Darker And Colder

4.23: Willow

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13 years later

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Chapter 72
Willow's POV

When I was old enough, my Mom and Dad told me everything- that was over two years ago now, when I was eleven. Well, almost everything. Sometimes there would be a gap in the story, and I would ask about it, but they would never tell me. "When you're older," they would always say. Either that or they would practically ignore it completely. When I was younger I never quite understood why, but now I think about it, why should they tell me everything? If I had went through that trauma I don't think I would be telling my children about it in excruciating detail.

I spent a long time not knowing why they both hated Gale Hawthorne so much when they're best friends with his family, or how some things happened. I still don't know everything about Gale- I know he was horrible to my parents even though he used to be my Mom's best friend.

I try to straighten out the dress I put on, ignoring the slight rip from yesterday. "Hey mom," I say as I come down the stairs.

"Hey Willow," she replies, smiling back at me. "Where's Rye?"

"I don't know," I say. "Probably asleep again. Why?"

Mom shrugs.

"Okay then," I smile, "I think I'm gonna go for target practice. Can you show me where you left the arrows?"

"I thought you were going to the bakery today?"

"No," I reply, walking around for the arrows, "Dad said there's not many people on a thursday."

"Oh, okay," she replies, taking the quiver of arrows down from the shelf next to me. "Be back for dinner. There's something I want to show you."

"Alright." I nod. "What is it?"

"I'll show you later."

I leave the house, walking through the neighbourhood to the meadow. I pass all the houses I've always known- Haymitch's behind me, the Hawthorne's just around the corner. My soft boots thud rhythmically against the cracked tarmac, taking me ever onto the next thought. Every step reverberates through my whole body as I take in the smell and warmth of the late summer.

Sun washes over the streets, catching the tops of the trees on one side and the whole pavement on the other, angled for both shade and golden light. I walk away from the square, away from the shops, but instead around the back alleys and the twisting bushes, out into the meadow.

The little yellow flowers shine in the soft light, sway gently as a warm breeze drifts past, whipping through my hair. I try to push the strands out of my face and drag it over the back of my shoulders, making a mental note to cut it later.

I find the apple tree in the same place it always it; right in the middle of the vast sea of the meadow. It's so easy to get lost out here, this place built on the ruins of another time. In the distance are the trees, many of which will have known a time when we were not free, just like my parents did.

The targets hang off the tree nearly as frequently as the apples themselves, battered and bruised from all the arrows I've shot into them.

I set my backpack down and pull the quiver onto my back, positioning my bow toward the target and drawing an arrow across the string. I release it, letting it shoot though the air and land almost at the center of the target.

I curse, reloading another arrow before turning when I hear a step behind me.

"Hey, it's only me," says Silas Hawthorne from behind me. "No need to act like a deer when your mom's around."