#chicken steward

[thestudentfarmer]

Garden update July 21, 2024

Time for a garden update:) I managed to get out before it was over 95*f lol

Cucumbers are doing mighty fine, there is a small carrot batch up towards the front

Top left, a sunflower, towards us. Was supposed to be beans. Unknown pest and sun done em in.

Top right. Squash, only 1 fruit sp far. I am trying to I get seed from it. Towards us. Eggplant that needs a desperate trim.

Don't mind the mess of the next 2 photos. It's a work in slow progress.

Tomatoes. Peppers and was sunflowers

Very slow progress lol

The sweet potatoes update too :)

Also, small chicken update

We might have a roo??

🌱🐣Happy Homesteading and Gardening 🐣🌱

[birdthatisbored]

There's been a delay in my calculations about which fandom uses the "sexual dysfunction" tag most on ao3 because I made edward little in stardew valley and now every time I open my computer I think about farmer ned and then go and play stardew valley instead of work on my spreadsheet

[barbiewritesstuff]

Love is Patience, love is kind

---

AN: I'm back! And this time it's a Benedict Bridgerton fic! Don't know if it's good or how long it'll be but I'm hoping it's a slow burn. As always, this isn't proofread.

Also this is soooo long, I'm not sorry :)

The title is still a work in progress.

TW. None I don't think but shoot me a message if you think one applies.

--

The servants quarters at the Bridgerton house are never quiet in the morning. It’s a miracle it doesn’t wake the household, Kit thinks, serving tea to everyone crowded at the kitchen table.

Because there are so many servants and maids, they usually do the morning food service in two goes. The Lower servants get first service, because they’re up earlier than the rest, and an hour later, the upper servants come down for their breakfast. Dinner is the opposite, with the upper servants eating first, and the lower servants eating afterwards. It’s only at lunch that everyone eats together while the Bridgertons luncheon upstairs. It’s short and rushed, especially for the Footmen who have to eat between food courses but cook is practised at her art and makes meals the boys can scoff down as they run plates upstairs. Mr Graves, the steward, doesn’t mind, so long as the boys aren’t still chewing on their food when they’re within eyesight of the family.

It’s rare that the staff finds a moment to converse around the kitchen table as a group outside of their respective mealtimes, but everyone tries for birthdays, Christmas and Easter, and, like today, for employment anniversaries.

Despite being the one rushing around, serving tea, it’s Kit’s employment anniversary. She’s been employed by the Bridgertons for seven years today, and it’s gone by in a blur. She started off as a scullery maid and two years ago, moved to kitchen maid. She’ll likely stay there until Cook retires, which might be some years yet. Cook’s no spring chicken, but behind her facade of cute little old lady hides a strength and energy she only allows to be seen when something isn’t to her liking in her kitchen. The kitchen is Cook’s domain. Her kingdom. And she rules it with an iron fist and all the mercy of a dictator.

That being said, Cook really is a kind and caring woman. Which is why, unbeknownst to Kit, she’s been up for hours preparing a treat. She’s had to clear it with Mrs Wilson, the housekeeper, weeks in advance and then hide it before Kit could discover her surprise, but as she finishes pouring tea and passing around the milk, Cook pulls out the plate of hot scones, cream and raspberry jam. It’s still steaming when she sets it out on the table with a satisfied grin at Kit’s surprised face.

The staff cheers but waits patiently for Kit to have the first one, watching with hungry eyes as she smears the jam on first and then drops a measured dollop of clotted cream to finish it off. They even hold off long enough for her to take a bite. As if waiting for her approval, as soon as she smiles, they all throw themselves on the plate to grab their own scone. In the hubbub, the jam spoon flies off, hitting a wall by the staircase that leads upstairs but no one notices.

Then, in less than five minutes, everything has been eaten, and the lower servants down their boiling hot teas as fast as they can before the shift starts. Soon, the merry conversations of the kitchen tables turn into orders and task lists and only the upper servants remain seated. Next to Kit, Cook pulls out her notebook and begins planning the day, and meals.

“Isn’t the new scullery maid supposed to start today,” Mrs Wilson remarks, tapping Mr Graves’ arm in order to get his attention.

He looks at his watch, a present from Edmund Bridgerton some years before, “She should be here in time for the Lunch service,” he replies, turning back to his tea, drinking the last mouthful and then shaking his cup at Kit to signal for a refill.

“Patience, you’ll be showing her the ropes,” he tells Kit, who he simply refuses to call by her nickname, stating that “Your parents put such thought in your first name, I will not show such disrespect as you call you by anything else,” and ignoring her when she tries to tell him that even her parents call her Kit. Only her brother Michael calls her Patience, or Patsy, when he’s cross with her.

Kit nods, until two years ago she’d been a scullery maid herself, and since her promotion, she had been juggling both jobs herself. It was a relief that Mr Graves had finally hired someone else, she’d be able to sleep more, and it would give her skin and lungs some needed reprieve. The cleaning chemicals she used to scrub everything clean were effective, but they were quite harsh on her. Graves’ reluctance to fill the scullery position was a mystery to everyone else too, the Bridgertons’ were more than rich enough to pay another member of staff, and even Mrs Wilson, who usually followed Mr. Graves’ instruction to the letter, had been on his case about hiring someone else.

“You should have --” Mrs Wilson starts

“I will not hear of it,” Mr Graves says, cutting her off, “I have now, there’s no need to harp on about it.”

The housekeeper throws him a look. If Kit didn’t know them as well as she did, she might be tempted to say the two were secretly courting, but as it stood, Mrs Wilson made her opinion of Graves perfectly clear. He was her superior and therefore worthy of respect and blind obedience, but privately, she thought him a self-important little man.

Before Graves could reprimand the housekeeper for the glare, the bells began ringing. Lady’s maids and valet stand up from their chairs, climbing up the stairs to the main house to assist their family member, then, the footmen stand up, finishing their tea to set the table and bring breakfast. Eventually, Humboldt and Mrs Wilson leave their place at the tables too.

After another cup of tea and a specially made jam on toast, Mr Graves bids Cook and Kit goodbye and retreats to his office, a small room to the side of the kitchen.

“I do not wish to spoil the fun of your special day, Kit dear, but we must get on,” Cook says. Springing to action, she tidies the kitchen table, neatly stacking plates, cups and cutlery by the kitchen sink and then, almost automatically, peeling vegetables.

For lunch, the Bridgertons will have asparagus soup, cold meat, cake and fruit. The soup is a special request of Violet Bridgerton herself and Cook wishes to make the Viscountess' soup of her own hands, while she busies herself with that, Kit moves on to the rest.

Then, as they finish up, the new scullery maid is announced by one of the Grooms as he walks in, traipsing mud and horse manure all over Kit’s perfectly polished floor.

Amused by the death glare she throws his way, the Groom introduces the girl, “This is Elaine,” he says, “And this is Cook,” he tells the girl, “And the Kitchen Maid,” he adds, winking at Kit, “Her name is Patience, everyone calls her Kit,” he adds.

“Except you,” Cook says, trying not to giggle

“That’s right,” The Groom smiles broadly, “My name is also Kit, short for Christopher,” he explains, “So to keep things clear, I call her ‘the lesser Kit’. So there’s no confusion,” he adds, winking at the girl. She giggles.

“I suggest you do not try to call me that,” Kit warns the girl.

“I’ll leave you lovely ladies to your work then,” Christopher says, “Happy anniversary. It’s been a pleasure to tease you for so long,” he adds over his shoulder as he walks out. Despite her best efforts, it does force a smile out of Kit.

“I’ll leave you to clean. I must go to market, and Mrs Wilson has asked me to inventory the pantry,” Cook says, taking off her apron and hanging it by the back door, she picks up her basket and then shakes the tea tin she keeps by her prized cookery books over the table and picks up the few coins that fell out. With a wave, she exits the kitchen, leaving the scullery maid and Kit by themselves.

Knowing that the dinner service needs to be prepared in less than two hours, and that the staff will descend upon the kitchen in roundabout an hour, Kit wastes no time showing Elaine where the cleaning supplies are kept and what must be done, how and when. The girl takes it in, asking any question she can think of as soon as she can. By the time Cook is back, Kit is suitably impressed by the girl.

The rest of the day goes by without a hitch, Elaine watching all she does very closely.

“I’ll do the end of day cleaning with you for a week,” Kit says, “And then you’re on your own. You managed the cleaning fine after lunch, so I don’t think you’ll need me much,” she sighs, “Right, let’s get on with it. We start with the counters, obviously, then dusting and we finish with the floor,” Kit says, handing Elaine a brush, nodding towards the chopping block where Cook butchered the pheasant the Bridgertons ate for dinner. As the scullery maid got to scrubbing, Kit worked at the other end of the kitchen, cleaning the remnants of the staff lunch. She then moved on to the fireplace, picking up the sand they had spread to catch the grease and spills of whatever Cook had boiling in her cauldron, and then spreading new sand.

Elaine worked valiantly at the stove, braving the leftover heat of the coals to get everything clean without a word of complaint. And then, right as Kit started the yawn, the two girls set about cleaning the floor. It was the least pleasant job, in Kit’s opinion, worse than cleaning bloody chopping blocks, or sticking your arm in the warm stove. Cook despised mops and insisted that a scrubbing cloth be worked around the floor with bare feet, and that the water must be ice cold, as she thought any temperature above simply wasn’t as effective. By the end of it, Kit and Elaine’s toes were numb, but the floor sparkled, and painful feet were worth avoiding Cook’s wrath.

“Tea before bed?” Kit offers. Elaine happily agreed, taking a seat at the table while Kit pulled out a teapot and two cups.

“If your name is Patience, why are you called Kit?” Elaine asks, halfway through her cup, “If it’s alright to ask.”

Kit grinned, “My mother named me Patience Katherine Byrd,” she says, “I don’t like being called Patsy, so Kit was the next best thing.”

Elaine nods. She’s about to say something else when the door opens and someone starts down the stairs. Kit expects it to be Hyacinth on her weekly trip to the kitchen to wrestle some leftover cake out of Kit with puppy eyes and pretty pleases, but the footsteps seem too heavy.

The person stumbles, missing a step, and catches themselves on the railing with a groan and a mumbled swear. A few steps later, shoes and trousers come into view.

It’s a man. It cannot be Colin Bridgerton, for he is out of town, and it cannot be the Viscount, as he left for his own bachelor house earlier in the evening, taking his valet with him. Sure enough, Benedict Bridgerton soon steps into view. He’s white as a sheet, and barely able to walk.

“I was hoping someone would still be awake,” he says, swaying as he stands two steps away from the bottom of the stairs. Kit and Elaine stand up, remembering themselves.

“Would it be possible to have some warm milk?” He asks.

Kit always liked Benedict best of all the male Bridgerton’s. They’ve crossed paths twice in seven years but he’s always been polite to her, despite her status and in spite of his.

“Please,” he adds

“Perhaps you would like to sit,” Kit offers, pulling out the chair closest to where he’s standing. He nods, holding his hand against the wall for dear life as he walks down the last two steps. He stumbled down onto the chair, crash landing haphazardly onto the seat with a pained moan.

