(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . Rooturn - Serial Fiction-Part 12- The Midsummer Circle [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.'] Date: 2026-02-08 [← Start here Part 1 ] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter Coming Soon→] [Start the Companion Book Attuned→] The villagers, both Attuned and Resistor, told Bob and Nettie that it was time for a midsummer blessing circle, but everyone knew it really was an elaborate excuse to keep teasing Bob. They strung paper lanterns between the trees and someone carved a potato into a vaguely egg-shaped sculpture. The Resistor children wrote ballads (badly) and sang them (even worse), while the Attuned hummed in gentle harmony behind them. A group of Basics constructed a peculiar spiral out of twigs and feathers beside the square. It looked vaguely like a bird, or maybe a vegetable, but everyone nodded respectfully and assumed it was deeply symbolic. Bob, to his credit, loved every moment of it. He wore a paper crown someone made from potato sacks and paper. It was supposed to say "Swan King" but instead said "Swon King." It roughly matched one offered to Nettie labeled "Moon Queen.” He waved to onlookers like a monarch being mildly inconvenienced by fame. He even gave a brief, solemn welcoming speech in which he thanked the harvest, the moon, and all root vegetables that sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Nettie rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw last winter. But she smiled too, because somehow, impossibly, through all the fried chaos and pickled missteps, the village was becoming theirs. It was becoming not just a place to live, but a place where being ridiculous and being loved could coexist without shame. Bob caught her eye across the square and gave a little bow. She raised her teacup in reply. The village square had been transformed. Not elegantly nor gracefully, perhaps, but with the kind of reckless, joyous determination that only comes from people who genuinely do not know what they are doing and do not care. Every available surface was draped in whatever could be found. There were flower chains from the Attuned (some fresh, some visibly wilting), rough-spun bunting from the Resistors (mostly old laundry, hastily re-dyed), and pebble spirals painstakingly laid out by the Basics (who were now fiercely guarding them from curious chickens). The stage, built of crates and dreams, leaned alarmingly to the left. A goat, probably Marjorie, had already claimed the lower corner and was chewing one of the flower garland bedecked banners with satisfied gusto. A large, solemn Resistor man with a trumpet stood onstage and blew a note that sounded like a goat sneezing into a jug. There was a long, thoughtful silence, during which a chicken screamed for no reason then Marnie stomped up and, without any official title or authority but with pure grandmotherly might, announced, "Let the Blessing of the Butter-Swan and Harvest Moon commence!" There was cheering and off-key humming, giggles and guffaws. Nettie and Bob were ushered forward with Bob in his crooked paper "Swon King" crown, and Nettie in her "Moon Queen" crown. Nettie’s crown kept slipping over one eye. They shuffled awkwardly to center stage and Bob managed a half-hearted wave while Nettie just glared at anyone who looked like they might try to hug her. The Attuned Elders took up instruments, which were a mix of old flutes, drums, and something that might once have been a harp. They hummed and chanted, "Bless the moon, bless the root, bless the swan with buttered foot!" It was, well, it was something. Nettie leaned sideways and whispered, "Did they just say buttered foot?" Bob, beaming proudly, nodded. "It is traditional now." Then came the Basics, barefoot and wide eyed, armed with sticks decorated with flower petals and bits of wet roots. Their interpretive dance was less of a performance and more of a chaotic, swirling explosion of limbs. They spun, they twirled, they solemnly poked the earth with their sticks at carefully timed intervals. One of them solemnly placed a pebble on Bob’s foot and gave a grave nod before spinning away. Bob took this as a deep spiritual honor. Nettie took it as a warning. The goat, sensing an opportunity, jumped up onto the stage mid-dance and immediately began chewing on Bob’s paper crown while the villagers roared with laughter. Bob just stood there, arms wide, a goat gnawing on his head, grinning like a man touched by divine absurdity. Nettie watched the swirling Basics, the off-key humming, the pie-crusted children chasing each other with turnip mash, the goat trying to eat Bob alive, and