Act One
Beginnings
Chapter Two: Forget-Me-Not
A calm night washes down the dark clouds from the sky unnoticed, and as it passes by—perishes for the sun to gild Old Corona's rich fields—the rain peters out likewise. Veils of haze blanket the hamlet when the first warm rays of dawn caress the humid ground.
Some of those rays go astray through the small window of Varian's laboratory and spill into the room. Only as they fall on the boy's face to ever so archly blind his eyes does he pause from leafing through his books and jotting down notes.
Before then, the sunrise had escaped his attention entirely. Too busy he's been with his studies. Studies he's been engrossed in since the earliest hours of that morning when the sky had merely begun to gradually tinge with lighter hues of blue and soft violet. When all but Varian, even the radiant sun, still lay in peaceful slumber. The setback of the eve needed proper compensation. After investing hours and hours of work into a repel, he was now forced to change tack—lacking both time and the required ingredients to recreate the lost progress. In hopes of happening across something, and may it just be a tiny detail that perchance could provide him an idea for starting afresh, Varian skims over all books in his possession he deems helpful in the slightest.
Yet, the broad daylight that had begun to invade his workspace torments his tired eyes. With a groan, he lowers his head to the desk, blocking out the jarring garishness from his vision. It sure wouldn't hurt to rest his eyes for a minute, would it? Just a minute . . . or two.
•●•●•
A bright stretch of water reaches as far as Varian's eyes can see. He doesn't know how he got there or where he is. It's all just turquoise blue water and rich greens without precise form. And near the water stands a woman with long ginger hair, her back turned to him. It's been so long since he'd last seen her; still, he'd always recognize her at a glance.
Through that colorful, vivid dream Varian's mind's sunken into, a soft voice reaches his ear.
"Varian. Varian, I am here now."
Despite these words, the vision in front of him remains stone still. Varian wants to run to her, but his legs refuse to move; he wants to call her name, but not a single sound escapes his throat.
Little by little, the greens smudge into the blue.
"Varian . . ."
Finally, the woman slowly turns about. And horror creeps into Varian's heart—she doesn't have a face! A morbid, black soup is dripping down from that nothingness. His gaze darts down to determine what's hindering him from running: a sea of that black, sticky liquid had flooded the area, phlegmatically slapping against his legs and keeping him fixed in place. Varian's heart starts racing.
"Varian!"
•●•●•
Being shaken by the shoulder gingerly, as Lashanie is ambitious to wake him as gently as possible—clueless about any nightmare he may be trapped inside—Varian startles out of his sleep. He flails, eyes dilated with shock and gasping for air while his mind only gradually wraps itself around the soothing fact of that horror merely having been a dream.
His hand strikes an empty beaker, and the glass tool promptly gives in to the force; it glides off the table to burst on the ground with a loud clank. Fortunately, Lashanie quickly apprehends and reacts: before Varian can knock off anything else, she catches his whirling hand and holds it pressed to her body.
"Varian, it's alright! You're safe now!" she calmly affirms.
Her eyes fall to his, waiting for clarity to form in them as harsh breaths heave his chest. A few seconds pass until Lashanie's steady heartbeat serves Varian to hush his nightmare-induced fears.
Lashanie gently lets go of his arm. "You're better?"
Varian vents a sigh and nods. "I am—I mean—it was nothing, so basically I have been all the time . . . but thanks," he adds in hushed words.
A skeptical smile flits across Lashanie's face. "So, you're saying you broke that beaker on purpose?"
Prompting a tiny, embarrassment-tinged chuckle to escape Varian. "All right, you got me! I had a nasty nightmare," he admits.
"Wanna talk about it?"
Even though Lashanie's empathy seems sincere, Varian swiftly shakes his head. He's free of any desire to talk about those images to anyone, especially a stranger he met just a day ago. Apart from that, he wouldn't know for the life of him how to explain even a second of it anyway. No, Varian resorts to quickly changing the subject instead.
"Didn't you say you'd come here first thing in the morning?" he asks, a roguish smirk playing on his lips while his gaze wanders over to the window where the sun's position reveals it to be around noontime already.
