Hello! I'm not dead.

Huge thanks to Smoke for drawing a scene from this fic! Go look at her art, she's amazing! ❤️❤️

I hope you're still here because chapters should start appearing every other week again. We're nearing my favourite chapters... Enjoy! ❤️

The table was in utter disarray; papers folded and crumpled, some riddled with smudged but neatly-written calculations, some covered in black clouds scrawled by an impatient hand. They'd been undoubtedly ripped from the open tome shoved aside—a crime, really—judging by how it was missing almost half of its contents.

Aldred's back cracked a bit when he leaned back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, eyes drifting back to his young patient's red face.

He had gotten called to Varian on the brisk of dawn by an impressively stoic guard. The man, Bern, tersely explained the situation and proceeded to describe what appeared to be chest pain, shortness of breath and confusion. Aldred knew these symptoms well, but he had run nevertheless, his precious supply bag in hand.

The sight of the boy curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped protectively over his head, had been both new and frettingly familiar. Varian's raccoon had nervously toddled around the boy, fur spiky and tail thrashing. Another guard had been sitting at an awkwardly long distance from them both, eyeing the animal and massaging his thumb.

After Aldred had sent the guards away, advising one to head to the infirmary where they'd wash and dress his teeny tiny bite wound, he had sat down at the desk to guide Varian toward reality in hushed tones.

Now, the sun was up, a calming concoction had been administered, and Aldred found himself calmly observing his patient's bleary eyes.

"Why don't you go back to sleep for a bit?" he suggested. "I can talk to Frank and Bern."

"No."

The boy budged when Aldred reached for the wet, crumpled piece of paper on the table, left behind by the guards. He avoided looking at the portrait at all. He placed it inside of the ruined book and closed it, firmly pressing the cover and sitting back down as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Varian didn't comment on the physician touching his things, looking away with his jaw clenched. Trembling hands reached out for the raccoon for the fifth time since Aldred had entered the room, and for the fifth time, the little animal slowly climbed onto Varian's lap. He took a quick shuddering breath, wet eyes drilling into a spot on Aldred's chest.

"Rabbit's foot," the medic supplied, hoping to distract the boy and forestall new tears. "Lucky charm."

Varian blinked up at him, looking awfully fragile. "What?"

Aldred gently lifted the necklace. "It used to be a custom to gift your son with his first hunt's foot. I think it was one of the last Saporian traditions to fade away," he explained, glad to see Varian focus on his words. "I'm not a hunter though, contrary to some expectations. I've always wanted to heal, not hurt. Never got my foot."

The boy pressed his palms to his eyes. "Relatable," he grouched. Some tension left his frame once his face was covered. "Wait, so where did you get this one?" His voice was only a raspy mumble, but it was progress.

"It's fake. It was a gift…" Aldred began just as the door swung open—curse them all for making the kid flinch so hard—and the guards let through a petite maiden with a playful gleam in her eye, nearly bouncing as she walked.

"Sir!" she exclaimed. "Aldred!"

He rose. "Quiet, please," he requested seeing how Varian nearly visibly shrunk at the sound of her voice.

Ellen briefly looked at the boy with a careless scoff. "The sun's up. What are you still doing here?" she asked, knowing that it wasn't like Aldred to just sit with a stable patient.

"No cases." He shrugged dismissively, hoping to spare Varian from some unease.

"Well, you've got one now, Sir. The ship from Westergaard just landed and Nigel's looking a little green." Barely stifled laughter laced her voice.

The medic gathered the supplies and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Ah, let's go then," he nodded seriously. "What's Westergaard got to do with it? Did something happen?"

This time, Ellen didn't bother concealing the devilish giggle. "Come and see." With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, ignoring Varian's leaden look as he did his best to stare at the window and ignore her loud presence as well.

Aldred noticed.

Before he passed the guards to follow Ellen, he sent him what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "There's no shame in holding on to your lucky charm. Let it dry and it'll be good as new," he dared, pointing at the book with his chin. The blue eyes that flickered toward him were sharp and discerning. "Guys, don't be late for the check-up today," Aldred reminded the guards before stepping out of the room.

Bern instructed Varian to get up with his finger. With a quiet sigh, he complied.

