Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Normally, the road back home would pass by mindlessly. His brain would trip on a lesson from class learned earlier that day, or an addictive tune the intercom played at lunch. His mind would wander, occupied by nothing other than exploring the meandering paths that burst out like spring shoots from that singular thought.

The grass and trees and sidewalk remained unchanged by the sudden torrent yesterday, simply blinking away the dew that had collected on their outturned leaves. This left Scaramouche, frustratingly, with nothing else to focus on other than his own trepidation. What would he find when he returned home, he wondered?

It was the first time he would be seeing his mother in nearly five years. Yes, there were the video calls that were cut short — always by her, his brain helpfully supplied — and the random assortment of gifts that would sometimes show up at his door, as if she has woken up that day and remembered she had a son.

Yet, despite all his years of worry and anger and anxiety, he couldn’t help but want to see her again. He wanted to lay on her lap and tell her about his day and ask her about her day — “it’s just work as usual” she would laugh and say — and then she would brush aside the hair on his forehead with a hand and card her fingers through his hair, as if she were petting a little black cat she found by her rosebushes — and, and, and —

And anyways, wasn’t it time to stop such childish lines of thinking? She had made the terms of their relationship clear when she accepted that research position in Helsinki. Sure, she had pretended to be torn up by it, hemming and hawing for ages, but he understood the truth, even at such a young age. He could see it in her errant glances, in the initial hesitation whenever she hugged him.

His mother hated him.

Scaramouche wasn’t sure as to the circumstances of his birth, as his mother had always refused to talk about the subject. “Have you heard of Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom?” she demurred, smiling. “Her children sprung from her temple like wild horses, racing out into the world. Can you imagine how surprised I was when one day, I suddenly had a little child burst forth from my head?” 

…As if. Yet the comparison to Athena was not entirely untrue — his mother utterly devoted herself to her work. She had made countless advancements in her field, each one more impressive than the last. It was no surprise that she would suddenly be called away to Russia on an extended research trip. A very long trip, that paid very well, and that had to be accepted very quickly…

Just as he thought — he couldn’t help but hate and love her in equal terms. Even now, he stupidly craved her affection.

Scaramouche stared at the familiar door to his mother’s house. He had been standing outside of it for the past five minutes now. He held his breath, turned the doorknob, and walked in.

Even in stasis, his mother’s house breathed. Inhaling and exhaling, it performed its routine checks, autonomously adjusting its temperature, inspecting the water pressure in the pipes, turning the sprinklers in the garden on and off. A deep hum resonated throughout the house, a sound Scaramouche was all too familiar with. This confused him — his mother should have already been home, so the house’s startup routine shouldn’t have started just now… unless.

Heart in his mouth, Scaramouche leapt for the dining room table like a wild animal, where a singular note in white awaited him.

Dear Scaramouche,

There’s been an issue at work, and they need my help in resolving it. I’m very sorry to put off our long-awaited reunion, but would you mind waiting just a bit longer?

Best Wishes,

Ei

A little ways beyond the backyard of his mother’s house, past the lines and rows of neat, orderly homes, there was a lonely cliff on top of which a boulder older than time rested. All manner of interesting plants and flowers grew on all sides of said boulder, as if it had been blessed by a dryad. The the local flora surrounding the boulder had once been the subject of many a botanist’s research report, but none were able to explain exactly why there was a miracle localized to the fifty or so square feet surrounding this singular rock.