"True, but my family—or more precisely, my visiting family—detained me. If it weren't for them, I would have been here at the break of dawn," Lashanie explains.
Varian shakes his head half-mockingly, shoving the remains of his beaker into a pile with his feet. He chuckles, "Of course you would. Even before the first cock-crow, I bet."
Motivating Lashanie to protest, "It's the truth! Besides, we probably shouldn't waste more daylight sticking at trifles."
She folds her hands on her back and swings feathery to a rhythm audible to nobody except her. "You mentioned a matter of urgency that calls for your attention, and I want to help. So come on—let me know how I may assist you!"
Varian's gaze locks upon that girl who's seemingly burning with curiosity, and an idea comes to mind. Why not walk her through the issue and his corresponding plan with a little puzzle?
He places his hands on his skinny hips, suggesting, "Shall we play a little game? Old Corona's fields are nightly being visited by a group of thieves, you see." Lashanie's eyes widen subtly, and Varian quickly adds, "No worries, they don't mean to harm any of us! Actually, they ain't even human." He takes a seat atop his desk, eyes twinkling with amusement. "And that's where our game starts: I'll give you a description of them—and you try to guess what they are. Well?"
Lashanie gets infected by Varian's smile, which she unconsciously mirrors while saluting exaggeratedly. "Alright! Let your assistant prove to you her power of deduction."
Varian can't contain a soft chuckle. "Heh, okay. Let's see . . . they're small—about yay height." His hand dangles mid-air, the distance between it and the tabletop giving Lashanie an idea of the thieves' size. "They wear black masks around their eyes, have a heightened sense of smell, and are quite smart," he goes on. "And, um . . . Oh, yes! As I mentioned before, they usually strike under the curtain of night."
A playful smirk imprinted on his face, Varian rolls his head to one side. "Now, Lashanie, what species do they belong to?"
Meanwhile, a pensive semblance rose to dominate Lashanie's mien. Slightly pursing her lips, she scans the papers on the table for a hint—to no avail. Her glance falls on Varian, who smiles like a little kid getting away with a prank.
"Would you do me a favor?" she suddenly asks into the silence and forms a pair of spectacles with her hands, holding them in front of her eyes. "Do this, please?"
A wave of mild confusion washes over Varian's face, yet he complies with her request, mimicking the gesture she performs. "Like this?"
Varian's dark gloves perfectly serve Lashanie to picture the masks he mentioned, and as Varian blinks at her through the holes his thumbs and index fingers form, it lastly hits her.
"Raccoons! They're raccoons!" she exclaims happily, her voice bearing a touch of pride.
With matching joyful excitement, Varian claps his hands and confirms. "Quite right! Déduction trés brillante."
He scoots off the table edge and unfolds several pages covered in hasty handwriting for Lashanie to survey, each concerning raccoons and their habits, as well as a few half-baked ideas to keep them at bay.
Skimming them, Lashanie shakes her head. "Are you sure poisonous plants bordering the fields will do much good? Won't the raccoons just steer clear of them and go for the objects of their desire still? I mean—you said it yourself—they're smart."
"We're not just planting them. I am going to use 'em to produce a deterrent." Varian's eyes shine with pride as he explains, "By availing myself of the most wondrous of sciences—the arcane art of alchemy —I should be able to augment their deterring features and thus fabricate an unparalleled solution to our critter problem." With a limb hand, he motions to his pride-swollen chest, a triumphant smile gracing his face giving the impression his plan had already culminated in success.
"And you, Lashanie, may help me find that plant!" Varian concludes, presenting one of his sketches to her.
Lashanie traces the thick ink lines making the stem with her fingers. "Monkshood," she mumbles to herself. "Are you sure about that? It won't be easy to find here, and we'd have to be extra careful—every part of it is poisonous; it contains large amounts of alkaloids! And the toxics are also contained in the sap, so we should by no means pick it with bare hands."
Despite Lashanie's overt concerns, the cheerful expression plastered on Varian's face doesn't budge.
"I know all that! But it's still worth a shot—after all, it won't compromise the harvest and provide a more humane way to stop those raccoons from scavenging our fields than the traps they momentarily got in use."
