#though I've written this for four months in hope of an event and it took an hours of research and deleted pages

[pistatsia]

[lookingfts]

Talking about the fics I've written but not shared inspired me to go through my Unfinished Fics folder. Some of these are drabbles that I never posted, some of them are snippets of fics I never finished (and likely will never finish), but I'm going to share them today!

The first one is a fic where Kate is a cafe owner and Anthony plays at her open mic nights. I only really wrote the first scene (using The Night We Met before I used it in Sugar, lol.)

“Was this a stupid idea? Didi, am I actually an idiot?”

Kate rolled her eyes at Edwina’s theatrics as she wiped down the milk frother with a worn rag. “Of course not. It’ll go great, okay?”

She genuinely had no idea whether her idea would flop or not, but Kate wasn’t going to let on. She’d been trying to get Edwina to be more involved in the shop for months, and this was the first thing her sister had seemed genuinely excited about, even designing flyers and promoting the event online.

And if it did flop – if no one performed, or everyone was a talentless hack – it would be awkward but amusing, and they would never do it again. Kate hoped that wouldn’t be the case, of course, because new events had real potential to help their business, and she hated to picture the disappointment on Edwina’s face. Failure might build character, but Kate wasn’t quite ready to expose her sister to the harsh realities of the world so soon. Within those four walls, at least, she wanted to keep it at bay a little longer.

Kate felt Edwina’s anxiety rubbing off on her and waved her hand in the general direction of the tables. “We still have an hour. Go clean something and work off your nervous energy.”

Eddie bounced off to do just that as Kate stifled a yawn against her wrist. It had been a slower day, the foot traffic diminished by a steady drizzle of rain, which had fortunately stopped thirty minutes ago. They normally closed at eight but were staying open until ten, ready with decaf and homemade pastries delivered by Sophie that afternoon.

Even though mornings were their busiest time, Kate had always liked the atmosphere of the shop after dark. The aging brick walls and overstuffed leather chairs felt even more homey in the dim glow of the string lights crisscrossing the wooden rafters. During the day, her patrons were grabbing coffee or tea in a rush to somewhere else or camping out for the day to work anywhere but their cramped flats. At night, people were reading – or attempting to write – books. Chatting nervously on first dates. Business was slower, but Kate didn’t mind when the world slowed down a bit too.

Gradually, people started to filter in and take their seats, the sign-up sheet filling with names. Edwina seemed to relax at that and came back behind the counter to help Kate with the incoming orders. She spotted a few regulars, but was pleased to notice new faces as well.

“Hi, erm – do you still have spots for the open mic night?”

Kate nodded, pointing to the sheet without looking up. “Add your name there, everyone is performing in the order they signed up. The show starts in twenty minutes, would you like to order something?”

“Okay. Thanks. Espresso?”

“Sure, do you want-.” Kate’s sentence cut off abruptly as she finally glanced up, her mind going momentarily blank. Mr. Espresso was – striking, to say the least. He had a guitar case slung over his dark grey t-shirt, curly brown hair that swooped across his forehead in that way that seemed incidental but probably took quite a bit of effort, a jaw that could cut glass and dark eyes that were watching her so shrewdly that it was mildly disconcerting. “Uh, a pastry or something?”

“No, thank you.” He tugged his card out of his wallet and tapped it against the reader as Kate mentally chided herself. Since when was she into guitar boys? Ugh.

Fortunately, the odds were good that the spell would be broken the second he got on stage and broke out a mediocre cover of the white-man staple Wonderwall.

He waited by the counter as she quickly made his espresso, purposefully limiting eye contact with him lest she horribly embarrass herself again. Kate slid his cup across the faux marble surface, telling herself that she was just being polite as she muttered, “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” He took his coffee and found a seat near the corner. Kate allowed herself to indulge in one last glance before she was swept up in a new wave of last-minute attendees.

The crowd settled as Edwina directed the first performer onto the little platform they’d set up as a stage, with sound equipment rented from the music store down the street. Kate had counted sixteen sign-ups on the sheet, more than she was anticipating. They were, to her utter relief, mostly good. Two people, one man and one woman, performed five-minute standup sets about their spouses, only to reveal at the end, to much applause and laughter, that they were married to each other. Three read poems; their own, she thought, though Kate wasn’t familiar enough with poetry to know for sure. There were plenty of musicians, of course, a violinist and the typical singer-songwriters with varying degrees of vocal talent. One person did magic tricks. Edwina beamed through the whole thing.

“Please welcome Anthony Bridgerton!” Eddie said into the microphone after the magician had done his grand finale with a disappearing coin.

Mr. Espresso – Anthony, apparently – positioned himself on the wooden stool on stage and checked his guitar. The audience cheered and he grinned shyly. “Thank you. I don’t perform that often, so forgive me if my nerves get the best of me.”

Kate didn’t know if she bought the whole nervous act from a man with that bone structure, but it was clearly working. A redhead in the front looked like she might throw her bra on stage, and he hadn’t even started singing yet. Kate noticed that he had his guitar case closed, a rarity among the other starving artists who had kindly requested tips.

“This song is from Lord Huron, it’s called The Night We Met.” Anthony took a deep breath and Kate was lost from the first note.

I am not the only traveler Who has not repaid his debt I've been searching for a trail to follow again Take me back to the night we met

It was a lovely song, one Kate didn’t know but was certain she would listen to again. Anthony’s voice was good, soft and deep, a little raspy in the way Kate usually liked. But it was the emotion he was spilling into the lyrics that captured her attention. She was almost certain that someone’s ghost lived behind every word.

And then I can tell myself What the hell I'm supposed to do And then I can tell myself Not to ride along with you

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met

He looked up, his gaze locking with hers. Kate’s breathing hitched roughly in her chest. Those eyes that had been watching her too carefully before, dissecting and analyzing her, it had seemed, were downright devastating now. She found herself unable to move, pinned in place by the heartbreak that lanced his voice and traveled along the sharp contours of his face, triggering something in her stomach that Kate couldn’t recall feeling before.

When the night was full of terrors And your eyes were filled with tears When you had not touched me yet Oh, take me back to the night we met

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met

He reached the final chords and the song faded out. The fervent clapping, interspersed with a few whistles, snapped Kate out of her trance and she jerked back as if she’d been burned. Anthony wasn’t looking at her any longer, smiling down at his new, primarily female fans in the front row, and – oh.

She was really falling victim to the musician cliché, wasn’t she? He’d probably learned guitar to pick up women, not that Kate thought he had any problem with that to begin with, and she was just one of the many women in the crowd who had gotten caught up in his magnetism. Truly pathetic, honestly. It wasn’t often that Kate allowed herself to be swept away like that.

It was natural, of course. Musicians had an inherently sexy quality about them, and Kate had not exactly been drowning in male attention as of late. He might have a real shot at being successful, if he could win over even a card-carrying cynic like her.

Edwina announced the next act, and Kate got back to work, willing her heartbeat to settle.

[only-lonely-stars]

10, 17, 23!!!!!!

(Ask game here!) Thanks for the ask Fabro! :D

10. what is the longest amount of time you’ve let a draft rest before you finished it?

You know, I've never paid too much attention to that, funnily enough! Usually when I write a story, I post pretty regularly as I draft. If rewriting a very old fic which I posted and then took down counts, then four years (The Gift of New Life). Otherwise, probably no more than about 3 months (Hair As Gold As Straw).

17. talk about your writing and editing process

Oh this is a fun one! I may as well do a little step-by-step rundown here.

Come up with an idea. If I know I want to draft it immediately, I start right then and there. Usually the inspiration is pretty strong, and sometimes it can be incredibly visual (though music is also very important for my process). If I don't want to write it immediately, it goes in a document I keep just for ideas I haven't written yet.

Write an outline. I've ranged from incredibly detailed (and therefore useless) to a couple of bullet points. At this step, I might also record voice memos, as talking about my ideas sometimes helps me process them.

Start drafting. I usually draft in chapters if it's not a oneshot, so I might end up moving around where chapters start and end as I edit. Usually I have a major event I want to happen during that chapter, and everything else revolves around it.

Edit, draft, proofread and edit. I know people say not to edit what you've already written, but for me, editing helps me re-engage after I've put it down for a bit. Having an outline usually means that I don't need to do very many large-scale edits (though not always).

Post before I can get too self-conscious about the quality of my work. When I'm excited that's not usually an issue, but I will always find something to nitpick. The antidote to unhelpful critique, I've found, is to ignore it!

When I'm writing, I usually want music to listen to. I stick to music I already know, as words don't usually bother me. For big projects, I make playlists of songs that remind me of themes, characters, or plot points. Also having a snack or at least a water bottle nearby is essential.

23. pick three keywords that describe your writing

Realist, hopeful, and fun. Do with that what you will.

Thanks for the ask. <3 My askbox is still open!

[unstablewifiaccess]

Happy WBW, lovely! Not sure why, but today I'm asking about fashion?? What does the fashion-- I'm talking high, street, or anything else-- look like in your world(s)?

Happy late WBW Tori!

I'm actually going to use the scenes I've written to explain, if that's okay!

Under the cut, because it takes up a lot of dash space.

On Jane's island:

She began to tightly braid her hair up, the strands of black becoming two completely straight ropes hanging by her head. Not a single strand out of place, just as she was taught. A simple grey dress laid across the bench right next to her. There was nothing fancy about it, as that required money that a large majority of the island didn’t even dream of having. Just a simple dress made from uncolored fabric used from the wool of a local sheep. It had taken a large trade on her father’s part just to get the dress in the first place.

 It slipped on with ease, though, covering her body modestly. Jane was thankful that her father had spent the extra vegetables just so that it could be professionally fitted to her body, instead of the sack-like dresses that most of the young women would wear. His excuse was that the child of an elder should always look more dignified than the other girls, but Jane knew it was because he was hoping to one day marry her off to some mainland man with money, and that would be easier if she looked the part.

Mainland Clothes (casual):

this one was colorful, a deep blue with little white flowers around the hem. It even featured a tie to cinch her waist inwards like the fashion Madame Cress had shown her from the mainland. The cape was simpler, a blackened cotton lined with sheep wool. It was something that would have cost Jane more than a season’s worth of earnings to buy, simply due to the materials and the usefulness it carried.

On the ship:

There were three tunics, Three pairs of trousers, and another dress- also fairly simple. He insisted that she needed clothing fit for working on the ship, and that it shouldn’t come out of her own funds to begin with.

High Fashion:

The deep green fabric was quite literally shining in the light, looking almost as if it were lighting up itself. An entire bolt of fabric had been used to create the skirt alone, at least. It flowed out like a flower in bloom. The corset was lined with small gems that had to have taken months to apply on their own, giving their own sheen to the entire look.

...