Though Scaramouche had never really held an interest in plants, he thought that the miracle extended far beyond the reaches of this bluff. The roses in his mother’s garden never wilted nor wanted for sunshine or rain, and bloomed ardently all season long. He’s pretty sure neighbor’s begonias had won some Who-The-Fuck-Care’s gardening award several years in a row, and stranger still, there was the matter of the radish seeds he had brought home from school one day sprouting overnight, pale white-pink flowers expanding, waving breezily before his eyes…

It was not the rock itself that Scaramouche had any interest in, but rather, the forest beyond it. Dark and old and beguiling, the Forest of Suma cradled the valley and town they lived in with roots that extended far deeper than anyone seemed to know. There was talk of cutting down swathes of it, to make room for new houses, new malls, new buildings, but everyone knew that talk was all it was. The forest felt strange and alive, like some massive organism that had existed long before the town of Suma had existed. It seemed childish to hold such superstitions in today’s day and age, but the people of Suma had always insisted on old, esoteric traditions that were only understood by the dead and gone. Who would want to risk cutting off the wing or horn or tail of a living, breathing god, and risk inviting its wrath?

It was in this forest that Scaramouche would hide. He left the house with nothing but a small backpack.

The dappled sunlight was inviting, and he had no qualms about walking the well-trodden path before him. It wouldn’t be long until creeping vines and opportunistic shrubs dotted the meager trails, marking his descent into uncharted territory.

Long ago, a team of cartographers ventured into the forest determined to explore every inch of it. They were astonished at the fact that this untouched verdure existed in the middle of suburban Suma, and talked excitedly, almost incredulously about the secrets they would surely discover. The people of Suma knew that the forest did not give up its treasures easily, but they demurred against warning them. For whatever god breathed life into the forest, it was surely a kind one. The explorers would learn, in time.

The cartographers met with a popular, national news station before beginning their expedition. They planned to be gone for ten days and ten nights. Once they published their findings, this initial survey would easily fund future ventures.

Five hours later, the team found themselves frustrated and at their wits’ end. No matter what they did, no matter which way they turned, they could not get past the initial clearing that the townspeople now dubbed “Explorer’s Folly.”

The expedition was a failure, and while hordes of curious tourists would continue to visit Suma for decades to come, the woods never gave up their secret.

Scaramouche glanced around the Folly. Its branching paths beckoned invitingly to him. Would any of them let him pass, or would he be forced to turn back in the same direction he came from?

It mattered little which road he took; if the forest wanted him here, it would lead him ever deeper.

He decided to choose the path on the right. If asked, he wouldn’t have said he had any reason for doing so. Both trails looked nearly identical.

He was pleased as the shadows grew ever so slightly longer, and the blades of grass grew to knee-high length. The air took on an intoxicating quality, rich with wild, spicy, floral fragrances. It seemed as though whatever spirit inhabited the land favored him, after all.

As he walked further and further, his traitorous mind began to wander in turn. Had he really brought enough water? He hadn’t. Did he bring enough food? Definitely not . What if the grasses and reeds grew so high that he drowned among — 

“Hi! Who are you?”

…What?

Scaramouche’s head snapped to the side so fast that he was surprised he didn’t twist anything. “Who are you?” he snapped, more out of reflex and shock than anything. He hadn’t even gotten a good look at the speaker yet.

Impossibly, a young girl in a frog-hat and a white and green dress smiled up at him from her seat on a log.

“Oh! I guess it’s only polite to introduce myself first, since I asked for your name. I’m Nahida!”

Scaramouche couldn’t care less about her name.

“That’s — I mean — what are you doing here?” the words tripped out of him, and he felt himself glow with embarrassment.

“I think it’s for the same reason you are…”

“You’re here to run away?” he blurted out. What was he doing? He hadn’t meant to say that at all!

The girl paused, head tilted sideways. She looked like a little bird — a little, suspicious bird. What kind of parent lets their kid wander around the Great Forest of Suma all alone? Maybe she was an evil spirit, a will-o-the-wisp meant to lead lost souls astray, frog hat and all.

“Er… not quite. I’m just here to play. Are you here to run away, then?” the girl’s eyes widened. They were a bright, viridescent green, the color of new buds poking through the soil.

“None of your business!” Scaramouche snapped. Who the hell comes to the Forest of Suma to play? Forget evil spirit, this girl was just plain stupid.

The forest opened itself up to her, though , his traitorous brain supplied. That means it wants her to be here, or doesn’t mind her being here.