“You can go,” Kit tells Elaine, “Go to bed, we wake at dawn tomorrow.”

She then turns towards the stove, lighting it under Benedict Bridgerton’s watchful gaze. She warms up a pitcher of milk and pours it into a cup for him. Unsure of what to do with herself, she stands by as he sips it.

Kit’s never heard the kitchen so quiet. She could hear a pin drop from miles away but despite the awkwardness, she struggles to keep a yawn from surfacing.

“I’m sorry,” Benedict eventually says, “I am keeping you up.”

“It’s alright, sir,”

“It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m sure you have plenty of work to be done tomorrow and I am keeping you from sleeping. I’m sorry I’ll be the cause of your tiredness,” he says, looking genuinely sorry, “I couldn’t sleep,” he eventually adds after finishing his milk, “I have such a headache, and Andrew couldn’t find the laudanum. I thought I would be okay but it’s too much.”

“If you wait here, I shall fetch you some of mine,” Kit offers, unsure of what the alternative could be. She knows just how painful headaches can get, and because she has no choice but to work through them, she keeps her side of the wardrobe well stocked with homemade laudanum.

Kit opens her bedroom door as quietly as she can so as not to wake Dorothy, one of the lower housemaids, with whom she shares the room. She steps around the bed and opens the wardrobe door, fumbling the keys and almost dropping it. She feels around for a glass flask until her fingers close around its neck. Once the medicine is in her possession, she leaves the room again. Walking to the opposite side of the corridor, passing through the door announcing the male servant’s rooms, Kit makes her way towards Andrew’s quarters. His room is all the way towards the end, as close to the main house as it can get, in case his gentleman were to have an emergency. Kit’s been here before, but never unchaperoned, and the distance between Andrew’s room and the safety of the communal corridor is a curse.

Eventually, she knocks on his door but he doesn’t respond. The Valets have been asleep for hours now, and she imagines Andrew is much the same. Wishing she didn’t have to, she pushes the door open and steps in. She walks closer to the bed, putting a hand on Andrew’s sleeping shoulder and gently shakes him. He wakes with a start.

“Say, Kit, I’ve always wanted you in my bed,” he mumbles groggily, grinning at her, “But I wasn’t expecting it to happen today.”

“Very funny, you incorrigible rake,” Kit grins back, “Your gentlemen is looking white as a sheet in my kitchen, you might want to come with in case we need to fetch a doctor,” she explains. Andrew sighs, picking his trousers off the end of his bed.

“I cannot be seen in my sleepwear, you go first, I’ll join you in a moment,” he adds, shooing her away with a wave of his hand.

Benedict Bridgerton seems to only have gotten worse by the time she is back. In the flickering light of the fireplace, his palour has turned to colouring his face a strange shade of green. Seeing this, and perhaps selfishly afraid for her clean floors, Kit hurriedly pours the second eldest Bridgerton a bit of laudanum. He downs it in one go and coughs.

“Christ, that’s strong!” he says, looking surprised.

“Well, it’s homemade,” Kit explains, “It’s alcohol and opium. The doses might be different to what you’re used to but I promise it will work.”

“Yes,” he coughs, “I daresay I needn’t more than a few sips for this to knock me right out.”

“Well, you did say you had trouble sleeping,” Kit mumbles to herself, not expecting Benedict to hear her but a laugh soon bubbles up from his mouth. It’s delightful but short lived, for merely a second later he coughs again, bends over, and spills the contents of his stomach all over the hardwood floor.

Kit’s fury is immediate, and Benedict knows it. He stands here, green and ill, looking like a deer in the headlights.

“I did not -- I’m awfully sorry --” he sputters.

Her anger doesn’t last, there’s something about Benedict that softens Kit’s heart, much to her dismay, and as much as she would have liked to send him away with a scolding and a glare -- as she would have done with anyone else -- she steps forward instead, placing a hand over his shoulder to place his back against the chair. As she would with her own brothers, she then places the back of her hand against his forehead.

“You have a temperature,” she states, just in time for Andrew to swing the door open, dressed but dishevelled, a cowlick lifting all but one tuft of hair on the left side of his head.

“I see I’m too late,” he comments, ignoring how close his gentleman and Kit are, “I’ll take you back up to bed, sir, and I’ll ask one of the footmen to fetch a doctor.”

“I’m awfully sorry for your floor,” Benedict apologises again, looking greener than ever and as though he might be sick again.

“It’s nothing Kit’s not seen before,” Andrew says, placing one of Benedict’s over his shoulders and lifting him up to a standing position. Gingerly, Andrew walks Benedict back up the stairs and into the main house, leaving Kit to clean the floor all over again.

By the time she’s finished, the sun is shining low on the horizon, the roosters in the courtyard are crowing and Cook opens the door to start her day. She stands on the threshold, surprised.

“Don’t ask,” Kit says, throwing her cloth in the kitchen’s laundry basket, “It’s been a night.”

“I can see that,” Cook says, “Has it been a fun night?” She asks, mischievously.

Aside from cooking, Cook’s only interests are gossip and matchmaking. She has been on Kit’s case about finding her a nice young man since the second month of her employment.

“Andrew’s been up all night too,” she adds with a wink, “He’s a handsome lad.”

“Don’t let him hear you,” Kit groans, “Master Benedict came down for hot milk last night. He was taken ill. I had to fetch Andrew.”

Cook sighs, disappointed, “Well, I was certainly hoping for something else.”

“That makes both of us,” Kit sighed

“Oh does it now?” Cook grins, turning Kit as red as her hair, unaware of how her words could have sounded.

---

Everyone else is already fast asleep by the time Elaine and Kit finish cleaning the kitchen and sit down for their last cup of tea. Swearing her young scullery maid to secrecy, Kit shaves off two thin slices of cake to have next to their drink. They eat it slowly, savouring every mouthful, but much like the day before, right as they finish, the door to the main house opens, and footsteps descend the stairs.

They’re steady today, and confident, but Kit recognises Benedict’s shoes before much of him comes into view.

“Pardon my interruption,” he says, “I merely wanted to apologise again for yesterday.”

Kit can feel Elaine looking to her for an answer. She throws her a look promising explanations later. As a maid, an apology like that can have a range of reasons, from the innocent to the rakish. With the reputation the Bridgerton boys have, it isn’t hard to imagine that Elaine is thinking more on the scandalous side of things.

“I hope you feel better,” Kit says, avoiding any words of forgiveness towards her soiled floor -- after all, she hasn’t forgiven him. She’s been up since the day before at dawn and the sheer exhaustion she has felt all day is nothing she has ever experienced -- and it seems Benedict has noticed. He grins at her.

The three of them stay quiet for a moment until the silence becomes more than Kit can bear, “Well, if it’s all, sir, I think we’ll go to bed.”

“Right,” he says, looking down at the floor, “Of course… Yes. Good night, Miss. Goodnight Kit,” he says.

“Miss Byrd,” Kit corrects him before she can stop the words from leaving her throat. While calling her by her first name is a disrespect, correcting her employer so rudely is a greater offence than anything he could have done. If word of this reacher Mr Graves, Kit is in for a telling off she has never experienced before.

“Pardon me, Miss Byrd. I meant no offence,” he says, “I seem to forget my manners.”

“Well, goodnight,” she says, hoping it will make him leave. Surprisingly, Benedict seems rather unwilling to leave her kitchen despite the awkwardness making her want to run away.

He takes the hint and with a nod in either direction, walks back up the stairs.

Kit stands there, unsure of what to say for a moment, “He vomited on our floor last night. I’m rather surprised he was brave enough to face me, I thought my glare had scared him off,” she eventually says.

Elaine stays quiet.

“You don’t believe me?” Kit sighs

“No, I do,” she eventually says, “It’s just…” Elaine hesitates, “You ought to be careful.”

“How so?” Kit asks, feeling herself blush at the situation. A sixteen year old scullery maid giving her lessons, Kit should like the floor to swallow her whole.

“I have heard things about the masters. Other maids think they’re rakes,” she says, then, casting her eyes on the floor, she adds, “At my last household, one of the Masters charmed a maid. He got her in the family way and it left her ruined.”

Kit remains there speechless.

“I don’t know what I have done to give you such a poor opinion of me, Elaine, but rest assured that I am not that kind of girl. I have no desire to run around with a master of the house and ruin myself,” Kit says, furious, “I think it’s best you go to bed. I’ll finish up here.”

“I did not mean --” she sputters, “It’s just --”

“Leave.”

Elaine nods, leaving her cup on the table. She vanishes through the service door seconds later.

Kit sits there for a while, stewing in her own anger. Partly at Elaine, and partly at Benedict. If anything were to come of this, be it rumour or inappropriate behaviour, she would be ruined and destitute. No household in London would ever employ her, and she could kiss the position of Cook, and its high salary, goodbye.

Still fuming, Kit stands up, washes the teapot and cups and climbs up to bed.

“You’re angry,” Dorothy says, sleepily, “You always stomp around when you’re angry.”

“I can’t believe the little --” Kit starts, “First that spoiled ass sicks up all over my pristine floor, then the new maid suggests he might try to ruin me!”

“Seems like a jump,”

“He came back to apologise,”

“Right,” Dorothy says, “She’s just looking out for you, I’m sure.”

“She’s sixteen!” Kit whispers back, “She’s a child!”

Dorothy sighs.

“Do you know what would happen to me if Graves hears what she said?”

“Kit, that’s enough,” Dorothy says firmly, “Nothing will happen because nothing untowards has happened. Now go to bed, I don’t want to deal with your moods in the morning.”

Kit glares at her.

“You can look at me like that all you want. It won’t change anything,” Dorothy says, tucking herself back into her duvet, “Sleep tight.”

Kit climbs into bed, huffing and puffing.

“I’ll vouch for you if Graves asks,” Dorothy eventually says, on the verge of sleep.

“Good night,” Kit replies, falling asleep as soon as her eyes close.

It seems like only a second has passed before the bell rings in the corridor and Kit must rise again. She shaked Dorothy awake and gets dressed, quickly brushing her hair and pinning it up in a tight bun. Downstairs, Cook had boiled water and made tea. She serves Kit a cup, and then Elaine when she appears a moment later. Wanting to avoid Elaine as much as she can, Kit throws herself in the day’s work, speaking as little as possible.

“Out with it,” Cook orders as soon as they step out to the courtyard after the lunch service. The scullery maid is inside, cleaning up.

“Something’s bothering you,” she adds, “I could taste it in your soup.”

“What?!” Kit asks, confused and wondering what kind of cookery witchcraft Cook knows of.

“You salt too much when you’re cross,” Cook shrugs.

“Oh,” Kit sighs, “It’s nothing. Elaine gave me advice yesterday, I didn’t appreciate it.”

Cook laughs but says nothing.

“Do you think Benedict Bridgerton is a rake?” Kit asks.

“I think he likes ladies, yes,” she responds, “I don’t think he likes maids.”

Kit sighs in relief, “Elaine seems to think --”

“Elaine was previously employed by Lord Berbrooke,” Cook cuts her off, “Give her some leeway, she’s only working off of her own experiences. The Bridgertons are different, they’re a good family with kind hearts. The Viscountess and her late husband raised them right.”

