he couldn’t afford a mail carrier. This was a different kind of tension, though, a vulnerability that only Jason was allowed to see.

They pulled their truck up along the sidewalk of a simple neighborhood. The house beside them was small and dirty, with an odd dip in its roof that had gathered a pile of frost. The frozen grass on the lawn had completely taken over, bleeding through the holes in the chain link fence. Rio turned off the engine and stared at the house in silence.

“Is this the drop-off?” Jason asked.

“It’s a rest stop,” Rio said blankly. “We’ll wait here until our client shows up. I’m sorry if this becomes an overnight delivery.”

Jason smiled. “Oh, you monster— Making me spend a night with you.”

His humor earned him a soft chuckle, but Rio’s smile disappeared just as fast. He hopped out of the truck and approached the house. Jason followed behind him, looking around at the dead flowers and growing spots of moss on the sidewalk. Rio kicked at a loose piece of grass.

“I need to call the landscaper,” he grumbled.

“Does Gabe own this place?”

Rio closed his eyes. “No.”

He knelt down on the porch and pulled back the welcome mat, revealing a key. After a forceful jiggle of the doorknob, he and Jason stepped into the house. It was even smaller on the inside, starting as a living room with a dining table in the corner. A dim hallway lay before them, which turned a sharp corner into darkness. The only light came from the dull sun pouring through the windows.

“Cozy,” Jason said.

“Barely.” Rio called out towards the back of the house. “Anyone home?”

First, there was nothing. Rio started to relax, until something metal hit a piece of tile.

“Ah, shit.”

Slippers hit the floor as a woman rushed out of the small kitchen. She was tall and bundled in three button-up sweaters. Deep wrinkles sat under her eyes, framed by the brown-and-gray curls that fell beside her face. When she leapt into Rio’s arms, Jason caught a sudden whiff of cinnamon.

“You should have called!” she said, her accent several times thicker than Rio’s. “Where have you been?”

“Sorry, Miss B.” Rio hugged her quickly and released himself from her grip. “Busy.”

“Don’t act like a stranger, Yo-yo. I’m your mother, for God’s sake.”

“I asked you to stop calling me that.”

“You’re such a soldier, you know, you’re too tense. You used to love being called Yo-yo—”

Rio made a gesture for her to stop talking, but it was too late. Jason grinned to himself and let the nickname sink into his memory.

“And who is this handsome young man?”

“My coworker,” Rio said. “Jay, this is Lucille.”

Lucille rolled her eyes. “Please, mijo, you’re killing me.” She shook Jason’s hand. “We’re Rio’s foster parents, me and Bruno.”

“He’s still here?” Rio asked.

“Of course! Here, I’ll get him.”

“Please don’t—”

“Bruno, your son is here!”

Lucille strolled down the small hallway and disappeared around the corner. Rio groaned and hit his head with the butt of his palm.

“I really thought they’d be out of town.”

Jason smiled. “You don’t want to introduce me to your parents?”

“We’ve got shit to do. I didn’t want this to be a reunion.”

“We can stand to wait until the client gets here.” He squeezed Rio’s hand. “Let’s stay a while. Your mother seems happy to see you.”

“Wait until she asks what you do for a living. We’ll be here all day.”

“I’d love that.”

Rio scoffed. “Really?”

“I don’t think you realize how lucky you are, Rio. Your mother still wants to talk to you.”

Regret stirred in Rio’s eyes. Before he could apologize, Lucille returned with a shorter man in tow. His dry hair was somewhere between brown and blonde, and his beard resembled more of a bird’s nest. He nodded once to Rio with a lazy smile.

“How’s it going, kid?”

“Fine,” Rio said.

“Alright.”

He vanished around the corner of the kitchen and returned with a beer. Jason watched in wonder as he chugged half of the bottle, never taking his eyes off of his son.

“Who’s this?” Bruno asked.

“Jason.”

“Boyfriend?”

Rio clenched his fist, and Bruno laughed.

“Just asking.”

“You’re just in time for dinner,” Lucille said. “I’m almost finished. Please, say you’re staying.”

Jason stepped in before Rio could back out. “We’d love to, ma’am.”

She grinned and took Jason by the arm. “I hope you’re not scared of cayenne, Jason.”

“I happen to love it,” he said.

Lucille gasped and hugged him. “Yo-yo, he’s perfect!”

With one last groan from Rio, Lucille dragged Jason into the small kitchen. Despite the limited counter space, there was clutter everywhere. Open dishes of butter sat by the toaster, magazines and cookbooks were piled high by the door, and a small television flickered with a grainy blue image of an old Hollywood movie.

Lucille cooked like a wizard, maneuvering the small space with precision and speed. Jason wasn’t even sure he had helped her at all when she called the others for dinner. When they brought the food to the table, Bruno and Rio were stuck on either side of the couch, staring at the wall in silence.

“Don’t you boys remember how to talk to each other?” Lucille asked.

“There’s not much to share, Lucy,” Bruno said. “Yo-yo’s got one of those fancy government jobs, very hush-hush.”

“Then why don’t you say something?”

“Not much to share. Our neighbor got a new cat, that’s something— damn thing keeps digging through our trash. I told her if I find that ugly hairball in our yard, I won’t hesitate to—”

“Okay—” Lucille grabbed her husband’s hand. “Why don’t you help me bring in the good wine from the garage?”

They disappeared down the hall again, leaving Jason and Rio in the cramped living room. Rio hung his head back over the side of the couch.

“I should have just gone for a motel,” he mumbled. “I don’t even care if the showers are busted, we just need to leave.”

Jason sat beside him and stroked his hair. “Just breathe, Rio. We can do this.”

“You see it, right?”

“I can definitely see how they’d bother you. One showers you in attention, and the other talks about hunting cats.”

Rio grunted. “And you’re not ready to check out yet?”

“Here, I’ll make you a deal— if they make you so ungodly uncomfortable that you can’t stand another minute, just squeeze my arm, and we’ll leave. Does that work?”

“What constitutes ‘ungodly uncomfortable?’”

“Whatever discussion you think you won’t get through without throwing someone through a wall.”

Rio chuckled. “Fair.”

After a moment, Rio opened his side for Jason to rest against. The close contact was a relief to both of them. Finally, they could spend time together without being called away for work or meetings, even if it meant staying with Rio’s lively family. Speaking of which, his parents still hadn’t returned from the garage.

“I hope they didn’t get lost,” Jason said.

“She’s probably sorting him out,” Rio said. “He’s not very talkative, and when he does talk— Well, you just saw it.”

“Right. Jason thought for a moment. “Bruno said he knew where you worked.”

“He knows I’m head of security for a private business, and that’s all he needs to know. As far as they’re both concerned, I made it into the army.”

“Do your parents work?”

Rio snickered. “The old man’s got a business plan. He thinks he’s gonna play the bars, get picked up by a hot new manager, and start selling CD’s— and of course Lucille believes in him. She’s dreaming of that rock star money.”

“I see.”

