#Indian Family Tree

[rrcraft-and-lore]

[landgraabbed]

lmfao my dad got sent some pics of my great-great grandparents and now i've been tasked with visiting a library to check a book that has our family tree and scan parts if possible djdsjsddsas

[twistingtreeancestry]

Day of Commemoration for the Acadian Expulsion

Image Description: A black and white portrait of the Ovillier Guillot and Eve Vice family, circa the early-to-mid 1900s. Top (children), left to right: Eunice Guillot 1922-Dec; Joseph Guillot 1926-2014; Lenus Guillot 1923-1960; Beulah Guillot 1918-1991. Bottom (parents), left to right: Ovillier Guillot 1897-1967; Eve Vice 1897-1950.

The two daughters wear similar dark, button-down dresses with white doll collars. The mother wears a dark, button-down open-collar blouse or dress. The two sons and the father wear white dress shirts covered by fastened suit jackets complete with ties.

Image by [[TBD]].

— — — — — — — — —

Pictured above is my 3rd great-uncle Ovillier Guillot and his family. He is the 4th great-grandson of Jean Baptiste Guillot.

Today is the Day of Commemoration for the Acadian Expulsion.

While I have quite a few direct ancestors who lived in Nova Scotia and ended up in France at the time of the expulsion, there's only one family unit that I have been able to confirm was expelled.

That was the family of my 8th great-grandfather Jean Baptiste Guillot, born in Acadia in 1720 with his body given to the Atlantic Ocean in 1758. His family was expelled from Cobequid, Acadia, Nova Scotia to France during the brutal "Great Expulsion" by the British, who wanted to squelch any potential threats from the Acadians and the Mi'kmaq during the French and Indian War.

His son (my 7th great-grandfather) Charles Olivier Miquel Guillot was only 13 in 1758 when they had to take the long, arduous 75-day journey to France. His father Jean, along with 4 of his brothers, never made it off of the ship.

Charles grew up in France where he married and had 3 children of his own. They left France in 1785 to board one of the seven ships paid for by Spain, Le Saint-Rémi, to take them to Lafourche Parish, Louisiana.

Many members of the Wabanaki Confederacy (I believe predominately it was the Mi'kmaq militia), in addition to other affiliated Indigenous tribes and Acadians, who rallied a resistance were slaughtered or expelled. They refused to swear loyalty to the British crown and surrender to British colonists, refused to convert from Catholicism to Protestantism, and refused to allow themselves to be displaced without a fight. Numerous battles took place to stop the deportation with wins and losses across the board.

While no one has one lineage, I was raised as a proud Cajun despite having often felt ashamed of being Cajun for various reasons (like my accent). I even tried my hardest over twelve years to banish anything that could link me to my roots, not knowing the history behind a part of my ethnicity and culture.

Digging into my ancestry has been a wild ride, and there were many things found within my lineages that were not honorable in any way, but this chunk of my history? This has made me proud to be Cajun again.

I wish I had respected it more when I was still able to be immersed in it. I wish I had asked my pawpaw to tell me more stories. I wish I had kept up with Cajun French (AKA Louisiana French). I wish I hadn't let my cultural heritage fall through my fingers.

Many blessings to those who fought and lost their lives against the British colonists in an attempt to secure the freedom of not only themselves but of future generations to come.

[Disclaimer: I am still only beginning to educate myself about this event and am utilizing my current understanding of how events unfolded and who was involved. I apologize in advance for any misconceptions or misinformation regarding the historical accuracy of my comments.]

[stephantom]

I can’t believe how much I miss LA. The winter here is killing me. It’s just so gray and barren. How did I grow up like this.

[popculturegenealogy]

Mira and a town of relatives

Mira and her father in the episode "The Great Diwali Mystery"

Mira, Royal Detective is one of my favorite series. I have to write about it here on this blog because unlike some other shows, the town where this Indian-inspired series is set, Jalpur, the protagonist, Mira, appears to be related to...everyone! This is like any small town. Anyway, I'd like to break it down for you all, because family ties and the value of family is central to this series, unlike any other that I have ever seen.

Reprinted from my Genealogy in Popular Culture WordPress blog. Originally published on June 2, 2021.

We do not currently know who Shanti's husband is, or if he is still alive. I created this using one of my favorite sites for creating family trees, Family Echo

Let's start with Mira, herself. She was appointed by Queen Shanti to be the royal detective in the city, and she considers her to be like a daughter. Shanti herself has two sons: Prince Neel, a brilliant and talented inventor, often flying around the city in his flycycle or some other invention, and Prince Veer, the aspiring King of Jalpur. Neel has a crush on Mira. We also know that he has a grand-grandmother who was an inventor and built a submarine, as shown in a recent episode, and has great aunt, Rupa. As for Mira, she has two friends, mongooses who help her out on cases: Mikku and Chikku. They are brothers and have two cousins, who are also mongooses: Preeti and Neeti, who are skilled in rope gymnastics. [1]

Mira, however, is NOT directly related to Queen Shanti. Her father is Sahil, who calls her "beti" when talking to her. Two of her friends, Priya and Meena, are sisters, and her cousins, as is Chotu, a younger brother of Priya and Meena (also known as Mina). Their mother is Pushpa, who is also Mira's aunt. Presumably, Kamala is also her cousin, who has a younger sister named Dimple. The same can, possibly, be said for her friends Pinky, Dhruv Sharma, and Sandeep. Apart from them are two brothers, Ranjeet and Manjeet, a music teacher (Sanjeev Joshi), who are her friends. [2] In a few episodes, the royal Nayapuram family appears, comprised of a king, queen, and their daughter, Princess Shivani.