It turned out that the dress had four separate layers, the woman explained as she separated them. There was a corset, a top, an underskirt that seemed to be the reason behind how far the dress sat out, and a top skirt to cover it. And not unlike how the room was a waste of space, Jane felt as if the dress was a waste of time to put on. By the time it took to get all of the layers onto her body, Jane was trying to understand how women would be able to wear these dresses for long periods of time to events, move around in them, and still be able to breathe. She felt like she could barely move, let alone take any deep breaths that would allow her to breathe properly

Sorry, that was a lot, but it seemed easier than explaining it lol

[scintillasofbeomgyu]

➷ a star called you — chapter 50: “a star called you”

pairing: choi beomgyu x reader.

genre(s): angst, fluff, slice of life, band txt, college au, smau.

word count: 1,8k.

warning(s): mentions of alcohol, mild language.

synopsis: yn and their friends run the campus radio for which yn is the host of the evening show "dear sputnik", where they share stories and hope to create a healing space for all students— even though many don't listen to it. little does yn know, their biggest fan, angel313, is choi beomgyu— the boy they've silently had a crush on for the past four years.

an: a huge huge thank you to everyone for all the love and support i've recieved for the past two months !! this is the first smau i've ever written, so it's like my baby 😭 it's riddled with mistakes and things i wish i could have done better, but ultimately that's what we're here to do. we live and we learn !! i hope you guys enjoy this chapter !! 💞 i hope this is good enough!

you took a breath as the elevator came to a stop, heart hammering in your ears. the doors rolled open and you gasped. the beautiful rooftop bar in itaewon was just as you remembered it: the mellow lighting from the walls and the bar the centre, the minimalistic tables and the cushioned moon chairs scattered across the floor in a way that didn’t seem organized or cluttered, but like home. the height of the building opened up the sky and you could see the stars as they glittered and gleamed, something otherwise next to impossible in the city.

subin, who had been anxiously checking his watch as he awaited your arrival, perked up from his spot at the bar when you walked in and jogged toward you.

“you’re late,” he offered you a smile, his stating of the obvious clearly more directed to your two friends standing behind you. haewon simply ignored him and walked themself to the bar, while suhyeon merely returned his smile with an accompanying flip of their finger.

“it’s my fault,” you chuckled, your shoulders easing as the atmosphere felt a tad more comfortable. you gestured to your outfit in explanation, “i don’t usually do all this.”

“we literally had to force them into it. never again i tell you,” suhyeon declared, playfully bumping your shoulder with theirs before they moved off to join haewon at the bar.

some popular korean rnb music played on the speakers as subin navigated you through the restaurant. you would have thought the front section completely empty if it were not for your eye catching the few couples smiling softly and enjoying each other’s company in the tables fixed into their own little corners. you noticed a few more people sitting around the bar when you passed by, sharing drinks and jest, throwing their heads back in laughter. majority of the customers were packed at the back of the restuarant, some standing with anticipation radiating off from them, surrounding a little platform you figured was the band stand.

“you don’t seem all that surprised to see me,” subin remarked as he pulled back a seat at a table just before the crowd, gesturing for you to sit. you obliged and subin called for drinks.

“no thanks, i’m fine. i don’t have a high tolerance,” you said, slightly embarrassed. “and why would i be surprised? you are part of alice, aren’t you?”

he chuckled, “i guess you’re right. as for the drinks, how about just a little? you know, for just in case?” you looked at him quizzically and he waved you off, “stop being so skeptical! live a little!”

“i don’t need to drink alcohol to enjoy myself,” you rolled your eyes. he sighed, pouring only a glass for himself when the waiter arrived. you tried squinting through the crowd and then frowned. you turned to subin, “i thought this was a company event? so why are there some students from my campus here, too?”

subin swirled the alcohol around in his glass, ice cubes clinking together, a smirk pulled onto his lips. the volume of the music lowered until it was drowned out the buzz of the crowd; that too toning down as feet shuffled onto the bandstand. he looked toward the crowd and took a sip of his drink, “do you really think this is happening... just because?”

you were startled when the lights suddenly went off. the chords of a guitar you know all too well are struck, the high reverb making the windows rattle and adrenaline rush through your veins. bright white floor spotlights turn on and you slowly raised to your feet, your ears ringing with excitement.

“goodluck, sweetheart,” subin whispers as he leaves, smiling at your back in farewell to his first love.

the silence breaks with five voices coming together in perfect unison, echoing through the universe like a call to all those lost and in pain, like a beacon of strength and hope. and then kai and yeonjun bring the first verse, lyrics which comfort and soothe your worries and fears, telling you that they will never let you feel such despair again.

you realized, as the masterpiece that is dear sputnik resonated through your system, that you missed this. you missed seeing them play live and not through the television screen. there was nothing quite like witnessing their passion before you, feeling it clench your heart and take your breath away.

and then you spotted beomgyu. his fingers moving gracefully across the guitar, his damp hair falling across his face, his eyebrows pressed together as he immersed himself into their performance — he was an utter work of art. that dangerously addicting smile rolls onto his lips as a few people in the crowd scream his name; it’s almost time for the bridge.

“are you breathing?” haewon grins in amusement, and again, you almost don’t hear them over the crowd and your racing heart. you turn around and make a mess of an attempt at a response, making them chuckle, “you really are so very grossly in love with him”

beomgyu puts an arm around taehyun and they laugh as they step up to the microphone for the bridge. beomgyu’s darts across his lips and he pushes back his bangs, forehead glistening under the moonlight, his eyes glazed over with adrenaline desperately search the floor. he grabs onto the microphone and, just before he sings, his eyes lock with yours. your breath hitches, fingers clenching onto the sleeves of your shirt.

he froze in place. there they were. those eyes. those eyes he searched for in a crowd even when he knew you weren’t there. those eyes that made him feel like someone. tears sprung into his eyes and he completely missed his cue. the boys quickly realized the situation and extended the instrumental in relief that you actually came. beomgyu took the mic from it’s stand, eyes not once leaving yours, and slowly made his way from the stage to you.

the crowd parted and his heart ached as he took in your magnificence. your pretty brushed back hair that let him see more of your face, the beautiful sundress you wore that was only really beautiful because it was you who wore it, and the way you looked at him like he was the only one there.

back then he could only look up to you from the field as you cheered him on from the bleachers, secretly hoping that you’d be able to feel the way he felt for you without having the courage to approach you himself. but that wasn’t happening today. today, in front of your friends, in front of the company and underneath a sky of stars making the heavens his witness, he’d make sure you knew just how much he loved you.

your eyes widened when he took your hand into his, lifting it to his lips. his thumb brushed across your knuckles and he intertwined his fingers with yours. his lips curled in a smile, but his eyes were nothing but sincere as he lifted the mic to his lips and sang,

“in a crumbling world,

i found a star called you,

i need you, my love ”

over a hundred times. that’s the amount of times you had listened to this song. you had heard this song over a hundred times, yet in that moment you swore it felt like the first time. those beautiful lyrics were a mere container for the raw emotion poured into them, emotion that left your chest throbbing and tears brimming your eyes. the band stopped and beomgyu pinched your chin gently.

“i’m sorry,” beomgyu started, giving your hand a squeeze, “i’m sorry for being a terrible boyfriend. for arguing with you and embarrassing you in front of all of those people, for the horrible things that i said, and for not appreciating the effort you made trying to understand me and coming to that party for me.”

“b-beomgyu,” you breathed, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. you wondered how long he’d sit up at night, thinking about what had happened and being hard on himself because of it. you wondered what his face looked like when he sent those letters to the show, telling you to cheer up and be strong.

he cupped the side of your face and brushed away your tears, “i love you, yn. so much. you kindness, your selflessness. the way you trigger me with that person from anthropolitics,” he joked.

you laughed, “anthropology, beomgyu.”

“yeah, yeah, smarty pants,” he rolled his eyes playfully, the tops of his ears dusted pink. he tucked hair behind your ear and took a breath before continuing, “who else am i supposed to banter with, if not you? doing anything without you feels wrong. not saying goodnight to you at the end of my day leaves me awake, feeling like there’s something missing.” he sighed, a tear rolling down his cheek, “other people... they look up at the north star to help them find their way home, but i look for your eyes in the crowd and when i find them i’m there.”

“cheesy idiot, i forgive you,” you sniffled, stepping into his arms as the crowd, you both completely forgot was even there, cheered. taehyun and the boys gave one another high fives, relieved that the two of you had reconciled. you leaned back, “i’m really sorry that i didn’t talk to you either. i felt like it was selfish to impose my feelings on you, but i realize that that is what relationships are all about. leaning on one another on times of difficulty and sharing joys and happiness,” you lowered your eyes in shame of your mistakes before lifting them to plead with his, “you forgive me, too?”

beomgyu smiled, leaning forward and planting a kiss to your forehead. then the tip of your nose. then he looked into your eyes and slowly tilted your head back before he pressed his lips to yours. he took your lip between his and tightened his arms around your form. you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him back with everything you had.

a droplet of rain landed on his face, making you both break away in surprise. within seconds it began to pour and the everyone shrieked, all rushing to the elevator to get off the roof.

beomgyu held out his hand and grinned, turning back to you, “sorry i waited for the rain”

you both burst out into laughter and you shoved his chest playfully, “is anything you say original, angel313?” beomgyu’s face fell and you giggled, ruffling your hair until it was hanging over your face. you stood tall and pushed out your chest, “hey poppy! i’m so in love with you, i can’t stop thinking about you and so i’m writing this letter!”

you squealed as beomgyu chased you through the rain, “i never said that! get back here right now, yn!”

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[padfootagain]

The Adviser

Hey! I'm writing this little fic for @musicallisto's event! I'm using her prompts 4 and 29 for Caspian :

4. “Can you stay with me?”

29.“Their hands on your skin…”

I'm also including a bit of the drunken confessions trope for this one!

I hope you all like it, tell me what you think about it, and thank you again Clara for hosting this event! This is just pure fluff, you know me, it's soft hours time!!!! We love cute clichés here!

Pairing : Caspian x reader

Word Count: 3597 (I've proofread but I've been writing for four hours and my brain is fried, I am so sorry if there are more mistakes than usual, forgiiiiiive meeeeee!!!)

You shouldn't have been drinking like this. Deep down, you knew it was a mistake. But what choice did you have? It was the only way to forget what this princess what doing at that moment.

Her hand was on Caspian's arm, and you didn't fail to notice the way her fingers slipped down the length of his velvet sleeve to brush against the skin of his wrist. You took another large gulp of liquor, but the image was already printed all over your eyelids when you closed your eyes and tried to blink the sight away.

It was more than you could stand. So much more than what you were humanly able to stomach. And the worst part of it all, really, was that none of this was Caspian's fault. He didn't even know about how you felt for him, so how could he have guessed that him letting her touch him like this, being so close to him, were hurting so.

But it did hurt. God, it hurt so bad.

The room was full of noises and conversations. You were celebrating the signing of a new commercial agreement between Narnia and their neighbours. It was exciting, and all the politicians that had been involved in the elaboration of the treaty and its negotiations were now enjoying a much-deserved celebration. The treaty had been signed earlier in the afternoon, and hopefully it was the first step towards a friendship between the two nations.

And you should have been celebrating as well, because after all, this treaty was your baby. You had written parts of it, you had worked for months to convince lords that this treaty was a good thing. You had worked and worked relentlessly for so long on this project. It was your baby, in a way.

When you had begun this adventure, you had envisioned yourself in the position you were finally in now. With a signed treaty resting on the king's desk in his study, and surrounded by lords, princesses and other important political figures, drinking wine and eating pastries and laughing as the future seemed a little brighter than it was before.

