So, I wrote this a while ago and decided, what the heck, I'm swamped with too much to keep track of anyway, what's one more? So I posted it. I might end up taking it down, re-writing it and THEN posting again, for real that time, but who knows. We'll see.
Let me know if you'd like me to continue (faster).
Oh, and the M rating isn't permenant - I might even change it to T later. So don't expect any smut just yet.
One more thing: I do not own the images used to make the cover of this story! That is all.
Enjoy, my lovelies!
In the court of gods and goddesses, the sisters were low in the order. They ranked below even the goddess of vanity, though above her partner – the god of drunkenness and regret. The sisters were two halves of the same coin, having different fathers but the same birthmother. Violet, goddess of springtime and healing and, more recently, sorrow, was the lawful wife of Alder. The god of the hunt was he, and he looked it – tall and dark and lean, body as slim and powerful as the bow he wielded, he tracked and trapped every monster that roamed the lands. He was respected and loved by all the animals of the forest, as well as those humans who dwelt in it. Often in mean winters, he could be seen travelling through the wood, beloved hounds at his side, to fill a woodsman's fuel box or nudge a lost traveler in the right direction. And he carried his infant daughter with him, wrapping her tiny form in the softest pelts, the warmest of swan down, the snuggest of ivory doe leather. He fed his babe with nectar-sweetened wolf milk, funneled through a wax-sealed cloth woven by the sisters of cotton themselves, the dryads Bonnie and Twill. Only the best for the infant goddess.
As the months passed and the seasons slipped a full two cycles, she grew from a little bundle of large eyes and dark, feathery hair into a strong-willed toddler. The watery blue-gray of her eyes hardened into a bright silver, like shimmering bands of moonlight and mist. The shock of fuzzy duckling down on her head grew and thickened until Alder took to gathering it into two stubby little pigtails. She travelled with her father often, toddling at his side with a light, meandering step. He clothed her in a dress of raven feathers and cattail fluff in the Autumn and in the whole pelt of a wolf pup, complete with ears and teeth, in the winter. She passed a comical figure, gamboling in the snow, wrapped in the thick, tan-gray fur of a young wolf, the neck slit to make a hole for her wide-eyed face. The empty head of the wolf, eyes replaced with glass balls, perched atop her dark locks, ears flopping as she ran. The paws brushed at her ankles, dangling from the fur coat on either side of a limp tail.
The little goddess's fearlessness and friendly inclinations won her many admirers, mortal and immortal alike, even at her young age. Within three years of her birth, she gained a faithful following of woods-dwelling humans. Small, humble shrines and alters were erected in clearings and near cold, clear pools. Woodsmen burned offerings of honey-drizzled rabbit meat and draped her shrines in strings of bright berries and nuts, on which the birds of the wood feasted. Her powers had not yet become clear, but small, fleet-footed forest animals and bright-eyed birds followed her wherever she went, bringing her small pretty things and adding the warmth of their little bodies to her blankets when she slept. During the day, she graced her small number of tiny temples with her presence, Alder guiding her by the hand, and interacted freely with her worshippers. Everyone who met her loved her immediately, drawn in by her big, blinking, almond-shaped eyes, which shimmered like frost when she laughed and snapped like polished steel when she scowled.
The young goddess imitated the habits of her father, inclining her head and graciously accepting gifts with a piping, bird-like, "Much appreciated!" People laughed at her funny grown-up ways, coming from such a small figure and trilling voice, and she laughed with them. Her father taught her how to craft blessings out of polished stones, acorns, feathers and bits of leather. She wove bracelets from twine and supple reeds, and these she bestowed freely, handing them out with a giggle or a hop. As the young goddess grew, so her following grew as well, swelling in her wake as she travelled faithfully at the side of her father. Her shrines began appearing in villages as well as forests, small huts woven of aspen saplings and rushes that always sat near the larger, grander shrines of live pines and stretched deerskin that were dedicated to Alder. Children especially liked to enter the miniature shrines, crawling through the low doors on hands and knees to leave trinkets and toys, while their parents prayed to Alder for a good hunt or fine pelts. These were the children of trappers and migrants, dark little things with often hollow bellies. One among them was quite different. A sturdy, tow-headed child, he toddled to his town's worship place on fat, unsteady legs, an offering of bright weed-flowers clutched in his fist. But that is a story for a later time.