“No wonder they live in a crumbling house, right?”

“Is there anything we can do to get them out?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried to get them out of this crappy little shack.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘crappy,’ Rio. It’s got—” Jason cleared his throat. “Charm.”

“You’re such a bad liar.”

Jason chuckled. “You know, I’ve seen some nice houses closer to Preston, they might like it there. There’s plenty of work opportunities for both of them, and if Bruno really wants to play, the mall is probably a better venue than a bar.”

The unease in Rio’s eyes vanished as he smiled. “Jay, you’re too good for this world.”

“I just— want to make sure your family is okay.”

“They’re actually happy here, if you can believe it. Sentimental value, I guess, they’ve got too many memories in this place.” Rio shrugged. “Least I can do is pay the place off for them, get some contractors out every now and then to keep it from caving in.”

He said it so casually, as though it was merely a daily routine. For all of his standoffish comments and masks of annoyance, he still loved his foster family. No matter how hard he tried to bury himself under a cold exterior, he couldn’t hide his true, selfless heart. Jason slipped his hand into Rio’s and kissed him softly on the cheek.

“You’re a good man, Rio. It must be hard on you, as well, but you do it anyway. I’m so proud of you.”

Rio sighed for a long time, his chest shaking as he closed his eyes. He took Jason’s face into his hands and kissed him hard.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered.

“Well, I don’t plan on leaving until you’re tired of me.”

“Who could ever get tired of an angel like you?”

“If you keep calling me Angel, then I get to call you Yo-yo.”

Rio pulled away from him. “Hey, that’s uncalled for.”

“It’s precious.”

“If you tell anyone—”

The door to the garage opened again, and Rio’s parents returned with a bottle of wine.

“Come on, you two,” Lucille said. “Let’s have a real holiday meal.”

Rio stood up, offering his arm for Jason to prop himself up with. He stumbled slightly before regaining his balance.

“Are you okay?” Lucille asked.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Jason said. “It’s just hard to stand up sometimes.”

“Of course, you’re so tall. You should really try yoga classes— getting out might help your complexion, too—”

Rio glared at her. “Zip it, Mom.”

“Okay, fine, but you’ll thank me later.”

They all sat for dinner, which Jason couldn’t get enough of. Lucille practically wept as she watched him eat serving after serving.

“It’s been so long since I got to cook for someone outside of the family,” she said. “Do you really like it?”

Jason nodded. “Ma’am, it’s been a long time since I ate something this good.”

Lucille cooed and pinched Rio’s arm. “You better keep him, mijo.”

“That’s his choice,” Rio said.

“Why would I ever choose to leave?” Jason asked.

Rio closed his eyes and forced a smile. Lucille quickly jumped to another topic, sensing the tension in her son.

“How is your daughter?”

“She’s alright. She got the highest score on her science test last week.”

Lucille clapped. “I knew it, she’s the smartest girl in the world.”

“You said your sister was the smartest,” Bruno said.

“Not after she bought that hybrid car. All that money, just for a rear camera.” She scrunched up her face. “Jin isn’t driving yet, right?”

“No,” Rio said. “She’s barely fourteen.”

“Fourteen?! You should have called us!”

“I did, and you said to call back because you were at a bar.”

Bruno snapped his fingers. “Paulie’s, that’s right! I almost sold that place out.”

Rio rolled his eyes. Jason linked their hands under the table, waiting for Rio to squeeze, but he didn’t. He gave Jason a thankful smile and kept eating.

“So,” Lucille said, “are you ever going to bring Jin over again?”

“Sure, I’ll bring her as soon as you clean your garbage out of the guest room.”

“Hey,” Bruno said, “that drum set still works fine.”

Rio nearly laughed. “It smells like every drink you’ve ever had in your life.”

“It’s soaked with years of experience. It would be bad luck to wash it.”

Jason blinked. “Do people normally wash drums?”

Lucille laughed. “Oh, it’s so nice to have you all here. Thank you for coming, mijo.”

Rio looked away. “Sure.”

Her eyes fell on Jason, and he finally remembered how it felt to sit with his parents, long before his wings had grown. The soft and caring smile of a mother had been lost to him for so long.

“Jason, what is your family like?”

He stuttered for a second. “Oh, they’re… nothing like you guys.”

“Are they British? I can hear it in your voice.”

“My mother was British, but she’s lost her accent after marrying my father. I guess I’ve picked up bits of it.”

“What do your parents do?”

“You don’t have to answer,” Rio said.

“No, it’s fine,” Jason said. “Last I checked, my father was still running for mayor. Mother never got to work after I entered the picture, so I’m not sure where she’s gone.”

Lucille knit her perfect brows in worry. “You don’t talk to your parents?”

“Oh, they kicked me out a long time ago. It’s not important.”

Bruno nodded slowly. “I see.”

“Haven’t you had anyone in your life, aside from Rio?” Lucille asked. “A partner, or children?”

“Don’t—” Rio cut her off. “Don’t ask him.”

“Rio, please, it’s okay.” Jason smiled sadly at Lucille. “My last partner was a father, and together we were godparents to our neighbor’s son. It had always been my dream to have a family, and those boys… they were the light of my life.”

“What happened?”

Jason took a deep breath. “We lost our godson. It was years ago… I haven’t seen any of them since.”

Bruno considered him carefully. “So you left them?”

Rio leapt from his seat and slammed his hands on the table. “Don’t you dare— He didn’t choose to leave, they forced him to. They blamed him for everything just because he lived. It wasn’t his fault— Don’t you ever talk to him like that again.”

Bruno leaned back in his seat. “Okay, son— I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

Rio sank back in his seat, unable to erase his scowl. Cautiously, Lucille took Jason’s hand.

“You’re always welcome here, Jason. We won’t force you away.” She smiled. “It makes me so happy, seeing the effect you have on our son.”

“Lucille—” Rio started to say.

“You’re never this passionate, mijo. It means you really love him.”

Rio unclenched his hand, shaken by his mother’s words. He rested his head in his hands and stewed in his turmoil for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been ungrateful.”

Lucille pursed her lips. “No, Yo-yo, you’re perfect. It’s been a hard life for you, we know.”

“We’ve tried to do good by you,” Bruno said. “We still need to work on it, clearly. I promise, we will.”

“Neither of you are the problem. You do fine, alright? Don’t talk about yourselves like that.”

Lucille smiled and took his hand. “You’re a sweetheart, Rio. We love you.”

Rio closed his eyes. “Thanks.”

“And we love your partner, too.”

“Oh,” Jason said shyly, “thank you. You’re all lovely.”

The air felt lighter as they finished dinner, making small talk that they knew wouldn’t set each other off. Even Bruno had begun to offer more than a few sentences. The conversation felt so natural that Jason didn’t realize the sun was setting until Rio’s phone went off. He checked it and rolled his eyes.

“Figures— Client’s late, they’ll show up tomorrow.”

Lucille’s eyes lit up. “You can spend the night, if you’d like. No need to leave this late.”

“Are you sure we’re not intruding?”

