#i was inspired by the fat one that always sits in my garden for ages

[simplified-birds]

Simplified bird #129 - common wood pigeon

( requested by me! )

[raineydays411]

Oh, what am I supposed to do without you

Loki x daughter!reader

Summary: Loki thought he was in a good place. He was married, happy and having a child. He should’ve known the universe wasn’t that kind.

A/N: God I’m so sorry about this one lol. Not much of the reader but I will be  making a second part. I hope yall like this one though. Inspiration came from “Mr, Loverman” and this fic.

Master list

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The silence was rattling. It creeped into the room, slowly,menacingly. Threatening to make him go mad. It wrapped around his body like a familiar friend. Making it hard for him to breath as it suffocated him. He knew they were staring at him. Trying to figure out what he would do next, whether he would break or not. Truthfully he didn’t know what he would do. For now he just starred as well. Not at them, of course not. He stared at the one thing that mattered. His reason for waking up and living. The one person in this entire universe who gave his world color. He reached out to touch her. Touch the hands that were always so warm against his cold skin. Hands that held his firm and sure as she pulled him along behind her, a smile on her beautiful face. Hands that were now cold and limp, the radicant glow she had been known for gone dark. The colors she brought to his world dimmed to dull, gre, muted hues. Then a sound broke through the silence. two sounds actually. One a wail of new life, a baby taking her first breaths, and another. A wail of a man who has lost everything. A wail of agony and pain.

As the healers bustled around him, Loki had only one thought in his head. 

“What am I supposed to do without you”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three months later and Loki still felt the emptiness left by his love. He heard her at night, humming sweet melodies as she stroked his hair. He hears her heartbeat as he eventually falls asleep, worn out by his constant tears. His room is in shambles, his clothes strewn about the floor, furniture smashed, everything is destroyed. Except for the things that belong to her. Her silk dresses that draped on her body perfectly were still hanging, untouched. The books she spent hours reading and re-reading remained on the shelf, collecting dust as they were no longer used. He doesn’t let anyone in their chambers. The space where they both shared. Space where they fought, made up, made love. To let someone else in would be tainting it. Soiling the memories they made together. That was one thing he could never do.

Another was look at the little monster who is responsible for this tragedy.

It was a girl. The daughter of one Loki Odinson and his beloved. 

Ironic. This child was supposed to bring happiness with its birth. Not even cleaned and it already managed to take away Loki’s light. He can barely stand looking at it. He tried, of course  he tried. But within minutes he had to call the nurse to take it away. Why? 

Because she has her mothers eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Loki”

“Get out”

“Loki, it's been nine months since your child was--”

“THAT THING IS NO CHILD OF MINE”

Frigga was taken aback. She knew her son was heartbroken, devastated at the loss of his wife. But to disown his daughter, that was something she didn’t see coming. 

“Loki, you are being unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable? My wife has died because if that creature--”

“It is a child. A babe who has no idea who her father nor her mother is.”

“And as far as I’m concerned she never will!” Loki shouts, finally looking up at his mother. 

Frigga heart breaks for her son. She sees the utter agony he is in, the inner torment going on in his soul. Even if she didn’t see it in his face, the state of his room and self gives it away. He looks like he hasn’t bathed in the nine months that has passed. His clothes were rumpled and wrinkled, hair unkempt and wild. His face was pale and hollow, as if he was only eating enough to survive. He had dark bags under his eyes that showed that he hasn’t been sleeping well.  He truly was a man who was broken, almost beyond repair. 

“My son” Frigga said carefully,” I can never understand the pain you are going through, I pray to Valhalla I will not have to anytime soon. But please if not for yourself or that child, for the memory of her, attempt to see your daughter before making a rash decision.” And with that, she walked out of his chamber, leaving Loki to the silence again as he stared at the spot his mother stood. considering her words, he got up. picked up his room, went to bathe and walked out of the room for the first time in nine months. 

His face held no emotion as he walked down the hallways. He saw the servants stop and stare at him, shock filled their face as they saw the prince. He glared at them, sending them scurrying at the dark glance. He reached the nursery, the maid who oversaw the nursery tried to stop him. 

“My lord, you--” 

“Where is the child.” He said, calm and cool. The maid looked at him in fear, not knowing how to respond. At her silence, Loki scoffed and pushed her away, marching into the nursery. Upon entering he froze, memories of him and his beloved discussing the design they wanted for their child

**“Darling, why does the color shade matter? It’s not like the child has expectations.”

Laughter fills the air, “Loki, we must put every effort into showing our child they are loved. That includes finding the perfect shade of green to go with the room”

Loki looks at his wife, gently smiling.”If you say so my dear”**

The room was perfect. The walls were a beautiful shade of green that allowed the light into the room. There were vines and flowers crawling up the walls and draped over curtains. A white and gold crib stood in the middle of the chamber. A veil draped over it, preventing Loki from seeing the child inside. He was thankful as he worked up the courage to walk up to it. He looked out the window, seeing the stars that covered the sky, the lights of Asgard covering the earth. 

She would have loved it.

He took a deep breath and walked toward the crib. He pulled back the veil only to see that there was no child in there. 

“The babe is with your mother my lord.”

He turned to the maid. Embarrassed that she might have witnessed him reminiscing.

“And where is my mother” He asked

“In-in the dining hal--” 

He walked away before she was able to finish her sentence. He took long strides to the hall, wondering his his mother had tricked him into eating with the family.On the way, he passed a window overlooking the garden. He thinks of the times where he used to sit in it and listen to her read.

***  “...exquisite, in question more. These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows”

“My love, why do you insist on reading these midgardian stories?”

Her laughter  reaches his ears, “Because beloved, it's a different perspective to something familiar”

“Oh? and what is that ?” 

“Love”  ***

“oki--”

Hearing his name, Loki is brought back to present times once more. He looks to see Thor, watching him with careful eyes. 

“Brother, it is wonderful to see you.”

“I wish I can say the same.”

Thor laughs, a soft chuckle compared to the booming laughter Loki knows he is capable of. 

“Ah Loki, your dry wit has been missed”

Loki rolls his eyes and starts walking and Thor follows. The two walking in silence. 

“What is it like?” Loki says softly. Thor looks at him in confusion.

“It?” 

“The child.”

“Oh brother, Y/n is--”

“Y/n?” 

That was the name she wanted. If they were to have a girl. She was determined, seeing the name in the book she loved to read. He remembers when they were telling his family she was with child.

*** Everyone was seated, servants bustling around the long table. Laughter filled the hall as the sun was setting. 

“Loki, you said you had news to tell us” Frigga said, taking a sip of her wine. 

Loki smiled, looking at his wife. Her face absolutely radiant as she flashes a smile of pure joy.

“ Well,” Loki waits till Thor has taken a large swig of ale, “ My beloved and are are expecting a child.” 

Gasps fill the room as well as Thor's hacking, ale being spewed on the table. 

“Oh Loki that is wonderful!!”  Frigga exclaims standing from her seat to embrace him. “Oh my dear, this is the most wonderous news,” 

“BROTHER I can’t believe it!” Thor exclaims, lifting Loki in a crushing hug. And for once, he didn’t mind it.  He turns to her and hugs her more gently. “ You are just full of surprises aren’t you, starlight”

Laughter, “Thor, I thought I told you to stop calling me that”

Silence fills the hall as Odin clears his throat, “ Loki, you have made me proud.”

Loki smiles as his love beams at him. 

“Thank you father.”**

They reached the dining hall. A cold feeling formed in the pits of his stomach. He can see his mother, talking with a maid as she bounces the child. He can’t see it, as Frigga's back is turned to him. Odin’s presence is notably absent, a small relief on Loki's part. 

Thor notices his brother’s nerves, he pats him on the back and says, “You can do this Loki.” Then walks off to join his mother. He kisses his mothers cheek and smiles at the child. He picks her up, bouncing her a few times  prompting a small laugh. Loki gimances at the sound. 

Thor walks up to him with the baby. 

“Loki, this is Y/n Odinson”

He looks at the child. He takes in its features, Beautiful curly hair, already thick and voluminous even at this age. Brown skin, unblemished and clean. Cheeks, chubby with baby fat. And...its eyes. Those damn eyes, he could barely stand it, (e/c) eyes, the same as his lost love. In fact, almost all it’s features that once belonged to his darling. A pain filled his body. He really couldn’t stand looking at this child. 

Not when his beloved wasn’t there to gaze upon their child as well. 

No, this was not his child. Not anymore. 

“Get rid of it.” 

Shock filled the faces of both Thor and Frigga. 

“Loki you cannot be serious.”

“Brother..”

“I SAID GET RID OF IT” Loki shouts. “I DO NOT WANT TO SEE THAT LITTLE MONSTER.” 

And with that he leaves the dining hall. Leaving behind  his mother, brother and the last piece of his wife he had. He hears it’s cries fill the silence.

He had only one thought in his head as he entered his chambers.

“What am I supposed to do without you”

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[cno-inbminor]

adsentio - the masque

a/n: it’s royalty!au once again! i would recommend reading adsentio AND bonus letters for the full context. thank you to those who were waiting patiently! did i rewatch ‘ever after: a cinderella story’ for inspiration? of course. 

genre: royalty!au ft. fem!reader, angst, fluff; warnings: terribly written sword fight, somewhat unedited.

summary: You’re starting to wonder if an impostor wrote those letters instead of Prince Akaashi, but the show must go on. 

wc: ~7.4k

royalty!au: adsentio (pt. 1) | bonus letters (pt 1.5) | the masque (pt. 2)

“Are you sure everything is packed?”

“Yes, mother,” you reply, voice laced with exasperation.

“Is your dress for the ceremony there as well? We absolutely cannot leave without that gown!”

“Yes, mother, it’s in there,” you reassure, pointing to a trunk that’s already in the carriage. An audible sigh of relief leaves your mother’s lips. Even though your mother’s fretting was starting to grate at your last nerves, you still felt the excitement of going back to the Fukurodani Kingdom.

After all, Prince Akaashi is waiting for you.

Akaashi’s Christmas gift had come a month and a half before the holiday it was intended for. Soon after, the two of you agreed to refrain from sending any letters during the months of frost, wanting to lessen the burden on the delivery man. He needed to be home with his family when possible, and the journey could be treacherous during those times. As warmer weather rolled around in mid-March, his familiar face had arrived at your castle steps with a small bundle of letters tied with parcel string. They were all addressed to you in a handwriting that you had grown extremely fond of.

If it were up to you, you would be adorned in your most comfortable riding attire and charge full speed ahead. You would probably be able to cut the journey time by about a third, and though it wasn’t much, it would still mean that you would see Akaashi sooner. With how forward he was in his letters, you could only bubble with enthusiasm at how different this summer could be.

Nevertheless, time passes as it does, and you’re once again at the entrance of Fukurodani’s castle. As always, the king and queen stand side by side at the bottom of the steps, the prince standing politely by them. It seems that Prince Akaashi has only grown more handsome since last summer. If you had to guess, he would be more than a full head taller than you. Besides height, Akaashi’s face seems to have lost any remaining baby fat, leaving nothing but a pointed chin and a sharp jawline. Whether or not it be a result of your newfound attraction towards him, there’s no room to deny just how handsome he truly is, bordering on ethereal beauty.

His piercing blue orbs seem to sparkle in delight when you step out of the carriage. In fact, he’s quick to take place of their usual footman and hold out a hand for you to grasp, securely ensuring that you don’t lose your step. Your grip is tight, and you can only hope that he sees the joy reflected in your own eyes. With intention and purpose, he presses his lips to the back of your hand, needing no reminder from his mother this time, and never removes his gaze from yours. Your breath seems to have escaped your lungs, even more so when he straightens and takes one daring step closer to you. Both of your parents must be brimming with satisfaction at this interaction, but all of it is ignored and disregarded. Akaashi still keeps your hand in his as he slightly leans down to whisper in your ear.

“You look beautiful as always, Princess (y/n).”

Your title had always moderately annoyed you over the last 18 years, but you decide then and there that there would be no complaint if he addressed you as so for the rest of eternity. Furthermore, if it weren’t for your dignity and pride, you would kiss him right now in front of everyone. As he pulls away, you do your best to compose yourself. After all, two can play this game.

“Thank you, Your Highness. You’ve grown more handsome since I last saw you.”

“Have we returned to formalities again?”

“Please forgive my old habits, Prince Akaashi.”

“(Y/n),” he murmurs darkly, metallic blue eyes full of warning and mischief. “Need I remind you of my given name?”

You register the tightening of his grip. Don’t even dare, his eyes seem to caution, not when so much progress was made through paper and ink. But you know he will rise to a challenge for his desires when he sees one – it’s only in his nature.

“Perhaps I need a reason to address you as such,” you quip, watching his eyes flash with an emotion you are unable to pinpoint. Nevertheless, you remove your hand from his, ignoring the yearning for the warmth that he had provided. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must greet the king and queen or they’ll have my head.”

Akaashi only watches with longing as you trek away to curtsy before his parents. Could your birthday celebration come any sooner?

-

You’re beginning to think that someone other than Prince Akaashi wrote those letters to you, that someone else had just forged his handwriting to a tee and perfectly replicated his writing style. Since the little interaction between you two on the day of your arrival, Akaashi was acting as if this were any other summer. Very little was said to or done with you – even last summer, the two of you had often strolled through the gardens while discussing various topics. Yet now, it was five summers ago all over again: the two of you at opposite ends of the castle reading your desired books.

You only ever saw him during mealtimes or in passing – even then, he would simply nod in your direction or only speak to you when he had to. Your efforts to narrow the gap diminished significantly by the third day, and by the end of the first week, you decided to completely give up. The prince has constructed a wall between you two and you possessed no ability to strike it down.

On days you weren’t reading, out of boredom and the need to fill your mind with thoughts of anything other than Akaashi, you would help prepare for the ball and your coming-of-age celebration. A private, proper ceremony would be done in your own kingdom once you returned, but it had long been determined that the festivities would be held here. Invitations and RSVP’s had steadily increased over the months, indicating that this would be a grand occasion. All the lessons on design and party-arrangement were finally paying off in its fullest, but your mother could not ignore the lack of life in your eyes.

It’s two weeks before the ball �� you’re currently sitting in your chambers, lounging in a chair on your balcony with a book in your lap. You’ve recently taken an interest in philosophy, first starting with the works of Aristotle and Plato. A faint rap of knuckles on your door breaks your focus. “Come in,” you call out loud enough for your visitor to hear. The door clicks open and shut, and you’re mildly surprised to see your mother turning the corner to search for you.

“Mother, what a surprise,” you express while standing. She pulls you in for a hug without a word, only confusing you in the process as you return the embrace. After removing herself, she guides you back inside until the two of you are sitting on the edge of your bed, still holding your hands.

“Something has been bothering you, my child. Is there something you wish to tell me?” Your mother doesn’t want to push – she knows of the letters, your developed affection for Akaashi, and the lack of interaction between the two of you this summer. It’s hard to miss the lack of your figure by his side when he’s wondering around the castle, the ever pensive, calculating look on his face never fading. It’s hard to miss the way you often pick at your food, even going as far to request smaller portions for all your meals.

But it’s even harder to ignore the worried look in the prince’s eyes that’s cast your way when you excuse yourself after every meal, leaving earlier than everyone else.

You can only sigh before your teeth begin to gently gnaw on your bottom lip. “Mother, how angry would you be if this engagement doesn’t proceed as you’ve planned?”

“To be quite honest,” she begins as a small smile forms on her face. “I wouldn’t be angry at all. Not if the cost of it was your happiness.”

“But what about the merger?”

“With all these years between our kingdoms, engagement or not, a merger of sorts would only be inevitable. We only hoped that naturally, you and the prince would be drawn towards each other. But to force the two of you together would be unfair – your father and mine, as well as his parents, main concern is the happiness of our children.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course,” your mother emphasizes, a hand reaching up to cradle your cheek. “In fact, if you would like…

“We don’t have to come here next summer.”

Your eyes widen. Your mother was giving you a choice in this?

“Are you...sure?”

“I’m absolutely positive, (y/n). I will not force you and neither will your father, especially if forcing you would only make your pain greater.”

“Very well then, mother. We shall see.”

“Keep your chin up, my dear. We must keep you in your best shape for the ball, and…” she pauses, her smile turning somewhat mischievous. “Perhaps remind the prince that he should be properly courting you by now.”

“Mother!”

-

“Is it proper for a princess to be sparring?”

“Bokuto, you’ve known me for so many years, yet you still ask me this question every time. Do you really think my father would allow me to marry without knowing how to defend myself?”  

“I can’t really say, Princess. At least, not without possibly offending the king.”

Every summer, you make it tradition to leave time for sparring. When you turned fourteen, many of the younger guards in training had been terrified of practicing with you, fearing that they’d be punished for engaging in behavior that could possibly harm the princess. But after much coaxing and convincing (as well as written promise from King Akaashi), they finally felt comfortable in sparring with you. Back at home, you had a few designated training partners from the royal guard, but it would do no good if you didn’t keep up with your skills.

You’ve won your fair share, as well as lost a few handfuls. But you were never a sore loser and only thanked your partner for their time, even asking for pointers. On a few occasions, you would duel with Akaashi, though for times when you were at an advantage, you would purposely lose. The prince needed faith and trust from his men, and many would be dimwitted enough to let a few losses to a woman diminish their view of him. Akaashi was very well aware of your generosity, as well as Bokuto, which only caused him to tease the prince relentlessly in private.

For the sixth time this summer, just one week before the masque, you had pleaded with Bokuto for his time. At this point, you prefer to not ask for anything from Akaashi, especially when you’re so obviously kept at arm’s length. Bokuto is much more agreeable and doesn’t treat you like a glass figurine, thanks to the many years of roughhousing during your childhoods. He isn’t afraid to use his full force behind the strikes of his sword and you could always guarantee a few good rounds from him. Additionally, he always offers a lot of good advice after each duel. When you incorporate his teachings into your skill set, he recognizes it immediately and howls with pride, praising himself for being such a wonderful instructor.

“Why haven’t you asked Akaashi to spar with you yet?” Bokuto asks while tightening his gloves. The training grounds are empty at this time, though to be fair, it’s still quite early in the morning. You wanted to spar comfortably without the overbearing heat of the summer afternoon sun. A sigh leaves your lips – it’s not as if he doesn’t know already.

“I believe you’re well aware of why I haven’t, Bokuto. He’s barely spoken to me in these weeks. In fact, I’m sure he has better things to do than to indulge me.”

“He still cares for you.”

“Well, he has a funny way of showing it,” you reply bitterly and draw out your sword. “Come on, no time to dawdle.”

Disobeying your words, Bokuto bides his time with some extra stretching. “I’m his closest friend, I would know.”

“Then he can tell me himself. Can we please start?”

“Very well then.”

His words have riled you up significantly, Bokuto notices. Your attacks are relentless and your senses seem sharper than ever, easily dodging and parrying with the footwork of an experienced soldier. In fact, your movement is breathtakingly graceful, almost as if you were dancing. The duel goes on for minutes until Bokuto accidentally hesitates and can only surrender when the tip of your sword is millimeters from his neck. He drops his sword and a big grin forms on his face.

You lower your weapon and step back as the both of you catch your breath. Behind you, Bokuto spots a familiar figure leaning over the edge of their balcony. They’re too far away to hear what you’re saying or what expressions you’re wearing, but that doesn’t stop Bokuto from coming up with a devious plan.

“(Y/n), don’t look behind you, but he’s watching.”

You freeze – you completely forgot that Akaashi’s room faces the direction of the training grounds. Naturally, he has his own balcony, but you didn’t think he’d be watching. Had he been observing all your other sparring rounds? And how was he awake now? He’s usually never up this early.

“I have an idea,” Bokuto continues. “But you have to play along, all right?”

“I’m not liking the sound of this…”

“You just need to follow my lead. Now, pretend you’re about to start another duel.”

With all the confusion displayed on your face, you warily adjust yourself into your preparatory stance. Bokuto steps closer to you while sheathing his sword, eyeing your position with his hands behind his back. He quickly checks to see if Akaashi is still paying attention, and after confirming so, he enters your bubble of personal space.

“If you begin to feel uncomfortable, tell me. If I’m right, it’ll only take a few minutes before he’s down here.”

“But I don’t want—”

“Shh,” Bokuto interrupts with a gloved finger on your lips. He smirks when he spots Akaashi suddenly straightening himself, his posture turning stiff and guarded. You watch as he reaches for the hand holding your sword, wrapping his own around your grip.

“What are you doing?” You hiss at him.

“Wait a few seconds…okay,” Bokuto removes himself from your personal space. You relax and put down your guard, resisting the urge to punch him in the arm.

“What ever was all that for?!”

“Look,” he replies, pointing in the direction of Akaashi’s balcony. “He’s gone. I guarantee he’ll be here in the next five minutes.”

“Bokuto—”

“Now, now, let’s have another round to pass the time.”

“But—”

You’re interrupted when Bokuto swings his sword towards you, your own blocking his instinctively. You could try to protest all you want, but he wasn’t going to let you have it. You would make sure that he regrets it. Much like the first round, you put your all into the sparring session, fury growing as Bokuto’s grin widens over time. He’s taunting you over and over, leaving you so focused that you’re completely oblivious to the third figure currently making their way towards the two of you. Once within earshot, Akaashi clears his throat and you whip towards him with horror in your eyes.

“Ah, Akaashi, excellent! So glad you could join us!” Bokuto yells, walking away from you to clap him on the shoulder. “In fact, would you mind taking over from here? I just remembered I needed to attend to something back inside the castle. Thank you, Akaashi!” And then Bokuto just…leaves.

A shroud of silence covers the two of you – your attention is directed at anything but the object of your affections, choosing to focus on the dew of the grass, the glint of the light on your sword, the light morning breeze blowing past your stray hairs, the loose threads at the waist of your pants—

“Shall we begin?” He asks, breaking the tranquility.

Akaashi is infuriating; infuriatingly handsome, infuriatingly good at stripping down your defenses, infuriatingly adept at raising your heartbeat to an alarming rate. It’s simply unfair, and it angers you.

You say nothing while taking a few steps backward, your feet adjusting yourself in the same position that Bokuto had you stand in just mere minutes ago. Akaashi observes and also readies himself, his stance very similar to yours. Only seconds pass before he’s charging towards you, and the fight begins.

The first round falls in his favor, his face showing little reaction throughout the whole clash. You demand another round, barely giving time for a break because you’re brimming with the need to have some semblance of a victory. Weeks of pent up furious confusion make themselves known in the way you fight – you no longer move with the grace seen earlier with Bokuto. Instead, traces of sloppiness are there in your footwork and Akaashi takes advantage of this, though he begins to worry. If this were a real duel, you would’ve long fallen victim to his sword.

The second round lasts much longer than the first due to your obstinate refusal to back down and give up. Your braid had long come undone and Akaashi can’t help but think about how beautiful you look, even with your hair seemingly flying wildly every time you spin to try to catch him off guard. His split focus costs him when your weapons meet in the middle, allowing you to push and twist his hand around to force him to lose his grip. The metal is flung towards the side and he’s met with the shimmer of your sword that’s dangerously close to his jugular vein. He slowly brings his hands up in surrender and you falter.

Both of your chests rapidly rise and fall, lungs desperate for oxygen. Akaashi struggles to remember the last time you had put so much effort into a duel, your desperation to win screaming itself into the air. He notices how much thinner your face has gotten, how your arm slightly trembles with exhaustion. You need to rest and eat more, Akaashi concludes with furrowed eyebrows. Your well-being is of utmost importance to him.

You feel yourself begin to quiver under Akaashi’s stare, yet long to know what could be going through his mind. Even though you’ve won this round, Akaashi still has your heart and the thought somewhat embarrasses you. You’ve always prided yourself in being level-headed, yet you just spent the last thirty to forty-five minutes taking out all your frustrations on him.

“Have you been getting enough sleep, (y/n)?”

Don’t say my name like that.

“I don’t see why it matters,” you sigh, moving away to pick up his fallen sword.

“You need to look after yourself,” Akaashi replies, following after her with a slight sense of urgency. You whip around too fast for him to react, only groaning from the impact when you practically shove his weapon to his chest. Nothing prepared you for this conversation – you aren’t ready to have it, and you’d rather not have it with swords nearby.

“I am looking after myself, your highness,” you bite through gritted teeth. Your feet carry you as fast as possible towards the entrance back into the castle, but a hand latches onto your wrist and demands your attention. You have no choice but to turn your body towards him, denying that his eyes are flashing nothing but concern and frustration.

“You’re eating less. You’re always awake at odd hours. Your corsets are too tight – they look as if they’ll squeeze the life out of you. You keep pushing yourself too hard during sparring sessions. It takes you longer than usual to finish books. You’re under the sun too much—”

“You have no right!” you accuse, attempting to wriggle your wrist from his grip. Why does he speak as if he’s been keeping a watchful eye on you when he can barely meet your own over the dinner table?

Akaashi refuses to relent, even pulling you closer to him under the shadows of the doorway. “Please (y/n), you must know how much I worry—”

“Then pray tell, why have you ignored me since I stepped foot into your castle?!” You cry out, tears of vexation beginning to form. “Why have you ignored my very existence, as if we are twelve again and trying to escape something seemingly inevitable?! How could—how could you build me up for months and months, only to tear me down without a second thought?”

Akaashi knows his reasoning is botched and full of fallacies – he’s beginning to understand the extent of how much his actions have affected you, but he can’t help but try to save some face. His cool, collected façade and wisdom had long taken a backseat towards matters concerning you, and he feels like a fool. A big, bumbling, inexplicably irrational fool in love.  

“Princess—”

“I would have no qualms if you had just outright told me that you didn’t care for me,” you interrupt once more, though in a calmer tone. Your body is still shaking from the emotional downpour, tears streaking down your cheeks unattractively. You wish you could just take a horse from the stables and ride home, away from all this nonsense. “But you can’t write me those letters, the very ones that I’ve so deeply cherished this passing year, and treat me as if it were all some dream that my brain so desperately sprung together.”

“I have my deepest regrets – I’m so sorry, it’s just…with the way we greeted each other on the first day, I somehow convinced myself that you didn’t mean what you wrote—”

“Keiji,” you interrupt softly. How he wishes you were saying his name in a different context, in a tone that was full of love than disappointment. How he wishes there were no salty tears tracking down your cheeks. “You have known me for almost thirteen years. Thirteen long, playful, revealing years. Nothing ever escapes you, and you said so yourself; we are old friends. Therefore,” you pause, gulping.

“Shouldn’t you know that I would never pen those words to just anyone?”

And you disappear into the castle.

Akaashi feels that there’s nothing more appropriate than beating his head into the wall, cursing himself for being so stupid.

What have I done?

-

“I must say, in the most appropriate sense, you are truly, royally fucked.”

“I know, Bokuto. I know.”      

-

Akaashi tries to make up for his mistakes in his classic fashion: silently, with small thoughtful gifts.

He has resumed leaving flowers from the garden in your chambers again: some days, you return to a peony. Other days, you return to the addition a single rose in the ardent shade of passionate love. They accumulate on your dresser, your room becoming filled with the floral scents. The lingering fragrance haunts your dreams, filled with flashes of childhood memories and anticipated encounters at the masque. You often wake up feeling as if there’s a lead weight on your chest, and even though you physically slept for eight hours, the fatigue in your eyes vehemently argue otherwise.

Akaashi becomes insistent on escorting you everywhere, always offering his arm for you to take. At first, you’re hesitant, but just a day later, it becomes second nature. Akaashi joins you again when reading – if he can, he’ll take a seat next to you. If not, he’ll be sure to be across from you, though he’s not reading most of these times. He often carries a journal with him, assistants always prepared to provide him with a writing utensil and ink, and scribbles away. Akaashi has never held back his admiration for the world’s literature, and four days before your birthday, you pause in your reading to feed the curiosity.

