Preface

Hello to you out there. I am Inle, the silly daydreamer bringing you this little Tangled: The Series fanfiction.

But before we embark on the journey that this story is going to be, I would like to give you an idea of what to expect.

Songs and Science is centered around Varian and Lashanie (an original character of mine), and I would mainly classify it as a coming-of-age romantasy—a charming friends-to-lovers tale with lots of fantasy elements. The developing relationship between Varian and Lashanie will be the main focal point of this story. So if you enjoy reading about how the first butterflies in the stomach of the dorky protagonist gradually morph into fireworks, I'd wager you'll find joy in what's awaiting you in chapters to come. But you better brace for some heartache too.

Besides the romantic theme, it's also a rewrite of the show—in addition to inserting Lashanie into the story we all could follow with interest, I plan to explore the possibilities a bit further that were given but remained unexhausted to a large extent. The same goes for the roles of certain side characters as well as relationships underdeveloped in the show (Quirin and Varian, for example). While adding my own touch, the main plot will be retained unchanged—I'll mostly stick to joining ideas to the story we got. If alterations happen (which character is present during specific events, e.g.), they won't affect the ending but merely provide an alternative perspective.

So, if you want to follow Varian and Lashanie growing up and falling in love while the occurrences around them push their lives to the edge, I no longer want to hold you up.

I hope you enjoy reading.


Act One

Beginnings

Chapter One: How it Begins

It's a rainy day in the sedate, small village of Old Corona. While most of the residents are seeking shelter from the uncomfortable weather inside their cozy homes, a lone young girl braves the storm; a bright smile spread across her face.

The sandy roads that snake their way through the entire village, branching out like a river course to connect all the tiny houses, have been soaked in streams of mud which the girl happily stomps with firm treads. She steps deliberately hard into every big puddle that crosses her way.

Her clothes are dripping wet, and the flowy red skirt that reaches just over her knees is already decorated with plenty of dirt smudges, spattered onto the soft fabric like a smattering of stars in the night sky. Yet, she keeps humming a jolly melody while repeatedly blowing wet strands of creamy brown hair off her forehead.

It's been merely a few days since her parents released her from their constant care; only a few days since she's earned permission to wander alone in the lovely, calm village her family moved to six years ago. Six years, from which five consisted of continuous practice of her so-called gift : the ability to accelerate any healing process for other living beings, which first showed when she had seen about four winters and rescued a tiny bird. However, fortune refused to smile on her: all the day-in, day-out training remained fruitless. Lately, her parents had given up hope of her gift to lift herself, and perhaps her family, to unforeseeable heights.

For the girl, those hopes bursting like soap bubbles primarily meant freedom, of which she gladly makes use. She's begun to explore the green flower-decorated pastures, the fields full of fruit, and the nearby gloriously blue lake.

And quickly fell in love with all that beauty. Still . . . mastering her strange gift felt like an obligation, one she could not permanently shirk from.

And so the unheralded visit of her aunt and cousin, whose company woefully commonly failed to bring the brunette any joy, lastly proved to be a blessing in disguise.

After all, her cousin's words, intended as an insult, were what sent her on her way despite the deluge of rainfall:

"You know, rumor has it there's someone living here in your filthy little village who's just as bad of a crank as you are.", he said the previous evening while shoving past her on his way to the dining table. "Father told me about him; he's the son of the leader of this cesspit you call home. Why don't you be a burden to him and spare me seeing your dumb face? You might even get along—with both of you being out of your minds."

His chubby cheeks bounced like jelly when he began to guffaw, again confounding his malignance for humor. And, granted, the moment he had said this, the girl wished to melt into the ground. But by now, she's also accustomed to his comments and jokes.

At least, she's learned that she's not the only odd one out in this place . . . thanks to her cousin. Whatever it is that makes the boy he mentioned so extraordinary that even strangers to the village know about his existence, she has to meet him! And maybe, just maybe, he could help her finally make her gift work.

She dares hope for it.

Now she hadn't to do anything but head for the most prominent house around. It was almost merely a stone's throw from her own home . . . almost. Yet, heavy and mercilessly pelting down, the rain would have drenched her to the skin even if they had lived door by door.