In order to explain this, I came up with this chart created via one originally shared by Kathleen Brandt, a genealogist who wrote that it is "one of the biggest errors made when referencing cousin relationships."

So, we currently do not know the parents of Kamala and Dimple, Dhruv (whose surname is Sharma), Sandeep, or Pinky. But, it is possible that at least one of their parents is a brother or sister of Sahil and Pushpa. There are also many, many unnamed uncles that Mira meets in the town, meaning that they may be some of these people. Some of these parents may have been featured in some episodes but I'm not aware of them. That is definitely a possibility. Saying all of this, it is possible that Mira is calling older men she meets in Jalpur "Uncle" since, as some have noted, "kids routinely call complete strangers “Uncle” and “Aunty”" even if they aren't related. As Times of India noted in 2015, it is "very common" for those in India to call those older than themselves "Aunty" or "Uncle," with this done out of "respect for the elderly or for fellow humans." That could be the case here, even though the terms can also be used for those that someone is related to, by family ties.

Even so, I think that Pushpa is Mira's aunt, since her name in the show is literally "Auntie Pushpa." [3] In the end, I'll keep an eye on this series and possible write another post on this show later.

© 2021-2023 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

Notes

[1] In a recent episode, "The Case of the Vanishing Picnic," Mikku says "its not every day there are cousins that visit from the big city," referring to Neeti and Preeti, showing Mira secret family recipes they have prepared.

[2] This isn't accounting for the Palace Tailor, the two bandits (Manish and Poonam), Ram Sing Ji, and Deputy Oosha who are likely not related to Mira.

[3] In the episode "The Case of the Lost Treehouse," Mira's pa says "there's the tapestry your Auntie Pushpa made for the wall," making it clear this is the case.

© 2020-2023 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

[votermood]

ajit pawar biography in hindi: जानें महाराष्ट्र के प्रमुख नेता और राजनीतिक strategist अजीत पवार के जीवन, उपलब्धियों और उनके राजनीतिक सफर के बारे में।

[roesolo]

While You Were Dreaming - Alisha Rai does YA!

While You Were Dreaming, by Alisha Rai, (March 2023, Quill Tree Books), $19.99, ISBN: 9780063083967 Ages 13+ Best-selling romance author Alisha Rai released her debut YA novel, While You Were Dreaming, and it is so good! Sonia is a teen living with her undocumented sister, Kareena, after her mother is deported. Sonia lives in constant fear of her family’s circumstances being discovered, and she…

[mishalogic]

INDIAN TREE PIE

Native to India

Member of the crow family Corvidae

Likes open scrub, agricultural land, forests and urban gardens

Primarily arboreal

Feeds on fruits nectar seeds and grubs

Feeds on fruits toxic to mammals

catches and forages for food ... Wikipedia

[mamawasatesttube]

kiran singh goes "oh? you want to learn about different cultures on earth?" and forces kara zor-el to watch the baahubali franchise. it is not a cultural exchange so much as it is... well, i hesitate to say psychological torment, but it's close

i know they've never interacted on page or anything but hear me out. i think another fantastic option for "women kara zor-el could kiss" is kiran singh (solstice). she's literally got sunlight powers she NEEDS to kiss a kryptonian. also her parents are archaeologists and i think science guild kara, who wanted to study earth culture to help facilitate kryptonian relations with earth before kandor got mcfucked, could appreciate that and enjoy hanging out with the whole family. women. ive heard of them

[literaryvein-reblogs]

100 "Beautiful" Words

for your next poem/story

Accouchement - the time or act of giving birth

Allemande - a dance step with arms interlaced

Anent - about, concerning

Anthophilous - feeding upon or living among flowers

Aphyllous - destitute of foliage leaves

Apophenia - the tendency to perceive a connection between unrelated things

Apoplectic - extremely enraged

Badinage - playful repartee; banter

Belaud - to praise usually to excess

Chromophil - staining readily with dyes

Coeval - of the same or equal age, antiquity, or duration

Cognoscente - a person who has expert knowledge in a subject

Cruciferous - any of a family of plants including the cabbage, turnip, and mustard

Deliquescent - tending to melt or dissolve

Diallelus - a reasoning in a circle

Elide - to leave out of consideration

Emulous - inspired by or deriving from a desire to emulate

Epergne - an often ornate tiered centerpiece consisting typically of a frame of wrought metal (e.g., gold) bearing dishes, vases, or candle holders or a combination of these

Epexegesis - additional explanation or explanatory matter

Fructify - to bear fruit

Funambulism - a show especially of mental agility

Galbulus - a spherical closed fleshy cone of thickened or fleshy peltate scales

Grenadine - an open-weave fabric of various fibers

Haematite - a reddish-brown to black mineral consisting of ferric oxide, constituting an important iron ore, and occurring in crystals