What you had never imagined though, was that during the months you had spent working closely with the King of Narnia, you would fall madly, desperately, hopelessly in love with him.

You wanted to slap some sense into your own head for falling for him the way you had, but it would be useless. There was nothing you could have done to avoid it. And every time you looked at him, you were reminded of this cruel truth. Nothing could have prevented you from falling in love with the king, not even yourself, not even him. Nothing, no one, could save you now.

Sometimes, it was driving you mad, really. The way he was so kind, and a little shy around you. You forgot that he was even a king, then. He had a way to make you feel safe by simply smiling at you. There was something in the way he walked, in the way he held himself, that would have betrayed his rank if he had tried to hide it. He was so… inspiring, in a way. More than that, he was magnetic. When he walked into a room, it was clear who he was. A mere glimpse at him, and even if one had no idea what the King of Narnia looked like, they would have recognized him. But then he would blush in the most precious way when complimented, bending his head as if to hide his reaction, and there was so much hesitation in his polite smiles, as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself. Maybe it was that contrast that had make your heart melt. The way he was the most charismatic man when you saw him, and the kindest when you talked to him.

Yes, yes, that was it. Or at least, part of it. Maybe it was the starting point of it all. Then, every single detail that made him unique had sealed the deal, and your heart was his, for good.

At the end of the day, though, no matter how much you loved him and how friendly and kind he was to you, he was still the King, and you were merely a representative. There was nothing special about your ancestry, even if your position now was quite high in the government. But you were one of the King's advisors, that was all, and every time you looked at one of these princesses throwing all their charms and manners at Caspian, you really couldn't hold it against him to fall for them and not you.

If he had known these inner thoughts of yours, he would have been adamant at contradicting you, at telling you that you were just as special as they were. But he was busy talking to one of them, and you were busy drinking. It ought to be the way things were meant to be, right?

After a couple more glasses of wine, your head was starting to spin and Caspian seemed to finally notice that something was off with you. He frowned hard as he saw you reaching for the nearest wall to keep your balance, while you lifted your glass to your lips again. You finished all the alcohol in one gulp. It wasn't like you though, to drink like this…

At first, he thought maybe you were simply letting loose more than usual in celebration for the treaty, but you didn't seem happy at all. On the contrary, your features were twisted in one of pain. Were you sick? A wave of fear rushed to his heart, crushing the little organ in his chest. He hurried to excuse himself and leave the princess he had been talking to. He was aware it was barely polite, but if you were unwell, he didn't exactly care about the etiquette. In fact, all his thoughts were set upon you and his worry now, he couldn't even realize what he was doing as he crossed the room in just a few long strides, ignoring people in the crowd trying to intercept him as he passed by.

You hadn't noticed him approaching, you had settled your attention on the marble ground, in an attempt to avoid seeing Caspian talk with the flirty princess that had been clinging to him for the past hour. Only when his brown boots appeared on the floor right before you did you notice his presence. You looked up in a jolt, your hair growing with fear and apprehension, while your quick movement made your head spin even more than before.

"Your Majesty," you mumbled, trying to stand a little straighter. "Can I… do anything for you?"

Your words were slurred, obvious sign of your intoxication. Caspian's frown only deepened.

"I was about to ask you the same question, you don't seem to be well," the king answered.

"I… I am perfectly fine," you lied.

"You seem to need a bit of fresh air," Caspian insisted. "Let me accompany you to the gardens."

You didn't have the strength to fight against him or argue in any way. Besides, Caspian was right, you did need a bit of fresh air to clear your mind. So you let him take your arm, assuring your balance, while he guided you outside.

The afternoon was slowly dying out into the early evening. The sun was still quite high in the summer sky, but the heat it released had diminished as the hours passed by. A salty breeze was blowing through the roses in full blossoms and the branches of the tall oaks that offered their shades to the visitors. It was quiet though, most of the inhabitants of the castle being either busy with their daily tasks, or at the reception. It was an easy task for Caspian to find a quiet spot for the two of you to walk by.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked, noticing your steps were a little steadier, even if he still kept a careful hold on your arm, just in case.

"I did need a bit of air, indeed. Thank you. I feel better," you nodded.

You tried to give him a smile, but it was harder to hide your feelings when you were drunk. It seemed more like a wince, instead, and Caspian fully turned to you this time, stopping you in your tracks in the middle of the narrow path in between the bushes of roses. He remained silent for a while, the noises of the wind in branches and the bees buzzing in the flowers the only sounds you could hear. And in this quiet place, staring right into the king's dark eyes was even more hypnotizing than usual. You were suddenly very aware that the two of you were alone. And very aware that his hand still rested on your arm too…

"Are you sick? What is wrong?"

Under his insisting tone, you recognized worry. If Caspian had tried to hide it, he had failed miserably.

"I… am quite fine. I think I simply celebrated a little too much…"

"You seemed sad back there," the king shook his head, cutting you off because you could finish your lie. "You did not seem to be celebrating at all. Why? What happened?"

"Nothing. I guess… I must be very tired. The negotiations were difficult and…"

"Why are you lying to me?"

You merely stared at him, not knowing what to answer.

"I know you are lying. I know you. Why will you not tell me what is bothering you?"

"It… is nothing…"

"Is it why you drank too much?"

"I am not drunk…"

"Yes, you are. You can barely stand."

"I can," you replied, even if it wasn't true. You knew that if Caspian suddenly let go of you, you would probably fall down in the roses, and the thought of the many thorns cutting your skin wasn't particularly appealing to you.

Caspian's frown slowly disappeared though. From worry, his expression changed to one of sadness and hurt, but you didn't understand why.

"I am your friend, Y/N. Why will you not tell me? I could help…"

You let out a bitter laugh. The liquor was taking the better of your judgement, for you would have never answered him this way had you been sober.

"My friend? As if we were friends…"

Caspian stared at you with the most puzzled expression you had ever seen adorning his handsome features.

"What do you mean? Of course, we are friends."

"We are not friends. You are the king, and I am… a commoner working for you."

There was so much hurt passing through Caspian's eyes, but you didn't feel guilty. It was true, after all. And the sight of this woman with him… with her eyes all over him, and the way she leaned towards him…

It was more than you could take…

"I thought we were more than just that by now," Caspian answered in a low voice.

"How could we be?"

"Why did you drink so much tonight?"

"Because I cannot take it anymore… I… these feelings I just… I can't fight them…"

"Feelings? What…?"

But then it dawned on him, only, not completely.

Of course, a question of heart would explain your sadness and your drinking tonight, such behaviours that were so out of character for you. He wasn't particularly good at hiding the way his heart broke in his chest at the thought that you loved someone else, though. He had to be thankful for your inebriated state that made you fail to notice his reaction when it was written all over his features.

He opened his mouth to ask who this was about, but you spoke first. The wine was making your mind blurry, your thoughts turning into a whirlwind, bumping into each other and making your usual filters lift. In any other circumstances, you would have never said any of the words you were about to utter, but then, liquor and broken hearts make confessions tumble easily.

"I cannot do this anymore. I want to resign."

"Resign? What…?"

"I cannot handle it. Being around you all the time…" you went on, barely realizing Caspian was trying to speak. "And today seeing her… her hands on your skin and…"

Your voice broke, and you lost your balance for good. Caspian was still here though, and he managed to catch you in his arms right before you would fall to the dusty ground.

His brain was repeating again and again your words, trying to analyse their meanings…

Did it mean that… you… was it about him, then?

"I will take you to your room. You need to rest. Come on…"

With the gentlest gestures, he guided you back inside and to your room, crossing empty corridors and avoiding people as much as he could. No one else but him needed to see you like this.

He helped you settle in bed, and only then did he notice that you were crying.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled.

He brushed your tears away. He had never touched you this way before, and it made his heart pound in his chest like it had never before. He let his fingers linger a little longer on your cheek.

"You must rest. We will talk about this in the morning."

He gave you a warm smile before turning away, but you held him back, catching his wrist before he could walk too far away. He turned to you again with a puzzled look.

"Can you stay with me?"

Your voice was barely more than a whisper, uncertain and fragile. He was used to hearing it loud and confident while you discussed amongst politicians and advisers, it was such a drastic change, it scared him. It was evident you needed someone to take care of you at that moment, and Caspian wouldn't have let anyone else do it in his stead.

He should have gone back to the reception, but how could he leave your side now?

So, he dragged a chair next to your bed, and sat down, offering you a reassuring smile. He held your hand in his, giving it a soothing squeeze.

"As you wish. But you need to sleep now."

"Are you angry?"

"No, I am not. We will talk about it tomorrow. Now, you need to sleep. Close your eyes."

You did as ordered, and fell asleep as soon as your eyelids had fallen. The warmth of Caspian's hand on yours was the last thing you remembered before surrendering to slumber.

-----------------------------

Your headache wasn't the worst thing that happened when you woke up. Nor was your nausea, or the disgusting taste that lingered on your tongue. No, the worst part of waking up was the note you found folded by the side of your bed.

Caspian would be waiting to see you in his office.

If parts of the previous day were a little blurry, you still remembered perfectly your conversations with the King.

He would ask you to resign. Or he might even fire you altogether. He could have asked you already for someone to pick up your things and carry them out of the castle… but then, Caspian was a kind man, and you weren't altogether surprised when you picked up an outfit to dress up and found all your belongings exactly where they belonged.

After your behaviour, there was no other alternative. You had been disrespectful, and you highly doubted that the king would appreciate working with someone who had romantic feelings for him.

But your pride made you decide that you would resign first. You would not let him throw you out of the castle. If you had to leave, which was painful enough already, never to see the man you loved again, then at the very least, you could be spared the humiliation of being pushed away. At least, you would be the one leaving.

You made your way to his office, at last. Taking a deep breath before knocking on the door. Your heart missing a beat when you heard Caspian's low voice answering on the other side. You walked in.

Caspian welcomed you with a smile, he was sitting at his desk, his back to the stained-glass windows that painted colours all across the room. The light coming from behind him made the image ethereal, a vision you could have summoned in one of your dreams…

"Good morning, Y/N. Please, take a sit," he invited you. "Are you feeling better?"

You struggled to swallow, cleared your voice. His voice made butterflies tickle your belly, but you ignored the feeling. You ignored how much you wanted to comply and approach him. This was not the time. Now was the time to be strong.

You remained at a safe distance from his desk, refusing to sit down.

"Your Majesty," you tried to keep your voice steady, but couldn't help the slight shake that accompanied your words. "I am well, thank you."

He opened his mouth to speak again, but you interrupted him, raising your hand to silence him.

"Please, your Majesty… let me speak."

He nodded, letting you continue. You took a deep breath, and finally gathered the strength you needed to speak again.

"I…My behaviour yesterday was… unforgiveable. And I am aware that I have crossed a line. What transpired last night is the proof that I can no longer work for you and serve Narnia at the best of my abilities as your adviser anymore. It is why I would like to resign. I would be very thankful if you would agree to allow me to stay in the castle for one last week, to allow me to look for a new home. My resignation will be effective immediately, and I can write it down, if you want me to."

Caspian remained silent for a moment, before slowly standing up, and walking towards you. His hands behind his back, he only stopped when he was but one step away from you. You stared at him, waiting for his reaction, completely motionless.

