#half-empty nest😞

[dootznbootz]

I think people sleep on this moment in the Odyssey...

If I'm wrong, not getting full context, or see something that isn't there, feel free to give evidence to explain why.

Here he crept under a pair of bushes, one an olive, the other a wild olive, which grew from the same stem with their branches so closely intertwined that when the winds blew moist not a breath could get inside, nor could the rain soak right through to the earth.

(Book 5, Rieu)

I think this is about Penelope and him.

Obviously, their marriage bed is made from an Olive tree. If it's just about Athena then why are there two mentioned? Why did Homer mention two when he could've just said he took refuge under one? Or a completely different type of tree? Why mention them being intertwined?

One an olive: Penelope, who has been with society and "safe" in Ithaca ("Safe" because of the suitors)

One wild: Odysseus, who has dealt with literal monsters and immortals and has just escaped from Calypso. Literally naked and filthy, a "wild man".

"which grew from the same stem with their branches": Them both being together at first, before being separated.

"so closely intertwined that when the winds blew moist not a breath could get inside, nor could the rain soak right through to the earth.": Despite being separated, they are still "intertwined". Whether you want to think of it as them being likeminded or simply connected, even though they are apart, nothing could get in between them. 🥺

I don't know what else Homer could be referring to other than them.

[cyraelin]

Found out that all my fanfics combined have reached 10,000 Chinese characters in the document ✨ Rewarding myself by writing about sisters 🥰 (I don’t have an older brother, so I’m not great at writing them—sorry Ares, didn’t mean to ignore you 😞). The inspiration for this fic comes from Zhang Yueran’s novella 'Qiao sisters'. 

Flowers of Yesterday

The story takes place on a moonlit night, four years later. 

17-year-old Miss Marigold sits in the Academy Dean’s office, watching the moon wheel upward along the arched trajectory of the floor-to-ceiling window, stirring up a swirl of silver dust, grinding time into two separate segments. What must the moon have looked like four years ago? She tries to imagine. A drop of aged tears, or a nimble silver fish? Were the people from four years ago looking at the same moon as her? 

"Miss Marigold." The Dean smiles as she slides a sheet of paper toward her. The paper opens its gilded little mouth, urging her to sign. "We believe you will bring glory to District 1, just like Pandora did."

Her pen hesitates, a drop of ink bleeding into hesitation. How strange—long ago, 'Miss Marigold' and 'Celeste' were two separate words. Now, they’ve merged into one, while Pandora remains just Pandora. It makes her uneasy, as if someone has forced her into an ill-fitting gown. 

The Dean pulls the paper away and gestures for her to leave. Celeste stands, but the woman suddenly calls out: "Miss Marigold, would you mind throwing away the flowers in the vase by the door?" 

Following the Dean’s gaze, she looks at the small table by the entrance. Inside an ornate marble vase, tuberoses bow their heads quietly, dewdrops rolling from their bright yellow stamens. "They still look fresh...?"

"Those are yesterday’s flowers, dear." The Dean waves a dismissive hand. "Take them with you if you’d like."

She tosses the bouquet into her bicycle’s front basket. The wind blows, and the snow-white petals sway gently. Pressing down on the pedals, the full streetscape of District 1 flashes past her—streetlights casting leaden yellow shadows, then neon lights, dazzling in scarlet and fiery tangerine, blending into the night to form some sort of industrialized cloud. With one hard push, the scenery rewinds into a reel of film rolling backward, the screening date set four years ago. 

Four years ago, Celeste would leave the school as night swept over District 1, riding toward the vivid clouds to find her older sister waiting at the gates. Then, the bicycle bell would ring out in cheerful 'ding-dings'. She used to trail behind her sister, watching Pandora’s honey-colored blouse billow in the wind as she wove through the streets like a bird skimming a forest. Her tea-brown hair, identical to Celeste’s, would glow softly gold under the sunset’s lingering light. 

She never liked riding too fast, pedaling lazily until Pandora turned back, her curly brown hair whipping against her face, a hint of reproach in her voice: 

"You’ve got to keep up with me, Cele!"

She pedaled even slower.

Celeste fished out the key from beneath the flower stems and opened the front door. The living room was steeped in a desolate gray-white, moonlight frosting the windows like ice. She flipped on the lights and called out, "Dad?" No response. On the table sat a congealed bowl of soup, grease glistening slick under the fluorescent light. No doubt her father was drowning himself in some bar again—ever since her brother’s death, this had become his routine for at least half the week. She tried to understand his grief over losing his eldest son, but she and Pandora had lost a brother too. While they clung to each other, trying to fill the void Ares left behind, this man had floundered like a lost sparrow, hopelessly drifting between lampposts and strangers’ roofs, abandoning his fledglings to face the empty nest alone. Whatever warmth he’d once given had long cooled with time. 