Hyaline - something that is transparent

Ianthine - having a violet color

Impresa - a device with a motto used in the 16th and 17th centuries; emblem

Ineluctable - not to be avoided, changed, or resisted

Indite - to put down in writing

Jacinthe - a moderate orange

Jiqui - a Cuban timber tree with hard wood very resistant to moisture

Kincob - an Indian brocade usually of gold or silver or both

Kvell - to be extraordinarily proud

Labret - an ornament worn in a perforation of the lip

Lachrymator - a tear-producing substance (such as tear gas)

Latericeous - of the color of red brick

Legerity - alert facile quickness of mind or body

Limnology - the scientific study of bodies of fresh water

Logorrhea - excessive and often incoherent talkativeness or wordiness

Maieutic - relating to the Socratic method of eliciting new ideas from another

Maquillage - makeup

Marmoreal - of marble

Matronymic - a name derived from that of the mother or a maternal ancestor

Mazarine - mazarine blue; a deep purplish blue

Mirifical - working wonders

Nacarat - geranium lake (i.e., a vivid red)

Nephology - a branch of meteorology dealing with clouds

Notabilia - things worthy of note

Obnubilate - becloud, obscure

Obstreperous - marked by unruly or aggressive noisiness

Oenology - a science that deals with wine and wine making

Ombrophilous - capable of withstanding or thriving in the presence of much rain

Organdy - a very fine transparent muslin with a stiff finish

Palafitte - an ancient dwelling built on piles over a lake

Pareidolia - the tendency to perceive a specific, often meaningful image in a random or ambiguous visual pattern

Peregrinate - to travel especially on foot

Peristyle - an open space enclosed by a colonnade

Perse - of a dark grayish blue resembling indigo

Personalia - biographical or personal anecdotes or notes

Phylactery - amulet

Piacular - sacrificial, expiatory

Pleonasm - the use of more words than those necessary to denote mere sense; redundancy

Poetomachia - a contest of poets; specifically: a literary quarrel of Elizabethan dramatists

Prasine - having the green color of a leek

Prestidigitation - sleight of hand

Psilanthropy - a doctrine of the merely human existence of Christ

Psychomachy - a conflict of the soul

Quaesitum - something sought for; end

Quatenus - in the quality or capacity of

Rebarbative - repellent, irritating

Rhapsodize - to speak or write in a rhapsodic (i.e., extravagantly emotional) manner

Rheophilous - preferring or living in flowing water

Rupestrian - composed of rock

Salmagundi - a heterogeneous mixture; potpourri

Sanative - having the power to cure or heal

Sciaphilous - thriving in shade

Subitaneous - formed or taking place suddenly or unexpectedly

Tellurian - a dweller on the earth

Tergiversation - evasion of straightforward action or clear-cut statement

Terpsichorean - of or relating to dancing

Threnody - a song of lamentation for the dead

Tilleul - a pale greenish yellow that is very slightly paler than primrose green

Tmesis - separation of parts of a compound word by the intervention of one or more words

Toadstone - a stone or similar object held to have formed in the head or body of a toad and formerly often worn as a charm or antidote to poison

Toxophilite - a person fond of or expert at archery

Transmogrify - to change or alter greatly and often with grotesque or humorous effect

Ubiquitarian - belief that as Christ is omnipresent his body is everywhere (as in the Eucharist)

Urtication - to induce hives

Vicissitudinous - marked by or filled with vicissitudes (i.e., the quality of being changeable)

Videlicet - that is to say; namely

Visitant - visitor; especially: one thought to come from a spirit world

Wallydraigle - a feeble, imperfectly developed, or slovenly creature

Waltherite - a mineral consisting of an ill-defined carbonate of bismuth having green to brownish green doubly terminated prismatic crystals

Xyloid - resembling wood

Xylomancy - divination by means of pieces of wood

Xystus - a long and open portico

Yfere - obsolete: together

Zoism - phenomena of life are due to a peculiar vital principle

Zymology - a science that deals with fermentation

Zymurgy - a branch of applied chemistry that deals with fermentation processes (as in wine making or brewing)

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or send me a link. I would love to read them!

More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ Word Lists

[fatehbaz]

Despite its green image, Ireland has surprisingly little forest. [...] [M]ore than 80% of the island of Ireland was [once] covered in trees. [...] [O]f that 11% of the Republic of Ireland that is [now] forested, the vast majority (9% of the country) is planted with [non-native] spruces like the Sitka spruce [in commercial plantations], a fast growing conifer originally from Alaska which can be harvested after just 15 years. Just 2% of Ireland is covered with native broadleaf trees.

Text by: Martha O’Hagan Luff. “Ireland has lost almost all of its native forests - here’s how to bring them back.” The Conversation. 24 February 2023. [Emphasis added.]

---

[I]ndustrial [...] oil palm plantations [...] have proliferated in tropical regions in many parts of the world, often built at the expense of mangrove and humid forest lands, with the aim to transform them from 'worthless swamp' to agro-industrial complexes [...]. Another clear case [...] comes from the southernmost area in the Colombian Pacific [...]. Here, since the early 1980s, the forest has been destroyed and communities displaced to give way to oil palm plantations. Inexistent in the 1970s, by the mid-1990s they had expanded to over 30,000 hectares. The monotony of the plantation - row after row of palm as far as you can see, a green desert of sorts - replaced the diverse, heterogenous and entangled world of forest and communities.

