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blankdblank · 4 years

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Next Caller Pt 25

“How’d it go? Yesterday?”

“It was good,” Mal said looking you over, “Still no sharing why you’re so tired?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” she said propping her hands on her hips.

With a huff you recounted the night and in her creeping grin you poked her arm, “Hey, don’t do that plotting smirk.”

“Your babies are having-,”

“Our Ravens-,”

“Are like your children, and together your Ravens are bonding and settling into families in your greenhouse. If he didn’t like you he wouldn’t dare let you suggest matching up his Raven with one that was living in your home. Roac is a part of him, he knows you and trusts you, with his baby.”

“You’re still not helping.” You said brushing your hair back to pull it up into a ponytail.

“Don’t you feel bad. He is a grown man, he chose to get out of bed and come help you, he accepted the offer to bring Roac, who is just as excited and had every chance to refuse the offer as well. Stop worrying.”

“There’s a better chance cows would rain from the sky.”

At that a sudden crash of something plushy into your shoulder had you looking down at the stuffed rhino on the ground then to the elderly Dam saying to the huffing donkey beside her, “Bruno! That was very rude!” Hurrying over when you bent to lift the rhino and caught her smile when she reached you. “I am so sorry Miss Pear. My son is not taking his donkey days well. Been helping me with my deliveries. I wanted to bring you one of my stuffies, your story really has helped my Edgar get some excitement in his week since his surgery left him off his feet.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m glad to hear that.” Her smile widened and you said, “He’s healing fine? Break room isn’t the same without him and his coffee and snack stand.”

“He’s doing well, few weeks yet, but he is feisty as ever.” She turned her head and huffed seeing Bruno wandering off then rolled her eyes back to you, “You two have a lovely day,” pivoting on her feet she said following her son, “Bruno, I have three more stops then we can go home.”

Looking at Mal you lifted the plushy saying, “Rhino, not a cow.” Only deepening her playfully narrowed gaze at you, “It’s my hill and I intend to die on it.”

“One of these days you are going to realize that this grump of yours and his family are treating you with the respect and love you deserve.” Your eyes scanned over your face and she rested a hand on your shoulder, “Your past, forgive the wording, is charred earth. You deserve so much more than you have gotten. Don’t let that limit what you think you deserve.” She poked the rhino, “You are a supernova, bring light, excitement, joy and chaos all at once. Shine, and let them help you. Just have to, settle your roots, you’re strong, take the wind.”

“You do realize I slide in the wind?”

“I will take the joke as a sign you’re letting that soak in a minute.” You rolled your eyes and turned to pass the crew on the show ahead of yours exiting the booths.

“I will be asking about how it went with Dis again later.” You teased making her grumble and watch as you settled your Rhino adorably up against your mic stand on top of your bag.

Behind the closed door Thorin turned around and got to rinsing off the dishes you had left in the sink he added to your washer. Tidying up a little bit and ensuring the pan he had used to cook the breakfast he added to the washer then turned to go and check on Roac. Along the way however he paused curious about those shelves and turned to see your sisters’ room. Instantly a smirk ghosted across his lips once inside seeing the peach and sparkly silver shelves that from where the bed would be he could see the full effect of the sprouting starry vines from your sketch you had added to the future bunk bed structure he couldn’t wait to see added. Small touches, simple shelves customized by you to blend in more of what he could imagine your clan to be like.

Through the other rooms there wasn’t much changed past the painting filled atrium around your piano. Each one he got a close look at then turned for the theater grinning at the incredible paintings signed with the same pear in the corner except for one with a gemstone under a night scene of a man on one knee proposing to a woman under a grand cherry tree. He knew the symbolism in it, or at least the Hobbit symbolism to it. It was possibly a wish for a fruitful union for you, assuming that it was your mother who had painted it for you. The night scene with scarce stars painted were to suggest it was a bond solely between the two, a faithful and devoted lover for you. Though in the doorway of the theater finding Roac still napping and it occurred to him that it might have been simply a scene of her own proposal to Cirdan.

From there he turned to your living room recognizing your media player that with the projector turned on he put on a random show he lowered the sound on and switched the radio on to your station and in the end of the show before yours he went to steal a glimpse into the greenhouse. Kuu’s house was still empty and contently Balakavallatagh was adorably snuggled up together inside his home in matching nests while the hummingbirds hovered around feeding before returning to their hatchlings. Dot alone slept in the new home set up and fluffed up contently in her new nest with the leaves Roac had chosen laid out just so making him smirk in turning back to the living room.

Onto the couch he settled and listened to the opening scene with a seemingly out of place mission Raul went on his ship the Tibelt by a voice they hadn’t heard often before, the narrator fully describing each moment same as from the epic cannon top proposal earlier in the story. A swashbuckling sword clashing adventure ending with his breaking into the court of Duke Frenn and requesting his aid and then leading them to join in on the search for their dear friend Bunny.

However anticlimactic it seemed next was a heart wrenching interaction between the Countess and Wolsey where she was left weeping when it seemed he was leaving her home with the impression he had given up hope. Though fully packed and ready to go he was heard boarding the Tibelt rousing hope once again that the army to meet up with the still gathering allies. It seemed their efforts could be for naught when Holm was heard shouting that the room you were being kept in was empty with a stone block on the wall missing forming a tunnel outside.

Covering his mouth like so many others Thorin sat with his heart thundering practically seeing Bunny racing through the forest around the hidden keep. Panting with earth crunching and twigs catching on her clothes muddled with echoes of Holm shouting out her name. A sudden gasp from her however cut the show to silence before it ended with a loud bellow sparking chills through everyone listening.

The sign off music played and Thorin’s gaze turned from the radio he shut off to Kuu, just noticed to have joined in on listening to the show whose cheeks puffed up in the start of a big yawn. “Do you listen to the show?”

After his full body shiver Kuu replied, “No. We prefer the book with the images. Off to bed now. Goodbye.”

Thorin chuckled saying, “Goodbye.” Watching him turn and walk back to his house before standing up and stretching his arms right up over his head from being in the same position for so long. Lowering his arms again he strolled through your home and made his way to your study. On a trunk from the doorway he spotted your typewriter, moving closer he felt a magnetic pull to get a closer look to your best friend who helped free you from the prison of your old life.