“What are you scribbling in there, if I may ask?”

“A…personal work of sorts.”

“Your Highness, an author? I must say, it suits you. Is it a work of fiction?”

“Not this time,” he says with the ghost of a demure, secretive smile on his face. “You could consider it a memoir.”  

“If you say so.”

-

It had been decided some time ago that the ball would be held the night before your birthday, rather than the day of. These events were known to last well into the night, so at midnight, they would make an announcement in your honor and present you before everyone invited. With these change in plans, your original deadline for Akaashi to find you had to be moved ahead, and he was less than pleased to hear this the day before the ball, even though it was anticipated.

“Fifteen minutes is precious time, Princess,” Akaashi expresses with displeasure. “Could you permit me at least five ‘til midnight?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, milord. I must have enough time to prepare myself.”

“Have I only been upgraded to being called ‘milord’?”

“How is it that your title irks you so?”

“Only when it’s coming from you, Princess. And I must say, you’re one to speak – don’t think I’m unaware of how much you greatly dislike it when you’re addressed as such. You’ve never bothered to correct me though. Why is that?”

“Perhaps…” you say, giving him a side glance full of mirth. “Perhaps you’re just an exception.”

Akaashi’s eyes widen a bit before crinkling with delight. You never cease to amaze him, reminding him at the most unexpected times that you are also invested in this growing relationship with him. He quickly looks around him before gently dragging you to the nearest empty bedroom, hoping that even though the walls have ears, they don’t have the eyes to witness this. Once the door is quietly shut behind him, Akaashi begins to take slow steps in your direction, towering over you and crowding you until your heels hit the wall. You struggle to maintain eye contact as well as keeping your breathing under control. Akaashi continues to pin you down with his piercing gaze, gradually bending down until he’s at eye level with you. Thoughts run amok in your brain as his face nears yours. Is he going to—

Your internal process ceases when he tenderly places a kiss at the corner of your lips, then moving until his breath is right by your ear. The sensation triggers a shiver down your spine, causing him to chuckle.

“To give you an idea of what I’d like my reward to be when I catch you tomorrow night, Princess,” he murmurs before moving away.

You’re blushing furiously no matter how much you fight it, barely registering when he lifts both of your hands to place a similarly gentle kiss on your touching knuckles. Part of you wants to protest when he steps towards the door and cracks it open, peeking out to see if anyone is lingering in the corridors. Akaashi keeps a hold on one of your hands, quickly leading you out and folding it into the crook of his other elbow. He fixes his gaze in front of him to bring on an air of normalcy, as if he didn’t just sneak you into a spare bedroom to do something that many would somewhat frown upon. Akaashi had yet to ask to formally court you, but he has full intentions to change that tomorrow night.

“Perhaps you’ll give me an insight on what you’ll be wearing tomorrow night?” He inquires cheekily and you send him your dirtiest glare.

“Only in your dreams, milord. Did you not read the part about making this harder on you so I could have some fun?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to have fun with each other?”

“Do you mean to tempt me?” You tease, chuckling into the back of your free hand.

“There was no guarantee that you’d refuse – am I not allowed to grasp onto any remaining hope?”

“Whatever satisfies you, milord.”

“Then let me find you tomorrow night. I don’t believe I’ll stand for any of the other suitors attempting to whisk you away with baseless words and ill intentions.”

“What would you know of their intentions?” You ask curiously, looking up towards him. His eyes darken and harden with an emotion you’re not familiar with. It’s one that is never directed towards you, almost dangerous in a way.

“More than you should know, Princess,” he replies gravely.

Before you realize it, you’re sitting in front of your vanity, sitting as prettily and patiently as you can while your handmaiden, Yachi, does her best work on your hair. You observe your current features – a faint blush had been dusted on your cheeks and a deep rouge painted on your lips. Your mask would be similar to many those of the other attendees, one more thing to pull in your favor in this game of cat and mouse.

Your heart begins to beat faster as the seconds tick by – there’s no doubt that Akaashi is already by his parents’ side, carrying a princely aura and politely greeting all the guests. The ball began at 9PM and it was already thirty minutes after. You can hear the faint sounds of the musicians playing up a lively theme, imagining that the festivities will be in full swing soon. Soon, your handmaiden is patting you on the shoulder, notifying you that she was done. In the mirror, you turn your head left and right and nod appreciatively, thanking her for her hard work. Your fingers shakily pick up your mask and Yachi ties it securely behind your head and underneath your hair.

“Do you think he’ll recognize me?” You ask nervously, fiddling your fingers in your lap. Yachi knew almost everything about the ordeal and had even come up with some good ideas to make things harder on the prince.

“If he keeps in mind that you’ll be the most beautiful maiden at the ball, then I’m sure he will,” Yachi giggles, tucking in some stray hairs.

“You’re not here to lie to me,” you whine, pouting slightly. “In all seriousness…”

“I have no doubt, milady,” Yachi says, her eyes and tone softening. “If His Highness likes you as much as he says he does, then he will certainly find you.”

You let out a deep breath before standing from your chair, the nerves beginning to course through your system. In the reflection, you gaze upon the line of flower-filled vases on your dresser, their presence somehow bringing you some serenity. Yachi is right -- with how much he boasted in letters about studying every memory he has of you, there should be a reasonable level of certainty that he would catch you by your deadline.

But now was the time to be festive. After all, the guests were here in your honor (and to have a joyous time) and you’d be rude to not partake in the activities. Some of the maids are bustling around, ensuring that drinks and food are readily available, never running low. The sound of your heels clicking along the granite echoes against the walls, yet your heartbeat seems louder and louder as you near the ballroom. The castle beholds two specific large ballrooms with double doors towards the courtyard, allowing the cool summer air in. You take a quick detour and choose to enter the ballroom from the outside, much less likely to arouse suspicion.

At least everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, you think to yourself with a smile. It’s easy to spot Bokuto in the crowd with that hair of his, just as you predicted. The band just finishes a song when you sneak in, yet starts up a familiar tune not long after. The piece calls for a large group to dance together, and wanting to join in, you make your way to the center. Luckily, one more female was needed and you are welcomed, as well as gently shoved to a tall man who seemed to be lacking a partner. It’s not hard to guess who it is, however. Even with a mask, you could recognize that crooked grin from anywhere.

As per tradition, he bows to you and you curtsy, then routinely placing your hand in his. He draws you close to him by the waist, but his grip is light and barely holds any weight on your back. Taking a quick once-over at the group, he addresses you.

“Should I be counting my lucky stars to be dancing with the princess in honor?” He teases just loud enough for you to hear. 

“I would advise against it, Prince Kuroo.”

A quiet laugh leaves his chest as he gives you a spin, flawlessly bring you back to him. “You can trust me, Princess. Bokuto has already informed me of the game in place, though I suppose it was more of a warning more than anything.”

“Oh, how so?”

“If I didn’t want to face the wrath of your dear prince, I should refrain from attempting to convince you that a merger between our kingdoms would be more ideal.”

“I must say, I’m a little surprised that Bokuto isn’t trying to stir up trouble.”

“I would advise against speaking too soon – he’s already on his third glass of mead.”

“Good gods,” you mutter in disbelief. Kuroo shakes with laughter.

“For my amusement, I’d like to see Akaashi be a clumsy fool in love. You have my word that I’ll keep this interaction secret for now,” he promises, rushing his words a little bit. Soon, the two of you will need to break apart and switch partners.

“But don’t forget to have a little fun. Happy birthday, Princess,” Kuroo says sincerely in your ear, sneaking in a quick kiss to the back of your hand before letting you go. You fall into the hands of another male, one you don’t recognize, and fall into silent routine until the dance is over. When the band comes to a stop, everybody bows to each other with a wide smile on their faces and cheeks tinted red from happiness. Momentarily, you had forgotten about your nerves and Akaashi, but now that there was nothing else to focus on, the shivers of being chased creep along your body.

In one sense, it’s almost thrilling. The thought has you questioning your own sanity, but perhaps it’s only because Akaashi is the one searching for you, finding the right time to pounce. As a result, you never stay in one place for too long, mingling into other crowds and making small talk. Very few have noticed who you were, and even Bokuto replaces his antics for a wink when he passes by you, knowing his usual behavior would give it all away.

The clock strikes eleven, each toll causing your heart to skip a beat. You grant yourself one more glance towards Akaashi.

Earlier during the dance, you had spotted him in the far corner of the ballroom staring in another direction. Now when you have the time to watch and appreciate, you can’t help but marvel at how beautiful this man is. Time boded well on him, his features and height resembling a strong, trustworthy young prince. He had the intellect and perceptive level worthy of being king, and even the atmosphere around him agreed. His head was fit to hold a crown, and any woman would fall at his feet in seconds. Tonight, he is donned in the kingdom’s colors, his own attire a regal show of ivory, ebony, and gold. The design is not overly ornate or flamboyant, yet regal enough to instantaneously remind others exactly who he is. Each hue makes him shine like a beacon of light in darkness.

Needing some fresh air, you slip out towards the courtyard and quietly make your way to the garden entrance. A couple of guards are standing watch but let you in once you untie the mask from your face. Your feet pad down a familiar path towards the rows of peonies and you’re thankful for the uninhibited rays of the full moon tonight. They’re cast in a soft glow of white and blue – you can’t help but tenderly touch petals of one half-open.

“I had an inkling that you would come here.”

The familiar tenor startles you out of your wits, your hand flying back up to your chest as you turn towards the perpetrator for your premature heart attack. None other than Prince Akaashi stands before you with his hands behind his back and a twinkle in his eyes. Then, the weight is lifted off your chest.

He had found you.

Once you catch your breath, you can only let out a suppressed laugh. There was nowhere to hide, not when your mask is grasped between the fingers of your other hand. He hadn’t even bothered to wear one, though you’ll scold him later for not participating in the festivities.

“I suppose you followed me here?”

“You could say that,” Akaashi replies with a smile, moving closer to stand right in front of you.

“It did take you over an hour and a half though.”

“(Y/n).”

“…yes, milord?”

“I noticed you the second you stepped into the ballroom.”

The statement baffles you and freezes you to the core. You find yourself unable to do anything when Akaashi grasps both of your hands in his, bringing them to his lips much like he did yesterday.

“Then why did you not come to me then?” You question after finding your voice again. Akaashi says nothing at first, only rearranging your limbs to a familiar posture for a waltz. He begins to step and lead, your own feet naturally following him as if you’ve been practicing this for a long time together. His silence makes you grow more unsure of all this.

“I wanted to observe, reconfirm my suspicions that I was already fully convinced on. In addition, I wanted you to enjoy yourself. You and our mothers have spent so many months preparing this – it’s only right that you enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

“Then you saw me dance?”

“Yes, and you were the best of them all,” he instantly compliments, always honest and straightforward to the point, sending blood to your cheeks.

“Thank you, milord,” you reply sheepishly.

“You’re welcome, Princess. Though I must say,” Akaashi’s tone turns dangerous, leaning over to whisper in your ear. He notices how your hands tighten their grips on his, perhaps trying to ground yourself. “Why did Prince Kuroo of Nekoma speak to you like this, so intimately? I thought, perhaps, this would also be left as a privilege solely for me?”

“He was doing just as you had warned before,” you chuckle, silently apologizing for pulling the wool over Kuroo’s eyes. Judging by the sharp inhale, Akaashi was less than pleased at what you were insinuating. “He may or may not have been attempting to persuade me into forming a more personal alliance with his kingdom.”

“Was he now…” Akaashi murmurs. In an effort to contain the green jealousy rising within him (and gain a little leverage), his hands slowly release yours to gently grasp your waist. For a moment, he wishes they were holding you this way in a different situation, but that doesn’t stop him from daringly ghosting his lips over the column of your neck, his breath sending goosebumps along your skin. You keep as still as possible, completely unsure of what to do. But if there’s one thing that is certain, it’s that no man could ever have an effect on you like Akaashi does.

“I have known you since you were young,” he proceeds. “And though we didn’t want anything to do with each other, we eventually grew accustomed to each other. Before I even realized it, I was watching your every move, listening to every word you said. Even when we were twelve, I found myself wanting to be near you. I wanted you to take notice of me just as I did you. When we were fifteen and you sat against me by the fireplace…there was the most wonderful sense of belonging, as if you were supposed to be right there by my side.”

Your heart might fail you at this point, aching for the man who was now lifting his head away to face you. The back of one hand lifts to caress your cheek, and your eyes catch the ardent passion in his, even in the moonlight.

“I penned those words to you with every intention of properly courting you. I wished for you to understand the lengths I would go to ensure your happiness. It was never about this merger between our kingdoms and hasn’t been for a long time. I only want you to know that should you allow me to, it would be my honor to court you and perhaps…be your husband.”

Unshed tears of joy are brimming in your eyes. Akaashi has suffered enough, you believe. A tear must have escaped because he catches it with his thumb, softly wiping it away. You can’t help but let out a breathless laugh, and Akaashi knows it’s a good sign. The smile on his face grows wider as you collect yourself to give your response.

“You do, after all, deserve a reward for finding me.”

Akaashi smirks and tilts his head forward, his lips millimeters away from yours.

“And what would that be, Princess?” He purrs.

Your heart takes a leap and you press your lips to his. Instantly, Akaashi cradles your face, refusing to separate from you. The first kiss is innocent and unmoving, allowing the both of you to revel in the sensation. A thrilling streak of adrenaline courses through your veins and sets your soul on fire as he puts more force, conveying to you his neediness and years of pent-up desire. You return it ounce for ounce until you can’t breathe anymore, pulling back to breathe in some much-needed oxygen. Akaashi doesn’t stop, sensuously kissing every available surface of your cheeks until he’s tired of waiting to kiss your lips once more. You give in and let yourself fall until the point of no return – even if Akaashi was the devil incarnate, you would gladly hand over your soul for an eternity of his love.

“As much as I want to continue this,” he states over bated breath. “We have a ball to return to.”

You sigh and nod, brushing your nose against his before allowing some distance between the two of you. Akaashi offers to tie the mask before taking hold of your hand, folding it into the crook of his elbow as he has done many times before. The two of you bide your time as much as possible, giving each other knowing glances when the courtyard is within your view again. Some of the ladies (and men) throw you nasty looks for having had private time with the prince, but none of it matters as Akaashi asks for a dance, spending the rest of the minutes until midnight with you in his arms.

After midnight strikes and being presented to the crowd, Akaashi keeps a hold on you again, ignoring the jeering and teasing gestures from Bokuto and Prince Kuroo. Kuroo, the ever honest yet playful man he is, sends you a wink behind Akaashi’s back and you bury your face into his chest. Whatever the cause may be, Akaashi continues to envelop you in his arms with a light and comfortable conversation taking place. As a natural silence passes over, he whispers into your ear, “Happy birthday, Princess.”

“Thank you, Keiji.”

Ecstasy fills his soul -- there hasn’t been anything more gratifying or more satisfying than hearing his name from your lips again. Finally, from now until death...he feels absolutely complete.

[bvccy]

how did you plan NtD?

I'm decided to write something long and solid (??) right now and I could use some advice 😬 if you have any

Gah I'm not sure if I have any advice, really 😳 The best thing to do, really, is just to plan it. Like, this is how it starts, this is how it ends, and for it to end this way, in the middle I must have x, y, and z.

1.) Write down a skeleton if you can, in chronological order. If you're like me, as you write it you will find new needs ("this needs to happen, oh and this needs to happen as well") and you can also play around with that ("how about I put some foreshadowing 10 chapters in advance haha for fun").

This is how, for example, the lunch scene at The Salt Plate happened:

Would Bucky, realistically, stick with the fake SHIELD-bought wedding rings for their real wedding? No, he'd get personal ones.

So how do I write that in? Can't just have him pull the rings out of nowhere, can I? Solution: introduce a jewellery store.

Where could we see that first? How about a dinner scene to present some Dochian cuisine, give a shout out to some true and quite crazy European dishes like cock testicle stew and Italian cibero, and the Romanian sarmale and Greek dolmades which is cute and humanises the side-characters, and THEN they have a walk and I can give a nod to Bucky having read The Hobbit as introduced in TFATWS, AND mention a jewellery store too.

I was about 6 chapters ahead when I thought to introduce that scene, so I went back and wrote it in, even if the chapter it was in was already finished. If I were a smart girl, I'd have done it from the start.

So yeah, figure out what you want to happen, and the needs of the scenes present themselves.

2.) I spent a lot of time daydreaming, like just sitting in bed and picturing the scenes of the story one by one. Sometimes, I'd think of specific dialogue too, and at those times in particular I stopped and wrote them down (there are definitely some bits I didn't write down, and of course those are forgotten completely, so always be ready to take notes).

So yeah, daydream a lot, picture it all in your head as a movie, always take notes.

3.) Decide what, if anything, you want to pay a homage to. This will serve as your point of reference, like points of gravity in the story that scenes will revolve around.

For example, I knew I wanted to create an atmosphere of continental Europe, so what does that mean? Beautiful, old, slightly worn-down buildings, big old trees, flocks of nuns, Church bells ringing in the morning, those little porcelain statuettes old ladies always have around the house, great food but also weird food, all of the pastries, fancy alcohol.

And I wanted to present the sort of people I've met, and how I've met them: some old, some young, some thin, some fat, cheerful or generally sad, with whatever aches or illnesses they have in their old age, just present them as human and as valuable as anyone younger or prettier or whatever, and always a joy to be around.

So as I knew I wanted to have these types of things/characters as decorations of the story, I needed to create scenes in which they are presented.

I also wanted to talk about certain topics like, reader and Bucky's sense of worthlessness and their (resulting) reluctance to have children. So how do you present that? You have a dialogue in which, one way or another, reader has to mention it, which pushes Bucky to disagree with her because he sees her as wonderful, which makes him re-think the way he thinks about himself. As an aide for this change in Bucky, I also mentioned the bit in the Church where he saw a young family with a baby and got envious.

I wanted to give Hamelin some scenes where he is also humanised, to emphasise the grey-ness of so-called evil characters. So I put in that scene at the bar, where he comforts reader after she's upset with Bucky (why is she upset? a scene is created as a result), and also their dialogue in the garden (why is she in the garden? again, the need creates the scene).

Now, I'm giving this "vague" sort of advice because what I have found to be most helpful is to start from the end. Start from where you want to get, and see how you get there - because you can get there in a lot of ways. You can have a scene, you can have a dialogue, it's up to you.

4.) Write, then re-write, and re-re-write. As there are several ways to resolve your issue of "how do I show the thing I want to show", and as you have the (smart) idea of writing before you start to post, you have all the time in the world to experiment with how you tell your story. So don't be afraid to write something, only to delete it completely. Don't be afraid to write a scene then notice it doesn't fit there, and move it somewhere else.

As an example: those few paragraphs where Bucky was thinking "She was dull and tender by comparison, a little sensitive and a bit sad, etc.", those whole like 3 or 4 paragraphs of his thinking about her are in Chapter 12, but they were originally in Chapter 5 when he woke up after their first night in the hotel. They were in Ch. 5 for two whole months, but I eventually decided his opinions were too complex for how little he'd known her, so I moved them and did some re-writing to fit everything because both those respective chapters were completed by then.

There are some scenes, I wrote them and decided they were stupid, so I deleted them. I guess I just needed to write them to get them out of my system, and move on.

5.) Do whatever research you need to do for the story, or just use things you know are cool.

For example, there are some videos from a lockpicking YT channel that I found inspirational (they are referenced in the notes on AO3, but I'm talking about this and this and this). I don't remember exactly if I first saw these before I started writing or shortly after, but in any case, it was around the beginning, and I was like "man, I really want to have a scene where I use this", so I created some lock-picking scenes that did that, and also served as scenes of bonding between reader and Bucky. There were lots of other videos I've seen from that channel (it's a great channel) but these are some that fit in the story.

There was also a news article I saw at some point with those breast pastries (also referenced in the respective chapter on AO3), and I wanted to have a scene to show that too, so I created the one at The Fountainsoul 😂 Some scenes, for sure, could fit almost anywhere. Like, I could've introduced the minnuzzi while they were on the cruise and married, but figured the earlier scenes needed a bit more meat.

So whether you do your research around the sort of scene or story you want to tell after you know what story you want to tell, or whether you know some cool or weird facts you want to reference, that can also help you built up the structure of the story, and provide that skeleton of scenes I mentioned.

I know this advice is kind of lousy 😖 You ask me "how do you plan?" and I say "lol just plan". But this is as well as I can put it into words, at least what I used to write, and what I'm still using.

tl;dr: decide what you want to write, and it helps you figure out how to get there and what you need to write

I hope it can help you, my dear! If you need any other help or just to bounce ideas off me, let me know 💗 I will be here for you.

[a-world-in-grey]

Sunshine Never Stops (Clouds Get in the Way) au

Or another 3am idea (that I would love more if it came at a semi-decent hour) that is so unfairly cute.

@secret-engima and @swiftyue - to make up for the angst of my last post.

.

-Ardyn gets past the gate guards, wrapped in the illusion of a nameless Crownsguard. He wants to scoff at how easy it is - so much for the Lucians’ vaunted Wall.

-He walks through the celebrations. Inwardly he seethes. Oh how ignorant the masses are, praying to cruel gods and believing in false kings. It would be so simple to reach out with his power and twist. So simple to turn cheers and laughter into such deligtful screams of fear...

-He retrains himself. He is here for a purpose after all, and it wouldn’t do to give the game away before it even begins.

-From the center of Insomnia, the Citadel cuts a striking figure though the skyline. Ardyn admires the architecture, admires how it might look crushed to so many pieces...

-Hmm, perhaps he will spare the Citadel. It would be a shame to see such a beautiful structure laid to waste. Far better to keep it as a trophy, a symbol of all his brother’s power come to nothing.

-Yes, Ardyn likes that idea much better.

-But the sight of the Citadel, of the Royal family’s seat of power gives Ardyn an spark of inspiration, and he changes his itinerary on the spot.

-He has a job to do, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a bit of fun first.

-And it would be so rude to visit without saying hello to the family.

.

-Once past security, ‘Mars Sapientia’ is ushered off to meet with the Marshal. Ardyn lets the illusion split from him, ‘Mars’ following his superiors while Ardyn strolls through the grounds without anyone paying him a second glance.

-Truly. Ardyn may have to adjust his estimation of the Crownsguard at this rate. And the young Immortal (ha!) Leonis was rumored to be the newest Marshal. Pity, Ardyn had such high expectations for the boy.

-Not just anyone could cut off Gilgamesh’s arm.

-“What are you doing?”

-Ardyn blinks. There is a child glaring up at him, though the baby fat rounding her face turns what is no doubt intended to be a fearsome glare into a frankly adorable pout.

-Red hair and blue eyes. Ah, this must be his newest niece.

-And a delightful opportunity.

-“I am enjoying the gardens, dear Princess.” He says, one hand removing his hat with a flourish as he bows. He wraps his power about the both of them, hiding them from anyone who might come looking.

-The Princess is decidedly unimpressed with him, judging by her scowl. She points to a nearby stone bench. “Sit.” She orders.

-Ardyn carefully does not snicker. He doubts his niece would appreciate it, and he can always rile her up later. “I appreciate the concern Your Highness, but I am perfectly alright standing.”

-The bench is in the sun after all. He may have his hat, but even so direct sunlight is a touch... warm for his tastes.

-The Princess frowns. Not in frustration, curiously enough, but in thought and Ardyn can almost see the gears turning in her little head.

-Ah. No, not see. Feel. His niece’s magic (sunshine-fire-warmth, the same odd twist to it that Ardyn knows so intimately yet so weak Ardyn only now can sense it) curls freely about her, unrestrained and conveying her concern for him quite clearly.

-A spark of triumph, and his niece grabs his hand. Ardyn lets the little girl pull him further into the gardens, further into shade, without so much as a request for Ardyn to follow.

-Demanding little thing.

-Naive too. Unaware of the danger she courts, as she pulls him further away from the well trodden paths.

-Oh how easy this will be.

-They round the corner of the path, coming to a small alcove shaded by trees and hidden from view by flowering bushes. And in the center, another bench.

-“Sit.”

-Ardyn laughs. His niece is stubborn. “Of course, Your Highness.” He can afford to indulge her.

-He sits, and the Princess hoists herself up beside him. Ardyn has but a moment to recognize the tiny flare of magic, the frown of concentration and intent on her face.

-He gently catches her wrists, halting golden wreathed hands before they can touch him. “It is rude to use magic on someone without permission, Your Highness.” He says sternly, meeting her gaze and trying to impress upon her just how serious he is. Honestly, has no one taught her this yet? He’s shocked she hasn’t hurt herself yet!

-This time the Princess does pout. But she drops her hands when he releases her, magic curling about in shame. Ah, so she has been told. “You’re hurt. Want to help.”

-Hurt?

-His niece nods as though Ardyn has spoke the thought aloud (Ardyn did not, he knows he did not) and reaches for him. Ardyn watches wih sharp eyes but her magic doesn’t ripple, so he allows pudgy fingers to poke his chest, directly over his heart.

-“Not right.” She says from her perch in his lap. “Cold. Everywhere, but worse here,” a second tap to his heart, and then she pokes his forehead, “and here.”

-Ardyn... is shocked as his niece sits back and glares at his chest, as though she can scare the problem into submission. (Perhaps when she is older, her glare will inspire fear. For now, it only inspires the desire to pinch her cheeks.)

-How interesting. His niece can apparently sense the Starscourge.

-His heart skips a beat. His niece tried to heal the Starscourge.

-Has she no survival instinct?!

-Ardyn wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, settling his chin atop her red hair (so like his) and breathing deep to settle the flare of panic seizing his chest. “Promise me you won’t try to heal this again, Little Sun,” he murmurs, “it’s very dangerous and it’ll make you very sick.”

-Small hands tighten on his shirt. “But you’re sick.”

-That isn’t a promise. “I am. I’ve been sick for a very long time. Promise me, Little Sun.”

-Sola leans back to glare at him. “Why haven’t the doctors helped!” She demands, righteous rage and indignation searing through her magic.

-Ardyn chuckles. “It’s not something that can be healed, Little Sun.”

-“Have they tried?”

-Ardyn opens his mouth - of course he tried, thousands he tried to save only to damn himself - and pauses.

-Has anyone in this day and age tried to cure the Starscourge?

-Ardyn... doesn’t know.

-“I’m going to find a cure.” Sola declares (and Ardyn knows he didn’t speak that aloud either- can his niece sense his emotions?). She looks up at him, blue eyes blazing with magic-will-promise, “And then I’ll heal you.”

-A beat. Then, “Please?”

-And Ardyn is so tempted to say yes, to accept the oath offered.

-But Sola’s magic is barely a fraction of what Ardyn’s was. He’ll not bind her to an oath she has no hope of keeping.

-“You care so much for someone you do not know, Little Sun.” He says instead.

-His niece frowns at him, geniunely puzzled. “You’re family.” She says. “Family helps each other.”

-Ardyn stills. “Little Sun,” he asks carefully, “how do you know that?”

-In every memory, only the Founder King was remembered by history. Nothing of Ardyn, not the Healer or the Adagium, so how does a toddler know what only Besithia had discovered after decades plundering royal tombs-

-Hands touch his face. “Look like me.” She says, and Ardyn can pick out the faint similarities beyond their coloring, “Feel like me.”

-“That does not mean I am not dangerous, Little Sun.” Ardyn warns, and he lets the illusion over his face fall. “That doesn’t mean I’m not a monster.”

-Face to face with the Starscourge, with a sight many have fled from in terror-

-Sola blinks. Prods his cheek. “Creepy.” She declares with a grin. Then the grin disappears for another glare. “Not a monster. Sick.”