“They seem nice,” Kit replies, “I didn’t like that she was implying that I would be such a… Well, you know. That I would go above my station.”

“I don’t think that’s what she was implying, Kit dear,” Cook says, patting her arm. They stay quiet for a moment while Kit ruminates on what she said.

She’s not completely naive. She knows about these things. Maybe not everything, but she’s been working a while, and before the Bridgertons she worked with another family. She saw things she hadn’t been prepared for, then. But since working for the Bridgertons, she hadn’t thought back on it. She hadn’t felt unsafe, worried or scared that a moment alone or spent with a man might result in something she could never erase from her mind.

She’d taken Elaine’s advice so personally, like an attack on her own character. She hadn’t even thought it might have been a reflection of her own experiences. She hadn’t even thought it might be a warning on Benedict’s character. And strangely, she hadn’t thought, although it felt a little true, that the attack felt so offensive because Benedict had an effect on her Kit didn’t want him to have.

Benedict Bridgerton is undoubtedly a handsome man, but more than that, it was the boyish grin and big blue eyes that charmed her. She wasn’t in love, obviously, but he did have a certain effect on her.

“I think it’s time we go back,” Cook says, grabbing Kit by the arm and gently leading her back in to see Elaine finishing up the kitchen. Just as she throws the cloth into the laundry, they start messing up the kitchen, pulling out flour, vegetables, to start on dinner. As the sauces simmer and vegetables cook, Mr Kingman walks into the kitchen holding a couple of partridges and a hare.

“For dinner tonight,” he says, smacking the birds down on the table so violently it scares Elaine, who looks on dejected at the mess they so quickly created, “And for the family, I have a nice deer coming in. The boys are a little slow with it though,” he says, looking over his shoulder. Three voices argue loudly behind him, trying to wade through the muddy courtyard. Kit leans to see what the commotion is behind him. Carrying the biggest deer she has ever laid eyes upon, she can just about see Edmund, Francis and Frederic, the three gardener’s assistants Mr Kingman has borrowed to bring his prize.

Somehow, they negotiate the doorway and manage to fit the deer inside the kitchen. Elaine and Kit spring into action, removing chairs from the kitchen table so the boys can put it down.

Cook looks on, satisfied, “That’ll do nicely, I daresay,” she says. Then, she picks up one of her best knives and hands it to Kit, “We’ll need the bones for stock, and I’ll make a nice stew out of the organs, so be gentle with it.”

“If you keep the pelt in one piece, I’ll make a nice coat out of it,” Mr Kingman says.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kit braced herself. She’d only done this a handful of times, but it never got any more pleasant. Still, under the watchful eyes of the game warden, the three boys, Elaine and Cook, Kit begins to skin and quarter the animal.

Glancing back at her audience, she saw she had gathered a few more spectators. Mr Graves looked on from his office window, arms crossed over his chest with all the concentration of a man trying to keep his lunch inside while being entirely unable to look away.

Turning back to her work, she continues her cuts. She keeps going, asking the boys to roll the animal halfway through so she could replicate her butchering. Then, once she had finished cutting off the skin and quartering the animal, she and Cook moved all the meat to the cold room for safekeeping.

As much as Kit would have liked to take a shower to wash off the grime and blood, there was no time to waste. The leg would take a while to roast, even over the fire, and the kitchen needed to be cleaned, a job which, in light of the deer, Elaine could not complete by herself.

By the time it was time to return to her quarters, Kit could only think of a nice long bath. She drew the water and brought it upstairs, careful not to spill any on the stairs. Then, she undressed and gingerly lowered herself in the copper tub.

Kit closed her eyes, letting herself relax. She breathed deeply in and out a few times, then slipped under the water. Holding her breath, she opened her eyes. From underneath the water she could see almost nothing, just the flickering light of the candle at the side of the tub. She exhaled gently, watching the bubbles rise til they hit the surface, and then pop.

She resurfaced again a moment later, wiping her hair from her face. Water in her eyes having temporarily blinded her, Kit felt around the side of the tub for the little table she had put the soap and cloth on. After a minute, she felt the soft bar underneath her fingers.

One of the perks of working for the Bridgertons was without a doubt the soap. While other households often stocked soap for their servants, it was rarely of a good enough quality that it was worth using, but the Bridgertons’ or Mrs Wilson, anyway, regarded the staff’s overall appearance as highly important and hygiene most of all. They had therefore stocked each room with decent, scented soap. A treat Kit appreciated greatly.

She rubbed the soap over the cloth to make it bubble and then washed herself with it, breathing in the smell of jasmine on her skin. Then, with the same soapy cloth, Kit washed the top of her head til it bubbled up enough to clean the rest of her long hair. Once rinsed and ready, she stepped out of the bath and dried herself off and blew the candle out. Feeling more human than she had in days, she made her way back to her room.

To her surprise, Dorothy was still up, reading a long letter by candle light.

“From your Pa?” Kit asked, eliciting a humm of agreement from her friend, “How is the family?”

“My sister’s getting married in the spring,” she replied, “She’s marrying our vicar’s son. Ma says it’s a nice match but I get the feeling Pa’s not so happy about it. I don’t see why not though,” she says, “It’s not like she can do any better. He seems nice, and he’ll provide for her.”

“That’s nice!” Kit says, excited. She’s always loved weddings, and while she’s never hoped for a love match herself, finding someone willing to provide and care for her has always seemed just as good. In her books, Dotty’s sister isn’t doing half bad.

“Do you think if I ask Graves he’ll let me go for the wedding?” Dotty asks

“I don’t see why not,” Kit replies, “He’s a pain but not a monster, you know.”

“That’s only because he likes you, Patience,” she replies, emphasising her legal name.

Kit laughs, “Say, have you ever noticed how funny his name actually is?”

Dotty shakes her head.

“His name is Robert Graves. Rob Graves.”

Dorothy grins, “Leave it to you to find that out,” then, she sighs and without a word, goes back to reading. Suddenly exhausted, Kit climbs into bed and falls asleep almost immediately.

She wakes up late for the first time in seven years. By the time she makes it downstairs, Cook is already starting with breakfast. Without a word, but with a disapproving look, she hands Kit a bag of flour, some yeast and a little water.

---

Kit’s outside for a tea break when Michael, her ten year old brother, walks into the courtyard, newspaper in hand. 

“Any good news?” Kit asks, pressing a coin in his hand.

Michael shrugs, “I dunno, I don’t read it, I just sell it.”

Kit grins. She takes off Michael’s cap and ruffles the hair underneath it. It’s almost as red as hers, only much shorter and curlier. It suits him, she thinks, and paired with the freckles covering his face, it makes him look younger than he is.

He leans against her in a not-quite-hug. Michael likes to pretend to be older than he is, and very much resists any of his sister’s babying, but occasionally, especially when he’s tired, he’ll still hug her. She holds him there for a moment, savouring it. 

“Have you eaten anything?” She asks him

Michael shakes his head. He doesn’t need to say anything, Kit already knows. Their father’s out of work again, and despite all of the children working, money is stretched thin. Kit hates to speak badly of her father, but she hates that he’ll let his children go hungry if it means he never has to go thirsty. For every shilling that goes into food, three go into alcohol.

“Stay there,” Kit tells him. Michael watches her disappear inside, and then reappear a moment later, holding an apple and some bread. She watches him eat it all, and then fetches him some milk to wash it all down. Once she’s satisfied that he won’t drop from hunger, she lets him finish his route.

Once she steps back inside, it’s back to work. The staff having soup for dinner and the family is divided with the eldest going to a ball, and the younger ones staying behind. 

Seeing as it’s only the children having dinner, Cook has been bribed by Hyacinth to make tea sandwiches and cakes, and so, Kit spends the better part of her afternoon making cakes and breads. 

After dinner, it’s time to clean. The end of her evening clean with Elaine is upon them and after tonight Kit will be able to retire to bed alongside Dorothy. She’s been looking forward to it, she’s even asked Andrew to borrow a book from upstairs for her. 

There’s been very little chatting since Elaine gave her advice, and as much as Kit wants to apologise for her reaction, she can’t really seem to find the right words, and by the time she thinks she might be brave enough to try, the cleaning is done and it’s time to go home. 

Tonight, though, Kit is determined to do it. She’s been talking herself into it since she woke up this morning and her chance finally appears as they remove their shoes to work the scrubbing cloth around the floor.

“I wanted to apologise,” she says, staring firmly at the floor, “I misunderstood your intentions earlier in the week and I was awfully rude.”

Elaine seems surprised, “I shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t my place, I’m sorry.”

“You were looking out for me,” Kit says, “I appreciate it. Thank you,” she smiles at the scullery maid, “I’ll be careful.”

Elaine smiles at her, moving as fast as she can on the cloth before her feet become numb. They’ve done most of it now and the end can’t come soon enough. 

“Tea?” Elaine asks, already reaching for the teapot and mugs. Kit smiles and nods, turning around to rummage through the cupboards for jam and a few slices of fresh bread. 

She spreads jam on the slices as Elaine pours the tea. They eat in comfortable silence, all awkwardness dissipated by their apologies. Right as they bite into their bread, the front door of the main house opens upstairs announcing the elder Bridgertons’ return home from the ball. They hear them climb up the main stairs, and minutes later, the bells ring for the valets and lady’s maids. 

Quick as a flash, Kit hides the teapot, cups, bread and jam on one of the empty chairs. She shoves whatever toast she still had in her hand into her mouth, making sure Elaine does the same, before the upper servants enter the kitchen and file up the stairs to the main house. 

As soon as they’re gone, the contraband is placed back up on the table and their chatting continues. By the time the upper servants come back down, the tea is finished, the food is eaten and Kit has washed away any evidence of their midnight snack. Elaine soon bids her goodnight and climbs up to her quarters while Kit stays to chat and gossip with the Lady’s maids. 

“I say Master Colin will wed by the end of next season,” Rose says, “And I wager a shilling, he will marry Miss Featherington.”

Kit laughs, “I wager he will not. I hear Miss Featherington’s dowry has already been gambled away by her father. I doubt Master Colin would marry without a dowry.”

“Kit, you sadden me,” Andrew says, “True love will vanquish all. I say he will marry her regardless of the dowry,” he adds, earning oohs and aahs from an appreciative Rose, “But,” he says, raising his index finger in warning, “I say it takes him two more seasons.”

“And when do you plan to wed, Andrew?” Bernard, Colin’s Valet, asks with a grin

“As soon as Kit gives me the time of day,” Andrew replies, shooting her a wink. It earns him a laugh from Bernard and Nicholas, Anthony’s Valet, as they clap him on the back.

“A bachelor forever, then!” Nicholas guffaws 

“I’m going back to bed,” Andrew announced, faking grumpiness, “Goodnight!”

Soon after his departure, the rest of them climb up, leaving Kit alone in a quiet kitchen. She’s about to go up when the door above the kitchen opens once more. 

Hyacinth chats loudly as she comes down, leaving no wonder as to who is disturbing Kit now, but she’s not alone. Trailing not far behind is Benedict Bridgerton, wearing only sleepwear.