Around the edges he could feel the gritty scrapes hinting at when it had scuffed rocks and been halfway stripped of its fading former brilliant black paint job. Every inch showing your modifications and touch on repairing the various parts complete with the hatch on the side holding the Khuzdul and Elven character hammer sets to go with those characters etched next to the common tongue characters on the clearly hand engraved and polished keys once coated with gold and wax letter tops long since worn down. Just smoothing his fingers across a few of the keys he couldn’t help but smile sensing the joy just seeped into this little once abandoned machine you rescued and kept safe for so long.

The notepad however coated in Vanyar rune coated drafts clearly for the next in the series were left in the open and forcing himself to turn and inspect your book collection in the collapsing shelves from your open trunks lining the walls. Various languages coated each of the spines in various conditions with one that seemed to hold the oldest collection. Crouching down he smirked pulling out the copy of the leather bound phone book sized book on Durins half bleached by the sun you had found on Ruun. Around that were blank books fully bleached with faded smudged symbols on the spines, one of which he pulled out and smirked at the phone book sized patchwork book in a line with others.

Smoothing his palm across the sand worn cover he opened the front cover and saw the first page of Khuzdul runes hinting that it was the hammer set you first found in the typewriter. The first page had his heart rate slowing at the sentimental note from you introducing this as your first story that you hoped one day you could bring home to your mother. Biting his lip he closed the cover smoothing his palm across it again in turning it to put it back again waiting for the day he hoped you might offer to show him yourself. The sound of an odd chirping sound had him up again and heading through the house back to the theater where he smirked finding Roac awoken by a nature show on sea birds.

Thorin chuckled saying, “Sorry Roac. Kuu must have left it on.”

Roac ruffled his feathers standing up asking, “Has Dot eaten yet?”

“I believe she is still sleeping.”

“Good,” he rose up flapping hard to fly past Thorin, “I can wake her to a feast!” Making the Dwarf smirk in moving closer to turn off the projector and fold your blanket again then move to head back to the living room.

Outside the doorway when you exited, your lips parted seeing the golden strapped and heeled black platform pumps on Echthellion’s palm you took hold of in his deep chuckle, “Where did you find these?”

You looked up at him and said, “Not telling. But they are yours.”

“Thank you.”

He chuckled and tilted his head, “Come on, off for contracts.”

You nodded then pointed at Mal, “I’m finding out what happened.”

She grumbled again and turned to head out to head back to her place readying for another visit from Dain to see BamBam and come see his latest check up at the vet. Following Ecthellion you went to his office and eased your fingers around the pen you were given while he readied the contracts. Already you signed the anonymity pages for him to ready the deal so that all the pages on these contracts had you named as Bunny. Dozens of signatures later and the papers were locked in his case freeing him to stand and walk around the desk to accept your crashing hug before he asked, “What else have I missed?”

In a groan your head fell back and his grin eased out hearing your latest chaotic unfold in your life. “Now not only do I have a giant bear shaped hedge trimmer in my yard I have two Great Owls. Not even mentioning I have one of the rudest courting birds in my house, I swear, if Roac didn’t seem to like her-,”

Ecthellion laughed and gave you another hug you melted into, “Go home, take a nap.”

“I’ll try, but who knows who will show up at my door this time.”

Back into the hall you pulled out your phone and smiled at the pictures of your sisters and mother with their necklaces along with pictures of Cirdan with his shirt and journals making you giggle at the raving reviews of the gifts and pictures you had sent their way. All the way down to the garage again you hugged the rhino to your chest smirking as you eyed your heels from the expensive brand in the lift.

Standing outside of his car with his arms on the hood Frerin was waiting and pointed at you saying, “Ents! I figured it out! The roar!” You giggled and came closer to the car luring his eyes to your shoes and rhino, “More gifts for the show?”

“The rhino is from a wife of our coffee cart guy, he’s out from a surgery. And the shoes are from Ecthellion, said to leave my shoes for the festival to him.”

“Hell of a pair of shoes. Had an ex who loved that style of shoes, so expensive.”

“Every now and then he demands to get me a new pair. I still have some pink ones but they don’t work with the look.” He nodded and you opened the door and lowered inside. “Eager for your flight?”

He chuckled and said, “It’s a flight out for an event then a flight back to get back in time for the festival. Can’t wait to see you fully dolled up.”

“What are you going as?”

“Badger, obviously, mask and all.”

“Adorable,” Making him chuckle again.

“I imagine you are straight off to bed when you get back.”

“May sit up a bit.”

Smirking at you he asked, “So, with the scooter does that mean you would be wearing heels more often?”

“Don’t think I go places often requiring heels.”

“That could always change.” He hummed out and said, “Let’s get you home, Sis.”

A buzz from your phone had you looking at it and saying, “Aviary is thrilled Belly and Darling got on so well.” Inhaling sharply you drew his eye and asked, “Have you seen Zebra Raven mating dance?”

Lowly he chuckled, “No, I have not had the pleasure.”

“They have it, on the site. It was painful to watch,” making him chuckle again. “I love him, but if a guy tried to pick me up dancing like that, I don’t think I’d make it to his bow.” Making him chuckle again, “I mean it’s a nice idea to have guys dance to pick you up but thinking it and doing it would be vastly different.”

“I will note that down, your guy has to be able to dance,” he chuckled at your nudge to his elbow, “Alright, just have an interpretive dance on standby. Got it.”

He chuckled again at your head leaning forward to tap against your rhino’s, “Terrible.”

“I’m teasing, I wouldn’t set you up to be embarrassed, even on another’s behalf, Sis.”

Glancing over you asked, “Did Dis tell you how her meet went with Mal?”

Frerin chuckled, “Not yet, Mal seem shaken?”

“Not shaken, but avoiding. If it went badly she’d be in tears but she’s not saying something.”

Frerin, “No doubt she’s just processing. Big weekend.” He looked at you again, “So that’s how you ended up at the tea shop? Your coffee stand guy got sick?”

“Well, I drink cider at work, coffee makes me jittery. I tend to have panic attacks when I get jittery.” You glanced at him and said, “Not all the time, but it’s like an intense house of terror like they have in theme parks. Brain just imagines things that aren’t creeping up on me.”

“I get like that with espressos. And hot air balloons, can’t even be near them.”

The final turn had him parking in front of the house and he reached over patting your knee, “Get some sleep, Sis.”