"I agree that… your confessions from last night make it impossible for us to continue like this. Things cannot remain the same now."

You fought with all your might to refrain your tears, that merely gather at the corner of your eyes, but didn't fall. You didn't flinch, nor did you back away though.

"I do think that you need to resign from your position in our government. I would not be… proper… to have my advisor be…"

"I will inform the rest of the staff immediately," you interrupted him. Which was incredibly rude, interrupting the king… but you couldn't take it. You couldn't stomach the pain that it would make you feel to hear him say the words he was about to utter.

It was enough that he didn't love you. You didn't need him to say it out loud.

You turned on your heels, but Caspian didn't let you step away. He caught your wrist before you could move away, and you turned back towards him, your eyes growing in surprise.

"I have not dismissed you, yet," he told you, quirking an eyebrow.

"I apologize, your Majesty."

Caspian gave you a smile. You wondered what was worth smiling for though.

"I thought we had agreed that there was no need to call me this way when we are alone."

"Things have changed."

"Not nearly enough, yet."

It was your time to frown.

"There is no need for you to move out of the Castle."

"But I…"

"Would you like to take a walk in the gardens with me this afternoon?"

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, completely confused.

"I… don't understand…"

"Did you mean what you said? Yesterday? Or did I not understand you right? I thought you said you had feelings for me."

You nodded, unable to answer, fleeing Caspian's gaze.

"I did… but…"

"Well, I am asking you if you would like to take a walk with me this afternoon."

"But I… why?"

His smile grew fonder, and you noticed the way his fingertips were shaking when he reached to hold your other hand.

"I… was hoping you would… like to spend some time with me," Caspian added, hesitant this time, a little shy, pinker shades appearing to colour his cheeks. "Not as my advisor but… as… a friend…"

"A friend?" you repeated, stunned.

"Or well… maybe… maybe more than a friend."

"But I… I am…"

"I feel the same way."

He had said the last sentence as fast as he could, forcing the words out like he would have pulled an arrow out of a wound. In one, quick motion, before the strength and courage would fail him.

Your mouth fell open.

"You… you do?" you stuttered, out of breath for some reason. You only just then noticed that you seemed to have forgotten how to breathe altogether.

"I do. And well… I am afraid that you need to resign, for it would be impossible for me to court one of my advisors. But as you have done so, I thought… what about a walk?"

There were a thousand thoughts swarming in your head, and most of them were going against Caspian's idea. Most of them told you this was impossible.

But you chose to simply ignore all of them, and answer what your heart was desperately begging you to say instead.

"Yes. Yes, a walk would be lovely."

[katnissmellarkkk]

Gravity

Hi! Okay, so here’s chapter two of my growing back together story, inspired by the prompt “I won’t hurt you” @rosegardeninwinter sent me. I also posted this fic on AO3 under the title Gravity (like the Sara Bareilles song), if that’s where you prefer to read. And here’s a link to chapter one of this fic if you wanna read and haven’t yet.

Also I know I said in my first author’s note that there will be three chapters, but there might be a bit more.... we love an over-writer, right? 🤷🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️

I don’t know if you’re “supposed” to post every part of a multi chapter fic on here? Or just post the link to it on AO3? But for now I posted it in its entirety on here 😊.

Anyways, hope you like it! And thanks to anyone who reads! 💖💖💖

/

A couple months later.

We slide back after that. I don't know if that night-the night he had a nightmare that I died and we slept locked in each other's embrace-moved too quickly for Peeta or if he thought he was protecting me from him, but when morning light came, he was gone from the bed.

I didn't see him again until the following evening, helping Haymitch feed his rambunctious geese in the yard. He didn't speak to me for four more days after that, and when he did, it was to ask what kind of bread I wanted him to bring for lunch the next day.

I pretended to his face that it didn't hurt. That waking up in a cold, empty bed, in a house he all but abandoned until I had evacuated, that sleeping in his arms and awaking so abruptly alone, didn't hurt. I did what I had taught myself to do as a child and I turned my features into an indifferent mask, shutting off all access to my emotions. Destroying any possibility of anyone witnessing my vulnerabilities.

But I knew deep down, it did hurt. It hurt badly.

I didn't speak to him directly the first week he showed up for lunch and to work on the memory book again. I got by fine without addressing him directly, as Haymitch somehow sensed the bubbling tension between us and stayed sober just enough to remain alert for all our shared meals. He helped with the memory book, helped by adding in a snarky comment here or there to reel our focuses onto him instead of each other.

I wanted to say thank you but I never knew how. I doubt Haymitch needs me to verbalize it anyway. One night, as he follows behind Peeta to leave, his hand grazes my shoulder and gives it a squeeze and I know he's much more aware of the dynamic between his old tributes than he leads on.

But weeks after the night in question, the night that set Peeta and my friendship back months, we receive a telegraph from Effie. A telegraph that shakes the small amount of stability we've managed to build in the time since the war.

Apparently President Paylor has decided to move forward with arena destruction, an idea mentioned a few times by Plutarch on Caesar's talk show. An idea I didn't take seriously until now.

Paylor has decided to build a memorial for each of the arenas, for each year the games ever took place, to immortalize our history, so Panem can never forget how cruel and inhumane things once were. But first, she wants to eliminate the actual Hunger Games arenas, once and for all, before putting the memorials in their place.

My initial thought, months ago when Delly showed me Plutarch and Caesar discussing the idea, was that this would takes years to happen.

I was, once again, so clearly wrong. The plans have been expedited and the order in which each arena will be decimated has been swiftly decided.

All that alone doesn't sound terrible. I'd like to see those death pits crushed, burned, torn down, eradicated, or all of the above, by any means necessary. Only downside, initially, is that this will extend me—and Peeta and potentially all the other victors—remaining in the forefront of the public's mind.

Since the war, all I've ever wanted was for everyone in the country to forget who I am. I don't want to be known anymore. I just want to be left alone, to a quiet and peaceful and relatively simple life, without anyone ever recognizing me again. Without anyone thinking of me as the girl on fire, as the Mockingjay, as the sixteen-year-old who volunteered for a sister who was doomed to death anyway.

But, of course, there's a catch. There's always a catch.

Plutarch thinks it would be great to have the living victors be there—televised—in the Capitol and see the arenas before they're bulldozed.

Even with this dreadful proposition, I thought I had time to think of a way out of it. When Effie first sent the telegraph, I thought that I would have years before having to worry about going back to the places where my nightmares started.

Well, some of my nightmares, that is.

After all, it takes time to destroy something as large and as vast as an arena-excluding the way I destroyed the one in the Quell, that is. I figured-I rationalized, really-that by the time they got to number Seventy-Four, I would have a solid excuse to get out of attending.

I guess though they wished to start with the big years and the first decade of the Hunger Games wasn't very eventful, apparently—lucky them—so the first arena they wish to bid farewell to is the one from the second Quarter Quell. The Fiftieth Hunger Games. The one that was so strikingly beautiful and almost entirely poisonous.

The year Haymitch Abernathy, from the lowly District Twelve, won.

And being also from Twelve, my presence, along with Peeta's, suddenly became of the utmost importance as well.

At first, I still try to opt out of the event. Even after Effie chastises me over the phone, like not a day has passed since she was my escort, and even after my mother claims in her letter that it could be cathartic for me, I do not relent.

Delly and Thom and a few of the others in the community, like Kanon who runs the candy shop two stores away from the bakery, and Greta, who helps with the dusting and mopping all over town, try to say that it could be good for me. Greasy Sae claims it can't be worse than actually living through the games, and I silently appreciate her much more blatant statement than the comforting platitudes others try to provide me.

But it all falls on deaf ears in the end.

Because the only person I truly listen to is Peeta. Even bitter and wounded, the only person I really hear is him.

Unfortunately, as irritating as it is sometimes, his voice will always reach me when others can't.

But we don't ever have an actual conversation about it. Five days after Effie calls to announce the news, to tell me unequivocally that my presence is requested, Peeta sways me to go with just a look.

He comes over later than usual and brings extra bread and pastries to go with the deer meat I hunted. We feast silently, the air between us still incredibly awkward, when, without warning, our old mentor comes crashing through the door unceremoniously.

I don't know how much alcohol he consumed, but it's enough to knock even someone with Haymitch's tolerance off his feet.

By the end of the hour, the older man is practically beating his head into the wall of my dining room, screaming the names of dead children and about force fields and axes. And from across the kitchen table, Peeta touches my arm—the first time he's voluntarily touched me in weeks—and my eyes meet his, blue pouring into gray, and silently he begs me to go for the goodbye ceremony to Haymitch's arena.

And I give in. Not just for him. But also, in large part, to repay the caustic, miserable drunk that kept us alive. To support the unpredictable, temperamental man that I do consider my family somehow.

The ceremony is set to take place weeks later and the time does little to alleviate my anxiety. Peeta and me still don't speak much, but come time for lunch or dinner, there he is, in my house like clockwork.

When I point out, a few days before we're due at the train station, that there's a very realistic possibility that the Capitol won't let me go to the ceremony, Peeta casually says, "I already cleared that with Effie and Plutarch."

I shoot him a look of surprise. "You did?"

Shrugging nonchalantly before turning back to the rabbit on his plate, he murmurs quietly, "Thought it'd give you one less thing to worry about."

The ceremony is nothing like I expect. Somehow I figured there would be an obnoxiously large television crew, loud speakers, prepared speeches on written cards, awkward directions and crowds upon crowds of people surrounding us, asking pointed questions, shooting invasive stares and pressing for reactions to their nosy accusations. I expected those accusations to be directed at me and Peeta especially.

Instead, there's none of those things. There's no crowd at all, it's just us victors. Just Enobaria, Johanna, Annie, the three of us from Twelve and Beetee—who I still can't make myself so much as look at, reminded of my sister's absence and his role in it every time we so much as stand in five feet vicinity of each other.

The camera crew consists of Mitchell, Pollux and Cressida, along with two unfamiliar, but seemingly non-threatening faces. There's no directions, no prompting, not close ups or reshoots.

All that happens is Paylor makes a statement that the crew films, stating that the arenas will be destroyed one by one, and in the place of each there will be an individual memorial made, as we victors stand in an unorganized, crooked line that will surely make Effie cringe when she sees the footage on television later.

It's almost peaceful, I think to myself in surprise, as I look around at the location. The sky is a stunning cobalt, even more brilliant in person than in the video Peeta and I watched on the train so long ago. The meadow looks like the grass is fresh, like it was just watered yesterday. The mountain is so breathtaking I have to physically tear my eyes away from it and even the woods look rather cozy. Or maybe that part is just me.

There's also arraignments of flowers, just like in the footage we watched, that spill every which way, filling our noses with soothing, floral scents. It feels unnatural to say about a place set up for murder, but with the deadly poisons lurking at every turn eviscerated, I almost can find this arena truly beautiful.

Of course though, it's not my arena.

It's Haymitch's and he looks like he's about to be sick. He's white-knuckled it for a few days without any sort of drink—to my, Peeta's and, even Effie's, visible shock—and I can see plainly now that he's absolutely regretting it. His eyes are hallow and wild at the same time and I can see his shaking palms beneath the sleeves of his jacket as he stares out at the source of his every nightmare for the last quarter century.