-Arydn... doesn’t know how to respond. What can he say to such simple, fierce conviction?

-“You’re Uncle.” Sola says. “Trust you.”

-She does. She really does, and when was the last time anyone trusted him so intimately?

-“Come with me.” Ardyn says. “Let me teach you to heal, so one day you can keep your promise.”

-This will be his revenge. His niece will be his Heir, not Somnus’s.

-And as Sola’s face brightens with all the sunshine in the world, Ardyn vows he will not let the darkness in his veins take her light like it did his.

[darkmccns]

( i haven’t even done his theme yet but i was just so excited to write joon’s intro that i had to do this before anything else !! )

hello ! i’m beeba, 19, in pst !! it’s lovely to be back, and i’ve brought with me a new, debatable-if-improved version of my baby boy yoojoon. things have gotten a bit darker and twistier with him this go-around but i can assure you that somewhere deep.....deep........deepdeepdeep down he’s still a soft boy. HENNYWAYS ! under the cut you will find a bio, headcanons, and wanted connections !! 

give this a like if you’re interested in plotting uwu. i’ll hit you up in the dm’s, or you can add me on discord @ namjoon’s “brrrrrrt” in cypher 4#2323

☾*✧･ﾟ:*「 kim seokjin. cismale. he/him. 」did you know that there’s a wizard in haneul known as moon yoojoon? they have been living here for the past  eleven years and is a strategist for the hyeon mu. they are currently twenty seven and was a student at crocus institute of higher magic in the house nightshade. i heard that they are known to be unyielding, but worry not ! i heard they are also very selfless too. remember to stay out of trouble, the ju jak are lurking around every corner !

( tw for familial death, alcoholism, abuse, violence, murder, and gang activity )

BIO: 

yoojoon was the youngest of four boys born ( accidentally ) to moon hojoon and moon jisoo, in the small town of punggi. 

his mother was a tarot card reader/fortune teller who worked out of their home and his father a retired duellist for the hyeon mu. they lived off of his mother’s meager income and his father’s military pension that the hyeon mu provided since he was honourably discharged after a combat incident that left him traumatized.

his birth was considered a hindrance to his father more than anything else. another mouth to feed with the little they had. 

hojoon was a very heavy drinker, using it as a coping mechanism to deal w/ his trauma. he often took his anger out on his sons and wife --- rarely laying a hand on them, but often yelling so loudly the house would shake.

yoojoon had a very close relationship with his mother and his eldest brother saejoon who was twelve years his senior. his two middle brothers mostly brushed him off out of fear of their father.

he didn’t begin showing signs of magic until he was five, and his mother was worried for the first few years that he was a squib, due to all his brothers showing signs of magic in infancy. 

the first thing yoojoon ever did magic-wise was make a bush of azaleas in their back garden bloom out of season. his entire family celebrated his feat that night, even his father.

as he grew older and began to attend school, he decided he wanted to be a duellist like his father was. he did well in all his classes in the hopes that when the time came he could move to seoul and attend crocus to receive proper training

was a very happy, bouncy little kid with a love for flowers. could most often be found out in the garden with his mother as she tended to the seasonal blooms. 

had a knack for potion making from an early age. his mother always told him that he should pursue a career in potion making but he adamantly refused because he wanted a manly job. 

when yoojoon was ten, saejoon left punggi for seoul, with plans of joining a vigilante resistance group disassociated from the hyeon mu. they considered themselves freedom fighters who sought to bring an end to the ongoing war between the magi and the ju jak through methods such as peaceful protests and attempts at reconciliation. 

their father was more than displeased. he told his eldest son that if he did leave he would never be welcomed back, but he left anyways with the promise of writing to yoojoon as often as he could about his “ adventures in the big city. ”

tensions in their household only rose after his brother left. his father drank more, his mother threw herself into her work. his two remaining brothers left for school, leaving him alone to handle his parents. 

saejoon never ended up writing him, and yoojoon began to resent him for leaving.

at fourteen, yoojoon received new that his brother had died at the hands of the ju jak --- “ another tragic casualty of war ” as the letter stated.

the two years in between his brother’s death and him starting at crocus are kind of a blur for him. lots of heated arguments with his father over the nature of saejoon’s death that would turn into physical altercations, nights spent sobbing silently in saejoon’s empty bedroom. he was a whole ass mess, with good reason, and acted accordingly.

when he was sixteen he finally moved to seoul, having come to terms as best he could with saejoon’s death. he realized he couldn’t put his life on hold to continue mourning, and that that was not what his brother would have wanted for him.

he was put in nightshade upon arriving at crocus, and despite words of encouragement from his professors to go into potion making he stayed firmly on track towards becoming a duelist. he was now more determined than ever --- hellbent on avenging his brother’s death and taking the ju jak down one by one.

a year into his education he was approached by a group of boys who were apart of the same vigilante group his brother had been in, called the faceless ones. wanting to follow in his footsteps and aide the war effort, yoojoon joined.

attending school falls second to attending group meetings in a grungy warehouse downtown. it seems innocent enough at first --- passing a bottle of soju around a fire, sharing stories of the ones lost to the ju jak. but as time goes on and tensions between magi and humans grow further, things become more serious.

the boys don masks with magi emblazoned on the front to cover their faces as they wreak havoc in the human-populated areas of the city. they lights cars on fire, vandalize businesses, and some go as far as attacking innocent people --- ju jak or not. it takes some impressive mental gymnastics on yoojoon’s part to justify the actions of his peers, but he manages when he’s got enough liquor in his system. 

his knack for potions makes him the ideal candidate for making simple weaponry --- pipe bombs, pouches full of noxious herbs, tinctures that when applied to the skin melt it clean off the bone. but working behind the scenes wasn’t what he joined to do. he joined to kill ju jak.

and so he does. indirectly at first --- more of a mastermind than an executioner --- but growing more bold as time goes on. the first time he takes a life with his own hands he’s just turned seventeen, and he hates the rush it gives him.

he attends school during the day and uses the skills he learns to kill by night. he is methodical, unlike the others, careful. he plans his attacks for days before carrying them out, and enacts his plans with professional ease. he becomes well known to ju jak and hyeon mu alike --- and both groups want him caught.

however, one poorly executed plan leads to him falling into the hands of the hyeon mu, and they give him a choice. he’s either to join them as a duelist --- because his talents, though being used poorly, cannot simply be thrown away --- or rot in prison for murder.

it’s an easy choice, and when he’s just shy of eighteen he’s officially a member of the hyeon mu.

as far as rookie duelists go, he’s considered one of the most talented. his prior experience ( though they don’t like to admit it ) gives him a leg up on the others his age, and he finds himself climbing through the ranks quickly. 

he figures if he can’t change the way the magi deal with ju jak as part of a rebel organization, he may as well work on it from the inside. 

he’s an accomplished duelist with a very high number of confirmed kills and arrests.

by twenty three he’s no longer a duelist --- they prefer to use his talents in careful planning over his manpower. he’s appointed to the committee of strategists that work closely with the leaders of the hyeon mu to gather information on the ju jak and plan out attacks accordingly. 

he’s frickin amazing at it. it’s truly what he was always meant to do, and he makes triple what he did as a duelist without needing to be in the field.

now, at twenty seven, he’s now the head strategist with a small committee working underneath him.

he rly out here tryna revolutionize the way the magi and the hyeon mu deal with the ju jak, because he feels as though he has more relevant field experience than many of the higher ups who have simply been observing this war rather than taking part in it.

truly believes that they could be doing more, but for whatever reason are not. in his eyes the hyeon mu is not functioning at it’s full capabilities, and their efforts are sitting stagnant as the ju jak grow in number. 

the most anti-government government employee you will ever meet. often accuses the president of sitting on their ass with their security detail to protect them while the common people are terrorized.

however, as much as he calls out and openly bashes the hyeon mu’s methods, they can’t afford to lose him because he rly has made a ton of progress and at this point with the amount he knows he’s irreplaceable, and too much of a liability to let go of.

so now he sits in his cushy office on the top floor of a gorgeous building, overlooking the city and planning various ways to absolutely pulverize the ju jak at whatever cost.

HEADCANONS & RANDOM FACTS:

still very close with his mom !! she often comes and stays in the city with him, and he spoils the hell out of her :’)))

he has a familiar: a fat, orange cat named calcifer whom he adores endlessly.

is a hobby potion maker. it relaxes him.

loves a good vodka soda w/ lime.

while he isn’t very social, he loves to attend high society parties because it gives him an excuse to wear one of his many fancy suits.

quite a snarky asshole, will give you shit regardless of your position or status.

enjoys eating sticky rice.

public speaking is like.....a weird talent of his ? he absolutely loathes it, but he’s read in newspapers that he inspires the common folk with his passion so he just kinda rolls with it.

is rly just out here trying to make life better for the average magi. he doesn’t do what he does because he’s endlessly loyal to the hyeon mu --- he does it for the people.

basically lives in his office because he’s Always Working. he has like, a kettle and a hotplate and a mini fridge, blankets, a bed for calcifer ( who he often brings to work with him ) and all sorts of random crap that he’s accumulated to make the space as homey as he can.

keeps fresh bouquets of azalea’s in both his office and his apartment because they remind him of home and of his mom uwu

very messy, misplaces things within seconds of picking them up i swear to god. has defs lost important paperwork and spent hours scrambling to find it, just to see he placed it on top of a cupboard by accident when he got up for a snack.

has ptsd from his time in the faceless ones as well as his time as a duelist in the field. he frequently has nightmares because of this.

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

literally anything bc im a thirsty thot

other ex-members of the faceless ones: 

the relationship between members was a very familial one, and it’s very likely that other members were apprehended and given the same ultimatum as joonie. whether they’re now in prison or decided to join the hyeon mu, it’s very likely joonie tried to stay in contact.

current members of the faceless ones:

this connection would be a bit more messy. they would probably consider joonie a traitor or a sell-out and feel very betrayed by his actions.

his assistant:

idk why he’d have one.....but i want him to !!! we would obvs flesh out the actual aspects of it but i just think it’d be cute lol. playin mini-office-basketball ? gorging on donuts ? arguing over the filing system ? yes please !!!

committee members:

other strategists who work with joonie !! they could be chummy coworkers, rivals, u name it !!

other members of the hyeon mu:

MORE COWORKERS !!!!!!!!! someone pls gimme an angst plot where joonie slept w/ someone from a diff department and now they make awkward eye contact when they pass one another in the halls thank u

AND ON THAT NOTE !! ex-hookups:

he would have been much to involved in his work to ever have an actual relationship, but he defs enjoys a good fling every now and then and probs got down and dirty with a lot of people

current hookups:

he still gettin down and dirty with a lot of people...........lmao

friends:

even this tragic annoying man gotta have friends ig. someone to play billiards with and force him to go out once in a while.

enemies? rivals? anything angsty?

IDC WHAT IT IS !!!! JUST GIVE IT TO ME !!!!

anyways that concludes this mess of an intro. it’s 6:17am so please excuse any errors or inconsistencies, i’ll fix them once i’ve rested lmao. can’t wait to write with you all !!! if u read all of that bless your heart. peace n love xoxo, can’t wait to see u  in my dms.

[everlarkbirthdaygifts]

Happy Birthday, que-sera-sera88!

Today, we wish a huge happy birthday to EBG’s own @que-sera-sera88! We hope you’re having an awesome day, and an awesome holiday, too! To add further birthday cheer, the incredible @herainab has written a story just for you.

Title: Come Away To The Water

Gift For: que-sera-sera88

Rating: Mature

AN: Happy Birthday Millie. I hope you enjoy your special day. There will be another part to this hopefully in the coming days. Millie asked for a Canon AU story about a marriage of convenience. I had a few ideas but this one stuck. I hope you enjoy Part 1. It’s quite a monster coming in under 13,000 words.

---

The reaping for the 72nd games is hot. The families watch from the sides fanning themselves from the heat. Babies cry in their mother's arms. Small children whimper as they hide behind their mother's skirts. They stand red-faced and sweaty hoping for the whole thing to be over so they can return to the shade of their homes.

And the rest of us stand like lambs waiting to be slaughtered. There's fear amongst us all. We get impatient waiting to see who will be called for the slaughter.

It basically felt like a slaughter.

Effie Trinket appears on stage with this energy that doesn't inspire us. We stare back at her. We wait. She frowns slightly but moves the show along. She moves the impending slaughter along.

In another District, one that was proud, the escort would call a name and there'd be plenty of lambs, fat, proud lambs ready to make their District proud. Lambs from good breeding stock. Here, we were all timid lambs born from poor breeding stock. Scared lambs who could smell the blood. We knew what was coming. We weren't raised by a good quality farmer who had fat, strong lambs. We were kicked to the side and dragged up to the stage when we were called for slaughter.

She calls for a girl. She's from The Seam. She's 17, scrawny and takes care of her brothers and sisters. Her father killed in a mining accident two years before. She sells herself to Cray as her mother sits vacant in a rocking chair in the living room. She was kind of pretty and stood out for The Seam. She also went to the Slagheap often with Merchant boys for favors like food or things she could trade to feed her siblings. If she dies, they'll end up in the community house.

No one volunteers for this little lamb.

"Peeta Mellark." Effie Trinket calls.

14-year-old Peeta looks around shocked and tries to walk on his shaking legs.

Until a brave lamb volunteers for his place.

"I volunteer." That lamb is Bannock Mellark. Peeta's 18-year-old brother.

He kisses his little brother on the head and makes his way up to the slaughter. This lamb might have a chance.

"What's your name?" Effie asks.

"Bannock Mellark."

"And I bet he's your brother."

"Yes."

"What an honor to volunteer for your District." Effie tells Bannock.

Bannock looks to his brother who shakes in the crowd, comforted by his other brother. Bannock nods his head at Rye Mellark and Rye nods back.

This little lamb has been spared. The brother's holding a pact between them to protect the little lamb for as long as they could.

---

"Papa, will Peeta be OK?" I ask. We're on our way home from the meadow having gone and paid our respects to Bannock Mellark. It's getting on to dinner time and Mom and Prim are at home preparing dinner for us.

Bannock Mellark did our District proud, he ranked high, survived within the arena, even started to figure out the logistics and outsmarted the game makers. But it wasn't enough and the lamb was torn to shreds by a creature that he didn't see coming.

Bannock's body, or what remained showed up in a pine box on a train early this morning. His coffin lowered into a plot he'd share with the 17-year-old girl he went to the games with. There was a special place in our cemetery for those who were in the games, it's just as the years went on, we had more pine boxes returning than Victors. They were slowly running out for room for our tributes.

"It'll hurt for some time." He tells me as we walk towards the square. "He'll feel pain, he'll cry and have bad dreams. He'll be angry and sad a lot of the time."

"What can I do?"

"Be there for him. Make him laugh. Make him forget about the pain. Distract him. Just be a good friend."

I nod and we come to the square. It's silent, people shutting themselves inside of their houses tonight as a way of respect. As a sign of mourning. Tomorrow trading will start back up and 12 will try to get back on their feet. The girl's siblings were taken to the community home this afternoon, their cries sounding throughout the District. The cries of another family let down by the Government.

Father stills, stopping me. His hunter instincts are on alert.

Then we spot a spark, smoke coming out of the Mellark's bakery.

"We have to help them." I demand. The Mellark's had been in their home since this afternoon.

He runs into the flames, breaking a window to get access. I watch on in horror. I can hear the screams coming from inside. The screams for help.

The whole upstairs is on fire, they're trapped. No matter what I do, help won't arrive in time.

Merchant shop owners come out to the square, they watch on as the flames engulf the Mellark's bakery.

There's an explosion inside the house, the crowd outside falls to the ground and the screams fall from my mouth.

"Dad!"

Darius holds me back as I go running for the bakery.

"Katniss, no!" He tells me, holding me tightly in his arms as we watch the roof cave in. There's only silence. No more screams for help. Just the smell of burning flesh, bread, and fire.

But there's a cry for help.

"Dad."

And besides the bakery, Dad is putting out the flames that burn Peeta Mellark. Peeta is unconscious but alive.

He becomes the only surviving Mellark in District 12.

---

Madge asks me a question that I don't answer. My attention isn't on her. It's on him.

He's scowling as he eats his lunch in the schoolyard.

He has a lot to be pissed about in this world. I allow him the scowling. The moodiness. The temper. The anger.

He's allowed to be angry.

I watch him. I always notice him.

But he never notices me. Or pretends to not notice me. He tells me it's for the best that the kids don't notice him watching me.

A ball rolls towards him, hitting his leg but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't even feel it.

"Throw us the ball, tool!" One of the kids yells at him.

He barely flinches, puts his head down even more and eats his lunch.

"Didn't realize you were deaf as well, Cripple." The 12-year-old kid says to him as he collects the ball, kicking Peeta's ankle before he runs off.

He barely flinches and just continues to eat his lunch.

He's had a rough few years. After the fire, his leg was taken. My mother cared for Peeta, took him into our home and nursed him back to health. She comforted him from the nightmares, the pain and the loss. She became a mother figure he never had. He became a part of our family for those few weeks he recovered with us.

Until his Uncle came for him. His Uncle was a bitter man. He despised Peeta much like Mrs. Mellark did. He saw Peeta as another mouth to feed. His uncle preferred Bannock or Rye over his youngest nephew. His Aunt barely spoke a word to him. His cousins stared, pointed and laughed. He wasn't liked in the family. He was only taken in because his Uncle felt obliged and his sister would have done the same.

Peeta worked hard, was pushed hard and neglected in every way possible.

He kept his head down and just kept going. He kept surviving the way he knew too. The little lamb was impressing me every passing day.

Even if he was yelled at and abused, he kept going. The entire District knew Peeta was suffering but no one did anything to help and those who tried were rebuffed, Peeta not wanting anything in return. He felt like he didn't deserve the help.

And I'm scared the youngest Mellark boy. The sweet baker boy will turn into his mother like the children say he will. Will turn bitter. Will be angry and mean.

And the older we get, the more he alienates people. The less of a chance he will have to marry, to have a family and live the life he always dreamed of.

He doesn't want to drag people into the drama, to make them see what is happening to him, to bring them down to the level he is feeling and affect everyone around him. For someone who used to inspire a room he barely has the inspiration to turn up to school.

He turned 18 a month ago and ever since then, he's wage has been cut and constantly threatened that the second school finishes; he'll be out on his arse. He'll work the 12 hours a day in the mine, will return home to the Miners boarding house and hate the world even more.

His Uncle constantly reminds him that he'll fit in with the Seam folk as they are nothing more than useless scum.

In six weeks, he might not have to worry about finding a job in the mines or a house in The Seam if he is reaped.

Our last reaping before we age out.

I hope we age out.

I hope the two innocent lambs can grow up.

I find him after school, he is pushed and knocked about by those who race past him laughing and giggling at him. Calling him all the names under the sun.

"Hey." I greet him.

"Hi." He still gives me the time and day. He is always genuine and friendly towards me. He saves all his smiles for me.

"We're having a dinner for my birthday on Saturday if you wanted to come."

"I'll be there." He tells me with a smile. He usually turns down dinner offers.

"Great, I'll let Mom know." I tell him.

I walk home with him, Prim having already headed home, walking with Rory Hawthorne.

"Are you ready to finish school?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. We still have four weeks left of school and two weeks later is the reaping. He'll be homeless in four weeks.

"Me either." I tell him. "But I think I've lined up a job with Mayor Undersee. His gardener is getting quite old and he doesn't think he'll last another winter. Mayor Undersee recommended me. Dad doesn't want me in the mines."

"I wouldn't either."

"But I might not get the job."

"They'd be silly not to give you the job." He tells me with a smile that makes my skin break out in goosebumps. That makes me blush and my heart race. This smile is the one he saves for me and it's when I know he truly means it. His eyes shine and the light reappears.

"Thank you."

We near the florist and I see him hesitate.

"Do you want to hang out in the meadow?" I ask him.

"I'd love to but…"

"That's ok, another time." I smile. "See you tomorrow?"

He nods and heads on into florist. He hobbles, limping slightly. His prosthetic must be giving him grief.

He's shot up in the last few months, becoming just a little bit taller and broader.

I wave goodbye to him, notice the change in his body language. I can see his shoulders have dropped, the lines on his forehead have appeared and a scowl on his face. I know he hates stepping foot into that house especially with the days passing by.

I walk on home, my hands in my pockets and kicking a loose stone.

I wish I could do more for Peeta Mellark.

---

Peeta shows up to the house early on Saturday. I wasn't expecting him for another hour.

"Hey, wasn't expecting you so soon." Mom and Prim are at a delivery and Dad still at work.

"I finished early, thought I'd come around."

I nod at him. I'm still not ready. I haven't showered and I smell like the woods. "Could you watch dinner, I was just about to get ready."

He tells me to go and get ready and he sets up in the kitchen watching the turkey and preparing the rest of dinner.

I bathe, washing my hair and scrubbing my body. I scrub so hard my skin is red and raw.

I pull out the dress Mom gifted me with this morning, telling me she wore this on her 18th birthday. The night she broke the baker's heart and ran off with my father. My father proposed to my mother in this dress under the stars in the meadow and promised that no matter what happened in the coming months, he'd love her forever. My mother was spared from the reaping and happily moved to The Seam with the coalminer. She left behind her easy life for love. She gave up everything, her friends, money, job, and house for love. For my father.

She could have had fat, healthy babies with the baker and baked for the rest of her life but couldn't resist the charm of the coal miner who she had met only previously at the Harvest Festival, falling in love with his voice, the way he told stories, his crooked smile and hearty laugh.

I always wondered why you could do something like that. Give up your entire life for a man. Move to another part of town. Say goodbye to your friends. Your house. Your job. I never understood this when I was young. But as I grow older, I can understand why my mother did it. I can understand how she fell for the charm of my father and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

And despite my desire to not want to marry or have children, I'd do the same as my mother if it was for a man who made me feel the way my mother feels about my father. Who made me smile and laugh all the time. Who accepted me for who I was. Who kissed me deeply and passionately every day. Who held me close to his body at the end of the day, making up for the time we were apart during the day. Just someone who I couldn't stop smiling about.

The dress is almost like the color of the sunset and hugs my body. The light coming in from the window catches on the fabric and it almost looks like the dress is catching fire. I leave my hair out of its usual braid, doing two simple braids to keep my bangs out of my face and let my curls fall down my back.

Peeta has his back to me when I come downstairs and he chats with my mother and sister. Prim spots me first, smiling at the sight of me.

"You look beautiful." She tells me.

Mom nods, gushing proudly and this makes Peeta turn around.

His jaw drops and it's the first time I've seen him speechless in my presence.

"That… you… You should wear your hair out more." He stammers and I smile, touching my curls nervously and thanking him.

"I knew that dress would suit you." My mother says. "I wore that dress on my 18th birthday." She tells Peeta.

"It's a beautiful color." He smiles. "It's my favorite color."

"Soft like the sunset." I add, remembering him telling me that years before when I screwed my nose up thinking of a bright orange color.

My mother must notice the way Peeta and I are looking at each other and she shoos us away, telling us to take a walk to the meadow.

I tell her we'll be back shortly and we walk to the meadow. Kids play in the street, playing games of tag, kicking rocks to one another and dodging their mothers as they fold washing and sweep their front steps.

Those out in the street notice us, stop and gawk and I know what they're thinking.

The oldest Everdeen is now 18. She's to find herself a suitable prospect, move into a house and start popping out baby after baby.

But they're also gawking over the fact that it's Peeta Mellark. They always assumed I'd end up with Gale Hawthorne.

He had other suitors on his mind like quiet Madge Undersee.

I had other things to worry about at this moment before I worried about the other things. I had school to finish and a reaping to survive.

The last reaping, I could protect my sister.

But we'd be fine. That's what Prim kept telling me.

"Are you scared for the reaping?" He asks.

"I'm scared for Prim."

"Would you volunteer for her?"

"I've got to protect her, just like Ban did for you."

"It cost him his life."

"He knew what he was doing." I remind him. "Do you miss him? I mean your family?"

"Every day."

"Does it get easier?"

"Slowly."

I reach out for his hand, squeezing it with my own hand. I did this when he lived with us for those four weeks. I held his hand when he had nightmares, when he silently thrashed or when he trembled slightly as he was sedated. I sang him lullabies and songs and constantly told him he was safe. I counted the freckles on his nose under the soft candlelight. I noticed how golden his eyelashes were. I noticed every little feature of Peeta Mellark.

He holds my hand as we sit in the meadow that afternoon and barely move. He wraps his arm around my shoulder, bringing me closer to his body. He smells of sugar, spice, spring and fresh flowers.

He places something in my palm when I'm not looking.

"Happy birthday." He whispers and I open my palm.

It's a gold locket. One that would have cost him a fortune.

"It's beautiful." I tell him. "But I can't have it."

"It's a gift, you have to take it."

"Peeta, it's too much."

He shakes his head. "It's the one thing I saved from the ashes. It was my grandmothers. My father always wanted me to give it to someone special."

I study the locket, see on the back there's a Mockingjay that's been carved into the locket and trace my finger over the delicate work.

"My grandfather gave it to my grandmother on her 18th birthday." He smiles.

"It's beautiful. I love it."

He puts it on for me and I admire how it sits on my chest, catching the light of the afternoon.

"It's perfect."

We walk back home together, hearing the whistle from the mine signaling the end of the shift.

Dad arrives home just as Mom dishes up dinner and we all sit crammed in the kitchen eating the turkey I caught.

Mom has gotten me a cake from the government-run bakery and we delve in.

It's not the same as a Mellark's cake and we force it down, bite after bite.

"I don't know about you all but I sure miss Mellark's." My dad says.

"Me too." Mum adds.

"Have you thought about what you'll do after school, son?" Dad asks him.

"Work in the mines. I won't pick anything else up."

"It'd be great if you could reopen the bakery. The town desperately needs it."

"I don't have that kind of money."

"You could do it out of your home." Mom says. "Start small and sell to the district. Build from there."

"Or the Hob." Dad suggests. "They have the ovens there."

"I don't know. Maybe in the future."

"I'd be your first customer." Dad tells him with a smile. "And I'd order four cheese buns."

Peeta laughs. "You all love your cheese buns."

"They were beautiful."

I can see Peeta getting a bit upset and I change the subject quickly.

"I caught Prim kissing Rory yesterday afternoon."

"Katniss." Prim whines, blushing red as Mom and Dad jokingly interrogate her.

And Peeta silently thanks me with a smile as they focus on tormenting Prim.

Mom and Prim clear the table and Dad presents me with one last gift.

"I don't need anything else."

"I know but it's a special occasion."

I'm gifted with a new bow, one that is much different to Dad's old wooden one. This one is lighter, sturdier, the string tighter and would be much more powerful.

"Where'd you get this?" I ask.

"I know people."

"It's beautiful." I tell him. "I love it."

"I knew you would. Do you want to test it out tomorrow?"

"Yes please."

Peeta and I go and sit out on the front step of the house and watch the world, watch the sun slowly set in the distance.

"Peeta, where are you going to live?"

"I'll find somewhere. Maybe in the cottage."

I screw my nose up at him boarding with the single men. They are rough, have no respect for personal space and Peeta would be a target.

"I was talking to Mom and Dad and they suggested you stay with us."

"Your family has already given me enough. I can't owe you anymore."

"It's the right thing to do." I tell him. "You'd do the same for us."

He knows I'm right and kisses my temple. "I'm forever grateful for your family. I'll never be able to return them what they've given me."

"It's what we do and we don't need debts repaid."

"One day I'll repay your family, that's a promise."

He kisses me for the first time that night.

It's short, sweet and nothing more than a kiss that is the start of everything. It's the springtime, stars, the smell of flowers and the sweetness of chocolate. It's the beginning of love.

