Act One
Beginnings
Chapter Five: Tame Birds Sing of Freedom
That's it—she's done for! How could she be so asinine to fall asleep and get caught by her dad disassembling his rule red-handed?! And that just the very next day after he's established it . . .
"What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost," Varian inquires as he takes the Flynn Rider storybook from her hands so that she can leave.
Self-acting, Lashanie's lips produce a feigned smile in response. "Oh, it's—it's nothing. Really!" Better to desist from telling him about the absurd—and frankly embarrassing—impulse of jumping out the window to escape a confrontation with her father. Upholding a steadfast resolve was a lot easier in theory when there was no threat of grounding, of a torrent of sermons embodied in her parent, waiting at the door to sway it.
Lashanie's eyes must betray that uprising insecurity when Varian semi-solicitously offers, "Want me to walk you to the door?"
As much as she wants his support, she suspects seeing Varian might only infuriate her dad further, so she swiftly shakes her head, causing tendrils of creamy-brown hair to dance around her face. "No, that's not necessary; I'll find the way. And you still have your hands full—like, literally."
Varian dimly senses something's amiss—something worse than her being late—just as he senses Lashanie won't be willing to make him privy to what that something might be. If they had more time, he would pry into her, insist on finding out. But with Ludwig already waiting on the threshold, he has to content himself with smiling along as he accepts the cause of that sudden surge of insecurity in her voice and her eyes to remain a secret—for now, yet ensuring, "Alright, then—see you tomorrow?"
Glad he refrains from figuring her unease out, Lashanie swiftly nods at him, "Yes, I will be there." She may only hope for her word to lastly prove itself true as she heads out the door, her steps striking against the stairs leading down.
With Varian's father around as a witness, this might be the most inconvenient place and time by far for Lashanie to introduce her disobedience as a fait accompli. What if he deems her a troublemaker in the wake of that display? What if his hospitality towards her meets its end there, and he agrees to help keep her and Varian apart in the future? If only she hadn't fallen asleep . . .
While anxiety's making itself comfortable inside her mind, proceeding to weave several fazing scenarios, only one remains true: now she's left with no choice but to square her shoulders and boldly face her dad anyway—well, as boldly as the mounting uncertainty plaguing her allows it. She climbs down the last few steps.
Here goes nothing!
The sight of her parent hits Lashanie like a lightning bolt on a sunny day, and his ire—poorly veiled by the calm he's attempting to envelop himself in—promptly seeps into her perception. She's crossed him, and the disappointment with her behavior is blazing deep in his eyes. And yet, as she comes to a halt in his proximity—shoulders no longer squared but now hunched—and merely peeks at him, uttering a shy, "Papa . . ." he's searching in vain for a twinge of regret in her face.
Ludwig fixates his frowning gaze on his daughter, "Lashanie, we've been worried—you should have been home by now!"
"I know. I'm sorry." Her stomach is instantly thrown into turmoil, but Lashanie does her utmost to mask it and somehow preserve at least the veneer of unwavering resolve.
His eye lingering on her unchanged, Ludwig's waiting for an explanation, a better apology than the one she offered. One Lashanie can't and won't give him. Even if she weren't tongue-tied, utterly robbed of her voice by that unsettling silence between them, any paltry excuse for her presence at Varian's house would be tantamount to an admission of guilt—and she will definitely spare herself that.
Avoiding her own father's gaze, she flits a surreptitious glance at Varian's dad. What must he be thinking now?
Perhaps the man catches a trace of the truth shimmering through Lashanie during their brief eye contact—a glimpse amongst the pools of mindaro revealing how the place and not the time is what's upsetting Ludwig—because, for a split second, a semblance of awareness crosses his features and before she can rightly apprehend, he actually intercedes on her behalf.
"I think I'm to blame that she's late, my friend. I've invited Lashanie to stay for supper—I was so glad Varian's finally found some company, you see," Quirin explains impromptu, giving Lashanie a smile.
Ludwig tries to swallow the anger that's been gradually swelling in his chest as he queries his daughter, "Is that so?"
In way of response, she merely tentatively shrugs her shoulders, not daring for her words to ruin whatever it is that Varian's dad is offering her. Apart from this, she's treading on thin ice here, and silence is less likely going to be misinterpreted and used against her afterward.
