#𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑰𝑪𝑼𝑳𝑨𝑻𝑬: 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒔 - 𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤; 𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ.

[ofherbalisms]

open event starter! location: outside of the bloater

  NIGHTFALL RESTS UPON his features amongst the dwindling twilight, and behind the doors of The Bloater the music thumps against walls and bodies alike. Reuven is slipping forefinger over the smooth edge of his wedding band, now hung around his neck beside black dog tags, in an absentminded gesture of self-soothing. Introverted nature births abnormalities in social functioning like this; he chooses to linger outside after making his appearance, providing congratulations and watching the party rather than being in it. Now is the purgatorio, between event and solitude, where man stays in orbit of this celebration but only at arms-length. The crickets chirp all around, and if he closed his eyes he might be able to imagine a life some eons ago, of laughing with buddies outside a bar and cutting out early to go back to his kids, where he felt much more comfortable and entertained.

 No. That is all lost now; eroded and opaqued with the reality that there are no children to go back to now. No wife. No pup. No three-story home full of baby bottles and cartoons. His chest aches with a pain he cannot rub numb—incessant, dulled by time but demanding all the same. He inhales long and slow, and none of the happiness shared amongst the group inside can reach his own features. Moonlight drapes his strong profile, and he tips his head back to gaze up at the moon, and wonder if laboring over wild strawberries for the past few weeks had really healed him like he'd been trying so hard to make reality. Whether this carbine strapped across his back was really the safety assurance he'd convinced himself it was, or if he had more to look out for now. To look inward for now.

 Fingers had tugged the chain forward from his neck in their fidgety pursuit. Someone stepped out of the front doors, and he listened to their breathing rather than looking over. A silence befell them, and then he shuffled, and the other jumped suddenly, startled. Reuven had a habit of existing so silently he faded into the backdrop—likely an attribute retained from his service as a SEAL. "Sorry," he immediately apologized, then cleared his throat. "Didn't mean to scare you." A pause. Then a gesture up, at the moon. "Full moon... Wonder if the dead will turn into werewolves tonight." It was spoken with complete seriousness, with only the tiniest lifting of lips over canine to offer its playfulness.

[ofherbalisms]

closed starter to @spcindled location: the tailor's shop

   𝐿𝐴𝑆𝑇 𝑊𝐸𝐸𝐾 𝐼𝑇 𝑊𝐴𝑆 a thread loosened from its stitch. He didn't tell her because he saw the crinkle between her brows as she worked. The winds had lost their fragrance and become devoid as Fall came whisking through the Coloradoan forests. Today its pin prick wound caught amongst brambles and snagged, hellbent on tearing away from the rest of the sleeve, and in its wake lay a sad display—something that reminded him of amputated limb, hanging on by sinew and nerve. A curse had naturally followed beneath breath, not just for the new hurdle in braving the cold, but for Mila. He knows that the hiker's coat will only add to her growing pile of fabrics, and he respects her too much to feel so entitled to her skillful hand.

   His atonement is a warm mug, steaming fragrance of minty chai back into the atmosphere. Reuven has been quietly researching varieties of chai to court her with—call him a romantic for trying to cultivate jaggery and grow black tea to make her the perfect pudina and he would digress. This, and every action he has taken with her, has been a gesture of caring that he cannot put a name to. He enters the tailor's shop back-first, so that she cannot see the tear in his jacket before she smells the tea. Careful to introduce his presence with the good first, because the world nowadays is just so rife with bad.

   His company is not announced with a greeting but with the thud of the mug, softly, against an adjacent table—far away from her work. Then the man gets to work folding haphazard fabrics, as if that's the quest that demanded his presence here, because he cannot simply request something from her without making amends for it first. If it were up to him he wouldn't be making her care for him at all, but he never learned how to sew more than a basic stitch and hardly had the litheness in his grip to make something substantial. Voice rings out, baritone and lacking of that nameless affinity for her, only after he shrugs off his own torn up garment. "Ripped my jacket gathering raspberries. Think you could take a look at it?" It's spoken so casually, as if his chest hasn't swelled with simmering infatuation since he walked in. Then he picks up her tea, to take a single taste-testing sip for himself, before setting it down in front of her. "Take a break, wonder woman." He circles around table to the back of her chair, where his hands find her shoulders and begin kneading gently. Still, he claims only her friendship. "How's the winter collection coming? Ready to hit QVC yet?"

