Chapter Text
Relentless, howling winds rattle at our window panes. Every few minutes they bulge in their flimsy frames, threatening to shatter. For the past half hour I've been walking around the house to check that none have knocked loose. Duct-tape and sealant fashioned from tree sap offer little resistance to a storm such as this, but rudimentary materials are all that we have, traded and scavenged for with the few resources that we do have spare. There is no money for proper building materials, just how there is no money for a better home. This is all we have.
Hunger and deprivation is all we've ever known. Growing up in the Seam, the very outskirts of our district's society, my sister and I have had little luxury to cushion the blow of our reality. While Merchant children enjoy warm homes and sturdy roofs, we must endure bitter cold and rickety floorboards. Pine needles stew in frozen barrel water. Stale bread is softened with slithers of precious goat's cheese.
Resourcefulness is survival. Knowing what to look for and what to use is key to living here. Otherwise you end up withering away, clawing and scraping for an opportunity that will never come your way. Because fortune never favours those who need it most. That's one lesson you learn pretty quickly in Twelve.
Stood in the kitchen, stirring at a pot of bubbling hunter's stew, my mother remains silent. Outside, the entire district is being battered with the rage of the season. Winter, bleak and miserable, has made its firm arrival at our doors. This is nothing new for us. Every year a new storm comes to cover the coal-speckled foundations of our community. But this storm feels different... angrier than previous ones.
Within an hour, the snow had began to pile up. Blocking paths, freezing over water barrels, the frost swept in before anyone could prepare for it. Even I had to return to the fence earlier than usual, a couple scrawny rabbits and a lean squirrel tucked into my game bag. With the streams of people flocking to their homes, the Hob would have been empty; trading my catch would have been an impossible feat.
Really, it's a shame because I was hoping to get enough coins for some new ribbons. Prim's been eyeing a bright yellow shade, remarking that it would go wonderfully with Rosemary's curly dark hair. Subliminally, I know what she's getting at - we all do. But maybe getting her the ribbons will shut her up for a while. Just a little while.
Silence fills the space usually occupied by my baby's coos. Whenever my mother cooks, Rose watches. Reaching up and around, her pudgy palms are clumsy as they grope for the wooden spoon. Trying to sneak a taste, we would laugh, always eager to try something new. Chubby-cheeked and bright-eyed, she's a surprisingly sturdy child for a product of the Seam, so much healthier than many children here.
Dark-haired and with eyes so light blue they almost look grey, she fits right in with the rest of us Seam folk. If you don't look too hard, Rosemary's nothing special. Just another Seam kid born to a young, irresponsible Seam mother. Another product of the Slag Heap. People can almost believe that she's actually Gale's...
"Prim will be back soon," Mumbling the words, I try to keep myself calm. Sane. "She'll have the stupid ribbons and I'll forgive her for being so reckless because Rose will look absolutely adorable. Like springtime in December."
With the horrid weather, I was surprised to find both girls missing once I'd returned home. Usually, I'm the last person to return. Checking the snares, trapsing through the woods, I spend the majority of my day out amongst the trees. By the time I return home most people have already finished their day. Chasing each other, children play out in the streets. Miners trudge along the meandering roads, covered in black coal dust. Even the peacekeepers head back to their barracks to swap out patrol duties.
Sat around the table, my family would be waiting. Fussing over Rose, Prim would be brushing her fluffy hair or feeding her mushed vegetables. Watching them, my mother would greet me with a smile.
But today Primrose and Rosemary are missing. No note. No news. All I can do is speculate.
"I hope they're doing alright out there," Glancing up from the pot, my mother's pale blue eyes dart to the nearest window. Clumps of white snow cling to the glass, melting to form foggy clouds. Soon, they will stick. "The winds are picking up."
"Vick and Rory wouldn't leave her alone," Shaking my head, I force my body to fall onto the wooden support of a chair. Creaky, aged, it's almost as old as I am. Something that somehow survived the deep, dark period of our loss and grief. "They'll be back soon."
They have to be back soon. Even if Prim's insisted on doing some rounds before heading home, the growing snow and wind would demand for her to return. Rose doesn't like the cold. Unless she has her prized blankie, she won't settle. Little more than Prim's lunch and a few healing supplies had been tucked into her bag. Those items wouldn't last very long in the event that they get stranded. Rory and Vick would remind her of that, urge her to come back home before anyone starts worrying.
They'll be back soon. All in a row, like cheery little ducks, they'll come through our front door. They will.
What feels like hours pass. More and more snow gathers around the house, presses against the walls. Rose's bedtime rapidly approaches. Watery sunlight darkens into the gloom of early evening. Even the snow looks like shadows, tinted grey from the ever-present coaldust.
Releasing a sigh, my mother turns down the stove, her pale hands trembling. Stew's finished. Tomorrow, if we're lucky, I'll be able to add something else to the pot - keep it going just how my father used to in the bleak winter months. Prim loves it, the stew and the memory. Whenever she gets a bowl of the stuff, warm and peppery, she smiles with relief. Comfort. Maybe Rose will have that same memory once she's old enough to understand.
"It's been too long," She's the first to voice our thoughts, taking the matching rickety chair across from mine. Thin, frail, my mother's body has seen better days, happier days. Yet still she looks better than she had a few years ago. More bright. More alert. "She would be back by now."
"You're right," Nodding, I feel myself get up from the chair. Automatic, mindless, my hands fix around my father's hunting jacket. Our provider. Our protector. Only, he's not here to do it any longer.
No other words pass between my mother and I as I grab my boots and slip them on. Thin gloves cover my fingers. Worn wool wraps around my neck. Within seconds I'm wrapped up and ready to face the storm, the sudden blizzard that's overtaken our lives. All that's left to take is my trusty game bag, an emergency stock of trading goods tucked within its pockets.
Pulling the bag over my shoulder, I tell her, "I'll be back."
"I'll wait here. Just in case," Is what I hear her say, hushed and gentle as a candle's flame, "Be careful. Stay calm."
But we both know that is impossible. Right now I am close to losing my mind.