“Hello Miss Byrd,” he says, sheepishly smiling, “We were rather hoping --”

“Is there any cake left?” Hyacinth cuts him off.

Kit rolls her eyes at the girl, earning herself a toothy smile, “I made you three different cakes for dinner and you still haven’t had enough?”

“Please?” Hyacinth begs, putting on her best puppy eyes, knowing very well it’s Kit’s one weakness.

But she holds strong, largely because Benedict is standing right behind, and she feels that if she does not stay stern, he’d get ideas. 

“Please Miss Byrd,” he eventually says, “We’re awfully hungry,” he adds, joining in on the relentless beating down. 

Kit lasts only a minute longer before giving in with a sigh. 

“This cannot happen again,” she says, as sternly as she can. Benedict smiles at her and much to her surprise, Kit’s knees go weak. She lets go of the plate she was holding, and it shatters all over the floor, sending bits of ceramic flying everywhere. 

She immediately bends down, grabbing all the pieces she can see. Shuffling around on her knees, she doesn’t see where she’s going. Soon enough, she bumps her head against something hard and yelps in pain. Expecting to see a table leg, she raises her head only to come inches away from Benedict Bridgerton. She stands up as fast as she can, taking as many steps back as she can as he does the same. They look at each other across the room, both trying to catch their breath. 

Trying to get a grip on herself, Kit slices two bits of cake and places them on two new plates. She hands them to each Bridgerton, expecting them to take it up to their rooms, but only Hyacinth does. As soon as the kitchen door closes, Benedict puts his plate down and reaches for the broom Kit had left leaning on the door.

Half expecting him to hand it to her, Kit is surprised when he starts sweeping.

“Oh you don’t -- I’ll --”

“Am I not doing it right?” he asks

“No, it’s -- Sir, I’ll take care of it,” she eventually says, “You may go up, you must be tired.”

“I am awake enough to sweep, Miss Byrd,” he smiles

“Perhaps, but you really oughtn’t,” she replies, gently taking the broom from his hands, “Go up, go to sleep. If Andrew finds out you missed out on sleep because of me, he’ll have my head.”

“Goodnight,” he says eventually, seeming unsure of what to do, before turning around and following his sister. His slice of cake forgotten.

“Goodnight, sir,” Kit replies.

---

The morning has been everything but calm from the moment Kit steps out of bed. All the late nights she’s been doing have started to take their toll and she’s starting to make mistakes, from burning the toast to cutting herself chopping vegetables, Kit is visibly perturbed, but Cook doesn’t ask and doesn’t comment. The servants live in close enough quarters that soon enough, she’ll know without needing to pry.

Kit doesn’t appreciate the looks though, and she’s grateful when tea break comes around. Cook’s made it for her, a rare treat, as she’s usually in charge of it. It’s piping hot and very sweet, the kind of cup of tea that fixes everything. They take it out in the courtyard, on a little rickety wooden table soaked through by the previous night’s rain, instead of standing by the back door like they usually do.

Cook takes out her pipe and lights it, alternating blowing big puffs of smoke and sipping her tea. The women stay silent, looking around at the Bridgerton’s garden through a small gap in the gate while a duck and two chickens circle them for crumbs.

Mr Colpher and his boys have done a wonderful job. The grass, the trees, the flowers all look as beautiful as they could be in the autumn colours.

Kit cranes her neck to see more, attracted by voices out in the garden. It’s the Viscount and Daphne, running around with their younger siblings, playing a game Kit doesn’t know. She looks on for a few more minutes until she’s rudely interrupted by the duck. Kit catches him, beak in her pocket, pulling out her handkerchief which she had wrapped around a leftover piece of bread.

“Oh go on, leave me be!” She tells him, “I'll turn you into a roast if you don’t mind your manners!”

Cook chuckles but Kit, unamused, bends down to pick her handkerchief out of a muddy puddle. She picks up the bread too, but throws it away as far as she can to spite the duck.

A few minutes later, Cook stands up, signalling that the break is over and they must return to work. Kit follows suit, energised by the tea and sugar.

When they walk in, Andrew is waiting for them.

“Ladies,” he says, with a dashing smile, sitting back on a chair, his boots on the dinner table, “Looking wonderful, as always.”

“Are you pestering the scullery maid, Mr Fitzwilliam?” Kit asks with a grin, “Feet off, I don’t want to eat whatever you traipsed on here.”

Andrew puts on a look of shock, ignoring her remark about his boots but sitting properly all the same, “Now Kit darling, you know my heart only beats for you,” he says, dramatically placing a hand over his heart, “Say, Cook, mind if I borrow your kitchen maid for just a flash?”

“Only for a flash, Andrew,” Cook says, sternly shaking a finger at him. Andrew stands, knowing that Cook’s soft spot for him means he’ll face absolutely no repercussions for not keeping his word.

Andrew leads Kit back outside and leans against the wall, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his coat jacket. He lights one, then offers it to Kit, who refuses.

“Bridgerton asked about you,” he says, meaning Benedict, “Asked if I knew you. If you had a special someone,” he continues with a grin, “If you were always so stern.”

“And what did you say?” Kit asks, stomach in a knot for reasons she can’t quite place a finger on.

“I said you had a fiancé,” Andrew shrugs.

“Whyever would you say that?”

“What? Wanted me to tell him you were single?” Andrew laughs, “I thought you’d appreciate me shutting the questioning down.”

Kit sighs, “I suppose I should thank you.”

“Kit,” Andrew says, pushing himself off the wall, “He’s charming and he’s nice, I’ll give you that. But he’s looking to marry well so he can sustain the art career he desperately wants. I don’t want to see you hurt,” he says, putting both hands on her shoulders, “Besides, if Graves finds out, he’ll let you go and I don’t need to warn you of the trouble you’ll have finding somewhere else to work.”

Kit shakes him off, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and dropping it on the floor. She stomps on it with her foot until it’s thoroughly covered in mud and animal waste.

Andrew grins, “I don’t want to lose my best girl,” he says, “No one makes a cake quite like she does.”

Kit smiles, “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Will it get me a date?”

“Sure,” Kit grinned, “Why not, since you asked so sweetly. Where are you taking me?”

Andrew stands there, dumbfounded for a moment, “I thought you would refuse me. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

She laughs, and he smiles, a blush spreading over his cheeks, “You better take me somewhere nice, Mr Fitzwilliam. After all, you are competing with a Bridgerton. Apparently…”

[ghostsslutss]

🌊 } at peace. for once. 18+

"Isn't this incredible, love? Just like racing, it's all about balance. Cheers to our endless adventures." - fernando alonso

1/2

f! user x fernando alonso impiled smut

The sillage of the briny air revitalises my senses. It was a golden day, the sun was shining peacefully and Fernando was finally free stewards and Mike Krack. However, Fernando had to do a photoshoot for some random brand at a seaside resort on Spain's Costa Tropical. Then, we can finally relax, without any worries.

For once. There were five people managing Fernando while I sat on the second floor of the yacht. I was reading a book, while I heard multiple shutter clicks. Photographer telling Alonso how to pose in the beacon of light. Fernando was wearing a white Ralph Lauren shirt, white shorts and a black belt with plain shoes to match it.

“Okay Fernando, we have finished everything. We’ll get back to you soon. Okay?”

One of the members of the photoshoot team told him as they slowly walked off the yacht. Taking a final glance at him and waving goodbye.

"¡Perfecto! Gracias a todos por su trabajo. Can't wait to see the photos. Vamos a terminar y prepararnos para el próximo desafío."

He flashed his pearly whites and waved goodbye to the rest. Quickly he rushed to you, tackling you from behind. Hugging you softly. You felt his stubble rubbing against your silky hair.

“Hello, Princesa.”

He chimed.

“Hiya Fernando.”

You replied.

“Why don’t I make you something, come down to the first floor, Querida.”

He offered, holding his hand to you, taking it he gently lead you downstairs to the lower floor. Watching your every move so you don’t slip. He silently told you to sit down, signalling you by nodding his head. He was like your guarddog, protecting you from everyone and everything. That would do anything, even die for you. His love couldn’t be written by songs, poetry or anything else. Except for cooking.

He kissed you on your forehead, slowly drifting away to the kitchen while you stared at the beautiful ocean. The sun highlighted all of your beautiful curves. In a cosy kitchen, he stands over a wide pan, sizzling with olive oil. They toss in onions, garlic, and colourful bell peppers, filling the air with a savoury fragrance. Saffron threads follow, turning the oil a sunny gold.

With practised hands, Alonso adds chicken and a medley of seafood—shrimp, mussels, and squid—each piece searing to perfection. A sprinkle of rice spreads out, soaking up the flavours. Fragrant broth joins in, bubbling gently as it melds with the ingredients.

A few stirs and adjustments later, fresh peas and tomatoes add bursts of color. The kitchen fills with the enticing aroma of the simmering paella. Finally, Fernando plates up the vibrant dish, a masterpiece of flavours and love, ready to share with their wife.

“Here you go, my love.”

I’d smile at him, pleased with my meal. Every bite felt like a new heaven, and tasted so good. I felt like Remmy from ratatouille.

Hours pass by, we would take in the sea and moonlight. Talking about the Media and other silly things. But there was a tension, a barrier that needed to be broken. Something to be snapped. Fernando ran through my hair, sitting next to me. I knew he needed something, his fingers trailed against my thin clothing to my thighs. Slowly rubbing it in circles.

“Cariño..Please.. Can I.?”

He’d squeeze your thigh for extra attention. He needed you, so fucking badly. The submissiveness finally gleamed in his eyes. He wanted you.

“Go on, I know you want it.”

[kineticpenguin]

I've been poking away a bit more at Frostpunk 2, and I think my real problem with it is that, okay, fine, ultimately politics is a messy business, but as the Steward, you have to be completely passive in it. You have to take each faction as-is. You cannot build your own faction. You're just one guy in an office. You can make deals to pass laws, but these deals are always giving a faction what they want in exchange for their vote.

Your policies don't even seem to shape society much. Early on if you decide that children will attend school, and subsequently that they will focus on science, this has no bearing ten years later on the size and number of factions that think science is a bunch of nonsense and we need Ice Eating Training and Varsity Dick-Punching if we're going to have any education at all.

So for the best possible outcome, being a "shrewd negotiator" means keeping an Excel spreadsheet open and balancing all the kinds of buildings and policies that piss the different factions off, and finding a balance. I guess.

And ultimately the Story has one major problem: The Pilgrims are objectively correct. If you side with the Stalwarts and decide to "defeat the Frost", your lack of access to outposts with infinite resources to draw from will be the city's doom (if you don't beat the story before that particular chicken comes home to roost). The Stalwart technology allowing you to drill the meager infinite deposits in New London territory will not be enough.

Maybe they should, uh. Do something about that.

[cognitivejustice]

“People told us that the average age of the farmer was getting higher, and we needed to go back to the land so that we could feed people. So, that’s what we did. We learned how to do our job. We got dirty. We fed our community. But as I was owning the business, I started to reach roadblocks,” Taylor said in September, during a tour of the new farm she is establishing with her partner, D’Real Graham.