It shocks me that he didn't find a way out of this. Actually, it shocks me still that these ceremonies are even possible.

I never knew they kept arenas after the games were over each year. I never realized they kept all seventy-four death pits, haunted by child sacrifice, the way you keep old vases on a shelf.

At this point though, it's just another thing to add onto the growing list of horrific and unthinkable issues that the Capitol doesn't even grasp. Keeping the haunted graveyards of children as souvenirs shouldn't sit right with anyone, I don't care how you're raised.

I tell myself to not be so quick to judge, as I can't know who I'd be if I had been born in the Capitol instead of the districts. Still, the idea of condoning the things they have without remorse or shame seems unthinkable.

I'm torn out of my thoughts when Cressida speaks. "Is there anything you'd like to say, Haymitch, before we finish filming?"

Once again, catching me off-guard entirely—he's full of all sorts of surprises evidently—Haymitch clears his throat and looks down at his leather boots before speaking. "Ardor. Garnett. Dolan. Silver. Ryker. Artemis. Slayte. Pistol. Lex. Mac. Lumen. Gig. Brook. Aqua. Mary. Ripley. Lyme. Watt. Rocky. Gio. Belle. Raven. Kia. Mecko. Barker. Jack. Holly. Briar. Essie. Stitch. Coco. Paul. Mira. Miller. Coop. Harvey. Butch. Cutter. Bea. Skinna. Basil. Sunny. Rip. Spring. Oaker. Terra. Maysilee." He lists off the names in a way that is so matter-of-fact that it would almost be robotic if it weren't for the hoarseness in his tone that grows stronger with every name he utters. He hesitates for only a moment before adding, "Corentine. Alannah. Alastar."

There's a long stretch of silence, where no one speaks, no one blinks, no one even breathes. We all know instinctively who these people are—I know solely from Maysilee Donner's name being called—but we still wait until Haymitch speaks again, to confirm our assumption.

"Those are the names of all the people this arena killed." His eyes grow glassy and his brow furrows in anger as he fights desperately to repress his emotions, and suddenly I have the strangest urge to hug my mentor, to make him feel better like he tried to do for me once when Peeta was stuck in the Capitol and I was distraught. But I know it wouldn't be appreciated or wanted, and quite honestly I'm glad for that, because I don't even know what to say.

The last three names Haymitch said stick in my head for some reason I can't explain other than an odd gut feeling. But then he speaks again, an in a voice growing gruffer by the second, he says right into the camera, "that's every single person who was killed because of the second Quarter Quell."

And, like I should have known all along, it hits me the last three names are the names of his family who were murdered to punish him for the stunt with the forcefield.

The last three names are the murders of the last people he loved. Until me and Peeta came along.

As if his thoughts matched mine, Haymitch suddenly shakes his head and his eyes widen again as he stares past all the rest of us, as he continues to take in the exact place in which life as he knew it, twenty-six years ago, was altered forever.

His reaction is more understandable and genuine than I imagined he would ever allow it to be, especially on camera, and I want to say something but me and him both aren't good at saying anything, and I find myself looking to Peeta, hoping he'd know what to do.

Peeta doesn't meet my gaze though. He's solely focused on our mentor and just when he opens his mouth to speak, the older man to suddenly shake his head in our general direction and clears his throat.

"I'm done. Tell Plutarch I'm done with this crap. Just hurry up and bulldoze this place so I can go back to Twelve," is all he says to Cressida as he storms off, but his voice is rough and caustic once again, and I can only hope he recovers from this event soon enough.

Somehow, witnessing Haymitch relive his games, even through the shield he so obviously puts up to the outside world, triggers me though. For some reason, I feel my eyes begin to water as I look around at the meadow, at the mountain, at the golden cornucopia, and wonder how anyone could build a place where kids would eventually go to die? How could anyone have ever been so inhumane? How could a country just accept it? How did we live for so long with the Hunger Games overtaking our lives and still remained complicit? I don't understand. The more time passes, the more days I'm separated from the war and from the old world and the old way of life, I just can't comprehend anymore how we ever lived in a place so horrific.

I feel my eyes spill over and I'm grateful that Cressida has stopped filming already, because if Plutarch saw any tears on film, he would make certain it ended up on television.

I wipe my tears with the heel of my hand, trying to go about it as subtly as I can, hoping no one else notices. For the most part, I'm golden. Enobaria is already exiting, with Beetee following not far behind. Jo's back is to me while she speaks to Annie, though as per usual, she seems to be irritated.

Of course, it's too much to ask for everyone to remain oblivious to my waterworks. Even as I rid myself of them before they become widely noticeable, I feel Peeta's eyes train on me and know, despite the distance between us for the last few weeks, he isn't going to ignore my upset.

To my surprise though, he doesn't speak. He doesn't utter a single syllable.

Instead, I feel his large, warm palm slip into mine and squeeze tightly, lacing our fingers together, in a way we have done thousands of times before. Like two puzzle pieces coming together to complete a picture, like two indivisible teammates that will fight against anything that is thrown their way, like two halves of a whole finally finding each other, his hand grasps mine with a vengeance and I know I won't be the one who let's go.

He's still holding my hand when we board the train, hours later.

//

A couple weeks later.

"Yes, Mrs. Greenstead, I will get the chocolate nut loaf and a platter of the cranberry cookies wrapped up for you... Yes, it will be ready by the time you arrive... No, I promise they won't be cold," Peeta assures through the bakery telephone—a new addition that Thom and his wife thought was necessary to run a proper bakery. So necessary they bought it for Peeta as an opening gift.

It's not that the gesture wasn't nice or that Peeta didn't deeply appreciate it. I personally saw that he did, wholeheartedly.

But seeing it on the wall every day was just another reminder to me of my own personal vendetta against the integration between the Capitol's way of life and the districts'.

The only place telephones used to exist, outside of the Capitol limits, was the houses in Victor's Villiage, and if I'm being honest, I wish it would have stayed that way.

Maybe I'm being selfish, as I happen to still reside inside a house that once belonged to the said village, therefore I already had experienced this luxury prior to the new world. But I just can't make myself break the association between the items that had recently become readily available for all and the horror that was the Capitol.

Still though, the change was inescapable Telephones, cameras, heating pads, curling irons, quick bake ovens, cars and so many other items, were all growing in popularly across each district. Not that I was able to see a lot of these changes personally. But letters from Annie and my mom, and the occasional—unprompted and yet still begrudged—call from Jo, all kept me informed. Sometimes more informed than I wished to be.

Maybe I would feel entirely different if these inventions were brand new to me. But they aren't. I'd seen and used every one of them before. Their novelty had always been lost on me, perhaps because my only experience them was while inside the Capitol, surrounded by tacky colors and strong rose scents and itchy materials, headed for a death match, my life and the lives of those I cared always at great risk.

Of course, the new item in the bakery did make some things easier. Days like today are a perfect example.

Harvest Day is only one day away and everyone is coming in for their breads and their desserts. Peeta says it was always one of the most popular days, for as long as he can remember. Only difference is, before the war only Peacekeepers and town folks could afford to purchase anything. And generally, most citizens who even did come in, could only purchase a limited amount of items.

Not now. I don't know where everyone in Twelve was coming up with the money or if Peeta's prices are just a drastic drop from that of his mother's, but today, I swear I've seen every citizen in town inside the bakery.

Makes me glad that the portrait of me is hanging in the back, where no one else can see it. As pretty as it may be, as talented as Peeta is, I don't want a giant version of me displayed for all to see.

"Here you are," I politely say, handing two loaves of warm bread to a man who must be new to Twelve, as I've never seen him before. I'm debating on asking if he moved here recently when he passes a bill to me over the top of the pastry display.

"Thank you, hon." He smiles at me, looking at me a little too closely for my liking, as he swiftly walks out the door. His exit is met with the arrival of Val, a boy Peeta and I went to school with, who definitely was more Peeta's crowd than mine.

Val is a regular customer at the bakery, having always genuinely liked the Mellark family. His parents owned a small carpentry shop four spaces down from the bakery, and even with both them dead, he and his two sisters rebuilt the store, taking over their parents' legacy.

Peeta though is more focused on me now than Val's order. "Give me a second," he calls to his old friend, a little less polite than he had been all morning. "Katniss, what's wrong?" He asks urgently, seeing the look in my eyes.

I shake my head and push away the anxiety threatening to close in on me. "Nothing, just..." I hesitate, not even wanting to say it. Peeta's gaze refuses to lessen though and I sigh before finally mumbling, "That guy. He creeped me out. The way he was looking at me so closely..."

Peeta's hand touches my arm for a brief moment before pulling it away, making it obvious that he regrets the small act of even so much as touching me. But his words are still calming and they relax me a little. "He's gone now, Katniss. And if he scares you, I won't let him come back, okay? There's nothing anyone can do to you or me anymore. We're safe."

I nod, knowing the words like the back of my hand at this point, as it's the same mantra we always repeat to each other, every time one of us begins to panic or flail. But still, I open my mouth to refuse his offer. I don't want Peeta to turn away any sort of business. Not with the unpredictability and uncertainty this new world still rests on. We never know if the bakery will sell anything tomorrow or if all sort of income will soon dry up.

And we're the lucky ones, financially speaking, who were rich before the war and allowed—in a generous declaration by President Paylor—to keep the entirety of our money after. I don't have to imagine the anxiety others in the country must be in, knowing the curse of poverty all too well. I wouldn't wish that feeling on anyone.

"I don't want you to turn away people," I say quietly. "Not on my account. You need business to keep this place afloat."

"I have plenty of money, Katniss," he reminds me, a little darker than I expect. "And I'd rather you feel safe than own a popular shop."

His words unexpectedly touch me, unexpectedly cut right down to the depth of my bones, exposing my soft underbelly. I'm about to do something stupid, like touch his hand, when Val makes his presence known again. "Your shop is already the most popular in the district," he points out, not even a little ashamed for having listened to our conversation. "And besides, why don't you just look at the guy's name? Maybe you can look him up, see if he's alright or not."

Peeta gets a glint in his eye. "That's a good idea, Val, thank you." As he moves towards the register to, I can only suppose, look for the man's receipt with his name and signature, he gestures to his school friend. "Katniss can get your order."

I shoot him a glare, only half kidding. I did come to help out, here and there, today but I did not intend to be an actual expected employee. For free, no less.

Instead of saying anything though, I just grab Val his three cinnamon rolls, his two snack cakes, four bagels, white chocolate donut and a loaf with raisins and cranberries.

Val, like Delly Cartwright, was always one of the few people in Twelve who had a few pounds to spare.

Peeta has a type of friend.

"Found it," Peeta now calls, bringing over a slip of paper to where I'm handing Val his three bags of treats. "His name was Rod Catamaran."

Me and Val, for the first time perhaps, exchange a look between us. "That's an odd name for Twelve."

"I've never even heard that name before."

"He may not even be from Twelve, guys," Peeta says.

I roll my eyes. "Because a bombed out district is really a tourist attraction."

"Hey, none of that," Thom calls as he walks through the front door of the bakery, with Kanon Bagley on his heels. "We've rebuilt this place beautifully and negativity is not appreciated here."