I kissed him one night when he was unconscious. He had had a bad night of nightmares and was in pain. His leg had been amputated that morning and stitched to heal and hopefully fit with a prosthetic. That night he was in pain, despite the morphling he had been given. I kissed the corner of his lip and watched his face soften and he woke briefly, whispered my name and went back to sleep after I ran my fingers softly through his hair and sang to him.

I watch him walk on home and imagine all the other kisses we'll share.

---

Four weeks later, he's waiting on my doorstep with nothing but a bag over his shoulder. School only finished 20 minutes ago. His uncle wasted no time in kicking his nephew out.

Mom and Dad invited him to stay with us. They insisted. And he couldn't turn down their offer when he'd have nowhere to sleep for two weeks.

And he found solace with us, the only people who didn't turn their back on the youngest Mellark.

"Hi." I greet him.

"Hi."

He follows me inside, placing his bag on the floor next to the worn couch that he'll sleep on. Everyone is out of the house. Leaving us alone.

And his lips are on mine quickly.

The last two weeks, our relationship blossomed quickly.

He backs me into the wall, steadying both of us as we kiss, the hunger overcoming us both.

The front door swings open and we're caught.

"We do have a bedroom." Prim groans, covering her eyes.

Our lips are both red and we blush having been caught. We'd been quite discreet with our affection in front of my family and in public. We'd usually meet behind the ruins of the bakery, making out before he had to return home. Or he'd come and find me late some nights and in the shadows of the house, we kiss as the stars shone down on us.

"Be thankful it was me and not Mom or Dad." She chuckles heading into the kitchen with Rory tagging behind.

Ground rules are put in place when Mom and Dad return home. "You are both adults but this is our home. If we respect each other, we'll all be fine."

Peeta starts baking again, selling his creations to those who stop by and I've never seen the people in the District so happy. Despite the dark cloud that hangs over with the upcoming reaping, everyone is enjoying the simple things like Mellark's bread.

One night, he makes us cheese buns as a thank you and I am brought back to those Sunday mornings when Dad and I would go hunting. The Sunday where the baker would trade a rabbit for some cheese buns.

I thank Peeta with a big kiss. Kissing him in front of my parents.

My mother kisses his forehead, my father shaking his hand and Prim embraces him.

He brought our family tradition back and it's been a long time since we've all enjoyed cheese buns together under this roof.

"You'd be silly to not open a bakery." My father tells him.

"I'll think about it." He tells Dad, rubbing the back of his neck.

And I know, I have to protect Peeta. He is starting to shine again. Only a week after he moved in with us.

Maybe he feels safe. Maybe he feels protected. Maybe he feels love. Maybe he feels like he is home. He has found a home. A new family.

The afternoon before the reaping, we picnic in the meadow.

We feast on cheese buns, some fresh strawberries, and goat cheese.

Peeta is looking so much healthier and is much happier. He smiles now, he speaks to people and he is baking and painting again.

He is Peeta Mellark.

"We should get married." I propose.

"What?"

"Let's get married." I say. "I don't want you going into the mines. I want to protect you."

"I can protect myself, Katniss."

"I know you can but you can't work in the mines. I forbid you."

"I can make my own decisions." He tells me offended.

"I know you can but I won't forgive you if you step foot in the mines."

"Do you want to me to remain home, wrapped in cotton wool and do nothing? I'm not an invalid." He tells me. I've made him angry.

"I know you're not." I tell him. "I just think, it'll be best if we get married. It'll help us both out."

"You want a marriage of convenience?" He asks. "I thought we had something."

"And we do." I tell him. "If we marry, we'll have better benefits. We can get a house together because I know despite appreciating my parent's hospitality, you don't want to be sleeping on our couch forever." I say. "You can remain out of the mines and I'll work for the Mayor. This can work." I tell him. "I know deep in your heart you want to open the bakery, build a home to live in, we do this and it'll work. We can make it work. We can make your dreams come true."

"What do you want, Katniss?"

"For you to be happy." I tell him.

"No, what do you want? I don't want you to ruin your dreams by being married to me. You're not the girl who dreamed of being married and having a family. You just want to keep your family alive. You don't want to have children because you don't want to watch them starve and be reaped. I don't want to force you into a life you don't want."

"You're not forcing me. It's the right thing to do."

"No, it's not." He shakes his head. "I can't force you into a life you don't want just so you can protect me."

"I want this, Peeta."

"Sorry, Katniss. I can't-do this."

---

It's a quiet morning as we prepare for the slaughter. Hopefully the last slaughter. We hardly eat. We shower, dress and wait for the call. I'm wearing the soft orange dress I wore on my 18th birthday. Prim has fitted into Mom's blue dress I wore two years ago.

Mom is sure to embrace us, holding us in her arms and trying to send out nothing but positive thoughts.

We walk to the square, check in and go to our holding area. Go to possibly our final place before we're called for the slaughter. The new lambs, they tremble in fear.

The older ones, they're hopeful it's anyone but them. They hope to leave the slaughter today for the last time. I can smell the fear in the younger lambs and wish I could comfort them.

But they've smelt the blood already.

I find Madge who is as pretty as a picture in a new dress and her signature gold pin pinned to her dress. She hopes to leave the slaughter today as well. She's got a taste of life and she's not ready to go to the slaughter.

Effie Trinket comes to the stage in green get up this year. Her hair is a bright green. Her outfit a mix of greens with puffy sleeves, flares, and cut-outs. She wears sky-high heels that she can barely walk in.

She taps the microphone, begins her usual spiel before we watch the same video we watch every year. The video that tries to inspire us to be great. District 12's involvement is always laughed at and no one is ever inspired. The lambs aren't ready.

Haymitch Abernathy is surprisingly sober this year.

He has been almost sober since Bannock's involvement in the games and is beginning to show he wants to fight.

Haymitch has actually extended his kindness to Peeta since Bannock's death. Peeta hasn't told me this but Haymitch had been supplying him with a small allowance and has always kept an eye on Peeta. A parcel always makes its way to Peeta on the first day of the month filled with mostly money or anything else that he finds applicable.

I don't know if he's up to something and I'm not too keen on his intentions with Peeta. But Peeta accepts his help.

Haymitch looks out at the crowd, looks amongst the lambs and tries to not show emotion as the call for slaughter begins.

It'd be hard to have the death of nearly thirty kids on your hands.

"Ladies first." Effie Trinket announces.

She reaches into the bowl, searching for a slip.

I haven't taken out any tesserae. Either has Prim. Dad didn't want us putting our names in there in exchange for food. He always ensured he had something we could trade. We never had to put any extra slips in.

I know Peeta has though. His uncle forcing him to put his name in for extra food. He was constantly pressured into doing so. He thinks he has over 40 slips in the bowl.

"You deserve to die in that arena just like your brother did. Your brother who sacrificed his life for you."

Effie finds a slip and turns to the microphone.

"Esme Banner." She calls. It's a 15-year-old girl from the Merchant class. Her parents own a clothing boutique.

No one volunteers for the lamb. Her mother cries. She stands before the district knowing that this is where she leaves us, it's time to head to the slaughter.

Effie moves on to the male bowl and dips her hand in. I can see Peeta tense up. He believes it will be him. The extra slips in the bowl make him a target. Make his odds higher and higher.

Effie smiles when she finds the slip. I grasp Madge's hand tightly and close my eyes.

"Jonah Green."

My eyes open when I realize it's Peeta's cousin who has just aged into the reaping. The first year he's stood before the slaughter. It's rare but sometimes the baby lambs are picked at the reaping. Those lambs make for great entertainment.

The crowds step back from Jonah as Effie calls for him.

"Fred, no." I hear someone cry. "Don't do this."

"Volunteer you, coward!" Frederick Green calls out from behind the crowd of children. "Volunteer!"

And we know who he is telling to volunteer. He wants Peeta to sacrifice his life for his cousin.

Frederick pushes through the crowd towards Peeta.

"He volunteers. Peeta Mellark volunteers."

"I do not." Peeta calls back as he is pushed by his uncle.

"Sir, please." Effie tries to calm him down.

"Move that crippled leg of yours and volunteer." He grabs Peeta by the collar and forces him to move, Peeta trips over onto the ground. "If you had any values you'd volunteer for your cousin. He's only 12."

"I'm not volunteering." Peeta tells him from the ground. He doesn't want to. He has been set free from the slaughter. Frederick falls to the ground, fists flying in the air. He gets one good punch in before the Peacekeepers pull them apart. Fred kicking and his fists flying. I run for Peeta.

"You're scum. I hope you burn in hell." Frederick tells his nephew. "You're nothing like your brother's. You have no family values. You're rotten. You should have died in that fire." He yells. "You don't deserve to breathe. Go and live your life in the Seam with that fucking Everdeen girl you have a permanent hard-on for. You're not my family you piece of…"

The butt of the gun hits him in the temple, knocking him out and silencing him.

The crowd looks at Mr. Green's unconscious body and then at his eldest son who stands up on the stage shaking from what he's just witnessed. He's smelt the blood. He can sense the fear. He knows this is it.

It could have easily been a bullet put into Fred Green's head but they're allowing the lamb the chance to say goodbye.

The public humiliation will likely cause the business to suffer for a short while. Despite the son being in the games, no one will step foot in the florist.

A few of our classmates' comfort Peeta, ensuring he's alright as Effie finishes the reaping.

We send them off to the slaughter and watch as the doors to The Justice Building close them in.

Peeta's prosthetic has broken, cracked in half. Most likely from the fall or the fact it's too old for him.

"We'll have to get you a crutch." I tell him. My father has found us. "His prosthetic is broken." I tell Dad.

Dad reaches down, helping him up off the ground. "Will you be right to hobble back to the house?"

Peeta nods and they head on home. Dad leading us away from the slaughter. I carry his broken prosthetic and watch as the crowd slowly disappears back home. Some go to say goodbye to the tributes but we don't dare step foot in the Justice Building.

But I am safe from the slaughter. And Prim, she'll have to face it alone next year.

"I don't know how we're going to fix it." Dad tells Peeta.

"It's alright, I can use some crutches for a while until I can afford a new one." He replies, holding a cold press to his eye.

That night, Peeta and I sit on the couch together, Mom, Dad, and Prim all gone to bed. They play the reaping over and over. District 12 incident has been cut and edited to seem like it ran normally, you can only notice that Effie is slightly flustered. Only the District 12 residents will know what happened that day.

Peeta reaches for my hands, squeezing them with his hands and resting them on his lap.

He plays the game we started four years earlier when he healed with us.

"We've aged out, real or not real?" He asks.

"Real." I tell him. "We're safe, real or not real?"

"Real." He answers softly. He kisses my temple and brings me closer to his body. "I was so scared I'd lose you today."

"Me too."

"I think we should get married. It'll be the only way to survive." He says. "I won't survive working in the mines and I don't want to live in the boarding cottage. If we marry we'll have our own house. I can work from home, I can bake and paint and create things. And you can work for the Undersee's." He says. "We'll make it work."

"When do you want to sign the papers?"

"As soon as we can."

He presents me with an engagement token, one he pulls from his luggage.

"Katniss, will you marry me?" He asks with a purple colored pearl. It's beautiful.

"Yes."

It's a pearl he tells me he found at the Hob last week. Greasy Sae let him have it and he carefully turned it into a charm to hang from the locket he gave me.

He kisses me and that night, we break mother and father's rule by sharing a bed. We only hold each other, our legs entwined, my head resting on his chest and his arms holding me to his body.

Mom and Dad congratulate us on our engagement the next morning.

"When is the toasting?"

"As soon as we're assigned a house." I tell her.

There's a knock on the door after breakfast, a Capitol attendant with a package for Peeta.

"Peeta Mellark." The attendant says. "Package." He tells him, holding out the package.

Peeta opens it. "Who got me a prosthetic?"

The attendant shrugs his shoulders and is gone after he is sure it fits Peeta well. It's better made than his previous one. This one fits him better, doesn't rub or pinch his skin.

"How is it?" I ask him.

"Perfect." He tells me, smiling from ear to ear.

We go to the Justice Building to book in our wedding and organize our house. The Government issued families with a house for free. If you were single, there was a small fee involved and most people couldn't afford the house and ended up in the single boarding cottages. Most married for the sake of marrying.

But what Peeta and I are doing, it's something different. There's genuine love and even if we're not there yet, we will be.

It was always bound to happen. I always think we would have ended up together.

We can move into our house by the end of the week and our wedding is planned for that same day.

"What cake do you want?" He asks me on the walk home.

"Whatever you want to make me."

"And bread to toast?"

"Bread filled with raisins and nuts." He smiles at me, remembering the loaf he gifted me years before in the rain.

It's ultimately the bread that started our story. His generosity is what brought me to want to save his life three years later. To offer him the same type of compassion he showed me.

Hope began that day. And hope is continuing to grow between us.

We go and check out our home. It's right by the meadow with a blooming garden. It's one of the biggest houses in the Seam.

"Plenty of room for us." He tells me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. There'd be room for a studio for Peeta and somewhere to bake. I always loved this house when I was a child, always dreamt of living in it. Now, my dreams were coming true.

I turn to him, wrap my arms behind his head and smile at him. "Thank you for making me the happiest person in the world."

He kisses me in front of our future home and everything feels right.

---

"Katniss." Mom calls.

I see her enter the room from the reflection of the mirror. Peeta is getting ready at the Hawthorne's, Dad helping him get ready. Peeta has bought a suit and a tie to wear for the occasion. Hazelle and Mom have mended Mom's wedding dress instead of me renting one. It's bohemian with vintage lace, short sleeves and backless. It's beautiful and I want to cherish it forever.

"You look beautiful." She tells me. She has a proud smile on her face and I smile back at her.

She helps me do my hair, braiding my hair up into an updo. Prim had picked some flowers earlier, that Mom carefully places into my hair.

"Peeta is going to love it."

I can't help but smile. I never imagined this day, never imagined getting married and having a family but I can't help but love the idea.

"There are a few things I wanted to give you." She tells me. I hadn't noticed she brought in a box filled with items.

It is filled with sheets, crockery, vases, a copy of the plant book, a nightgown, a brooch and photo frame.

"And there's one last thing." She tells me handing me a diary, a bag of herbs and contraception. The form that only Merchant people can afford.

"I know we've talked about this but you're getting married. There are expectations and things that happen in a marriage. I know you haven't spoken about kids but this gives you and Peeta a chance to settle into your life and not worry about any added stress of children." She tells me. "The diary is to keep track of your cycle when you're intimate with each other, moods, emotions and everything else. If you need anymore come and ask."

"Thanks, Mom."

"And don't put too much pressure on yourselves when you both decide to share your first time together. You will make the decision when you are both ready. Don't rush it either. Enjoy being together, enjoying falling in love, enjoy the privacy and being adults. Enjoy sneaky kisses, touches, and gazes. Just enjoy each other's company. Fall for each other and grow together slowly, learn about each other and how your body responds to different things. It's now your time to live and grow and have some fun."

I blush a little. My mother and I had never spoken to each other like this before. After she sat me down and told me all about the birds and the bees, I ran to the woods and hid out for the afternoon, too embarrassed to think and consider the changes my body was going through. I hadn't at 13 even considered a boy touching me let alone considering having sex with someone.

And since then, I've always blushed at the thought, even talking to my mother about it. But she deals with this daily, she's always patient and accepting. And now that I'm an adult and have found someone she likes, she wouldn't judge me. And I feel like I could be open with her.

"Just enjoy your life. You've finally got your dandelion in the spring."

She kisses my forehead and does a final check.

Prim is downstairs holding a bouquet of flowers for me. This is a little over the top for a District 12 wedding but my mother always told me about her wedding, how my father brought her a bouquet of flowers to hold during the ceremony. Flowers that they pressed in a book to preserve for years to come.

They said a few words in the meadow on their way to their house for the toasting. Words shared in private before crossing the threshold into their marital home.

Mom, Dad, and Prim walk with me to the Justice Building.

Peeta has his back to us when we enter the Justice Building. He is looking at the paintings on the wall, admiring the sculptures and architectural work. He had no family coming to watch. No friends. No one. He didn't invite anyone.

But a few of his friends show up. Delly, Carter, and Lincoln. Their friendship fell out after the fire but they don't fault Peeta for that. They've had a lot more to do with him in the last two weeks than in the last four years.

And I invited them to witness their friend get married which they told me they didn't want to miss.

Peeta is speechless when he sees his friends enter the Justice Building. He hugs them all and thanks them as they congratulate him.

And then he sees me enter behind my family.

And he is even more speechless.

"You look beautiful." He tells me, reaching for my hand.

I smile at him, blushing and admire him in his suit and forest green tie.

We kiss after we sign our forms and pose for a photograph.

"Congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Mellark." The official announces, handing over our certificate. "May your lives be filled with happiness and love."

Our mother directs everyone to meet at the house at 4 pm when we'll cross the threshold and gather for some food and cake. Where we'll build the fire and toast.

Peeta and I make our way to the meadow but we're stopped by his uncle who comes charging out of the florist, headed directly for Peeta.

My father and all the Hawthorne men protect us from Fred Green.

He hasn't handled things since Jonah left on the train. He's been making a nuisance out of himself in the square. Has been drinking and passing out. The peacekeepers have been returning him home quite often.

"You get married and not invite me? Not invite your family? You are useless, Peeta. Hope your new wife doesn't mind having a dud like you."

I push my bouquet into Peeta's hands and step between Gale and Rory Hawthorne.

"You know what, you don't even know what Peeta is like. You say he's all these things but he is because you made him. You didn't care to see who he truly was. You don't care about him. You tried to turn him into something he's not. But I cared about him. I got to know him. I nurtured him to be who he is. I love him, something you failed to do. He is my dandelion in the spring." I tell him. "And I know it sucks that Jonah got reaped but don't go taking it out on other people. Go and be with your family because they're hurting just as much as you. They need you at this time." I say gently. "I'm going to go and be with my family, just like you should be."

He looks at all of us, his eyes welling with tears before he steps back. He doesn't say a word, looks at his nephew for a long while before he turns around and returns home. His wife waiting at the front of the shop for him with their two youngest hiding behind her legs.

I comfort Peeta when we get to the meadow. We go and find the big willow tree. He kisses me softly on the lips, brushing the stray pieces of hair away from my face.

"I will never be able to thank you." He tells me.

"You don't have to." I tell him. "I want this."

I rest my head on his chest and he kisses the top of my head. Trees dance in the breeze, the dandelions sway and the birds sing their best song in the afternoon light.

"Here I am, just a guy standing in a suit, wishing to promise you whatever you want." He says.

"And I'm just a girl standing here in a white dress." I repeat. "Wishing to give you a good life."

"What do we want to promise each other?" He asks.

"To be patient." I add.

"Kind."

"There for each other."

"From this day on." He finishes. "This is our promise to each other." He says. "We're just two people standing together in a suit and a white dress, pledging the rest of our lives together."

"Will you stay with me?"

"Always." He tells me after a brief silence. We share another kiss before we retreat from the willow tree and head to our home. We can see it from the meadow and I can't wait to grow old in this home with Peeta.

Our family is waiting for us at the house. They smile at us and Peeta picks me up, surprising me and carries me down our footpath and over the threshold.

There's music played throughout the afternoon as we eat food and share the cake Peeta made. We dance in the living room around the bodies that sit and stand in our presence. In District 12, when there is music, we dance. The few instruments that have made its way play folksy tunes and we all dance. Peeta sits out for most of it, watching Prim and myself dance until I drag him up. It's a slower tune, one that Peeta can keep up with and we sway from side to side. Everyone has someone to dance with. I am just overwhelmed with the feeling of love that is filling this home. I hope love always fills this home.

It's late when we go to build the fire to toast the bread.

Peeta builds the fire and I slice a piece of bread. Our guests leave us to be as the fire catches and give us our chance to have our toasting. We kneel in front of the fire and together toast the nut and raisin bread before we share it together with butter melting into the toast.

He feeds me a piece and I feed him a piece.

And that's when we feel married, right then after our toasting. We share a long kiss in front of the fire, sealing our future as the flames flicker.

He carries me to our bed and places me on my feet at the foot of it.

"Katniss there doesn't have to be anything happen tonight." He tells me. "I don't want there to be any pressure on us."

"Me either." I admit.

"Do you just want to hold each other?"

I nod, smiling at him.

He helps take the flowers out of my hair, laying them out on the dresser. He undoes my hair, shaking my braids out and lets my hair fall in waves down my back. He unzips my dress for me and turns his back to allow me to dress into my nightgown. He has stripped out of his shirt and suit pants and pulls on a pair of pajama pants. He sits on the edge of the bed and goes to remove his prosthetic but I stop him.

"Let me." And I remove it for him, laying it beside the bed. I kiss the scar of his stump and help him swing around into the bed. He pulls me beside him and holds me in his arms.

"Today was amazing." I tell him.

"I thought so too." He smiles. "I haven't had that much fun in a long time."

"Did you ever picture your wedding to be like that?"

He ponders for a while. "Not with you. It would have a been a lot less of a celebration and more of a quiet affair. A chore. There's just not the same amount of life in Town as there is here in The Seam."

"We don't have a lot but we make up for it in other ways." I tell him.

"You all have big hearts and know how to party."

I feel safe. I know, I won't be able to sleep apart from him for the rest of my life, he settles me, calms me, wards away bad dreams and inspires only the good dreams.

And I know, he now only has good dreams. He told me the other night how he hasn't slept this good since he lived with us during his recovery. How he constantly had bad dreams and nightmares. But now, he feels safe.

"I am your husband, real or not real?" He asks me. It was tedious for us to still be playing this game. Childish even but it got us by. It will get us through tough times.

"Real." I reply. "You are home, real or not real?"

"Real. Home is wherever you are."

---

Peeta's cousin dies two days later. He dies during the first night, killed at the hands of the careers. It's a pain-free death but Peeta still mourns.

I give him his space but am close by if he needs me. He takes a loaf of bread to his Uncle as a sign of respect. He embraces his aunt and hugs his cousins who don't really understand that their brother has died. He leaves them to mourn as Jonah's death is played over and over.

It's the first time in the history of the games that I've witnessed the Careers actually stop and wait for the hovercraft to take the body away. They kiss their three fingers and hold it up in the air as Jonah is lifted away.

Something has shifted within the game. The dynamics, the way it's played out, the tributes. Something is different this year and I can't quite put my finger on it.

When we return home, he wants to just sit on the couch and hold me. We sit together in the silence of our home.

I cook us dinner and we eat together at our kitchen table. He cleans up and I give him his space, going and having a bath and going to bed with a book Madge leant me.

I must fall asleep before Peeta comes to bed. I wake to find him taking the book from me, tucking me into bed and switching the light off.

In the darkness, we kiss, our hands roaming over each other's bodies slowly and tenderly.

He touches my breasts over the material of my nightgown, squeezing them gently as he kisses me. His lips wander from my lips across my cheek and down to my neck. He sucks the skin there, causing my back to arch in response. His lips move further down, along my collarbone, the hollow of my neck and down my chest.

I tug at my nightgown, letting the straps fall down over my shoulders and exposing my breasts to him.

"You're beautiful." He whispers to me. And I believe him.

---

He is up before dawn every morning baking bread which he sells to the neighbors in The Seam. He drops some loaves to the Hob, trading for some cheese and nuts.

Word catches on and from early in the morning, people are lining up outside of the house waiting for bread. Even those from Town venture all the way in. The demand is so high that he always sells out.

"They love your bread."

"They all grew up eating Mellark's bread." He tells me as we clean up.

I've started my job gardening for the Mayor and Peeta has focused his energy and time into creating things again.

He is drawing and painting again which is a huge feat. We grow together, learn to live side by side and under the same roof. In just a short amount of time, I know I love him.

After 12 days, The Games ended with a mass suicide from the Careers at the end, leaving Esme Banner from our District the winner.

Our District has been in celebration. It's the first time in 26 years that we've had a winner. The district prepares for the celebration for when Esme returns home at the end of the week and the focus turns to us as the cameras will capture her arriving home.

Peeta and I had some wine the night she was crowned. A bottle we were given as a gift for our wedding. We shared a glass together and fooled around on the couch.

We're becoming more daring, more loving and hungrier for each other. We're learning about each other's bodies, taking turns pleasuring each other and seeing more and more of each other's bodies.

He traps me between the counter and his body, pressing his body close to mine before he lifts me up onto the bench kissing me. He unbuttons my pants, tugging at them slightly.

"We should clean up." I tell him as he kisses my neck.

"That can wait." He tells me, lifting me up off the bench and carrying me to our living room. He lays me on the couch, pulling my pants down my olive legs before he kneels between my legs, pulling my panties down.

I never knew this type of hunger existed and now we crave this, crave each other's bodies like it's a necessity. And this has become Peeta's favorite thing, his head buried between my legs.

There's a knock on the door and a voice.

A voice that sounds a lot like my sister.

I push Peeta off of me. "Prim's here." I tell him as he looks at me confused. "I told her we'd have lunch." I inform him.

"And you forgot to tell me?"

"Sorry, we've had other things on our mind." I tell him and he laughs, handing me my clothes.

I redress as Peeta goes to answer the door.

"Hey, Prim." He asks her slightly out of breath.

Prim comes inside, notices how hot and flustered we are but doesn't say anything. She shrugs it off like it's nothing and sits down at the table. She's brought along some cheese from Lady.

We have sandwiches and fresh lemonade before she heads off to meet Rory for the afternoon.

She's so smitten." Peeta comments as we watch her head down the street.

"Say's you." I tell him, pinching his butt and smirking. I run on off, heading back to work.

"You'll pay for that tonight."

I giggle and blow him a kiss as I head on back to work.

I end up at the station to look at what needs to be done for tomorrow. I sit in the shade writing a plan and hear the station attendants speaking.

"They're not happy in the Capitol." One of them says.

"Why?"

"The careers showed them up. The Capitol hates being showed up."

"So, what's going to happen?"

"Nothing, they have a winner and they will turn her into something she's not."

I feel a shiver go down my spine. Winning the games looked wonderful but in reality, you never owned yourself. You couldn't step foot out of line and make Snow look stupid. You had to be a puppet and do everything he says. Peeta told me this just the other night when I asked about Haymitch. Haymitch showed up the Capitol, paid for it with his family being killed. Much like Peeta's family paid for Bannock's actions.

A lot of the Victor's do what the President says or they lose the ones they love. It's happened to a few of them. Most oblige to keep their family safe.

"Esme will be fine. Abernathy will keep an eye on her." The attendant says.

A few days later, Esme's train pulls in. She stands on a stage, waving at the crowd who welcome her home with wide arms. We celebrate with a feast in the square. There's music, lots of food and some wine. We dance, eat and celebrate the extra food.

Peeta and Haymitch chat in the distance and I try to read lips, try to figure out what's going on.

Peeta and I walk on home, cutting the celebrations short. It's the anniversary of the fire and his cousin was brought home in a pine box, buried earlier this afternoon before the party begun.

Peeta attended the funeral and then laid flowers for his mother, father, and brothers.

I comfort him that evening, letting him cry and grieve for his family. He used to not be allowed to mourn them when he lived with his Uncle. He wasn't allowed to show emotion.

This year, I allow him to mourn and the chance to grieve after all those years he was refused.

I'm there for him.

---

"How are you feeling?" Peeta asks me. I've gotten a case of the flu that has been going around the District the last few weeks and lucky me, I've gotten it a second time.

I groan, rolling over to cuddle him. It's our anniversary. Two years of being married and living together.

Peeta is a whole different person. It's like he's been reborn. And he much resembles the dandelions in the spring. He is a wonderful husband, he loves me, cherishes me, is patient and kind.

He's successfully running a bakery from our house, selling mostly bread but also creating special orders like cakes. I always have a constant supply of cheese buns.