"They're using traps?!" Lashanie's voice had risen a notch from its regular hue.
It was only logical they had to do something to secure the harvest, but using traps—hurting those animals who merely follow their instincts—was such a far stretch from a solution she would have deemed acceptable that this possibility hadn't crossed her mind. Until now, that is.
Varian helplessly shrugs his shoulders, a gesture implying he's not happy with it either, and yet, it's ongoing the very moment they're having this conversation.
Any reluctance that kept Lashanie tarrying gets obliterated by that new information. Burning with a freshly inflamed resolve, she grabs Varian's sketch and folds it in her hands.
She nods firmly. "Alright, Varian, I am with you! Let's find us some monkshood." Anything if it would erase those traps from the picture.
Varian had been eagerly waiting in the wings—he reaches for his satchel and slings the strap over his small shoulder in a twinkling.
"It's as good as ours! Project 'Harvest Rescue' goes into the second phase! " he beams as they head for the door.
•●•●•
Barely any trace of the nasty weather from yesterday is left; merely the humidified air acts as a reminder. Under the warming sun, gently kissing their skin like a caring mother, Lashanie and Varian venture towards a promising meadow close to a brook not too far afield. Little insects—mostly fireflies strayed here from the riverbank where they usually busy themselves—dance around them mid-air along their way and bask in the light, their translucent wings and chitinous exoskeletons shimmering like they're made of precious crystal.
With childish delight, Lashanie's gaze keeps following their jerky and, at the same time, graceful movements. Motivating Varian to make use of his companion's distraction by spying on her from the corner of his eye.
It's funny how that girl appears so fascinated—yes, almost smitten—with those plain creatures. And yet, despite the fascination blazing in the back of her eyes, a certain air keeps constantly surrounding her.
Varian rummages his brain for the right word when some frantic, loud screaming in close distance jolts him out of his pondering. The cause of that disturbance is a small group of other kids chasing after a lone dragonfly.
Varian knows them . . . The group comprises five kids—three boys and two girls. Those five are the only other kids in the village close to himself and Lashanie in age; everybody else is either a good bit older or younger. And Varian would rather run into everybody but those five.
Yet, their chasing and shouting serve him to grasp the word he's been searching for: serene. In comparison to them—hysterically screaming and clucking, spurring each other on to capture the insect—Lashanie bears a serene semblance to herself. Neither does she squee like a lunatic nor make any attempt to bring one of those fireflies into her possession. On the contrary, she's seemingly making her best endeavor not to disturb their bustling activity.
Suddenly, a surge in the clamor nearby threatens to tear away Lashanie's attention from the insect's uninhibited measure to claim it for itself, bringing Varian to hastily place one hand on her back and gently force her to speed up.
She turns to meet his eye, asking puzzledly, "Why do we hurry? Is something wrong?"
Varian fakes a smile. "No, no—nothing's wrong. I just . . . can't wait to get to the brookside. Heh."
There's a hint of scepticism on Lashanie's face. Yet, she refrains from forging her doubts into words; instead, she assimilates her walking pace to Varian's.
A sigh of relief slips through his lungs. For some reason, Varian's sure she wouldn't stay out of it would she see those kids ridding the firefly of its wings—he detests these kinds of games himself. But he also can't afford to get into trouble with them . . . again .
"So, you're well-acquainted with our local poisonous plants?" Varian just asks what comes to mind first to divert from the ongoing gradually growing hazy in their back.
Lashanie nods, a timid smile playing on her lips. "Mm, a little. But not only about the dangerous ones; I've learned about all kinds of useful herbs. My grandma on my father's side, she was a herbalist, you know. When we moved here, she entrusted her herbarium to me. I read it from cover to cover loads of times."
"Ahh! I see! Monkshood has a soothing effect, right? So, your herbarium got an entry dedicated to it, huh?" Varian concludes.