Some of those roadblocks have finally been cleared from the path, and Spice Creek Farm, on 24 rolling acres about 25 miles southeast of D.C., is the realization of more than 15 years of work. Now, Taylor’s perspective is shifting toward a long, grounded future on land of their own, where she’ll expand her vegetable operation while Graham raises chickens for both eggs and meat.

Just down the street, the couple’s friends and collaborators run Deep Roots Farm, Juniper’s Garden, and Earth-Bound Building, which builds farm structures and was born out of the Black Dirt Farm Collective. “We call it the Black Agrarian Corridor because we’re trying to bring more Black farmers back to this area,” Taylor said. “We really want this to be a hub where people can come and we can support each other in all the ways that are necessary.”

Without Dirt Capital Partners and Foodshed Capital, this next chapter might not have been possible. The lenders that supported Spice Creek Farm are two of a number of alternative farm finance organizations that have sprung up over the last few decades to support the long-term success of small, regenerative farms. Each—from Steward to Iroquois Valley to RSF Social Finance—uses a different approach to give a leg up to farmers who might not otherwise qualify for financing.

[charles-leclerc-official]

As a non rich person, Charles' penalty sounds worse lol but for them I understand Max's penalty is actually the worse one.

But seriously, I'm just more pissed that the FIA are so inconsistent. I'd be less mad (maybe) if they consistently gave everyone a bad penalty.

It's like they want to show they have authority but are too chicken shit to follow through the second they get backlash. They need some actual good, impartial and fair stewards who also have a spine.

I wish they'd just care about any of the actual issues in the sport that could use some attention half as much as they care about this.

[lullaebies]

any headcanons about Dearon being son of Alicole? I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea but us Alicole shippers literally have crumbs to live off of and need some content 😂

Well, it might not be something I believe in specifically, but I can cook some stuff for you. Though most would pass for adoptive papa Criston too I guess, too! Daeron and Alicole Headcanoons ৹ To start of with an actual biological son of Alicole hc: at that point, Daeron probably looks a lot like Alicent; brown eyed with auburn hair. This is Alicent first kid that looks like her, and the one she had at a more proper age. She had an easier time to connect to Daeron. For Criston, he would be the cutest baby he had ever seen, both because he looks like Alicent and because well; his baby, that he never thought he will have. ৹ Baby Daeron would sleep in Alicent's room for the first months of his life. As Criston is stationed by Alicent, when the baby cried, he used to enter faster than the maids. Sometimes he would hold him for Alicent who is tired and lull him to sleep. It's been made evident Daeron sleeps easiest in Criston's arms. ৹ Daeron doesn't like to cry to his mother because he heard from Aemond before it makes her stressed. As a child, he sometimes went just by her rooms when he's sad, and then chickened out, but Criston still saw him teary. He ends up being the one to console him very often. ৹ Sending him over to Oldtown is a rough patch for both of them. Daeron is sad about leaving too, but tries to be optimistic, telling Criston and his mother that he is going to be a proper knight under lord Ormund and come back to be a white cloak under Criston and as a protector of his mother and siblings too. He also tells Criston that he plans visit the Dornish Marches and Blackhaven, to meet Criston's steward father and tell him that the Lord Commander told him all about him, as well as show appreciation to House Cole.

[smilingformoney]

Rickmas 2023: Day 9. Missing Star | Alexander/Reader

Read now on Ao3 or below the cut:

The knocking on the door was incessant, and Alexander rolled his eyes when he heard a voice calling through the door.

“Sir Alexander! The panel started five minutes ago, they’re waiting for you —“

With a huff, he picked himself up from the couch and stomped over to the door, opening it so suddenly he caught the poor event steward on the other side by surprise.

“I’m not bloody coming, clearly,” he hissed.

“But, Mr Dane, the fans are expecting you —“

“I. Don’t. Care. Tell them I’m sick or dying, I don’t care, just piss off and leave me alone!”

He slammed the door closed on the shocked steward’s face, and you peered up at him over the back of the couch.

“That poor steward was only doing his job, Alex.”

Alexander waved his hand dismissively and pulled his robe tighter around his torso.

“If his job’s to disturb me when I’m with you, he needs a new career.”

He returned to the couch where you had previously been cuddling and watching TV, and you slipped easily back into his arms.

“You’ll have to show your face at some point. They didn’t pay for this hotel room so you could sit in it all day.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Alexander snarked, and you shoved him playfully.

“You know I’m not. You can get away with skipping the group panel, but you’ll have to make it to your solo panel. Else they might send Jason to drag you out.”

Alexander scoffed. “I’d like to see him try. He acts like he’s so tough, but I can tell you, his fight scenes are almost entirely done by stunt doubles.”

“And yours aren’t?”

“Of course not,” Alexander said proudly. “I’m a real actor. I do all my own scenes.”

“Well, good thing you do all your own sex scenes too, else we’d never have met,” you said, grinning up at him cheekily.

He smirked and held you in tighter, remembering the day you’d met on set for a film of his, he the lead actor and you the intimacy coordinator for the sex scene he’d filmed. Somehow, with a stunning Hollywood actress nude on the bed with him, it had been plain old you the acting legend had had eyes for.

“Really, I just don’t want to put that bloody thing on my head today,” Alexander admitted. “Honestly, do they think people won’t recognise me without it? I do have other roles I’m known for without the stupid chicken head.”

You laughed, knowing full well that your boyfriend would set fire to that key part of his costume if he could, yet he’d chosen to participate in the Galaxy Quest reboot. Secretly, he liked the role and even the people he worked with, but he’d never admit it.

“Oh, but think of the applause you’ll get when you step out onto the stage! All those people there to see you. I know you love it, Alex.”

He scoffed, but he didn’t correct you. You leaned in closer to him, resting your head on his chest, and he placed a kiss to the top of your head (which had fortunately never been the victim of chicken head, although he had threatened you with it a few times).

“I’ll go to the solo panel, I suppose,” he sighed. “Only so I can talk about Death to Secrets coming out next month.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, good luck getting a bunch of sci-fi nerds to care about a depressing drama about a dying old man. Hey, kids, come see my exciting new film where I spend two hours staring out a window dramatically - ow!”

It hadn’t hurt, but you were more surprised than anything when he reached around and slapped your arse.

“Disrespect my art and you disrespect me, you know that, [Y/n].”

“Oh, sorry, sir,” you said teasingly. You sat up slightly and kissed him, which immediately softened the hard stare he was giving you.

“Hmm… good thing I love you, isn’t it?” he said.

Even after so long together, it still made your heart leap when you heard those words from him. He was such a grumpy old man, yet for you he was soft.

“Yes,” you agreed. “It is a very good thing.”

[inthecityofgoodabode]

January 2025: Last Year's Tomatoes & Adventures In Walking

The last of our 2024 tomatoes. They last this long because they were green when harvested & were never refrigerated. Refrigeration is why most vegetables bought at the grocery store go bad quickly at home:

A little pico de gallo to go with breakfast. I made it with our 2024 tomatoes, slightly cold wilted cilantro & Egyptian walking onion that I had to chisel out of the frozen ground. It turned our pretty good:

Seen while walking:

Whoso pulleth out these scissors from this soil...:

You're supposed to be stewards of the land so why are these Jesus chicken bags the most common form of fast food trash I see littering up God's green earth?:

Scarecrow in the gutter:

There is a story here... perhaps an unpleasant one:

Former American Robin post hawk:

Return of the herons:

There were somewhere between six to eight that I saw:

I thought about it but decided not to cross the water here:

Ironing board in the woods:

This is interesting. It's an old backyard teeter totter:

[verya-gweinagar]

The Endless Ache

CHAPTER TWO: AN ARRANGEMENT OF SORTS

Chapter Rating: SFW

Her smile stretched from ear to ear as he walked out to her proudly, a swagger in his step and a grin on his face. The sun peaked through the leaves of the tree that cast a great shade against the white stone wall, the rays reflecting off of his chest plate as he approached her, a rippling current of light danced across her delicate face. “Captain.” She curtsied as he got closer and giggled at the ridiculousness of it all. He said nothing, just placed a gloved finger under her chin when she rose, tilting her head upward, and kissed her deeply. She attempted to wrap her arms around the wide clunky armor and pulled herself to him.

Master List | Chapter Three

Boromir searched the crowd as he stood in line with his fellow Captain selects, desperately trying to find that one familiar face in the crowd of nobles and spectators, the only familiar face he wanted there besides his brother. But as soon as the marching cadence began, he snapped back to attention and kept in step with the other men. Their armor clanged as they marched in front of the crowd of dignitaries and nobles viewing their promotion. When they reached the center and stood in front of the Commander, the men halted and left faced, turning on their heel and clicking their feet together with a sharp metallic ping.

The heat was excruciating now, being in the middle of the citadel surrounding the White Tree of Gondor. The metal suits they wore making it worse, acting as ovens and their bodies a roast chicken cooking away. Boromir tried his best to keep his bearing as sweat dripped past his brow. He noticed out of the corner of his eye someone in the crowd fainting, a woman shrieked but was quickly shushed and the man who collapsed from heat exhaustion was dragged into the shade. The flags flapped loudly in the warm wind and gulls cawed as they flew over the formation.

Denethor stood and gave his speech, his attempt at rallying the troops, reminding them of their duties and importance of their position in the guard, but he came across rather pompous and Boromir could feel his cheeks burning under his helmet from embarrassment of his father who somehow made this about himself. He spoke of honor, of duty, and remaining loyal to the kingdom. He ended it selfishly, which was no surprise to anyone. “Remember men, make me proud. Walk through Middle Earth with me in mind. Guard Minas Tirith with your dying breath, for that is the oath you swore when you took up your swords and entered the guard. For the Steward, for the city, for Gondor.” “For Gondor!” The men in Boromir’s class shouted in unison as a sort of call and response.

With that, Denethor passed it on to the Commander to carry on with the ceremony. “Present arms!” He called and the men answered by unsheathing their blades and raising them in the air at an angle. The commander began the oath and they followed suit, over a dozen deep voices filled the air as they recited it.

I, before my comrades and brothers in arms, swear to uphold my duty as Captain.

To serve with unwavering courage and steadfast duty.

To lead with honor, poise, and wisdom.

To wield my sword in defense of the helpless and the weak.

To shield my comrades with unwavering faithfulness.

To serve with integrity, fairness, and strength.

To bear the weight of command with dignity.

Guided by the light of justice and the strength of loyalty,

I vow to be a beacon of integrity, in victory and defeat, in peace and in war.

I pledge to never falter in the face of adversity.

To uphold the bond of my men.

To stand as a protector of those who stand with me.

I vow to be a shield for my comrades.

This is my oath and I shall uphold it until my last breath.

They received the command ‘order arms’ and sheathed their swords, snapping back to attention in one swift motion. The Commander about-faced, turning completely toward the Steward and requested permission to promote the men. “Proceed, commander.” Denethor replied in a military manner, matching the tone of the ceremony. The Commander turned to face the men again and approached the first soldier down the line. One by one the men removed the shining helmet they wore and exchanged it for a new helmet with the proper insignia of a Captain, placed on them by the Commander.