Out of the car you climbed and through the winds you slid your way through your propped open front gate and up to your front entrance where you exhaled relaxing in the relief from the force against you. With a final wave his way you let yourself inside seeing him wave back and start to drive off when you eased the door shut. His continued use of the term of sister was shaken off as you hung up your bag and followed the sounds of the show playing to the living room. The room was empty but the whistle of your kettle had you turning for your kitchen to find Thorin there with a grin saying, “Great show. I take it that was our mystery narrator?” You nodded and he asked with a smirk easing out, “Rhino and heels?”

“Ah, heels are for the weekend and the rhino was a gift. Our coffee cart guy is off his feet on medical leave and his wife brought this, show’s been helping keep him distracted.”

“That’s good.” You nodded and set them down on the counter as he said, “Roac brought Dot breakfast. She was pleased.”

“Doubtful,”

He chuckled and said, “She argued the berries weren’t bright enough but ate them anyways. Still good ground to start on. Him and Bala are flying around the back yard giving the girls some time to chat.”

For a few moments your eyes were locked in the silence until he turned to grab the kettle to fill your mug pouring water over your filled whale infuser, “No mug for you?”

He shook his head, “Not this time, had some earlier. I drink any more of your tea and you’ll run out by morning. I will get you more cider and teas,” your lips parted and he said, “I want to. Someone has to make sure you don’t get swindled on some imitation.”

“Well don’t forget your fruit, veggies, jams and bread.”

“I-,” Around the counter you strolled and grabbed one of your reusable totes you started to fill randomly making him chuckle at the hefty amount you set on the counter with a cling wrapped loaf of bread on top.

“Payback is painful isn’t it?” You teased.

And he rumbled back playfully, “Excruciating.”

“Good.” He smirked then looked to Roac in his flight into the kitchen from his stop into the greenhouse.

Proudly the bird landed on Thorin’s shoulder and puffed up saying, “Dot has asked me to leave.”

Your lips parted and Thorin chuckled walking over to stroke his hand down your arm, “Good sign. Thank you for the bag. Enjoy your tea and get some rest. No pressure on coming in tomorrow if you want to stay in.”

“You get some sleep too Mug Dealer.” You looked to Roac, “Thank you, Roac.”

“I am eternally grateful for you finding me my Mate.” Grinning at you while Thorin lifted his bag.

Thorin rumbled another low goodbye and you escorted the pair to the door and made sure they both got in safely before you turned back to your tea. Lifting your whale seeper you cleaned it out and rinsed it off and turned to lift your mug sending off a review of your tea. ‘Surprised by some company at home, but chivalrous as ever my Mug Dealer came to my rescue with another lovely pineappley touch to it.’

Again comments racked up with the usual amused statements egging you on to make a move with your Mug Dealer if you weren’t already together. And you pocketed your phone seeing some of the other shop owners from the expo still puzzled as to who you could be but no less amused by the dynamic involving the surly Dwarf they assumed to be the Dealer in question in need of a good wooing himself. A check on the greenhouse brought Belly to a swing closer to you stroking his head against your cheek before flying off to chase after Darling in another hopeful round for increasing their chance of a large clutch of eggs. Kindly you greeted Dot who eyed you curiously then asked, “Roac has left?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and said, “He certainly flies fearlessly.”

With a nod you replied, “Yes he does.” Taking a sip of your tea while she hopped to the perch outside of her home.

Fluffing up her feathers she said, “I shall not make him struggle too long I think.” Flying down to the ridge around the fountain to inspect the lily pads that she hadn’t seen before, testing if they would hold her or not.

Turning from there you went to check on your hummingbird house grinning at their parents who left you to watch their hatchlings now getting their feathery coating in order signaling in a week or so they could be left without their mothers for longer periods. Though here safe in your warm greenhouse they really didn’t need much heating and there was more than enough food to keep them and hundreds more well fed for generations to come. “Hello little ones.” Various personalities had begun to show already and before long their parents were back to catch their yawns in time for a noon nap signaling your turn back to your kitchen to rinse out your empty mug. To your couch you went to relax to whatever was still playing and slowly drift off into a nap of your own.

“I am pleased with the territory for my dwelling with Dot.” Roac said shifting on the bar on the passenger side of the dashboard in Thorin’s car in his first turn.

“It is an incredible greenhouse.”

“Jack Rabbit has changed the lands to perfection for hatchlings.”

Thorin glanced at him wondering why he had called you that. “Yes, she has. Jack Rabbit?”

“That is what Bala and the others call her. I wish to fit in.”

“Ah,”

Roac’s head tilted looking his friend over, “Have you danced for her yet?”

That had Thorin look back at him, “We do not dance to attract Mates.”

“Singing then? You have a very deep voice, none can bellow as you can. Surely she will choose you.”

With a chuckle he replied, “Thank you, but again, our courting rituals are far more complicated than yours.”

Roac looked forward, “Hmm. She has a fondness for you, the home is-,”

“Roac,” he sighed in catching his friend’s nod, “The necklace she was wearing, I gave it to her.”

That puffed up his feathers giddily, “She is weighing her options then, just as Dot is restraining true impressions on my approval as her Mate! What is the next step I shall assist all I can!”

Wetting his lips Thorin replied, “It is a matter of working the right words at the right moment to agree for a courtship.”

“Words, of course. Poetry, not a song. I have faith in you that the right words might find you to secure her approval.”

Widely he smirked at his friend’s blind faith in him and the situation and rumbled back, “Thank you.”

The rest of the way Roac muttered his plans to finalize courting Dot only making Thorin’s grin deepen as it stirred options in his own ideas concerning you. Once parked he reached over taking hold of the bag first once his door was propped open and then for Roac who hopped onto his arm and walked up to his shoulder to free his hand. Securing the bag he took the short walk up to his apartment, inside which he spotted Frerin in the living room already smirking as he asked, “Ooh, she sent you home with goodies I see.”

Thorin chuckled and set the bag down feeling his stomach clench in Roac’s flight back to his dwelling in Thorin’s room to nap, from the bag he pulled out your bread and a jar for tomato soup and set up the tomatoes to let it simmer as you had. “Apparently this is revenge.”

Frerin on his feet hummed, “Revenge smells good.” Lifting the bread he asked, “She makes her own bread too?”

Thorin nodded and carried the bag to put the rest away in their pantry on a shelf usually left empty now entirely for your goods. “You have not tasted soup like this. So good.”

“She made you soup?”

“She was tired and anxious, comfort food.”

Frerin nodded and came to his brother’s side while he cut the bread just like you had, but left more behind to have some later, “Alone, together, cooking, details?”