The girl didn’t seem taken aback at all. “You were the one who told me you were here to run away,” she replied, matter-of-factly.

Scaramouche kicked a nearby rock, immediately regretting it. “Shut up! I’m leaving!” He knew that he was acting immature, but he didn’t care. Soon, nothing would matter — especially not this conversation with frog-hat gremlin. Why did he care that a child was out here, all by herself? If she found her way here, she could definitely find her way back. He had other business to take care of.

He marched forward, heading for the path at the far end of the clearing. “I’m leaving, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

There was a small tug at the back of his shirt. Great. “Who said anything about stopping you?” the girl said innocently.

“Stop following me, then!”

The girl laughed, annoying little giggles that only served to make Scaramouche even angrier. “We’re just going the same direction. Oh, watch out for that —!”

Scaramouche tripped over a vine that definitely wasn’t there before, falling flat on his face. He spat out a mouthful of dirt before pushing himself back up, determined to ditch the little brat — before immediately falling back down.

To his surprise, the girl didn’t laugh at all. Instead, she crouched down next to him, peering intently. “You twisted your ankle,” she said softly.

Wonderful. Now the weird frog-hat brat was a doctor. Still, if the shooting pain through his foot was any indication, she was probably right.

“That’s fantastic. As if I didn’t have enough problems,” he said bitterly. Frog girl was rummaging through his bag now, but he didn’t care. God, Scaramouche had no clue what children were thinking half the time. Maybe she was trying to steal all of his nonexistent snacks, now that he was incapacitated.

“Your backpack is kind of empty,” the girl piped up. “And by that, I mean there’s basically nothing in here.”

“Yeah. I know, because it’s my own bag.” Scaramouche turned his face towards the dirt. A change of clothes, a bottle of water, and a small knife. He had wanted to get out of that house as fast as possible, and didn’t really think about what he was bringing.

…Perhaps, that was ill-advised.

There was the sound of tearing fabric, and Scaramouche turned to see the girl ripping off the end of his favorite shirt. “What are you doing ?” he demanded. He was so surprised that this question, meant to convey his wrathful belligerence, instead ferried only a sense of deep bewilderment.

“I’m making a splint!” Frog-girl pulled two sturdy-looking tree branches over, and started winding the fabric around the branches and his leg.

Scaramouche groaned internally. She better not ask him to vouch for a girl scout badge after this. How mortifying — his grand escapade into the wilderness had ended 30 minutes after it started, and all he had for his trouble was a sprained ankle.

“Can you stand?”

What if he didn’t want to try?

He heard the sound of anxious shuffling next to him, of someone shifting their weight to one foot, and then the other. Maybe if he stayed like this, she would get impatient, and leave. More shuffling, a bottle cap being twisted open, and —

“Hey! Stop that!” Scaramouche spluttered underneath the sudden onslaught of cold water being poured onto his face.

“Oh, you’re up! Sorry about the water, but I think you fainted just now.”

“I did not faint!” That’s it . Scaramouche rose up, towering above frog-girl. He would scare her off and be done with it. “And if it weren’t for you following me, like I said not to, I wouldn’t have tripped on that vine anyways! This is all your —”

“Wait just a second! I think the splint isn’t secure enough.”

The girl crouched next to Scaramouche’s leg, adjusting the makeshift bandages there. To his astonishment, Scaramouche noticed that while the pain wasn’t quite gone, it had abated. He was even able to get up just now without much issue.

“I still wouldn’t put any pressure on it, but you should be good to walk back, at least. Which way did you come in from?”

“I — you —” Scaramouche was at a loss for words, torn between anger, confusion, and another emotion he couldn’t quite identify. “How do you know how to make a splint, but don’t know that you shouldn’t pour water on the face of someone who’s fainted?” he blustered. What was he saying ? Why was he dispensing first aid tips? Still, it was the only thing he could think of that weren’t inane, half-formed words.