Finally it was Boromir’s turn. He could feel streams of sweat rolling down his back under the heavy armor, and when he removed his helmet his head felt cool as the breeze brushed against his soaked hair. The Commander shared a few encouraging words with him and dropped a heavy fist down on the point of the helmet as he placed it on Boromir’s head, a rite of passage all of the men anticipate at their promotion. His head ached instantly and he couldn’t wait for this to be over, the heat and pain causing him to see stars for a moment.

Once all of the newly appointed Captains we properly capped, the Commander turned to the Steward once more and addressed him. “My Lord, the Captains of Gondor have been appointed. They have sworn their oath to the Steward and to Gondor. Permission to dismiss your Captains.” He shouted and Denethor replied with a nod and raised hand. With that, the Commander saluted and turned to face the men, giving the command to present their arms and salute the Steward one last time before dismissing them. The men marched in a line out of the court yard and into the Hall of Kings, all of them sighing and groaning at the instant relief the cool air in the hall gave them as they removed their helmets.

Various family members close to the men waited outside for their newly promoted Captain of Gondor, and Boromir waited inside for Faramir and his father, and if he were lucky, Sedryneth too. After a bit, Faramir appeared and hurried to his brother, hugging him as best he could around the shining armor and smacking his hand on his back firmly. “Congratulations, brother!” “Captain.” He corrected his little bother jokingly and the two laughed. Boromir glanced behind Faramir, searching for his heart. Faramir noticed and shook his head at him, smile never leaving his face. “I told her to wait for you behind the kitchens. Go.” Boromir hesitated, worried his father would come and wonder where he was but Faramir pushed him, seemingly reading his mind and urged him to go to her. “He’s not coming, just go.” Boromir patted him on the shoulder and turned to leave for the kitchens.

***

Just as Faramir said, Sedryneth was waiting for Boromir behind the kitchens. Her smile stretched from ear to ear as he walked out to her proudly, a swagger in his step and a grin on his face. The sun peaked through the leaves of the tree that cast a great shade against the white stone wall, the rays reflecting off of his chest plate as he approached her, a rippling current of light danced across her delicate face. “Captain.” She curtsied as he got closer and giggled at the ridiculousness of it all. He said nothing, just placed a gloved finger under her chin when she rose, tilting her head upward, and kissed her deeply. She attempted to wrap her arms around the wide clunky armor and pulled herself to him.

The heat of the sun wasn’t the only thing making the pair pant and sweat as their kiss deepened and Boromir’s hands explored her body furiously. He pulled away reluctantly and started removing the armored chest plate. “No better way to be demoted I suppose.” They giggled at each other as the metal clanged on the ground, Boromir shushing it before returning his lips to hers. Her fingers tangled in his sweat drenched hair, their tips brushing against the tender spot made by his helmet, while his hand desperately tried to gather her gown so he could free her soft thigh, gripping it with his thick strong hand made thicker by the leather gloves he wore. His lips trailed off to her neck and he sucked lightly as to not bruise her delicate flesh, she sighed and threw her head back at the sensation. The two existed in bliss for a brief moment until they were startled out of it by someone clearing their throat behind them.

Sedryneth pounded a fist into Boromir’s shoulder in an attempt to get him off of her, he turned to face the voyeur and laughed to himself when he saw who it was. He smoothed his hair down in the back nervously. “Mistress, how are you? Staying cool?” The old woman didn’t reply, she just stared somewhat amused and disapprovingly at the same time at the two young lovers. “What’s…what’s for dinner tonight, mistress?” Boromir asked awkwardly as he shifted on his feet, all too aware of the obvious bulging in his trousers now that he had removed his chest plate which would have concealed that area. The woman let out a ‘hmph’ and turned back around the corner and into the kitchens’ back door. The two laughed to themselves, panting from adrenaline and lust.

“She will never let me hear the end of this, mark my words.” He shook his head, amused at the whole idea of being caught by his old nursemaid-turned-scullery maid, and picked up his discarded armor. He kissed Sedryneth once, then again, and again, each one getting longer than the last until she finally pulled away and said enough. “My parents are probably wondering where I am, Boromir.” He nodded and landed one last peck onto her lips, completely smitten for this woman, before taking her hand and leading her into the kitchens. They passed the old mistress and she gave Boromir a damning look before calling out to him in her thick accent. “I mean to take care of that there pest issue back there, me Lord, they be making noises of all sorts back there, they do. Like clanging pots ‘n pans, a right ruckus.” She pointed her flour covered rolling pin at the armor Boromir carried in his hand, making it clear that she was not referring to rats or coons, but him. “Yes mistress, those pests can be a handful I hear!” He teased back and winked at the old woman, winning a smile from her as she shook her head at the young man she cared for as a babe.

They reentered the now-empty Hall of Kings, except for Sedryneth’s parents, who were there speaking with Faramir. “Ah, Lord Boromir, congratulations are in order.” Ivandur bowed slightly to Boromir but looked back at him with a puzzled look, noticing his chest plate in his hand. “Demoted already? My, you certainly are the reckless one they claim you to be, aren’t you?” He laughed and Boromir felt his face flushing again. “The sun makes it as though I were a cast iron pot, Lord Ivandur, I had to remove it for relief.” He sighed and only half lied to Sedryneth’s father. The armor truly was as if he were in a rustpot and he were meat broiling within it. He earned a booming laugh from her father, his greying mustache twitching under his nose as he did so. He clapped his shoulder with a heavy hand, squeezing it so hard that Boromir had to resist the instinct to wince, though he knew he did not have ill intent with this gesture. Ivandur was always a heavy handed fellow. He crushed every hand he shook without meaning to, and every embrace seemed to knock the wind out of whomever he wrapped his arms around.

“Congratulations, son. A fine man you have become. A Captain of Gondor.” He smiled and inhaled solemnly before continuing. “Your mother would be so proud of her boys. So proud.” He looked at Boromir, then Faramir, both a reflection of their late mother in the way their hair was fair and their eyes shone in the sunlight. Sensing the mood shifting, Naurmiriel interrupted her husband and redirected him. “Ivandur, let the boy celebrate with his comrades. And you must be getting to your meeting soon.” “Yes, my wife is right. Go son, revel in your youth!” He clapped his shoulder a last time and winked at him as Boromir walked off with Faramir, looking back at his love before disappearing. “Sedryneth, you take your mother to the horses and make your way home. I shall return separately. I have business to discuss with the Steward.” He gave his daughter a wink now too when he finished his command for her. Her eyes widened, assuming what her father meant by this, that he was going to present her to Lord Denethor as an offer for Boromir. She attempted to remain calm but couldn’t resist hugging her father briefly before taking her mother’s arm and walking with her out of the great hall.

***

Sedryneth paced the halls of her home anxiously until completely tiring her legs out, throwing herself onto a low couch against the wall. Her mother crept up on her resting daughter before interrupting her brief moment of peace. “You nearly scuffed a moat into the stone.” She examined the slight discoloration on the floor in front of the couch, surely not created by her daughter’s worried feet but it was a silly coincidence. “You have no need to be nervous, my dear.” She sat next to Sedryneth and pet her copper golden curls attempting to sooth her like she would when she was a small child. She groaned and leaned against her mother. “Father could say everything right and Lord Denethor would still refuse his request. There is no guarantee in this happening mother, and if it doesn’t I have no intention on going on in life without him. I’ll run off, take him with me if his father denies it.” Naurmiriel raised her eyebrows and laughed at her daughter. “Run off? My child, you are ever the wild one. And how would you survive with this man out there? Eat mushrooms and worms like the little folk of Middle Earth? Calm yourself, child. Your mind is rushing for no reason. Your father is a very convincing man. Denethor will see it for what it is and agree.” She wrapped her arms around Sedryneth and comforted her daughter, feeling her laughing a bit at her comment about eating bugs and fungi. “Have faith, my love. It will all go in your favor.”

***

“My Lord.” Ivandur bowed as he entered the Hall of Kings and stood in front of Denethor. “Ah, my friend. How is business? Thriving I’m sure. I will say I am surprised you have come to my halls empty handed as you normally come bearing the fruits of your labor.” He smiled deviously at Ivandur from his throne, referencing how he would bring a cask or two of the wine and liquor he made a side profit from when he was not doing the duties of a nobleman in Minas Tirith. “You are observant my Lord. But I intend to provide double my usual gift at a later date, my crops were not as prosperous this season and I intend to gift only the best product for your enjoyment.” “So be it. But you have not come here to speak of business with grapes and barley I presume, Lord Ivandur. Pray, for what do you call my counsel?” He waved his hand in the air as if brushing off the prior subject now that the pleasantries were finished with. Ivandur cleared his throat nervously before continuing with his request.

“My Lord, you and I have been good friends and partners for many a year, have we not?” Denethor nodded slowly in agreement. “And we have spoken of creating a powerful alliance countless of times in our day.” “Yes, get to it.” Denethor urged him impatiently, his lip twitching in displeasure as he assumed his friend is about to make a request Denethor could not—would not—agree to.

“Of course, my Lord. As you may know, your son—Lord Boromir—and my daughter have been, well, courting for some time under the noses of their parents it seems—” Denethor raised a hand stopping Ivandur from continuing. “My son and your daughter? No, no that cannot be. Boromir may be a strapping young man, but he is not all...he does not share the wit of his younger brother, that’s all. He wouldn’t be wise enough to attempt to court your daughter in secret, not without me knowing it.” Ivandur smiled as he listened. “My Lord, if I may, you think little of your son’s mind and tact. He and my daughter, my Sedryneth, have been courting for a few years now. Surely you knew this.” Denethor shifted in his throne, uncomfortable with being made a fool, shown how little he may actually know of his sons. “Boromir runs off with many women of the city, how should I know which one is your daughter.” He shouts, lying of course to compensate for his incompetence and lack of attention to his sons whereabouts and personal engagements. Ivandur felt his face grow hot from anger but he ensured to keep his composure, determined to seal this arrangement for his daughter’s sake, if there were to be an arrangement after this that is. He had to pose this as a benefit for the Steward now, seeing that the plain truth of love wasn’t enough to convince him.

“My Lord, if we were to come to an agreement and arrange a marriage between the two, our families could work together to bring a great profit to the city. With my experience in business and your noble connections across foreign kingdoms, you could come out of this coupling a very prosperous man.” He shifted the reasoning for the marriage from the genuine one to one Denethor would be enticed to agree with so long as it proved to be beneficial for himself. “As for Lord Boromir, I could not think of a better match for our daughter. He is an honorable young man, a fit leader, he will make a fine Steward one day. And Sedryneth would be a proper wife to your son. She is well studied and her mother has prepped her for her womanly duties. She is loyal and kind.” Ivandur paused and contemplated saying what he was thinking, worried Denethor may not receive it positively or see it as another attack toward is inattentiveness toward his sons. “And if I may, my Lord, your son and my daughter seem to be very keen of one another. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

Denethor sat quietly in his throne, brows furrowed in thought as he considered the offer Ivandur was making. After some silence, he finally spoke. “I suppose their union could prove to be fruitful for both yourself and I in matters of business and profit. And getting a marriage out of the way could eliminate the stress of finding a better suited woman in the future, and it would ensure Boromir is not distracted by sneaking around with your daughter any longer, he can focus on his duties as a Steward to the city and Captain of Gondor.” “So we have an arrangement my Lord?” Ivandur questioned, perhaps sounding a bit too pleased and eager. Denethor’s eyes flicked to him in displeasure. “Yes. But I will say there will be no need for I to provide a dowry for your daughters hand, as you have come to me with this request, and as you have said their union would prove to be profitable for both myself and you, Lord Ivandur. I see no reason for any further payment.” Ivandur stared at his old friend slightly shocked but he did not protest, he made the arrangement for his daughter and that is all that mattered to him.