"That's right. Monkshood can be used to soothe wound pain or even a bad cold. But it's risky—the potency of active ingredients fluctuates widely, depending on the habitat." Lashanie hunches her shoulders, adding in an apologetic tone, "You see, that is why I wasn't so sure about—"
"Wait a sec!" Varian interrupts with a twinkle in his wide eyes. "You mentioned earlier your family is visiting here right now. Is your grandma with them by any chance? She could help us if—"
Varian's words die away as Lashanie stops in her tracks and softly shakes her head, a deep pool of mournfulness reflecting in her eyes.
"No, she isn't here. My grandma, she passed away two years ago."
Varian's chin lowers to his chest knee-jerk, teeth badgering his bottom lip. Why did he shoot off his mouth like that? He should say something . . .
Just as the silence between them threatens to throw on a coat of awkwardness, Varian succeeds in pressing out, "Oh, I—I'm sorry."
With a gentle pat on Varian's shoulder—a touch almost as light as the stroke of a butterfly's wing—and a kind smile, Lashanie assures, "It's alright. I mean, even though I still miss her, I still have my memory of her. As long as I remember, she will always be with me."
Without his notice, Varian's lips mirror the smile gracing the girl's face. The idea of having a lost loved one with him by cherishing their memory . . . yes, he likes that.
Lashanie twinkles at Varian as though she had peeked right into his mind with those bright eyes. Prompting him to quickly avert his gaze. In spite of himself, Varian begins rubbing his neck—something his hands seem to do at their own will whenever he's nervous.
"You mind telling me which members of your family are visiting here then?" he asks, hoping to disguise this gratuitous feeling, even at the risk of putting his foot in it once more.
"Lashaaniie!"
A male voice—slightly tinged with just a touch of venom—thunders towards them, stretching the girl's name in the ugliest way imaginable, and the two finally perceive the stocky figure of the boy approaching them. He struts across the meadow, carelessly burying any tiny flower in his path underneath heavy steps.
Lashanie's smile dies down at this sight. Within the blink of an eye, she's ashen-faced; every muscle inside her seems suddenly frozen as she's standing still like an ice column. Leaving Varian to silently wonder why this someone drawing closer bears such an effect on her.
That boy, he doesn't look too formidable after all. He's quite a bit taller than her and has a larger frame than both of them, alright, but his clothes—picked to sport how well-heeled he must be—and the self-importance he emanates wearing them out in this hamlet rather give the impression of a pampered guy, someone who wouldn't get his hands dirty, someone who'd prefer to let others deal with them should he ever run into any troubles. A mummy's boy.
"Who's that?" Varian whispers before the guy's presence robs them of any chance to have a private exchange.
Lashanie tears her gaze away from the approaching figure. "Ben—he's my cousin. It's him and my aunt who are visiting here at the moment," she explains, struggling the words out as though invisible hands were closing around her neck.
Ben must have heard her, for he cracks a smile all of a sudden. Not a friendly smile, no—one that doesn't reach the eyes, one that rather bears the semblance of a wild animal baring its teeth. And yet, now that she's mentioned him being a relative of hers, Varian can see a scarce resemblance.
"What are you doing here?" Lashanie reluctantly flits her attention back to her cousin.
He comes to a stop right in front of her. Shaking his head, Ben spreads his arms widely—a gesture grossly overstated—as if to embrace the wispy girl.
The snarl, disguised as a smile, appears again. "Is it so hard to believe I was solely missing you?"
Lashanie's lips press together tightly; they become narrow rosy lines, sealed and refusing to let an answer pass them. Her eyes, however, speak volumes. 'I don't believe anything you say. And I know you're only here to humiliate me,' they seem to say.
A tense atmosphere is growing thicker between the two with each passing second.
Lastly, Ben lowers his arms, and the pretense smile drops from his face; it completely transforms into the snarl that had been shining through the fake surface all along.
"Mother sent me out to look for you; she wants you around this final day of our stay." He spits those words out like chunks of poisoned food, unable and unwilling to hide his resentment for her any longer.
Like a raptor reaching its talons for helpless prey, Ben claws at Lashanie's wrist while ordering, "That's why we're leaving. Now!"
"I'm not going with you!" She backs away before he can grab hold of her, arms firmly secured against her chest.
Giving it another brusque shot to seize her, her cousin glares daggers at Lashanie, hissing venomously, "Don't stretch my patience!"