“You’re fine, son,” Bruno said. “I think Lucy will cry if you don’t.”

Rio huffed. “Fine, twist my arm. You good with that, Jay?”

“Of course,” Jason said. “Thank you both for your generosity.”

Lucille hopped up and walked down the hall. “I’ll set up the guest room.”

Rio wanted to say something, but he shut his mouth quickly. After the sun had finished setting, and the night’s snow had begun to fall, Rio and Jason went into the guest bedroom. The closet door wouldn’t shut all the way, and there was indeed a drum set tucked lazily into the corner of the room.

“You two should be cozy in here,” Bruno said.

“You’re fine with us sharing?” Rio asked.

“Rio, you’re a grown-ass man, you can sleep in the same room as your boyfriend. We won’t get you in trouble— and you know, if you shove a towel under the door, we won’t be able to hear you two—”

“Get the hell out of here!”

Bruno laughed. “Goodnight, boys.”

He closed the door, and Rio looked back at Jason with despair in his eyes. Jason burst into a fit of laughter as Rio sighed.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

Jason sat up as he approached the bed. “Are you sure you don’t want that towel for the door?”

“I’ll fucking walk back to Gabe, you know.”

“Right, and I’ll stay here, have breakfast with your parents. I’m sure they’d love to tell me all of your most embarrassing stories.”

Rio chuckled and laid down beside him. The bed was far too small, but luckily, Jason was as thin as a post sign. He fit perfectly against Rio’s chest, a position that put the soldier at ease.

“You were right,” Jason said. “That drum set reeks.”

“I hate to tell you, he’s never getting rid of it.”

“Then I guess we’ll really have to talk about moving them out, if we’re going to keep visiting them.”

Rio focused on him in the dark room. “You really like my family?”

“I love it here, Rio. I’ve wanted what you have for so long, and every time I think I have it… it’s gone.”

“You’re welcome with us, Jay. We won’t leave you.”

“Rio… are you sure you want me?”

His distant stare pierced Rio’s heart. The old soldier brought Jason’s face to his and kissed him softly.

“Since the day you said you loved me, I’ve known I could never want anyone else.”

Jason relaxed against his chest and closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

[aggressivenesswhilecrying]

Dante, do you like that slow burn?

Summery:

Ren and martyn are the final two, all their allies and enemies are dead. And on the black heart alter, ren and martyn stand, axe and sword in hand.

Martyns entire life revoles around his king, he knows ren better than he knows himself. And he knows ren isn't made for spring. And well. Martyn will always follow were his king goes.

TW!! MAIN CHARACTER DEATH, HURT NO COMFORT, VIOLENCE!!

Beta read and edited!!

(This is for day one of treebark week, prompt flower/frost!!)

The air is turning warm finally in dogwarts, and the two who rule over it stand on th black heart altar. The king and his hand. Winter has finally passed, and ice and snow are melting away to reveal green grass. The trees are decorated in blossoms, and birds are singing happily. The air tastes like pollen in ren and martyn’s mouths.

Red winter has passed. And spring has come.

And yet there is still red decorating the ground. Poppies burst from the ground, and the tops of beetroots. Red winter has passed and yet a cardinal sits proudly in the tree overhead. Tilting its head as it gazes at the two. Wonder in its sound.

Spring is here, and the light and growth are returning to dogwarts in every way they possibly can.

And there are only two left. Two stand on the ruined earth. They won. It’s, well, it’s almost over. They have almost done it. Soon, there will be nothing but whispers of their lives in these abandoned walls. Ren's ears are low, his sunglasses discarded on the ground, tail between his legs. His hair is matted, and his crown long since gone. His cape curled up at his feet, and Martyn wants to weep. His classic green hoodie is stained brown, red having soaked in. The time is pink now, it’s green, it’s beautiful and alive, life takes over the corpses of their enemies. And yet here two dead men walking are. They aren't made for the gentle spring.

They made the winter with their bare hands, it’s far too late for them to bloom into spring.

Martyn can feel his torn jean shorts against his legs. His sandals painfully digging into his feet, the red winter axe in his hand held tight. He can feel the shaking of despair traveling up his spine. It leaves him feeling breathless and his knee’s shaking.

No matter how gentle the air is, he can't seem to breathe right. He feels sick to his stomach.

Death game. It’s in the name. Everyone dies. Everyone kills each other. Teams are never meant to last here. No. They rot, and fall away like old wood. Lasting for the moment, but after a while, after rain, it always rots away, it always opens up to a hole.

Death game.

They have to kill each other. After all this time they have to tear their weapons through beautiful, loved skin. Skin they grew to worship. Kisses whispered prayers late at night during the beginning of the end. The skin of those they love so deeply. The skin they cared for in the deepest parts of their souls, the skin they both vowed to try to keep safe from harm.

The ax falls from martyn’s hand, and he lets out an ugly sob, back shaking as he loses even more breath in his air from his lungs, he brings the balls of his hands to his eyes each, voice raw as tears start to run down his face, slowly he hears the sound of ren dropping his own weapon, and it’s slow, hesitant even, before ren is running, desperate to get to martyn.

Steps once slow, now quick and rushed as there is no longer any space between them, ren clawing, latching onto martyn, claw like nails digging into clothing, and almost skin as he tugs martyn to his chest. His own breathing is shaky. And his own tears coming to his eyes, there is no space between them to even breathe as he holds martyn like his life depends on it.

If anything Ren is safer away from martyn, but at this point, they don't even care.

“Gods- i- fuck ren, i dont want to, i dont want to do this..!!'' Martyn's voice is a wet scream near the end as he curls into the rough and worn fabric, tears falling like a waterfall, soaking into ren clothing. Rens head settles on top of martyns own, and the king shakes and hiccups, his own tears falling into martyn’s hair, it’s almost nice to know that ren is feeling the same way martyn is right now, just a little bit of reassurance, a “maybe he loves me too, maybe it was true.” but Martyn knows it was. Martyn knows how honest Ren is, and he could not have faked that long, looked into Martyn's eyes, and lied for that long. He knows Ren loved him. And he loves Ren the same. Of course he does. How could he not?

He loves Ren with everything he is. He loves Ren with everything in his soul. He has given his life to ren, every single life. He has listened to every single command ren has ever dished out. He has given everything to ren, loved ren like how someone would love a prayer. It’s all their wishes, dreams, deepest fears. It’s everything they are, is only a few words. Or in this case, one man.

“I don't want to either..”

The silly accent is dropped of ren shivers against martyn, hand tangling into his hair as he holds on like his life depends on it. Like it's his entire life on the line. And he cries. Ren lets out a deep sob, and he cries. Full of love for martyn, love for the home they built. And hate, hate for the situation and how he cant do anything to change their fate.

He can't fix anything, this is the end after all.

Martyn tilts his head up just barely, looking at Ren with tear filled eyes. And he makes a decision as he looks at ren. He makes a decision he could never take back.