He is also painting again. He is drawing. The house is covered in his drawings and paintings and I love coming home to the bright colors of his creations. Most of them are of me but I like seeing the way he creates me on the paper. He constantly draws the people of The Seam. Those on their way to the mines, backs bent and bodies aching, he draws the kids as they play in the meadow, Prim falling in love with Rory, my parents and anything else he can get his hands on.

And every morning, there's always a flower waiting on his pillow for when I wake up. It's the little things, the simple gestures of romance that make me smile.

The second bout of the stomach flu has come from the kids Peeta and I watch a couple afternoons a week. The kids aged 3 and 6 months old both had the flu, giving it to me. Peeta had a bread run and I watched the two of them by myself. Their mother insisted she stay but I shooed her off.

And now I was paying for it again. 6 weeks later.

My stomach lurches and I go running, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Peeta rubs my back, holds my hair back and ensures I'm fine.

He offers me water and wipes my mouth with a cloth.

"Happy Anniversary." I say to him.

He laughs gets me settled back into bed before he gets ready for the day.

He sells the bread when the miners go underground. There's enough bread to go around now and nobody misses out. He does a bread run after lunch, delivering all around town before he returns home and starts preparing dough for the next day. With the money he had made, he bought himself a big bakers oven which keeps up with the demand. Next plan was to buy a bakery with his earnings.

It's nice having a house that smells like fresh bread, sugar, and spice.

I must sleep as he trades because when I wake it's midmorning and he brings me toast and a cup of tea.

I manage to stomach that and he sits up with me in bed.

"I'll make you sick again." I tell him.

"I don't mind." He replies.

We were in no rush to have children. I've slowly come around to the idea but we wanted to enjoy our time together while building up a successful business and steady careers. Peeta had plans to have a bakery running within 12 months, opened by his 21st.

For now, we were enjoying our lives.

But I know the way Peeta looks at me when I hold baby Brielle, how I am around Cade.

"You'll make a great mother someday." He tells me. Truth be told, he'd also make a great father.

But we were in no rush.

He leaves me in bed to tidy up. The reaping had taken place last week, a girl from the Seam was reaped and a boy from the Merchant side reaped. They were both 16. They had better odds but stranger things have happened for the lambs who attended the slaughter.

I sleep most of the afternoon with just an unsettled stomach. I've had a few close calls and have resorted to sitting beside the toilet bowl.

My mother has sent over some herbs to put into my tea and a reminder to drink a lot of fluids.

He tickles my back as I lay in bed. A cup of herbal tea drunk and some water to sip on. He hums songs to me and I just rest my eyes. I feel protected and safe in his arms. No matter what will happen, he'll have my back.

The next morning, I spring out of bed and go to the woods with Dad. I hardly go out anymore except for on Sunday's with Dad. We meet well before dawn and make our way through the woods returning just after sunrise with our haul. We always have a cup of tea and a cheese bun before we go back through the fence. Dad going to do the trading and me going home to Peeta.

We usually make love when I return from the woods. He has usually finished for the day and is usually waiting for me at the front door. He closes the door behind us, takes off my coat and leads me down to our bedroom where we usually spend most of the morning under our sheets. Our bed sheets always smell like the woods, sugar, and cinnamon.  

Today we check our snares and traps, reset them and try our luck at some game. We end up with a good haul, fat rabbits, squirrels and fowl birds. Dad gives me a bird and he goes to trade quickly before the games start. My stomach still feels a bit queasy but I manage to make it home.

"You alright?" Peeta asks.

"Just feel a little queasy." I tell him.

"Go and lay down and I'll bring you a cup of tea."

I lay down on the couch and Peeta brings me my tea. The Games have just started.

"Should I get your Mom?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

He stays at my side as the Games play out. No one is killed in the bloodbath. The Careers give the rest of them a head start as they stand on the pedestals. It's bizarre watching a game that used to be so bloodthirsty resorting to this. I'm confused if this is their tactic but the rest of the tributes run for the safety of the thick bushlands.

A knock at our door wakes us up and its Mom, Dad, and Prim. They've come for lunch and we sit around the table enjoying a spread. Jas comes over with the kids after lunch and Prim plays with Cade out in the garden. Brielle happily sitting on Peeta's lap.

"Are you sick again?" Mom asks me.

"Yeah, I've got that stomach flu again." I tell her, handing Brielle her wooden toy she's dropped.

She studies me for a second and then leaves it. She'll have something to say later on when we're alone.

Prim comes inside with Cade crying.

"What happened?" Mom asks.

"He fell. I'm so sorry, Jas. I was watching him and he…"

"It's fine, Prim. He's a boy who is into everything." Jas assures her as she takes Cade, comforting him. "Hey big boy, let me have a look."

"He'll need it stitched." Mom tells Jas. "Come on, I'll take you back to the house and take a look at it."

Peeta and I stay home with Brielle. She sits on my stomach clapping and giggling. Peeta sits in the chair sketching and occasionally looking over at Brielle and me.

"I know we said we'd wait but that really suits you."

I smile, pulling a silly face at Brielle. "We have a bakery to open first." I remind him.

"I know we do." He smiles. "One day."

I didn't admit to him that I had dreams about our children constantly. Children we'd take to the meadow and watch play. Chubby, blonde haired babies who laid amongst the daisies and sung songs to each other. There were two little babies hanging out in the meadow together. Brother and sister. But I hoped to gift the world with more Mellark's. One's who took the words of the song for granted, who danced in the meadow, painted and baked. Who were the dandelions in the spring.

---

My stomach flu lingers for a few days. The Games play on but are slower and not as gritty as they usually are. The game makers intervene, creating drama and obstacles. The tributes are killed off by game maker devices rather than by each other.

Little Cade shows off his pirate patch that covers the three stitches he needed.

"You're the coolest little pirate." Peeta tells Cade as he sits upon our kitchen bench. We're having dinner, something that has become a normal thing in the two years we've lived next to each other. We usually have dinner after we watch the kids.

Peeta usually bakes a nice loaf of bread or dinner rolls to go with our meal and some type of dessert he makes with Cade. Tonight's was a flaky chocolate creation. One that had my mouth salivating.

Our TV turns on automatically and we know something has happened. Some type of breaking news.

It couldn't be the games, there was still 8 contestants left. Something bigger had happened.

"We interrupt your current screening with breaking news." The newsreader begins. "Reports are coming from the Mansion that President Snow is dead. I repeat, President Snow is dead."

"What?" Peeta asks, coming into the living room.

"President Snow was found by mansion staff this morning unresponsive. Despite numerous attempts to revive him, he could not be revived. He leaves behind his daughter and granddaughter." She states. "There are no words on the games and there will be a press conference held 5 pm Capitol time."

"I did not see that coming." I admit.

"Katniss, he was old. He was probably close to being well into his 90's. It was bound to happen. And his appearances in the public were declining as the years went on."

"Let's just hope his replacement is decent." I say to Peeta, holding Brielle close to my body.

We eat dinner and dessert and play with the kids. Brielle sits on her mother's nap nursing and Cade tucked beside his father.

The games have come to a bit of a standstill and the kids have a moment to breathe. The press conference starts and some young, up and coming politician is appointed after a unanimous vote.

He's in his mid-thirties and has a lot of potential.

"Someone new to ruin our lives." Des adds with a frown, looking down at his two children who he can't really protect.

The games will continue as normal.

"He might do a good job." Jas adds.

"If he keeps our children from starving and sending them into those terrible games then that's when I'll say he's doing a good job." I say.

The next day, the four remaining careers end their lives in an act that is almost similar to last year. A mass-suicide. It leaves District 7 to become the winner of the game.

Johanna Mason appears on screen, slightly pleased that they've won but I see the worry in her eyes. There's uncertainty of what really will happen now that President Snow is dead.

I don't watch anymore as I go running for the toilet.

I leave Peeta to head to my mothers with the baked goods that afternoon. I'll see him for dinner with my parents.

Mom is in the kitchen, putting together salves and lotions.

"Hey, how are you feeling?"

"Still a bit queasy." I tell her. Something that she is making makes my stomach start rolling.

She sits me down and does a quick examination.

"You don't have a temperature." She tells me. "Stomach flus don't linger this long."

She asks me all these questions, mostly about my body and my cycle.

"Don't freak out just yet but could you be pregnant?"

"What, no? Peeta and I have been safe."

"Were you two intimate when you had your first stomach flu?"

"Yes."

"There's a chance that the contraception failed."

"What?"

"If you were sick, it might not have been effective."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because it rarely happens." She tells me.

I rub my temples at a small headache that's coming along. "I can't be pregnant." I tell her. "We're not ready."

"You might not be but let's see."

She examines me, checking my cervix and gets me to take a test. We wait patiently together. Mom holding my hand.

I watch my mother. She's always had this incredible patience and non-judgemental attitude when it comes to her patients. And now, with her 20-year-old daughter sitting in an examination chair, she's calm and I think she's secretly hoping it'll be positive.

"It's time to see the test." She informs me. I exhale a deep breath and she goes to collect my test. She studies it for a long while I start to have doubt.

I had built up in my head in the few minutes of sitting, holding my mother's hand, images of my baby. Images of being pregnant. Of preparing for the baby. Of growing this being inside of my stomach. I caressed my stomach with my free hand and imagined what it would feel like to feel flutters and kicks inside of my stomach. I even imagined Peeta's reaction. Could picture his smile. Could feel his hands on my stomach.

And I fear that it's negative.

"Mom?"

She turns around, tears streaming down her face and I notice the smile as she holds the test.

"You're pregnant."

And I'm not as shocked as I thought I would be.

She embraces me, holding me in her arms tightly and squeezes me. "I know you didn't want this to happen but things happen for a reason."

She wipes the tears from my cheeks, kissing me and smiling at me.

"How do you feel?"

And I smile at her, my lips curving upwards into a beaming smile. A smile that I can feel right down to the tips of my toes.

I touch my stomach and hug my mother once more.

I help her with dinner and we wait for everyone to return home. There was a mandatory viewing tonight and our attention was needed in the square from 7 pm.

"How will you tell him?"

"I don't know." I tell Mom. "Maybe at the meadow."

The front door bursts open, Peeta running inside with Prim following behind.

"What's wrong?" We ask him.

"The peacekeepers left this morning."

"What?" I ask.

"What does that mean?"

"We're not going to the square." My father says running into the house.

"What's going on?"

"We're leaving."

"For where?"

"The woods. Now!" It's just after 6:30 and it doesn't leave a lot of time to get to the woods. To save our district.

Peeta and I run home, dodging those who are panicking and running in all different directions. We tell Des and Jas to pack a bag.

Peeta throws some clothes into a bag. I stuff my game bag with our possessions, the plant book, wedding photo and his drawings. We say goodbye to our home and go to find our family. Our friends.

The first bomb drops, coming over us from the west and dropping close to town.

We try to herd people to the meadow but some are scared of the tales they've been told and head right for the firing line.

We hide in the dense trees and try to remain undetected as we escape the district. I help them through the fence, Peeta carries kids who have lost their parents, Dad drags people towards the meadow as bombs fall on our district. Those who went to town had no hope of surviving.

And less than a thousand people make it to the woods. The rest lie under the rubble. We watch from the protection of the woods, our beautiful little town destroyed in a matter of minutes. Our houses were gone, our businesses, our memories all gone.

And we were made an example of. An example towards the other districts to not step out of line or this will become your home.

I'm still unsure what we did to deserve it. A bigger statement would have been to bomb District 1 or 2, not 12.

The fire burns but we're still breathing. These lambs escaped the slaughter.

For now.

[randomactuallywrites-57]

Child of Nature

Title: Child of Nature Author: randomwriter57 Rating: G Word Count: 3,783 Event + Prompt: @reigisaweek day three: Seasons Pairings: reigisa Summary: “Tell me,” Nagisa says, leaning forward over his crossed legs. “What’s your favourite season?”

Notes: Hi guys! I love reading magical realism stories - something about them always feels so beautiful, especially in the way that the author depicts it. When I got the inspiration for this fic, I wanted to experiment, and to depict the passing seasons in a way which I have never tried to before. Hence, I decided to incorporate magical realism into this. I hope it comes across well. Enjoy!

Also on: AO3

All is silent in the garden of the new Ryugazaki residence, save for the distant beat of music and the inaudible whispers of the trees. The only human inhabitant stands not far from these trees, which stretch infinitely beyond his vision. He does not pay them attention, though; Rei’s vision points towards the large house about at the other end of the garden.

The house is lit up for the occasion, every window bright, providing an insight into the activities within. People dance past the glass, or stand by it with a drink, chattering away. Their warm atmosphere feels a million miles from the cold winter air surrounding Rei, but he does not care. In fact, he much prefers the quiet company of the trees. At least he doesn’t have to make small talk with them.

Not for the first time, he wishes he had brought a book with him - perhaps the physics book he’s been reading from recently. Reading through such theories not only would prepare him for the upcoming end-of-year exams at his new middle school, but it would also be a damn sight more interesting than being left to his own thoughts.

If only books could speak. Then he wouldn’t need human companions at all.

He lets out a long breath, which rises in a curl of white into the air, joining the stars above. Soon, those stars will be covered by bursts of light and clouds of smoke, left behind from the explosions. Now he thinks about it, it shouldn’t be long until the countdown. Perhaps he should go back inside to join his parents.

Or he could stay outside, alone.

What a way to start a new year.

A voice calls out to him then, one far too warm to belong to the winter breeze, filled with the colours of fairy lights and mulled wine and holly leaves.

“What’s wrong?” the stranger asks.

He turns towards the forest and finds a blond boy standing not too far from him, within the line of trees. The boy looks about his age, perhaps a little younger, with chubby cheeks and a curious spark in his eyes. Judging by his clothes - a dress shirt and trousers, no jacket - he should also be a guest at the party. How he got into the forest without Rei noticing is a mystery.

When he doesn’t answer, the boy’s head tilts slightly. “Aren’t you cold out here?”

Subconsciously, Rei’s arms come to rest over his chest, his hands gripping his forearms. “Who are you?”

The boy smiles but does not answer. “You should go inside, or you’ll miss the celebrations.”

“Aren’t you going inside, then?” Rei says in return. “You’ll miss them too.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the boy laughs, his voice a bell peal through the sky. The atmosphere around them warms a little, and the trees sing along with him.

“I guess that’s true,” the boy says, burgundy eyes bright with mirth. “What’s your name?”

“Ryugazaki Rei,” says the blue-haired boy, letting his hands come to rest at his sides again.

The boy hums and takes a single step forward, so they’re only a few feet apart. Then he diverts his gaze to the sky, and Rei’s follows it.

Slowly, a single snowflake descends, swaying in the sky until it lands in a kiss on Rei’s lips.

“Happy New Year, Rei-chan.”

Pulling away from him, the boy disappears into the forest. At the same time, a firework lights up the night, the colour red spreading across the navy sky.

Rei blinks a few times, then makes to follow the boy, for what reason he isn’t entirely sure, all he knows is that something is pulling him into the forest, towards that stranger-

Then the door of the house opens behind him.

“Rei, come inside! You just missed the countdown!”

By the time he looks back to the forest, the boy is long gone, and only smoky residue and silence remains.

By the time a few years pass, he has forgotten most everything of that New Year’s night. All that remains clear is the odd warmth of that snowflake and the vibrance of that boy’s eyes against the winter scenery.

In spring, the forest is anything but silent. With birds flying, insects chirping and the trees continuing their ever-present whispering, there is no way the forest could be anything but full of life.

That, however, is natural, when it comes to springtime. Each year when he comes here, he feels the vibrance and energy which fills the forest, making it feel fresh with each breath. Even when the pressure of each passing school year comes upon him, the forest calms his nerves and reminds him to breathe, for a little while.

One day, as he passes through the forest, he feels a certain familiar atmosphere which he cannot place, one which leads him into the deepest part of the forest. The clearing is large and surrounded by trees and foliage, leaving a clear divide between the darker pathways and the sun-filled centre. Within the clearing, bathed in morning gold, is a boy with hair of wheat-gold and eyes of sunburst pink. Save for the loss of baby fat and the change of clothes to a more spring-appropriate outfit of a light, white sweatshirt and green shorts, he looks almost exactly as Rei remembers him.

He meets Rei’s eyes. The smile which follows lights up the entire clearing, filling it with even more energy.

“Hi, Rei-chan,” he says. His voice is deeper now, but still holds that childlike cadence from so long ago. “It’s been a while.”

Rei only now returns to his senses, relaxing the hand which somehow wound its way onto the chest of his shirt. So many questions fill his mind, ones he needs answered in order to understand this situation, to allow himself peace of mind.

And yet, all he can bring himself to say is a shaky, “Hello.”

“Come over here,” the boy says, waving him over into the clearing.

Without thinking, Rei does so, moving slowly into the grassy area and settling at the boy’s side, a metre or two away to be polite.

The boy shifts closer, his bright eyes unwavering. “I’m surprised it took you so long to find this place. Who lives in a house for four years before exploring their back garden?”

Rei’s hands clench on his knees, hot against the fabric of his trousers. “I think the real question is what are you doing here? Do you live nearby?”

In that same infuriating fashion as he did so long ago, the boy hums. His left hand brushes the grass at his side, weaving through each blade. “Maybe I was waiting for you.”

The boy lifts his left hand and holds it towards Rei. On his palm sits a single daisy, with pure white petals which should be distinguishable in the grassy clearing, though Rei cannot see any others nearby. When Rei does not take the flower, the boy presses his hand closer to him until Rei is forced to pick it up, his fingers brushing against the soft pad of his hand as he does.

“How long have you been here?”

Once more, the boy does not answer. He only smiles, though his eyes hold a hint of sadness.

Rei sighs deeply. At this rate, he’ll get no answers. “Do you have a name, at least?”

This time, the boy perks up. “Oh, that’s right, I never introduced myself! You can call me Nagisa.”

The lack of a surname surprises him, though he supposes he shouldn’t be so shocked, considering this boy has been calling him by his forename from the beginning. Somehow he can already tell that formality isn’t something this boy is worried about.

“Alright, Nagisa-kun.” Rei twirls the daisy between his fingers, which tingle lightly. “Why won’t you answer my questions?”

Nagisa hums again, his brows furrowing in thought. He puts his hands on his knees and taps them lightly, then shrugs. “I guess it’s a secret!”

“What’s a secret?”

“Everything!”

As much as he’s interested in this boy, Rei can’t deny that the lack of clarity about his name and origins is a tad infuriating. Still, there’s not much he can do if Nagisa simply refuses to answer. For once, he decides to abstain the matter, at least for a while.

“Tell me,” Nagisa says, leaning forward over his crossed legs. “What’s your favourite season?”

With four years of living in a small town, one might think Rei has a good enough experience of the seasons to pick a favourite, but now he thinks about it, choosing is more difficult than he’d realised. It’s not so much because he likes them all equally, but more that he doesn’t think enough about the seasons themselves to warrant having a favourite.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I’ve never thought about it.”

Nagisa’s face falls for a moment before he manages to capture it in a beam once more. “Well I’ll help you choose! The seasons are great, Rei-chan, you’ll see!”

As if to prove it, he stands and moves a few feet away, waving a hand through the air. Following his movement, the golden flecks of dust in the air swirl around them, creating the illusion of a whirlwind of colour. Once Nagisa stops spinning, the flecks slow in their motions until they drift aimlessly once more, illuminated only by the golden sun. Still, even without the motion, Rei finds himself dizzied by the beauty of this moment. Seeing Nagisa standing before him, aglow with the fresh spring morning, it feels almost like magic.

With each passing season, he continues to meet Nagisa in the clearing. It becomes their rendezvous point, where Nagisa presents him each time with a new thing to love about each season. Sometimes it is as small as a quip about the flowers blooming or the wildlife around them. At other times, he blows Rei away with displays akin to his one from springtime, each more unbelievable than the last.

With each meeting, Rei falls for him more and more.

Until finally, summer arrives.

On the hottest day of the year, the sun beats heavy on their faces as they lie down in the clearing. The grass is cool against their skin, soaking slightly through their shorts and t-shirts, just enough to relieve the heat a little. Nagisa, for his part, is in his element, soaking up the warmth as if he’s been deprived of heat for years.

“Hey, Rei-chan,” he says as the sun reaches its peak for the day. There are likely only precious hours left before they ought to separate, not that either wishes to do so. “Look.”

Rei tilts his head to watch Nagisa, trying to focus on the hand he lifts into the air rather than the slope of his nose and how his lips purse in concentration.

Nagisa holds his hand over a single wispy cloud, wriggling his fingers a couple of times before slowly moving his hand over the blue. The wisp of cloud follows his fingertips, moving as if attached to invisible strings, until he manages to wipe it out of sight completely.

“A cloudless day,” Rei whispers in awe, his gaze falling from Nagisa’s fingertips to the accomplished grin on his face. “That’s amazing, Nagisa-kun.”

The blond looks over to him, eyes bright in the summer sun. “It’s just a small trick, but thanks!”

Shaking his head, Rei sits up, leaning on one hand to face Nagisa. “No, I mean it. You’re able to do so many incredible things. The fact that you would show them to me is an honour, really.”

Nagisa takes Rei’s free hand in his own, letting his thumbs gently stroke his knuckles. “If I’m gonna show anyone, of course I’m gonna show you, Rei-chan. I can’t think of anyone better to show this stuff to. Everyone else just calls these things dumb or lame, or party tricks at best. But you always have something nice to say about them.”

For a moment, Rei’s mouth falls open at this new information. He doesn’t dare pry further, though - he knows how averse Nagisa is to giving such personal information. Instead he lets a smile cross his lips and his hand relaxes in Nagisa’s. “You work so hard to learn how to do these things, just to show me. If that doesn’t make you amazing, then those people don’t know what they’re saying.”

During their conversation, he notices that he’s been leaning closer with each word. He’s almost leaning over Nagisa at this point, with his knees pressed against the smaller boy’s side. He can see the light freckles on the bridge of Nagisa’s nose, the way his throat constricts for a moment as Rei speaks.

“You think so?” Nagisa breathes, eyes wide and more vibrant than any summer blossom.

“I know so,” Rei murmurs, feeling himself leaning in. “You’re amazing, Nagisa-kun.”

Their lips meet for the first time in a burst of heat, soft and pliant and moving in harmony together, or as much as they can with their inexperience. Nagisa lifts a hand away from the one he holds to cup Rei’s face, bringing him closer to him. He tastes of strawberry ice cream and the sea.

When Rei pulls away for breath, he lingers close by, enraptured by the pink of Nagisa’s lips and the warmth of his breath, his golden locks haloed by vibrant flowers of every colour, some of which Rei has never even seen before in his encyclopedias. He doesn’t get the time to question them, though, not when Nagisa pulls him back in and he is once more lost in summer sweetness.

Above them, the trees bow their branches, sheltering the clearing to give them privacy in this moment.

Their romance blossoms in summer and blooms in the seasons which follow, its warmth still burning even as the temperature drops and rises once more. Summer feels eternal, the infectious effervescence a source of energy which makes each moment feel alive. For once, Rei lets himself forget the questions which still plague him about who exactly Nagisa is, and he focuses on the moments before him and the sensations which he has the pleasure of experiencing.

Of course, each season must come to a close, and the heat of their relationship eventually burns down to a comforting simmer. The leaves begin to darken, vibrant shades of orange overtaking the slowly darkening skies, leaving the grass beneath their feet to die along with them. The animals who live near the clearing begin their preparations for the colder months, gathering food and warmth and shelter.

Similarly, Rei and Nagisa switch to heavier clothing and take refuge in each other’s warmth, knowing that the cold will only grow as the months wear on. Rei also begins visiting the clearing less and less, though not out of a lack of longing. He and Nagisa know well that he has exam preparation to be worrying about, especially considering that he’ll soon be applying for universities.

Still, he makes the most of each visit, as short as they are. He spends what little time he has listening to Nagisa with earnest ears, telling him about his everyday life and hoping for even a glimpse more information from the boy. At the same time, Nagisa continues to show Rei even more beautiful sights. In autumn, he has the leaves dance above their heads to the soft song of the trees. Plucking one still-green leaf from the air, he breathes it into a beautiful shade of red, letting it join the fiery group around them.

Sometimes they explore. Hiking through the forest allows them to meet all new types of wildlife. At one point, they even rescue a hedgehog from falling into a small river past the boundary of the forest which Rei has previously traversed.

Between these hikes, they simply relax at each other’s side, indulging in this time spent together. Rei has become particularly fond of Nagisa’s smile, especially when he feels it against his own. When they sit together in silence, too, the atmosphere is calm and warm, like the comfort of a duvet first thing on a cold morning, when you don’t want to roll out of bed to face the day.

Rei would happily face any day, knowing he’ll see Nagisa in the course of it, though.

But distance makes him consider more options than before. Now that he’s faced with a choice of future, he wonders how things will impact his relationship with Nagisa. He can’t allow himself to compromise his morals by attending a local, but sub-par college, but the idea of being miles away from this boy he’s come to love is more painful even than the sting of nettles or the crunch of pine cones.

As such, he tries for a compromise.

“Nagisa-kun,” he asks.

Against his shoulder, he feels Nagisa’s head move so their eyes meet. The tree against their backs makes a surprisingly comfortable back-rest as they look on to the clearing, which lacks its usual glow thanks to the cloudy weather.

“Yeah, Rei-chan?” Nagisa’s voice is a little muffled by Rei’s shoulder, but the response is clear enough.

“You live nearby, right?”

For a moment, Nagisa hesitates before moving his head in a nod. “Why?”

It takes Rei a moment to voice the question. “Would you ever want to leave?”

Nagisa moves away from Rei’s shoulder, sitting upright to face him directly. His furrowed eyebrows lie low over eyes filled with concern and, possibly, fear. “Why are you asking this, Rei-chan?”

“I was simply curious,” Rei says, though the lie sounds fake even to him. When Nagisa gives him a doubtful expression, he sighs and amends his response. “I may have to move away from here to a city soon, for university.”

“Oh.” Nagisa’s face falls, his shoulders dropping along with it. “You’re leaving?”

“Not forever! But possibly for a while. I need to continue my studies-”

“I understand.” Nagisa turns his face away, hiding his expression behind his messy fringe. “It’s fine, Rei-chan. Your future is important.”

Rei hesitates in reaching his hand over to Nagisa’s, letting it hover just over the smaller hand which fiddles with its owner’s shoelaces. “The thing is, you’re important to me too. I don’t want to leave you behind.”

When Nagisa looks up, it is with a painfully false smile. “Don’t worry about me, Rei-chan! I’ll still be here. I can wait for you.”

“But I don’t want you to have to wait,” Rei says, finally letting his hand touch Nagisa’s. The boy he loves flinches under his touch, and he immediately pulls away.

“I’m sorry, Rei-chan.” Nagisa’s expression becomes more pained, though his smile remains. “I can’t leave this forest. But I’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes. No matter how many seasons pass, I’ll still be here. So come back, okay?”

Rei’s hand clenches into a ball. Still, he nods, pressing his lips together. “I promise I’ll come back.”

Nagisa relaxes, letting out a humourless laugh before leaning back into Rei, his hair tickling against Rei’s collarbone. As Rei rests his own head on top of Nagisa’s, he finds himself smiling, seeing a few fallen leaves returning to the tree above them.

He’ll miss this warmth, but at least he’ll always have it to return to.

Autumn’s cold separation drags on for far longer than Rei anticipates. With each semester, he finds himself too buried in work to consider returning to the forest in that tiny town, to the boy who lives within it. As much as he enjoys his studies, the seasons are all too grey and bleak without that sunshine smile.

All is silent in the garden of the Ryugazaki residence, save for the soft pad of footsteps as he crosses the grass, moving towards the line of trees at the base of the garden. Behind him, music beats on, lights flashing. Rei ignores them.