Luckily for her, Quirin's not done yet lending her a helping hand—or rather, a helping word.
"Yes, it is. I'm sorry my negligence has caused you and Anne trouble," he answers on Lashanie's behalf again, an apologetic smile on his lips.
And his words produce the desired effect: Ludwig's expression softens at them—if only a little. With an unexpectedly indulgent smile of his own, he assures, "No, it's alright. I'm glad she's fine anyhow." Adding after a brief pause, "I hope she hasn't been a burden on you."
"Not at all! Indeed, I'd be glad if she'd keep Varian company again tomorrow," Quirin says with kind and warm eyes as he rests a hand on Lashanie's shoulder.
The overmuch joy her tiny heart draws from this small gesture, those simple words, prompts a saccharine smile to break across her face. This is too good to be true!
And Ludwig seems no less surprised than his daughter; he can't prevent his eyebrows from shooting up. Not going unnoticed by Quirin, who quickly adds, "Only if that's all right with you, of course."
With bated breath, Lashanie considers her dad attentively. What is he going to say now? He can hardly tell this man how he reckons his only son a bad influence . . . or can he?! By the goddess Soles, please don't let him do that! Heat rises to her face, burning on her cheeks and temples and forehead as silence drags on painfully—sole seconds that feel like tiny eternities in their own right—and only when Ludwig lets out a sigh and acquiesces curtly, "Sure thing, why not," is she released from the tension driving fire through her veins.
In reality, Ludwig could think of a hundred reasons ' why not '—but not a single one of them he thinks fit to share with Quirin. Apparently, it can't be helped; his girl is going to get her way for the time being. He reaches for Lashanie, gently pulling her to his side. "Come on now, Lashie. It's late, and your mom's waiting for us."
Lashanie doesn't flinch from his touch, though she keeps her glances, her movements, yet ever so timid. Varian's dad has done her a great kindness, and she ensures with scrupulous care not to damage it.
They turn to leave, Ludwig leading his daughter by the shoulder while giving his friend a slight nod, "Good night, Quirin."
But Lashanie feels compelled to clear one thing up before she can go; if she doesn't, she won't get any sleep that night. Deftly freeing herself from her father's hand pushing her ahead, she turns back to Varian's dad. "Sir, I still need to tell you something. That thing my cousin said about Varian attacking him—that was a lie! I was there with them, and—uh, it was really him who—"
But before Lashanie can finish vouching for her new friend, Ludwig cuts her off. "That's enough, Lashanie! You go home now, or that's one week of grounding for you!"
"But—Papa!"
"Off you go!" Ludwig nudges his girl forward the path home with soft power. He smiles at Quirin, slight embarrassment hovering in his expression. "Please don't mind her; she's been showing this—weird competitive behavior against her cousin for quite some time now, taking about every chance to slander him. We honestly don't even know why she's doing it. I'm sorry."
Quirin gives Ludwig a sympathetic nod, dismissing it as nothingness, before he bids them a good night of his own and closes the door, not getting to witness Lashanie's protest on the allegation he so readily conceded true.
Perhaps she should be grateful for the chance to complain about Ben's lie again: all the way home, she can avoid having to explain her disobedience simply by stringing that argument out. It's a welcome stalking horse, too, for going to bed directly upon arrival, seemingly upset with her dad for those false accusations. Granted, it's pretty cowardly of her, but between being a free coward or a confined disputant, she'll choose the former in a heartbeat . . . at least in this case.
A fortnight goes by, during which Lashanie and Varian relish the chance to spend every single day together. At first, it sure got Lashanie confused that her father never brought up her breach of rules any of the days following that evening when he found her at Varian's house and also never attempted to interfere when she left to meet her new friend. It seemed to her that he had given up just a little too readily after opposing the idea of them becoming friends so strictly before. Yet, something inside her dares to hope he might have noticed how Varian and her do each other good, and with which anticipation she's looking forward to every new morning since they met.
And so, as the days pass eventlessly, she abandons her scepsis further and further until it finally fades into oblivion.
Ludwig, though, has long come up with an idea to drive them apart, an idea that would allow him to keep his opinion about the boy to himself—at least when it came to Quirin—and still shield Lashanie from his influence. He just had to wait for the right time.