Denethor smirked at the slight look of shock and discomfort on Ivandur, feeling the surging sense of power throughout him. “Is that all, Lord Ivandur?” Ivandur nodded, bowing his head before thanking him for his counsel and taking his leave.

***

The sound of hooves echoed in the courtyard of Sedryneth’s home and she rushed to the front of the house to greet her father. Her mother beat her to the receiving room and took her daughter’s hand to ease both’s anxiety, one could mistake who was being offered for marriage at how excited both mother and daughter were.

“My loves, you seem eager to see me!” Ivandur’s voice boomed as he entered the door, handing off his cloak to a house servant. “Oh, Ivan enough teasing!” Naurmiriel shook her hand in the air at her husband, urging him to get on with it. “I think tomorrow we shall have a feast. With the finest of spreads.” His wife and daughter looked at him confused, they wondered if he had fallen off of his horse and onto his head on the way from the citadel. Did he forget why he had stayed behind? Or was he teasing his girls?

“Tomorrow, we’ll have a feast to celebrate.” Sedryneth and her mother squealed and shrieked with excitement when they finally realized what was meant by this, and jumped onto Ivandur, wrapping their arms around his neck and practically bringing him down to the ground with the weight of the two of them.

***

“You called for me, father?” Boromir bowed when he reached Denethor on his throne. “Yes. Lord Ivandur’s daughter, you are familiar with her?” Boromir swallowed nervously, unsure what will come out of his father’s mouth next after he answers. “Yes, I am familiar with Sedryneth.” His father watched him intently, curious to see how his son reacted to her name. “How familiar?” He paused again. What was he asking this for? Had the old maid told Denethor what she had seen? Surely it didn’t constitute this level of conversation. A mere off handed comment while eating dinner or a passing statement in the hall would suffice. “I-I’m not sure I understand father.” “The girl, how familiar are you with her?” Boromir stood there searching Denethor’s face for any clue as to what he was implying. “Oh, for pity’s sake Boromir, are you bedding the girl?” He shouted this time, impatient with his son.

Boromir felt his eyes widen. Sex wasn’t a taboo concept in his life, but speaking about it with his father was. The man rarely cared to know the happenings in his life, why would he be asking him of this?

“No, father, I am not.” Denethor laughed shortly at his answer and Boromir knit his brows together slightly. “But you’ve been courting her for years?” He quoted Ivandur, acting as if he caught Boromir in a lie. “Well, yes, that is true.” “How long?” He hesitated but his father pounded his fist defiantly against the flat stone arm of his throne. “How long, boy!” Boromir flinched at his father’s voice echoing loudly in the hall. “I-I-I don’t know, three, maybe four years now?” Denethor shook his head at his answer and relaxed back into his throne again. “I find that hard to believe.” “That I’ve been courting her for that long?” “That you’ve been courting her that long and haven’t bed her.” Boromir stood there in awkward silence, unsure what to say next. It was a long time to not bed a woman he was in love with, but it was something she was determine keeping from him until they were joined in marriage. And Boromir respected that. He was able to satisfy himself in other ways with her in mind, he wasn’t rushing to lay with her in that way so long as she was not ready to do the same with him.

“I find that hard to believe.” He repeated himself and Boromir continued to be silent, not bothering to argue with him. Servants came and began placing food on the short black table Denethor frequently ate his meals at, and Boromir’s stomach began to rumble at the smell of the cooked meat and herbs. Denethor rose from his throne and made his way to the lone chair at the head of the table and sat, pushing back his sleeves and throwing food onto his silver plate before continuing the conversation with his son.

“I spoke with her father today, after the promotion ceremony.” He paused as if he waited for his son to eagerly ask him ‘what for’. When he didn’t get that reaction, he continued with a plain unenthusiastic tone. “He offered his daughters hand to you.” Again he paused, looking at his son out of the corner of his eye. “Does this please you?” “Yes, father, very much so.” “Of course.” He scoffed and shook his head, taking a sloppy bite of the meat on his plate. “Then it is settled. You are to be wed to…” He struggled to recall her name and Boromir could feel anger bubbling deep in his gut for a moment. “Sedryneth.” “Yes, Sedryneth.” He swallowed and turned to his son, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Maybe I’ll teach you how to properly bed a woman by then, so that you do not embarrass yourself on your wedding night.” Boromir fought the instinct to cringe at the thought of his father giving him lessons in sexual endeavors. Boromir was a 27 year old man, he had slept with women before, and plenty of them at that. Denethor noticed his son still stood awkwardly in the hall, clearly put off by his last comment, and he laughed to himself before addressing him one last time. “That is all.” Dismissed, Boromir bowed and turned on his heel and made for the dining hall.

***

“You seem far too excited to be a Captain of Gondor, brother.” Faramir watched Boromir curiously as he smiled from ear to ear across the table, grabbing copious amounts of food and placing it onto his plate. “It is not my promotion I am celebrating, little brother. Or rather, it’s a different kind of promotion when you think about it.” Faramir shook his head and fanned his hands outward as if saying ‘well, go on with it’ and Boromir continued. “I am going to be a husband.” He paused, reading his brother’s face for a reaction and he surely got one as Faramir’s mouth fell open and curled into the biggest grin he could muster. “That’s excellent cause to celebrate, Boromir! How exciting. It’s about time after all. Before you know it, your well will be dried out and you won’t give father those heirs you promised him. Unless of course you’re going to spite him and hold out as long as you can, which then you have my full support.” Faramir rambled on, clearly elated for his brother and the prospect of having a sister.

“So when will it be?” “Hm?” Boromir looked up at Faramir confused as he worked at the chicken thigh in his hand. “The ceremony, when will it be? Surely a date has been set.” “I assumed her family would determine that. Besides, father just informed me of this moments before I came here.” Faramir, displeased with his brother’s answer, rolled his eyes and sat back into his chair. “You act as though you’re the one being wed, brother. Have patience.” Boromir laughed at his anxious kin and continued eating, his mind trailing off to how the future nuptials may be.

***

“An invitation has been sent by Lord Ivandur and Lady Naurmiriel.” Denethor waved the folded letter in the air as he took his place on the throne. “They have asked for you to join them this evening for a dinner, celebrating Boromir’s promotion and the news of the union of he and their daughter, Lady Sedryneth.” His voice echoed through the Hall of Kings. Faramir looked to his brother and smirked, still proud of the news. Denethor sighed from his throne and rubbed his wrinkling forehead with the tips of his fingers as if this invitation caused him a great deal of stress. “Do not embarrass me, sons. Act as what you are, Lords, Stewards, men of honor.” He waved them away but the two did not move from where they stood, confused what he was implying. “You are not accepting the invitation?” Boromir questioned a bit angrily, how could his father refuse to join his future in laws, celebrating a union his own hand had blessed. This was surely a bad look for the Steward, but he knew that his father did not care how he appeared. Rather, he preferred people having great disdain for him, it made him feel as though he had more power than reality. Denethor looked down at his son in disgust, as if his genuine question repulsed him. “And what of it, Boromir. My decision does not change based on my lack of appearance in their hall. Besides, I am much too busy for pleasantries.” Too busy for pleasantries. Boromir repeated that last part in his head, irritated at his father’s outright disrespect for anyone who could not benefit him in some way. He got what he wanted from Ivandur, so why should he try any further to strengthen whatever bond they once had?

The two were dismissed from the hall and they went off to the courtyard, Faramir breaking away heading toward the study. “Are you abandoning me too, brother?” Boromir jest and Faramir rolled his eyes before turning back to face him. “I could never and would never. But I crave adventure and it’s waiting for me this way.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing toward the library and continued on his way. Faramir always had his nose in a book ever since he learned to read. Their father hated that trait about him, and it was something he inherited from his mother. She had tried to get Boromir to be interested in reading tall tales when he was a child but he was more of a brute than a brain, always opting to play with wooden swords and wrestle the guards when he caught them off their game.

***

The brothers rode through the tall gateway of Lord Ivandur’s home and brought their steeds to a slow trot, hoofs clicking and clacking against the stone below, until they were met by stable hands who took the reigns of their horses and led them to the barn for the evening. Boromir nervously adjusted his tunic as he walked beside Faramir, who found his anxiousness amusing. “You’ve met Lord Ivandur many times before, Boromir, what are you fretting for?” “Yes but I haven’t met him under these circumstances, now have I?” He hissed at him, tugging at the neck of the leather vest, forcing it to stretch and cease rubbing the skin of his throat raw. Faramir laughed quietly at him and earned a thick fist to his arm, cutting his laughter off abruptly. “Ow! Now why would you do that?” Faramir went to strike back but the doors to the receiving room opened for them before he could land it and the brothers had to act as though they had no flaws about them, that they oozed poise and properness.

“My Lords!” Ivandur came bounding into the room and bowed smally, pulling them each into a strong hug. “What’s this, your father cannot join us this evening to celebrate?” The two young men shared a look with one another, telepathically discussing whether or not they should be honest with their host or leave it at that. Ivandur decided for them, however. “Ah, more food and drink for us, eh?” He laughed and clapped his large hand onto Boromir’s shoulder, catching him off guard and causing his eyes to bulge from surprise and pain. Faramir laughed at the karma dealt to his brother and followed Lord Ivandur to the dining hall of the house.

The home was no mere home, but it also was no palace like the one they lived in. This was a beautiful stone castle, with many pointed archways and cobblestone, moss and ivy grew through the cracks on the outer walls and hung like curtains outside of the windows. There was a fireplace in each room, all burning and casting a golden warm light throughout. Candelabras were staged everywhere, hundreds of variously colored candles lit the walls of the place, the wax dripping and rolling into intricate mounds around the base of them.

When they entered the dining hall, Boromir and Faramir were greeted by Lady Naurmiriel and Lady Sedryneth with a graceful curtesy and everyone was seated, Ivandur and Naurmiriel at the heads of the table, Sedryneth across from Boromir, and Faramir across from the empty seat meant for their father. They noticed his place was not set, perhaps their hosts had anticipated Denethor not accepting the invitation.

Sedryneth looked at Boromir from her seat, her face glowing from firelight as it danced. He smiled at her and attempted to wink secretly without her parents seeing, but it was clear Naurmiriel caught the exchange as she smirked at her husband from the other end of the table. Ivandur cleared his throat and reached for his glass, raising it into the air in front of him and began to address his guests. “A toast, shall we?” Everyone followed suit and raised their glasses as well. “A toast: to our worthy new Captain of Gondor, whose strength and fearlessness have earned him this honorable title. May your leadership be as steadfast as your sword in battle. And to the union of this noble Captain of Gondor and my daughter,” he looked to Sedryneth and smiled warmly at her and reached for her small hand, taking it in his, “may their lives together be filled with love and unbreakable bonds, may their marriage be filled with the grace and prosperity that ours was.” He looked to his wife now and winked at her, earning a blush from the Lady across the table. “To valor and to love!” He ended the toast, hoisting his cup higher into the air. “To valor and to love!” The rest of the table echoed him and brought their cups to their lips, the sweet crimson spirit warming Boromir’s chest as he swallowed.