"Hey, didn't you hear her?! She stays!" Varian suddenly erupts, his temper getting the better of him.
In the wake of that emotional short circuit, he yanks Lashanie closer to himself—having her almost bump into his chest—and further from Ben, whose hand grasps at nothing once more. Until then, the meanie chose to simply ignore Varian, but in response to this interference, Ben lowers his brows and glowers at him menacingly. Varian's nearly awaiting to hear loud growling any moment, and it dawns on him he perhaps just made a huge mistake . . . but now it's too late to row back. All he can do is not grant that bully the satisfaction of seeing him cower in fear; he puts forth an effort to hold the brute's gaze.
A crooked smile spreads across Ben's face while he scrutinizes the boy in front of him. "That him, the village leader's son?"
Lashanie gently disentangles herself from Varian's hold to face Ben with all courage her heart affords her access to—wishing it was lots, lots more. She isn't a bird of prey like him. No, she's a fledgling staring at a hungry predator, depleting a great share of that laughably limited courage already just to utter, "Leave him alone!"
Ben's left eyebrow raises slightly, his gaze still fixed on Varian. "So you actually did fraternize with him?! Oh, Lashie, you're so pathetic."
Inside Varian's mind, gear wheels jerk into motion at this remark, a process he refuses to let shine through. Feigning confidence, he brings his hands to his hips and grins. "What if I'm the village leader's son ?"
"Then you've caused enough trouble for your father and this village, and better butt out of this." Ben snorts contemptuously.
At the corners, Varian's grin starts to crumble. How does that guy— this stranger —know about him, about the things the village folk whisper behind his back?
A brief glance at the mirror of Varian's gaze suffices Lashanie to apprehend he's just been hit in a sore spot. She gingerly rests her hand on his shoulder, a comforting touch.
"Let's leave, Varian. We still need to find . . ." She lowers her voice, "You know what ."
"Yeah, let's. The day won't extend itself for us," he answers, still halfway engrossed in thought.
Ben's arms cross over his chest; he bristles, "Fine, Lashie; don't come with me then. Leave with your weird friend. And I'm gonna tell mother you disobey her."
Sniffing a chance to get back at Ben for his previous remark, Varian's judgment clouds. It's a bad idea to infuriate that guy; Varian should know. But he can't resist that urge.
Flippantly, he mimics Ben's pose and snorts, "You're running to tell your mommy? Now that's scary!"
Within a split second, Ben pounces at him, his face taut with anger. Varian's lifted a few inches into the air by a fistful of his collar stuck in Ben's iron grip, his dangling feet vainly searching for solid ground. For a heartbeat, he's completely taken aback.
Lashanie's heart leaps into her throat, pumping out a scream. Her nails dig into the sturdy fabric covering her cousin's arm, tearing at it desperately. "Let him go! Let him go, Ben!"
But her demand falls on deaf ears.
Ben's gaze bores through Varian. "You think you're funny, eh, buckteeth? Maybe a good licking will teach you!"
It wouldn't be his first time taking a beating; the hazy image of a blood-smeared milk tooth he spat onto the floor after getting into a fight with the Durand brothers crawls into the back of his mind. Despite knowing full well of the pain going along with a cracked lip, a bruised eye, or even a knocked-out tooth, Varian tries to uphold an unwavering semblance.
"I'm not scared of you!"
The grip on his collar tightens. A fist lifts in front of his face. The scream of a girl shrills in his ears. Varian squeezes his eyes shut.
And nothing happens.
Ben's knuckles almost touch the tip of Varian's nose, but instead of dealing him the punch, the clenched fist abruptly halts in its motion. As fast as Ben's rage came, it also subsides again; he relaxes his hold on Varian, whose feet finally reunite with the ground.
A nasty grin curves Ben's lips. "As if I'd get my hands dirty on you."
Under the force of a violent shove, Varian staggers backward, struggling to regain balance. Just before he falls to his hiney, Lashanie's hands catch and steady him.
"You are horrible!" She chides her cousin.
But he just laughs, loud and condescending, while turning to leave as if nothing's happened. "I'll see you later . . . Lashie ."