This first sister, daughter of Violet and Alder, was born in the very early spring, arriving with the birds. When Violet first saw her husband and daughter together, Alder had just returned from his yearly journey into the cold mountains, and he still wore his winter coat of elk skin, the hood still antlered, and his winter beard brushed the newborn's cheek as he cradled her. The family had met in the forest, just beside a deep, clean pool, and as Violet sat cross-legged on a carpet of sweet clover, babe held to her chest, Alder fried the tubers that grew in the black mud of the pond bed. He wove the stalks and three-petaled flowers into a crown for his daughter, and as soon as the circlet lighted on her tiny brow, she was named. Arrow-shaped leaves, dense, spindly stalks, pale petals with dabs of blood-red at their base and the nourishing, sweet-starchy tubers. Simple. Hardy. Beautiful, if one looked past the first impression of rough practicality.
Katniss, child goddess of Violet and Alder, spent her winters travelling with her father, but in the warmer months, she stayed by the side of her mother. Violet carried her daughter in the crook of her arm, and when she grew larger, the wolf skin was traded for a dress of patterned cotton, as if Katniss was a human apothecary's daughter. Violet herself lived and worked from a cleanly cottage at the edge of her husband's largest forest. It was an airy home, all river rock walls and quilts stitched from strong thread and patches of fabric given by grateful visitors. It was a place of magic. Human and god alike sought out the cottage, carrying ill sons or bleeding wives, cradling broken bones or cupping singed flesh. Animals limped to the door, knowing the kind mistress within would attend to them, and magical creatures begged boons of her in squawks and croaks and barks. Even monsters were known to seek Violet's healing hands, though they stopped a respectful stone's throw from the front door. Little Katniss stood beside her mother at the scarred kitchen table while Violet mixed herbs, holy water, phoenix feathers, beetles, blossoms, locks of her own hair and powdered dragon claw. Tonics, salves and broths lined the shelves and always, it seemed, there was an injured soul resting on the cot in the corner.
In the springtime, Violet ventured into the world to gently thaw winter's grip and scatter snowdrops and cherry blossoms from her palms, and Katniss went with her. It was on one of these journeys, travelling on the backs of pale-furred elk, as was Violet's preference, that little Katniss's powers first showed themselves. Mother and daughter stood inside the doorway of a small, general temple, where offerings to various gods smoldered in the embers of the fire pit and ribbons of incense billowed and curled. Violet had summoned a light rain to nurture the tender blooms and delicate green growth of the new year, and now they stopped to rest and partake in the dark cherry cordial and hot grain stew that had been left on the altar for passing deities. Katniss pressed close to her mother's side while she lifted spoons of gravy and rice to her lips, made unsure by the unfamiliar setting. While Violet held her daughter tight, nuzzling her cheek like a doe nuzzles the cheek of her fawn, two soggy travelers approached the temple. They had only two bags between them, clutched under their cloaks to shield them from the cool drizzle.
As they approached, the young goddess's eyes brightened to an alert silver, glimmering as the tang of blood wafted past her. She glanced at her mother, whose hands were already moving in a symbol of protection. She had noticed it, too. The travelers passed through the doorway with heads inclined to the alter respectfully, taking no notice in the two goddesses. To any mortal eye, Violet and Katniss were nothing more than a pair of temple cats, lapping at bowls of hot grain with pink tongues.
The smaller of the two travelers lowered herself stiffly to the floor, stretching out one leg in front of her with a sigh. Katniss then saw that she had been carrying not a sack, but a young child, all big eyes and pudgy fingers. She carried a floppy stuffed toy – the rough likeness of a bear, with button eyes and a round belly. The mother with the injured leg leaned against her husband, and, quietly, Violet stood and went to them. Under the guise of a golden-furred tabby, she settled herself on the woman's lap, draping her tail over the bandage-bound leg. Thinking nothing of it, the woman began to stroke Violet's silky fur, watching her husband strike a match and hold it to a fresh cone of incense. Katniss, meanwhile, sauntered over, charcoal-black fur bristling, pine-tree-tail wobbling behind her. She crept up to the child, who was no older than Katniss herself, and abruptly shed her cloak of illusion. Appearing now in her true form, Katniss went to the small girl and invited her to play.
