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The Apothecary's Daughter

ch 7

Witch!? Half choking on the tea I’ve just accidently inhaled, I wheeze, my eyes watering. What is this mad aged crone about? Her knobby fingers darts out and wrap about my wrist in an iron grasp before I can fumble out some reason to excuse myself. “Girl,” she says, her face so close I could count the wiry hairs on her chin. Her eyes, not fevered but shrewd, pierce mine and pin me in place. “You don’t remember.” This is not said in a way that suggests this is new information for her, but that she’s supplying it to me. What else can I do but shake my head, though more as a denial of the entire concept. “We’ve wondered, over the years, what had happened,” she continues. “You were so powerful for one so young, but that was no surprise with your bloodline. Your paw’s mawmaw, Elswyth Larkin, was the most talented witch in generations.” “We?” I say, trying to make some kind of sense from what she’s saying. “The other witches,” she says causally. My mouth opens to ask, I know not what, but my mind swims, dizziness sweeps over me, and my vision begins to darken. Sae clamps down on my wrist again, the pain grounded me somewhat. “None of that, now,” she says, tapping my forehead between my eyes. “Seems that spell you’re under is trying to protect you from knowing certain truths. Most likely why you were able to remember what you dreamt only after you drank that brew. Your talent was in dreams, you see. If you can remember them, you may find a way to break the spell.” Shaking my head again, now attempting to relieve a ringing in my ears, I struggle to concentrate. “Spell?” I say, my thoughts so sluggish I can’t understand her meaning. She eyes me sympathetically. “You have a powerful protection spell on you,” she says. I nod, recalling she’d mentioned it the previous week with her display with the strange cards. We folk of these mountains have always been a superstitious lot, with many beliefs best not mentioned in front of Capitol types. We all know to open a window when someone passes, so their spirit is sure to be set free. Or that you’ll have poor luck if you don’t leave through the door you entered in. If a person dies, two more are sure to follow as death always comes in threes. Never walk into fog, especially at night, for the dead roam there. Paint your front door haint blue to ward off disgruntled spirits. Plant anything that grows above the earth while the moon waxes, and anything below while it wanes. Even my mother insists on leaving out a dish of bread, honey, and milk on the first day of May, and last day of October, every year, at least since she remarried, for good fortune. She used to tease Prim about not wanting to offend fairykind. Still, actual witchcraft? Such a notion is so far outside the realm of all that is known to me that I simply can’t fathom its truth.

the rest is now posted on ao3

#wistfulweaverwoman #lilymaid #the apothecary’s daughter #everlark fanfiction #everlark #ao3 #chapter 7

wistfulweaverwoman

The Apothecary's Daughter

ch 7

Witch!? Half choking on the tea I’ve just accidently inhaled, I wheeze, my eyes watering. What is this mad aged crone about? Her knobby fingers darts out and wrap about my wrist in an iron grasp before I can fumble out some reason to excuse myself. “Girl,” she says, her face so close I could count the wiry hairs on her chin. Her eyes, not fevered but shrewd, pierce mine and pin me in place. “You don’t remember.” This is not said in a way that suggests this is new information for her, but that she’s supplying it to me. What else can I do but shake my head, though more as a denial of the entire concept. “We’ve wondered, over the years, what had happened,” she continues. “You were so powerful for one so young, but that was no surprise with your bloodline. Your paw’s mawmaw, Elswyth Larkin, was the most talented witch in generations.” “We?” I say, trying to make some kind of sense from what she’s saying. “The other witches,” she says causally. My mouth opens to ask, I know not what, but my mind swims, dizziness sweeps over me, and my vision begins to darken. Sae clamps down on my wrist again, the pain grounded me somewhat. “None of that, now,” she says, tapping my forehead between my eyes. “Seems that spell you’re under is trying to protect you from knowing certain truths. Most likely why you were able to remember what you dreamt only after you drank that brew. Your talent was in dreams, you see. If you can remember them, you may find a way to break the spell.” Shaking my head again, now attempting to relieve a ringing in my ears, I struggle to concentrate. “Spell?” I say, my thoughts so sluggish I can’t understand her meaning. She eyes me sympathetically. “You have a powerful protection spell on you,” she says. I nod, recalling she’d mentioned it the previous week with her display with the strange cards. We folk of these mountains have always been a superstitious lot, with many beliefs best not mentioned in front of Capitol types. We all know to open a window when someone passes, so their spirit is sure to be set free. Or that you’ll have poor luck if you don’t leave through the door you entered in. If a person dies, two more are sure to follow as death always comes in threes. Never walk into fog, especially at night, for the dead roam there. Paint your front door haint blue to ward off disgruntled spirits. Plant anything that grows above the earth while the moon waxes, and anything below while it wanes. Even my mother insists on leaving out a dish of bread, honey, and milk on the first day of May, and last day of October, every year, at least since she remarried, for good fortune. She used to tease Prim about not wanting to offend fairykind. Still, actual witchcraft? Such a notion is so far outside the realm of all that is known to me that I simply can’t fathom its truth.