Varian and Lashanie watch Ben's burly figure shrink in the distance until he entirely disappears. The moment he's finally out of sight, Lashanie's hands gently cup Varian's paled, freckled face. Bright eyes solicitously inspect his skin for injuries.
"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"
He repeatedly shakes his head. "No. No, he didn't. I'm fine."
Relief takes over control of Lashanie's body; it leads her arms to engulf Varian in a hug. "Thank goodness! I am so, so sorry!"
"You've done nothing to apologize for. I shouldn't have—was I not supposed to stay out of it?"
Lashanie's mouth turns into a sheepish smile, worry still painted on her face. "Maybe you shouldn't have interfered, but it was very courageous of you to do so."
•●•●•
Before long, the two are on their way again, sincerely hoping they wouldn't run into any more trouble; the encounter with Ben sure did provide enough of that for one day, if not for an entire week.
All the way, Lashanie's hands twist the hem of her skirt while she keeps streaming jumbled sentences of apology together.
Finally, Varian asks, "Do you always do this?"
Wide eyes blink at him in confusion. "Do what?"
"Do you always apologize on Ben's behalf?"
A lick of embarrassment rises into Lashanie's face, slightly reddening her cheeks. She'd like to negate it, but that would make her a liar.
"He wasn't always like that, you know," she says instead. "When we were younger, we often used to play together when he came to visit. There was a time when he was my only friend."
Ben's attitude towards her today spoke of the exact opposite, and Varian's mind lacks the immense amount of imagination necessary to picture that guy as pleasant company. The thought forms words jostling on his tongue, and Varian intently suppresses them from slipping through. He needn't say anything, anyway—the expression imprinted on his face suffices.
"I know it's difficult to imagine; I sometimes find it hard to believe myself," Lashanie admits with a flimsy giggle.
Instinctively, Varian's hand begins to rub the red spot on his neck where his collar chafed against his skin. "Him being nice years ago doesn't make his actions today any better, if you ask me."
Sadness creeps into Lashanie's voice. "You're right, Varian. I know you're right."
A part of Varian feels sorry for her, while another simply can't understand why she'd even want to excuse the behavior of someone treating her like this.
He conciliatory squeezes her shoulder. "You know, you don't have to endure him being abusive silently. Why don't you tell your parents?"
Lashanie frantically shakes her head. "Abusive? No, no! No, he isn't abusive. He's just . . . he's got a—a weird kind of humor. Yeah."
Something resonates in the girl's voice that Varian can't quite determine, prompting him to wonder if she's trying to convince him or herself. What's easily fathomable, though, is that her excuses for his behavior also serve the purpose of sparing her from doing something about it.
"If you like, I can support you," Varian hears himself offering, and the absent objection from Lashanie—who merely blinks at him in silence—encourages him to add, "Yeah, I can go to your parents with you. I'll tell them what happened today and—"
"I can't tell them!" Lashanie cuts in.
She heaves a sigh; her gaze locks with Varian's. "What I mean is . . . I tried. Several times. They don't believe me. He's convinced everyone I'm just trying to cast a shadow on him."
Varian shakes his head incredulously. "You gotta be kidding!"
"I wish I was. Ben's a perfect actor; he manages to disguise even the worst taunts as harmless teasing. And my mother believes him." Lashanie's lungs release a bitter laugh. "Or maybe she just wants to believe him."
Anger begins to churn Varian's stomach. "This is—argh! What about your dad?"
Letting her gaze trail off into the distance, Lashanie shrugs her shoulders. "He believes my mother. And Ben's a lot more polite when Papa's around. But . . . he also doesn't want to make it any worse for my mom to deal with her family, I guess."
"You mean he doesn't want her to get into a fight with your aunt?" Varian deduces.
"Mm. Aunt Marie's husband is a wealthy aristocrat from Equis, and the family on my mother's side, well—they deem wealth and influence the highest value. Marie's got all that, so my mom would let her get away with pretty much everything just to stay in her favor."
"Your family is weird." The words just roll from Varian's tongue too quickly for him to even consider holding them back. His own bluntness renders him almost surprised, and his lips already form an apology when Lashanie's bell-like laugh rings out.