[ofherbalisms]

closed event starter to @nighttcalls location: far corner of the bloater

   THE AMBIANCE OF the party has held on strong for much longer than Reuven would typically endure, but his disappearance earlier in the night had served to rejuvenate. Eventually, the man had gravitated back into the venue, and carried a beer with him more as a prop than anything he had intentions of consuming. He'd chosen long ago to prefer a sobriety—after Avigal had passed, he'd worried about his drinking, and knew that as his childrens' only living parent he could not take the risk of drowning his sorrows in bottle. He'd need to be strong first, to show them how to be strong too. Now, after trying to forget that she was even standing within proximity for several hours, Reuven was feeling the resurrection of that mantra, if only to remember how Hera had become a point of strength for his children to anchor to as well. After spending so many years intertwined, emotionally, spiritually, and then—in some ways—physically, with Hera, he sometimes wondered how it was even possible for him to be so sick with nerves to even speak to the woman. Given their last encounter with one another, he'd assumed she had left their party of two for good reason—he'd had plenty of time to conclude that he had been unjustifiably awful in that final argument, no matter the reasons for his ire she had never deserved it. He'd had plenty of time to shame himself for it too, to hate himself for driving her away into what he assumed was her likely death. For seven years he believed she was dead, only for her to show up at his doorstep, a new, survivor of a woman.

   Reuven hadn't known if she hated him for what he'd said. If she wanted him dead. If she even recognized it was him—after all, they both had aged ten years. He sported a thickened, long beard now that he never had before. He was leaner, and more worn, and hardly spoke. It had taken him too long to even say hello that first time after she'd showed up at the gates, and ever since could not muster more than a conversation about herbs or ammo with her. It were as if they were in purgatorio together, and neither would look at the other, and he certainly wasn't sure if she even wanted him breathing the same air. So the decision to walk over now was purely out of wanting to hear her voice again. It had been so long, since he heard the inflection of joy in it, since he'd heard her laugh. He ached to see her smile again, but didn't know how to prompt it, so instead Reuven cleared his throat as he approached, and then stood silent beside her for a long moment before speaking. "Is anyone in the armory? Need to work on my rifle." He remembered the day he'd taught her how to shoot his rifle. Now here she was, the community's armorist. Reuven wished he could tell her he was proud of her, for everything, for surviving without him. Tell her how impressed he was, but that he always knew she could do it. Comment on how she could give him a run for his money now. But he doesn't. Instead, he palms at his beard, and suddenly decides he does need a sip of that beer. "It can wait, if nobody's there."

[ofherbalisms]

closed starter to @slavghters ! location: the farm

  CALLOUSED FINGERS GRIP tightly to box, filled to near overflow with gourds and pumpkins. So frivolous the tradition of pumpkin carving seems now to him, with the demand of caloric intakes needing to be filled. A gourd makes a hearty soup. A pumpkin—creamy curries and savory desserts. That's not even considering the seeds, some to be roasted for high-protein snacking, and others to continue the cycle of life and death in the bodies of their population. He fervently protests the concept of a pumpkin carve. The idea makes his abdomen knot up; anxiety, blooming and wretched, for if they are not ahead then they risk famine knocking on their gates—a bailiff to revoke their lives at last; a reaper to beckon them to the other side. Nevermind his lack of Halloween traditions—his objection now is purely from a numbers standpoint.

  No. Reuven feels personally responsible for keeping food in the mouths of all their population now. Even if they have plenty of seeds and are meticulous in their farming and he and Astoria work like a well oiled machine together; even if the greenhouse is fragrant and the farm is flourishing and there is no forseeable shortage in grains, vegetables, meat or herbs, he still holds this worry that it will all go up in smoke one day and they need to be ahead. Always ahead. He thinks of the families, whose children survived the horrors outside, and imagines them going hungry. He remembers how desperate, how devastating, how hopeless it had felt to hear the words I'm hungry from his own child and have been able to do nothing about it. His hope is that not even one parent will have to hear the same from their kin behind these gates. It feels viscerally wrong to gather up gourds and pass them out with no absolutes that once they're done being carved, that they'll make onto a stove. It has kept his expression soured all afternoon, rather than its usual stoic.