Every workday, Anne's heading to the capital at an early hour to ply her trade at the tiny tailor shop by the town square. And there, between the chequered plethora of shops and stalls, street performers of all kinds showcase their arts as well . . . and as it happens, his daughter always took great delight in singing and dancing. The musical education teacher of Old Corona's littlish school even praised Lashanie as remarkably talented for that mere pastime of hers. It would only take more practice to grow it into a real career opportunity, she said. And could there be a better place for that practice than a public staging ground, swarmed with other artists? He thinks not.
Of course, his wife wasn't fond of the idea of having to keep an eye on their girl as a sideline to her abundant work in the shop at first, but as Ludwig remained adamant that Lashanie could take care of herself, that she wouldn't burden her mother during her working hours, and Anne had but to occasionally flit a glance out the window, she caved in—on condition that he'd wait until she had completed her current order. To persuade Lashanie afterward was mere child's play: conscientious, she readily was willing to pull her weight for the family . . . even despite the fright of performing in front of strangers she expressed.
And so, with Lashanie and her mother leaving the village together every morning at daybreak to not return before eventide, another week—pleasant for Ludwig but less enjoyable and far more lonely for the kids—elapses.
The outskirts of Old Corona are shrouded in their usual quiet of the evening, and a rose-tinted sunset slowly spreads in the sky, embracing the hamlet, as Varian wanders them lonesome and aimless, mocked by the peaceful scenery surrounding him while somber thoughts spiral through his mind.
For an entire week, he hasn't seen even a trace of Lashanie. As suddenly as she popped into his life, she also disappeared again. And try as he might—repeatedly telling himself that it was bound to happen, that from the start, he assumed she'd eventually leave again anyway, so he doesn't have any reason to be upset now—Varian can't put a stop to the questions fizzing into his thoughts, constantly growing louder as they remain unanswered.
Did he do or say something wrong? Did he somehow offend her? Was there a hint in her countenance he failed to detect? A change in that ridiculously familiar smile she gave him before leaving last they met? He can't rightly say, no matter how often he repeats to summon each second he's spent around her from memory, and it's slowly driving him crazy.
Varian's feet scuff the ground, giving listless kicks to tiny rocks in his way.
Or maybe she didn't take offense at anything he did but grew tired of him already. Maybe she's just had enough of him raving about alchemy and Flynn Rider and his habit of sprinkling their conversations with scientific facts he thinks fascinating. The other kids called him a smart-aleck before . . . maybe they were right, and that's what's driven Lashanie away.
Dang it! This uncertainty is the worst! Varian's knuckles turn white from the force as his fist clenches tightly around the strip of his sling bag. If he can't silence these nagging thoughts pestering him, he will have to erase them by ascertaining why Lashanie dumped him so suddenly. Yes!—he'll go see her and make her come clean with him. And if she isn't home . . . he'll wait for her return, no matter how long. Something jerks into motion deep inside his stomach, driving his legs into action. He will have an answer; he must!
With firm steps, he strides towards his freshly resolved destination when his eyes suddenly catch sight of a slim frame perched beneath a tree atop a nearby hill. Even from a distance, he easily recognizes it as belonging to his friend. How convenient—now he won't have to seek her out at home, meaning that, even if she doesn't want to talk or see him at all, she won't be able to slam a door in his face at least.
Varian resolutely approaches that hill . . .
Wich proves significantly harder to climb than he had imagined. Ridges of hills like this one shape the entire image of the landscape girding the village, but Varian normally doesn't have any reason to crest them. Seriously, why would anyone come here voluntarily anyway? His legs had already begun protesting against the ascent halfway up and were now growing heavier with each step. Why is it such a pain to scramble up that bloody thing?! It didn't even look that steep!
The closer his steps carry him toward the top, the louder a muffled, little melody grows in his ears. It sounds sad and longingly, and Varian can't help a twinge of doubt to sneak into his mind as he unintentionally eavesdrops on Lashanie. Was it really such a good idea to come here? Only a few meters lie between them; his eyes meet her slight figure. Well, it's too late to turn back now.
Lashanie's hugging her legs as if to brace herself against the light breeze. All alone and gilded by the setting sun as she sits there, it seems the wind could actually blow her petite body away any minute the way it would disperse a dandelion clock. Varian's chest tightens at that sight, and the frustration lingering in it melts away, replaced by the sudden urge to comfort her. He tentatively proceeds to close the distance between them, acknowledging with a lopsided smile, "That's a beautiful tune you're humming."