Instead, he moves through the forest in a route he knows well but has not traversed in far too long. The trees welcome him with quiet greetings, and he finds no fallen branches in his way as he heads towards the centre of the forest - only a thin layer of snow.

The cold air bites at his bare face, making his glasses steam up whenever he breathes too close to the scarf around his neck. In his pockets, his hands tremble. He feels too warm.

Once he reaches that familiar clearing, his heart sinks, seeing no one awaiting him in the moonlit meadow. The snow sparkles in the light, pure and untouched, with no sign of anyone having been here at all. The stuttered breath of disappointment he releases curls into the air in a cloud of white.

Once more he is outside, alone.

What a way to start a new year.

Suddenly, a voice calls out to him, too warm for winter, bright like fairy lights with the smooth heat of mulled wine.

“Rei-chan!”

Turning around, he finds the boy he loves standing a few feet away, dressed in winter layers, flushed pink from the cold. His eyes glisten, rivalling the brightness of his smile.

“You came back,” Nagisa says.

“Of course I did,” Rei says, feeling himself melt at the sight of Nagisa in front of him, after so long. “I promised, didn’t I?”

Nagisa takes a deep breath in, then leaps forward into Rei’s arms. The two spin out into the clearing, somehow managing not to fall in the snow, if only because Rei tries his best to keep them upright. He finds himself smiling fondly down at Nagisa, wrapping his arms around him and remembering how being home feels.

Above them, the sky opens to a flurry of snowflakes, drifting down toward them, swirling around their embrace. Each one feels oddly warm, like a kiss.

When Nagisa looks up at him with eyes full of love, Rei cannot help but return the favour.

The sound of fireworks does not deter them from their reunion, burning in the night sky above a kiss which lingers far longer. By the time they eventually part, all that is left in the sky is smoky residue.

But Nagisa is still here, beaming at him.

“Happy New Year, Rei-chan.”

Rei rests his forehead against Nagisa’s and smiles with all his heart.

“Happy New Year, Nagisa-kun.”

This year too, he hopes they can see the seasons together, connected through every one.

[ebenpink]

I Was Determined To Learn What True Human Health Meant https://ift.tt/31blle8

It’s Monday, everyone! And that means another Primal Blueprint Real Life Story from a Mark’s Daily Apple reader. If you have your own success story and would like to share it with me and the Mark’s Daily Apple community please contact me here. I’ll continue to publish these each Monday as long as they keep coming in. Thank you for reading!

Yup, success stories are back! And I’m looking for more. Follow-ups, mid-progress reflections—every story at every stage has the potential to inspire folks out there who are getting started or contemplating a new beginning. Contact me here to share your story. You never know who you’ll impact by doing it. Enjoy, everyone!

I was born, raised, and continue to live in the rural interior of Catalina Island. My roots run deep here as a fourth generation islander. While the island is just 22 miles off the coast of the concrete jungle known as L.A or what I call “The Mainland,” this place feels as if it were a world away. It’s the land time couldn’t command.

Being that this little island is the only place I’ve ever called home, it wasn’t until I was older that I realized just how unique my childhood was compared to most in today’s world.

I am constantly asked by visitors to the island if I ever get “island fever” or have the urge to get over to “the real world.” Honestly though, in my opinion, this place is as real as it gets. I know there are millions of beautiful places around the world, many in which I hope to one day visit, possibly even live. But wherever I go, I do know, that I will be eternally thankful for getting to grow up here on my island home and that I have this place to thank for making me who I am today.

As a kid I was able to grow up slow. I spent my days immersed in some of the best that nature has to offer. Whether I was out hiking the endless trails, running barefoot through the mountains in my backyard or playing in the surf at a beach on the backside of the island, I learned to love, respect, and honor the land and sea around me. Another question I am often asked is “Don’t you get bored living here; there is no mall or movie theater, not much to do.” To which I can honestly reply, “Nope, never!” And in fact it’s quite the opposite. Even when I was young, an all day hike was never out of the ordinary. My brother, sister, and I would spend hours outdoors, letting our imaginations run wild, and only return home to the sound of our mother calling us in as the sun sunk below the horizon. We would come running, usually a bit battered and bruised from the day’s adventures. We would greet our mother with a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand, and often an injured animal in the other, because we were determined to nurse back to health. My mother had an incredible green thumb and grew most all of our produce. Every meal was a home cooked meal and every night we would sit down to dinner around the table our father made and give thanks to the land for the food that it gave us. That also often meant some fresh yellowtail or local venison!

I was young when I came to understand that all things in the world are connected, that the great outdoors was also a great teacher, and that there was beauty and a lesson to be found in everything. The way the fullness of the moon pulls the tides in the ocean.

The way the location of the sunrise and sunset coordinated with the seasons. How the birds danced and feasted on the water before a storm. How animals fasted when they didn’t feel well. I learned to trust my instincts when crossing paths with a herd of buffalo or a coiled snake. I learned to feel the energy of the land.

These childhood adventures and exploration of the land and oceans around me evolved into the lifestyle I live today. This land is my playground, my gym, my sanctum. It has sparked, lit, and has been the fire behind many of my endeavors including my success as an adventure athlete, my love for being active outdoors, appreciation for the ocean, my pursuit of growing my own organic garden, sustainable living, giving back to the community, and learning something new every day. It has taught me that what’s simple is true and that you can live large even with very little, because it’s the little things in life that matter the most. I now teach sustainability, marine biology, and ecology for the USC Wrigley Marine Science and Ecology Center here on the island. I am a holistic health coach and personal trainer on the side. And I still have my everyday adventures as an sponsored athlete.

I found your blog about 8 years back when I was recovering from a serious bought of overtraining and adrenal fatigue due to running 80-100 mile weeks while training to paddle the channel between the island and the mainland (which I’ve done 7 times since), and working in a restaurant 10 hours a day. My body started to shut down (rightfully so), and I was determined to learn everything I could about the human body, holistic nutrition, what fitness really is, and what true human health actually meant. At the time I was also obsessed with reading books on anthropology and studying the indigenous peoples and tribes of far away places. Their ways of life, so interconnected to nature, made me feel like my own craving for being one with nature, wasn’t so abnormal. And of course, like most things about modern societal norms, I just couldn’t trust mainstream advice on nutrition and training.

So, down the unconventional rabbit hole I went and along the way I became a total primal/paleo/real food/lifestyle nerd. I tossed conventional wisdom out the door (I was always a skeptic) and realized that the life I had been living on the island was actually pretty darn “primal” and that I just needed to modify a few things. I always ate what I thought was healthy as I was an natural athlete from a young age and new the foods I ate made me feel great or not so great. That meant lots of homegrown veggies, wild fruits, local fish, venison, and meats. But I did grow up also eating pasta and a few processed foods like Kashi cereal, which I soon ditched. And the fats I was told were bad for me back in middle school health class, I became a big fan of because I discovered that I could perform better on the trail and in the water with them on board. The more I read your blog, the more the stars aligned…it all made so much sense!!!

I no longer run 80 mile weeks, but I still love a good trail run every now and then. If I’m going for long distance, I usually hike in my minimalist shoes instead. I average about 6-8 miles a day just in walking around the island doing daily tasks. I lift heavy things, climb trees, free dive, spearfish, SUP, prone paddle, mountain bike, play pick-up softball in the dirt lot with friends, gather with my people around campfires, follow circadian rhythm (it’s easy out here on the island), and absolutely am loving life! I recently circumnavigated the island on my paddle board with two friends and it was such a fun adventure! We even made it to SurfLine! We used the paddle as a vehicle to talk about plastic in our oceans.

I am all about living life to the fullest and really exploring our human potential, asking constantly “What does it mean to thrive?” and “What does it mean to be human?”. Thanks to the inspiration I receive from the MDA, paleo community, and our ancestors, I feel as though I am able to do just that, and now I share it with others. I coach and put on retreats and events all based around this lifestyle in addition to my work for USC.

I studied nutrition for a long time and I soon realized, it all came down to nature. I studied movement and fitness, and it again, it all came back to nature. Now I teach and study about the environment/ecology/sustainability, and what we can do to make the world a better place, and again it comes back to nature. It’s really very simple. It’s all interconnected and so are we. A part of nature, not separate from it. And we and our planet all have the ability to be healthy, happy, and thriving. So thank you Mark for all that you do! You have always been a bright light guiding the way and I have really looked up to you for years. I lived off the island for a few months in 2016 and worked at Sunlife at Point Dume. It was pretty funny how none of the celebrities caused me to feel star stuck but whenever you or Ben Greenfield would come in, my heart would skip a beat ; ) You are a legend and the legacy you are leaving is a much needed one. Thank you, thank you, thank you! If you ever want to host a PB retreat on Catalina, I’m your girl ; )

All the best from Catalina,

Natalie Adventure Athlete and Health Coach Optimized Health, Wellness, and Fitness https://ift.tt/2LCXGgi

Have a story to share? Email me here. Thanks, everybody, and have a great week.

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The post I Was Determined To Learn What True Human Health Meant appeared first on Mark's Daily Apple.

from Mark's Daily Apple https://ift.tt/2HWQHOl via IFTTT https://ift.tt/2JF13VL

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 23

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, set 1909. Edwardian Fic. Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ Prompt found on ​this blog. Link to the imagine(s) that inspired it, here, and here….   Chapter number: Chapter 23 Author: punk-in-docs (Here is my Masterlist for more chapters… Don’t laugh at me cause it’ s so, ridiculously tiny) but do take a look if you feel so inclined… Triggers/warnings: Fluff in this one, just fluff, love, and a little, evil surprise at the end. Enjoy my darlings. last chapter(?) The end?... oh, definitely not,  I do see this continuing...

The squat, pointed, and honeycomb hued brick building that was St. Anthony’s, was perched far back off the residential street, it eased his fears that it was in a respectable area of town atleast, it was  fenced off with an iron spiked fence, Thomas imagined it creaked and groaned, whining on its rusted hinges, when the metal gate was pushed open. The faded grass lawn, was strewn with golden brown leaves, evidence of the children who lived within the kind walls lay prominent on the huge expanse of lawn. A forgotten whip and top, and a couple of unloved hobby horses had been carelessly left behind, strewn on the damp grass, from the previous capering about the day before. The front of the stocky house was guarded by high, tall trees, he saw a bulky shape nestled in one is a makeshift tree house, and there is a wooden plank swing, drifting in the mornings breeze, rocking back and forth, swaying to an invisible tune.

His attentions from the gardens are diverted up to the house once more. It was a large place. From the outer exterior, his first thought is how warm and cosy it looks. He didn’t know what to expect, in all honesty. But when Vianne spoke of nun’s, and an Anglican order. He imagined a strict, cold place. With high windows, sparse halls and chilly rooms with nothing but a bed as the décor. Guarded by strict, shouting nuns, shrouded in black, punishing the orphans and bastards who ended up in their care. And took pains to remind them daily they were all sinners headed for hell as they supped down gruel like Dickensian  work house fodder. That’s what he expected of an orphanage. He certainly didn’t expect this place to feel, nor look, so invitingly kind.

The brick of the gothic house, is a warm, buttery gold. There are tall, wide windows, letting in plenty of sunshine, and which are decorated with cypress wood. Their latticed frames, painted a faded bottle green, and dripping with elegant pointed gothic design. The low, sloping petticoat tiled roof, is a slate grey, and well-kept. Where the overhang of the roof shadows the windows, there is an intricate border to the stone which presides over one side of the house. The front door is lined with white stone, forming a carved arch around the merry, pillar-box red wood of the solid door. Though humble, the house is of a large size, with triple rows of rickety chimneys, and a towering turret lodged on the side of the house, near the front door. He didn’t expect to like this place, but he can’t deny its homeliness. Not with a blue shrouded, aproned, elderly nun, pegging out washing onto a line, far across the gardens. The scent of Proctor & Gambles, Ivory soap, a sparkling clean and fresh, linen smell, emanates through the air, toward them like a greeting visitor, tugging them through the gate. There are yellow pansy’s growing happily in the red window boxes that sat on every sill. The gardens are brimming with jovial daisy’s, and lush privet hedges. From inside the house, comes the raucous nature of children playing, happily. The gravel path that swirled through the garden, leading up the steps to the front door, is as inviting as the amiable place itself. But to Thomas, that path was one of the hardest he’d ever embark upon. He knew that much.

Vianne, stood by his side, slightly behind him, looking pale and nervous in  her powder blue satin dress, velvet coat of a midnight hue, and her hat of cobalt. She was nervously chewing her lip. He could hear her hands fidget, the navy leather of them squeaking as she did so. She watched him place one hand on the iron fence before him, taking in all that the sight of St. Antony’s had to offer. He hadn’t spoken since she’d ordered the coach to stop. They’d stepped out, and he had been wordless ever since. His attention captured by the place. She watched that handsome profile, pale, dark straight hair, scar, and all, look at the house presented to him. She couldn’t tell if he was displeased, or overjoyed. His face is too stoic to tell anything by. When he does speak, after a long few moments, it is a barely audible hush.

“It’s nothing like I imagined it would be…” He spoke sincerely. With the utmost flattery in his tone. He looked for a few seconds more, watching the nun in the gardens reach for more wooden pegs, humming to herself, oblivious to the two visitors loitering in trepidation by the front gate. She doesn’t know how to answer him. So she steps forwards, and comes right up, flush to the iron fence, right by him.

“That’s Sister Beatrice. She’s been with the Order of the Blessed Lady Mary’s for sixty-six years now. She was one of the first postulant women in England to take Holy orders from the church. It took her thirty years to get that position in the clergy. She has a terribly fond sweet-tooth, and she simply adores Julia and Arthur. Always saves them a currant scone, or some bread and condensed milk, before the older ones get their mitts on them, so she says. She’s eighty-nine this year, but she doesn’t let her age dampen nor hinder her spirit one bit…” She explained, smiling. Looking over at her beau when she finished. Delighted to see her words caused a smile to crook on his face. He swallowed, then he looked to meet her gaze.

“Shall we?” He asks quietly. In a soundless effort of agreement, she reaches for the latch on the gate, and unhinges it. He watches her small, navy glove hand wrap around the handle, and smiles more, hearing the crick and screech of the iron gate as it was swung open. Vianne let it swing right out, her hand went back down to her side, and he found it. Holding her left hand tight. As her right was incapacitated by the wicker basket she had loaded with what she called essentials. For both the nuns, and the children. Some of Mrs. B, her wonderful cook’s, famous drop scones. Still warmed, for the Sisters, dotted with fat, sweet, plump raisins, and a jar of crushed raspberry jam, that too was infamous, to go along with. And such a variety of half-penny sweets for the children, the basket must’ve weighed a tonne with all the barley sugars, and confectionary she’d brought along. She bought them all a huge brown paper bagful of thick, splintered shards of sticky, golden toffee. Humbugs, liquorice twists, pear drops, bullseyes, and tiger nuts. He had offered to carry it for her, but she’d smiled that she didn’t mind. He also saw that she’d wrapped a small, secret parcel separately. Its contents, he couldn’t discern. Except for the bulk telling him some of it was soft clothing, and the tell-tale rigidity of books.

They walked through the gate, their soles both crunching the gravel underfoot. They come quickly through the front garden. Thomas wavers slightlly as they came to the under-hang of the front door, stepping under the outer stone threshold.

Vianne, familiar with the house, reached for the doorbell, and tugged on the pulley rope, letting the metallic clang signify to those within that they had callers at the front door. In no time at all, the heavy slab of the door is shuddered easily open from the other side, and a nun, swathed in sapphire blue, with a kind face appears in the gap. She had sun-coloured, fairly wrinkled skin. Barely etched with the toll of her age. Her eyes were grey, soft, worn, and kind. She had a sympathetic smile that had aged the lines about her mouth from its most frequent use. Her tunic swathed her entire body, so little could be said for her figure, but she looked surpassingly sprite, and energetic for her late age. Her hands are the same, sun-warmed, freckled hue as her face, with knobbled knuckles, and bony fingers. Slotted onto which, are several holy rings, taking up residence by her lower knuckles. Around her neck, on a simple, fine chain, atop her wimple which covered her neck, head and shoulders sits a simple, wooden cross necklace. Of course, nuns of the order gave up all possessions, and took strict oaths of obedience, and charity. So her rings, and her polished, black leather boots, must’ve been her only possessions, Thomas thinks. The Nun recognises Vianne instantly, and her face, accordingly, split into an overjoyed smile, and those grey eyes turned to happy, liquid pewter in her elation.

“Vianne. It’s so lovely to see you, my dear. My, what a delight. For we weren’t expecting you til Wednesday next on your usual visit.” The Nun smiles widely, she had opened wide the door, and embraced her into a solid, firm hug. Vianne held her back. The scent of Yardley’s lavender, soap, and musty cloth from the Chapel fills her senses. The warming aroma of Sister Marianne. When they pull apart, the woman looks fondly at Vianne. Obviously more than pleased to see her. She seems to falter when she sees Thomas, lurking behind his ex-wife.

“Oh, do forgive my manners. Most unchristian, won’t you both please come inside?” She asks, stepping out of the way, and letting the guests pass her, into the warm, atmosphere of the home. “May I fetch you something? Tea perhaps? Or some cake? Our cook made her infamous tiffin this morning, and it is, exceedingly delicious, as always…” She offers. They both decline. They can’t stomach food, either of them. Not just yet.

Each way he looks, all Thomas can see is reminders of how cosy, and homely this place is. Children’s artwork adorns the walls, along with clumsily embroidered bible passages hung up, enshrined, in frames along the flowery walls. Thick, ornate, worn wool rugs are underfoot, trodden to the beaten cypress floorboards, battered and bare below. Ahead, he can see a library, stocked with fat, leather bound books squeezed onto shelves that stretched nimbly from floor to ceiling, and a goldfish merrily glimmers in its bowl, warmed by the rays of sunshine on the windowsill. Up above, he sees the staircase, lined with a red rug up the centre. To their left is the kitchen, with a flagstone floor, a stove pumping out heat to keep the house warm, and a few nuns crowded round the dining table, pouring tea and eating huge slabs of cake, covered in jam. A couple of children are in the kitchen too. One girl, who she recognised as Enid, stood on a stool was having her dress hemmed by Sister Margaret, who did so knelt on a perfectly adequate, serviceable prayer cushion. And Johnathan and Timothy, were sat at the table enjoying jam and bread with the sisters too.

“It is wonderful to see you, as ever, my dear. Do tell me, who is your guest who joins you today?” Sister asked, assessing the tall, dark man, who was, in fact, so tall, the top of his head nearly brushed the moulding on the ceiling.

“Sister Marianne, this is my-.” Vianne begins, and when she pauses, fumbling for her words, she smiles and Thomas is intrigued as to why. She wants to stumble, embarrassed over the word. But then her bravery swells, and she realises that the sound of his newfound title was a lovely thought to bear in mind. she’d spent so long, not, saying it. That declaring it now was absolutely the right thing.

“This is Julia and Arthurs father, Sister. My Husband. Sir Thomas Sharpe.” Vianne explains. Sister Marianne, who, to her credit didn’t look the sturdiest, battle-axe of a woman, took that confession in her powerful stride. Vianne realised then, that she’d waited two years to let those words cross her lips. And it felt wonderful.

“My goodness. You certainly make a fine pair. And I see your son certainly takes after you, Sir.” Sister Marianne flatters, swaying forwards to shake Thomas’s hand. He returned the hearty shake.

“Our… circumstances, kept me unable to visit until now…. Believe me, I would not part with seeing them unless I had too.” Thomas tried to defend. Sister smiled wider. Her calming eyes taking in his revelation with an understanding blink, and a nod.

“We are not here to judge your circumstances, Sir Sharpe. We harbour many children here, whose parents cannot afford them, or care for them well enough. We even have children who have been cast out by their parents for no reason whatsoever, among these walls. It is a haven we have for them, in this house. When their own is in strife, we give help any way we see fit.” She explains.

“And your wife, has been an absolute blessing conveyed upon us, since she first housed Arthur and Julia here as babes in arms.” Marianne told him.

“To me, Sister, my wife is a blessing wherever she chooses to convey herself.” Thomas flatters. When his eyes met Vianne’s, she flushes, and her spine squirms, alight with thrashing nerves.

Vianne chose that moment, after her cheeks stopped reddening, to have an attack of modesty. “Only some bandages, and ointment, Sister. Hardly a cottage hospital. Barely anything, in all honesty...” She quips.

“We could happily have had you as a permanent fixture my dear. With all you donate, and do for the children here, and for us nuns too.” She praised. Vianne absentmindedly, humbly, tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear. “We’d be sorrier for the loss of you. Nurse James.” Sister japes.

“And need I mention how much the children, aswell as your own, adore you?”  Sister mentioned. Thomas could instantly see why. And he was about to be served a large example of just how deep such devotion went.

And on the landing above, small, barrelling footsteps thump, thundering to the banister, small, shaggy heads of hair, hang over and peer at the newcomers, and when they catch a glimpse of the both of them, children’s bellows start to echo through the cumbersome house. And, quickly, more and more footsteps thud on the ceiling. “It’s Vianne!” came a boys shout, and ultimately, served as the call the rouse the troops, as it were.

“Deary me, That is Perry Jenkins. The wildest one of our bunch… and one your most devoted fans as I understand it. You’d best brace yourselves…” The nun warned. Thomas was about to enquire, when her warning became perfectly clear.

More footsteps clattered and bombed about above, and then the stairs are teeming with small children. Tearing down the stairs like hell furies. Grinning from ear to ear. The next thing he knows she is swarmed by them like a herd of insects. Swallowed whole by the crowds of children that gathered, laughing and giggling away, calling her name as she turned to each of them in unison. She reached for the basket and started handing out the goodies within. Which they gratefully took. The boys clamoured for her attentions, hanging on her every word as she bid them all hello, and the girls hugged her legs through her skirts, asking her about her hat, and her pretty dress. Smiling prettily at the woman in admiration. Thomas smiled at the sight of the kids swarming her. She was maternal through and through, and it was dazzling to see.

“Perry Jenkins. You must’ve grown two miles since I saw you last, you little devil. You’ll be a match for me soon…Lucinda, dear, you’re missing, another, tooth? Three last week? My goodness! Hello Sylvie, poppet, you appear to be missing a shoe… Oh, how could I forget you two. Myrtle and Michael. Oscar, those Bullseyes are for sharing. Pass them round, you’ve been taught to divvy treats, have you not, or, am I mistaken? Polly, yes, you may of course have my hat. But, only, when your older, and your head gets big enough to fit it…”  She rambled, greeting them each in turn.

“Beloved, she is indeed.” Sister Marianne spoke to Thomas, smiling to him as they both beamed at the happy sight. Thomas’s smile crooked wider.

“She told us you were an inventor, Sir Sharpe. That your breakthrough came with inventing a very clever machine for an American mining company…” Sister spoke, enquiring, engaging him in conversation as the children still congregated around his wife.

“That’s correct.” He smiled humbly. “Though I don’t know about the very clever part. I spend more time tampering and fixing the shrewish machines, than they do functioning well.  I’ve currently taken work designing a new coolant system for machines that could end up having scientific and medical use. My factory Is just up the road, in Gillespie Street.” He told her. She nodded, and smiled, near laughing.

“I knew you had to be Arthurs father from the second I laid eyes on you, stood on that doorstep, Sir Sharpe. The bright blue eyes, the inky hair.” She told, those warming, dove-grey eyes sparkling with happiness, and plenty of canny spirit. She was sharp as a tack, this woman. His face must have made a picture, for it prompted her to elucidate further.

“Your son is just like you. Being, only two of course, his faculties are limited until he gets a little bigger, and older. But the thing he enjoys most, Is building blocks. He has begun fitting puzzles together already. Now I know the true proverb behind the saying, like father, like son.” She smiles. That warm little confession touched his heart. Sister could see the man was very obviously touched by what she had confessed. He looked both part amazed, scared and unbelieving. Standing there, like a tall, pale, dark haired human lamppost. Marianne’s face fell when she noticed the fear in his eyes. His aura of trepidation powerful.

He’s like me… Thomas thought. My son is like me. Please, dear god, spare that innocent soul the agony of being as tainted, twisted, and as broken as his wretched father, if there are similarities to be had. Please, don’t let him be like me. For that is the worst thing he could ever grow up to do.

“Forgive me, Sir, I’ve said nothing to offend you, I hope?” She asks.

“Not at all, Sister, it’s just…” He swallowed, his throat suddenly thick with emotion that choked him. He was wringing his leather gloves nervously in his hands. He looked tormented by his own thoughts.

“I’m scared.. I, won’t be good enough. To be a decent father to them, sister. I mean, of course, I don’t look… I’m, scarred. Mutilated.  I’m worried they’ll scream, or cry at the sight of…” He told, unable to say it. But she knew, undoubtedly, he was referring to the long strike, of the tear stained, crimson scar down his face. He didn’t say it. But she knew that was what he meant.

The nun seemed to take this revelation completely in her stride. She nodded, and folded her hands in front of her, she met his eyes, and spoke once more.

“Children are more resilient than you may think, Sir Sharpe. I know, to someone who isn’t used to them, they can seem small, fragile. And they do need protecting, and looking after, of course. But it would surprise you how plucky they can be.” She tells him. He looked across to her, his fears eased, he watched Vianne smiling at the children, as she idly fixed a little girls wonky plait for her.

“I could never stomach telling Vianne that above all, that’s what scared me the most. She’d have thought me a fool.” He tells.

“She’d have said the same as I, Sir. I assure you heartily of that.” Sister spoke wisely. They continued to watch the children gaggle around. And then, a mousy haired girl, who could have been no older than five, or six, stumbled as she tried to clamour after Vianne. Thomas shoved his gloves deep into his coats pocket, and smiled warmly at the girl. She looked down at her feet, and he saw that her red shoe, had come unbuckled. Instantly, he sidled closer, not too close so as to scare her, he knew his towering height would dwarf her and intimidate her, and he crouched to his knees. She was wearing a grey pinafore, and a thick, woollen, blue cardigan, and had a red ribbon tied, tucked into the back of her hair, drawing it up off her face. She had big, brown, darling doe eyes. And though she seemed weary of him at first, she gave him a shy, toothless little smile. Thomas looked at her, inaudibly moving for her foot, to aid her. She stood, swaying from side to side, nervous, with her hands behind her back. Thomas reached over to her shoe, and his dexterous fingers fumbled for the buckle, looping the leather through, and guiding it back to the worn hole it was used to sitting in. Unbeknownst to him, Vianne’s heart warmed right through, seeing him crouch, helping Katie with her shoe. She felt a tug of love for him, surge in her gut.

“Not too tight is it?” He asked her gently. She shook her head, shyly. He smiled fondly at her. She was a dear little thing. “I like your hair ribbons, they’re very pretty.” He smiled, tucking one loose bit of her dark hair back behind her tiny ear. She grinned, beaming at him. She was a darling little thing. She was all big eyes, and sweet smiles.

“What do you say to Mr. Sharpe, Katie?” Sister spoke up, encouraging, gently. The little girl said nothing, but ducked her head forwards, and smacked a small kiss onto Thomas’s cheek. Before she turned bright red, and scurried off to the kitchens like a little scared mouse, in search of something to eat. Thomas smiled, getting to his feet, his knees aching as he rose.

“She’s a sweet girl, our Katie. One of our newest here. She comes from a broken home. Her family couldn’t keep her. She barely speaks yet. Her father used to, give her the strap, when she spoke out of turn at home. She’s coming along, slowly, but we all estimate it will take her a great deal more time to trust us enough to know she won’t be harmed when she does, eventually, speak.” Sister explained. Thomas was amazed the poor girl didn’t baulk at his size, and his scarred face. Marianne’s eyes shone cannily.

“See? More resilient than you think. Even the ones who’ve been through hell and beyond…” Sister spoke knowingly. Thomas had no choice but to put blind faith in her promise.