Thorin sighed and looked at Frerin, “It was nice. Late night cooking, it was cozy. She was half asleep and the soup was incredible, grilled cheese too. She cooked we cleaned up and then handled the arrivals together.”

“That’s sounds perfect. I’m glad she called you.”

“So am I, even if Bala was the one who nominated Roac for his wingman and I’m just his chauffer, I have no clue how I could have handled being surprised like that.”

Frerin shook his head, “You and me both,” going to smell the soup, “This all she sent?” Then turned to head into the pantry to look at what you had sent.

Thorin’s eye however went to the box on the living room table and he smirked using his keys to open the package from which he pulled the cd out of. Across the cover a honey haired woman seated at the piano of singing stones in a brilliant silvery orange blend, clearly an older version of you. With you in a pink gown with strips laying delicately across your shoulders holding the dress above its drastic dip in the back lined with silver accenting gems matching those on the edges of the mermaid skirt. Facing the large mic they were left with just the silhouette of your face and sight of your lit up snowy curls braided up into an intricate bun.

Breaking the plastic wrap on it that dropped into the open box he switched on the disk player and put it on turning Frerin’s head at the intro of the ethereal piano. Taking hold of the case Thorin passed him he smirked as his brother focused on the soup he gave its first stir. Each and every song until the soup was served up building up their adoration for you upon discovering another of your hidden talents. Their own hums blended into the mix while enjoying the finished meal, only pausing when chills ran up their backs hearing the intro to the song that had been played on the Bunny show making the pair look at the track number to know the name of the song Frerin pulled up translated lyrics for on his phone only warming their hearts more. Fully cleaned up at the end of the disc Thorin took his box and the cd to his room to listen to again later on his way to dropping onto his bed once his heavy boots were taken off.

Curiosity had gotten the better of you and upon waking up after sunset you brushed your hair out of your face and walked out to your back yard. Under the lights of the gentle glowing lanterns you walked the pathway back to the seating area already hearing Hector adjusting his wings on his exiting of their new home. Bright eyes landed on you and he turned fully at your brief wave, “Hello. Just wanted to check in, see how you liked your first day.”

Hector gave you a soft grin stepping closer and extending his wing to the side, “Come and see our changes.”

You nodded and came closer flashing another grin and wave at his mate upon stepping up into the seating area listening to all Hector and her had put into the area to make it comfy for their eggs. The trio that she revealed to you in their trade off on warming them on her way to the yard to stretch fully. Hector’s head tilted seeing you eyeing the eggs, “We would allow you to touch them.”

You looked up at him with a spreading grin, “Thank you,” knowing fully most birds would never allow someone to touch their eggs. But crawling carefully into the nest you got a better look and crouched down closing your eyes to listen to the warm eggs one at a time. “They sound very strong.” Climbing out again you asked, “Nearly time, right?”

They both nodded and she said, “We have agreed, should our daughter accept Kuu we would allow her to remain here with you. Our home has many daughters, she would find plenty and comfort here where we could always visit.”

“That’s so thoughtful, if that’s what you would wish for her. I would take very good care of her.”

Hector grinned at you, “We know. You have been most kind, the others, they tended me but did not see what we needed in that dwelling.” Settling carefully down on top of the eggs his feathers folded around.

“Yes, they have told me they might be taking some tips from my own dwelling. Especially for Striped Ravens, when they can find them. Their numbers are so low.”

She asked, “Your Raven has mated well?”

You nodded, “Yes, they took to each other right away. They seem very happy planning for eggs.” On her way to go search the nearby stream for fish you said, “Enjoy your night, I’m going to make some dinner myself.”

To which Hector answered, “Eat well, do not worry your mate will surely return to claim himself as yours soon.” Giggling to yourself mentally you walked back to the house catching sight of her one legged giddy hop with fish still wiggling in her foot she showed off to Hector. Dinner was pulled together, a thick stew using up more of your jarred goods and bread before you cleaned up and headed to your bedroom to change and lay in bed to a film waiting to fall asleep again knowing you needed more rest.

Pt 26

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @ggbbhehe4455, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000,��@marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore, @mariannetora, @shesakillerkween

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim, @jotink78, @pastelhexmaniac

#Thorin x Reader OC #Frerin #Giant Owl #Hobbit #lotr

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poorquentyn · 7 years

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I really enjoyed your Ilyrio Mopatis theories, but I wonder why such a rich man would send away his only son to sleep on a boat and work as a fisherman when he could just raise him and wed him to some rich family? is there a possibility he is secret Blackfyre heir and he was just brokered through Ilyrio for exchange of position in Small council?

Illyrio is hoping to gain immensely from Aegon’s rise to the Iron Throne, no denying that, and at a level that “some rich family” cannot provide. But there’s another narrative at work here between the lines, one which I think marks out Aegon as Illyrio’s son by Serra. First, we get the setup with the statue…

Beneath his window six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their slender branches bare and brown. A naked boy stood on the water, poised to duel with a bravo’s blade in hand. He was lithe and handsome, no older than sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed his shoulders. So lifelike did he seem that it took the dwarf a long moment to realize he was made of painted marble, though his sword shimmered like true steel.

“Perhaps you chanced to glimpse the statue by my pool? Pytho Malanon carved that when I was six-and-ten. A lovely thing, though now I weep to see it.”

…which when taken together with Serra’s fate…

“A maiden? I know the way of that.” Illyrio thrust his right hand up his left sleeve and drew out a silver locket. Inside was a painted likeness of a woman with big blue eyes and pale golden hair streaked by silver. “Serra. I found her in a Lysene pillow house and brought her home to warm my bed, but in the end I wed her. Me, whose first wife had been a cousin of the Prince of Pentos. The palace gates were closed to me thereafter, but I did not care. The price was small enough, for Serra.”

“How did she die?” Tyrion knew that she was dead; no man spoke so fondly of a woman who had abandoned him.

“A Braavosi trading galley called at Pentos on her way back from the Jade Sea. The Treasure carried cloves and saffron, jet and jade, scarlet samite, green silk … and the grey death. We slew her oarsmen as they came ashore and burned the ship at anchor, but the rats crept down the oars and paddled to the quay on cold stone feet. The plague took two thousand before it ran its course.”