"Yeah, Katniss," Peeta chimes in, teasing me. I'm about to kick him in his only real leg, as we're the only two behind the counter and no one else will see, when Kanon speaks up.

"Can I buy a couple of pastries?"

"Of course," Peeta says kindly, walking around me to personally grab the two items Kanon requests.

Kanon is new to Twelve. One of the few new additions this place gained after all that went down. He's a large man in his early twenties, with dark skin and dark hair and eyes to match. But the only times I've ever interacted with him, he's quiet as a mouse, his eyes a little forlorn at all times and he offers more discounts then he should at the candy shop he recently opened next to the bakery.

He's from District Eleven originally and it takes no real critical thinking to realize he had a hard life, even before the war.

I'm far too familiar with the look of scars etched across the eyes. So is Peeta.

That's why, when Kanon looks down at the money in his hand and realizes he doesn't have enough to afford both pastries, Peeta immediately brushes it off. "That's okay, they're on the house," he instantly promises, handing the small bag over to Kanon with a gentle smile.

"No, I don't want to take it without-"

"I made way too much," Peeta insists, lying outright to make it appear Kanon would be doing him a favor. I know he didn't make too much, because we've been flying through everything today and keeping the ovens hot in case more is needed.

Still though, I back up the fib. "He did. We've been wondering all day how we were gonna sell enough stuff so we don't have to feed the leftovers to Haymitch's geese."

Kanon glances between us shyly, before taking the bag from Peeta's hand and slipping the few dollars he does have into his pocket again. "Thank you," he says softly and turns to leave.

Thom pats Kanon on the back as he passes him, before turning to follow. When the other man isn't looking, he turns back to us subtly and mouths, "thank you."

I wanted to tell him not to thank me. I only watched Peeta make this food, I didn't assist by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't own the bakery or do anything with the money or finances. It was not my choice to give things away for free.

But I'm far too focused on the boy in front of me to say any of that. The boy with the bread, the boy who isn't really a boy anymore. The boy who just gave away food for no reward at all, even on the most demanding and strenuous day all year for his business. The boy who just showed Kanon Bagley the same kindness I begged someone-anyone-to show me at eleven-years-old and not one single person did.

Except for him. He did for me all those years ago what he did for Kanon just now, and I suddenly have the most inexplicable, irrepressible urge to kiss Peeta right then and there, in the middle of the bakery.

I don't, however, and it's for once not because I lost my courage. It's because the door swings open again, just as Val exits right behind Kanon and Thom.

It's the same man from earlier. "Hi," Peeta greets, this time not at all sweet. Clearly recognizing the man as the one who made me nervous before. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," the man affirms, his tone brighter than you'd expect given our chilly reception. And our blatant wariness for anyone new. "I forgot to get a pecan butter cake before?"

There is a beat where me and Peeta exchange a look, before I awkwardly move towards the display case and begin to pack up his item. Peeta waits for me to decide to help the man before starting to ring him up.

"That was a nice thing you both just did," the man says as he patiently watches me fold the white waxy paper over his pastry. "For that guy."

"You were watching?" Is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

"Only for a moment," he explains, his tone still friendly. Either he doesn't know how to read people at all or he's the most even keeled person in Panem.

Because I know I'm being rude, to a man who maybe doesn't even deserve it, I force myself to say one thing conversational. "This is my mom's favorite dessert," I offer, gesturing to his cake.

The man raises his eyebrows in an act that looks almost feigned. "Really?"

I instantly regret trying to be even slightly pleasant. Even his mannerisms seem fake. I'm contemplating if I should say anything else or go hide in the back room with the warm ovens and my portrait, when Peeta presses a button and the register dings.

He's about to say the total when the strange man shakes his head and hands to me directly an unfamiliar bill over the display case. "Have a nice day, you two," he calls, grabbing his cake and swiftly walking out.

It's not until he's gone, not until I have a moment to process the second weird encounter with the odd person, that I even glance down at the crisp bill he handed me.

It's a bill with a larger number on the back than I've ever personally seen before. I knew these kinds of dollars existed—I'm sure I could have gotten plenty after my first games—but I'd never seen one in the flesh.

Peeta sees my reaction. "What is it?" His voice sounds alarmed and he's stepping closer to me, but all I can do is gasp out his name.

"Peeta, look." I hold up the bill and point to the number on the back.

His eyes widen too, taking in the amount with a dizzy smile. Of both relief that nothing's wrong and excitement at the digit.

"Do you think it was a mistake?" I ask suddenly, looking over my shoulder towards the window, wondering if we should track the man down and give him his money back, before he evaporates into thin air.

"No?" Peeta shakes his head, the wheels in his mind turning quicker than mine. His face turns to that of elation, as the large bill takes some pressure off the bakery's sales. "No, he said he saw us give Kanon a break. He was giving us something in return."

I'm about to say something else, I don't even know what, but it all flies out of my head when Peeta suddenly wraps his arms around my waist and swiftly pulls me into his embrace.

My entire body goes into lockdown and hypervigilance at the same time. I can't move an inch but it feels like every nerve in my body is abruptly tingling and on fire.

My sweater lifts up slightly and his bare arms graze my lower back, eliciting a shiver to run involuntarily down my spine as his face buries into my hair.

I wrap my arms around his neck after a beat when I can make myself move again, and I feel him smile against my skin. I'm so glad at that moment he's holding me up, because if he wasn't supporting my weight I'd probably crash to the floor, unable to even feel my legs beneath me.

And, as a rush of heat shoots out from the place where Peeta's lips brush my collarbone, I suddenly feel only gratitude, not irritation, at the strange Rod Catamaran.

//

Four days later.

The world surrounding me is green. Green and brown and fire-bitten and scorched. Every which way I spin, there's embers soaring from that direction too, waiting to lick me with their burning flames, ready to decimate me once and for all.

But through the smoke and haze, I still can see between the trees two blonde braids. I still can see a small figure standing on the other side of the fire. I still can see her shirt that's come untucked in the back, creating a duck tail that I desperately want to fix.

Just as I notice her, she whirls around to face me, her blue eyes big and bright and terrified. "Katniss!" She screams, the same way she did the last day she was alive. "Katniss, help! They're coming!"

I don't know who's coming or what's happening or where we even are, but all I feel is relief somehow. Relief that she's here, that I'm in her presence again, that she's almost within my reach. Instinctively I call out, "Prim!" Just so I can finally get a response to the name I've been shouting into oblivion for almost a year now.

"Katniss, help me!" She cries again and then looks over her shoulder. She's not talking about the fire between us, as it doesn't seem too intent on heading towards her.

I don't know what's coming or who she's afraid of, but my instincts now go into overdrive. My body suddenly snaps into alert and I whip my head around, to see if I can find an opening in the fire closing in on me, if I can find a way to get to the sister I lost what feels like only yesterday, if I can find a way to save her this time.

There's no gap in the fire though. It's crowded around me, front, back and side to side. The more seconds that pass by, the closer the fire folds into my proximity, and I have to brace myself before making a split-second decision.

But it's not really a decision at all. Prim needs me and I cannot fail her. I have to save her this time.

I take a bold step directly into the fire, with every intention of running through it somehow. Of running past the wild embers, scorching myself no doubt, but still making it over to my distressed, frightened little sister. But it doesn't work like I expect.

But really, does anything?

These flames are nothing like the fires I've encountered before. And I've been around more fire in my life than anyone ever should.

No, these flames don't burn me. They don't hurt me or put me through agony or singe me to pieces. They don't melt off my makeshift coat of skin and they don't further decimate it either.

Instead the fire feels like almost nothing. Like something almost itchy, something almost irritating, something almost painful. Something that make me want to squirm and scream and escape all at the same time.

Which is real ironic considering what else it seems these flames do.

They seem to hold me into place. The second I'm in their hold, instead of the horrific pain I thought I'd be in, I'm trapped in a series of almost nothing.

I'm not in excruciating pain physically, but seeing my sister standing ten feet from me, and not being able to move any closer, not being able to protect her from whatever she's terrified of, is worse than any amount of injury this fire could have inflicted.

"Katniss!" Prim screams now, her voice only growing in its frantic nature. "Help! Why won't you come help me?"

I try to scream, try to tell her I want to but I can't move. But it turns out that these flames also paralyze vocal muscles.

"Peeta's dying!" Prim yelps out, looking behind her again, her hands beginning to shake in a way she almost never let them in life. She always tried to keep it together, to remain calm and rational in a crisis.

Her words elicit something entirely new inside of me though. "Peeta?" I yell in confusion, my voice suddenly no longer paralyzed.

"They're killing him! Katniss, please, why won't you come here? We need you!" Prim is close to hysterical now and frankly, so am I.

"I'm trying! I just," I move my hands down my body, trying to push the flames away as they rises up to my chest, trying to just break free from these fiery chains once and for all. "The fire, Prim! I can't get out of the fire."

Prim's voice drops then, loses all source of fear, every ounce of panic. Loses any semblance of emotion. "Katniss, there is no fire," she states blankly, her eyes looking directly at the embers covering my stomach and legs. "There's nothing there."

I just look at her for a moment, completely speechless. Her words are inconceivable, her eyes are haunted now, her facial expression is unrecognizable. Even her voice doesn't sound like hers anymore.

Before I can comprehend what's happening, in the distance a gunshot goes off.

Prim delicately glances over her shoulder now, her blue eyes cold as ice. "He's dead," she informs clinically, before sighing deeply, her tone almost disappointed. "And so am I."

I don't know what happens next or how it occurs, but I fly upwards in my bed with such a start, I give myself whiplash.

I hear a loud screeching noise hanging in the air, a hoarse trepidation that almost makes me feel better. I don't know why but someone else screaming in the middle of the night gives me hope, as sick as that may be.

Only it's not someone else, I realize, as my throat burns raw. I realize with startling clarity that I'm the only making all the noise. I'm the one shaking so tremendously. I'm the one who is sobbing.

"Shhh," a voice whispers against the darkness, and I flail involuntarily at the shock. "Sorry, sorry," Peeta instantly apologizes, his hands gripping my arms with a little too much intensity, trying to still my shaking. "It's okay, Katniss, you were just having a nightmare."

His words do precious little to calm me down though. "She was there," I cry, the image, the feeling, of Prim standing only ten feet from me and not being able to reach her too painful for me to unsee.

"Who was there?" He asks tenderly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Katniss, breathe."

I don't even bother listening to his advise. I haven't exhaled since I was eleven. "Prim was there. She was begging me to save her and then I couldn't, I was trapped but-but," I cut myself off, unable to form coherent words and thoughts any longer.

Peeta gets the gist though. "Come here," he whispers and pulls me into his arms, like he used to on the train, when my nightmares woke us both three times a night. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," he says softly now, and rubs my back in a way that elicits goosebumps. His way of trying to soothe my shaking. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"You died too," I blurt out then. I don't even know why I feel inclined to tell him.

"What?"

"I was stuck and I couldn't speak and then Prim said you were going to die and I got scared enough that I could talk again and I thought-I thought," I stumble breathlessly, my tears pouring out against his shoulder now.

I feel his lips touch my cheek and I'm too upset to revel in the feeling of blood rushing there. "It was just a nightmare," he promises.

But my sentiment is unfinished. "I thought I could break free, that I could-"

"Katniss," he halts, still holding me in his embrace, rocking me slightly. "It wasn't real. I promise you, it wasn't real."