“The book I’m reading hasn’t gotten to that part yet,” frog-girl replied easily. “Wilderness First Aid! My mom’s friend wrote it — it’s pretty informative!”

Again, what?

This was the strangest conversation that Scaramouche had ever been a part of. Maybe this girl really was a kappa, or some other forest spirit, unversed in the ways of dialogue. In some ways, that would actually be easier to believe than the idea that this brat, who liked playing in the Forest of Suma and reading medical books for fun actually existed and lived among what presumably must be modern society, if her clothes were anything to go by. Unless…

“You’re the Doctor’s daughter,” Scaramouche’s said harshly. It sounded like an accusation.

The girl winced. “No, the Doctor works with my mom,” she murmured.

What is she actually talking about , Scaramouche thought, annoyed. “Who cares what you call her! The famous doctor — Rootadevato — or something, you’re her daughter! That’s why you know so much weird stuff, and talk funny! That’s why you come out here to play!”

“Rukkhadevata,” the girl corrected, meeting his gaze. “And I don’t talk funny!”

“You do too talk funny,” Scaramouche snickered, watching the girl pout. Perhaps it was childish of him to get try and get under her skin, but he didn’t care — he had been on the back foot in this conversation for far too long.

Even Scaramouche, who did not particularly care about other people, knew about Dr. Rukkhadevata Buer. The Buer family was the most prominent family in Suma, their lineage dating back to the first settlers of the country. Rukkhadevata was a medical researcher, and an incredible one, if Ei’s glossy magazine covers were anything to go by. She had made international news for her breakthroughs in stem cell research.

Despite her achievements, Dr. Buer had not accepted any invitations to to study at any famous laboratories or work for any well-funded studies — she preferred life in the town of Suma, and opted to instead to perform all of her incredible projects at their town’s now-sizeable hospital and laboratory clinic. Though her schedule must have been hellishly busy, Rukkhadevata still made a point to staff her little clinic every Sunday, where she would see the sick and injured citizens of the town.

Scaramouche had met her once, but only in passing. His only impression was that Rukkhadevata must be hiding some terrible secret, because surely no one could be that gracious and caring.

Medicine was simply in the Buer family’s genealogy — he vaguely recalled some comments that Rukkhadevata’s mother, and grandmother had also been widely respected, established professionals in their own fields, and that Dr. Buer had a young, brilliant daughter with some most peculiar mannerisms…

Scaramouche felt a familiar emotion rise in him. What was it like to have a genius mother, who also loved her children?

He couldn’t stay here. This was a disaster, and even he could now begrudgingly admit that he wasn’t well-equipped to have ventured out today. Furthermore, with his twisted ankle, he could put off all thoughts of running away, at least for the next couple of weeks.

Scaramouche grabbed his backpack, suppressing a wince as he did so. “I’m leaving now,” he spat with as much venom as he could muster. “Do not, for the love of God, follow me. Leave me alone, if you know what’s best for you.”

Chapter Text

After Scaramouche crawled up the miserable steps carved into the mountainside, after he trudged back to his mother’s house on the tar-slick streets awash in the orange glow of the setting sun, after he stumbled up the stairs and into his room in a haze of humiliation and fury did he take notice of his ankle, which had swollen to three times its usual size and now appeared to be pulsating slightly.

He gave it a tentative poke, and regretted it immediately as his entire frame of vision shifted sideways, and — oh. He was lying on his side, curled into a near fetal position.

This was bad.

Frog-girl’s laughable splint had long since fallen off, though it had lasted impressively long, given the fact that it was comprised entirely of twigs and cheap cloth. Still, Scaramouche had to admit that were it not for the splint, he probably would have collapsed in some wretched heap on the endless road back to civilization.

He couldn’t tell whether the tightness in his chest and the twin pricks at the corners of his eyes were from the pain of his ankle, or from the fact that after everything, he was still in this house, waiting for someone who would never come.