The melody abruptly stops as Lashanie's body stiffens at Varian's voice, only a tiny gasp still escaping her lungs. Before turning her upper body in Varian's direction, she frantically dashes away tears to hide them from him. A futile: traces gleaming off her cheeks and glistening in her eyes betray the truth just like the red edges of her lids, and Varian's conscience cries itself hoarse, admonishing him to turn about and leave the girl alone. But it's too late.
Forcing a smile onto her lips, Lashanie greets her unexpected visitor. "Vary! What a pleasant surprise."
Vary . . . she's still calling him by the nickname she came up with just a short while ago when they were out and about again on their yet fruitless hunt for monkshood. That bodes well, doesn't it? And still—Varian's hands automatically raise in defense, and he hears himself say, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. Perhaps I should just—you want me to leave?"
"No, stay with me . . . please," Lashanie begs, shaking her head almost too vehemently. "We didn't get a chance to talk all week; I missed you." She gently pats a spot in the grass, coaxing him to sit by her side.
"I missed you too," Varian admits hesitantly and disposits his bag before plopping down on the astonishingly soft ground.
He leans back, propping himself on his hands, the fresh grass playing against his skin. It was pretty rare for him not to wear gloves—today, Varian deliberately left them at home. It was silly, really, but he thought if he'd found monkshood and touched it with bare hands, and something bad would happen to him because of it, Lashanie would feel very sorry afterward for leaving him in the lurch. Part of him feels guilty now—and perhaps a little ridiculous—for being so intentionally careless. It is refreshing, though, to touch the lush green directly, and as its culms glide into the spaces between Varian's fingers, he wiggles them playfully.
Quietly he drinks in the stunning view over the quaint fields bathed in the glowing color palette of this gentle sunset. The crisp evening air fills his lungs . . . this place is perfect, and Varian's lips form the smile of a boy understanding the sheer beauty of nature for the very first time.
Lashanie embraces her legs again, her head resting against her knees, as she calmly observes the amazement flashing in Varian's eyes. "Pretty, isn't it?"
"Sure is." What an understatement. It takes him a moment to avert his gaze from the spectacular sight unfolding before his eyes. His voice brim with delight, he tells Lashanie, "I didn't—I never thought the view from up here would be so—"
While he still searches for the right word, Lashanie kindly accommodates, "Breathtaking?" "I come here often," she begins to explain, her gaze trailing off into the distance again with the sky's warm hues reflecting in it. "Even though it's so close to the village, it feels like—a different world. So peaceful ."
A quaver in her voice, so brief Varian almost thought to have imagined it, hints at something Lashanie's leaving unsaid. And yet, he has a hunch she'd like to talk about it and just doesn't know how to start. Perhaps it has something to do with her absence the past week . . .
"You know, I really did miss you these last few days. I kept wondering where you might be and what you're doing," Varian ventures awkwardly. And immediately regrets it when Lashanie looks at him squarely, her eyes dilated as though he had said something stupid, prompting him to stammer, "I mean, well—you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, of course! It's just that I—I . . . I'm sorry; that's none of my beeswax, right?"
But Lashanie's confused pout quickly morphs into a smile as Varian helplessly rattles out words. "That's not it. I don't mind you asking—not at all," she soothes. "I just thought you knew. I asked my dad to tell you, you see, I didn't want you to worry . . . He didn't tell you I was going to the capital with my mom to perform by the town square?"
"No, he hasn't spoken to me at all." Varian's brows pucker as he remembers almost correctly. Indeed Ludwig had called him a nuisance twice this week, but that was irrelevant and completely unnecessary for him to share with Lashanie.
She hunches her shoulders in response, concluding with a touch of uncertainty in her voice, "Huh—that's funny . . . he must have forgotten, then. I'm sorry." Against her better judgment, she genuinely hopes he really had merely forgotten.
"No, it's okay," Varian fibs with a dismissive gesture. Ludwig had neglected to tell him on purpose; he's sure of that. But would it amount to anything if he'd tell her? At worst, it would only cause a fight . . .
Effortlessly, Lashanie determines with just one look into Varian's eyes, the thoughts now set in motion behind those pools of azure. "It's not," she says. "Next time, I'll make sure you won't be left in limbo. I promise."