Those words, the words so often said to him by me, ring a bell that I didn't want to ring. It snaps me back into reality abruptly and without warning, I feel like my chest is going to collapse.

Because this means Prim wasn't really there, that she still is as dead as she was yesterday, that I still watched her explode into pieces all over the bombsite in the Capitol.

I still failed to protect her.

Peeta pulls back slightly then and rests his forehead against mine. "It's okay, Katniss," he says again, trying to calm my trembles by rubbing my arms up and down.

"How are you in my house?" I realize, with an intense sudden clarity. "How are you here? Are you real or am I still-"

He quickly puts me out of my misery. "You gave me a key, remember? A long time ago? We gave each other keys to our houses."

Oh. Right. I forgot all about that when he had his nightmare, didn't I?

Good thing he's an idiot who keeps his door unlocked at night.

He's explaining further before I can think to ask. "I heard you having a nightmare from my house. That's why I rushed over here."

I'm caught between embarrassment and gratitude. "Sorry, I really don't know what brought it on."

"Hey," he quietly reprimands, lifting my chin now to meet eye contact. "Don't apologize. No one understands nightmares like me."

I nod, accepting his words, though still a little uncomfortable with screaming for all the district to hear at two in the morning.

Then again, our entire neighborhood is Haymitch and the two of us, and our mentor was drinking like a fish last night so really, the only person who could have heard me is already sitting directly in my eye line.

To punctuate his words, when I don't respond verbally, he lifts my hand up and brings it to his lips tenderly.

And I don't know what comes over me or why. I don't know if it's because we've been growing closer again lately or if I just haven't felt his arms around me since days ago in the bakery and I miss the feel of it desperately, but I find myself abruptly throwing my body around his before I can talk myself out of it.

He catches me easily, like he anticipated my reaction and sways me for a long moment, until my breathing begins to even itself out.

"Will you stay?" I rasp into his neck, as I feel his hand tangles in my matted locks.

"Always."

[fascinatingbonanza]

Bonanza chronology

(so far, which is the first 5 seasons)

As someone quite interested in history, I always enjoy stories set in the past and I always like to know when exactly in the past they are set. So recently I found myself trying way to much to figure out when does "Bonanza" actually take place. And It seems to be a far more difficult problem than I initially thought. But here's what I've got so far, after watching 5 seasons.

But then, as I was watching the series episode after episode, I quickly realised, that this 'canonical chronology' is bullshit and that time in "Bonanza" works in mysterious and extremely convoluted ways.

Generally the series takes place roughly somewhere in the 1860s. The first half of the decade to be a bit more precise, somewhere right before and during the American Civil War (something that is occasionally brought up in the episodes). That's literally what wikipedia says. However, as I dived a little into the fanpages and whatnot, I discovered that there seems to be a some sort of a more specific, canonical, chronology that basicly says that the pilot ("A Rose for Lotta") is set in 1859, then the first season is 1860, the second - 1861, the third - 1862 and so on.

(To be honest, that's quite cool actually, because it would mean that the series takes place exactly 100 years before it's premiere)

To realize that the canonical chronology just doesn't apply to the actual show, you only have to watch the first two seasons, where some episodes have literally a written year at the beginning.

We have it in season's one "San Francisco":

And that's ok, I mean, yeah, the first season (supposedly set in 1860) is coming to an end and now we are getting into the next year. It makes sense.

It still makes sense in the second season where we have "The Courtship", again with a date at the beginning:

Don't know why would they say it again, but all right, it's still 1861, no problem here.

And then, just two episodes later, comes "Bank Run" with this audacity:

What on earth happened here??? They just totally skipped 1862 and now we're a year later, with no explanation or a reason. And that's the moment when you realize that there is no such thing as 'linear chronology' in "Bonanza".

Especially when you also take into account all those stories involving real historical figures which were quite often in the first season. Sometimes the show just doesn't really care about historical facts and for example Lotta Crabtree (from "A Rose for Lotta") in 1859 would be only 12 years old. "The Julia Bulette story" is a bit closer to history altrough Bulette's death was changed a lot as in reality she died in 1867. Mark Twain, who appeard in "Enter Mark Twain", in reality visited Virginia City in 1863, so again, why is this a part of the first season which takes place in 1860?

Then you also have episodes which literally bring up real historical events, but they do it in such a clumsy way, that it's just painful. The one episode that strikes me the most with it is propably "A House Divided" which obviously quotes Lincoln's famous speech. Ben Cartwright even reads this speech in a brand new newspaper, but guess what, it's a speech from 1858, which is before the Comstock Lode was even discovered, so how can this whole episode be set around supplying the south with silver?! (But since it is about supplying the south with silver, I assume it must be around 1861, right at the start of the war)

After the first season "Bonanza" slowed down a bit with those 'history lessons', so in the second one there isn't really anything that could suggest any particular date (apart from "The Courtship" and "Bank Run" that I mentioned earlier). And maybe events from the second season do actually happen in 1861, as the canonical chronology would like it to.

But then comes my beloved third season, and boi oh boi, does it make an even greater mess. In "The Frenchman" the title character (apparently a reincarnation of Francois Villion) reads his last poem and starts with:

So we go back in time now? How nice. October 17th 1860, they couldn't be more explicit with it.

Towards the end of the season, we also get a little throw back to Bonanza's history lessons with "Look to the Stars" which tells a story of young Albert Michelson, future physicist and a Nobel Prize winner, who happend to live in Virginia City somewhere in the 1860s. The episode specifically focuses on his efforts to become a student at the Annapolis Naval Academy, which he started in 1869, so we can assume that this episode takes place around 1868-69. That's again a long jump in time.

The fourth season gives us even more specific dates and events to go over. First of all, right at the beginning, we have "The First Born", personally one of my very favourites, but that's not important here. The important thing is that Clay tells Joe that he was fighting in a war in Mexico:

But you know, that war in Mexico was kinda spread over time (from 1861 to 1867) so just mentioning it isn't quite enough to give us a more narrow period of time. Fortunately, Clay later tells just enough detail to do it:

So it's not all over yet, it's just that moment when the royalists won and the French took over Mexico for a while. From my very general knowlege about this I can guess that it's somewhere after 1863 then. Not much though. I like to think it's 1863 or 1864.

But all right, that may be to much guessing. Let's focus on those more obvious hints.

"The War Comes to Washoe" is one of those episodes that mention the Civil War and this time it tells a story of Nevada becoming a state. There's that voting and all, and basically it means that it's 1864, because that is when Nevade became a state (or maby 1863, because from thet voting to actually becoming a state it could've been a longer process). Just like that.

But the one episode that surprised me the most with the fact that it gives us a specific date is "The Last Haircut". And you can miss it, but right at the beginning we see an interesting banner:

So it's February 2nd, 1868... Well, that was easy. But again, a huge jump in time.

The fifth season greets us with another completely nonsensical historical figure appearance in "A Passion for Justice". From what I know, Charles Dickens never went west during his visits to America, but whatever. They wanted Charles Dickens in Virginia City so they put Charles Dickens in Virginia City. For the record, he was in America in 1842 and in 1868, so I guess we can pretend it's his 1868 visit. But still, it's just absurd.

But this season is mostly known for it's Laura and Will subplots, and you know what? We can actually precisely tell when it takes place. At the beggining of "The Waiting Game" we see Laura's husband's grave:

And look! February 20th, 1861! So that's when it all started. Later Adam says that it's been four months since Frank died, so we have June 1861. Then in "The Pressure Game" they celebrate the 4th of July, and in "Triangle" it is said that it had been a year since Adam gave Peggy her pony so now it must be around June 1862. And since at this point it all conects to Will's subplot, then "Return to Honor", "The Roper" and "The Companeros" must've happen somewhere inbetween.

Meanwhile there's also "The Prime of Life" about building the transcontinental railroad, and since we know that it reached Reno in 1868, then I guess the episode must be set somewhere right before that.

And to top it all off, in the season's finale, "Walter and the Outlaws", we get that one useless piece of information that Obie had last seen his sister in 1843, and it's been 16 years since then. So by easy maths we can say that the episode is set in 1859, just like the show's pilot.

And that's all for the first five seasons. What we get form it, is that "Bonanza" diefinietly doesn't have any chronology and that this canonical one is just right out of the blue.

To sum it up I can say that this show is just made out of random Catwright's adventures from several years and in no chronological order whatsoever. It's funny when you start to think about it and for example realise that when the Laura/Will story takes place, many of the adventures from previous seasons hasn't even happen yet.

Of course there's also four prequels that tell the stories about Ben's wives, but I think I'll leave it for some other time, because while talking about it, I would also have to talk about the ages of each Cartwright and generally it's a whole different complicated subject.

Also, if now there are episodes happening as late as 1867 and 1868, then when exactly did Adam leave the Ponderosa? Well that's something I'll have to think about while watching the 6th season. I hope there will be some answers to that.

[English isn't my first language so please excuse any mistakes. And I know there must be some.]

[stealth-liberal]

The Invention of Murder by Judith Flanders, I hope you can see the image I tried to post but since it's from google images, who knows. I tossed this book in the recycling bin before remembering to take a photo of it. Full disclosure, I did not like this book. It took me a little over four months to fail to finish this book, even though I forced myself to read some of it everyday. So, save your money and don't buy it.

The Invention of Murder is a non-fiction book about the British Victorian obsession with murder, violence and detection. The premise being that they essentially invented the detective fiction and true crime genres in the West and even more, murder as tourism and entertainment. Now, to Judith Flander's credit, she admits that this is only in the west, not the east. At no point does she even attempt to claim that the Victorians had anything to do with these genres as they are known in Asia and the Middle East.

This is all the credit I will give her. Now, lets move into why I very much disliked this book, shall we?

1. This book is long, very long. I no longer have it so I cannot tell you exactly how long, but very long. At first this was something I was excited about, to quote a coffee mug I saw once: "I like big books and I cannot lie." I eagerly dug in thinking this would be gaslight murder and mayhem and a lot of it.

Holy shit was I wrong.

Instead it was long and boring, nearly Dickensian in the overwrought descriptions. I know Flanders has made a living researching and writing about the Victorians, but honey, unlike them, you aren't paid by the word.

Each chapter would begin with a murder, the investigation, the trial and then the verdict. After that there was an exhaustive summary of every single broadside, pamphlet, newspaper article of note. Then after that, each and every book and novella based on the crime. You would think you were done, but NOPE. Then there was every single last play written that was based on said murder, how the performances went, who starred in them and how far from the actual events the plays and puppet shows got.

She managed to drag out murder in the gaslit and foggy streets of Victorian England to the point where it was boring as dirt. It was to the point where it was painful to slog through. I was truly surprised by this as I was by no means expecting this exciting of a subject to rendered so utterly boring.

2. When one immerses oneself into the study of an historical period, one needs to be careful not to pick up the prejudices of that period. Ms. Flanders was not that careful. It grew extremely distasteful reading her judgements of women who had children out of wedlock, it was even more distasteful when it became clear that she was going to use the term "bastard" to refer to those children. Who even uses that term anymore? It's entirely offensive!