He meets Ren's eyes, and for one final moment, one moment of love, he whispers the words he’s meant for ages, in reality, it has only been maybe 8 weeks, but they mean so much more than he’s willing to admit. And he kisses ren.

His king's lips are chapped and scratches against his painfully, but he doesn't so much as care about how it hurts, no, he focuses on the way Ren sobs into his lips. How his grip tightens on martyn. How everything feels like it’s crashing in. He lets himself enjoy it, just for a moment, a moment of peace, of happiness. A moment of love in the end.

Martyn couldn't tell you how long they spent like that, desperate for every moment they can get, holding onto each other lips pressed against each other, breath stolen in these moment, and tears shed, they could have spent hours like that for all they knew, they could have spent years holding each other and it wouldn't have made any difference to them. Cuz in the end they still pull away, they still separate, and they still know what has to happen. There is no other option, no other choice, no other way out.

And so, they get into fighting stances on either side of the altar, they leave the sentimental weapons on the side, and they weep oh so openly. As they prepare to fight, to kill each other in cold blood on the altar that means oh so much to them, they raise their fists, getting ready, a sob racks through ren, he leaves his sunglasses off, and red eyes hold onto red eyes, as they wish, and pray this wasn't the way it ends.

The first hit is thrown by Martyn, because he knows Ren won't take it, he knows Ren won't throw it, so he does. Martyn hears his fist connect with Ren's face, he doesn't see exactly where, but he can feel it through his entire arm.

Like a racing fire up his body, the bloodlust of being red starts to cloud his mind. He feels the fog fill his mind. But he knows he won't win. He knows it. And so he lets Ren take the next, he gives the act of missing as Ren takes another. Martyn lets it happen, because he’s just the king's hand, his role is to give everything to his king, his lord. It’s his job to let Ren take swing, after swing. It’s his job to fall to his knees, and even further as Ren doesn't stop. The redness in his eyes near glowing as he throws hit, after hit.

Martyns face isn't right, and the humid air leaves him feeling sticky. Ren does not relent, even as martyn face turns into some shape it was not supposed to be before, as it no longer looks like martyn, it doesn't even look human to some degree, no, he can't see anymore. Martyn can't see, and he isn't able to talk right, but try as he might, he whispers the words, over, and over, and over again. Broken prayers, to the god that is harming him, in a voice that it can't even hear. Broken and sorrowful declarations to the man he deems his god. To the man he devoted every whim of his life to.

Declarations of love. Of home. Of everything he can say. But Ren will never hear them, as Martyn's voice is drowned out by the blood that fills his mouth. His world is spinning, and he promises that it’s all rens, but all ren can hear is painful gurgling. All Ren is able to feel is shame. All that is there, is martyns bloodied body on the ground below him.

All that remains is a man made god, sobbing at his lover's feet. All that remains is a body that drifts off into dust in the wind. And a man with bloodied fists crying over a pool of red. Whispering his own prayers, and sorrows, and his own declarations of how if the gods aren't cruel, then maybe they will get another shot at this, another life time together, another maybe, and another please, and another im sorry. And everything he can give to the space that once hosted martyn. Another i love you, maybe he deserves this. To lose a lover he held so close, maybe he did something, in some other life, to be the sole survivor in such a painful way.

Ren stumbles over his feet, reaching, begging his arms to grab onto the sword. Praying that as he thrusts the blade into his chest, that him and martyn can be somewhere else, at another time. Maybe they could have lived in a small cottage on the hill, maybe their story doesn't always end in red and death, maybe they mold themselves for spring.

[gone-with-the-twist]

The starry parade of your eyes

Warnings: yandere!Rook. Toxic relationship isn't love, I don't support it. Mention of death. Fem!Yuu (can be read as fem! reader). Ooc and mistakes are possible. English and French aren't my mother language. I'm so sorry:(

The sun rises and sets, the days turn to nights. Winter turns to spring. A parade of stars always appears in the sky. As beautiful as mademoiselle Trikster's eyes. Even less beautiful. There is nothing more marvellous and perfect than belle dame.

Rook has seen many beautiful things in life. In art, he is as fastidious as the strictest critic. But Yuu's beauty... is maddening. Like an eclipse hid the sun, so her beauty overshadowed all other lights in the world. It was the kind of muse the hunter's ardent soul had always longed for.

A lunar face, with tiny, as if painted by a skilful artist's brush, freckles on her nose, plump lips frozen in an eternal warm smile. And her eyes: dark brown with a slight golden sheen. So lively, radiant as the sun. Rook liked her eyes most of all, the mirror of her soul.

Yuu is beautiful. Sa Blanche-Neige, la muse, le renne, la victime. Sa.

Spring will surely pass. The warm summer will also come to an end. The stars will fade. Nature is fickle. Every moment is fleeting, fleeting, like a mountain river.

In autumn, the sun disappears. Just as it fades in Belle Blanche-Neige's eyes. Hiding behind clouds, behind a light haze of worry, fear.

She began to avoid the chasseur d'amour. Ah, that embarrassment! Someday his sensual poetry will get right to her heart. And if not... Rook may use something else that will strike sweet Yuu's heart, an arrow fired by Cupid straight into the hunter's heart.

Yuu, unknowingly, has begun a game similar to the hunt that Rook is so fond of. She hides, he seeks. And never the other way round. The winner takes the trophy. Hunters rarely miss their victims. Especially when the prize is so coveted.

Rook relentlessly searches for it, humming each time: "Where are you? Where are you, ma belle joie?" And each time finding the poor thing wherever she is. Any hunter will not rest until there is a trophy hanging on the wall.

Every year, a cold winter returns. The cycle of seasons comes to an end, starting the cycle all over again. The sun disappears altogether, reappearing only on particularly rare occasions. Everything dies, but not everything is reborn.

Love does not live long. It is too fragile, a light touch shatters it. Instead, all that's left is a pang in your chest that won't go away. And Rook doesn't even try to get rid of it.

The darkness has darkened her eyes forever. Earlier the darkness had also shrouded his green, like new see grass, eyes. But the innocent princess was far more cruel than Rook could have imagined.

Yuu was gone. Quickly, imperceptibly. Like a fluffy thing, caught and gone with the wind. And the wind was Rook. And the fatal mistake he had made. But now her beauty always brightens his life. A bitter consolation for the loser.

Rook loved her lively eyes more than anything else. But there was no point in talking about them any more, for they were closed. Forever.

His Snow White sleeps breathlessly, but her dead beauty offers blissful peace. A kiss from Prince Charming won't help here. After all, Prince Charming Yuu is the main villain in this terrible tale.

[foundtherightwords]

Winter Light - Chapter 4

Pairing:Tom Grant (Make Up) x OFC

Summary: Vanessa, a young cancer patient, arrives at a remote holiday park in Cornwall to wait out the rest of her days, but after a chance meeting with a park employee named Tom who's nursing a broken heart, Vanessa realizes life may not be done with her yet.