Next time , it echoes in Varian's ears, and he realizes that if Lashanie is now going to perform in the capital almost every day, he'll barely see her anymore. Next time . . . it irks him. "I guess you won't have the time to unravel the origin of your strange healing ability anymore. Let alone wandering around with strange boys to search for poisonous plants," he surmises semi-self-mockingly with a distorted smirk he forces from himself that gives away just how desperately he's hoping for her to dissent. It's irksome.
"On the contrary! I have all the time in the world to aid my ingenious friend in every task he takes on," Lashanie counters with a tender air. "Unless your assistant is fired?" Playful amusement lingers in the corners of her smile.
Varian shrugs, suppressing a chuckle as he feigns casualness. "I guess you can still be my assistant—there hasn't shown up a more promising aspirant yet."
"Lucky me!" Lashanie tips her head back and laughs—genuinely, bell-like, and contagiously, and Varian can't deny to himself how much he missed that sound. Neither can he contain his own chuckle any longer, which now bursts out as a hearty laugh instead, peppered with a snort that prompts both him and Lashanie to guffaw unbridled, their voices getting carried across the fields beneath them.
Eventually, and on account of a few deep breaths, they manage to calm down again. Varian straightens himself to sit in tailor-fashion and leans into Lashanie's view. He'd love to maintain that blithe atmosphere between them, but her tears haven't yet vanished from his memory. It would be so easy for him to simply pretend he hadn't noticed— she is making it so easy not to worry about her—but there's the affinity he feels for her, combined with his darn curiosity, and it coerces him to refuse to ignore her pain.
"Don't get me wrong—I'm glad to have my assistant back, I really am," he starts carefully, attempting an encouraging smile. "But will your parents let you? I mean, not perform at the capital anymore?"
"Oh, no problems there . . . they probably wouldn't let me set foot into the capital and perform again, even if my life would depend on it." Woe imbues Lashanie's voice. Woe and another emotion Varian knows all too well himself: shame.
He moves a little closer to her, speaking in a soft voice as if they were about to share secrets. "What happened?"
"I messed up! That's what happened!" Tears begin to obscure Lashanie's vision; she quickly buries her face against her legs and almost gives a start to the gentle touch of Varian's hand, comfortingly rubbing her back. Their eyes meet, and Lashanie determines a flicker of helplessness in Varian's gaze, seemingly pleading, 'Please don't cry.' So she pressures herself to perk up as she speculates, "It's nothing. And you surely don't want to listen to my regrets."
"Yes, I want to listen; I want to know—tell me why you're sad," Varian encourages, even though that helpless touch remains in his eyes.
She would like to tell him, but . . . she can't. The shame, the humiliation that dominated her emotional world at that very moment, comes creeping back at the mere memory. It inches up her stomach, passes her lungs, and then settles in her throat, where it builds a lump that baffles her every attempt to recount the event. So instead, Lashanie averts her gaze, murmuring as if to herself, "Oh, Vary . . ."
Vary , however, doesn't give up so easily; he cups Lashanie's face in his hands and brings his own closer. Real close. "Tell me!"
A sigh heaves her chest, and she gently removes Varian's hands. Perhaps she could try to tell him at least about the things that don't instantly induce a wave of discomfort and unease to wash away upon her. And, who knows, it may even do her good to put it in words.
"You know the fountain in the marketplace?" she asks, and a curt nod from Varian emboldens her to keep going. "I was singing there, you see, but then— something happened." Lashanie provides her lungs with a deep breath before she continues, "And I should have resumed my performance afterward, regardless of these—of their . . ." Another sigh, almost bearing a touch of despair, passes her lips. "Any good singer would have carried on, but I couldn't. My legs, they—they felt like jelly and kept shaking like crazy. And my voice refused to make any sound other than such a weird squeak, you know—like that noise old door hinges make," she vents haplessly. Meanwhile, her voice kept rising to higher pitches constantly as she was lamenting, now sounding much like a door hinge squeak, and if she didn't seem so awfully sad, Varian probably couldn't have held back a snicker now.
But she is ever so sad. "I am no good," she adds after a brief pause, and instead of hazarding a joke to lighten up the mood, Varian rests a hand on Lashanie's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Don't say that. Such things happen—everybody messes up sometimes. It doesn't make you 'no good', " he assures, genuinely believing in his own words.