“Fuck,” he swore, much less forcefully than he would’ve liked. It was difficult to talk when your lungs felt like they were being crushed. “Fuck!”

What had he even accomplished today, beyond breaking his ankle and walking ten miles on it? No — what had he even been trying to do? Escape into the Forest of Suma — and, and — what? Build a little shelter out of sticks and scrounge around for food like a squirrell? Live off foraged berries and nuts? He didn’t have a plan at all, didn’t bring enough food or water or anything , and yet still this predictable outcome to his ill-fated expedition had reduced him to tears, sobbing childishly on the floor of a bedroom he had never once felt at rest in.

Humans are a communal species, and though crying was often involuntary, they evolved to produce tears to let others know when they were in pain . It was a message comprised not of words, but of raw emotion. I’m hurting. Please, come help me.

What does that mean, then, for those who cry alone? Not that Scaramouche wanted anyone to hear him — if they did, no doubt his tears would turn into vicious words and projectiles — but if crying was simply a manipulatory tactic, born of evolution, designed to sway others to your aid, then why couldn’t he stop? There was no one around to hear him, no one who could help, and yet this knowledge did not stem his misery.

The sunlight had long since faded, and the moon turned in the sky, restless. Fireflies dipped and weaved throughout the evening air, and a gentle breeze slipped through the open window and set the curtains aflutter.

Eventually, Scaramouche’s tears would dry, and the boy would fall into a fitful slumber at the foot of his bed. For now, his ragged, angry sobs continued to echo throughout the lonely house. There are certain things that only the light of a new day can strip away, and for those who suffer throughout the night, their only respite is to sleep, and dream of a kinder tomorrow.

That night, Scaramouche dreamed of the annoying frog-girl. She was sitting at the bottom of a well, and he was looking from up on high at her. He had a fistful of stones in his pocket, and was throwing them, delighting as she darted from side to side in the cramped space.

Scaramouche was aghast — this was a remarkably mean-spirited dream. Though he most certainly did not want to see frog-girl again, it wasn’t as if he would throw rocks at her. He watched on in disbelief as his dream-self continued chucking the stones, and when one of them finally hit the little frog, a wavery voice rose up from the bottom of the well.

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

…That was an unusual thing to say. He certainly wasn’t the one hurt. Scaramouche peered into the well — and reeled backwards in shock. The little rocks he had been throwing were actually pieces of himself! He saw two gray-blue eyeballs turn to blink up at him, and choked back a retch. The dream shifted, and he found himself at the bottom of the well, with frog-girl looking down at him from its mouth.

“Scaramouche,” she said urgently. “You have to get out of there!”

No shit, he wanted to fire back. There was a tremendous shaking all around him, and little bits of dust and earth fell from all sides onto him. 

Thud, thud, thud…

The shaking wasn’t the result of some random earthquake — it was rhythmic, the steps of an impossibly large monster approaching. The trepidation in his heart only worsened with each footstep…

Thud, thud, thud .

“...That’s it. We’re coming in!”

Scaramouche woke with a start, and realized three things all at once. The first — he was no longer a frog in a well, and he had not just stoned a little frog-girl hybrid. The second — his ankle was killing him. Somehow, it felt even worse than after he’d just finished walking ten miles on it. The area surrounding the fracture had turned nauseating shades of green, black, and brown, and Scaramouche quickly turned his head to avoid looking at it any longer. The third — someone else was inside his house.

He was in no position to run, or even hide, and his phone was completely dead. He had dragged himself into a sitting position when, to his utter shock and horror, frog-girl burst into the room. She was accompanied by a man he didn’t know, who was carrying a medical kit.

“What are you doing here?” he yelped. “What — how —”

“Surprise!” frog-girl chirped, as if he hadn’t just chased her off yesterday. “I wanted to come check in on you!”

What the hell? He didn’t even want to bother replying to that . He didn’t have the energy to be angry right now. Scaramouche absently noted that frog-girl was wearing the same uniform from his school, albeit a much smaller version of it.