Text by: Arturo Escobar. "Thinking-Feeling with the Earth: Territorial Struggles and the Ontological Dimension of the Epistemologies of the South." Revista de Antropologia Iberoamericana Volume 11 Issue 1. 2016. [Emphasis added.]

---

But efforts to increase global tree cover to limit climate change have skewed towards erecting plantations of fast-growing trees [...] [because] planting trees can demonstrate results a lot quicker than natural forest restoration. [...] [But] ill-advised tree planting can unleash invasive species [...]. [In India] [t]o maximize how much timber these forests yielded, British foresters planted pines from Europe and North America in extensive plantations in the Himalayan region [...] and introduced acacia trees from Australia [...]. One of these species, wattle (Acacia mearnsii) [...] was planted in [...] the Western Ghats. This area is what scientists all a biodiversity hotspot – a globally rare ecosystem replete with species. Wattle has since become invasive and taken over much of the region’s mountainous grasslands. Similarly, pine has spread over much of the Himalayas and displaced native oak trees while teak has replaced sal, a native hardwood, in central India. Both oak and sal are valued for [...] fertiliser, medicine and oil. Their loss [...] impoverished many [local and Indigenous people]. [...]

India’s national forest policy [...] aims for trees on 33% of the country’s area. Schemes under this policy include plantations consisting of a single species such as eucalyptus or bamboo which grow fast and can increase tree cover quickly, demonstrating success according to this dubious measure. Sometimes these trees are planted in grasslands and other ecosystems where tree cover is naturally low. [...] The success of forest restoration efforts cannot be measured by tree cover alone. The Indian government’s definition of “forest” still encompasses plantations of a single tree species, orchards and even bamboo, which actually belongs to the grass family. This means that biennial forest surveys cannot quantify how much natural forest has been restored, or convey the consequences of displacing native trees with competitive plantation species or identify if these exotic trees have invaded natural grasslands which have then been falsely recorded as restored forests. [...] Planting trees does not necessarily mean a forest is being restored. And reviving ecosystems in which trees are scarce is important too.

Text by: Dhanapal Govindarajulu. "India was a tree planting laboratory for 200 years - here are the results." The Conversation. 10 August 2023. [Emphasis added.]

---

Nations and companies are competing to appropriate the last piece of available “untapped” forest that can provide the most amount of “environmental services.” [...] When British Empire forestry was first established as a disciplinary practice in India, [...] it proscribed private interests and initiated a new system of forest management based on a logic of utilitarian [extraction] [...]. Rather than the actual survival of plants or animals, the goal of this forestry was focused on preventing the exhaustion of resource extraction. [...]

Text by: Daniel Fernandez and Alon Schwabe. "The Offsetted." e-flux Architecture (Positions). November 2013. [Emphasis added.]

---

At first glance, the statistics tell a hopeful story: Chile’s forests are expanding. […] On the ground, however, a different scene plays out: monocultures have replaced diverse natural forests [...]. At the crux of these [...] narratives is the definition of a single word: “forest.” [...] Pinochet’s wave of [...] [laws] included Forest Ordinance 701, passed in 1974, which subsidized the expansion of tree plantations [...] and gave the National Forestry Corporation control of Mapuche lands. This law set in motion an enormous expansion in fiber-farms, which are vast expanses of monoculture plantations Pinus radiata and Eucalyptus species grown for paper manufacturing and timber. [T]hese new plantations replaced native forests […]. According to a recent study in Landscape and Urban Planning, timber plantations expanded by a factor of ten from 1975 to 2007, and now occupy 43 percent of the South-central Chilean landscape. [...] While the confusion surrounding the definition of “forest” may appear to be an issue of semantics, Dr. Francis Putz [...] warns otherwise in a recent review published in Biotropica. […] Monoculture plantations are optimized for a single product, whereas native forests offer [...] water regulation, hosting biodiversity, and building soil fertility. [...][A]ccording to Putz, the distinction between plantations and native forests needs to be made clear. “[...] [A]nd the point that plantations are NOT forests needs to be made repeatedly [...]."

Text by: Julian Moll-Rocek. “When forests aren’t really forests: the high cost of Chile’s tree plantations.” Mongabay. 18 August 2014. [Emphasis added.]

[herpsandbirds]

May I present you with a charming frog?

South India, I don't really know the species :/

Frog ID - South India:

Hello, yes, I believe this is the Indian Tree Frog (Polypedates maculatus), family Rhacophoridae.

Without seeing the underside and inside of the legs, I'm not 100% confident, but this species is very common across most of India.

Polypedates maculatus - Wikipedia

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can��t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

[phoward89]

Masterlist

Dark!Coryo, Dark!Peacekeeper Coryo, Innocent!Reader, Delulu!Coryo, obsession, manipulation, toxic relationship, drinking, cussing, etc

Chapter 4:

“You know, you might want to change into something more casual later- for when we go to the Hobb.” You told Coryo, who had an arm slung over your shoulders possessively while still carrying his sack over his shoulder. It had a few of his personal items in it so you didn't blame him for carrying it around instead of leaving it on your front porch.

“I will, darling.” Assured Coryo, walking with you towards the meadow. “So, how much farther to the meadow?”

“Not much.” You simply told him, spotting the vast green sprawling meadow and the large oak tree in the distance. Pointing it out, you said, “See, it's right over there.”