"Tell that to my mother," Lashanie counters, the memory of their ride back to Old Corona, nearly equally unpleasant as previous events of that day, rearing up in the back of her mind. "She's been shouting at me all the way home. She thinks that I either can't do right or keep ruining things on purpose . . ."
Varian honestly didn't expect that, and it takes him a moment to rummage through his brain for the right words. Of Lashanie's parents, Anne always seemed like the kind one: friendly and composed, that's how he's perceived her—well, until now, at least. Two, maybe three blinks later, he's finally processed this information—the image it created in his mind and the new perspective that came along—and he can fish a way to console his friend out of his memory.
His hands cover Lashanie's resting on her lifted knees, and he gingerly presses his forehead against hers, the way his mom used to do when he was sad. "Then your mother is wrong," he hears himself say, his voice quiet but laced with peremptoriness.
Not for a split second, Lashanie flinches from his touch or their closeness. Forthright, she asks, "Are you saying this because you truly think so or because you think that's what I need to hear?"
It's almost funny to Varian how she seemingly wants to cleave to the idea of being a failure . . . Almost! Indeed it is also somewhat frustrating, and instead of pressing his point directly, he tries with a strategy shift. "I'd wager your dad has told you about me—'least about my mistakes and how often I messed up."
Lashanie doesn't say anything, but there—a brief flicker in her eyes bears him out. Perfect! . . . in a way. "Do you think I'm 'no good' because of that?" Varian asks, already seeing his friend's eyes widen before he's even finished his question.
"No! No, you're good!" she says with such a firm belief that Varian can't help to chuckle. "Why should it be any different for you, then? Why do you want to apply stricter rules to yourself so badly?" he counters, and silence follows.
That is a good question; Varian has a point, Lashanie must admit. It's not even like she wants to judge herself harder than others, not really. And she definitely isn't one to believe that suffering elevates a person's worth. No, it's more like something she does involuntarily, like an etched-in reflex that's hard to discard again once contracted. But now that she's aware of that habit, maybe she can tone it down.
Her eyes crinkle into crescents as she beams at Varian. "Thank you, Vary."
His answering smile requires no further words, and they just keep sitting like this for an instant, happily gazing at each other.
Suddenly, two lovebirds break through the treetop branches above them, prompting Varian and Lashanie to disrupt their eye contact. The feathered lovers chirp a jolly song, drawing wide circles in the sky as if in a boisterous dance, and while Lashanie's getting lost in the songbirds' performance, Varian observes her from the corner of his eye. Glee illuminates his friend's face; still, he can also determine a lick of longing shining through. Possibly she wishes to be as carefree as those birds.
"Sing for me," Varian blurts out likewise suddenly as their beak-faced guests appeared—a short circuit from watching Lashanie as the birdsong sounds in his ear and when her gaze darts back to meet his, amused bewilderment playing in her mien, Varian's lungs release an embarrassment-tinged chuckle. "Heh, I mean—you said you were singing in the capital, and I would like to hear it. So, would you sing for me?"
Just a few hours ago, Lashanie wouldn't have believed to sing again that day—or any day following close—but now that these big eyes fixate her, she actually finds herself nodding. "Okay, I'll sing for you. You've got a song in mind?"
Varian ponders for a tick before he strikes up the melody Lashanie was humming back when he arrived at the hilltop. He tilts his head and asks, "This song, what's it called?"
"Oh, that's 'Lullaby for a Stormy Night.' My mom used to sing it to me sometimes when I was still little—you know, I was afraid to sleep alone back then. I feared that monsters would be hiding in dark corners of my room, just waiting for the right moment to get me." Lashanie laughs, and Varian's lips twitch upward too.
He can vividly imagine that scene, especially with a faint memory flaring up where his mom was sitting at the edge of his bed, singing to him, much like the scenario Lashanie just described, and he requests, "Would you sing that song for me?"
"Only if you promise not to laugh at me," Lashanie demands, wagging a finger in a playful manner.
Varian's smile spreads wider across his freckled cheeks. "I promise."
Resting one hand on her chest, Lashanie fills her lungs with fresh air. Her eyes closed, she focuses but on her breathing as she summons the lyrics from memory to her tongue. She indicates the song by humming, soft at first, then growing louder, letting it vibrate through her.