Warnings: very light smut, angst, some fluff, swearing, serious illness (cancer), discussion of death/grief

A/N: My first attempt at writing smut, and man, it was like pulling teeth. And it's not even that smutty - more like implied smut, which is the only kind I can write. Guess I'd rather leave things to the imagination. So if you're looking for something more graphic/explicit, sorry!

Also, prawns aren't really cannibals, despite what Mike Wozniak may tell you.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Stay with You

Thus began their new routine.

Tom all but moved into Vanessa's caravan. He would leave for work in the morning and come back for tea or even lunch if there was not much to do that day, and they would spend the evening watching TV or reading, before he carried her to bed and made his bed on the sofa. Sometimes they fell asleep together on the sofa, and Vanessa would wake with her head on Tom's chest. She savored those moments as she lied there, listening to his breathing, feeling his heartbeat. But soon, too soon, he would always wake up and carry her to her bed, before returning to the sofa.

Tom found a wheelchair in one of the store rooms, and on the rare sunny days, they would pack a picnic and head to the beach, Tom pushing her in the chair, stopping just as the path merged with the sand. Then he would pick her up and carry her to their favorite spot under the foot of a dune, where the wind wasn't as strong. She savored those moments too, with his strong, capable arms around her, and the hollow between his neck and shoulder forming the perfect cradle for her head.

"It's supposed to snow soon," Tom said one day, as they sat looking at the churning gray sea. "Might even get a white Christmas."

"Really? Gosh, it's been ages since it snowed on Christmas." Vanessa looked around the desolate beach with its frozen sand and sad clumps of dead, brown grass. Yes, a cover of snow would make it a lot prettier. "Aren't you going home for Christmas though?" Tom shook his head. "But your mum and sister..."

"They'll understand. Besides..." Tom turned away, suddenly looking awkward. "I heard that Ruth's back home. Don't want to risk running into her."

He still thought about her then. Vanessa tried not to show how much that hurt her. But what he said next quickly wiped away that hurt: "And I want to stay with you."

Vanessa stamped down the excitement in her heart. She said with careful nonchalance, "I might not last till then."

"Don't," Tom said quietly.

His voice trembled a little, and that frightened Vanessa. Tom had always been very pragmatic and matter-of-fact when speaking about her death, but now here he was, not looking at her, his lips pressed together to stop them from quivering. No, she would not have that.

"Don't what?" she asked, ready for a fight.

"Don't say things like that."

"Like what? I'm going to die, aren't I? There's no use mincing words."

Tom flinched, but he kept his eyes on her. "Yes, but don't make fun of people when they say they're going to be sad."

"You sound just like them."

"Like who?"

"My family. Fuss, fuss, fuss. I'm sick of it."

"People grieve when someone they love die, you can't deny them that." Tom was getting riled up now. She had watched him long enough to see the tell-tale sign of his forehead scar turning red, his eyes sparking. "And you'll be dead by then, so why does it fucking matter what other people feel?"

Vanessa flinched at the anger in his voice. Tom noticed it.

"What? You can talk about dying but I can't?" he said. "You're afraid, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she managed to say.

"You talk big, but face it, Vanessa, you're afraid. Afraid to die, and afraid to live too."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"Fucking right, I'm a pathetic coward who's hiding from his ex. At least I can admit that."

Suddenly Vanessa was angry. Angry at this boy for being right, for saying all the things she'd been thinking but had not the courage to admit to herself. Angry at herself for falling in love with him, for letting him getting under her skin. And angry at her illness, for taking everything away from her before she got to experience them.

"I don't have to listen to this." Leaning on her cane, she stood up and walked away, but she had only gotten a few steps when her treacherous legs buckled under her in a jolt of pain and she crumpled to the ground. Tom was beside her in a flash, his arms out to pick her up. "Leave me alone, I can do it myself," she snapped at him. She pushed her cane into the sand, trying to get to her feet, but the frozen sand slipped, and another spear of pain stabbed through her. She cried out. Somehow his arms were around her, and she clung to him, sobbing against his chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said those things," he murmured. "You're the bravest person I know." She felt the soothing of his voice rather than hearing the words, and her breathing calmed. She lifted her head to say something to him, she didn't know what, just as he bent his head down to her, and their lips met.

Tom bolted away as if he just had an electric shock, but Vanessa impulsively pulled him back to her. Time seemed to stop while they held on to each other, their faces so close Vanessa could see her shaky breaths ruffling his eyelashes. Those fluttering lashes were her undoing. She leaned forward and kissed him, just a quick peck, really, just to see how it felt, to get it out of her system. He froze for a second, stunned. Then he kissed her back. Slowly, softly at first, then she felt his tongue brush against her lips, so she parted them to let him in, and the kiss got hungrier as he cupped her face in his hands, pulling her close, and she realized he had been waiting for this moment too.

***

Vanessa didn't remember how they got back to the caravan. Tom must have carried her, because her legs no longer worked. But it wasn't because of the pain. There was no more pain. There was nothing else, except for the feel of his mouth on hers, his taste of the tea they had been drinking, and his smell of warm, clean clothes and a faint trace of the sea.

They stumbled through the door, pressed together in a tangle of coats and jumpers and arms and legs, struggling to get their clothes off but not wanting to stray too far from each other or for too long. "Hold on," Tom mumbled as he bent down to unlace his boots. He lost his balance and sent both of them crashing to the floor, giggling like two naughty kids. "Sorry," he laughed softly into her neck, then that laugh turned into a nuzzle, and that nuzzle turned into a kiss that ran all the way from her throat to her collarbone, sending shivers down her spine.

As Tom reached out to lift her shirt up, Vanessa seemed to wake up from the haze. She stopped his hand. "Can we get under the covers first?" she asked.

"You cold?"

That would be a good excuse. Vanessa almost said yes, but she wanted to be honest with Tom. "No. I just... I don't want you to..." She didn't want him to see her body, how the cancer had left her all skin and jutting bones.

"You want to stop?"

"No, it's not that. It's... I'm..." How could she explain? How would she bear it if he took her clothes off and reacted with disappointment, or even disgust? Her nervousness seemed to be contagious. Tom let go of her, took a step back.

"We don't have to do this," he said. "I'd understand. It's been over a year... and before that, I don't know..."

But realizing that he was nervous as well had helped her relax. "I don't mind that," she said, drawing closer until her head rested on his chest. The thought of being away from him at that moment was unbearable. "I'm not that experienced myself, you know. I do want to be with you. It's just..."

Tom saw the way she was holding on to the hem of her shirt, twisting it, and guessed her discomfort. "Here," he said, lifting her chin so she was looking at him. "Trust me." He pulled off his own shirt and trousers. "See, not exactly Mr. GQ myself," he said.

Vanessa stared at his body, taking everything in. He was fit, but not as sculpted as she'd expected. He just looked... soft. Yes, that was the right word. Soft and comforting and safe. She touched the tan lines that hadn't quite faded from around his biceps, and ran her hand slowly from the chain around his neck to his chest, to his soft belly, and finally to the faint line of hair disappearing into his boxers.