Gesturing to the meadow and tree up ahead, Coryo chuckled, “It's still quite a walk in this heat to get there.”

“The heat won't really start calming down for another month or so, but sometimes there's an Indian Summer.”

Having never heard of that term while living in the Capitol, he asked, “What’s that, darling?”

“An Indian Summer’s when it's unusually hot in late November, feeling like summer during late autumn.” You explained, causing the peacekeeper to nod.

“I hope District 12 doesn't get that this year.” Coryo grumbled, shuddering at the thought of breakthrough summer weather during late autumn. Ugh, he hates the climate of 12. He prefers the crispness of the Capitol; he's sure that you will too once he gets you there.

And mark his words, he's getting you there. No matter what it takes, Coriolanus is going home to the Capitol with you hanging on his arm.

“You and me both.” You told your new man, electing giggles and chuckles from the two of you. “You know, I still can't believe that I'm your girl.'' You admitted to the platinum peacekeeper when silence settled between you.

“Why not, Y/N? What's so hard to believe?” He asked, pulling you to a stop; tipping your chin up gently so that you'd look at him.

Coryo's crystal blue eyes bore into yours as you admitted, “I dunno, Coryo. I just wasn't expecting you to like me like that’s all.”

“Actually, darling, I don't like you. I love you.” Your peacekeeper confesses with a Cheshire cat grin.

He loves you? But you haven't known him for that long. And, yes, he's sweet and makes you smile- is handsome too, but you're not there yet when it comes to being in love.

“You love me?...” You trailed off in disbelief, your eyes wide as you stare up at him.

Coryo gently cups your cheeks in his hands, while confessing his undying love *cough* obsession *cough* for you. “Y/N, my sweet darling girl, I just knew it was love at first sight when we smiled at each other. That we're meant to be; I’ll show you my love and devotion every chance I get, my little dove.”

You felt a bit overwhelmed by his sudden love confession. You weren't expecting it. You know that Rein and Ashlie aren't going to be so accepting of your relationship with Coryo; that they'll flip if they hear him say that he loves you.

“You don't have to be shy, darling. You can tell me that you love me too.” Coryo sweetly smiled, tenderly swiping his thumbs along your cheekbones.

Coryo looked so hopeful, like a puppy that was excited to see their new owner, and you didn't want to ruin that by telling him you didn't know how to feel. That you weren't in love with him, yet.

Coryo was a nice guy; a good friend that went out of his way to protect you and keep you safe when you first met him. He was concerned about your safety walking alone in the district and he also had no family nearby. He seems easy to get along with.

Maybe you're just nervous because you've never had a boyfriend before?

“I've never told anyone that wasn't family I love you before, Coryo.” You confessed, hoping that would get you off the hook.

Actually, your family rarely exchanges those sentimental words. Life’s harsh in the districts, sentiments aren't viewed as important by your brother: survival is.

“I told you, Y/N, my darling, that you don't have to be shy with me when it comes to such things.” The platinum blonde boy told you, his baby blues shining brightly with obsession- although to you it seemed like adoration. He tilted his head slightly, only to ask in a too sweet tone, “You do love me, don't you, baby?”

You just couldn't say no to him. It'd crush him. Coryo seems so vulnerable right now. You couldn't be the reason that his bright cerulean eyes turned dull. So, you nod and tell him, “Yes, I love you.”

If only you knew how damning uttering those 3 little words would be.

Coryo was a bit unhinged; by telling him that you loved him back you had literally just tethered your soul to him. In this messed up, delusional, touch starved, admiration craving, power hungry, obsessive mind he truly thought that the two of you had some love at first smile bullshit. Coriolanus was desperate for somebody to love him, to be gentle, soothing, comforting, and just unconditionally kind to him, since he's never had that.

To Coryo love is to possess, to obsess, and to own somebody. He over thinks so, of course, he over ‘loves’. But, the thing is, the platinum blonde peacekeeper's so twisted that he doesn't even know what real love is, despite being shown it by his cousin, Tigris. Of course he’s sweet and soft to the object of his affection, it's only natural to be. Plus, if he was mean he wouldn't get the love he craves back, now would he?

Coryo pressed his forehead against yours, feeling like everything was right with the world since you vocalized your love for him. He knew how you felt, but hearing you say it was like heaven on earth. Oh, how he can't wait to ‘make love to you’ err fuck you nicely, to show you the depths of his feelings.

He decided that tonight, after spending some time at the Hobb, he'll have you.

“I'll show you just how much I love you tonight.” Coryo vowed before capturing your lips in a kiss.

Unknown to you and Coryo, Lucy Gray was under the tree in the far off meadow; watching what she assumed was lovers sharing secrets. Seeing Coriolanus twisting you around his finger made her heartsick. She couldn't stick around and wait for the two of you to join her under the meadow’s oak tree.

So, she slung her guitar over her back and took off towards the woods for a quick hike. The songbird was just walking to clear her head; give you and Coryo some time to defile her meadow, her safe space, before having to go to the Hobb and get ready for her show with the Covey tonight.

A show that she hopes you're not bringing Coriolanus Snow to.

“It's beautiful out here.” Coryo told you, leaning against the oak tree while you nestled between his legs with your back resting against his chest. “But not half as beautiful as you.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

The word beautiful to describe you is an understatement in Coriolanus' mindset. To him, you're the most precious thing in his life. Your kindness and friendly demeanor makes you shine like a diamond in his eyes.