“Apologies for the disturbance,” the other man said brusquely, though not unkindly. He knelt down next to Scaramouche, and was now examining his ankle. “My name is Tighnari. I’m a field medic.”

There was no way news of this wouldn’t get back to his mother.

“I don’t need any help right now,” Scaramouche snapped. “And you two are trespassing. How did you even get in?”

Frog-girl and Tighnari exchanged a quick look with each other. The girl opened her mouth, no doubt about to say something inane, but Tighnari was faster.

“That ankle needs to be looked at,” Tighnari’s voice was stern, and left no room for compromise. “I can either treat it here, or I can call an ambulance.”

Scaramouche felt a familiar, almost comforting anger rise in him. How dare this stranger barge into his house and demand things of him? He was didn’t want to see anyone right now, no thank you, he would need at least one or two weeks or maybe forever before he could even entertain the thought of looking at another person, and he wanted these intruders out right now —

The world flashed white and black as he tipped sideways for the third time within the past day. What — oh. He had tried standing up, and of fucking course, he couldn’t put any weight on his feet right now. Fire lanced through his foot and up his spine.

“Got you!” He barely registered the feeling of two skinny arms catching him, even as they immediately began to buckle under his weight. “Um, Tighnari?”

The world took on a distinctly horizontal quality. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to the side, not wanting them to see the few tears that had escaped. Angry and hot, they trailed down the side of his face before disappearing.

“Nahida, I think we should really call an ambulance…”

“No!” the scream that crawled out from his throat was entirely instinctual. “I’m not going to the hospital! Just, just treat me here. Do whatever,” he said bitterly.

Scaramouche could no longer deny that his ankle desperately needed medical attention. If he went to a hospital, then Ei would definitely hear about it. They were required by law to contact his guardian, or some shit. At least if Whonari treated him here, he might able to keep their mouths shut.

There was the sound of a quiet, resigned sigh. “Alright, then. Nahida, can you get the gauze from my medkit?” He felt his leg being gently propped up. “I’m going to wrap your ankle now. Try not to move around too much.” Don’t worry, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He felt utterly exhausted — his sleep had been fitful, no doubt thanks to that ludicrous dream, and more than that, he was simply just too tired.

A soft hand in his, and quick, light breaths close to his face. It smelled like mint. In spite of himself, he cracked an eye open, and almost immediately regretted it. “What’re you doing now,” he growled.

“I was checking to see if you were still breathing,” frog-girl said gravely.

“Still alive,” Scaramouche grumbled. He still wasn’t sure how she got in. Or knew where he lived, for that matter. He was sure she hadn’t been following him yesterday.

Frog-girl squeezed the side of his hand. “Sorry for coming in uninvited. I was worried about you.”

“How did you even know where I lived?”

What sounded like suspiciously guilty shuffling. “I… may have taken a peek at the school’s records.”

Well. That was certainly a violation of privacy, though Scaramouche was too tired to be properly angry right now. “And who’s the other guy?”

Nahida perked up. “Mr. Tighnari! He works with my mom. Don’t worry, he’s very smart,” she assured him. “He can be a little scary sometimes, though.”

“What are you two whispering about?” The Mr. Tighnari in question peered at them suspiciously. “I heard my name.”

“I was just telling him what a good job you were doing!” Nahida chirped innocently.

Scaramouche stifled a snort.

“Right. Well, we’re done here,” Tighnari replied, only sounding the slightest bit exasperated. “Remember to keep that leg elevated, and do not walk around on it. I’m surprised you even made it that far yesterday. If you continue to do so, then I can’t promise if you’ll have full use of your ankle anymore, even after it fully recovers.” He paused to give Scaramouche a stern look. “And there absolutely will be hospitals involved, in that case.”

Wait, was that all?

“Ice your leg every now and then, and I’ll be back every two weeks to check up on it.”