"Oh, they definitely are! But I love them. And I know my parents love me too."
A small chance to actually cheer up the girl manifests in the back of Varian's mind, and he gladly seizes it. "I suppose they love you; after all, they named you Lashanie ."
By way of a response, she just quizzically smiles at him. Her eyes seem to ask, 'What does my name have to do with that?'
"Your name, it means Gift of God ," Varian explains with a toothy grin.
Instantly, the soft rosy touch on Lashanie's cheeks intensifies, prompting a wave of satisfaction to well up inside Varian's chest and rush through his entire body—from his head, where it washes up an even brighter smile, to his feet which consent to carry him a little faster boosted by this tiny victory.
Effortlessly, Lashanie keeps up with his pace. Her arms folded behind her back, she slightly leans into his view.
"What about you?" She beams at Varian.
Cluelessly, he tilts his head to one side. "The meaning of my name?"
Prompting a sweet giggle to leave Lashanie's lungs. She shakes her head. "No; I mean, what is your family like?"
For a moment, Varian avoids her gaze, pondering if he actually wants to talk about his family to her, a practical stranger. On the other hand, she's just been incredibly open with him, granting a great leap of faith therein. Wouldn't it only be fair if he returned that trust?
Varian sighs. "Well, I only got my dad, and . . . you already know he's the leader of the village."
A curt nod from Lashanie encourages him to go on.
"That position comes with a lot of responsibility—he's doing his best to ensure a good life for everyone in Old Corona. And I am glad to have a father like him, really! But . . . but he's also swamped with work all the time. And while he keeps things ticking over, I'm by myself."
Guilt faintly stings Varian's chest for complaining, forcing out another deep sigh.
"I mean, he says he'll always be there when I need him, but I—I can't burden him with my problems, right? When my mom was still alive—" he abruptly stops.
Before, the words had just burst forth like a stream, but when it comes to his mother, they dry up in an instant. Even now that she's been gone for some years, it's still awfully difficult for Varian to talk about her.
Therefore, he's all the more thankful when, instead of trying to poke for more information, Lashanie just gently pats his back. Someday, the gaping wound his mother's death left inside his heart will heal, and Varian makes the silent promise to tell Lashanie about her once this day has come. But until then, he would keep her memory all to himself, cherishing it like a treasure.
•●•●•
At long last, Varian and Lashanie arrive at their destination; they finally set foot on the meadow by the brookside. Sheer rapture lights up the girl's eyes; her mouth stands agape—this place has no equal.
Sundry plants of all different sizes and colors make themselves comfortable here. Tall reeds nestle against the water's edge, gently cradled by a balmy breeze, and trees with tops as vast as the sky provide shade for droves of little flowers clustering by their gnarled, lichen-hugged roots while scattered bushes dress in vivid colors, competing against each other for the most beautiful foliage.
Lashanie could stare at this perfect beauty forever.
Walking past her, Varian beckons for her to follow him, interrupting her silent admiration. "Keep your eyes peeled, Lashanie."
•●•●•
The two meticulously scour the terrain, but even as the sky gradually tints into a rose color, they remain empty-handed. Varian didn't expect procuring a single plant to become such a toil to grapple with. Slowly accepting he'd have to leave with nothing to show, he rests his tired body on the floor, legs spread out on the soft grass. At least the scenic sunset makes for some sort of solatium and dampens the discouragement inching into his bones.
"Looks like we came here in vain," he points out to Lashanie.
She heaves a sigh, about to sit down by Varian's side. But suddenly, her body shoots back into a standing position, and with no further explanation, she darts over to one of the giant, old trees.
"Not in vain," she marvels, kneeling down by some tiny blue flowers, an entrancement gracing her face as though she just happened across a hidden treasure.
Her excitement piques Varian's curiosity, yet, his weary legs refuse to carry him anywhere that very moment. He cranes, quickly determining even from a distance; it can't be monkshood Lashanie's found.
She promptly confirms his deduction, gingerly feeling the tiny petals, "Look, it's Forget-Me-Nots. These were my grandma's very favorite."