He's never met anyone quite like you before. Back in the Capitol girls are very superficial and shallow. They're caked in makeup, sprayed in artificial scents, and squeezed into the latest fashions- may that be corsets, velvetene jumpsuits, silk dresses, or sky-high heels. But not you.

No.

You're genuine, bright, and vibrant in a world full of misery and falsehoods. You're a ray of sunshine in his life. You, in a way, remind him of his mother. From what little Coriolanus can remember of his mother, Demeter, he remembers how gentle and kind she was. How she always smelled of roses, how she was such a caring person; loved him unconditionally.

Yes, you remind him so much of his late mother. No wonder he loves you so much.

Looking up at the man whose arms were wrapped around your waist, you smiled, “And you're a very pretty boy.”

Coryo bent his head down and pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Then, I suppose, we make quite the pair. A beautiful girl and a pretty boy.”

Sighing, you told him the harsh reality of, “Rein and Ashlie aren't going to like us being quite the pair, Coryo.”

Shaking his head, Coryo scoffed, “I don't care what they like or don't like, Y/N. You're my girl, so they need to accept that.”

“What if they never accept you?” You asked, hoping that he wouldn't make you choose between him and your family.

Little did you know that he wouldn't make you choose in that traditional sense. No, he'll make you think that he's supportive; paint your family out as the ones that can't get along with him. And when your family gives you an ultimatum, Coriolanus will be the one telling you that he's the only one that truly loves you; that'll always take care of you.

“Let's just hope that they do, darling.” Coriolanus said, taking one of your hands in his; linking your fingers together. “I love you and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Of course you're not going anywhere, you're stuck here for 20 years.” You reminded Coryo of the conditions of his peacekeeper duties.

Coriolanus prays to gods, he doesn't even believe in, that he won't be stuck in District 12 for the next 20 years. Honestly, to him that'd be a fucking living hell. The only thing he likes about the muddy, depressing, coal district is you and the meadow. Other than that, the district could burn for all he cares.

Your house was empty when you and Coriolanus returned from the meadow. Rein and Ashlie had gone to the Hobb earlier than they needed to. Neither you nor Coryo brought it up, you both know they're avoiding him. No need to talk about it.

“I know it's not much, but this is my room.” You told Coryo, opening up your bedroom door and leading him inside.

Setting his bag down on the floor, he gave you a thin smile. “It's nice, Y/N.” His baby blues took in the simplicity of the room, only to say, “Looks like the bed might be a tight squeeze tho, darling.”

Coriolanus made a mental note to buy you a full size bed when he gets you your own apartment, closer to the barracks. And he's going to get you your own place. In fact, he'll be looking into it come Monday.

Your eyes widened. You didn't think too much of Coriolanus staying at your house for his weekend leave, but now you're realizing that he's expecting you to share a bed with him- being a couple and all. You feel like it's all very sudden; maybe too much too soon.

“I've never shared my bed with a boyfriend before, Coryo.” You admitted as the two of you went over to your bed.

Sitting down, he smugly remarked, “Of course you haven't, baby. I'm the only boyfriend you've ever had.”

The platinum blonde’s proud that you'll only know him as a lover. He honestly can't wait to claim you tonight.

And talk about tonight…

“How long do we have before we need to meet up with Rein and Ashlie at the Hobb?”

“I dunno. Few hours, maybe.” You shrugged.

“Ah.” Coryo simply nodded.

“I made a wild berry pie earlier, we could have a slice to kill some time.” You offered, figuring that Coryo might be hungry.

“I'd like that.” Coriolanus smiled. “How about you go slice us up some pie while I change into my denim fatigues, yea?” He suggested, causing you to just nod in agreement before leaving him alone in your room to change.

So, while you busied yourself with pulling the berry pie off the windowsill and slicing it, Coryo was getting changed. You'd just finished placing your plates and silverware on the wooden table whenever you heard the heavy bootsteps of your boyfriend coming from down the hall. As you grabbed the small bottle of cream, courtesy of your neighbor Tam Amber's goat, you heard Coryo enter the kitchen.

“The last time I had pie was before being sent here; my friend Sejanus' Ma gave me a slice when I was visiting their apartment.” Coryo told you, his baritone full of nostalgia, as he walked up to the table and took a seat.

“What kind of pie was it?” You asked, sitting next to him at the table.

“Blueberry; Ma Plinth put a scoop of ice cream on it too.” He answered, reaching for the bottle of cream set between your pie plates. Pouring some cream onto his pie, he said, “She sends Sej treats; he shares them with me and our squad.” Gesturing to your pie with the glass bottle in his hand, he asked, “Cream?”

Figuring that he was offering to pour some cream onto your pie, you nodded, “Yes, please.”

“Do you bake often?” He asked, pouring some cream on your pie.

“We can't afford baked goods from the Mellark bakery, so I have to bake pies for us.” You honestly told Coryo as the two of you began to eat your berry pie.

It was true, living in the Seam meant that you're so poor that it's a miracle your family has electricity. Hell, your family doesn't have hot water or a bathtub/shower in the bathroom. The bathtub's an old tin tub. You're lucky your shack house has plumbing for a toilet and a kitchen sink.