The night went on with laughter and stories of adventure and life, Lord Ivandur being ever the gracious host kept the young Lords’ cups filled with his wine. After one bout of laughter, Boromir looked to his little brother next to him and smiled, the two knew what the other was thinking. This was how their life was meant to be. Laughing, bellies full, a life dripping with love and care and warmth. They didn’t want to leave, to return to the cold that awaited them in the citadel.

Noticing the moment the brothers were sharing, Ivandur cleared his throat again to bring them back to the present and asked the servants to bring out the deserts. Brother, did you hear that? He asked them. No cursing, no demands. The kindness Lord Ivandur and Lady Naurmiriel showed their staff was something new to the brothers as their father was ever the unpleasant one when it came to requesting things in his halls.

The table was cleared swiftly and a plethora of sweet treats were placed in front of them. Ivandur rose from his place and brought back a rather large decanter of a golden brown liquid along with five snifters, the stems of the glasses wedged between his thick fingers. “Now, gentlemen, this is a once in a life time opportunity for you lads.” He spoke far more relaxed now, the wine from dinner certainly doing its part for everyone at the table. He poured a generous amount of the drink in each glass and passed them down, starting with his daughter and wife, then the two young Lords. “In your glass is my finest product, saved only for nights like these and occasions of which we are celebrating. It is the only brew I have not given away or sold for profit, for I hold it dear to my heart. It was distilled upon our engagement,” he raised his glass toward his wife for a moment before continuing, “and tapped the day my daughter was born.” He directed his glass toward Sedryneth. “Now, I share it with you, with my future son, to celebrate your engagement.” He lowered the glass and swirled it under his nose, directing them to do the same and sip the drink to savor the richness. “My Lord, this is incredible.” Faramir spoke excitedly, his cheeks red from the alcohol in his bloodstream. Boromir laughed at his brother smiling stupidly next to him, clearly drunk. Ivandur looked at Boromir and chuckled with him at his younger brother’s reaction to his brews and continued to sip from his glass. It truly was his best product. He was known in Minas Tirith for his exquisite wines and scotch and whiskey, but none of them compared to this. Boromir savored it, unlike his brother who took it down far quicker than Boromir was sure he even noticed.

Time went on and more stories were shared around the table, and before they knew it the night was over. It felt too short of a time to have been there but the brothers had stayed well past dinner and were barely leaving the house of Lord Ivandur in the late hours of the evening. Faramir had sobered up a bit, Lady Naurmiriel ensuring he ate enough bread to make a full loaf before leaving to soak the alcohol in his stomach, which Ivandur rolled his eyes at and argued it was an old wives tale, which then prompted another hour long story of fables and childhood beliefs they carried into adulthood.

Boromir and Faramir thank the Lord and Lady for their hospitality and they gave Sedryneth and her betrothed a moment alone to say goodbye for the evening before their horses were returned and they were sent on their way. Faramir drunkenly sang out of tune the entire journey on horse back to the citadel and Boromir carried his little brother to their room, throwing him onto the bed and pulling his boots off before draping a blanket over him. That night, Boromir dreamt of life with Sedryneth, how he would be as a father, a mirror of Ivandur sharing stories and laughing loudly with his beautiful wife at the head of the table.

[thestudentfarmer]

Repost with a pic from this mornings feeding

They are loving the lentil sprouts!

Have a great day:)

Hello and Good day!

Today I got to move the chicks from the grow out pen into the run 🐣🐥🐔 thought I'd share their journey so far :)

We chose to purchase chicks, rather than hatch as we don't currently have a rooster. To be perfectly honest, I'd like to test out with eggs from another source to be sure I know how to incubate properly before getting into that venture. (Though selling or trading chicks with the neighbours would be fun someday!)

They get put in a large tub, with a chick waterer on stone and wood shaving bedding. I leave the box they came home in the tub for shade from the heat lamp. They are so stinking small at this time and cuuute!

Later when they got bigger we upgraded to what we call the grow out pen. It used to be a trellis for one of the raised bed but got repurposed along with a few other things. No sense in wasting perfectly good material.

I started switching to grain and seed feed around 6 weeks of age. Mixing 50/50 chicken feed grain till the last bagw as empty. I also started sharing kitchen and garden scraps around this time. Mostly leafy greens and occasional bread slices.

They are always up and going! Even around 2 am lol

Today's moving day! Their a little skittish still when I snapped this photo and I expect they will continue to be for a few days yet as I try to remain fairly hands free for them. I'll probably move the lamp in tonight, but after awhile more, ill be removing it entirely. Tomorrow I'll be giving them a half tray of fresh lentil sprouts as a treat and they'll be getting some garden clean up too :)

That's it for now :)

🐣🐔Happy Homesteading!🐔🐣

12 29 2023

[libertyreads]

October 2024 TBR--

We are getting so into spooky season this year with some spooky reads. I'm super excited about a couple of these books, but, also, the last book that I've had on my physical TBR since before January 1st of this year will be read this month. Everything else on my physical TBR is something I've purchased this year which is amazing to me. Let's get to the spooky reads.

Graveyard Shift by M.L. Rio (New Release)-- This might be the book I'm most excited to read. We follow five people who cross paths as they work the late shift: a bartender, a rideshare driver, a hotel receptionist, the steward of the derelict church that looms over them, and the editor-in-chief of the college paper. One night they discover a hole in the churchyard that wasn't there before. Who dug this fresh, open grave? And for whom? These five people try to get the answer to this mystery.

The Enforcer by Avery Keelan (Kindle)-- My next hockey romance! This one follows Lakeside U hockey superstar Nash Richards and the girl whose heart he broke. She's forced to work with him all semester long and has to work not to fall for his charms a second time.

Dreadful by Caitlin Rozakis-- From GoodReads: "It's bad enough waking up in a half-destroyed evil wizard's workshop with no eyebrows, no memories, and no idea how long you have before the Dread Lord Whomever shows up to murder you horribly and then turn your skull into a goblet or something. It's a lot worse when you realize that Dread Lord Whomever is...you." When I was standing in the middle of a bookstore reading this synopsis, I had so much hope that this would give me Assistant to the Villain Vibes. Let's hope it does.

Midnight at the Houdini by Delilah S. Dawson-- Anna, a diligent stage manager, has grown up in glitzy Las Vegas with her older sister Emily, but when Emily reveals a startling betrayal, Anna flees in the middle of a raging storm. She takes shelter in a boutique establishment she's never seen before: The Houdini. She discovers a magic hotel and a magical boy. When the clock strikes midnight, Anna will be trapped in the Houdini forever unless she can make an impossible escape.

The Dare by Natasha Preston-- Senior pranks are just beginning for Marley and her friends who egg houses, set chickens free on the quad, and fill the principal's office with glitter-filled balloons. But Marley's friend Jesse accepts a dare to drive a ten-mile stretch of winding road that's notorious for car wrecks called danger alley with no headlights. Now four friends are bound by a tragic accident and a dark secret that threatens their bright futures.

Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins-- The final book of my Hunger Games reread. In this one, Katniss has become the heart of the rebellion, but being a hero is hard when you also have PTSD. Things between the President and the Mockingjay come to a head in this finale.

Nightmares! by Jason Segel and Kirsten Miller-- Charlie Laird has several problems: his dad married a woman he's sure is a witch, he had to move into a purple mansion, and he can't remember the last time sleeping wasn't a nightmarish prospect. Nightmares can ruin a good night's sleep, but them slipping out of your dreams and into the waking world is worse.

Certain Dark Things by Silvia Moreno-Garcia-- Domingo, a lonely garbage-collecting street kid, is just trying to survive in the heavily policed streets of Mexico City when a jaded vampire on the run swoops into his life. Atl, is smart, beautiful, and dangerous. Domingo is mesmerized. Atl needs to quickly escape the city, but her plan doesn't include Domingo. Little by little, Atl finds herself warming up to the scrappy young man and his undeniable charm.

I'm so excited about so many of my reads for the month of October. My Christmas love will get put on hold while we dive into all things creepy and scary.

[ltwilliammowett]

An Admiral's Dinner

Shown here is a dinner for 12 officers, given by Rear Admiral Robert Digby, Commander-in-Chief of the American Station, on board the Royal George on Tuesday 14 August 1781 and recorded in the table book by John Gulivar, his steward.

Boiled duck with onions au gratin Roast goose

Served with: Tarts - Whipped butter - Potatoes French beans - Whipped cream - Fruit fritters Bacon - Apple pie - Boiled chicken Carrots and turnips - Whipped cream - Albocore Spanish fritters - Whipped butter - Tartes

Finally, the following were served: Boiled beef Roast mutton

in: The Illustrated Companion to Nelson's Navy, by Nicholas Blake, Richard Lawrence 

[idontshitpostbuttheolympicpark]

a game of don't-get-out-of-your-car-we're-petitioning-to-the-stewards chicken

[townsenddecades]

1320 – Day 1 – Townsend Farm

The weather is brightening, which for the Townsends means that the third decade of the 14th century starts with work on the field. They have lost enough time to adverse weather; if they want to have a crop at the end of the season, they will really need to work for it.

And they do. Benjamin and the older set of twins all throw themselves into exertions on the field the moment the sun rises, while Benedict does his carpentry and Gregory helps out with tending to the beehives.

They will have to wait until harvesttime to see if their efforts on the field will pay off, but in the meantime, Benedict’s work continues to bring in enough money to tide them over – and even more than that, enough to rebuild a bit. They re-construct one of their chicken coops and buy some new chickens, now that they aren’t so horrendously expensive as they had been for the past few years.

Amye immediately takes a liking to the new feathered residents of the farm and could spend hours watching them and talking at them – or to them, as she’d put it. It’s quite funny to see for the adults. Malcolm, meanwhile, finds he enjoys working the field, backbreaking as it is.

Slowly but surely, things are getting better. Not just for them, but for their neighbours, too.

While the menfolk and her older children are busy tending to the farm, Malika is looking after the younger set of twins. Frank and Adeline both continue to be healthy, which is a huge relief for her after the fates of her previous two infants. Sleepless nights are a small price to pay for that.

On the rare occasions that they have time to sit down and eat together, Benjamin, Benedict and Malika convene to discuss their plans, still a bit wary lest some new disaster might strike, but hopeful.

WATCHER’S NEWS:

For the Dudleys, the year begins with a marriage as Lady Gwendolen, youngest sister of the earl, marries Arnulf Penrith, the young Earl of Windermere. She has thus become the Countess of Windermere.

For the Pelhams, it begins with death. Lord Elbenhawke has unexpectedly died in his sleep, only a few years after the death of his son, which leaves his grandson, Richard, as the new Baron Elbenhawke at only six. Until he is of age, the lands will be administered by a steward.

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