They chased about the temple, hopping and skipping as children do, and all the while the human mother looked on with a bemused frown, thinking that there was something strange about the little village girl with two black braids and the cotton dress. Katniss then scooped up the stuffed toy, hugging it to her chest, and when she set it down again, it was a flesh-and-blood bear cub, with a wet, snuffling nose and brown-black fur. The little girl shrieked and ran to her mother, and Violet lifted her head at the noise. She jumped from the mother's lap, the injured leg now fully healed by the simple vibrations of her feline purrs, and in mid-air burst into a whirlwind of dew and wild rose petals. When she once again solidified, she was a woman, tall and regal, her pale gold hair arranged under a crown of slender birch twigs green with unfurling spring leaves. Her dress rippled like early morning sun through forest branches, gold-green and stitched with the intricate, intertwining patterns of lacy-winged butterflies and small birds.
The human mother and father threw themselves to the ground, hands pressed to the cold stone floor, and their frightened child copied them. Violet walked calmly to them, dissolved the bandages on the woman's leg with a flick of her hand, and quietly filled their bags with poultices and tins of tea leaves. She then turned to Katniss, who had sat down on the floor, hugging her newly-created bear cub round the neck, sniffing gently. Violet lifted Katniss into her arms, bear and all, dabbing at her tears with one shimmering sleeve. She bid the travelers rise and quickly explained: Katniss hadn't meant to scare the child; she was simply creating a play mate. She probably hadn't even meant to do it. But it made little difference – the human child shrunk from both the bear and its maker, and Katniss drooped. She buried her face in its thick ruff until her mother blew them away in a warm, puffing breeze.
When they re-formed, outside where their elk waited for them, Violet lifted herself onto the back of the creature and set Katniss in front of her. Katniss hugged her bear cub, remaining silent, for many miles. It was the first time anyone had been afraid of her, and she didn't like the feeling. At last, she called down a pair of squeaking chickadees from the branches. These she placed in a loosely-woven cage of willow twigs, and instructed a nearby doe to carry them to the little girl at the temple as a present. Violet watched all this with a quiet smile, observing her child attempting to make right what she had unintentionally done wrong.
Being a child, Katniss quickly forgot about the incident altogether, but word began to spread about the little goddess whom animals obeyed as their princess. The small girl, the name of whom Katniss never even learned, grew up with two feathered friends always at her side. The chickadees loyally brought her seeds and berries, perched in her little hands and sang to her in their high, warbling voices all through her childhood. Only when she was a young woman betrothed to the blacksmith's son did the girl's chickadees die of old age, and she wept bitterly at the loss. But every year, the descendants of those two chickadees would build a nest outside the girl's window, and she always placed a bowl of sunflower seeds on her sill. By that time, her village had already taken to calling her 'Seeder', after her pockets full of food for her beloved chickadees. But that is another story.
Katniss was three years old when Violet's belly began to grow. It was Autumn, golden and scarlet in the woods, and Alder was on the brink of leaving for the winter. He knelt before his wife, cloaked in dappled fur and strong in his waxing season of praise and prayer. His hands settled on either side of the small, unobtrusive bulge beneath Violet's skirt, and he pressed a kiss to it as he would the crown of little Katniss's head. Murmured words of love and support nourished the sleeping babe within, and the tiny presence moved in its nest of fluid and flesh. But Violet didn't smile to feel the fluttering. Her eyes tightened, and Alder looked up to see a small frown on her face.
"Don't worry," he said, placing a quick kiss on her lips. "We'll be back before he arrives."
"He?" Violet mused, smoothing a hand over the bump.
"Or she," Alder conceded. Then he slipped his bow and quiver over one shoulder, reaching for Katniss with the other hand. "Ready, my princess?"
"Ready, Papa," she piped, folding her little hand entirely into his big one.
Violet watched them vanish into the forest, hounds bounding ahead of them with exuberant bays, and when they were out of sight she retreated into her cabin, folded her hands and prayed to Finnick, god of the seas and of fertility, that the child was of Alder. But for all her fervent prayers, she still travelled the ten miles to the nearest village almost weekly to lie with her human lover, the gentle baker with three young sons and a wife of his own. He, too, rejoiced at the swelling of Violet's stomach, and in the winter months, while Alder and Katniss moved through the wildwood bestowing gifts, he held Violet close. Good as he was, he swore he would love the babe, whether it be his or Alder's, and if the need be, protect it from her husband's wrath.