You live at the end of the line of the Seam; it's considered the poorest place in District 12. And here you are, sitting at your modest kitchen table sharing a pie you baked with a Capitol born and bred peacekeeper. You couldn't help, but start to feel a bit embarrassed at how poor you were compared to the platinum blonde boy sitting next to you.

If only you knew how Coriolanus grew up in a crumbling penthouse without a pot to piss in, eating watery cabbage soup and congealed potatoes for every meal. Then maybe you wouldn't feel so inferior.

Hearing you tell him that you can't afford to buy anything from the bakery breaks Coryo's heart. It also makes him feel for you in a way he's never felt for anyone before- ever in his life. Yes, what he feels for you is empathy.

Which is a feat in and of itself since Coriolanus Snow is not a naturally empathetic man.

“How ‘bout we go to the bakery tomorrow; I'll get you anything you want.” Coryo suggested, his tone saccharine as the corners of his mouth turned up into a slight smile.

The idea of going to the bakery to get something excited you. You've never been able to do that before because you've never had the money to. But now Coryo’s in your life and wants to treat you to something from the Mellark Bakery.

Just the thought of it puts a smile on your face.

“I’d like that.” You told Coryo before taking another bite of pie.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence while eating pie together. It felt nice, just spending time with him. If only you knew that he'd be making sure that he's the only one you ever spend any of your time with, ever again.

It was dusk whenever you and Coryo emerged from your house to go to the Hobb. He kept a protective arm wrapped around you while walking to your destination. You got a few judgemental or dismayed looks from people wandering around- mostly headed to the same place you are.

The Hobb.

“So, is the Hobb a bar or a nightclub?” Coriolanus asked as street lamps started to appear, signaling that the two of you are entering the Merchant Sector of the district.

Coriolanus knew that Lucy Gray and her Covey performed shows at the Hobb, but other than that he didn't know much about the place. He wondered if it was something like Pluribus’ nightclub. Or maybe it's smaller, more plain since it's in 12 after all.

“No.” You shook your head. “It’s an old abandoned coal warehouse that's been turned into a large black market and dance hall. In the very back there's a wooden stage made of crates that my neighbors perform on; there's also a makeshift bar that separates the market part of the Hobb from the dance hall part.”

“Lucy Gray's your neighbor?” Coryo asked, his baritone full of anger and resentment, as you walked along the cobblestone streets of the nicer part of the district. “I hope you're not friends with the little songbird.” He said very condescendingly.

“Of course I'm friendly with her. Why wouldn't I be?” You told him, only for your brows to knit curiously. Looking up at the platinum blonde, whose buzzcut brightly glows like a halo due to the streetlights, you ask, “Have you heard about her?”

“No, I had the unpleasant experience of meeting the manipulative little bird-boned girl myself in the Capitol.” Coryo spat out, as if the words were sour on his tongue. The peacekeeper wouldn't leave it be. No, instead he went on a rant of, “She's no victor, just a manipulative whore living off her charms while I'm forced to serve here. If it wasn't for me getting her out of that arena and back to her Covey, she'd be dead in a den of rainbow snakes.”

Oh no…The lightbulb went off and suddenly, you figured out that Lucy Gray batted her eyes at him and he wooed over her; causing him to cheat to ensure she became the victor. You don't have a tv, so you don't know what happened, other than Lucy Gray saying that she had to sing for her life and use her snake charming skills at the end. But now you're pretty sure that Coryo cheated; somehow got her scent aka pheromones to the snakes to make her a friendly familiar to them.

You didn't like snakes, but you knew enough about them from what you read in your apothecary book. So you know that your boyfriend had to get your neighbor’s scent into their cage or something before the snakes were dumped into the arena. Dens and pits of snakes will attack strange scents; especially when they feel endangered or threatened.

And now you know why Coryo looks at you like a puppy. He literally has no one, but his friend from home, because he was drafted into Peacekeeper service as punishment for cheating: for rigging the games for Lucy Gray's survival.

“You dropped something of hers into the snakes’ cage, to get them familiar with her pheromones.” You stated, not asked, in a whisper as you spotted the arch up ahead that marked the end of the Merchant Sector and the entrance to the warehouse and coal headquarters.

Coriolanus looked down at you, a proud, but slick smirk on his face. Your background in apothecary aided you in your aha moment about how he cheated. Of course you're smart, you're his girl. His other half. Only his girl would be intelligent enough to put the puzzle pieces together about what he did without having to see the physical evidence.

You're smarter than those fake twists back in the Capitol. Kinder and more beautiful too.

Oh, how he's blessed to have you by his side. He wonders if this is how his father felt when he met his mother? His father was gone a lot, ironically General Crassus Snow was the Commander here in 12 and refused to have his wife and son live in such squalor; would take leave to make family visits, so he doesn't remember much about him. But he does remember how his father's cold icy eyes would lighten up slightly when his mother was by his side; how his deep, stern voice would soften by a slight octave while talking to her.

Yes, the way Coryo feels about you has to be the same way his father felt about his mother. It just has to be; nobody can tell him otherwise.

Coriolanus knew that he couldn't tell you the exact truth of what happened to land him here in 12 as a Peacekeeper, but he also knew that the best lies were actually twisted half truths.

