#jae plus echo plus jazz all three of you went for halcyon

[emeraldgreaves]

HI hihihihi halcyon for beloved Moira? <3

absolutely 💕 let’s goooo

—

halcyon (adj.) - denoting a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful.

~970 words, no plot just food

The sun sets on Westwood, turning the prairie to amber and sending rays of light through Grandmama’s crystal punch bowl in the cabinet. The one “for special occasions,” her mother had said.

“Birthdays are special occasions,” said her father, and stole another piece of carrot from the serving dish.

Today must be a one such day, because years later Triba Lari takes it down and wipes it out with a gingham cloth. “Fetch me some snow, Moira,” she says, and Moira hurries to comply, grabbing the tin bucket by the door that holds flowers in the summer. The freezing metal stings her fingers as she scoops up the cleanest patch she can find and rushes back into the kitchen, already full of women chattering as pans sizzle on every surface.

A million different smells float through the kitchen—butter and dill for the crisp golden potatoes ladled into a dish, a soft dome of cornbread steaming in a skillet, a roast crackling in the oven. A squat, round cake sits patiently in the icebox with the first of the strawberry preserves between its layers—Miss Corinne had watched the oven like a hawk yesterday, oblivious to her and Zori sneaking spoonfuls of jam behind her back.

Her father hovers uncertainly in the doorway. The hesitation is almost comical on a man his size, but he’s in charge of every piece of Westwood except for the space in this room. Triba Lari scoops in some snow and pours over something red and sweet-smelling, then takes pity on Yorick and passes him the punch bowl before loading up Moira with the potatoes and shooing them both out of the kitchen.

The mayor’s house is the only one large enough for a separate dining area. She spent all afternoon scrubbing this room before company came, dusting the baseboards and wiping down the windows out of some vague sense of obligation to the way her mother used to keep it. Someone’s spread the table with their second-best blue tablecloth, and wooden chairs from the neighbors’ house crowd at the corners. A couple of crates lie stacked by the door—supplies for her Flower Day next week, things too fragile to stay in the shed.

Golden light seeps through the windows, making the creamy white porcelain gleam. Her father follows her to the empty place in the table, setting the bowl between the empty gravy boat and a dish of orange sweet potatoes with sage and onion. Away from the bustle of the kitchen, the silence seems to settle back into place, a heavy crate sinking to the bottom of a pond.

“She used this at our wedding,” Yorick says suddenly. “Your grandma, she gave it to us. Said it was traditional.”

He’s still staring down at the punch bowl, never at her, like he’s afraid some part of Elinor will look back. But an opening’s an opening, and she tries to think of something to ask.

A peak of laughter breaks it like glass before Zori comes tearing in, flour in xeir coppery hair. “Sorry,” xe gasps, hands braced on their knees. “Turns out I can’t steal a taste after all.”

They all crowd round the table shortly afterwards. The room fills with laughter as the sun disappears, leaving a comforting quilt of blackness beyond the blue curtains. Zori sits next to her through dinner, chatting brightly about skating on the creek as Tekrom Galen sneaks another helping of stewed apples to her right. Someone proposes a toast to surviving another year. The punch must be spiked, because they grow increasingly more elaborate—a toast to Yorick, for leading their little town, to the Autarch in faraway Haven, to the moon for rising so beautifully full.

Zori’s father Thom catches the two of them just as the plates are being cleared. “You kids want to try something?” he says, grinning with the mischief of a man half his age. Brimming with the confidence of nearly being trusted adults, they follow him eagerly to the shed.

The fireworks for Wintersun had come on the caravan with the rest of her Flower Day decorations, but her Uncle Thom had winked and said they’d better test them, just to be sure. The first singing candle goes flying in an arc across the plain; the second sputters and fails to light, but the third soars high into the air, whistling merrily as it shoots out of sight. The noise draws the rest of the adults out onto the porch, the women in their colorful shawls and men in their greatcoats. Someone fetches the cake and passes around slices.

She and Zori are each handed a sparkler and promptly go tearing off together through the tall grasses behind the house, golden light hissing and spitting in their hands. It’s like holding a shooting star. She lifts it and trails it through the air, dreaming for a brief moment of flying like one of the candles, floating untethered among the constellations.

“Someday, I’m going to be a pilot,” says Zori.

“Only if you take me,” says Moira. “Someone’s got to keep you on course.”

Xe grins. “Perfect. I’ll fly, you navigate.”

“Shake on it.” And after one complicated spit-handshake, the pact is sealed.

They duel with the sparklers until their weapons finally fizzle out, leaving them to trudge home in their heavy boots and collapse on the doorstep. Far above them, the last few fireworks glitter against the first crackles of winter frost. Her father passes them the last slice of cake, patting her briefly on the shoulder before going to double-check the shed.

Later that night, watching the stars through her bedroom window, she counts them one by one, safe in the knowledge they’ll always be there for her.