•●•●•

"Well, here we are," she mumbles to herself, eventually looking up at the impressive house towering at the end of a flight of stone treads.

The wet walls impart a rejecting semblance, but she can't let that stop her: plucking up the courage running through her body, she climbs one stair after another. Upon arrival at the top, she immediately reaches out to knock on the great wooden door, not leaving any time for doubts to take root. To her surprise, it swings back under her knuckles straight away—it must have stood ajar all along. She tries knocking on the frame instead, hoping someone might answer the door still. But even after a few minutes pass, there's sole silence, save for the sound of rain.

What now? Should she just come back another day; leave without having achieved anything?

Maybe she could call for someone . . .

Hesitantly, she rests her hands against the doorway and broadens the gap to gain a peek inside. A long corridor extends into the dark; the only light perceivable in that blackness is a dim shine spilling through a cracked door.

"Hello? Is anybody there?" Her voice echoes lonesome through the dark.

No answer—how could it be any different.

Yet . . . some vague sound from afar, something like a tiny frizzle, approaches her ear. Oh, that uncontrollable curiosity!

Clucked ever so irresistibly by that noise, her legs commence carrying her toward the light while her fingers brush the wall, searching for steadiness in the murkiness. Finally, the door at the end of the corridor swings back under her hand, and brightness enfolds her entirely.

After a few blinks, her eyes adjust to the sudden change to promptly widen in awe . . .

One big rack contains reading abound: tomes, booklets, and scrolls—far more than she had seen at her rural school—promising immense knowledge captured on those thousands of pages. Tools and instruments fill more shelves, cleaned and neatly organized. While a table near the entrance appears tidy and merely holds an odd magnifier, another placed farther in the room is cluttered with various instruments and notes. Bottomed flasks and tubes shine with colorful substances.

Another flask, suspended over a blue flame, turns out to be the cause of the frizzle noise: its contents had begun to boil over, dispensing a rose-tinted fume that permeates the space—giving it a surreal air. Tiny, glistening speckles soar up from the flask. And an inexpressible urge to examine them closer, to touch and hold them in her hand, wells up inside her.

Mouth agape, she carefully strides up to the overboiling flask . . . mesmerized by it to such an extent that everything else is blanked out from her perception—even the footsteps drawing closer behind her.

With bated breath, she reaches for the flask—

"Don't touch that!"

Someone firmly grabs her by the shoulder, pulling her back. A shrill scream tears from her throat, and the stranger—startled by her reaction—rapidly withdraws his hand.

The brunette turns about, looking into the cerulean eyes of a black-haired boy roughly her age.

He raises his hands in defense and explains, "No need to shout! I just didn't want you to get burned . . . or worse."

She's baffled, rigidly blinking at the owner of this fantastic place.

The boy inquisitively stares back at her, mildly confused by his opposite's silence. Shouldn't she try to explain the why and wherefore of her intrusion? Or maybe she can't talk or hear. That would explain why she only became aware of his presence when he took her by the shoulder.

"Can you understand me?" he eventually breaks the silence.

It finally hits her; her behavior must appear incredibly strange to that boy; she can't contain an embarrassed chuckle.

"I—of course, I can," she responds. "I'm sorry for entering unbidden, really sorry! I was looking for—I mean, I've been told here was—"

What a nervous jabber! How was he supposed to make sense of it when even she couldn't? She takes a deep, calming breath, puts on a sugary smile, and tries again, extending her hand toward the boy. "My name is Lashanie. Nice to meet you."

His gaze wanders down to her hand and back to her eyes again, showing nil intention to answer the gesture. Instead, he just brushes past her. While walking, he undresses from the heavy coat that sheltered him from the rain, revealing a body of slight build.

"You're in cahoots with the others?" he asks, trying to make it sound casual.

Confusion tilts Lashanie's head. "What others?"

Nonchalantly thrown, the boy's coat lands atop a low cupboard.

"The other kids from the village. They send you here to play friend to me, right?! Tough luck, Lashanie—I'm not falling for that again!" he declares, arms crossed over his chest.