Celeste wondered if she should just hate him outright—that way, she wouldn’t have to keep swallowing wasted expectations. One night, when her father had emptied the house of his presence yet again, she voiced the thought to her sister. Pandora said nothing, only running her warm fingers through Celeste’s hair. When Celeste looked up, she saw a pitiable mist clouding those green eyes. Pandora’s lips parted—no defense, no comfort. Just a sigh. Celeste buried herself back into her sister’s embrace and realized Pandora had no answers now, nor would she ever. So what was the point of agonizing over their father’s flickering affection? It was just another burden Celeste refused to carry. From then on, her conversations with him were reduced to cold, factual updates. 

But this was different. Not 'I’m performing in the school play', not 'I’m sleeping over at a friend’s', but 'I’m stepping into the arena with 24 other children, just like my brother and sister did.' Her father’s numb "Mm" would dissolve into sobbing pleas. And she knew his tears wouldn’t change her mind. Unconsciously, her grip tightened on the tuberoses, their juices oozing slick over her palm. 

Celeste jolted awake from her daze and carried the battered flowers upstairs, stuffing them into a vase beside two birds-of-paradise. Then she picked up the phone. After a series of long, shrill beeps, her father’s voice slurred through the receiver: "Cel…este? Wha’s… wrong?"

"I’m volunteering for the next Hunger Games,"she said, forcing her voice steady. "Maybe you’d want to talk about it in person?"

She braced herself—for disbelieving sobs, for shouts. But the man’s voice was thick with drunken confusion: "Wha…? Wha’d you say?"

Just as she opened her mouth to repeat herself, a chorus of raucous cheers erupted from the other end, clinking bottles in the background: "No way, man! Your girl’s volunteering? Congrats!" "A toast to District 1’s new tribute!" The voices swelled, wave after wave. Suddenly, her ears rang. The noise twisted into higher-pitched childish shrieks—she saw her elementary school classmates turning in unison, their faces plastered with identical grins: "Congrats, Celeste! Your brother was so brave, volunteering!" She covered her eyes, but the visions stretched, donning middle-school uniforms, crowding around her desk: "Congrats, Celeste! So jealous your sister’s a Career!"The boozy laughter from the phone mingled with the ghosts of those voices, spilling against her frozen cheeks. Her father, oblivious to what the drunks were celebrating, mumbled along: "Congrats… yeah, congrats…"

She hung up. 

The night deepened. Clouds veiled the moon in funeral black. Stars hardened in the sky, scattering silver like snow across her room. Celeste sat at her desk, an invisible chill ravaging her chest. She knew only something strong could thaw it. 

Downstairs, a cutesy cat-shaped fridge magnet screamed at her: "A clear mind for a brighter tomorrow!" How ironic. Pandora had bought it years ago for Ares, then repurposed it to nag their father. Back then, Ares would peel it off and slap it facedown on the table before fishing two beers from the fridge with practiced ease. Pandora would shriek at his half-hearted attempts to hide it, clutching a bewildered Celeste to her chest: "You’re the only one in this house who isn’t a drunk, little sis. Don’t copy him!" 

Their father usually stumbled home too far gone to notice. That day, Celeste watched Pandora’s lips press into a tight line as she ripped the magnet off and hurled it out the window. Pandora didn’t cry—at least, not where Celeste could see. It’s fine. Tomorrow will be better. A euphemism for 'Go to bed.' Celeste lingered at her desk until she saw Pandora retrieve the magnet from the garden bushes. Only then did she let herself slip into "tomorrow."

What would Pandora say to her now? Celeste still believed her sister was watching over her somewhere, just as she’d once watched from the window. "Sorry, sis," she whispered in her heart. "Clarity only brings me a brighter yesterday now. No tomorrows left. "

Taste betrayed her. Celeste took one sip before dumping the rest down the drain. A soft scoff seemed to echo in her ears. 

She returned to her desk. Only bitterness lingered on her tongue. The moon emerged faintly from behind the clouds as an LCD screen flickered to life, playing a Capitol movie trailer. Resting her head on her arms, the image inverted. A troupe of radiant young dancers glided in, skirts of varying hues blooming with their joyful steps, crafting an artificial spring that never faded. A brunette dancer flashed across the screen—Celeste straightened—but the face that turned was utterly unfamiliar. What was I expecting? she mocked herself. Just because she wore a dress as bright as Pandora’s?