Magister Illyrio closed the locket. “I keep her hands in my bedchamber. Her hands that were so soft…”

…outlines a story etched in stone. From the cheesemonger’s perspective, the stone took Serra, but as if in some twisted exchange it breathed life into that statue and the result was Aegon: that young bravo Illyrio remembered looking back at him, reborn, ready to make Serra proud. Like Dany with Rhaego, but inverted, because that’s Aegon’s whole thing–he’s Dany and Jon but backwards, a scrambled Egg, everything crammed in from the outside by his handlers instead of emerging organically. And so…

“There is a gift for the boy in one of the chests. Some candied ginger. He was always fond of it.” Illyrio sounded oddly sad. “I thought I might continue on to Ghoyan Drohe with you. A farewell feast before you start downriver…”

“Good fortune,” Illyrio called after them. “Tell the boy I am sorry that I will not be with him for his wedding. I will rejoin you in Westeros. That I swear, by my sweet Serra’s hands.”

The last that Tyrion Lannister saw of Illyrio Mopatis, the magister was standing by his litter in his brocade robes, his massive shoulders slumped. As his figure dwindled in their dust, the lord of cheese looked almost small.

This is business, certainly, but it’s also personal. It always is. For hands of gold are always cold…

#illyrio mopatis #aegon vi targaryen #serra #asoiaf meta

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folklore-and-fairytales · 4 years

Text

A MIDNIGHT VISIT From The Little Green Goblin – a Free Story

It was a Beautiful sight

From The Little Green Goblin by James Ball Naylor.

Little Bob Taylor was mad, discouraged, and thoroughly miserable. Things had gone wrong—as things have the perverse habit of doing with mischievous, fun-loving boys of ten—and he was disgruntled, disgusted. The school year drawing to a close had been one of dreary drudgery; at least that was the retrospective view he took of it. And warm, sunshiny weather had come—the season for outdoor sports and vagrant rambles—and the end was not yet. Still he was a galley slave in the gilded barge of modern education; and open and desperate rebellion was in his heart.

One lesson was not disposed of before another intrusively presented itself, and tasks at home multiplied with a fecundity rivaling that of the evils of Pandora’s box. Yes, Bob was all out of sorts. School was a bore; tasks at home were a botheration, and life was a frank failure. He knew it; and what he knew he knew.

He had come from school on this particular day in an irritable, surly mood, to find that the lawn needed mowing, that the flower-beds needed weeding,—and just when he desired to steal away upon the wooded hillside back of the house and make buckeye whistles! He had demurred, grumbled and growled, and his father had rebuked him. Then he had complained of a headache, and his mother had given him a pill—a pill! think of it—and sent him off to bed.

Bob was out of sorts with himself

So here he was, tossing upon his own little bed in his own little room at the back of the house. It was twilight. The window was open, and the sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle flowers floated in to him. Birds were chirping and twittering as they settled themselves to rest among the sheltering boughs of the wild cherry tree just without, and the sounds of laughter and song came from the rooms beneath, where the other members of the family were making merry. Bob was hurt, grieved. Was there such a thing as justice in the whole world? He doubted it! And he wriggled and squirmed from one side of the bed to the other, kicked the footboard and dug his fists into the pillows—burning with anger and consuming with self-pity. At last the gathering storm of his contending emotions culminated in a downpour of tears, and weeping, he fell asleep.

“Hello! Hello, Bob! Hello, Bob Taylor!”

Bob popped up in bed, threw off the light coverings and stared about him. A broad band of moonlight streamed in at the open window, making the room almost as light as day. Not a sound was to be heard. The youngster peered into the shadowy corners and out into the black hallway, straining his ears. The clock down stairs struck ten deliberate, measured strokes.

“I thought I heard somebody calling me,” the lad muttered; “I must have been dreaming.”

He dropped back upon his pillows and closed his eyes.

“Hello, Bob!”

The boy again sprang to a sitting posture, as quick as a jack-in-a-box, his eyes and mouth wide open. He was startled, a little frightened.

“Hel—hello yourself!” he quavered.

“I’m helloing you,” the voice replied. “I’ve no need to hello myself; I’m awake.”

Bob looked all around, but could not locate the speaker.

“I’m awake, too,” he muttered; “at least I guess I am.”

“Yes, you’re awake all right enough now,” the voice said; “but I nearly yelled a lung loose getting you awake.”

“Well, where are you?” the boy cried.

A hoarse, rasping chuckle was the answer, apparently coming from the open window. Bob turned his eyes in that direction and blinked and stared, and blinked again; for there upon the sill, distinctly visible in the streaming white moonlight, stood the oddest, most grotesque figure the boy had ever beheld. Was it a dwarfed and deformed bit of humanity, or a gigantic frog masquerading in the garb of a man? Bob could not tell; so he ventured the very natural query:

“What are you?”

“I’m a goblin,” his nocturnal visitor made reply, in a harsh strident, parrot-like voice.

“A goblin?” Bob questioned.

“Yes.”

“Well, what’s a goblin?”

“Don’t you know?” in evident surprise.

“No.”

“Why, boy—boy! Your education has been sadly amiss.”

“I know it,” Bob replied with unction, his school grievances returning in full force to his mind. “But what is a goblin? Anything like a gobbler?”

“Stuff!” his visitor exclaimed in a tone of deep disgust. “Anything like a gobbler! Bob, you ought to be ashamed. Do I look anything like a turkey?”

“No, you look like a frog,” the boy laughed.

“Shut up!” the goblin croaked.

“I won’t!” snapped the boy.

“Look here!” cried the goblin. “Surely you know what goblins are. You’ve read of ’em—you’ve seen their pictures in books, haven’t you?”

“I think I have,” Bob said reflectively, “but I don’t know just what they are.”

“You know what a man is, don’t you?” the goblin queried.

“Of course.”

“Well, what is a man?”

“Huh?” the lad cried sharply.

“What is a man?”

“Why, a man’s a—a—a man,” Bob answered, lamely.

“Good—very good;” the goblin chuckled, interlocking his slim fingers over his protuberant abdomen and rocking himself to and fro upon his slender legs. “I see your schooling’s done you some good. Yes, a man’s a man, and a goblin’s a goblin. Understand? It’s all as clear as muddy water, when you think it over. Hey?”

“You explain things just like my teacher does,” the boy muttered peevishly.

“How’s that?” the goblin inquired, seating himself upon the sill and drawing his knees up to his chin.

“Why, when we ask him a question, he asks us one in return; and when we answer it, he tangles us all up and leaves us that way.”

