The welkin's afternoon ball saturates mellow tepidity onto the overview of swards and rolling fields. Birds sing a chorus, a tune that lulled Queen Maeve—a hermit, frail woman this present day—outdoors to plop on the wooden porch. So, this is the cost, huh?

No Elena. No powers. No Vought, pretending to care, or tolerating that blonde prick. It's a sacrifice wed with pros and cons. The most merry thing about reposing on rural terrains is the peace. True, blissful, placidity the hurly-burly of downtown is incompetent of ever offering.

Country folks as neighbors were sweet. Lovely to her, loveliest to their crops. She preferred this; being regarded as a nobody. Yet, there's a fellow who've played oblivious to her hints—

"Hey, uh—" You sheepishly poke into her periphery, gently padding to the stairs' first row. And awkward as ever. Talk about the element of coincidence. "Want some brownies?"

That triggers her good eye to finally scrutinize the fudgy blocks confined in a glass container. She scoffs, her first inevitable instinct. Yeah, the looks has appeal, she'd give points for that, but really, brownies? Who put you up to this? It's an inching thought yet to be sated. Grandma dearest or whomever are your guardians? If her reckoning was dead-on, render her with no surprise there.

Her sight drifts to you. Genuinely discerning you. You're young, twenty-maybe-something, that's her verdict. A green dweller, like raw meat, in this bounty of wildflowers, and no doubt believe the sympathy mission for the "strange pirate-lady next door" inevitably reputes you as a Good Samaritan. Classic urban attitude.

What embarrassing flush surges to her cheeks, though?

Former hero, now an invalid unable to bake without a stinging ache intruding in, or her functional arm begrudgingly taking for devouring? That, or she secretly looked forward to these visits more than she’d admit.

"You here to play nurse again or?" Quirking a brow, a bite after munching on your annoyingly, euphoric treats.