“And as for your, concerns, over being a decent father, sir. My advice is always this; Love them. That is what your child needs above all else.”  She tells him.

Thomas nods. “I’ve never met them, and already I love them with all my heart, Sister.” He informs her. Because he did. The picture Vianne had of them, was in his pocket, close to his heart.

“In which case, then, you are already a brilliant father.” She tells him kindly. The last of the children dispersed, the boys raucously running to the kitchens, or the gardens, and Vianne is left talking to a few girls, and after they too toddle away, she straightens, and re-hooks her basket to settle to the crook of her arm. Sufficiently emptied of all sweets now. Which made it all the lighter. She smiles across at them both.

“Are we permitted to go upstairs, Sister?” Vianne asks nicely. Thomas’s gut clenched. Swooping with excitement. In a few short seconds, he’d see them…

“Of course..” Sister gestured. “Though I know you’re familiar with the route. Allow me to take you up..” She smiles, gliding noiselessly across to the stairs, heading up first, Thomas gestures for ladies first and follows behind Vianne. They go up the creaking, wooden staircase, treading the thick carpet, avoiding stepping dolls, or crunching wooden trains underfoot. Sister scoffed, and turned to apologise, seeing the jumble of forgotten toys hazardously laid across several steps. “Do forgive the toys. I believe some of the younger ones like playing on the stairs from time to time…” She explains. They both smile, and Thomas swoops down and uprights the fallen train, clicking the steam funnel back in place, as it had come loose. They continue past one landing, up another light, seeing the warm, wooden room that was the dormitory’s. Again, just like the rest of the house, it is just as warmly decorated. Pictures, drawings and embroidery are pinned to the walls above the beds, the small, cosy cots are laden with brightly coloured blankets and plump pillows. Toys are strewn everywhere within sight. And there were mason jars of collected wildflowers from the gardens, sat sparkling on the windowsill, in the suns light. Obviously they had been collected by the children themselves, there were wild daisies, scented stocks, holly hocks, and bluebells nestled, drooping yet vibrant in the confines of the glass jar.

They continue up, to what he guesses, are the nurseries where the younger children’s cots were. Up the landing, they tread the thick vermillion carpets, coming to the door. Sister pauses before it, twisting open the door handle, she looks back across at them both. Both parents, here together for their children. And she couldn’t intrude on that…

“I’ll leave you now. Sister Winnifred gave them their breakfast this morning. They should be awake now. It’s… so lovely to have the both of you here to see them, together.”  She smiles warmly at them. “And, may I just say, if you decide that you want them with you, we’d of course, be overjoyed for you to take charge of their care. But may I hope that you visit with them  from time to time, to let us know how all of you are getting along. You’ve been such a dear friend to us Vianne. All of us should hate to lose contact with you.” She urges. Vianne takes Sisters hands in her own.

“You may depend upon it, Sister.” Vianne promises. “Without you, and the blessed order, I don’t know where I’d be, I truly don’t.” She thanked the woman. Because, she suddenly realised, she never had. Oh, she’d helped comb the children for nits, helped donate winter clothes, blankets, soap, sweets, medical supplies, cakes from her cook, and other menial necessities and comforts. But she’d never properly taken the time to thank Sister Marianne for all she had done for Julia, Arthur, and for her. She was another providential saviour, alike Erik, and Thomas, to all of whom, she thanked her lucky stars to have in her life.

“I trust you know where you are, now…” She smiled wisely, looking between them as Thomas lovingly squeezed his wife’s hand. “Because I can see where you are now, even if you can’t..”  She smiled fondly, giving her blessing. Her hands folded in front of her, patiently, her smile jovial at seeing their discernible ardour for each other. Plain as day. Plain as the nose on her face.

Sister opened the door before them, showing them a small, sun filled nursery, with only two cots inside, and a nun was sat in a rocking chair, reading a picture book to the two little ones, sat on the rug, idly playing with separate toys. The Nun looked up when Head Nun peered into the room, and wordlessly smiled at her Sister. Sister Winnifred, rose from her chair, a plain, sable beauty, judging by her dark eyebrows, she had a wide, soft smile, a gentle face, and clear blue eyes that were very pale in their colouring.

She placed the book on the side, muttering kindly to the children that they had two visitors. Before she glided from the room, nodding hello to the parents, before both Nun’s smiled, and made their way back down the stairs. Leaving Thomas and Vianne to the room before them. He held her hand so tight, transfixed by the sight before him, matter of fact, his grip cut off the circulation to her fingers. She squeezed back whilst she still had the feeling in her hand left to utilize. She guided him forwards, stepping into the room, scooping up Arthur as he came bombing across the room, calling her name, and grinning madly. ”Mama! Mama!”  He cried, as he toddled quickly across. His arms outstretched. His cherubian face wearing a pure, joyous smile. At seeing his mother. He wore a little pair of green, tweed breeches, a white shirt, and a small black waistcoat. Thomas stood, unmoving by the doorframe, watching his wife hug his son close to her chest. Her eyes closed as she savoured him in her arms, stroking his hair, and taking him in deep. The scent of him, of ivory soap, and clean, young skin wafting in her direction as she cuddled him close.

“I missed you so much, Arthur, my darling...” She smiled. Pulling back, and pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek, seeing he smiled, sucking his thumb, as his little hand, like a pink starfish, with the tiny rounded pebbles of his small fingernails, on each, reached out to touch her face, grabbing her cheek. Smiling at her all the while. She held him up against her hip, letting him see his father, just behind her, stood by the door. Julia, not to be left out, stood and rushed over to her mother too, chanting the same mantra that her brother had. “I missed both of you. You too Julia, poppet.” Vianne smiles. Julia fisted her hands in Vianne’s blue skirts, and tugged, smiling up, hugging her leg. Vianne moved to shift Arthur onto her other hip. But she was beaten to the punch. Thomas stepped forwards, and Arthur looked straight at him. To Thomas, his little, piercing, blue eyed, look, was like an arrow of longing hitting him straight in the heart. This was his boy. His son.

“Hello, at last, you…” He spoke softly, gently reaching over, and letting Arthur curl his little hand around his finger.

“You know who this is, don’t you, my loves?” Vianne asked her toddler as she crouched to tend to both of them. Arthur thought for a moment. Before one little word came sailing out of his little mouth. “Dada.” He spoke, unsurely. Thomas smiled, choked, tears were in his eyes. He had seen the wedding picture of him and Vianne, pinned up above the cot. Obviously, even though he hadn’t been here in person, he had been talked about. He hadn’t been ignored, or forgotten, she’d seen to that much.

“That’s right..” He croaked. “I’m your father.” He cried fondly, sniffing back his emotions. As he stroked his sons head. His hand carting over the black curls that were the same as his own. The eyes that were just as sharp, even in their infancy.

Thomas had come to a crouch too, and slowly, like a shy baby deer, his daughter now toddled across to him. She reached out her hands, and he took them, her hands pawed at him. Going up to his face, she patted his cheeks, and laughed when he gently gripped her hand to his mouth, and kissed her fingers.

But what both made them, absolutely melt, was when she touched his scar, stroking down his face, smiling. feeling down it with her tiny, searching fingers. She wasn’t scared of his scars. She wasn’t afraid of him, because he looked damaged, and mutilated by his past, in more ways than one. Julia didn’t care about any of that. And Neither did Vianne, or Arthur, because this was their family. Their Father. The man who’d come to find them again, when they thought they’d all been lost.

“How could I possibly be your father, you beautiful girl?” Thomas asks Julia as she cuddled into him when he knelt to scoop her up, bringing her up into his arms. She was wearing a little blue dress, with white petticoat trimmed socks on her legs. Her thick, short, red, hair was combed neatly, parted on her small little head, not yet long enough to warrant bows or ribbons being needed. She had a cherubs face like her brother. Only she had an impish nose, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, like his wife did. Julia was gorgeously pretty, whereby Arthur was just as beautifully handsome. His beautiful girl, and his handsome boy. He savours Julia as she snuggles into his coat. Her fingers plucking and playing curiously with the buttons on his overcoat.

This... Thomas thinks, This is my Baby Daughter. My girl. and she’ll forever be so, even when she’s all grown in years to come. She’ll still be my baby-girl.

He headed with Julia on his hip, like a little blue clad, red haired limpet, across to the small chaise that was crowded with toys and pillows, across the room, under the sunny, large window that beamed light onto the carpet below. Twirling mites of dust in the lazy, yellow light. The room, because the window was open a tad, smelt like sparkling clean soap, and the scent of fresh flowers, drifting up on the warm air from the gardens down below. He sits leisurely with Julia on the settee, feeling the sun warm the back of his neck. Vianne releases Arthur, and watches him toddle over to play with some wooden blocks near his father’s feet.

Vianne stands, and watches as Thomas sets Julia down, and she zips straight to her dolls house, to fiddle and play with the family inside. She steps over the debris of toys, and joins her husband on the seat by the window as they watch them play. Thomas thanks Julia as she brings him over a blonde, red dressed doll, and places it in his lap. Then she totters off to do something else. He smiles after her, seeing that she had every spec of her mother’s sweetness. He reached for Vianne, linking his arm about her waist, cupping her hip, pulling her close. Hugging her tight. When he looked across the room, he saw the drawings they’d done, inconceivable scribbles, really, stabbed in pencil across the page. But by his count, he saw four figures in that picture. Two children, one with a black scribble for hair, the other, red. And both taller, figures, had the same colouring. One red. One black.

“You told them about me?” Thomas asked her in a hush. He didn’t turn to look at her. They were both too busy watching their children. Vianne reached for the parcel she’d wrapped for them. And gave it to Arthur, telling him to open it. When he tore away the string, and brown paper, it revealed a pile of new picture books, and some nice, new clothes. A knitted cardigan from Jeanie, for them each. One in butter-daisy yellow for Julia, and one in cool-icy blue, for Arthur. Vianne smiled down at them with their new presents, before she answered him.

“How could I not have?” She asked back. “They deserved to know they weren’t discarded. Like so many of the children in here. They had every right to know they had a father, somewhere. They didn’t have to know why we were apart. They deserved to know they had a mother and a father who loved them.” She explained.

“Now I’ve seen them. I never want to be parted from them again.” He says proudly. She closed her eyes and smiled. Letting a tear slip down her cheek. “How could you bear doing it time and time again when you came to visit?” He asked her, in nothing but utter amazement at her. As always…

“I scarcely coped.” She tells. Scooping Julia up for a cuddle, setting her on her lap. Pressing a kiss to her hair. Stroking her cheek with a knuckle. She cuddled her mother. Happy to see her again.

“I want us to be a proper family, Vianne. You, me, them. All of us, together. Making up for all those rotten months we spent apart.” He tells her, swallowing, his voice croaky, throat thick, nearly clogged, with sentiment

“I want to wake up next to you, each morning. And I want to wake knowing that my children are safe, and snug, in their beds, and their own room, just down the landing from us. Not hidden away, on the other side of London. I want to watch them grow. I missed their first words, steps, and smiles. And I will be damned if I miss anything else.” He explains powerfully.

”I will be there at the dinner table every night as part of this family. I’ll be there to bathe them, to read them bedtime stories, to play with them until they run rings around me. I shall teach them all the things I was never taught as a boy. Teach them humility, love and sensitivity. Teach them to be their own, and know that at their every turn, I am proud of whatever they do. And whatever they love, so long as they’re contented. They shall never want for anything, again.”  He rasps sincerely. Full well meaning each and every word, every promise.

“And I swear on my soul, that they’ll never hear a cross word come from me in my life. They will know they are adored, and cherished. Not ignored, and despised. Locked away from the world in a drafty, cold attic.” He pledged.

Vianne let her head fall onto his shoulder. Biting her lip, trying to stem her tears of both happiness, and pain for him recounting his childhood.

“You are not your father, Thomas. And we will not be like him, or your mother, when we raise our children. They will know how much love we bear for them. They’ll feel it every day, in every measure we can give. And they shall continue to know it, until long after you and I draw our last breaths.” She speaks softly. Squeezing his hand, telling him she meant each word too. He held her back, just as keenly.

“Will you be my wife again, Vianne? Be the mother of my children, be a family, with me?” He asks, letting the sentence hang in the air. She smiled, and lifted her head up to gaze at him. He tilted to look at her, wiping away her tear with a flick of his soothing, gentle hand.

“Thought you’d never ask, Thomas Sharpe.” She smiles brightly.

“Shall we go home now, all of us?” He asks. Nodding to the twins as they examined their new picture books, before them. He reached over, as Julia was still on her mother’s lap, and stroked her cheek. Including them in his count too. He didn’t care how long it took to pack the twins belongings. He wasn’t leaving this place without them.

“All five of us.” Vianne smiled.

Thomas frowned mildly. “You’ve miscounted, dear.” He spoke. Not getting her hint at all. In fact, her meaning evaded him, until, she grabbed his hand, and brought it to her lips. She kissed his knuckles, the bruises on them having faded long ago. And she placed his hand over her lower tummy, on her bodice.

“Well. There’s four of us now, but soon, there will be five..” She smiled, beaming. Realisation dawned on his features. He’d never kissed her so hard, or as fast, in all his life. He never wanted to stop. And from now on, he loves knowing he never would.

The End? of course not, I haven't run out of ideas for these two just yet...

@frenchfrostpudding @heavymist @totallynotasmutblog

​

[nickgammon-stories]

The Old Lady Of The Sea

The “Ocean House” stands below the village, as close to the sea as a Venetian palazzo. Time and winter storms have left her rusting and streaky and grey. Houses are always female in the Basque country, just like boats are everywhere else.

On quieter nights when I was alone, especially in winter, the old building seemed to be occupied by benign ghosts; it was as if you could still hear the whisper of their soft soled shoes, the ones they used for dancing, echoing down the staircases and down the decades. As though their distant music and laughter still hung in the air between the waves which crashed against the pebbles on the beach outside.

But what if you could step backwards across the art deco bridge that swept over the tamarinds? And push past the bell boys, waiting in a huddle, into the bright lights of the roof bar and order a White Russian or a Tom Collins. Then out onto the terrace, to the soft night heavy with jasmine and where everyone’s dancing. The band plays Fats Waller or Guy Lombardo numbers while the oleanders rustle on a hot breeze out of Spain.

And whose laughter might you have heard on the roof of the “Ocean House”, at the end of the 1920’s? Probably not Eugene O’Neill’s. Who was in Guéthary but pretending to be in Constantinople, in hiding from a scandal. Which is why Gene wasn’t laughing much. He’d just left his wife for Carlotta Monterey, who took a photo of him sitting on the beach, smiling. But mostly Gene was angry, dispatching furious letters from Villa Marguerite. “I can’t work anymore”, he complained to his lawyer, “Or enjoy any peace of mind. It destroys all my energy, which is wasted in worry, to have the specter of that tabloid scandal hanging over my head like an unexploded bomb.....”

What Gene feared most was that he would become the sequel in the newspapers to Charlie Chaplin’s recent sensational divorce from Lita Grey. “Chaplin’s wife charged him with ruining young girls, with every form of perversion” he wrote, “- and he was guilty as everyone knows. There was every form of dirt to it. But in my case what is there to hide?”

This most spectacular divorce turned Charlie’s hair white, but he was forgiven enough to win an Oscar for “The Circus” at the first Academy Awards. Although Charlie will shortly be in town, he and Gene will not cross. But, fourteen years later, aged 54, Charlie will marry Gene’s daughter Oona, when she is 18. Gene will be so cross that he will never speak to her again, although Oona and Charlie will be happy and have eight children.

More likely to be laughing though are Lee Miller and Man Ray. Lee had just shown up unannounced at Ray’s usual café in Paris, Le Bateau Ivre, looking for photography lessons. Ray tried to brush her off, saying, “I’m leaving for a holiday in Biarritz.”

“So am I,” replied Lee.

Ray had made “Emak Bakia”, with Kikki de Montparnasse in a villa above the beach a few years earlier and you could have seen the place in Carlotta’s photo of Gene, if she’d only used a slightly wider lens.

Paul and Lily Klee might have been laughing too. It has been a great year for him, and he is flying high with his fiftieth birthday celebrated with shows in Dresden, Paris and Berlin. Will Grohmann’s first monograph on Klee has just been published in Paris. A trip he made to Egypt has been inspirational and next year he will be the first living European artist to have a retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. No wonder he looks so healthy, happy and tanned when he’s photographed drinking wine with his friend Wassily Kandinsky in the garden of the café Madrid, just a stone’s throw from the “Ocean House”.

It is at this point that the time traveller wants to call out in warning as if to children, these lines written by Auden ten years later, “I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade;”

And, more, as he insists in the same poem, “The lights must never go out, The music must always play,”

But the lights did go out. And everything was about to change.

Paul will soon be declared a degenerate by the National Socialists and in a few years time the Bauhaus forced to close.

In the aftermath of the great crash the trans-atlantic visitors will stay away. And so the owners of the Itsasoan will be bankrupt. In a little while refugees from Franco’s Spain will fill the hotel and smoke will pour from their cooking fires from chimneys drilled through the roof.

And then the SS will set up their headquarters in the “Getaria”, the other grande hotel of the village.

A freezing brou-atta will have swept away the jasmine and the oleanders and no-one will dance on the roof of the Hotel Itsasoan ever again.

[jesseneufeld]

I Was Determined To Learn What True Human Health Meant

It’s Monday, everyone! And that means another Primal Blueprint Real Life Story from a Mark’s Daily Apple reader. If you have your own success story and would like to share it with me and the Mark’s Daily Apple community please contact me here. I’ll continue to publish these each Monday as long as they keep coming in. Thank you for reading!

Yup, success stories are back! And I’m looking for more. Follow-ups, mid-progress reflections—every story at every stage has the potential to inspire folks out there who are getting started or contemplating a new beginning. Contact me here to share your story. You never know who you’ll impact by doing it. Enjoy, everyone!

I was born, raised, and continue to live in the rural interior of Catalina Island. My roots run deep here as a fourth generation islander. While the island is just 22 miles off the coast of the concrete jungle known as L.A or what I call “The Mainland,” this place feels as if it were a world away. It’s the land time couldn’t command.

Being that this little island is the only place I’ve ever called home, it wasn’t until I was older that I realized just how unique my childhood was compared to most in today’s world.

I am constantly asked by visitors to the island if I ever get “island fever” or have the urge to get over to “the real world.” Honestly though, in my opinion, this place is as real as it gets. I know there are millions of beautiful places around the world, many in which I hope to one day visit, possibly even live. But wherever I go, I do know, that I will be eternally thankful for getting to grow up here on my island home and that I have this place to thank for making me who I am today.

As a kid I was able to grow up slow. I spent my days immersed in some of the best that nature has to offer. Whether I was out hiking the endless trails, running barefoot through the mountains in my backyard or playing in the surf at a beach on the backside of the island, I learned to love, respect, and honor the land and sea around me. Another question I am often asked is “Don’t you get bored living here; there is no mall or movie theater, not much to do.” To which I can honestly reply, “Nope, never!” And in fact it’s quite the opposite. Even when I was young, an all day hike was never out of the ordinary. My brother, sister, and I would spend hours outdoors, letting our imaginations run wild, and only return home to the sound of our mother calling us in as the sun sunk below the horizon. We would come running, usually a bit battered and bruised from the day’s adventures. We would greet our mother with a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand, and often an injured animal in the other, because we were determined to nurse back to health. My mother had an incredible green thumb and grew most all of our produce. Every meal was a home cooked meal and every night we would sit down to dinner around the table our father made and give thanks to the land for the food that it gave us. That also often meant some fresh yellowtail or local venison!

I was young when I came to understand that all things in the world are connected, that the great outdoors was also a great teacher, and that there was beauty and a lesson to be found in everything. The way the fullness of the moon pulls the tides in the ocean.

The way the location of the sunrise and sunset coordinated with the seasons. How the birds danced and feasted on the water before a storm. How animals fasted when they didn’t feel well. I learned to trust my instincts when crossing paths with a herd of buffalo or a coiled snake. I learned to feel the energy of the land.

These childhood adventures and exploration of the land and oceans around me evolved into the lifestyle I live today. This land is my playground, my gym, my sanctum. It has sparked, lit, and has been the fire behind many of my endeavors including my success as an adventure athlete, my love for being active outdoors, appreciation for the ocean, my pursuit of growing my own organic garden, sustainable living, giving back to the community, and learning something new every day. It has taught me that what’s simple is true and that you can live large even with very little, because it’s the little things in life that matter the most. I now teach sustainability, marine biology, and ecology for the USC Wrigley Marine Science and Ecology Center here on the island. I am a holistic health coach and personal trainer on the side. And I still have my everyday adventures as an sponsored athlete.

I found your blog about 8 years back when I was recovering from a serious bought of overtraining and adrenal fatigue due to running 80-100 mile weeks while training to paddle the channel between the island and the mainland (which I’ve done 7 times since), and working in a restaurant 10 hours a day. My body started to shut down (rightfully so), and I was determined to learn everything I could about the human body, holistic nutrition, what fitness really is, and what true human health actually meant. At the time I was also obsessed with reading books on anthropology and studying the indigenous peoples and tribes of far away places. Their ways of life, so interconnected to nature, made me feel like my own craving for being one with nature, wasn’t so abnormal. And of course, like most things about modern societal norms, I just couldn’t trust mainstream advice on nutrition and training.

So, down the unconventional rabbit hole I went and along the way I became a total primal/paleo/real food/lifestyle nerd. I tossed conventional wisdom out the door (I was always a skeptic) and realized that the life I had been living on the island was actually pretty darn “primal” and that I just needed to modify a few things. I always ate what I thought was healthy as I was an natural athlete from a young age and new the foods I ate made me feel great or not so great. That meant lots of homegrown veggies, wild fruits, local fish, venison, and meats. But I did grow up also eating pasta and a few processed foods like Kashi cereal, which I soon ditched. And the fats I was told were bad for me back in middle school health class, I became a big fan of because I discovered that I could perform better on the trail and in the water with them on board. The more I read your blog, the more the stars aligned…it all made so much sense!!!

I no longer run 80 mile weeks, but I still love a good trail run every now and then. If I’m going for long distance, I usually hike in my minimalist shoes instead. I average about 6-8 miles a day just in walking around the island doing daily tasks. I lift heavy things, climb trees, free dive, spearfish, SUP, prone paddle, mountain bike, play pick-up softball in the dirt lot with friends, gather with my people around campfires, follow circadian rhythm (it’s easy out here on the island), and absolutely am loving life! I recently circumnavigated the island on my paddle board with two friends and it was such a fun adventure! We even made it to SurfLine! We used the paddle as a vehicle to talk about plastic in our oceans.

I am all about living life to the fullest and really exploring our human potential, asking constantly “What does it mean to thrive?” and “What does it mean to be human?”. Thanks to the inspiration I receive from the MDA, paleo community, and our ancestors, I feel as though I am able to do just that, and now I share it with others. I coach and put on retreats and events all based around this lifestyle in addition to my work for USC.

I studied nutrition for a long time and I soon realized, it all came down to nature. I studied movement and fitness, and it again, it all came back to nature. Now I teach and study about the environment/ecology/sustainability, and what we can do to make the world a better place, and again it comes back to nature. It’s really very simple. It’s all interconnected and so are we. A part of nature, not separate from it. And we and our planet all have the ability to be healthy, happy, and thriving. So thank you Mark for all that you do! You have always been a bright light guiding the way and I have really looked up to you for years. I lived off the island for a few months in 2016 and worked at Sunlife at Point Dume. It was pretty funny how none of the celebrities caused me to feel star stuck but whenever you or Ben Greenfield would come in, my heart would skip a beat ; ) You are a legend and the legacy you are leaving is a much needed one. Thank you, thank you, thank you! If you ever want to host a PB retreat on Catalina, I’m your girl ; )

All the best from Catalina,

Natalie Adventure Athlete and Health Coach Optimized Health, Wellness, and Fitness https://ift.tt/2LCXGgi

Have a story to share? Email me here. Thanks, everybody, and have a great week.

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[lauramalchowblog]

I Was Determined To Learn What True Human Health Meant

It’s Monday, everyone! And that means another Primal Blueprint Real Life Story from a Mark’s Daily Apple reader. If you have your own success story and would like to share it with me and the Mark’s Daily Apple community please contact me here. I’ll continue to publish these each Monday as long as they keep coming in. Thank you for reading!

Yup, success stories are back! And I’m looking for more. Follow-ups, mid-progress reflections—every story at every stage has the potential to inspire folks out there who are getting started or contemplating a new beginning. Contact me here to share your story. You never know who you’ll impact by doing it. Enjoy, everyone!

I was born, raised, and continue to live in the rural interior of Catalina Island. My roots run deep here as a fourth generation islander. While the island is just 22 miles off the coast of the concrete jungle known as L.A or what I call “The Mainland,” this place feels as if it were a world away. It’s the land time couldn’t command.

Being that this little island is the only place I’ve ever called home, it wasn’t until I was older that I realized just how unique my childhood was compared to most in today’s world.

I am constantly asked by visitors to the island if I ever get “island fever” or have the urge to get over to “the real world.” Honestly though, in my opinion, this place is as real as it gets. I know there are millions of beautiful places around the world, many in which I hope to one day visit, possibly even live. But wherever I go, I do know, that I will be eternally thankful for getting to grow up here on my island home and that I have this place to thank for making me who I am today.

As a kid I was able to grow up slow. I spent my days immersed in some of the best that nature has to offer. Whether I was out hiking the endless trails, running barefoot through the mountains in my backyard or playing in the surf at a beach on the backside of the island, I learned to love, respect, and honor the land and sea around me. Another question I am often asked is “Don’t you get bored living here; there is no mall or movie theater, not much to do.” To which I can honestly reply, “Nope, never!” And in fact it’s quite the opposite. Even when I was young, an all day hike was never out of the ordinary. My brother, sister, and I would spend hours outdoors, letting our imaginations run wild, and only return home to the sound of our mother calling us in as the sun sunk below the horizon. We would come running, usually a bit battered and bruised from the day’s adventures. We would greet our mother with a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand, and often an injured animal in the other, because we were determined to nurse back to health. My mother had an incredible green thumb and grew most all of our produce. Every meal was a home cooked meal and every night we would sit down to dinner around the table our father made and give thanks to the land for the food that it gave us. That also often meant some fresh yellowtail or local venison!

I was young when I came to understand that all things in the world are connected, that the great outdoors was also a great teacher, and that there was beauty and a lesson to be found in everything. The way the fullness of the moon pulls the tides in the ocean.

The way the location of the sunrise and sunset coordinated with the seasons. How the birds danced and feasted on the water before a storm. How animals fasted when they didn’t feel well. I learned to trust my instincts when crossing paths with a herd of buffalo or a coiled snake. I learned to feel the energy of the land.

These childhood adventures and exploration of the land and oceans around me evolved into the lifestyle I live today. This land is my playground, my gym, my sanctum. It has sparked, lit, and has been the fire behind many of my endeavors including my success as an adventure athlete, my love for being active outdoors, appreciation for the ocean, my pursuit of growing my own organic garden, sustainable living, giving back to the community, and learning something new every day. It has taught me that what’s simple is true and that you can live large even with very little, because it’s the little things in life that matter the most. I now teach sustainability, marine biology, and ecology for the USC Wrigley Marine Science and Ecology Center here on the island. I am a holistic health coach and personal trainer on the side. And I still have my everyday adventures as an sponsored athlete.

I found your blog about 8 years back when I was recovering from a serious bought of overtraining and adrenal fatigue due to running 80-100 mile weeks while training to paddle the channel between the island and the mainland (which I’ve done 7 times since), and working in a restaurant 10 hours a day. My body started to shut down (rightfully so), and I was determined to learn everything I could about the human body, holistic nutrition, what fitness really is, and what true human health actually meant. At the time I was also obsessed with reading books on anthropology and studying the indigenous peoples and tribes of far away places. Their ways of life, so interconnected to nature, made me feel like my own craving for being one with nature, wasn’t so abnormal. And of course, like most things about modern societal norms, I just couldn’t trust mainstream advice on nutrition and training.