the rest is now posted on ao3

#wistfulweaverwoman #lilymaid #the apothecary’s daughter #everlark #everlark fanfiction #ao3 #chapter 7

wistfulweaverwoman

The Apothecary's Daughter

chapter 6

The oblivion of sleep is too alluring to resist. Every few hours I start to resurface and roll over to seek that blessed nothingness. Vaguely I mark the passage of time by the subtle increase in temperature in the kitchen. At one point I need to escape the sticky oppression and kick off the quilts like a small child. Reluctantly, I wake when the garden door latches shut with a thud and Peeta peers down at me, blinking.

“Katniss?” he says. “Can I fetch you anything? Are you hungry?”

My belly curdles at the thought of food and I shake my head. He steps away and then returns, sitting beside me. His hand slides under the nape of my neck and gently raises me to hold a jar of water to my lips. Once the cup is empty he eases me back to the pillow. His kindness, gentleness, him, rouses me. I nearly shrink from his touch.

He smells of soil and green things. Alive and warm, nearly glowing. There’s a high color to his cheeks. Even the shadows can’t dull the astonishing blue of his eyes, like the afternoon sky in deep summer. His too long hair is disheveled. A coating of grime clings to his skin, scented with the muskiness of manual labor.

The rest of the chapter is on ao3!

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wistfulweaverwoman

Easy

Chapter 4 now on ao3

There’s a bee in my bonnet the rest of the week. That Message Unsent is haunting me. Was it just a joke that she decided was terrible? Or some type of confession? Maybe it was something about Gale? Not knowing is kind of killing me. We end up spending almost every day after practice together doing homework at her house, though she won’t let me buy dinner again. Prim often flashes us coy looks, which we both ignore.

“It’s my party, Peeta!” Finnick yells down the table at lunch on Friday. “You have to at least come over for an obligatory round of beer pong!”

“I dunno if the little lady will agree,” I say, glancing at Katniss, my arm around her shoulder, trying to communicate with my eyes that I do not want to go and please bail me out. She smirks.

“Fine with me,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to try beer pong.” My eyebrows shoot up and she shrugs.

For the first night this week I drop Katniss off after practice and don’t follow her inside. Instead I rush home to change. Which. I have nothing to wear. Nothing cool. I never noticed before how basically everything I own is designed for comfort over fashion. Finally I settle on the fairly generic pairing of a white polo, baggy jeans, and white sneakers. Rye busts into the bathroom while I’m trying to do something to tame my hair.

“I hear there’s a party at Finnick’s tonight,” he says.

“No, that’s just a rumor, it’s actually at Cato’s house,” I say, acknowledging defeat over my curls and turning to him. He just smiles wider and I roll my eyes.

“See you there,” he calls after me as I make my way back downstairs.

“You look nice,” Katniss says when she opens the truck door. I instantly wish I’d walked to the door to knock instead of texting her that I’d arrived.

“You look- wow” I say, taking a moment to fully appreciate her appearance. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face and she’s applied a little make up. Like me, she’s wearing baggy jeans and sneakers like normal, but these are low and snug at her hips, while her tee shirt is much more fitted than she normally wears, and cropped. A tantalizing amount of skin is on display. “Damn, Everdeen.” A million things pass through my buzzing brain but all I can say is “Wow.”

wistfulweaverwoman

The Captive

Part 1 of The Long Way Home

Alarm bleats through me when the lift in the training center lowers instead of rising, continuing farther down than where I’ve trained in the past. The six peacekeepers with me say nothing as we descend, just shuffle around me. My pulse is thudding in my ears when the doors open to a well lit white corridor smelling of antiseptic. There’s more peace keepers waiting, though the uniform is one I don’t recognize.