Tom drew a sharp breath, and that gave her the courage to push on. She slid his boxers down, resting her hand there for a moment before raising her arms so he could do the same for her, peeling off the layers one by one, until they stood facing each other with nothing but the electrified air between their skins.

Just as she had done with him, Tom reached out to stroke her neck, her shoulder, her breasts, her hips, his eyes following his lingering fingers as if he was marveling at her. His languorous touch stripped her of her inhibitions, her fears, her pains, and released the butterflies in her stomach into a cloud of tingling warmth that flooded her entire body. He pulled her in for another kiss. "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he whispered into her hair. "You're beautiful."

And then they were in bed, mapping each other's body with fingers and mouths, finding all the places where they fitted together like pieces of a puzzle. She tried to stay focused, to memorize everything, his face swimming above her, his eyes dark and liquid in the yellow glow of the floodlights shining in through the window, his chain tickling her. She wrapped herself around him, her legs on his waist, her arms across his back, feeling his muscles ripple and arch like the sea, her fingers wound into his hair, her face buried into his neck as she kissed his pulsing veins, holding on to him, taking him in with every fiber of her being, while the wet heat that bloomed between them built and crested until it engulfed them both.

She didn't let go of him even when the heat had subsided, inside and out. "Talk to me, please," she murmured, cradling his head. "I don't want to go to sleep yet."

"What d'you wanna talk about?" Tom mumbled, his breath warm on her chest.

"I don't know. Anything."

"OK, do you know that prawns are cannibals?"

Vanessa laughed. "That's not true!"

"It is. They eat their babies. Surprised you didn't know that, bug girl."

"Prawns aren't bugs."

"They're sea bugs. Same thing."

Vanessa ran her fingers through his hair, still slightly damp with sweat, and tugged at the rogue curl that always dangled over his forehead whenever he got excited. "Say something else."

Tom propped himself up on his elbows so he could look at her. "Are you happy now?" he asked.

She gazed at him. She was happy. She was happy in a way she hadn't dreamed possible just a few hours ago, let alone when she first arrived at this desolate bit of Cornwall. She was so happy it frightened her. But she only said, "Yes. Are you?"

"Yes." He leaned down to kiss her, and their conversation continued without words.

Later, Tom fell asleep curved on her, his arm around her waist. Vanessa turned to look at him, committing to her memory and her heart every little detail, the way his lips parted slightly in sleep, the way he always had one arm tucked under the pillow, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Remembering, because it would be all that she had.  

When she was sure he was sound asleep, she got out of bed, as quietly as she could. She packed her suitcase with a few essentials - she wouldn't need much. She put Seamus Heaney's "Death of a Naturalist" on the kitchen table, with a note folded into "Lovers on Aran". It was a short note. There was so much she wanted to say, but she was afraid if she took the time to write it all down, Tom might wake up.

Chapter 5 (last chapter)

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Tell us more about #3, #6 and #9, please!

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh

The Blue Hour — Valley Forge — 1777

Hopefully this will be this years Christmas fic. A very small portion of the Continental Army starving and freezing at Valley Forge in the winter 1777-1778 consisted of French Canadians who had joined the American cause during their absolute disaster of an invasion into Quebec. Most of them returned home because the US congress couldn't support its own military, much less foreign volunteers who came without their own money and supplies. And I saw one brief mention of how upon seeing an American in a red coat that had been dyed a shitty drab brown to differentiate them from the British, a nameless French Canadian handed over a blue wool coat that had belonged to his own French-born father in in the Seven Years War. And the symbolism. Matthew and Alfred are trading colours, trading mentors, and trading values. Matt spent his entire life dressed in blue and fighting the British empire and gifting that to Alfred with some various others.

L'heure bleue is when the sun sets below the horizon but there's still just enough light to see what reflects blue through the atmosphere. Just enough love left in them to keep the dark at bay.

My Mother Told Me — Wessex — 9th century

I've only mentioned it a scattering of times through some fics and I can't decide how old Arthur and Rhys are for this but its the carving out of the Danelaw in the 870s as Magnus and Sigurd pincer their way through Arthur in the east, Rhys in the West and then turn north towards Alasdair. At some point in this madness, Magnus cut Arthur shoulder to opposite hip, laying him open before Rhys shot him full of arrows and they fled across the Irish sea. This is the day he earned his title of half-dane.

My Mother Told Me is from a cinematic translation of an adaptation of a skaldic poetry Egill Skallagrímsson that talks about a man who's mother foresaw hime become a powerful viking with ships who would travel much and kill many. Pretty much an ironic dead-ringer for Arthur.

Why does thou sit upon my grave? — Cumbria — 6th Century

This is a reworking of the fic I posted and took down about the series of events that lead to Eirian's (Britannia's) death. How when she was already weakened by Christianity and paying off German invaders to keep a hold of her throne in Rheged, the sun disappeared from the sky in 536 with a volcanic eruption and 541 CE the first wave of the the black death swept through and when they've only just recovered, bad luck in several forms hits them and the final blow comes when another wave of anglo-saxon invasions slam into Cumbria and when their own hillfort collapses, she decides it will be the end of her life. and the consequences of their inheritances and when her youngest son lays himself on the grass that has grown over her burial barrow and cries until he wakes her.

Why does thou sit upon my grave? Comes from an English folk song where the narrator is a body beneath the ground awoken from death by the sobbing of a loved one.

[ifacotarwasgood]

CHAPTER 1 - page 4/?

original word count: 2452

revised word count: 1529

click for ch 1's full comparison document.

original:

brown and gray of the world. And despite myself, despite my numb limbs, I quieted that relentless, vicious part of my mind to take in the snow-veiled woods. Once it had been second nature to savor the contrast of new grass against dark, tilled soil, or an amethyst brooch nestled in folds of emerald silk; once I’d dreamed and breathed and thought in color and light and shape. Sometimes I would even indulge in envisioning a day when my sisters were married and it was only me and Father, with enough food to go around, enough money to buy some paint, and enough time to put those colors and shapes down on paper or canvas or the cottage walls. Not likely to happen anytime soon—perhaps ever. So I was left with moments like this, admiring the glint of pale winter light on snow. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done it—bothered to notice anything lovely or interesting. Stolen hours in a decrepit barn with Isaac Hale didn’t count; those times were hungry and empty and sometimes cruel, but never lovely. The howling wind calmed into a soft sighing. The snow fell lazily now, in big, fat clumps that gathered along every nook and bump of the trees. Mesmerizing—the lethal, gentle beauty of the snow. I’d soon have to return to the muddy, frozen roads of the village, to the cramped

revised:

clean white. Despite myself and the discomfort of my freezing hands, I quieted that relentless part of my mind and tried to take it in. Once it’d would’ve been second nature for me to admire the glint of pale winter light on snow. Once I’d lived and breathed in color and light and shape. Once, when it was easy to believe there was enough food to go around, I’d imagined buying paint and putting those colors and shapes down on canvas. But now it was hard to notice anything lovely anymore. Stolen hours in a barn with Isaac Hale didn’t count. Those times were hungry and sometimes left me half-warm, but they were never lovely. Across the clearing, bushes rustled. I drew my bow on instinct and peered through the thorns. My breath caught. Less than thirty paces away stood a small doe, chewing bark from a tree. Quiet as wind hissing through dead leaves, I took aim, my mouth watering. I could dry half the meat and turn the rest into stews and pies. Her skin could be sold, or perhaps sewn into clothing for one of us. I needed new boots, Elain needed a new cloak, and Nesta was prone to crave anything someone else possessed. My arms trembled. I took a steadying breath, praying my numb fingers wouldn’t give out, and double-checked my aim.