“Does he?” the goblin grinned.

“Yes, he does,” sullenly.

“He must be a good teacher.”

“He is good—good for nothing,” snappishly.

The goblin hugged his slim shanks and laughed silently. He was a diminutive fellow, not more than a foot in height. His head was large; his body was pursy. A pair of big, waggling ears, a broad, flat nose, two small, pop eyes and a wide mouth made up his features. His dress consisted of a brimless, peaked cap, cutaway coat, long waistcoat, tight fitting trousers and a pair of tiny shoes—all of a vivid green color. His was indeed an uncouth and queer figure!

“Say!” Bob cried, suddenly.

“Huh?” the goblin ejaculated, throwing back his head and nimbly scratching his chin with the toe of his shoe.

“What are you called?”

“Sometimes I’m called the Little Green Goblin of Goblinville.”

“Oh!”

“Yes.”

“But what’s your name?”

“Fitz.”

“Fitz?”

“Yes.”

“Fitz what?”

“Fitz Mee.”

“Fits you?” laughed Bob. “I guess it does.”

“No!” rasped the goblin. “Not Fitz Hugh; Fitz Mee.”

“That’s what I said,” giggled the boy, “fits you.”

“I know you did; but I didn’t. I said Fitz Mee.”

“I can’t see the difference,” said Bob, with a puzzled shake of the head.

“Oh, you can’t!” sneered the goblin.

“No, I can’t!”—bristling pugnaciously.

“Huh!”—contemptuously—“I say my name is Fitz Mee; you say it is Fitz Hugh; and you can’t see the difference, hey?”

“Oh, that’s what you mean—that your name is Fitz Mee,” grinned Bob.

“Of course it’s what I mean,” the goblin muttered gratingly; “it’s what I said; and a goblin always says what he means and means what he says.”

“Where’s your home?” the boy ventured to inquire.

“In Goblinville,” was the crisp reply.

“Goblinville?”

“Yes; the capital of Goblinland.”

“And where’s that?”

“A long distance east or a long distance west.”

“Well, which?”

“Either or both.”

“Oh, that can’t be!” Bob cried.

“It can’t?”

“Why, no.”

“Why can’t it?”

“The place can’t be east and west both—from here.”

“But it can, and it is,” the goblin insisted.

“Is that so?”—in profound wonder.

“Yes; it’s on the opposite side of the globe.”

“Oh, I see.”

The goblin nodded, batting his pop eyes.

“Well, what are you doing here?” Bob pursued.

“Talking to you,” grinned the goblin.

“I know that,” the lad grumbled irritably. “But what brought you here?”

“A balloon.”

“Oh, pshaw! What did you come here for?”

“For you.”

“For me?”

“Yes; you don’t like to live in this country, and I’ve come to take you to a better one.”

“To Goblinland?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a better country than this—for boys?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“In what way is it better?” Bob demanded, shrewdly. “Tell me about it.”

“Well,” the goblin went on to explain, unclasping his hands and stretching his slender legs full length upon the window-sill, “in your country a boy isn’t permitted to do what pleases him, but is compelled to do what pleases others. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, it is,” the lad muttered.

“But in our land,” the goblin continued, “a boy isn’t permitted to do what pleases others, but is compelled to do what pleases himself.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Bob, surprised and pleased. “That’s great. I’d like to live in Goblinland.”

“Of course you would,” said the goblin, placing a finger alongside of his flat nose and winking a pop eye. “Your parents and your teacher don’t know how to treat you—don’t appreciate you; they don’t understand boys. You’d better come along with me.”

“I’ve a notion to,” Bob replied thoughtfully. Then, abruptly: “But how did you find out about me, that I was dissatisfied with things here?”

“Oh, we know everything that’s going on,” the goblin grinned; “we get wireless telephone messages from all over the world. Whenever anybody says anything—or thinks anything, even—we learn of it; and if they’re in trouble some one of us good little goblins sets off to help them.”

“Why, how good of you!” Bob murmured, in sincere admiration. “You chaps are a bully lot!”

“Yes, indeed,” the goblin giggled; “we’re a good-hearted lot—we are. Oh, you’ll just love and worship us when you learn all about us!”

And the little green sprite almost choked with some suppressed emotion.

“I’m going with you,” the boy said, with sudden decision. “Will your balloon carry two, though?”

“We can manage that,” said the goblin. “Come here to the window and take a squint at my aërial vehicle.”

Bob crawled to the foot of the bed and peeped out the window. There hung the goblin’s balloon, anchored to the window-sill by means of a rope and hook. The bag looked like a big fat feather bed and the car resembled a large Willow clothes-basket. The boy was surprised, and not a little disappointed.

“And you came here in that thing?” he asked, unable to conceal the contempt he felt for the primitive and clumsy-looking contraption.

“Of course I did,” Fitz Mee made answer.

“And how did you get from the basket to the window here?”

“Slid down the anchor-rope.”

“Oh!” Bob gave an understanding nod. “And you’re going to climb the rope, when you go?”

“Yes; can you climb it?”

“Why, I—I could climb it,” Bob replied, slowly shaking his head; “but I’m not going to.”

“You’re not?” cried the goblin.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I’m not going to risk my life in any such a balloon as that. It looks like an old feather bed.”

“It is a feather bed,” Fitz answered, complacently.

In my land a boy is compelled to do what pleases himself

“What!”

The goblin nodded sagely.

“Whee!” the lad whistled. “You don’t mean what you say, do you? You mean it’s a bed tick filled with gas, don’t you?”

“I mean just what I say,” Fitz Mee replied, positively. “That balloon bag is a feather bed.”

“But a feather bed won’t float in the air,” Bob objected.

“Won’t it?” leered the goblin.

“No.”

“How do you know? Did you ever try one to see?”

“N—o.”

“Well, one feather, a downy feather, will fly in the air, and carry its own weight and a little more, won’t it?”

“Yes,” the lad admitted, wondering what the goblin was driving at.

“Then won’t thousands of feathers confined in a bag fly higher and lift more than one feather alone will?”

“No,” positively.

“Tut—tut!” snapped the goblin. “You don’t know anything of the law of physics, it appears. Won’t a thousand volumes of gas confined in a bag fly higher and lift more than one volume unconfined will?”

“Why, of course,” irritably.

“Well!”—triumphantly,—“don’t the same law apply to feathers? Say!”

“I—I don’t know,” Bob stammered, puzzled but unconvinced.

