Stifling a yawn, Hawke looks up from her mug of too-strong tea to see Fenris by the window, holding the drapes open with one hand. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes as she makes her way to him, then peeps outside from above his shoulder.
She groans. Past the frost filigreed on the glass panes, she sees nothing but white, piled up high enough to reach the tines of their small garden fence. The branches of pines and sugar maples around the yard droop under the weight; far off in the distance, the Frostbacks are lost in a pearlescent haze.
Fenris thrusts his feet into his boots, wraps his cloak about his shoulders and shoves the door open through the snow blanketing the ground. Then he’s off, Ambrosius on his heels.
Sandor hauls his massive head off the carpet and lets out an inquisitive arf? as the door swings closed behind Fenris, sweeping clumps of snow inside that Hawke chooses to ignore for the time being. She sits cross-legged on the floor, blowing the steam that rises from her mug into swirling wisps. “Children, I swear,” she says, scratching the old hound behind the ears as he settles back again in front of the flames crackling in the hearth. “You’d think they’ve never seen snow before—oh.”
Spring festival necklace • Vial necklace • Natural wood necklace • Spring fever • Spring jewelry • Goddess necklace • Witchy jewelry
Feather-light, vial necklace with a real willow catkin inside. This fluffy catkin was part of a beautiful grey willow branch, harvested in early spring, and it makes a great natural token for those in tune with the seasons.
Here it is. The sketch for
Wu and Zane’s introduction pages. … I’m in serious trouble. `XD
First I was
thinking of some simple pic with not much more than the characters and some
simple, almost abstract bc that somehow represented their elements like I did
with Kai & Nya and Cole & Jay. So, I thought that it would be some
spring scene where Wu was taking Zane to the monastery, because it happened in
spring time (in my timeline). Zane would be marveling some spring birds, there
would be snow on the ground (Zane) and sun would be shining (Wu). But it looked
too empty and dull, so I thought I would add a little willow with catkins on
it. I have no idea if I could draw a tree or bush, but whatever. Still looking
empty. Well, what if I made a bit perspective and showed the path in the far
distance? And there should probably be a tree line too. Still looking empty.
Well Imma add some hills on the far background. And hey what if there was a village
before the woods.
Now I’m wondering: Can I really
I’ve never drawn complex
backgrounds. Nor landscapes and that’s for sure. I can’t even draw trees.
>.< Besides now this is absolutely
too full of stuff for plain
introduction pic. Well, I think I’ll try to
draw this on its full and post it as its own entity, and then go with the
second plan (that is: the characters, birds, and the willow) for the
I’m probably not the only one looking forward to the warm weather and the long walks in the woods! We’re all welcoming this with open arms. And if your also like me you’re probably still trying to figure out what you want to do to celebrate this day! Well here’s some suggestions!
+ Spring Rebirth Ritual + Make some homemade hot cross buns + Make some Ostara Cakes!
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“I, um… I used to eat a lot of my mom’s cooking,”
he explains in a small, quiet voice. “She’s actually a really good cook but…her
meals always left me feeling empty, somehow. Dad could make the same meal the exact
same way and it would be totally different. You could taste the affection; it
filled you up, somehow.”
“I know what you mean,” I answer with a smile,
tipping my face just enough to brush noses with him. “Your food tastes of the
most wonderful things, every last bite of it. Things like comfort and laughter
and autumn sunsets,” I explain, neatly leaving off the thing I love most. The
thing that flows out of him in golden waves and bathes everything in its gentle
glow but can never ever belong to me.
He chuckles faintly. “That’s not surprising,” he
says. “I mean, it’s a little surprising that you could taste such specific
things, not that they were there.”
“Food is like a language with you,” I tell him,
leaning back to meet his eyes. “It took me a little while to learn it, but now
it’s almost like looking at one of your pictures or hearing you tell a
His free hand reaches up to brush my cheek.
“You’re too clever by half, Katniss Everdeen,” he says softly. “Is that how you
I shake my head in puzzlement. “Did what?” I
He takes one beribboned braid between his thumb
and forefinger and gently follows the silky red strand from root to tail. “This
meal tastes like happiness,” he murmurs,
curling the tail of my braid around his fingertip. “It’s bursting with it, actually; with happiness and affection and…and –”
He breaks off with a sharp, strange cry, quickly stifled. “With…other wonderful
things,” he says hoarsely.
That’swhere the extra love went, I realize in horror. There was never a chance to store it away.
It spilled out of me and right into his food.
For a brief, mad moment I wonder if I’ve poisoned
him somehow. If I’ve drugged or sickened this precious boy by pouring enough
love into his food to choke the veriest glutton.
“It tastes like home,” he goes on, “but…like a home I’ve never known before. A rich
and wondrous place,” he breathes, “that might not even exist, or maybe never
My breath catches in something like a whimper
because I know what he tasted in this meal; what streamed through my fingertips
as they cracked and sliced and stirred and fell like rain in the silver motes
of my song: our home – this beautiful
house in the woods – but the way that I
see it. Pine smoke and cider and hearty rabbit stew, furs and skins and glorious
old tales and a wild vixen with fairy blood who loves a golden prince with all
He’s tasting my hunger for him: to hold him close
and kiss him breathless, my mouth moving eagerly over every inch of his sweet,
soft skin. To share bread and wine and lie together as husband and wife,
merging our bodies with breathless, halting tenderness. To give him kits and
chicks, kindled and carried in the secret hearth at the root of my belly.