“Out,” one barks, and I stumble forward into the crowd of them from a shove at my back. Hands push at me from all sides to push my face and chest against the far wall. Hands roughly pull my arms behind my back while more run over me, I guess checking for weapons. Not that there was so much as a fork up on the twelfth floor. Cold metal surrounds my wrists with a pinch. A sharp yank to my scalp and fabric descends over my face, my breath instantly hot over my skin. Forcing my breathing to grow slow and even I’m led stumbling away from the lift. Shoved towards the interrogation I’ve been expecting since my retrieval from the arena with Johanna Mason.

Now on AO3

If you read it and don’t hate it please leave a kudos. Even better, leave a comment, we writers do like feedback.

wistfulweaverwoman

The Ascent

Chapter 1

Nightmares waking to more nightmares, till my eyes open and the room is white, not grey.

My wrists are shackled with padded restraints, so despite the prime painkillers pumping into my arm, I’m still some kind of prisoner. Unable to focus my eyes I can’t make out much, except the bed I’m half reclined in is a real bed. There’s sheets and blankets, even a pillow.

A voice, a girl’s, sings softly, lulling me into a gentle sleep.

Every time I open my eyes the haze seems to clear a little more. I’m never conscious for long, but nothing concerns me floating on this painless cloud. Through the drug fog I feel my limbs moved, or hear voices, usually just one. Sometimes she seems to be reading out loud to me, sometimes she sings, and sometimes she monologues. Sometimes she’s quiet, but I feel she’s still with me.

Now on AO3

wistfulweaverwoman

Hunger Games and the Romantic Child

Wayyy back in the middle ages, and before, there was no concept of childhood. The infant and child mortality rates were really high so childhood was something to get through, not celebrated. As soon as the child was able to follow any kind of direction they were put to work. Around mid to late 16th century Calvinism rose in popularity. Those are the folks that came up with that lovely saying “spare the rod spoil the child”. They believed that everyone was born with the original sin, and you must spend your life atoning for it.

In the beginning of the 17th century it began to be suggested by doctors and philosophers that 1. mothers should breastfeed instead of using a wet nurse and 2. they should stop swaddling (a different practice than what we do now, dating back to Roman times up till even the 19th and 20th centuries babies were swaddled by being bound in strips of cloth like mummies to help straighten their limbs) so with those changes the infant mortality rates decreased and a family centric life emerged. This was also around the time of the start of the industrial revolution and the birth of individualism.

In the mid 1700’s a philosopher named Rousseau suggested that children are actually born pure and it’s society that corrupts. And that for children to remain pure they should spend as much time as possible out in nature. A famous poem written by Wordsworth embodies this philosophy. This became the birth of the Romantic Child archetype.

So nature good, society bad. Golden celestial light reminiscent of heaven/innocence. Alice, in Alice in Wonderland, needs a golden key and to shrink (like reversing back to infanthood) to get into the most beautiful garden she’s ever seen, full of talking animals. Sounds a lot like the Garden of Eden.

In The Outsiders, Ponyboy and Johnny hop a train to the country to escape the corrupting society (or hide from murder charges). The whole story up to that point is basically at night. When they arrive in the country the sun is rising (another symbol of God, the east), symbolic of them returning to innocence. Later they watch the sunrise all golden and wispy (referencing the Wordsworth’s poem) and Johnny wishes the sky could always be like that and Ponyboy says “no gold can stay” referring to a Frost poem of the same name.

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

When Jonny is dying he tells Ponyboy to “stay golden”, meaning to keep his innocence, or purity.

In the first novel of the series, Hunger Games, Colins flips the formula. Katniss starts in the woods, in nature. The arena is an artificial woods, representing the corrupting nature of society. Outside of the arena there’s the gold pin that reminds her of her father, and Cinna’s gold eyeliner, the dandelion, like little signposts of hope. And yet in the arena gold is dangerous, gold cornucopia, gold trackerjackers.