“To be sure it does,” the goblin continued, smoothly. “I know; I’ve tried it. And you can see for yourself that my balloon’s a success.”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t carry me,” Bob objected; “I’m too heavy.”

“I’ll have to shrink you,” Fitz Mee said quietly.

“Shrink me?” drawing back in alarm bordering on consternation.

“Yes; it won’t hurt you.”

“How—how’re you going to do it?”

“I’ll show you.”

The goblin got upon his feet, took a small bottle from his waistcoat pocket and deliberately unscrewed the top and shook out a tiny tablet.

“There,” he said, “take that.”

“Uk-uh!” grunted Bob, compressing his lips and shaking his head. “I don’t like to take pills.”

“This isn’t a pill,” Fitz explained, “it’s a tablet.”

“It’s all the same,” the boy declared obstinately.

“Won’t you take it?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t go with me.”

“I can’t?”

The goblin shook his head.

“Isn’t there some other way you can—can shrink me?”

Again Fitz Mee silently shook his head.

“W-e-ll,” Bob said slowly and reluctantly, “I’ll take it. But, say?”

“Well?”

“What’ll it do to me—just make me smaller?”

“That’s all.”

“How small will it make me?”

“About my size,” grinned the goblin.

“Oo—h!” ejaculated Bob. “And will it make me as—as ugly as you are?” in grave concern.

The goblin clapped his hands over his stomach, wriggled this way and that and laughed till the tears ran down his fat cheeks.

“Oh—ho!” he gasped at last. “So you think me ugly, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” the lad admitted candidly, a little nettled.

“Well, that’s funny,” gurgled the goblin; “for that’s what I think of you. So you see the matter of looks is a matter of taste.”

“Huh!” Bob snorted contemptuously. “But will that tablet change my looks? That’s what I want to know.”

“No, it won’t,” was the reassuring reply.

“And will I always be small—like you?”

“Look here!” Fitz Mee croaked hoarsely. “If you’re going with me, stop asking fool questions and take this tablet.”

“Give it to me,” Bob muttered, in sheer desperation.

And he snatched the tablet and swallowed it.

Immediately he shrunk to the size of the goblin.

“My!” he cried. “It feels funny to be so little and light.”

He sprang from the bed to the window-sill, and anticly danced a jig in his night garment.

“Get into your clothes,” the goblin commanded, “and let’s be off.”

Bob nimbly leaped to the floor, tore off his night-robe and caught up his trousers. Then he paused, a look of comical consternation upon his apple face.

“What’s the matter?” giggled the goblin.

“Why—why,” the boy gasped, his mouth wide open, “my clothes are all a mile too big for me!”

Fitz Mee threw himself prone upon his stomach, pummeled and kicked the window-sill, and laughed uproariously.

Just why were his clothes to large, and what happened next you may ask? Well you will have to download the Little Green Goblin to find out for yourself.

=======

The Little Green Goblin by James Ball Naylor – the 12 adventures of Bob and the Little Green Goblin.

ISBN: 9788835375777

DOWNLOAD LINK: https://bit.ly/33XA2Uk

10% of the publisher’s profits are donated to charity. Yesterday’s books for today’s Charities.

===============

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wendyimmiller · 5 years

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From Rehab to a “Welcome Home” Garden

So, OK, I’m lucky; not every driveway offers 300 feet of “Welcome Home.” I understand that. What I’m talking about here is concept; the need to plant something special at the edge of the yard where that long day at the office meets that welcome turn toward the garage.

That idiot boss, that computer meltdown, that wasted sales meeting, that assembly line lunacy, that 40 minutes of traffic jam are history. You’re home. You’re garden still loves you. It’s right there to say so.

As previously mentioned – and much more on that later – our house is about 300 graveled feet back off the road. As such it offers more of an Atta-Boy Bob cheering section than an individual “Welcome Home” – especially after a recent hospital stay.

But I have often seen even suburban homes that offer cheerful greetings in subdivision lots: dancing conifers, purple clematis, perfect hedges, tight pockets of brilliant flowers around a mailbox.

When properly planted, the nearly-defeated commuter can see his home a half-block away, feel a pulse of excitement at the flush of red roses at his driveway’s edge, know that the journey to and from a boring, depressing job might be worth it once the pruners are in hand.

Yes, there is always the lurking danger of the hated neighbor alerting the subdivision-code police that those red roses are forbidden near the mailbox, but who says gardeners can’t live – and plant – a little dangerously.

Truth be told, you don’t have to plant Welcome Home plants in forbidden territory anyway. Add dogwoods or red buds to the front yard, stuff a lilac in the corner, line the driveway with handsome shrubs, plant a seasonal mix of foundation plants up there near, well, the foundation.

Make your front yard sing, hum and whistle and your plants will shout: “Welcome Home. We missed you. We were all hoping your boss got transferred to Poughkeepsie.”

In our case I can sense our plants’ pending celebration halfway up the hill to the house. On the left, just at the driveway entrance, is a spreading golden yew in a big pot; a gift from legendary Louisville landscaper Theodore Klein.

Across the drive is a raised bed featuring a purple waterfall of Japanese maple foliage, an alleged dwarf weeping beech that never got the memo, and a lanky smoke tree, its leaves a phosphorescent green.

Our tunnel

Ahead is 150 feet of arched tree limbs that create a welcoming tunnel. This was once only graveled driveway, flat pasture and weeds. Three small bald cypress were planted in the wet spot on the left. A bare root sugar maple went on the right. A dogwood, ornamental cherry and two feisty crab apples were added. Time, pruners and then a chainsaw created my tunnel. Fed-X truck drivers kept it lofty.

One of the crab apples is the very rare ‘Uncle Elmer’ cultivar. Now a leaning 30 feet in height, it was a gift from my wife’s Uncle Elmer – and small enough to bring home in a burlap bag.

He and his wife, Aunt Helen, were Old School gardeners. Elmer planted the hill behind their house in a vegetable garden big enough to feed Wisconsin. Helen, who sewed, quilted and made Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls, could grow roses in asphalt.

A favorite family story is of the day it was feared Aunt Helen had a heart attack. An ambulance was called. She refused to get on board until she washed the dishes – who could leave that mess behind? – and then she refused to go at all. Elmer and Helen are long gone – but not the storied tree.