Goodness gracious.

A drop of cold sweat fell from the tip of Nigel's large nose as he bowed his head before King Åsmund II of Westergaard himself, who had just set foot on the Coronan land along with who Nigel assumed to be his spouse, Queen Reija, and a small court.

Another woman took King Åsmund's arm, a storm of unruly hair enveloping her face, skin almost pale blue. Nigel barely stopped himself from raising his eyebrows when she pressed her cyanosed lips to her king's palm.

"Ah, such warm weather! Fantastic!" the man exclaimed, and several umbrellas were instantly unfolded above his and Queen Reija's heads by the nervous court. "Nigel, oh, please rise! I mean, I assume you are Nigel, the official foreseeing Corona's part in the trade?" he babbled casually.

"That is correct, Sire. Nigel of Corona, His Majesty's humble servant. I am honored to welcome Your Majesty to C-Corona." As soon as Nigel straightened up, King Åsmund's hand appeared on his forearm. Politely as he could, he eyed the royal.

He couldn't have been more than thirty years old, a bright smile gracing his freckled ruddy face and golden curls falling into his grey eyes. He wasn't wearing a crown but had various colorful flowers weaved into his hair. His richly embellished mint doublet wasn't properly buttoned up, revealing a loose cotton shirt and the young king's pale chest. His cold eyes contrasted greatly with the flamboyant demeanor.

He shook Nigel's hand with impressive force. "Thank you, Nigel! I can call you, Nigel, right?"

"If you so wish, Your Majesty" the advisor bowed again, swallowing his annoyance.

King Åsmund clapped his hands. "Perfect! You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," he laughed softly. "Well, I could just say I wanted to personally foresee the trading of the goods, but," he lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper, "to be frank, I couldn't just waste the opportunity to go on a long voyage, and visit the amazing kingdom of Corona! I can't wait any longer to see the automatons' parts too." He winked, oblivious to Nigel's growing unease. "I have a true adventurer's spirit, you see, and I feel a deep longing for the unknown."

Nigel, being a master of concealing his opinions where they weren't needed, internally rolled his eyes despite the sense of impending doom that loomed over his head.

Very well, what in the holy heavens am I to do.

"That is very… noble of Your Majesty to possess such love for the world," he flattered hesitantly, relieved to see Åsmund's smile widen, not quite reaching his eyes. "I must apologize, for we haven't… uh, the machinery is yet to be transported to the Isle, Sire. Most of it is currently on the mainland, though the workers should reach the coast by the morning," he added hurriedly, "Your Majesty."

It didn't seem to bother the king. "Ah, that's no trouble, my friend! It's more time spent in this fine land!" he exclaimed, oddly reminiscent of an amazed child. It didn't match the agitated demeanor of his court, eyeing him constantly. "Reija, my love, what do you say we go on a little stroll with our friend Nigel here? Leave the ship to our wonderful captain?"

"Yes," she answered in a loud, steady voice. The tall, dark-haired woman moved close to her husband, shadowing him more like a bodyguard than a wife, constantly scanning their surroundings as if she were on a lookout for an army of assassins. Her slender hand—her only hand—rarely left his shoulder, occasionally stroking the curls on the back of his head.

As the royal couple of Westergaard unceremoniously started forward, Nigel took a few steps closer to Coronan guards. "I want a detail following and protecting them," he barked under his breath. "If anything happens, we'll be facing an international scandal. Tell the Captain to gather more guards at the coast and you better watch this ship closely." He quickly scribbled down a note and passed it to a guard with a bandaged wrist, who promptly left while some of his fellow soldiers hurried to keep up with King Åsmund and Queen Reija. Thankfully, the ruler of Westergaard didn't react to the detail of guards breathing down his neck at all. Perhaps he had expected protection.

"Oh! Nigel!" he called. "If it's not too much trouble, I would like to meet with King Frederic as soon as possible. I might have… another thrilling offer for him." Nigel frowned at the smug smile. "Ah, Reija, dear, isn't this exciting?"

With a nearly inaudible sigh, Nigel wrote the request down, asked King Åsmund to give his signature and sealed it before stopping an errand boy and telling him to deliver it to the castle.