While Katniss's story does start in the woods it becomes clear as the narrative progresses that she is already corrupted. It's not immediately evident because we the reader have not received all of the clues we'd need to put its together, but Katniss has been corrupted by the Capitol through propaganda. By the end of Mockingjay she returns home, away from the corruption, to nature, returning to (symbolically) the "purity of self".

wistfulweaverwoman

Starting with the scene by the river where Katniss doesn’t want to see Peeta naked, and then evolving throughout the rest of the series is a dialogue surrounding Katniss’s purity. Especially in Catching Fire, where Peeta laughs at her anger about the other tributes teasing her (and joins in the teasing himself), and Effie reprimands Katniss for sleeping in the same bed as Peeta. There’s an undulating thread tying public and private instances of purity (and the lack thereof), and the series ultimately culminates/ends with Katniss forfeiting up her “purity” to Peeta. I’ve always been curious as to the larger message Suzanne Collins was saying with this, as we know she’s intentional with every part of her books. What do you feel like the symbolism/intention is of this? Is it just the glaringly obvious: that Katniss gave all of herself to the war theory she chose (Peeta)? Or is there something more? Would love your take on this, your analyses are always so enlightening.

Hello Anon, thank you for the ask! I’m sorry it's taken so long to reply, but I’ve been marinating on this a while, along with delving into some research to best address your questions.

Purity is something I’ve written about before, pearls specifically. You can read more on that here. It ties into the overarching theme of spiritual transcendence, which I touch on here.

I suspect that when Effie was trying to get Katniss to stop sharing a bed with Peeta it wasn’t so much about the impropriety of the act itself, since she's from the Capitol, but a concern that it might lead to either Katniss or Peeta (or both) being sold. Peeta later teasing Katniss in the elevator about being pure, despite her protests to the contrary, was more of a method to subtly introduce the idea of the sexual deviance that exists in the Capitol.

The type of purity you are referring to in your examples is abstaining from sex till marriage, and perhaps refraining from sexual thoughts, sometimes referred to as "purity culture". And I can see why one might think that, especially when considering Peeta’s elevator comment. Honestly Katniss wouldn’t fit that definition of purity anyway, despite never having sex, because she does tell us that she longs for Peeta, wants him in her bed, and is desperate for his kisses.

Katniss's discomfort with nudity and sex, to me, stems from the lack of exposure to those things, or more specifically a lack of societal corruption. In literary terms I believe the author is hinting at the Romantic Child archetype, which I go into more detail here.

Katniss, interestingly, refers to purity long before Peeta ever calls her pure. In Hunger Games, the night before Katniss and Peeta enter the arena Peeta talks to her about not wanting to be a piece in their game.

“While I’ve been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self."

Some examples of what "purity of self" can mean:

High purity: calm presence, consistent ethical choices even when costly, capacity for truthful self-reflection, minimal need to blame or manipulate, able to admit mistakes and change course. Moderate purity: generally well-intentioned behavior, occasional lapses into defensiveness or self-justifying narratives, openness to feedback with some resistance. Low purity: persistent self-deception, frequent rationalizations, acting primarily to protect ego or gain, habitual harm to self/others disguised as necessity.

Katniss's spiritual journey begins at the very start of Hunger Games and concludes at the end of Mockingjay. In the simplest terms this is her character arc. When you include symbolism and other devices there is a much richer deeper meaning to her arc.

Katniss does not sacrifice her purity at the end of the war. By killing Coin at the end of Mockingjay she is offering her own life for all the children of Panem. It’s this completely selfless act that propels her towards purity, towards spiritual transcendence. The transformation isn’t complete till after Peeta comes home. She burns the rose (fire symbolic of purification and transformation) literally sheds her skin (rebirth, transformation, transcendence), and then bathes (purification, renewal, transformation).

As for “so after” Katniss does not give up her purity to Peeta in the sense that her purity comes from acting without selfish desires, and that act was one of love.

wistfulweaverwoman

Easy

Everlark High School AU- ch 1 on AO3

This is the year. The year I beat Rye in the school tourney. You don’t get a trophy or anything, nothing, except bragging rights, which is kind of a big deal in my family. He won last year as a junior, barely, and only because our oldest brother had graduated the year before. I’ve consistently been winning practice matches against him this season.