Weeping redbud

My Welcome Home tunnel opens to a sunny site more seasonal in nature. Tulips, a weeping red-leaf redbud, and quince wave to me in spring. Then come peonies, zinnias, marigolds, bottle brush buckeyes and oak leaf hydrangea. A pair of callicarpa ‘Beauty Berries’ with their almost iridescent blue berries will greet me in fall.

Looming above them are three Cornelian cherries, that dogwood outlier smothered in yellow flowers in spring, and hundreds of bright red cherries in the fall.

Further along the driveway – up near the house – are two raised beds, one featuring bright red and yellow begonias and the other more muted coral bells, oak leaf hydrangea blossoms fading into pink, and two stone carved figures on a pedestal – perhaps the man and woman of the house.

Bottlebrush Buckeye

All that welcoming power got a recent test when I was in the rehab hospital almost two weeks after spine-fusing back surgery. I felt a prisoner in bed, mildly depressed, away from all sunlight, well cared for but much too close to bedpans and a garrulous roommate.

I was sprung free on the 14th day. My wife drove us home. I all but held my breath as we turned left at the golden yew, traveled slowly through the driveway tunnel, again felt the presence of Uncle Elmer and Aunt Helen, feasted on the graceful limbs of the weeping redbud, the spiked vigor of the bottlebrush buckeyes, the willpower of the oak leaf hydrangeas, the gawdy show of red and yellow begonias.

I was home – and we all knew it.

From Rehab to a “Welcome Home” Garden originally appeared on GardenRant on June 22, 2019.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/06/from-rehab-to-a-welcome-home-garden.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

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athertonjc · 7 years

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Me and my Weepers by Garden Rant

Guest Post by Bob Hill.

I have never fully understood my attraction to weeping plants and I really don’t want to pay some nerdy-looking guy with a psychology degree about $250-an-hour to find out.

Truth be told, I’ve spent some time drinking beer and exchanging words like “theorization” and “anosognosia” with otherwise likeable shrinks who at some point toward midnight will confess to being every bit as off-the-edge as their patients, only more expensive.

That’s when I start dropping horticulture words like “cleistogamous” and “farinaceous” on them just to level up the conversation. With any luck the bartender will lock up and go home before we get to Rostrinucula dependens.

The best I can figure, I just like the aesthetics of weepers. Contrary to what their name might imply, I never see a hint of depression in them, or even gloom. They are simply unique, graceful, confident individuals taking off in a whole different series of directions.

At once.

Weeping redbud ‘Ruby Falls’

They do nicely in small spaces, can survive in containers or on a larger section of landscape. In one of the best trips of my life, I saw a weeping larch sprawling for about 30 feet along a low fence in a New Zealand nursery; 10 yards of horticultural happiness.

With deciduous weeping trees, I also like how they look in the winter, poetic, bare-limbs in a tangle, anxiously waiting for spring and another bird’s nest.

For some deep research on the causes of this weeping-plant phenomena I refer you to a 2012 Associated Press article written by Lee Reich, who at first opined that some trees weep “because they want to grow down.”

His analysis picked up from there. Reich suggested a weeping tree may have begun life as a random seedling whose quirky arrangement of genes directed its stems to weep, generally after a short period of more normal upright growth, which would also explain some recent political events.

“Perhaps the mutation was caused by sunlight or temperature; perhaps it was spontaneous,” he wrote. “At any rate, all new stems and branches originating from those changed cells weep.”

Weeping trees, however, are very unlikely to produce like offspring from their seeds. They have to be grafted onto similar rootstock, preferably high enough off the ground to create a nice waterfall effect. Then there is always that one branch outlier that wants to go back to growing straight up, another reason why God invented pruning shears.

Weeping katsura in winter

There are all the usual weeping suspects; cherry trees, apple trees, birch and Japanese maples. All fine, but my absolutely favorite is the weeping katsura ‘Amazing Grace,’ your cercidiphyllum japoncium.

It has become our wrap-around tree. Maybe 25 feet tall and wide, with drooping, enveloping limbs, we have placed a bench beneath it, a chandelier hanging overhead, a fireplace mantle off to one side. You can hide beneath its wings, read a book under there, peer out at the world instead of always having it peering in at you.

On a smaller scale, another favorite is our weeping redbud Cercis Canadensis ‘Ruby Falls.’ It literally hangs out along the driveway, a “Welcome Home” tree with tighter, pendulous limbs and purple-red leaves that follow the rose-red blooms. Maybe it’s just its size, but it seems a little more reclusive, as if its hiding something under there.

With weeping conifers, my experience, especially when they are small, is they are either happy in my landscape or soon dead. Best I can tell, almost no one in the Midwest grafts them for sale. Here in Indiana, I mostly have to import them from the West Coast or East Coast, which may help explain the dead part, or find a local outlier with some a knack for the art. But that also seems to be a dying breed.

For the most part, my best weepers just show up here in a big tan box dropped off from a brown UPS truck, and not especially better for the experience. Some of the box stores are beginning to stock pint-sized conifers in sets, but none of them are weepers, and too many of them are soon dead, too. It might have been helpful if some roots had been included.

Weeping balsam fir

Two of our weeping conifers that have survived nicely include our weeping bald cypress Taxodium distichum, and weeping balsam fir, Abies balsamea.

The bald cypress seems to favor an upright stance, with limbs plunging down toward the earth. It always reminds me of an old man who loses his hair every fall and re-grows it in spring. We also have the “Peve Mineret,” which is a really tight cultivar that looks like a dwarf old man from the git-go.

Our balsam fir was maybe 18 inches tall when we got it, and we’ve raised it like it was our own child. We made the mistake of planting it too close to another tree, and now the two are fighting it out for space, but I haven’t the heart to cut one down or the time, money or equipment to transplant the fir.

An alternate name for this tree is Balm of Gilead. Reason alone to keep it around.

Weeping conifers can fill a small space nicely, or go sprawling up, out and down across the landscape. They can also buddy-up, and, in time, are often found clumped together at one end of the conifer display garden, probably making fun of bolt-upright homo sapiens.

Retired Louisville Courier-Journal columnist and author Bob Hill is owner of the eight-acre Hidden Hill Nursery & Sculpture Garden near Utica, Indiana. Hidden Hill specializes in rare and unusual plants, whimsy and unfettered moonlight. For more information see hiddenhillnursery.com.

Me and my Weepers originally appeared on Garden Rant on March 22, 2017.

from Garden Rant http://gardenrant.com/2017/03/me-and-my-weepers.html

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