Fortunately, the baker's protection wasn't needed. Spring came and Alder returned, a now four-year-old Katniss in tow, and summer blazed by the time Violet gave birth. If Alder knew of his wife's betrayal, he pretended not to. But to those who knew him well, the babe, a girl, was undoubtedly that of Emmett Mellark, Violet's long-time human lover. However, the infant demi-goddess could be mistaken for the child of Violet and Alder. She favored her mother, with coloring pale as cherry blossoms and fine, sweet features, like those of a noblewoman: a small, round nose, full cheekbones and a tapering jaw that ended in a stubborn little chin. Of course, none of this became apparent until she grew out of her baby roundness. At the time of her birth, it was known only that she was a wrinkled, red, squalling thing. It wasn't until she grew into a young lady that it became obvious that she was not the product of two immortals, but the child of one goddess and one common baker.
Katniss fell in love with her younger sister at once. She had been dozing in the forest during the birth, being too young to witness such a thing, and early in the morning, one of Violet's does woke her and carried her back to the cabin. There was Violet, slumped on her bed, surrounded by all the females of her deer herd, plus Alder's most favored hunting hound at her feet. There was Sae, the midwife – an ancient, gray, wise goddess, yet saucy and gay in her age – attending to her. Alder stood at the other side of the bed, staring down at the bundle in his arms with an expression so intense it could have been pain. Katniss bounced across the room, navigating easily around the cloven hoofs and velvet ears, and stood on the bed to peer at the bundle. Alder helped her sit down next to her sleeping mother and eased the baby girl into her big sister's arms. Katniss studied her quietly, noting the babe's duck-fuzz-hair and tiny, fisted hands. Quite by accident, one little hand latched onto Katniss's pinky. The infant squinted for a moment, slate-gray eyes meeting silver ones before it opened a pink mouth, like a kitten's, and yawned. Slowly, a smile took possession of Katniss's face, and she cradled the babe more closely to her.
"What'll we call her?" she asked her father.
In answer, he held out a blossom plucked from a bush beyond the open window. Pale yellow and delicate as a moth's wing, it fluttered in the slight breeze.
"Primrose," Katniss recalled, and then, deciding it was a mouthful, "Prim."
The two little girls grew up quite oblivious to their differences. Even when Primrose's eyes changed from infant-gray to a bright blue – bluer than Violet's, bluer than the bluest feather of a mountain blue jay, as blue as Emmett's – no one seemed the wiser. Except for Violet. Some time after Primrose's birth, she sent a message with her most trusted doe to the nearest village. A clandestine meeting was arranged. Katniss witnessed the encounter, thinking nothing of it, thrilled to show off her baby sister to this broad, golden stranger. She played in the garden, chasing butterflies in the twilight, while Emmett wept over his half-blood baby girl and Violet quickly explained her husband's turning a blind eye.
Three seasons passed, it was Spring again, and Katniss and Alder returned once more from their yearly travels to find Primrose a chubby baby, almost a year old, with a shock of white-gold hair. It was at this time that Lady Fate cast her hand.
Violet and Alder chased Katniss out of the house to play while Primrose napped. Irked, Katniss tossed her braids over her shoulder and stomped down the path, away from the cottage. She called to her bear, who was now quite large enough to ride, and used a stump as a stepping stool to clamber upon his back.
"Come on, Dandel," she grumped, pointing him across the field, toward the village. "We'll have some fun by ourselves."
The little bear traversed the ten miles easily, being far from an ordinary grizzly, and Katniss drew a hood of fluttering amethyst over herself to mask her features. It covered her stardust-silver eyes and distinctive dress cardinal feathers. The dress had been a birthday present to her from Alder. Mimicking the red and black coloring of the winter bird, it fell over her narrow shoulders, the sleeves tapering to wing shapes at her elbow. The bodice and skirt were made entirely of cranberry-red feathers, stitched together with Violet's thinnest thread, and the back laced up with red-gray ribbons, like the back of a cardinal. Underneath it all, a smoky slip of spider-silk protected her skin from the itching quality of the feathers. She looked for all the world like a little bird, dressed shoulders to knees in feathers and crowned with a circlet of her namesake blossoms. But the purple cloak hid all that, making Katniss appear much like the daughter of a rich merchant. Or, so she thought. The bear rather ruined that image, but Katniss didn't think of that. Indeed, she thought herself quite clever for the disguise, and went about grinning under her hood, none the wiser for the stares she received.