  Though it is an autumn raging with cooled winds and crisped leaves, a sweat has developed upon his forehead and chest. He'd spent the morning tending to the herbs, the afternoon planting and now harvesting in the farm, and then would go up on the watch tower to keep himself occupied, because being in his solitude in that dorm room functioned only to fester woes. He's calling Astoria's name, to alert her to a localized infestation of aphids on the tomatoes—if they handle it now they'll be able to save the fruit. He's going to suggest ladybugs, but as he takes his concentration on the farmer, he notices a pile of dirt too late. His footing skips, balance fails, and he, and the twenty-something gourds go tumbling through resting leaves and stems. He's caught his fall, but not quickly enough to avoid being covered in dirt, and it surprises him. Not just because it was unexpected but because it is so unusual for him—he is normally pervasively observant of his surroundings. He doesn't speak it, but he internalizes the fall as a dwindling of his skills; as a rusting of his gears; as complacency, dangerous and unavoidable. His joints ache with their aging now, especially with the fall, and he tries to ignore what that means for the projection of his self sufficiency in the coming decades. Arm shovels the small gourds back into the box and he gives Astoria a thankful smile when she joins to help. "Really hope the kale survived," he mumbles and then nods back towards the tomatoes. "There's aphids throwing a party over there. Just a couple vines, but they're eating good. Think I saw a hornworm too... What do you think about ladybugs? If we can find them, and keep them off the greens somehow."

[ofherbalisms]

closed starter to: @heartxsighs time + location: the library, midnight

    𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝑯𝑨𝑺 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑫 into night. Shuffling footsteps and whispers have settled, dormant, in the corners until morrow day. There is the grainy residue of sweat long cooled and dried on the man's neck, chest, arms. Somehow, even in winter, he would start the day out bundled up and end it with sleeves rolled to the elbows and every button undone at the neckline. The icy wind felt refreshing on his bare skin during the trek down to the library. The day had long expired for most of the compound's residents, but Reuven tended to be one of the few that would stave off sleep; fight it, like a toddler to their mid-day nap, because even if rest would make him feel better, to him the day wasn't finished. He hadn't gotten to read that leather-bound journal at the far end of the reference section, tucked in between the encyclopedias and atlases. Surely whoever had put it there had meant it not to be found, but discovered it anyway, Reuven had.

    At first it had been innocent intrigue. After all, who would leave a nameless book tucked onto an incongruent bookshelf, as though it belonged there? The man had picked it up and thumbed through it, only to discover it was full of viscera. He had read some poetry as a boy, and then eventually once again as a college student himself, but he'd read the words of old. Hemingway and Poe and Dickinson. When he'd had the task of writing a poem himself, for a grade, it was done as fawn attempts to gallop. Reuven was not a poet, by any means, but this poetry collection he stumbled across had still captivated him so thoroughly. These words were relatable. The poet's grief was his own grief. He wondered how on earth he had been so lucky to come across such an eloquent and pertinent piece of literature, when he returned to read it again the following week and found that it had gained a new entry. His heart had thudded in his realization that he had been reading someone's diary. Someone who lived at the grounds. He felt that he had violated the writer's privacy, and it suddenly felt so wrong to pick it back up. His restraint lasted for a few weeks, until he thought to himself—well, what's the harm? I'll never meet them anyway. The book was unsigned. And he had, though he would never admit it, made casual attempts at figuring out who was writing it. Their identity remained anonymous. All of it except... all of it. He read about their inner workings. Their insecurities. Their dreams. Their depression.

    The man would find a quiet corner tucked in the very back of the library, sit down in one of the sofa chairs and melt into the writing. After long, empathy gave way to sympathy. Sympathy gave way to anxiety. And eventually, he could no longer deny himself the next page of the book out of pure necessity to know this person was still here. When he arrived to the library that night, he anticipated the silence and alone time. After all, who else would be in the library at midnight?

    Very quickly he discovered who. His linguistic effigy. His web weaver.