"Little child, be not afraid
Though rain pounds harshly against the glass
Like an unwanted stranger, there is no danger
I am here tonight"
The song flies off Lashanie's lips and echoes across the fields stretching between all the small hills beyond their tranquil village, carried by the gentle evening breeze. And Varian just listens, drinking in every detail of this moment. The beams of the setting sun still warming their faces and veiling Lashanie's butterfly-like lashes in gold, the way her lips part, and her jaw and neck move ever so gently as the wind brushes through her hair, using stray tendrils to draw invisible lines, connecting the soft freckles scattered along her cheekbones. And the melodic sound of her voice, of course.
A voice bright and clear, tinged with a warm hue Varian could already imagine would grow more dominant in the future. And then it hits him—he knows that voice! He's heard it during his walks through the village once or twice. Funny, how close they've been all this time, without knowing about the other . . .
And there's another thing funny—now and then, Lashanie seems to lose control of her breathing, causing her to accidentally slip into a higher pitch, and Varian can't help to notice the similarity to the silvery chirping of the birds now hopping from branchlet to branchlet above their heads. It isn't ear-splitting or anything—not at all. But he can still easily tell it's not a natural, complimentary vocal color for Lashanie.
"And someday you'll know
That nature is so
The same rain that draws you near me
Falls on rivers and land
On forests and sand
Makes the beautiful world that you'll see
In the morning"
In the treetop, the twitter grows louder as if the birds wanted to join Lashanie's song, and despite Varian's effort to choke the thought, some silly area in his mind keeps repeating how much they sound alike—Lashanie and the birds. Then they seemingly produce the exact same sound, and Varian's no longer able to restrain himself; a pent-up chuckle bursts out his lips.
Abruptly, Lashanie interrupts her song in the middle of a stanza. Her lips pursed and cheeks slightly flushed, she scolds, "Vary! You promised you wouldn't laugh!"
Whoops! Varian bites his lips and silently blinks at her. With her mouth puckered like a beak and those slightly puffed cheeks, Lashanie's face appears a lot rounder—all the more like a tiny alarmed bird ruffling its feathers. And she doesn't even know! He tries to suppress the snicker crawling up his throat, or at least stop his shoulders from shaking under it; he really does. Although unsuccessfully.
Seeing how he tries to stifle a laugh, heat blooms in Lashanie's face. "What's so funny? Or are you just teasing?! Vary!"
Varian shakes his head, wanting to explain, but up in the tree, one of the songbirds is sticking its little face toward him, chirping as if it comes to Lashanie's defense, and the boy can't hold back any longer—loud laughter breaks through his chuckle, revealing a mouthful of white teeth, the two prominent upper incisors separated by a gap.
He's pressing his hands against his tummy like there was an even louder, wilder laugh to contain resting inside it, and Lashanie feels very assured now he's only trying to tease her.
She leans forward, propping herself up on his crossed legs, and demands with beet-red cheeks, "Stop that, you—you silly boy !"
Prompting him to guffaw even louder. Yeah, it might be silly, but he can't help it. A stitch in his side sets in, and Varian doubles up with laughter, multiple snorts working their way through it. "I'm sorry, Lashanie," he tries to utter, but only some unintelligible mumble carries it off to cross his lips.
The longer Varian keeps laughing like this, the harder Lashanie can refrain from bursting out into laughter herself. Why does his laugh have to be so contagious? Her lips curve up, and she resolves, as earnestly as still possible, "You're such a child," giving his side a pinch.
Varian flinches slightly, laughing a little harder, and Lashanie's eyes light up—Ohoho! He's ticklish! Now, if that isn't the perfect chance for sweet revenge . . .
"Alright, Vary! You're asking for it," she announces before unleashing her horrible tickle attack upon him. Gasping for air, he unsuccessfully tries to fend her hands off, then reaches for her sides for a counter-attack. "Haha, you thought! But I'm not ticklish!" Lashanie scoffs triumphantly while pinning Varian down to the ground.
He squirms under her; his face flushed a bright red he begs through laughs, "Mercy, please!"
"First, tell me why you were laughing!"
Varian grabs hold of Lashanie's hands, panting out, "Birds."
"Birds?" She rolls her head to one side and scrambles off Varian, pulling him back into a sitting position as well.