If his words are supposed to serve as an explanation for his wariness toward her, it sure doesn't work for Lashanie; they render her none but anymore confused.

She shakes her head helplessly. "I . . . got no idea what you are talking about."

"Is that so?" The boy raises an eyebrow, his sharp gaze fixed on her. "Very well. Tell me then, if you ain't here to set me up for you and your friends to gloat over afterward, what did you break into my house for?"

"I am sorry for that." Demurely, Lashanie attempts to close the distance between them: the lesser it was, the better her most impactful appeasement tactic would work. Her chin sinks, and big mindaro doe eyes blink squarely at him. "But I come with no ill intent. I promise. I want to implore for your help."

They're standing close enough for him to even catch the vanilla scent of her clothes. Instinctively he begins to regard the little burglar intently.

To one side, her hair spills over her shoulder in wet strands; on the other, it is significantly shorter—it stands to reason she cut it herself. Soft rosy blush and tiny light freckles cover her cheeks. Even as they're wet through, her clothes still fit her slim figure perfectly.

And she's shivering . . .

Try as she might, Lashanie can't conceal her legs and hands shaking, and sympathy grabs hold of the boy's heart. Hopefully, he won't regret casting caution to the winds and affording a leap of faith for her.

"Varian," he says, extending a gloved hand.

"Varian . . ." Lashanie repeats, all smiles as their hands intertwine.

If the girl's amiability is but a pretense, she's a fairly good actress; Varian can't help it; the corners of his mouth twitch upward, and his stoic facade starts crumbling. He might as well hear the girl out.

"I'm going to help you," he says. "But first, I must know what you need my help with." And hazards a joke to lighten up the mood. "I'm sure we'll redress your problem as long as you're not asking me to stop the rain from falling, heh."

The words have barely passed his lips when they prompt an internal cringe to jolt through his body. Why did he say that? Perfect; simply perfect! They had just met, and she must already consider him an oddball.

But Lashanie laughs, high and clear; Varian's starting to take to her.

"Oh, I wouldn't; I like the rain," she chuckles. "It's like plenty of little kisses from the ocean . . . No, I hope you can assist me in making my magic work again."

There must be a hint in the girl's mimic for Varian to discern, revealing her to be kidding. One he fails to spot. Yet, he proceeds to quip, devoutly hoping that Lashanie is joking. "Sure can! I'll just fetch a few ingredients and concoct a philter for you in a heartbeat." A snorty, adorable laugh follows.

"You can do that? That would be awesome!" Lashanie admires him with glinting eyes.

Abruptly, Varian's laughter dies away in his throat. "Wait—you're serious?!"

"Yes, I am. I can't use my magic right anymore, and I hope you can—Oh! Heavens!"

One hand cups over her mouth as Lashanie points at something in Varian's back. Merely a gasp escapes his throat when he catches a glimpse at the mess unfolding from his experiment before Lashanie yanks him behind a shielding ledge.

Under a nasty noise, the overboiling flask bursts into sharp pieces; they scatter across the room. A thick rose smoke encircles the two kids, slowly dispersing around the whole space, glinting specks soaring from it.

The sparkles reflect in Lashanie's bright eyes. "Wow. This . . . this is beautiful," she whispers.

Varian lets out a sigh. "Perhaps. The repel would have been of more use if it didn't end up in smoke, mind you."

Luckily, the wall perfectly shielded them from the darting shards.

Regardless of the upwelling reluctance, Varian steps outside their impromptu hide; he has to validate the damage done by the blast. And some damage it is that meets his eye; Varian's jaw drops to the floor.

The reaction inside the small flask must have rocked the table so hard that some vessels clattered to the floor while others shattered from splinters of flying glass; colorful liquids trickle down the table's edge, forming a dull puddle on the floor, studded with shards.

"Oh, no! No, no. No!" Varian plummets to his knees.

The work of an entire—no, almost two months—all laid to waste.

Shaking his hanging head, Varian utters through a hapless, cynical laugh, "Are you satisfied now? You distracted me, so my experiment would go awry. You've planned that—you and the others. Right!?"