    He was rounding the corner of one of the shelves and stopped in his tracks. Dark eyes grew orb-like in surprise. There was a form, curled up in the same chair he so often sat wide-stanced in, reading the same book this form possessed now. There she was, with that leather-bound book open to its next page, weaving it together even more than its binding did. He stood, baffled and staring, for much too long, as when she realized a figure was staring at her, she gave a little start and a little scream and he found himself frantically apologizing for scaring her. "Sorry! Sorry, I—" but... he what? What would he say? He'd come to read her journal? Her most vulnerable and authentic thoughts? Finally, coming face to face with this poet he'd grown to know like the back of his own hand, the herbalist was struck with overwhelm to meet her, properly, and also to go running for the hills, because how entitled must he have been, to go waltzing up like it was written for his eyes alone to read? Reuven swallowed, and then suddenly he couldn't look at her any longer. His gaze panned off to the side, palm finding his neck. Gaze panned off at nothing, nowhere, anywhere but at her and that damn book.

��   "Are you—uh—" he paused, cleared his throat. "Are you reading that? I was gonna..." but he trailed off. Should he even admit to his sins? Would she not be mortified? "Uh... You know what? Nevermind, I'm just gonna..." thumb pointed back, the way he came. "Sorry for bothering you. Um... Have a good night."

[ofherbalisms]

closed starter to @mommabcar location: the greenhouse

   𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝑰𝑺 𝑬𝑿𝑷𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 and all of the aches and pains that revisit nightly have begun to reign again, slowly leeching their way down into the man's form. It had been a long few weeks since the mission was carried out, and Reuven wasn't sure what else to do but try to return back to business as usual, even if it all held a different tone to it now. Even if he felt like a stranger in this agrestal scene; as if his hands, calloused as his soul felt, had the right to treat a bundle of basil with more respect than another human life. The same fingertips that prodded at a rosemary plant's mound of soil to check its water levels... just a few weeks ago, they had been so drenched in blood it was streaming down—onto his boots, down to his elbow, depending on the movement.

   There was no explaining it—why he could not bring himself to look at Aurora's boy anymore. Some sick, horrid shame had snaked its way down into his heart and was eating him from the inside out. Perhaps it was not the same as when he had been out there, living amongst the dead, but on that day they rescued the scout, he had been an echo of that man he once was. That same man he could not recognize as himself. In some strange way, he felt now like he should shield Hasen from himself. As if he had become the monster in this story. Because he could remember, some decade ago, when his own little girl had looked up at him, terrified and uncomprehending, not recognizing him because he was covered in blood. That moment often came to him in his own nightmares. Since the mission, it had been a reoccurring daytime vision. He would be working on the farm, and then suddenly it would play out before his eyes like some horrible, unwanted clipshow, and when he'd come back to reality he would be lost as to what he was doing.

   The day was expiring and he hadn't managed to do much at all, and yet he couldn't bring himself to move. Hasen had been trying to get his attention all day, and he was trying—by god he was trying, but Reuven couldn't muster any more fatherliness than a smile here and there; a "that's great, buddy" or a "you're getting real good at that, keep it up". He ached down to his bones, and he wished he could disappear into thin air. Gaze had been unfocused and unseeing, staring at the oregano for an uncanny amount of time, when the boy's mother arrived to bring life back into the space—to be something for him to anchor to. As Hasen went running up to her, Reuven looked up, and took a moment, staring and then blinked, and reoriented into the present. "Aurora. Hey," he started, and then drew a deep inhale, one that prompted a coughing fit against a pain he refused to get checked out. A grunt brought him to his full height and he slipped hands into pockets: an unconscious gesture of his bashfulness. "He was great—on his way to becoming a little farmer. How was your day...?" Small talk wasn't exactly his idea of substantial and satiating, but he was starting to grow starved of interaction, with how much time he'd been reclusing. '

[ofherbalisms]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒  /  𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑠ℎ𝑘𝑜𝑙 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑣. 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑦-𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑒. 𝑤𝑖𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟. ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡. 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑒𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑦 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑟 + 𝑛𝑎𝑣𝑦 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑙.

             a dependent muse for endurefm              analyzed by m • 26. est. he/him.

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