An orange dance dress. She’d never forget Pandora’s orange dress: white waistband, pearl at the center. Dancing was extra labor. She hated it. No matter how Pandora pleaded, she refused to audition. But she loved watching her sister dance. Pandora was tall—taller than some District 1 boys. She walked with her chin high, spine straight. Watching her, Celeste always thought of birds-of-paradise—a notion she quickly dismissed. She didn’t want her sister’s legs cut off and stuffed in a vase. She’d rather use the clichéd swan metaphor: Pandora leaped so high, she ought to have wings. She planned to gift her a swan brooch or new dancewear. "Little sis, you know these take scholarships or wages, right?"Pandora said. Celeste nodded. Pandora tapped her nose: "Cele, just staying awake at the factory’s hard enough. Bring me birds-of-paradise—my curtain-call bouquet."

Celeste kicked her sister’s shin but promised to attend her school gala. 

That night, Pandora shoved a handmade ticket into her hands, its bold print declaring: "Celebrating the Academy’s Xth Anniversary (oops, the number’s smudged!). May you wield a hero’s glory and courage."Celeste knew she’d remember that night, even when the ticket frayed beyond recognition and the melodies drowned in the Muses’ sea. Not for hollow pride—she wanted this moment: Pandora under the spotlight, music flowing through her, arching on tiptoe, head lifted, emerald eyes ablaze. Enough, Celeste thought. Just this moment.

The moon dissolved into the night, fading from a silver coin to a pale tearstain. Dawn approached. Celeste stared blankly. The tuberoses in the vase dipped silently. Logic urged sleep, but she couldn’t. She was terrifyingly awake. Memories she’d buried deep now clawed into her eyes. She recalled losing Ares first: pressed against his coffin, fingers digging into the wood, overturning the monochrome photo in his room as if it might resurrect him. Pandora approached: "You have to let go."

"Never."

"Why?"

"I love him."

"So do I." Pandora’s hand covered hers. Suddenly, warmth from that palm summoned a six-year-old memory: rescuing a bird together. She couldn’t bear its cage-melancholy nor its flight. She’d wept when it flew away. 

"Let him go, little sister." Pandora bent down, enveloping her. Ares’ soul slipped from her fingers. She wailed, feeling Pandora’s body tremble too. "I love you, Cele. I love you."

Night rose like a theater curtain. On Reaping Day, the orange dress lay folded in the closet with a note: "For my little sister." Pandora always decided things for her—she herself never had such choices to make. The Dean made her wear mint green ("Matches your eyes, dear!"). Celeste watched Pandora raise her hand; the green skirt fluttered weakly, like ice clinking in a glass. Their goodbye was brief. Pandora hugged her, whispering: "See you in the Capitol. When you spot me in the audience, send me flowers."

Outside, the screen played a montage of District 1’s victors. No one remembers silver or bronze—only gold matters. Their smiles gleamed like floating gilt or falling glitter—so light, so beautiful. No one recalls funeral headstones. Her sister left for the Capitol; bones returned. Celeste couldn’t remember that day, only that she saw Ares’ death mirrored: the seal-engraved coffin, the Dean’s black envelopes, their father’s howls. Pandora slept among white roses, swathed in District 1’s green velvet. Guests swarmed, echoing: "Miss Marigold, your siblings were so brave." She covered her mouth—they mistook it for grief, crowding like ravens. Wrong. She wanted to vomit. Here, now, she’d rather Ares and Pandora were cowards. One thought remained: She should’ve worn orange, not this green shroud.

Sunlight devoured the last darkness. Celeste slumped at her desk, watching workers haul blooming crimson roses to the town square—proud new hybrids. Beside them, her birds-of-paradise and tuberoses looked weary in their vase. They’d bloomed fiercely through her sleepless night, but flowers die. Yesterday’s blooms always risk one more day of being forgotten, replaced. She recalled the Dean’s dismissive gaze. Some truths never change. 

Celeste closed her eyes. Sleep besieged her, yet her mind burned clear. She wouldn’t change her choice. She needed this victory. Needed them to remember her—and Pandora. Not in green velvet. Not as frozen images. But alive. Dancing in orange. 

As Helios’ chariot split the sky, time fractured again. She followed old tracks, ignoring the scorch in her veins—no more numbness. Seeing her sister in the spotlight, she lifted her gaze to meet identical green eyes. They stood eye-to-eye now. 

"Pandora·Marigold." She gave her a four-year-delayed hug. "I’ll remember you. Always." 

A bird-of-paradise petal drifted from the vase, brushing her forehead like a whisper. 

Last but not least—Happy premiere! ✨ The movie was amazing and I loved it! This post was supposed to go up before the premiere, but I kept making changes and ended up delaying it till now… 🥹

I'm so sorry, I was busy this week, and I kept saying I would read this, and I finally did.

Of course, it's beautiful as always. Love how you added these lovely moments into the backstories of the District 1 tributes.

I have to say, I'm a bit sad now that I didn't have Celeste wear orange at the reaping and instead she wore silver. But I suppose the memory of her sister was fresh in her mind, and she didn't want to be reminded of her.