“Aren’t — aren’t you going to ask my guardian to sign any forms, or send me a bill, or, or, anything like that?” Scaramouche blurted out, disbelief coloring the edges of his question.

Tighnari narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to the side. Scaramouche blinked, suddenly unsure. He tried to avoid interacting with adults — and most other people, for that matter — and wasn’t certain of what to expect. He felt a little bit like a trapped insect, and resisted the urge to scowl at the man.

Tighnari’s eyes softened. “No. I don’t think that’s necessary. Unless, you do?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“As if —”

“He means thank you!” Nahida cut in. “Thank you so much for coming, Tighnari. Did you have to miss any meetings for this?”

Tighnari gave a barking sort of laugh. It wasn’t what Scaramouche expected given the man’s seemingly no-nonsense demeanor, though he also wasn’t sure what he did expect. “Most meetings are a waste of time anyways,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Besides, I was very concerned when you told me that we needed to — ah, what was it? ‘Check in on the welfare of a child.’”

“Ahaha…”

The older man turned to face Scaramouche. “As for you — I won’t ask what your home situation is, and I don’t think you would tell me, either way. If you need any help though, I left my number on your desk.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

Scaramouche saw Tighnari raise an eyebrow, though it looked like he was smiling slightly. “You’re welcome then. I guess. I hope your recovery is smooth — though it definitely will be, if I’m the one helping you out.”

Who knew that Rukkhadevata had such eccentric coworkers? Suddenly, there was a shrill beeping, and Tighnari cursed, fishing a small device out of his pocket. “I have to go now — remember what I told you about your leg!” he added sternly. “And, Nahida — get back to school soon!”

Tighnari left as quickly as he came, leaving Scaramouche and Nahida alone. He eyed her, and she blinked innocently back, making no move to leave.

“Why are you still here?” he asked pleasantly.

“That’s just what I wanted to talk about,” she replied, beaming.

Oh, great.

“Yesterday… was that your first time in the Forest of Suma?”

This was an unexpected line of questioning. “No, it wasn’t. Yesterday was the first time I ventured so far in, though.”

Nahida’s eyes sparkled. “I see! It’s rare that I meet others that are able to reach the outer sanctum, actually. How do you feel about becoming my personal assistant?”

“No.”

“But it’ll be super fun! The vast majority of the Forest of Suma is unexplored. Meeting you yesterday was fate,” she said solemnly. “Researchers and historians have tried to uncover its secrets, but none have succeeded.”

“Even if I wanted to be your ‘personal assistant,’ what the hell are two kids going to do?”

“Both of us can enter the forest unimpeded,” she beamed. “I’m not sure how or why, but I’ve always been able to. There’s only so much I can do by myself, though... Ah — and this would be after your ankle is fully recovered, of course. And until then, I’ll help you out around here!”

“Help? I don’t need any help,” Scaramouche scoffed.

“Really?” she shot back. “How are you going to get around, then? You won’t be able to go to the grocery store, or make meals for yourself, or pick up any schoolwork. I can do all of that, and more! Don’t worry, I’m very capable.”

That… was actually a decent point. Scaramouche paused, biting back a snarky response. Frustratingly, she was completely right. He could barely totter across the room in his present state, and if his grades began to slip, then Ei… he shook his head. Best not to go there now.

“How can you even do all of that? You’re like, five,” he accused.

“I’m eight!”

“Oh my god,” Scaramouche buried his face in his hands. Great. He was being strong-armed into employment by an eight-year-old. An eight-year-old that would be responsible for taking care of him for the next two months.

“Is that a yes?”

“No! I mean, maybe? I guess I don’t have any other choice.”

Nahida grabbed his hand, smiling brightly. “Yes! You’ll be the best assistant ever. I’ll bring all my research materials over tomorrow! And your homework! And some other things!”

It wasn’t even lunch yet, and the day was already going so poorly. “Great,” he grumbled. He desperately needed some time alone to think, and possibly a nap. “Now, can you leave?”