Wrestling is in our blood. Our dad was an allstate champion and got a full ride at UNC, one of the first of our podunk town to get out. Then he knocked up our mom, had to quit college, and moved her back home. Eventually he took over the family bakery.

Most of the student body of our high school fills the bleachers set on either side of the gymnasium. The air vibrates with the cacophony of feet stomping, kids screaming or whooping, but I ignore it all.

I go to my special place, of calm and quiet, of intense concentration. I win every match against my teammates, till it’s only me and Rye left. I catch his nervous glance at me while he chugs some water and I smirk. We both know how this is going to end. We grapple for a moment, and he narrows his eyes at me, aware that I’m toying with him before I take him down, which I do, somewhat easily. It’s his own fault really, he’s lazy during practice while I strive to work twice as hard as everyone else. I’ve got him twisted up in a half nelson when my focus slips and I glance up at the crowd, making eye contact with Katniss Everdeen, and freeze.

Katniss is… an enigma. Yes, she’s one of the prettiest girls in school, but there’s something more, something ineffable about her. She’s quiet and shy and small. She moves with such grace, nearly gliding through the halls. I’ve had a crush on her since kindergarten, so now, in my mind, she’s reached a mythical goddess status that no other girl can compete with. I know I’m not actually in love with her, but I feel like I could love her, given the opportunity, and that she could love me back. The idea that it’s all in my head terrifies me, and the disappointment would probably kill me, so I’ve never worked up the courage to actually talk to her. I’ve dated some girls, but my eyes are always drawn back to hers.

That’s our thing, making eye contact briefly, and then looking away. Well I look for her, and then she catches me, and I look away. Even outside of school I’m searching for her, it’s so ingrained in me, and have been doing it for so long, that I’ll still be looking for her once I’m shipped off to an old folks home.

This time though, she’s already looking. It catches me off guard.

Her cheeks are flushed so prettily, and her eyes, wide and shining, pierce mine with such intensity that my stomach flip flops and I falter. It’s all Rye needs to dislodge me, get me in a cradle pin, and win. I lay on the mat panting while the rest of the school filters outside. When it’s quiet I tug my headgear off and sit up to see Katniss at the edge of the mat staring at her toes. She gives me a quick peek.

“Sorry I distracted you, and made you lose,” she says softly.

“It’s not your fault I randomly looked up,” I say. “I lost my focus.”

“It wasn’t because I was yelling?” she says, looking up again, frowning.

“No,” I say, shaking my head for emphasis, smiling. “What were you yelling?” If she’s apologizing, maybe it was about me. Maybe she was cheeringfor me. I try not to look too eager. Her whole face flushes pink as she backs away.

“Nothing, nothing,” she says, mumbling. “Okay, um. Good.” Abruptly, she turns heel and speed walks out the exit. And just like that I don’t give a fuck that I lost, and I don’t care that Rye will rub it my face for presumably the rest of our lives. Because Katniss was here. Maybe not for me, but she still cared enough to root for me. I know it doesn’t mean anything, not really. It delights me nonetheless, and I have a spring in my step all through the afternoon shift at the bakery, and right through the next morning.

By Monday morning I’m determined to be more friendly with Katniss, and when I see her I force myself to maintain eye contact, despite my self-consciousness. And I’m not a self-conscious person. I’m not full of myself or anything, I just don’t really care if someone does or doesn’t like me, except her. So it’s easy with most people, they can take me, or leave me.

I offer what I hope is a friendly, inviting smile and she drops her eyes quickly. Before I can look away or even feel disappointed she glances back at me through her eyelashes and her mouth curls up slightly, her lower lip caught in her teeth. And again I feel that thing, that stomach dropping butterfly tumble thing, and it totally unnerves me. And to my horror I reflexively wink at her. Her eyes flick away again and I want nothing more than for the earth to swallow me whole.