So, he spun you the half-assed truth of, “As my Academy graduation project I was assigned to be her mentor in the games. During one of our strategy meetings, she cried and I wiped her tears with my handkerchief; then when I learned the snakes would be unleashed in the arena, I placed the handkerchief in the terrarium.”

“You got caught when the cleanup crew found the hankie on the floor because it had your name or initials on it, right?” You concluded as the two of you walked under the arch; entering the area the Hobb was in.

“Yes.” Coriolanus nodded. It's just his dumb luck that he has the same initials as his late father; that he had to use his father's old handkerchiefs because, despite being talented with a needle, Tigris couldn't afford to make him shirts and handkerchiefs- the material has to be used sparingly and wisely.

“Then Dean High-as-a-kite-bottom sent me here as punishment.” Your boyfriend hatefully hissed, sounding like a snake about to strike its enemy.

You wanted to ask why he called his dean what he did, but you never got the chance.

Turning to you with disapproval blazing in his baby blues, he ordered, “I don't want you hanging around Lucy Gray or the Covey anymore. She's no good, Y/N.”

“But, Coryo-” You started to object, only to be roughly cut off by Coryo's bitter snap of, “A girl like her, a lying, manipulative whore that sings on live Capitol TV about living off her charms; whoring herself out, while her ex runs off with the Mayor's daughter, isn't somebody I want my girl to be around.”

Dragging you towards the warehouse people were flocking to, Coriolanus seethed in a sickeningly sweet baritone, “If I say you can't talk to somebody then you better listen cause I love you; just wanna keep you safe.”

Not wanting to ruin the night, which was meant to be a good time dancing with Coryo at the Hobb, you nod and squeak out, “Okay.”

Coriolanus feels that the Hobb's a crowded, dirty, dingy, smoke infested, shithole of a dive bar. Hell, calling it a bar's a bit much since the place’s a warehouse turned into a bar with dancing and live music- courtesy of Lucy Gray and the Covey. Being in a tin building meant that the clanking of boots on the wooden dance floor loudly echoed into the air, bouncing around in the platinum blonde peacekeeper's head like a pinball.

He didn't like it one bit. He'd rather be back home in the Capitol at a proper nightclub. Oh, he makes a mental note to take you to a posh nightclub when he takes you back to the Capitol with him- when the time comes. And hopefully it comes soon because he doesn't know how much longer he can handle living out in the districts like some filthy scumbag peasant.

The excited smile on your face makes him crack a smile. Despite the Hobb being a shithole, being out with him made you happy. You're proud to be seen with him, so he decides to stop getting lost in his head and just enjoy the night with you.

A night that's going to be full of drinking, dancing, and fucking.

The fucking will be after he takes you home, but he's sure that you'll enjoy that too.

As he guides you down some rickety steps that are so rusted he's afraid they'll buckle under his weight let alone yours, in order to get to the main dance floor of the Hobb, Lucy Gray spots you. She nearly fumbles her song at the sight of Coriolanus’ large hand in yours, your fingers laced together, as he leads you downstairs to the dance floor. The look in his eyes unnerves her. His crystal blue eyes seem dark, sinister almost, with an unchecked emotion.

One that Lucy Gray's only seen gleaming in not so nice men.

She continues to sing, watching as Coriolanus spots somebody seated at the tables against the wall. Her worried brown eyes follow you as Coriolanus leads you over to where a big-boned young man with a dark buzzcut and a baby face was sitting. His fellow peacekeeper rose from the table, only to clasped Coriolanus on the shoulder before giving you a friendly hug. The small he gave you and Coriolanus was warm and genuine.

Lucy Gray just hopes that Coriolanus' friend can keep you safe from the cold blooded snake. Because any young man that can lead on a girl, who's afraid to die, and convince her that he cares so she'll stay alive to win him a prize is a man that'll do and say anything to get what he wants.

You're her neighbor and friend; she'd hate for something to happen to you because of Coriolanus.

“Thank you, thank you, everyone!” Maude Ivory called out to the crowd as soon as her cousin finished her song. “This next song, well, you all know it; it's a good’un to do some two-steppin’ dancing, to.” The blonde tween cheerfully announced, stomping her feet. “So, 12, let's have a good ol' time tonight! Let's have it for Lucy Gray Baird and the Covey!” Maude Ivory shouted, causing the rest of the members of the Covey to appear on stage with their instruments in hand.

“Sej, can you get us some drinks? I'm gonna dance with my girl.” Coryo told his friend, who reminded you of a big teddy bear, before dragging you off to the dance floor.

Sejanus didn't even get a chance to blink let alone give his best friend an answer. But, seeing him spinning you around on that dance floor with a look of love in his usually hard eyes and a bona fide smile on his face made it hard for Sejanus to be annoyed with his friend. Without giving it a second thought, he left the table to go grab some jars of moonshine for you and Coryo.

Leaning against the bar was your brother, Rein. He was nursing his umpteenth jar of shine for the day while Ashlie, his girlfriend, worked the bar. He spotted you on the dance floor with Coryo, smiling and giggling as he spun you around with his fancy Capitol moves. Showing off like some big fucking hot shot.

Rein just shook his head and tipped back his jar. He wasn't drunk enough to watch you fall victim to some peacekeeper's affections and advances.

But you know what they say:

Like mother, like daughter.

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