He's holding one hand pressed to his tummy, the stitches still lingering there. "Heh—oww . . . Yes, birds. Look, when you're singing sharp, you sound a lot like them." Varian points at the tree's crown, where the two feathered lovers are still fervently courting each other with silvery birdsong.
"I do?" Lashanie tilts her head back, curiously regarding them. Singing like a bird doesn't seem like a bad thing to her . . . or as funny as Varian apparently considers it.
He shrugs his slight shoulders, pushing himself up to his feet. Daylight is slowly yielding to the night, casting long shadows now where it meets the earth, and soon, darkness will crawl over the entire place—they should get back home while there's still some light left in the sky. "Yes, but it's kinda cute . . . silly girl ," Varian responds to Lashanie's semi-rhetorical question with an impish grin, offering an open hand to her.
"Silly boy!" she retorts playfully while letting Varian help her up.
When they're finally down the hill, a wave of purple's already begun to blend in the rose-color sky, washing up the first faint stars along the way. And while Varian has spent their descent in silence, for the most part, struggling not to lose his footing, Lashanie described in tremendous detail how the other—the good days, as she called them—of the past week went for her. And though the majority did sound to him like an endless loop of events constantly repeating themselves, he could very clearly determine one thing from her depiction: she has a great passion for singing.
So when he's on firm ground and, alongside purchase, also finds his voice again, Varian shares this realization with Lashanie for confirmation. "You really love to sing, hm?"
"I do. It might sound funny, and perhaps I risk making you laugh at me again—" Lashanie glances at her friend with a telling grin, to which he responds with an eye-roll and a smile of his own. "Buuut . . . You know, when I'm singing, for that very moment, I am free. Music is a very powerful way to express yourself if you ask me. It can cheer you up, can give you motivation when you need it, or comfort. You can share it with the world or keep it all to yourself."
"Okay, you really are a little songbird," Varian deduces from the ardent way she speaks of her favorite pastime.
While producing a tiny giggle, Lashanie shakes her head. "Oh, stop teasing already! I'm warning you; I won't shy away from tickling you again—no mercy this time." She points at him playfully, and Varian raises his hands in mock defense like a cornered criminal.
"Oho—a truly frightening threat," he chuckles. "But I mean it! Hey—" Varian's eyes suddenly twinkle from a flash of genius. "Wouldn't that make a nice nickname for you: Birdy?"
Putting his suggestion forward, he really thought it had a nice sound to it, but now mild surprise blooms on Lashanie's face, a moment passes by where she just wordlessly blinks at Varian, and that brief moment entirely suffices to prompt him to add, "It's silly, right? Forget it—bad idea."
"No," Lashanie tugs at his sleeve, a surprisingly sheepish smile gracing her face. "It's perfect. Birdy sounds very sweet."
Varian's lips automatically mirror that smile, driven by relief, yet he can't resist venturing into a joke. "I mean, I could also call you 'Hingey'—you know, concerning that door-hinge-thing you've mentio—"
He doesn't get the chance to finish that sentence; letting out a loud squeak, he flinches from Lashanie pinching his side again. "That's it, Vary—you've sealed your fate!"
"Nu-uh, not this time," he boasts, dodging her hands and tearing off the very second. "Catch me if you can!"
That, he doesn't need to tell her twice: Lashanie chases after him, demanding with a smile hovering over her voice, "Hey, stop running like a cow—uff!" Abruptly and without warning, Varian has come to a halt. Practically, he only complied with her request . . . but it caused her to violently bump into him and almost throw the skinny boy himself off his feet. And fair turnabout looks different to Lashanie, so she moans while bracing herself against her knees, "Ouch! What, in the name of—"
Varian whereas quickly shakes off the collision's impact. He caught a glimpse of some green sprinkled with blue atop an abandoned barn they were just about to run past. Could it be? His eyes scan the roof again, and there, between the moist straw, they spot it. "Look up there!" he coaxes, taking Lashanie by the shoulder while guiding her gaze with an extended index finger.
Lashanie squints; her head's still spinning a little, but she can definitely make out something growing there, up on that moldered roof. "Is that—monkshood?!"
Varian beams with triumph, "Ha! Yes, it is!"
"You sure got a sharp eye," Lashanie admits. "But—off all the places . . ."
The friends' gazes tangle, and a twinkle in Varian's eyes forebode what he confirms with a conspiratorial grin a mere blink later. "Birdy, I want that plant."
. . .