After some time of riding about the village, Dandelion grew tired, and Katniss directed him to the shrine she shared with her father at the village center. There they stopped, Dandel taking guard by the door, and Katniss slipped inside her father's shrine, where a family had stopped to pay their offerings. For a moment, Katniss thought she recognized one of them – broad, golden and gentle in his movements, he seemed familiar. It didn't take long for her to dismiss this, however, and move straight to the crowd of priests and worshippers gathered in front of the altar. The family had evidently arrived late, for they hovered back by the door while Katniss plunked herself down right at the front of the crowd.
She waited patiently while the priests droned about Alder's generosity, familiar, by now, with the pattern of the ceremony. Sometime in the middle, she grew quite warm, and shrugged off the cloak. Worshippers began nudging one another. They saw the little girl, the very likeness of the painting of Alder on the opposite wall. They saw her feather dress and they saw the young bear at the door, and they began to make the connection.
Fortunately, before anyone could say anything, a distraction presented itself. A young boy, no older than Katniss, had been hopping from one foot to the other in front of the door for quite some time, eyeing the bear. It was only just then that he gathered the courage to sprint past it, leaping into the arms of his father with a loud squeak. The priests paused and heads turned, and the little boy hid his face in his father's shirt collar. Chuckles bubbled up from the crowd, and then things became quiet again.
It came time for the singing.
The head priest asked if one of the worshippers would like to lead the first song. Of course, little Katniss flung her hand in the air. She knew all her father's songs. The priest, noticing her for the first time, raised his eyebrows upon recognition but said nothing. He simply fetched a stool – for no child goddess should have to stand on the ground – and gave her a hand as she clambered up onto it. Without hesitating, Katniss opened her mouth and began to sing a song of her own making. The notes and words conjured up hidden glades and warm furs, dark pines and the light step of a doe. For such a young thing, her voice was melodic, sweet and high, like the trill of a meadowlark. Indeed, the birds outside fell silent and cocked their heads, wondering, What is this strange creature that dresses in birds' feathers, sings birds' songs and yet is not a bird?
But the birds weren't the only things that Katniss enchanted that day. The small boy, from his father's arms, watched Katniss with large, blue eyes, unable or unwilling to look away. He didn't know that she was a goddess. He knew only that she was unlike anyone he had seen before, with her red feather dress, long, dark braids and a voice far sweeter than any icing his father could possibly mix. When the song ended, much to his disappointment, the birds outside started up again, and he looked at them in wonder. Had they been listening to the pretty little girl, too?
It only occurred to him afterwards, when the little girl climbed atop a young bear and two priests came forward, heads bent respectfully, to present her with humble gifts from the village, that the little girl might be more than just a little girl.
Emmett saw the direction of his young son's gaze. "See that little girl?" he asked quietly.
Peeta's answering nod, at once solemn and awed, was all the answer he needed.
"I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a hunter."
Peeta frowned, sticking out a plump lower lip. "A hunter? Why did she want a hunter if she could've had you?"
Emmett shook his head, slowly, watching the child goddess ride off on her lumbering bear. "Because when he sings… even the birds stop to listen."
Peeta turned his eyes towards the songbirds in the trees outside, which had now resumed their usual chirps. Some of them had gone to hover about the retreating figure of the little girl, circling her like protective shadows.
At last, he asked, "What's her name?"
"Katniss," Emmett replied simply, and then, seeing Peeta's confused look, "The little forest goddess."
Peeta considered this, then wriggled out of his father's grip, dodged out of Alder's temple and returned to the little sapling-hut beside it. Ducking inside, he knelt on the wool blanket that was spread on the ground, carefully poked a stick of incense into the belly of the tiny woodstove and whispered, "You have a really pretty voice, Miss Katniss."
From that day on, though Katniss all but forgot the incident, little Peeta returned to her temple with a handful of bright weed-flowers, half a cookie, a shiny coin or some other trinket, set it in Katniss's miniature offering bowl and prayed that she would come back and sing for them again.