[mossinformed]

How to Garden Your Own Moss Without Doing Harm!

I’m so glad I stumbled on this post!!! I thought I might add some insight about cultivating moss from what I’ve learned from other botanists and in my own experience growing a native desert moss crust from scratch! If you do it purely for the ecology, for aesthetics or crafting (ie artists and witches!) you can do it ethically!

The link to Bryophyte Ecology book (free) on my pinned post by Janice Gliime has information for moss-friendly climates like the PNW and Japan. Japanese gardening does a lot of stuff with moss, but there’s less info on gardening desert mosses. Here are some tips I’ve collected over a few years that might be helpful.

Work with what you have. Find a little patch of moss somewhere in your desired area. Focus on making it larger and connecting to other patches. In my experience (and the other bryologists I’ve talked to) transplanting the way you would a plant with roots ie in a clump and trying to glue or attach it to a new place… will not work. I’ve tried it for years, and Kimmerer talked about this as well. If you work with what’s in your yard you don’t have to worry as much about wiping out a delicate ecosystem or making a species go extinct, which CAN and DOES happen. You have to know a lot about the genus and species in your area plus their ecology to avoid doing this. If you use what mosses are already around you know that moss is capable of living in that area’s conditions. Mosses are pretty picky outside a handful of cultivated species. In the picture below, you can see a place where my native mosses have spread without my help. This is what you can look for, a thin green haze (probably protonema) on the soil and a few gametophytes (the leafy parts!).

Cut weeds, don’t pull them out. When you clear an area don’t pull weeds out of the ground. By “weeds” I mean vascular plants that will smother or crowd out your moss like lawns, cheat grass, and spotted spurge. Keep the soil tightly compacted, if it loosens it just makes a great place for more ‘weeds’ to get in. Moss has an advantage on tightly packed soil because it can just attach to the surface, like they do on rocks. Leaving other roots in there does no harm, my moss crust will actually push clipped grass roots out later (see picture below).

There are some plants that do well with moss! Unless it’s grass or I know what it is I generally don’t pull weeds up until they grow bigger because you can get some neat natives (for free!). I have hen and chick succulents and I like having strawberries spaced out a bit to give them shade. Leaving some weeds up is good, it can give moss a little shade while your crust is developing. If you want to plant, just cut a chunk out of your crust like you would one of those plastic ground over nets. The crust does keep weeds down very well once it gets established! Make sure to add good soil to the hole you make, moss doesn’t need good soil nutrients and it makes good soil but very very slowly. I get a lot of stunted zinnias and sunflowers because I forget. You can also garden moss in the winter! I love it, it really helps with my mental health to see something green and living. It’s also a good time to clear away dead grasses and debris.

Water, when UV exposure is low but there is at least a little sun. If you live in a very humid climate you might want to skip this step. If your moss turns brown don’t worry! It’s probably not dead, they just make their own sunblock. If you mist them you can watch the leaves open up and turn green. I used a hair squirt bottle and only needed one or two to get a good area covered. Don’t soak the dirt, their ‘roots’ don’t work like other plants, they’re just there to hold on. They get water through rain, dew and mist so a little goes a long way, very drought friendly. If it’s too sunny (I avoid 8+ on the weather app, or the hours 11-3 ish) you don’t want their leaves opening up when they get water because they’ll sunburn. You want a little sun, for an hour at least.

Brush them with apaintbrush. It helps prevent a lot of detritus building up where other plants can take root, it can help thin out overcrowding and spread spores (their version of seeds).

Make a pathway to walk on. I just use split branches and cut out a section in the crust. Rocks can also work or cement cinder blocks. This way you don’t break open the soil, it’s easy to do if it’s muddy.

Leave them alone for a bit. Too much water can make them rot, it’s good to have periods of time where you just let them be, especially if it’s rainy for a while. Don’t worry too much about killing them if you forget to water, many mosses can go months to DECADES without water.

I hope this is useful! It’s very nice to see so many people show an interest in moss, there’s lots of work and undiscovered species done by hobbyists. We would be happy to have you come and learn more about the work we do.

(Originally posted on my blog at https://rebeccalexa.com/the-hidden-world-of-moss-forests/)

Last week I wrote about why it’s important to preserve all sorts of ecosystems, not just forests. Today I want to discuss an ecosystem-within-an-ecosystem you may not have realized was there, and why it’s so important to preserve it: moss forests.

Recently I was listening to this episode of NPR’s Radiolab, featuring the work of Korena Mafune and Nalini Nadkarni. The show focused on the diverse and highly important ecosystems centered around moss, high up in the trees, and how even the trees themselves benefit from their mossy coverings. Many people think of moss only as something that grows on trees, rocks, and roofs, and as a nuisance which often needs to be removed from lawns and sidewalks. Yet these humble bryophytes are the foundation of their own miniature ecosystems, as important to them as trees are to larger forests.

Within the tangled green of moss forests lives a wide variety of beings. Springtails are tiny arthropods; while they have six legs, they are only related to insects and not a part of that class. Some species are carnivorous, hunting even tinier creatures like nematodes and tardigrades; others are herbivores, grazing on the moss and other small plants, while still others are omnivores. There are even detritivorous springtails, which feed on decaying matter and help release nutrients into the food web.

The springtails aren’t alone, though. They are a favorite prey of spiders that hunt in moss forests. And both aquatic and terrestrial invertebrates make their homes here. The aforementioned nematodes and tardigrades, as well as rotifers, are just some of the aquatic beings that thrive best in the rainy months when the moss holds pools and droplets of water. Drier times are better for the springtails, as well as their neighbors, the mites, along with various other insects, spiders, and other invertebrates. Like a seasonal wetland, the mosses help to preserve water even after the rains have ended, and allow the beings who live within their leaves to survive and thrive year-round.

So why care about such little living beings? Well, for one thing, they’re important parts of the food web, in which small beings are eaten by bigger ones, which themselves are then eaten by even larger ones. So a spider hunting springtails in the moss could be eaten by a small salamander, which is then caught and eaten by a garter snake, who then ends up as lunch for a great blue heron chick being fed in the nest by its diligent parents.

But they’re also important in their own existence, as are all beings. Too often we only ascribe importance to living beings that we consider to be economically valuable, or that are charismatic megafauna or flora. It’s easier for us to want to help endangered tigers or rhinoceroses, but the smaller, less flashy beings have fewer cheerleaders. And that’s a problem.