Her effusive defense of all the men in this book was, uncomfortable at best and horrible at worst. It seemed like she honestly believed that these women (most of the victims are women and most of the killers are men) deserved to die because they were difficult and flouted the strictures of English Victorian society. Even when the women are falsely accused of a murder, as 2 women are in the poisoning chapter, she seems to think their execution isn't much of a tragedy.

She's also CLEARLY not that fond of Jewish people of that time period. As a Jewish woman I think you can all guess how I felt about that.

3. She cannot stop herself from using Victorian slang. Which would be fine and forgivable if not for two things. First: she did not include a glossary for any of these terms, so the reader has no idea what she's talking about unless they're already familiar. Second: after the other two infractions I've already covered, I was disinclined to cut her any slack on this.

In short, don't buy this book, don't waste your hard earned money. I would never recommend this to anyone.

[larktb-archive]

Whenever I go to block a racist I've been seeing a post that claims that revolutions dont work and peaceful protests do.

These are the examples said post uses:

These are all fucking terrible examples to use and I'm gonna go in order of worse to best which isn't saying much.

Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace

Yes this did in fact end the civil war. But no one denied that peaceful protests can make momentary symbolic changes such as ending a war or gaining a country its independence. This does often happen and you can list off dozens of countries wherein there has been a peaceful response to violence which has seemingly brought about an end to that violence I should know this because after all I come from the best known example of that happening aside from India (and I'll come back to my home country eventually). The problem with saying this is that it ignores the aftermath of the "peace" and whether or not it made enough of a difference in peoples lives for it to matter; even though external visible violence has been quelled, other covert forms of violence stay in place.

Liberia is a good example of this because of one major issue in Liberia: Corruption. Millions of USD are lost every year due to members of the government pocketing the money for themselves to the extent where, according to Transparency International, Liberia is 137 out of 180 and 53% of public service users had paid a bribe within the year of 2019. Interestingly enough the OP of that post calls China and Cuba corrupt despite the fact that Cuba is 60th and China is 80th. But I guess what happens after the revolutions is successful only matters when you're talking about places you dislike.

This corruption has lead to protests in 2019 and 2020, wherein police used tear gas to disperse peaceful protesters. Something to note is the minister of informations accusation of the protests being caused by outside elite forces. Rings a bell but I'm not sure from where.

Now one of the reasons Liberia is so corrupt is because of the lack of punishment against the main actors of the civil war, in spite of the trc listing out 100+ perpetrators and recommending that they be dealt with.

Then president, Ellen Sirleaf Johnson, was on this list and has admitted that she backed the civil war. She went on to win a Nobel Peace Prize.

Jasmine Revolution

Around 79% of people in post revolution Tunisia think the country is "going in the wrong direction", 29% of people would not vote with 48% not knowing who they would vote for, 81% said they don't feel close to a political party, 57% said they aren't interested at all in elections, only 20% believed elections would be free and fair, 45% said they disapprove of the current president, 71% said the government isn't addressing the needs of the youth, 50% of people said the government struggles with preventing political violence and I could go on and on.

But this is only 1 study with a very small sample size so by itself it's not a lot.

But when you compound that with a corruption index of 74, an unemployment rate of 15% (compared to Vietnam and Cubas horrible 3% rate and Chinas 6% rate), ~100,000 skilled workers leaving the country and a slowly increasing number of asylum applicants leads me to think that the data is not unfounded.

Suicide and murder rates also increased after the revolution, with cases of self immolation increasing threefold, such as with the case of Abderrazak Zorgui, who's death sparked protests which turned violent after the police were sent in to quell them.

At least 800 Tunisians went to fight for Isil and that's only counting those who came back from Syria. For comparison 900 returned to Turkey and 760 returned to Saudi Arabia.

Much like Liberia there has not been any justice, with the government instead introducing a law granting amnesty to former members of the dictatorship in Tunisia. A constitutional court was supposed to be set up in 2014 to speed up this process. 6 years on it still hasnt been set up.

Rose Revolution

Now this one is interesting. Georgia has a corruption ranking of 44, its unemployment rate of 11%, although higher than the corrupt, evil nations of Cuba and Vietnam isn't terrible and its Gini Coefficient is 36.4 which is pretty average.

So what's wrong with this one?

Well for starters four years after the Rose Revolution, Georgian protestors once again took to the capital to protest against the increasing amount of power, President Saakashvili, who led the Rose Revolution, was gaining.

To be more specific in 2004, legislation was passed to give him the right to dissolve parliament and in 2006 local elections were manipulated so that the government would dominate local legislatures.

And what's that? The president of Georgia blamed outside Russian influence on the protests and sent in police with tear gas and water cannons? That seems weirdly familiar familiar. Where have I heard that one before.

Here is a quote from a leader of a peaceful revolution after peaceful protests against him took place: "Everyone has the right to express disagreement in a democratic country. But the authorities will never allow destabilisation and chaos".

Interesting how after he was put in power, suddenly peaceful protest is the work of Moscow and needs to be controlled by police. Funny that. But this is totally a successful revolution guys!

And how many protests happened after this one? 3, not including the anti-homophobia protest. I think if you need to protest against the government every few years to the point where people keep calling each new protest, the Rose Revolution 2.0, your 1st revolution wasn't that successful.

Womans Suffrage

But before I talk about the relatively well off post-Soviet nations let's just do a assessment of the absolutely dumb as fuck idea that the Suffragists were more effective than the Suffragetes despite the Suffragists making no progress in the 40 years they existed prior to the branching off of the Suffragettes.

Now some historians do agree that the Suffragettes more violent methods did begin to turn men away from granting womens suffrage during their later years. Less concrete is the idea that this outweighs the net positive they had on the movement for womens suffrage.

In fact heres a contemporary source from 1906 praising the suffragette movement:

"I hope the more old-fashioned suffragists will stand by them. In my opinion, far from having injured the movement, [the Suffragettes] have done more during the last 12 months to bring it within the region of practical politics than we have been able to accomplish in the same number of years"

Who said that? Millicent Fawcett? Oh clearly she's just biased towards suffragettes?

But even if I gave evidence that the Suffragettes were indeed more effective than the Suffragists, you could easily find an opposing argument and vice versa. Ww1 happened and in the end that swift change of culture is what gave women their rights to vote (or at least the wealthy).

What can be argued is the historical reasons of why the Suffragettes became even more violent in 2nd decade of the 20th century leading to more guerrilla warfare like tactics being deployed such as arson.

Black Friday happened. Was a protests against the government caused by then Prime Minister Asquith, reneging his promise to put a bill granting womens suffrage through parliament. This protest started off as peaceful and ended up with women being physically and sexually assaulted by the police and counterprotesters with there being accusations of plain clothes police officers inciting this violence. Do I even have to say it?

In order to avoid further molestation, the Suffragettes stopped doing large gatherings with each other and went "underground" so to speak getting more and more violent.

What we should recall is the fact that prior to this Emmeline Pankhurst told the Suffragettes to stop all operations and renewed them after this traumatic event.

Prior to the suffragettes emergence the fight for women's rights had been by in large ignored by the public and it was only after their emergence that this became an issue in the forefront of the public's mind.

For a more nuanced view:

"Viewing the militant movement from the second half of the twentieth century, it is difficult to argue that violence does not ‘pay off’.   [The history of independence of the colonies, and Civil Rights campaigns in the USA shows that violence can succeed.]   It may be that suffragette violence after 1912 fell between two stools, being inadequate to force the government but sufficiently destructive to antagonise public opinion.  This writer [i.e. Constance Rover] is of the opinion that, as the events turned out, militant tactics helped the women's suffrage movement until 1912, but after that date were harmful.   This does not mean that militancy was necessarily a foolish policy.   With hindsight, one can conclude that militancy failed in the last two years before the war, but with the experience of rebellion we have had since, one cannot conclude that militant tactics are an unsuccessful means of obtaining an objective such as enfranchisement..."

- Constance Rover 1967.

I use the quote in specific because it calls the civil rights movement violent. And was written a year prior to the end of the movement. It's almost as if the movement has been whitewashed by liberals to be a completely non-violent effort or something.

Singing Revolution and Velvet Revolution

I'm putting both of these together as these states are all former Soviet nations who have became arguably more successful than others like Moldova, Bulgaria and the aforementioned Georgia.

Now in the post-Soviet Baltic states, there are a large list of things i could talk about. The high suicide rates, the mass exodus leading to a quarter of the population in each nation leaving them, the large amount of people at risk of poverty, high incarceration rates, the gutting of labour laws, the rise of anti-semitism and the glorification of Nazis within their societies all come to mind. Some of these also apply to Czechia and Slovakia.

I could talk about specific events such as the Gorilla scandal, the murder Jan of Kuciak literally everything concerning Czech prime minister Babiš and the large proportion of Soviet Nostalgia in both Czechia and Slovakia (1/3 in the former and 1/2 in the latter).

I could mention protests that have taken place after these revolutions leading to the usage of rubber bullets and tear gas to disperse protesters who were acting non-violently. But I'd be repeating myself so I'm leaving it at that.

"But Lilly" you might say, "that doesn't necessarily disprove OPs point that these protests were successful, they did after all achieve their goals of 'political revolution/ending war/gaining womens suffrage".

And that's true. But...

TL;DR

OP used these as examples to contrast against so called failed violent revolutions with OP using violent revolutions like Vietnam, Haiti, Cuba, China, the USSR and the French Revolution as examples of failed revolutions. Anyone with a brain knows these revolutions absolutely succeeded in their short term goals of political change. There is no Tsar anymore, Cuba and Vietnam are still socialist, the aristocracy of france were decapitated, Haitians arent slaves and China has no emperor.

So where does the problem with these revolutions lie? Well according to OP:

... of course as we've just seen the so called successful peaceful revolutions are also poverty-ridden, corrupt and unstable with problems years later so what's the actual difference? There is none (aside from the historical revisionism of socialist states but that's beside the point), it's just hypocrisy and an incredibly silly gotcha to those currently arguing for violent protest.

I could continue and talk about how Haiti collapsed because of sanctions from racist countries who wanted to punish Haiti for fighting against their white masters, how Vietnam was practically always in war throughout the 20th century and how its stabilized since the end of the Viet-Khmer war, how Cuba infinitely improved the lives of all Cubans and was far more humanitarian than any western nation at the time, how the USSR and communist China turned Russia and China from poor feudal states to economic powerhouses which were far more equal in nature than the US.

But this post is way too long and I don't want to have to read through another dozen sources written by anti-communists liberals again.

Edit: the conclusion didnt save properly (thanks tumblr)

To end I'll say that the major problem with non-violent protests that is shared by every single one of these examples (apart from womens rights) is the lack of punishment towards those who caused the problems the people were protesting against. This means that said people can become president or a member of the government without any impediment and those people continue to be corrupt. From Ellen Sirleaf Johnson to Mikheil Saakashvili to the Tunisian government to Andrej Babiš. On the other hand violent revolution makes sure that those who war complicit in the crimes of the past are not able to usher in the crimes of the future, even if others eventually do.

The thing about that is progress has still been made, and even if they begin to reverse some of the gains that had been made they cant reverse all of them. With non-violent revolutions there is no change except for the ways that those in power step on the working class being more covert than overt.

You can decide which you prefer.