Regardless of whether the request would be granted, all that was left for Nigel to do now was ensure the king of Westergaard had a damn good time in the Capital.

"You!" a woman gasped at Varian's sight. He tore his eyes from the pavement in front of Xavier's shop to look up at her, ears suddenly warm and heart hammering. "Wait! Wait up!" she demanded from the guards leading him.

"I know you," she panted once she reached them. He recognized her too—Lorraine was one of their neighbors back in Old Corona, she always gifted them with free eggs, claiming she had too much. For some reason, he felt an instinctive smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

That is until she pointed a finger at him and said, "Are you happy now?"

"I— No, I'm—"

"Do you know my father has to work thrice as much, now that you destroyed what little we still had after black rocks?" Lorraine continued, anger and hurt written clearly across her face. "He's an old man, Varian! We were neighbors, what have we ever done to you? If Quirin could see this..."

Ruddiger chittered, clearly discontent, and Varian parted his lips to reply, to stop her from uttering another word about fathers. Before he had the chance to, Frank tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder in a warning and spoke for him. "Don't worry, M'am. A special fund has been created for all collateral victims of the Battle of Old Corona. You can sign up with its substitute leader—Conrad, isn't it?" he explained calmly. "I'm sure you will be fairly recompensated."

An ugly feeling swirled in Varian's gut as he listened about the fund the kingdom had set up, and he felt like crying at the news of his father already being replaced. It was stupid—but he didn't want Old Corona to have any other leader.

It felt like a confirmation that his dad wasn't coming back.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, I'll tell you this much," Lorraine told him on departure. "I wish you well."

Something hurt about the way she said that, even after she left. The sensation was nothing new, this misplaced shame making him want to sink through the floor whenever he had been scolded in the past, only now increased tenfold and quickly morphing into the quiet rage of unshed tears and balled fists.

No one was in the village by the time he had stolen the flower, he had checked, yes, he actually had, thank you very much. Funny how she remembered the few yards of dead crops that may have gotten destroyed but she conveniently forgot why the fight had happened in the first place.

He didn't hesitate, he didn't… think about some leftover fields. Because there was nothing to think about, really. He didn't even believe in right and wrong anymore. Help sounded like a cruel joke. Friendship sounded like a pathetic fib one told out of pity.

Then… why should he care? Why should he care when there was literally nothing of value left in the world outside of an indestructible block of glimmering resin? When all that was good had gone to an unreachable place? Why did he care?

He entered the forge shaking with anger.

.

Xavier smiled from where he had been patiently waiting for Varian and the guards, a captivating book about gemstones and minerals in hand.

"Hello, gentlemen," he greeted them cheerfully. "What a beautiful day we have today, don't we?"

"Aye," answered Bern.

The blacksmith gestured towards the only tidy table at the shop. "Well, sit, sit… Help yourself to a piece of pie, I just made it this morning." He smiled when both men happily reached for a piece. "Water?"

Frank nodded. "Oh yes, please. The heat's killing us all today."

Xavier generously filled four glasses and a shallow bowl, and then returned to the table. After placing the bowl in front of Varian's raccoon, he addressed the boy. "You too, Varian. Feel free to have some pie."

"No, thanks," came the wavering reply.

Xavier furrowed his brows. "Are you okay? How is your day going?"

"Mhmm." Varian just looked away.

Both guards looked at each other, slightly irritated. Frank gestured toward their prisoner with a dismissive hand. "It's just been this, all day," he said. "Sorry, Xavier."

"Ah no, no reason to be sorry!" the blacksmith assured. "Well then… I think we'd better start, don't you think? Come, Varian, we'll work in the actual forge, though I must warn you—it can get quite hot," he filled the room with his rumbling chuckle. "I've got it, gentlemen."

Frank slightly raised his glass of water. "You've got it."

After a quick look at the guards, Varian headed straight to the forge downstairs, seemingly remembering his previous visits there, when he was a very different person. Bern rose from his chair despite Xavier's assurances, ever so strict and disciplined. The blacksmith poured more water into Varian's barely touched glass and followed him.

Once in the dark, hot forge, he placed it on a shelf. "Forgot your drink," he remarked, insisting on kindness against all the odds.