felt something strange. What she felt was not irritation and not exhaustion (though these days her exhaustion was perpetual). It was not even annoyed resignation. It felt lighter and, almost, almost, it felt like joy. Marnie stomped forward again, brandishing a wooden ladle like a scepter. "Blessings upon the Moon Queen and Butter-Swan! May your child be hearty, may your feet be steady, and may your pantry and your butter bowl never run dry again! Also, may you get some blasted sleep before you lose your minds!" A roar of laughter and stomping feet shook the square. Nettie, laughing despite herself, bowed awkwardly. It was a low, wobbly bow that made room for her growing stomach. Bob immediately tried to copy it and ended up toppling sideways into Marjorie the goat. There was cheering and pie-throwing and fried things flying through the air like edible comets. It was messy, and perfect, and it felt like home. The festival burned itself out slowly, and one by one, the villagers wandered off, sticky with pie filling, humming half-remembered blessings, with arms slung around each other's shoulders. The Basics performed one last, wildly chaotic stick dance to absolutely no music, then collapsed in a happy heap. Even Marjorie the goat, victorious with half a banner in her mouth, eventually wandered off to find something new to destroy. Nettie and Bob stayed behind in the square, sitting side by side on the low stone wall where the flower garlands had long since wilted and fallen. They were filthy, sticky, and exhausted beyond language. Nettie kicked her swollen feet against the stones and sighed. Bob, his paper crown now a sad, soggy halo around his neck, stared up at the stars as if trying to find a reason. They did not speak much, but they felt they did not need to. Between them sat the last surviving festival prize, a slightly squashed fried potato cake wrapped in buttered cloth. Bob unwrapped it reverently, broke it in half, and handed the larger piece to Nettie without a word. She took it, bit into it, and closed her eyes with a groan of deep, exhausted satisfaction. For a long while, they just sat there, chewing slowly, feeling the night settle soft and cool around them. The lightning bugs, finally free from Basic choreography, floated lazily overhead, blinking in no particular pattern at all. It was, for once, peaceful. Until Nettie made a small, strangled sound and froze. Bob froze too, a piece of potato cake halfway to his mouth. Nettie swallowed hard, pressed a hand to her mouth, and glared at the horizon as if it had personally betrayed her. Bob dropped the cake, leapt to his feet. "Bucket! Bucket!" he yelped, spinning in circles. No bucket appeared. Nettie, ever the survivor, leaned over the mossy wall with the weary precision of a soldier who has seen too much and promptly and violently vomited into the flower beds. Bob hovered helplessly, patting her back with one hand and flapping the buttered cloth in the other. When Nettie finally wiped her mouth and sat back against the wall, she closed her eyes and said hoarsely, "If I ever smell fried roots again before this child is born, you have my permission to smother me with a pie." Bob, wide-eyed and solemn, placed a hand over his heart. "I will honor your wishes, my Moon Queen." She cracked an eye open at him, weary and amused all at once. "Swon King," she commented faintly. They both snorted and laughed, that ragged, broken, perfect kind of laughter you only hear between survivors. Together, they stumbled home. Bob supported Nettie awkwardly under one arm while Nettie limped and swore and muttered about goats and lightning bugs while trailing bits of fried dough and flower petals. They collapsed into bed, not caring about the crumbs, not caring about the mud, not even caring about the Basics still solemnly arranging pebbles outside the door, and for the first time in what felt like years, they slept. It was dreamless and deep. They were safe together, just the three of them. Three. For somewhere in the deep warm dark the child they had called into the world turned once, settled deeper, and waited, quietly growing, already stubborn and full of laughter. [END] --- [1] Url: https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2026/2/8/2367808/-Rooturn-Serial-Fiction-Part-12-The-Midsummer-Circle?pm_campaign=front_page&pm_source=more_community&pm_medium=web Published and (C) by Daily Kos Content appears here under this condition or license: Site content may be used for any purpose without permission unless otherwise specified. via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds: gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/dailykos/