But then her smile stretches, and her cheeks flush. Because I flirted with her. Now I’ll spend the next few hours, or weeks, or shit probably years trying to analyze what it means. Does she like me, or being flirted with? Or?

wistfulweaverwoman

Mrs. Everdeen and Col. Boggs, head of security of D13 in:

Somewhere You Feel Free

Ch 1-6 already posted on ao3, 1 more will follow, along with an epilogue

Mrs. Everdeen recognizes a surprising person, Col. Boggs, as a kindred spirit after learning they have a similar background. They begin to kindle an unlikely friendship based on shared grief and stark honesty during the in between moments following the rescue of Peeta Mellark and the end of the war.

fanficallergy

Um... Hi.... I has an update. It's only been 8 years.

“We need to talk,” I tell him. Might as well get this over with.

He nods and takes three steps toward me then stops. His whole body sways like a tree in a storm, lurching this way and that. He clutches at the doorframe, but it’s just out of reach. For a moment, he stares at me before his eyes roll back into his head, and he stumbles and falls to the floor in a heap.

I fly to his side only to immediately get doused with the contents of Peeta’s stomach.

Gross!

As I wipe the foul-smelling liquid from my chest, I say, “You know, if you didn’t want to talk, you could’ve just said so.”

***

It's been a hot minute, hasn't it? Oops...

You can find the chapter on FFnet or Archive of Our Own.

If you want to start from the beginning, Spectator is where you want to be. (FFnet or Archive of Our Own) I recommend Ao3 since everything is in a collection in reading order.

Thanks for sticking with me and supporting me!

#fanfiction #update #the hunger games #hunger games #participant #spectator #parts we play #fanficallergy #everlark #katniss/peeta #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #au: canon divergence #canon divergence #canon divergent au

rosefyrefyre

Less long than last time! We’re up to Chapter 12 of Let Me Fly: Lovers in a Dangerous Time: Last Impression.

Please pay attention to all trigger warnings and tags.

Excerpt:

I will never get used to how things are done here in Thirteen. Clinical. Punctual. Functional. I would have thought, considering the literal blow Thirteen experienced, they would use the mass funeral for the dead as an opportunity for propaganda—complete with hired mourners to tear at their clothes and scream on cue—Fuck, I’m turning into Plutarch Heavensbee; Peeta will be so proud. But no, Thirteen doesn’t seem to consider the potential optics of the Capitol having killed so many—including children—in cold blood. Instead, they’re treating it like any other death in Thirteen: perfunctory. All we get is a simple reading of the decedent’s name and their rank or importance in the district. That’s it. Nothing else. The only conciliatory gesture toward pageantry is that same mournful song they used when we got back from District Six, a song whose name I’ve thankfully forgotten. I hate that fucking song.

You can read the chapter here:

Archive of Our Own

Fanfiction.net

We hope you enjoy!

#the hunger games #hunger games #everlarkthorne #melleverthorne #katniss/peeta/gale #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #gale hawthorne #fanficallergy #rosefyrefyre #let me fly #lovers in a dangerous time #mockingjay songs #fanfiction update #au: canon divergence #canon divergent au

alwayseverlark

The Undoing

Chapter 3 - I won’t say (I’m in love)

“What are you doing here?” I am surprised to see him at my house. He is wearing something I haven’t seen before, a light blue long sleeve shirt and navy trousers. New clothes I realize. And he looks handsome, his golden locks styled more than usual, his skin glowing under the sun, his blue eyes sparkling. He shines like a diamond among coal … and he doesn’t belong here.

I grab Peeta from the sleeve of his blue shirt and drag him out of the house by the back door to avoid any unwanted gaze.

“Why did you leave this morning without a word?” Peeta challenges me. I might not have spent a lot of time with him, but I can see he’s angry and sad, very sad.

“It’s Prim’s wedding.”

“I know it. That,” he says with emphasis gesturing to the kitchen table “is the wedding cake.”

“I told your dad, Gale would be picking it up.”

“Well Katniss, that’s the issue. You can’t spend the night with me and vanish the next morning as if nothing would have happened,” he’s nearly yelling now.

“Shush, Peeta! Someone could hear us!” I hiss.

“I don’t care” he says with obtuseness.

“Well, I do! I am a married woman and you know that!”

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And so I tell him