Except he doesn’t know that. The images swirling
through each bite – downy fox kits tumbling from eggshells of shimmering pearl,
silky-furred goslings birthed from a womb and cradled to a dusky breast, a nest
of catkin-studded willow branches threaded with miles of scarlet ribbon and lined
with deerskin and furs and dandelion down – are straight out of the strangest
And he can’t ever be allowed to guess it. I have
to guard my heart and hands more carefully, especially in these moments of
joyous abandon, lest they betray the full appalling truth and he’s forced to send
me away forever.
exist, Peeta,” I vow, thinking of his Seam sweetheart and swallowing back my
grief as I press my forehead against his. “One day, very soon. A home where
you’re cherished and adored, every last part of you. It’s close,” I soothe,
letting a single slender thread of the truth – my love for him – seep through
in my voice. “So close, my sweet boy.”
He leans back with a sad smile to meet my eyes.
“I can wait,” he says softly. “I could wait a hundred years if that place lay
on the other side of it.”
I try to picture this sturdy Merchant boy
cradling a newly hatched kitling in the bowl of a willow-cradle and wish that it
wasn’t so easy, nor so heartbreakingly beautiful. “Not half so long as that,” I
promise, mentally exchanging the kitling for a black- or golden-haired infant
in turn – the likely offspring of his marriage – and finding it no less natural
or painful. “And in the meantime I’ll give you as much of it – of that home,” I
add quickly, “of that…that happiness – as
“You’ve already given me so much of it,” he murmurs. “So much more than you realize, Katniss.
I think the full measure might well stop my heart.”
I force a clumsy chuckle. “Well, we don’t want
that,” I say. “I’ll aim for seventy-five percent happiness.”
To my surprise this makes him laugh in turn, a bright,
genuine chuckle that crinkles his eyes at the corners. “You’re nearing eighty already
at the least, gosling mine,” he
insists. “Throw in a cuddle-nest and it’s a solid eighty-five.”
I laugh heartily and the spell is broken, at
least for the moment. “The cuddle-nest is a cert,” I assure him. “This gosling’s
breakfast, however, appears to be a doubtful prospect –”
“Come here, you,” he growls playfully and hauls
me up into his lap again, bringing my back flush against his chest. “I knew I
had the right idea to begin with,” he says, wrapping his arms around my waist
like a belt of warm steel. “Now you can have all you want and you get to decide
when – or if – I get any more bites.”
“You’ll get bites,” I assure him. “All the bites
you could possibly want. I want to keep my toes, after all.”
“I was going to ask about those,” he says. “The
only other thing I asked for and you couldn’t be bothered to include them in
your menu. Miserly vixen,” he scolds teasingly and I feel his mouth at my right
shoulder, taking a mock-bite against the flannel, the way you pretend-gobble at
a small child.
The place between my legs pulses faintly and I
reach back to cup his downy-curled head and draw it over to my nape. “I knew I
should’ve started with your beak,” I murmur and win a ragged sigh in response.
“Not my beak, please,” he whines against the sensitive
ridge of my spine. “I need it for gobbling up eggy and biscuits and unwary
vixens – and of course, for crowing your praises.”
“Are you a gander, a tom, or a rooster?” I tease,
but because I love and want all of the things he just listed to take place, I
don’t bother to protest further.
Drew up this height chart of the folks in Eli’s group. From left to right are Benjalidius-Veen “Benjal” or “Benji” McCoy, Eli-Vincet Hakkara, Catkin of Anthyllis and Willow of Iris beneath him, Gulden Bens, Gerel and her beardog Baga Bish, Taz O’Malley, Serentagra McCoy, and Vernon-Aldius Mazerin, with monster in the back being known as Armel.
I’ll post individual pics and blurbs about them in a sec.
Fair warning: the Peeta-Christ metaphors kick in earlier in this scene, and the discerning reader might recognize a reference to Matthew 15:26-27 in this excerpt… :D
Also, “crumbs” are a bit of a motif in this chapter. There are literal and figurative crumbs, and Katniss references both here…
I’m in my hunting boots and Dad’s jacket when I recall the pretty cardinal-cap Lavinia gave me yesterday and run upstairs to retrieve it from my drawer. If I was actually hunting or doing butchering work I’d wear my plain old stocking cap from home, but for simply going to and from the stable and maybe wearing around the workshop if it’s especially cold, there’s little danger of the new cap encountering stains or other damages.
Peeta’s waiting for me at the foot of the stairs with the bird tray and a smile as broad and golden as a sunrise. “There you are, little songbird,” he says, and there’s more affection than teasing in his words. “Fly back to me soon, okay?”
Crumbs, I remind myself firmly. The birds of the woods eat the crumbs from his table and grow fat and cheerful upon them. Are you – a willow catkin, spun from starlight and sparrow-song; from winter and wildflowers and will-o’-the-wisps – so very different from those birds? How much more do you need to survive?
“Okay,” I lie.
Truth be told, I plan to stay in the stable till sundown. To stretch and scrape and tan till I’ve forgotten the whole morning, both good moments and bad, and remember who I am again. Plain, scrawny Katniss Everdeen, huntress and companion to Peeta Mellark. Not the moon, not a doe, and certainly not a snow-maiden, brought to life by a scrap of red cloth and a boy’s sweet mouth.