Many people, me included, have read and enjoyed Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. While I thoroughly enjoyed it myself, I actually like her earlier book even more! Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses is exactly what the title says: an immersion into not only what mosses are and how they support local ecology, but their importance to a wide variety of indigenous communities and traditions.

One of the things that really made my heart sink was when Kimmerer wrote about commercial moss collection. The entire chapter “The Bystander” describes in painful detail how commercial moss collectors will rip away moss forests from their tree branches, stuff them in sacks, and carry them away. Moss does not generally grow back after these “clearcuts”; it started growing on the trees shortly after they sprouted and began seeking the sun, which means the moss hunters were wholesale destroying colonies that could have been centuries old.

And they didn’t just take the moss, either. As Kimmerer describes: “…in the bag are also untold billions of beings who made that moss their home, like birds nesting in a forest. Scarlet Orbatid mites, bouncing springtails, whirling rotifers, reclusive waterbears, and their children: shall I say all their names in a requiem mass?” (p. 153)

The bags of kidnapped moss forests are then carried to buyers who trade these priceless ecosystems for a few dollars. The moss is then dried–killing anything left alive–and sold to florists who want a more “natural, wild” appearance in their arrangements, or gardeners who use it as a mulch in pots and beds. Large sheets of moss may be dried intact, dyed, and used as indoor decoration, far from the forests they came from. Dried moss is used to stuff wire-frame animals, trying to evoke the wilderness while destroying the wilderness.

Yes, there are commercial moss hunters who do things legally (though Kimmerer writes that “Illegal harvest is thought to be as much as thirty times higher than the legal quota.” p. 154) Some even try to use more sustainable practices, such as taking no more than 50% of moss in a given area, or only collecting moss from rocks. But when the moss that remains grows very slowly no matter its substrate, and literally cannot grow back on the now-bare tree branches–older branches are too smooth to allow the moss to recolonize them–what good is 50% as a target? Especially when illegal poachers may come along and steal the rest? And especially when even the legal moss hunters are still killing billions of tiny invertebrates, the backbone of a forest food web, with every haul?

None of the commercial uses for moss are a matter of life and death for humans, but they certainly are for the moss forests. No one needs to have draped sheets of dried moss in their home or business, and no one needs to pretend their wood-paneled living room is a forest by placing a moss-stuffed wire deer in the corner next to some birch logs. Florists with their high environmental footprint do not need to add to their impact by fueling the demand for mosses to adorn temporary arrangements that will ultimately end up in the trash once they wilt and turn moldy. Even peat, which often contains large amounts of moss in varying states of decay, is no longer a necessary source of fuel, especially when greener energy sources are on the rise.

So what do we do from here? The easiest way to help slow the demand for moss is to simply not buy it. Avoid home decor that has moss incorporated into it, or only buy these items secondhand (which may involve haunting thrift shops, which generally offer better prices anyway!) If you absolutely must buy floral arrangements, see if you have a florist who grows their own flowers and other plants rather than importing hothouse flowers that must be flown in from thousands of miles away, and skip the moss entirely.

If you decide you want to grow a moss lawn (which is more ecologically friendly and easier to maintain than grass), either transplant small “starters” of moss from rocks and soil (not trees!) in nearby ecosystems that have large amounts (assuming it’s legal to do so), or buy from a moss supplier. In the case of the latter, I encourage you to ask where the moss comes from, how it’s harvested, what sustainability guidelines the company uses, etc. The more you know about where your moss is sourced, the better decisions you can make.

But we also need to pressure our legislators to protect moss. Most of the U.S. moss forests being stripped away are either from the Pacific Northwest or the Appalachians, and for the most part all you need is a permit to collect legally on some areas of land–or to be very sneaky if you decide to go collect where it’s prohibited and enforcement is difficult to nonexistent. Those of us in these states need to be contacting our elected officials, as well as the various natural resources entities, to urge them to end the commercial collection of mosses entirely.

And we need to educate others. Most people have no idea this is a problem! When people are empowered with knowledge, they are more likely to make conscious, informed decisions. Yes, it doesn’t work 100% of the time, but some of the time is better than none of the time. Every person who realizes what’s going on and wants to do something about it is one more voice adding to the message.

You can even start by sharing this article with others–the links throughout the text are good resources for further reading, as is Gathering Moss. And, as always, you can contact me if you need even more resources.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online natural history classes, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written!

[7r0773r]

The Lives of the Heart by Jane Hirshfield

Not-Yet

Morning of buttered toast; of coffee, sweetened, with milk.

Out the window, snow-spruces step from their cobwebs. Flurry of chickadees, feeding then gone. A single cardinal stipples an empty branch— one maple leaf lifted back.

I turn my blessings like photographs into the light; over my shoulder the god of Not-Yet looks on:

Not-yet-dead, not-yet-lost, not-yet-taken. Not-yet-shattered, not-yet-sectioned, not-yet-strewn.

Ample litany, sparing nothing I hate or love, not-yet-silenced, not-yet-fractured, not-yet-

Not-yet-not.

I move my ear a little closer to that humming figure, I ask him only to stay.

***

Hope and Love

All winter the blue heron slept among the horses. I do not know the custom of herons, do not know if the solitary habit is their way, or if he listened for some missing one— not knowing even that was what he did— in the blowing sounds in the dark. I know that hope is the hardest love we carry. He slept with his long neck folded, like a letter put away.

***

If the Rise of the Fish

If for a moment the leaves fell upward, if it seemed a small flock of brown-orange birds circled over the trees, if they circled then seattered each in its own direction for the lost seed they had spotted in tall, gold-checkered grass. If the bloom of flies on the window in morning sun, if their singing insistence on grief and desire. If the fish. If the rise of the fish. If the blue morning held in the glass of the window, if my fingers, my palms. If my thighs. If your hands, if my thighs. If the seeds, among all the lost gold of the grass. If your hands on my thighs, if your tongue. If the leaves. If the singing fell upward. If grief. For a moment if singing and grief. If the blue of the body fell upward, out of our hands. If the morning held it like leaves.

***

The Poet

She is working now, in a room not unlike this one, the one where I write, or you read. Her table is covered with paper. The light of the lamp would be tempered by a shade, where the bulb's single harshness might dissolve, but it is not, she has taken it off. Her poems? I will never know them, though they are the ones I most need. Even the alphabet she writes in I cannot decipher. Her chair— Let us imagine whether it is leather or canvas, vinyl or wicker. Let her have a chair, her shadeless lamp, the table. Let one or two she loves be in the next room. Let the door be closed, the sleeping ones healthy. Let her have time, and silence, enough paper to make mistakes and go on.

***

Each Happiness Ringed by Lions

Sometimes when I take you into my body I can almost see them—patient, circling. Almost glimpse the moving shadow of the tail, almost hear the hushed pad of retracted claws. It is the moment—of this I am certain— when they themselves are least sure. It is the moment they could almost let us go free.