Short Story

Garet's attempt at reconciliation

By Marahute Sol

- Disclaimer: I still do not own any rights of Golden Sun. Nor… do… I… have the right to any of it... [Expletive deleted]

- Author's note: Warning; may once again contain traces of nuts.

It was a bright day and the weather forecast seemed great.

There was however still an ominous feeling in the air. It could of course have something to do with the fact that Garet are four pieces of roasted bread, an orange, two fried eggs, a fried sausage, and a small quantity of baked beans because he wanted to try out this 'fry-up' part of the five course English Breakfast, but Garet's pondered about last nights conversation might be a possible cause as well. After all, "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned / Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."(2)

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The sun shone brightly and the twittering of the birds felt like the kind of music that carried you of into distant worlds and into pleasant dreams.

Mia's house was located in the central area of the village among many apple trees. The both of them have lived in the same village since their childhood, mainly because they had never seen any reason to move. Mia had initially inherited the house of her grandparents near the river but never quite felt at ease there, there were too many memories of darker days so she decided to move to another house nearer the apple orchard.

Garet's house was located in the outer rings of the village a few minutes from the market place. Because their village produced a large quantity of exclusive goods the market was situated near the entrance to ensure not that many strangers wandered the streets. The market was also a few minutes from the Psynermobiles parking lot. In the very beginning the village council had already decided that they should never be allowed to actually drive into the village,(1) so they decided that a small lot for eight or nine cars should be constructed. Though, the village had never seen the need to construct more then three cars themselves, they still did most of their trading by river of horse and cart, a fair few Psynermobiles from other villages or cities made frequent use of it.

As Garet walked through the orchard leading up to her house he tried to recapture the events of last night. He thought about the horse, the bunny, got very confused, and decided to just improvise. He never had been very good with words, she would understand.

He knocked on her door.

He heard Mia's voice say "Who is it?"

"Uhm, it is me." He replied.

She opened the door, eyeing him wearily.

"Uhm, hi. I noticed last night, …" He began.

Mia's big ocean blue eyes began to shine.

"Yes?" She said, smiling.

She knew what this was leading up too. He would say he was an ass. He should have considered her feelings and the possibility of spending the rest of their lives together. Oh, he is so romantic at heart. I knew all I had to do was give him time, and he needed no more then the duration of a single evening to get his thoughts in order. He has already realised he should never have been so blunt and inconsiderate. He will conjure up a shining armour and confess his never dying love, and sweep me of my feet after which we will ride bareback on white horses towards the sun and end up on a beach. We will lie on a blanket in the sand watch the sun set and drink apple cider while whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears.

Garet noticed the shining of her eyes and began to doubt about how to continue. He decided to try and change the subject first and figure out what it was she thought about last night before giving her his own thoughts. It usually was the safest thing to do. It is the same when a girl asks you which dress you like most; no matter how well you know her, you always end up picking the one she was -not- planning to wear. Ever. Again.

"I noticed you were wearing a new dress." He tried.

"Yes. I was." She replied. Allowing the temperature to drop considerably and ice crystals to form on the door frame. "I bought two new dresses actually, I am wearing the other one right now."

And then, she asked the most dangerous question a woman can ask any men.(2)

"Do you think this dress makes my but look bigger then the one I wore yesterday?" She asked, turned sideways, and protruded her ass.

Garet, one of the mightiest fire wielders known in the world of Weyard, froze.

"Uhm, …" He ventures.

He thought about the consequences of saying 'yes' and shuddered. She would accuse him of saying that her ass looks big, throw up a big fuss and throw the door in his face.

"No." He decided firmly.

She faced him and spoke in an icy voice: "Oh, so you think my ass looked fat yesterday? Why didn't you say it then?" Her voice gained in amplitude: "Why could you not find the courage to just say that you think I am getting fat right to my face? Why do I have to find out like this? Do I really need to ask you about such a fact?

Garet tried to speak but was interrupted.

"And nooo, of course you can't say anything nice to me, you always have to be honest and blunt. For your information mister, I. Am. Not. Fat! I have had the same weight for the last four years, I haven't gained a pound I'll have you know! If you think I have been fat all along why on earth did you ask me out? You really are not a hair better then any other man I have ever encountered. All men care about is getting some good looking booty and a hot meal every night. Well if that is what you think about me then GOODBYE!" She replied and slammed the door shut.

As soon as Garet got home, he poured himself a glass of whisky and sat down on his couch. Flabbergast at what went on just now. The tiny voice of reason in his head manages to tell him it did not involve a fat ass or a new dress. It tells him, in the far recesses of his mind, that something huge was going on. But as he is pretty sure that he is most likely to never find out what, he figures it is better if he forgets all about it.

And that is where men differ from woman.

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(1) There was not even room enough for them to drive between two individual houses or their respective garden fenced walls, let alone navigate around.

(2) Congreve, Willam. "The Mourning Bride" 1697