"No! I haven't planned anything with anyone! I didn't even know this could happen, I . . . I'm sorry, Varian."

Lashanie rests a hand on the boy's small shoulder, but he immediately wrenches free from her touch. They lapse into an unsettling silence.

The girl would surely leave now, and for the following weeks, Varian would hear the kids from the village laughing about his foolishness, ridiculing him for trusting her when he really should know better by now.

To his surprise, Lashanie goes down on her haunches and starts wordlessly gathering up the shards of glass.

"I don't need your help," Varian insists, a slight catch in his voice giving him away.

Lashanie pays him a warm, compassionate smile. "I know you don't. But I would like to help you still . . . if you allow me."

Willing himself to regain composure, Varian rolls his eyes. He takes one deep breath, then another, and one more—and is a little back together. He takes off his gloves.

"Alright, fine with me. But at least wear those."

"Are you sure? What about you?" Lashanie forms her words carefully.

"I'll be fine!" A wan smile plays on Varian's lips. "So, you want to help or not?"

Lashanie nods in silence, putting on the black gloves without attempting to protest. They fit much too big on her delicate hands, but—even so—they'll spare her from nasty cuts.

For a while there, the two just quietly clean the floor. Yet, Varian can't help stealing glances at his opposite . . . if only he could read that girl.

Suddenly, a twitch sears through his hand, and Varian sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth. An angry red slit runs over his thumb, oozing blood.

The kids' eyes meet, and Varian shrugs his shoulders, a lopsided grin forming on his face.

"I guess I should be more careful, heh," he admits self-mockingly.

The shards Lashanie had collected clatter to the ground as she doffs the gloves to take Varian's injured hand into her own.

"Does it hurt a lot?" she asks, her brows crinkled with worry.

Varian shakes his head, feigning insensibility over the wound—until Lashanie rubs the cut with her thumb.

"Ouch! What the—" Bristling angrily, Varian attempts to pull his hand away. But Lashanie holds fast to it.

"Please, let me try to heal you," she begs.

Varian had almost forgotten about that magic thing she mentioned. And—who'd have guessed—she wasn't joking or trying to lead him on a merry chase before . . . No, she's merely a bit dotty.

He sighs, expecting exactly nothing to happen as Lashanie rubs his thumb; he'll just endure the pain tearing at the cut for the nonce.

When Lashanie withdraws her hands, though, Varian's eyebrows shoot up to the ceiling: the bleeding has dried up entirely. His mouth forms inaudible words by itself as he examines the dry claret line on his skin. His hair stands on the edge like a hedgehog's quivers.

"Amazing!" they both breathe in unison.

Lashanie beams at the boy. "I did it! YOU did it! You helped me make my gift work!"

Uncontainable happiness bubbles through her; her arms wrap around Varian's neck as though they had a mind of their own. He instantly tenses up in her embrace, and Lashanie promptly releases him. She bites her lip. "I'm sorry." Dumb arms!

Though he'd rather she would not touch him out of the blue, Varian's mind was too busy anyway, processing . . . whatever just happened in front of him. "You can heal—just like the magic flower.", he mutters.

"Well, not quite. I can only quicken the process. And this—" Lashanie's glance wanders to his thumb "—is the best I've done yet."

"This is incredible, all the same!" Varian assures, his unblinking gaze locking with Lashanie's.

"I must learn to control it. You think you can help me do that?" Lashanie inquires, her hopes freshly nourished.

Varian ponders. After letting a brief moment pass, he nods and hums in affirmation. They could not only find a way for her to use it at will, but they would also puzzle out where this ability came from; there has to be a scientific explanation for it, he's sure of that.

"Thank you!" Lashanie beams at him.

Even though it itches him to find that explanation as soon as possible, Varian forces himself to dampen her euphoria—and his curiosity. "I have an important task at hand I must see about first, however," he declares.

Lashanie flashes a smile. "That's alright. I can assist you! You help me; I help you." She extends her hand. "Partners?"

A grin tugs at one corner of Varian's mouth. He accepts with a firm handshake. "Partners!"