"My mom loved them too . . ." Varian's lips produce as the soothing blue meets his eye.
Automatically, his mind orders the image of a beautiful woman from memory. She's arranging the delicate blue flowers on a windowsill while humming a little tune to herself.
"She once told me dad gave her a bouquet of Forget-Me-Nots when he asked her to marry him and that he chose them because they had the color of her eyes—that's why she loved them so much."
The pictures that well up inside him precipitate a wave of loss that lashes away at Varian mercilessly, wrenching his heart.
"You miss her a lot . . ." Lashanie recognizes the emotion reflecting in his eyes. She didn't mean to dredge up painful memories, didn't mean to make him sad.
A big lump has formed in Varian's throat, depriving him of any other response but a curt nod.
Lashanie's chewing her bottom lip, pensively staring at the flowers. Suddenly, her hands plunge into the moist dirt; methodically, her fingers expose the root resting inside the earth. A strand of hair strays into her line of vision, and—entirely engrossed in her little task—Lashanie carelessly brushes it back, smudging some soil onto her cheek.
Her endeavor smoothes Varian's frown away; his brows arch up. "What are you doing?"
Lashanie scoops up the Forget-Me-Nots, complete with their roots. Beaming like the morning sun, she presents them to Varian. "They were your mom's favorite, right? Let's plant them by your house—for her."
An inexplicable sense of familiarity grabs Varian's heart. A smiling girl handing him that kind of flower while a sunset burns in the sky . . . has he not been in that moment before? A faint image flares up inside his mind, but Varian fails to grasp it. As fast as it came, it fades again, slipping him by without leaving an answer.
"Lashanie!"
The loud voice of a man screaming the girl's name shatters the silence, snapping Varian out of his reverie. He hastily whirls around to find the owner of that voice.
His eyes widen. "Oh no!"
While Varian feels as if the ground tilts beneath him, Lashanie remains smiling just as sweetly. And before he even gets the chance to wonder, she chimes, "Papa!"
"Papa?" Varian's gaze swivels between that tall, grumpy man and the petite, gracious girl. "Ludwig—Ludwig is your dad?" he asks, desperately hoping she'd negate it.
"Why, yes."
Of course, he is. That's just Varian's luck . . . Soles must enjoy keeping him in hot water all the time.
The nervosity swaying in Varian's voice doesn't go missing to Lashanie, and when her father immediately flashes Varian an angry look as soon as he recognizes him, she's sure they must have had a rather unpleasant encounter before.
"Papa, that's Varian; he's—" she attempts to smooth the waters.
But Ludwig doesn't wait for her deliberations. "Yeah, I know who he is."
Varian jumps to his feet.
His stomach tightens, yet, he forces a friendly smile. "Ludwig, sir. Heh, it's—it's so nice to meet you again."
An unimpressed expression remains plastered on the tall man's face. He sighs, "Of all the people in this village, I had to find my girl with you."
Unease grabs hold of Varian, and he involuntarily begins shifting his weight from one leg to the other, lowering his head between his small shoulders.
Lashanie approaches them, carefully holding the little flower in her palms. Her brows crinkle from worry. "Is anything wrong?"
"No, nothing's wrong." Ludwig tenderly pats his daughter on the head. "Come on, Lashie—let's go home."
But his little girl refuses to move an inch. She stands rooted to the ground by her friend's side.
"What about Varian? We can't just leave him here!"
Ludwig suppresses a sigh. "Of course not. He can go with us; we'll see him home."
"Alright! Let's go, Varian." Lashanie's face is graced by a saccharine smile she gives Varian. But even that lovely smile can not relieve the feeling of nausea unfurling inside the boy.
As they quietly head back home, the sun going down behind them, Varian watches Lashanie from the corner of his eye. She's still carrying the flower for him, holding it gently like something ineffably precious.
She sure is something. She's full of kindness and compassion, but will a friendship with her be worth trying to change Ludwig's mind about him? Is it even possible for Varian to do that?
Varian's gaze resting upon her doesn't go unnoticed by Lashanie. She pays him a warm smile.
Yes, it would definitely be worth it. Now he will just have to find out if it's also possible.
. . .