So, down the unconventional rabbit hole I went and along the way I became a total primal/paleo/real food/lifestyle nerd. I tossed conventional wisdom out the door (I was always a skeptic) and realized that the life I had been living on the island was actually pretty darn “primal” and that I just needed to modify a few things. I always ate what I thought was healthy as I was an natural athlete from a young age and new the foods I ate made me feel great or not so great. That meant lots of homegrown veggies, wild fruits, local fish, venison, and meats. But I did grow up also eating pasta and a few processed foods like Kashi cereal, which I soon ditched. And the fats I was told were bad for me back in middle school health class, I became a big fan of because I discovered that I could perform better on the trail and in the water with them on board. The more I read your blog, the more the stars aligned…it all made so much sense!!!

I no longer run 80 mile weeks, but I still love a good trail run every now and then. If I’m going for long distance, I usually hike in my minimalist shoes instead. I average about 6-8 miles a day just in walking around the island doing daily tasks. I lift heavy things, climb trees, free dive, spearfish, SUP, prone paddle, mountain bike, play pick-up softball in the dirt lot with friends, gather with my people around campfires, follow circadian rhythm (it’s easy out here on the island), and absolutely am loving life! I recently circumnavigated the island on my paddle board with two friends and it was such a fun adventure! We even made it to SurfLine! We used the paddle as a vehicle to talk about plastic in our oceans.

I am all about living life to the fullest and really exploring our human potential, asking constantly “What does it mean to thrive?” and “What does it mean to be human?”. Thanks to the inspiration I receive from the MDA, paleo community, and our ancestors, I feel as though I am able to do just that, and now I share it with others. I coach and put on retreats and events all based around this lifestyle in addition to my work for USC.

I studied nutrition for a long time and I soon realized, it all came down to nature. I studied movement and fitness, and it again, it all came back to nature. Now I teach and study about the environment/ecology/sustainability, and what we can do to make the world a better place, and again it comes back to nature. It’s really very simple. It’s all interconnected and so are we. A part of nature, not separate from it. And we and our planet all have the ability to be healthy, happy, and thriving. So thank you Mark for all that you do! You have always been a bright light guiding the way and I have really looked up to you for years. I lived off the island for a few months in 2016 and worked at Sunlife at Point Dume. It was pretty funny how none of the celebrities caused me to feel star stuck but whenever you or Ben Greenfield would come in, my heart would skip a beat ; ) You are a legend and the legacy you are leaving is a much needed one. Thank you, thank you, thank you! If you ever want to host a PB retreat on Catalina, I’m your girl ; )

All the best from Catalina,

Natalie Adventure Athlete and Health Coach Optimized Health, Wellness, and Fitness https://ift.tt/2LCXGgi

Have a story to share? Email me here. Thanks, everybody, and have a great week.

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[razorblade-eyes]

GGS Spotlight: Hilary Milsome

Name: Hilary Milsome Age: 60 Location: Melbourne, Australia

What does it mean to you to be part of the GGS Community? It’s wonderful to have a safe place to ask questions, share successes, or even vent. These women are wonderfully supportive, and my idea of what “strong” looks like has changed radically since being introduced to such a wide range of views and perspectives.

Strong is sometimes being physically able to lift stuff, sometimes able to keep going in the face of adversity, sometimes being able to support others, and maybe even being strong enough to ask for help when you need it.

In the GGS community, I see all these things and much more. Even though I’m on the opposite side of the world to the majority of the members, I feel like many of them are friends, perhaps one day some of us will meet “in the flesh!”

How long have you been strength training, and how did you get started? I wasn’t sporty as a kid or teenager, always the short “fat” one. But although I have been a gym member on and off for the last 30 years, mainly going to classes, no one had ever managed to inspire me to strength train. Then, eight years ago, I “accidentally” took out a gym membership that came with three included personal training sessions (I went along for a sales pitch with no intention of joining). I was 52 and I described myself to friends and the sales guy as “old and slow.”

The personal trainer I was assigned was a young woman in her early 20s. Her compassion, empathy, support, caring, and encouragement set me on a wonderful path. I lost 18 kgs and found strength and mobility for the first time in my life.

But more than that, she gave me the belief that my body was capable of pretty much anything I put my mind to if I was prepared to work at it.

 Favorite lift: Deadlifts every time (although I do love a bit of kettlebell work).

Most memorable PR: It’s not my current PR, but in my first year of strength training, my lovely trainer told me that when she saw me walk onto the gym floor she told another trainer I was going deadlift 50 kgs for the first time that day, the other trainer said “Who? Her? But she’s tiny!”

I was shocked that someone else thought it was a big achievement for me because I felt quite ordinary. I lifted that 50 kgs, and I’ve never forgotten the amazing feeling of success and I hold that memory close to remind me not to underestimate myself.

Top 5 songs on your training playlist: I have eclectic music taste, mostly old school, so anything by Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Living End, Jethro Tull, Nirvana, Michael Jackson, and Cream are great. But I’m currently loving lots of Muse (the Drones album in particular) and P!nk.

Most memorable compliment you’ve received lately: One of my own personal training clients recently Facebook posted a photo of our small group session with the post “Hilary understands us” — that was pretty awesome.

Most recent compliment you gave someone else: I try all the time to let my personal training clients know that I love how hard they are working and the way they are challenging themselves to try new movements and new weights.

What do you do?  I’ve been a self-employed bookkeeper for 18 years, which I have loved. But I qualified as a personal trainer two years ago and am slowly transitioning to work more as a trainer from my home studio, and doing less bookkeeping.

My passion is to help others discover the positive benefits of strength training, no matter what their physical starting point, age, or health conditions.

What else do you do? I love spending time with my family, particularly my young grandkids (aged 2 & 4). They never fail to make me smile and warm my heart with the best hugs. Growing my own fruit & vegetables is very rewarding as well as being a great way to relax. I enjoy travel, both Australian & overseas, New Zealand is a favorite destination.

I also love to study and I’m currently studying GGS-1 which is fabulous. My original personal trainer qualifications didn’t go deeply enough into many aspects of being a trainer so I was excited when I saw the GGS-1 certificate offered and couldn’t wait to sign up. I haven’t been disappointed.

I love the fact that the first priority in the course addresses issues and attitudes that affect women in the gym and in life. I’ve finished the second part on nutrition and again it explores areas that weren’t even mentioned in my initial personal trainer course. I’ve started the section on exercise now and I love turning those pages or watching those videos — there’s always something new to learn.

Your next training goal: My current personal trainer will be moving on to another career sometime soon, so my goal will be to self-train for the first time in my life. To start with, just being consistent and challenging myself will be the goal, more specific goals might come later!

Favorite way to treat yourself: Nothing I like better than taking time to sit in the garden on a lovely day, with a good book and no thought of “I should be doing…”

Favorite quote: There has to be more than one:

“Comparison is the thief of joy.” — Theodore Roosevelt

“Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right.” — Henry Ford

“If not now… when?”

Favorite book: In non-fiction, The Happiness Trap by Russ Harris was life-changing for me. It helped me turn around a bout of anxiety that had been causing me problems for a few years and it gave me a new attitude to acceptance of who I am and where I’m at.

In fiction, I love to read so there are many. Dystopian books like The Handmaid’s Tale, 1984, and Brave New World are high on the list. And Australian novel Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey blew me away recently.

What inspires and motivates you? I’m motivated by all the fabulous strong women I have been meeting in person and online since becoming involved in strength training and since joining GGS. They show me that so much is possible and there are so many new things to try.

I’m inspired by anyone who is committed to whatever they are doing, working hard and moving towards their goals.

And I’ve been close to family and quite a number of friends who have experienced life-changing illness, and I’m inspired by how they just get on with their life no matter what they have to deal with.

For what are you most grateful? I have a wonderful family and friends who support and encourage me no matter what stage of my life I’m at. I am blessed to be able to share so much of my young grandchildren’s lives; it’s a privilege that not all grandparents are offered.

I’m also very grateful for a number of fabulous young women who have changed my life in many wonderful ways. Among them are my first trainer eight years ago who inspired me to honor and trust my body, my current trainer who has generously supported me as I develop my own skills as a personal trainer, and Molly Galbraith (who I met at the recent Women’s Fitness Summit in Melbourne) who has opened my eyes to so many positive and inclusive attitudes to women in particular, that I hadn’t encountered before.

And last, but certainly not least, I turned 60 last year and I’m grateful that at my stage of life I have all that I need to live a comfortable life, being able to make choices to do the things I enjoy.

Of what life accomplishment do you feel most proud? I am proud that I didn’t just give in to feeling “old and slow” and stay on the couch, which would have been the easy option.

I hope I’m setting a good example for people around me, that it’s never too late to start looking after yourself both physically and mentally, and that it’s important to care for yourself before you can really care for others.

Tell us about a time when you overcame fear or self-doubt. Definitely making the decision to study to be a personal trainer and then taking on clients was a big step for me. It was a struggle for me to believe that I had something to offer others. I’m not some lean, young marathon runner or competition weight lifter so I thought people would think “What does she know?”

But it seems that my clients are reassured that I understand where they are coming from. I love that I can work to motivate others and teach them that we can all be strong and healthy to the best of our ability and that it can look different for each of us.

How has lifting weights changed your life? I feel strong and powerful, I can do so much more than I ever could before, and I love that I can play with and look after my grandkids without thinking about how I’ll cope running after them. I don’t groan when I get up off the couch or get out of bed in the morning (except for DOMS of course — lots of groaning then).

I’m reminded of how much I’ve gained when I see other people struggling to get up and down off the floor, having difficulty getting out of cars or chairs, or sitting on the sidelines instead of playing games with their kids or grandkids.

What’s the coolest “side effect” you’ve experienced from strength training? Oh goodness, so many great “side effects.” Believing that being strong will help me move into this later phase of my life with the best health I can hope for, and seeing my body positively for all it can do. Oh yeah, and being able to cross the monkey bars in one go!

What do you want to say to other women who might be nervous or hesitant about strength training? Give it a go. Find someone to help you get started, a person who really listens to you, helps you identify your goals, and is encouraging and supportive. Maybe find a small boutique gym, or a good personal trainer in a big gym, where you can have some private sessions to learn technique. If you feel that you know what you are doing, it can make all the difference when you head into the gym on your own. And don’t settle for a trainer who doesn’t treat you with respect or give you 100 percent of their attention in every session.

 You can connect with Hilary and find out more about her on Facebook.

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[digital-arts-etc]

This Artist's Hanging Gardens Find Beauty In Decay

By Isabel Lloyd On 8/15/16

Hanging flowers: “The Beauty of Decay” at Chandran Gallery, San Franciso, earlier this summer.

One summer, when the British installation artist Rebecca Louise Law was not quite a teenager, her father—then an assistant head gardener at a stately home in Cambridgeshire, England, and a man who understood the business of growing flowers en masse—insisted that his whole family bus out to one of the flat, Fenland fields near the village where they lived. It must have been late June, early July at most, because the field was brimful with the bright, airy faces of ox-eye daisies.

“I didn’t care,” says Law, a serene, fair-complexioned 35-year-old with artfully slipshod hair, as she sits in the back room of her tiny gallery in east London. “I was at the age where you’re seeing boys, and I didn’t care at all about gardening, or flowers.” While her father and younger sister were taking photos of the long-legged daisies, and her mother was drawing the daisies (it was an artistic family), Law thunked down in the middle of the field in a full-on adolescent sulk.

And then something happened. “I was just sitting there, with all these flowers at head height around me, and I couldn’t see my family. And I thought, Oh my goodness, this is amazing. I knew from my father that the field would only be like this for one or two days; it was only now that it was that strong, and I thought, How can I re-create this? How do I share it?”

Law has been sharing some of the long-brewed results of that moment at her most recent exhibit, “The Beauty of Decay” at the Chandran Gallery in San Francisco, where visitors weaved between a rain of gleaming copper wires that ran from floor to ceiling, the wires strung with the heads of 8,000 fresh gerberas, roses and statice. She has been making three-dimensional works from flowers since 2003, buying them fresh in bulk and then paying assistants to thread the individual flower heads onto wire. Often, as at the San Francisco show, she suspends the flower-filled wires from the ceiling, creating an effect that can be either tender and ethereal or, if the wires are packed closer together, disconcertingly dense, as if the world has flipped and you’re walking beneath an inverted meadow. The flowers then slowly dry and die, fading from what she calls their “poppy” reds, oranges and yellows into shades of cream, tan and pale rose, the emphasis of the piece moving gently from color to form, from vivid, superficial life to the more solid structure below: the skull beneath the skin.

Once the installation is over, the flowers are taken off their wires and stored in acid-free tissue, ready to be used again. “Absolutely nothing is wasted,” Law says. “It all goes into my archive.”

Works from this archive will make up her next show, a comprehensive, six-week presentation of existing pieces—along with a new installation made of ”all the flowers I’ve ever collected”—starting August 25 at the Broadway gallery in Letchworth Garden City in southeast England. In December, an installation she made for Art Basel will move to Art Basel Miami, and early in 2017 she will be one of seven international artists exhibiting across Denmark as part of the city of Aarhus’s program as the EU’s European Capital of Culture for 2017. Law’s flowers have bloomed in shows at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, Times Square in New York, and—her biggest venture yet—in a semipermanent installation of 100,000 flowers in the roof of a shopping mall in Melbourne, Australia. “It’s intended to last for 10 years,” she says. ”Though if some massive spider takes up residence in it—well, we’ll have to see.”

Law’s studio is also her home: two floors above a storefront in a row of early-Victorian conversions made up equally of galleries, tony vintage-clothing stores and 24-hour mini-marts. (And guess what? It’s on the same road as London’s most famous weekly flower market; her husband buys her a bunch every Sunday—“But the deal is, he has to arrange them.”) The façade is brick, painted black to better show off the colors in the window, which in early August was filled with the fat cerulean heads of inverted hydrangeas.

Inside, the gallery walls display editions from a series Law worked on with the photographer Tom Hartford, re-creations of Dutch Golden Age still lifes by Jan Davidsz. de Heem, Ambrosius Bosschaert and Balthasar van der Ast, but with subtle subversions, such as a modern-dressed figurine peering up into the flowers. At the rear of the studio, a 3-foot plaster statuette of Christ suffering the little children is draped with garlands of minute, pinkish-white gypsophila interspersed with the iridescent green bodies of beetles. The dead insects are a typical Law move, a dainty, sly reminder that when it comes to the works of man, mortality always gets the upper hand. Still, the works of man—or rather, women—are much in evidence: At the table that almost fills the center of the room, four women, one wearing a floor-length caftan with a brightly embroidered hem, are stringing frilly orange helichrysum and laying each wire into long cardboard boxes marked “Nike”—part of a commission for the sportswear brand.

Nike is a little late to the party. The earliest adopters of Law’s work were high-end fashion houses—fashion loves flowers, nature’s own luxury brand—and a breakthrough moment came in 2011 when Hermès commissioned Law to fill the glass roof of the Floral Hall at London’s Royal Opera House. (If you have any illusions about how big brands sniff out new talent, abandon them now: They searched for “art with flowers” online.) This was eight years after Law had used flowers for the first time, in a “hideous” piece she made at the end of her third year studying fine art at Newcastle University. “I was trying to paint in 3-D. I had used food, sweets, wool, and some flowers in amongst it all,” she says. “And I actually didn’t even think of them as flowers. I was just trying to find any kind of materials I could use as my palette.”

Frustrated, she went home for the summer, where her dad’s nursery beds were full of “huge, stunning, colorful dahlias. I asked, ‘What do you think about these drying? Do you think they’ll dry well?’ And he said, ‘Yes! Of course they will, and they’ll be brilliant!’ So I took a whole carload back to university that September.”

Once there, she spent a week hanging the dahlia heads on fishing line, in “an exact square, very precise,” from the ceiling of the university’s installation space. “It felt like I was creating [a] painting in the air. Then when I saw the interaction between the viewer and the work, I realized this was beyond color. My obsession with color suddenly became not the most important thing. Instead, it was about the interaction between human beings and nature, and, too, the transformation of the flowers, which dried into a whole other material.” It might have taken a while, but that field in the Fens had worked its way out.

Law’s father was not just responsible for giving her early inspiration and materials; he also introduced her to an art collection that continues to inspire her: the Golden Age still lifes at Cambridge’s Anglesey Abbey, the former priory where he worked. From the beginning, Law was fascinated by how these paintings “capture time”—by which she seems to mean arrest it as well as portray it. They are highly artificial constructs, almost the diametric opposite of the Van Gogh way of stuffing flowers in a vase and then painting them, fast and bright, there and then. The combination of flowers and fruit they show was aseasonal, outside time, and Law knows from trying to reconstruct it that “the balance is impossible—the flowers defy gravity.”

Those 17th-century paintings also had a job to do: advertising new varieties of flowers from Dutch growers. Today, Law buys much of her raw materials from the Dutch, often homing in on whichever variety might have been over-grown that year in order to reduce her environmental footprint: The Dutch glasshouses grow at such scale that, even when she was installing in Melbourne, there was a moment when she thought it might be greener to get her materials from Amsterdam. In the end, though, local growers won the day, and all 150,000 flower heads were antipodean.

About 90 percent of Law’s work is large-scale work for public consumption, but her gallery sells limited, color-photograph editions at about £1,500 ($1,950) for a print. She also accepts private commissions, installing pieces in people’s homes for between £3,000 ($3,900) and £8,000 ($10,400). No one has yet complained when the flower sculpture that cost thousands begins to die, seeming to accept Law’s contention that the fading is a way of showing flowers not as “purely ephemeral objects but as a beautiful sculptural material for you to enjoy for a lifetime.” According to Law, visitors to the Chandran have certainly enjoyed it: “People were walking through and getting tangled up in the flowers, and going, ‘Aaahh!’”

She dreams of spreading the joy even further, filling the Turbine Hall at London’s Tate Modern with an upside-down meadow made of flowers donated by the public from people’s gardens. You imagine that vast space filled with people, sighing with pleasure, modern Marvells ensnared by flowers. Wouldn’t that teenager, sitting awestruck in a field, be delighted?

http://www.newsweek.com/2016/08/26/rebecca-louise-law-flower-installations-490502.html

[naughtysenior17-blog]

Fun on the job...not!

One would think that working in the gift shop of a resort hotel in beautiful sunny Florida would be fun. That’s what I thought when I accepted the position as a “retail associate” in a bustling oceanfront establishment, just prior to “season.” I was promised a respectable store discount, a cut on room rates at the chain’s gazillion hotels and motels worldwide, and the “honor” of working for a Fortune 500 company. Of course, health benefits and profit sharing would be provided after my 90-day trial period.

Boy, was I deluded! The best part of the entire six-weeks I spent schlepping stuffed plushy alligators and cheap souvenirs from the hidden store rooms located on various floors of the hotel, and working the cash register, was the orientation and training sessions.

I showed up for the first of several mandated training blocks on-time and ready to drink the company Kool-Aid. Yes, it was boring, sometimes repetitive, and not so informational, but the complimentary food made up for it.  There were miniature pastries, sliced fruit and dark roast coffee for breakfast; a full-spread for lunch at one of establishments’ restaurants, and an afternoon snack complete with root beer floats. So what if I had to wear a polyester shirt and serviceable shoes, walk a mile from the designated parking lot to the underground entrance for “associates” and work with a bunch of women who told me daily how many years they had devoted to the hotel? I was going to eat well and get hotel discounts!

I tried to play along, thanking my designated trainer, an eight-year hotel employee (who spent most of her work shift restocking the candy counter and t-shirt display), for showing me the ropes. When I wore a black sweater that the head honcho lady didn’t approve of, I removed it without comment. I wanted to play well with others, something that hasn’t come easy to me in my decades in the workforce. The first weekend I encountered Mabel, a grey-haired lady of questionable age, somewhere over 80. I complimented her on her choice of black oxfords, and upon return from her lunch break, queried her on the cafeteria selections du jour. “I don’t eat lunch,” she hissed back. So what did she do on her 30 minute break? Sit on the commode waiting for her morning prune juice to kick-in, or hide behind the dumpster smoking Newports? I never found out.

Another co-worker and I shared some common ground; we were both from the Great Garden State of New Jersey! Susan was funny, another company long-termer and happy to demonstrate the many functions of the touch-screen cash register which I instantly saw as my enemy. Words are my friend; numbers are not. But I was game. After all, I HAD to learn how to charge purchases to the room, credit card, local club affiliation, and apply the correct discount for special guests. I poked my index finger ad nauseum at the damn computer screen non-stop with a frozen smile on my face. Of course, I messed up, and after a few elaborate corrections requiring reams of cash register tape, I was reminded WHERE I was working and instructed to “up my game.”

“So, it’s a big deal if I hit the wrong space for band- aids or crackers even if the price is correct?” I asked innocently. You would have thought I declared that Armageddon was scheduled to begin in five minutes.  “Learn it, Pat. This is not rocket science!” I was told by my semi-friend from NJ. “Alright!” I countered with a high-five that was not returned. “Oh, boy,” I thought, “this is not progressing as planned.”

Then one day, one of the many mini-managers named Vera presented me with a five-page print-out of instructions on how to close out the cash drawer at the end of my shift. “Read it and use it!” she directed. “It should not take 45 minutes every day to tally up your sales and cash.”  

“Ha, ha,” I joked good-naturedly. “It’s going to take me 45 minutes just to read this!” One look at Vera’s face and I immediately regretted my remark. “Ummm, may I go to dinner now? It’s 5:30 and Cindy is back, plus I need to run to my car….” “Go!” Vera glared. I grabbed my purse, my hotel ID, and booked it down the promenade to the nearest bank of elevators. It was protocol to allow guests on the lift first, and of course I was competing with a bunch of conventioneers ready for happy hour, so after a 10 minute session of smiling and “after yous,” I boarded, punched BG (below ground) and exited next to the associates’ time clock station and ladies rest room. The first two swipes of my time card and index-finger ID’s failed to register, but the third time was the charm. Next stop, powder room, always a hub of activity. That’s when I spotted “cook lady.” From day one, I encountered her at the sink, and from every single day after that, there she was, adjusting her back brace and zipping up her pants. She spoke loudly in a kind-of voodoo language I didn’t understand, so I always just smiled and said hi. Apparently, this was not the correct greeting, because she always shook her head at me and countered with a few incomprehensible sentences. That’s when I would wave and take my leave. But one day, I thought I heard her say, “I keeyu!” Was that like bonjour or buenos dias?” I smiled and waved. Then it hit me. “I kill you!” Really? Cook lady just stood and stared, wagging her fingers at me. I am not one to take unnecessary chances, so I booked it out of the bathroom, clutching a paper towel in my dripping wet hands. I did not look back until I was safely inside the cafeteria, scanning the daily menu. I never visited that rest tomb (room) again. Instead I traveled to the north side of the hotel where there was a single stall used only by the concierge.

While a $2 meal complete with frozen yoghurt was a great deal, I was beginning to tire of the limited choices. This was definitely not the same food as served in the hotel’s on-site eateries. I opted for the chicken and rice, succotash and vanilla frozen yoghurt plus a coffee to keep me perking along until 9 pm. I found a seat facing the TV screen broadcasting CNN and began eating. I rated the chicken a 7 out of 10, the rice a 5 and the succotash a big fat 0. The frozen yoghurt got a consistent 10. Presidential primary candidates blabbed on, my coffee was cold and it was time for me to begin the trek back to the cash register. I dumped my plates and tray and re-clocked-in for the evening shift.

The customer flow was predictable and not too demanding. I rang up toothbrushes, disposable razors, candy bars and an occasional dolphin refrigerator magnet or manatee bottle opener. A couple of families breezed through killing time on the way to their rooms to allow the kids an opportunity to squeeze the plastic oinky pigs, empty the bin of sand pails and shovels and generally create a 15-minute store clean-up. Finally, it was time to lock the door and begin the final tally of the day. I counted the bills and coins, added up the discounts, separated the credit card slips by company and began to calculate the day’s net. Filling out the final report, I discovered I was $2.05 short. My trusty trainer who never, ever made an error directed me to recount the bills and coins. I came up with the same amount.  She sighed deeply, uttered something in Spanish and told me to pack it up. I had failed again. Although we left the store together, she was 10 steps ahead of me as I lagged behind balancing the cash drawer, my insulated snack bag, water bottle, handbag and flip flops.

She generously held the elevator door for me and we headed down to ground zero to stash our cash, keys and clock-out. I called out good night as my boot camp sergeant opened the passenger door of her ride home. I waited until I was flip-flop ready before beginning my hike to the near-empty parking lot clearly outside the city limits. Now I could enjoy my 40 minute drive home on that godforsaken two-lane road they call a highway and catch some sleep before starting my 10 am shift the next day.

I retraced my steps just eight hours later and tried to be a beacon of light and inspiration as I entered the dark world of retail hell. Loaded down with the cash drawer, ringlet of keys, ID cards, shoes, insulated snack sack, handbag and water bottle, I greeted my coworker for the morning, Alice, who immediately dashed out the door to use the restroom. I lined up the oinky pigs, signed into the cash register and began checking out customers who had assembled their beach provisions on the counter. Sunscreen SPF 5 (they will be back in for the Aloe Vera burn gel by 2 pm), bottled water, snack crackers, pool toys, sunglasses and maybe a pack of cigarettes was tossed into the plastic sacks. “That will be $182, sir,” I smiled. Ah, to be on vacation with an American Express Card and not a worry in the world, I thought, smirking. Wait until they get home to Michigan and open the bill.

From behind the t-shirt display, I heard a voice ask, “Did you bring the T-shirts down from storage?” I glanced past the stuffed dolphins and mermaids to see one of my mini-managers, Vera, eyeing me with her usual exasperation. “I brought them down, but I’m not sure where…” “Yes or no,” she queried. “Yes,” I replied. That verbal exchange was the beginning of the end of my day. When I missed a discount, I tried to explain to Vera what the amount was and was told, “Stop!” which was interpreted by the customer and me as “shut the f*%$ up!” “That’s ok, I don’t really need a discount,” the customer told Vera. I simply rolled my eyes. It was becoming clear to me that nothing I could do in this establishment was going to be good enough. The verbal volleys between Vera and me continued until lunch time and I had turned from aggravated to just plain angry. Since when should I be scolded like a two-year-old? In the course of the morning I had failed to arrange the t-shirts by color, left a sheaf of orders within sight of a customer, left a gaping hole in the breath mint display and said hello, instead of good morning on the telephone. Was I ever a loser! At lunch time, Vera and the head honcho manager were conferring in the back room where I needed to grab my purse. I decided to speak up. “May I have a word with you both,” I asked politely. “What is it?” head honcho wanted to know. I looked straight at Vera and said, “Why are you so rude to me?” She look surprised, then launched into this speech on how she didn’t have time for me to ramble on; complained about how long it  took me to cash out and blah, blah, blah. I finally broke in, “You know what? This is not a good fit for me. I’m done!” “You mean now? You’re quitting now?” head honcho asked incredulously. “Yup, that’s it. Good afternoon ladies.” I picked up my purse, removed my ID tag, handed over my ID cards and keys and left via the hotel’s front entrance. I never felt more satisfied in my life, or hungrier. After a 15-minute stroll to my car, I headed down the road to the 7-Eleven for a tall Bud Light and a Big Dog. It sure beat the sucky succotash in the cafeteria! I discovered later that I made gift store history. I am only the second person in 10 years to leave before the 90 day trial period concluded. Yeah, me. I am so proud!

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