"Why do you not hate me?" the boy asked, sounding truculent.

Xavier huffed a sigh, setting his leather gloves aside. Work could wait a bit. "What you've done was wrong, and I think you're wrong holding onto that," he said matter-of-factly. "So why on earth would I hold onto it?"

"W-what?"

The man sat down on a wooden stool, gesturing for Varian to do the same. To a little bit of Xavier's surprise, he did. "Whatever you've done in the past, I see you're lost now, my dear boy."

A mean smile appeared on the young alchemist's face. "Ooooh." He rubbed his eye, the clumsiness not matching the sarcasm at all. "So you want to 'help me'? I'm getting a bit tired of hearing that, not gonna lie."

The smile fell instantly when Xavier laughed deeply. "Oh no, it's you who's going to help me. There's plenty to do around here." He smiled honestly, not touched by Varian's nervous defensive act. "Though I have to confess that I don't have much going today, so I'll just teach you a little something. Have you ever made chain mail?"

Varian stammered a bit, perhaps frustrated with such an unbothered answer. "The enchanted chain mail of Whatever-dunderhead-made-that-up?" he hissed, and Bern moved a step closer.

"That wasn't necessary. You're not impressing anyone," Xavier replied calmly, to which the boy's aggression immediately faltered, and his entire face flushed. "My interest in folklore doesn't take away from my expertise."

"Yes, I'm… Yes, sorry," Varian said, surprising Xavier again. "That's not fair, I was… just, I'm sorry."

"It's all good. Hey, at the very least, I have many stories to tell. You used to be interested in some," the man pointed out.

Varian fidgeted, visibly uncomfortable. "Yeah, well, not anymore. Can we just… not do this, please?" he asked, the anger gone. "I'll just do what you tell me to, okay? I don't care for stories and such."

"What if I told you one about your father?"

The boy froze for a moment before he spoke coldly, "If you wanna tell me how disappointed he would be in me, I kn—"

"I don't," Xavier interrupted. "And I'm not your enemy."

"Heard that one, too," came the mumbled reply.

"He was protecting you, wasn't he? I think no knight or king could equal the dignity of a sacrifice like this, one that a parent is ready to make."

"Sir. I don't want to get sent back to the dungeons, but I might if you say another word about my father."

Xavier bit his lip. Perhaps he shouldn't have pursued the topic so openly. He shouldn't force Varian to talk when he didn't want to. His words were well-intended, but now he saw they weren't the right thing to say.

Bern grabbed Varian's elbow. "Is that a threat?"

"No."

"It's okay, Bern," Xavier reassured and the man nodded and backed off. "Watch yourself, kid," he warned, sounding almost uninterested.

They all grew silent for a beat, Frank's footsteps upstairs the only audible thing. Then, Varian picked up. "My father got encased saving me, true. But it was a huge mistake on his part, we were fighting just before it happened, I shouted and ran off, there were no heartfelt goodbyes and there wasn't any dignity in it," he said firmly and coldly, fresh anger sparkling in his eyes. "I don't want to talk about that day and I don't want to listen to you praise it when you have no actual idea how it happened, so please, please, just stop shoving it in my—"

BAM!

Varian didn't finish his sentence, interrupting himself by slamming a fist into a table and getting up as though it'd burned him. The movement was so sudden and urgent that it made Xavier flinch. "Okay—clearly, I'm not here to serve my sentence or whatever," he turned to Bern, desperately. "If this is some… I… get me to my real… get me elsewhere."

Xavier winced as soon as he heard Bern chuckle. "What makes you think you have any say in this?"

Varian's face twisted into an expression that should never be worn on such a young face, and for a moment, Xavier thought he would scream or explode—but then he sat down in front of the blacksmith and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Fine," he said sharply. "Then what's my service here. What do you want me to do?"

"Put on the kettle."

"What?"

"Put on the kettle," Xavier repeated. "It's upstairs. We'll drink some tea while we work."

Oof, Xaves, that's not going so well... thanks, Lorraine — you had the worst timing.

I hope y'all found Åsmund interesting because he'll stay with us for the next 2-3 chapters. 👀

It's been a while so consider leaving a review so I know someone's still reading, hah! Thank you for being here! ❤️