The sun hung low in the sky when Scaramouche woke next, surrounded by a pile of books. He poured himself some water from the pitcher Nahida had filled and placed on his nightstand, and looked blearily at his phone. His ankle still throbbed, but not nearly as much as before, thank god. It was wrapped in mounds of gauze and cotton, and lay resting, elevated, on a pile of stuffed animals and pillows. Nahida had insisted on bringing all her crap over.

“Your room is kind of empty,” she remarked, matter-of-factly. “I’ll bring all my stuff here! Don’t worry, I’ll be quick.” She was gone before he even started to get angry. He watched her peddle off on her little green bike from his window, thinking uncharitable thoughts all the while.

Compared to the liveliness of this morning, the house seemed even emptier than it usually did. Scaramouche stared at his ceiling, carving the familiar stucco designs into his mind. Could he really survive like this, for the next whoever-knows-how-long? He disliked being in Ei’s house even on good days, rare as they were. The only thing worse than the oppressive silence was the way that what did noise he did make echoed throughout the building, bouncing off the untouched surfaces and pristine counters where nary a dust mite even dared to rest.

This house was little more than a mausoleum, and now it even had a corpse to hold.

Well, maybe not yet, Scaramouche thought wryly, glancing at the clock. It was almost evening, and Nahida had promised to visit, despite his remonstrances. He wondered if it was too late to back out of their deal. He loathed having to accept her help, yet still found himself staring at the clock, willing time to go faster.

Tick tock, tick tock, the clock said in response.

At least, with her around, his mother’s house wasn’t as empty.

Chapter Text

“Go fish!” Nahida crowed, waving a checkered card high above her head.

“You don’t have to do that every time you say ‘go fish,’ you know,” Scaramouche groused, adding another card to his rapidly expanding hand. Despite his best efforts, Nahida was only one set away from certain victory.

“Don’t lie to me — is this really your first time playing Go Fish?” he asked skeptically. He had audibly groaned when the girl pulled out a deck of playing cards, and repressed a snarky remark when she asked him if he wanted to play Memory, of all things. He didn’t know very many card games himself, but he would much rather play Go Fish instead of the weirdly archaic games that Nahida only seemed to know.

“Of course!”

“Sure,” he grumbled. Either way, this was a losing battle. Nahida was either incredibly lucky, or had an uncanny ability at knowing which cards he had in his hand. “How did we even get started with this? Weren’t you supposed to show me your so-called research materials, or whatever?”

It had been two weeks since Scaramouche begrudgingly accepted Nahida’s help, and the two had fallen into a surprisingly simple routine. With Tighnari’s help, they moved Scaramouche’s bed downstairs to the living room. To his surprise, he found it more pleasant than being in his own bedroom. The natural sunlight and open space made Ei’s house seem a lot larger than he remembered it being. He would often spend afternoons staring outside into the garden, which was as disgustingly manicured as he remembered, but the vast array of visitors that the garden received were always changing. Birds, butterflies, bees… Thanks to Nahida, Scaramouche could now even identify several species. Common blue, laughing dove, rock bunting…

On weekends, Nahida returned from the grocery store with fresh, leafy greens, seasonal fruits, and dense, grain studded loaves of bread. Scaramouche had told her, on more than one occasion that she didn’t need to cook for him and he was perfectly capable of heating up some ready-made meals by himself. They had gotten Scaramouche a pair of crutches, so he wasn’t completely useless anymore, and could totter around the house for short periods of time.

Nahida had simply said that eating minimally processed foods were essential to getting the proper nutrients, and good nutrition was the root of all health. Besides, she seemed to like cooking, and especially her own cooking, given by the way she ate all of her meals with Scaramouche.

For breakfast, Nahida would come before school and prepare something simple for the two of them. Her go-tos were a type of dark, nutty roll with jam and butter, eggs poached in a tomato sauce served with crusty bread, and flatbread topped with various types of herbs and cheese.

“Charcoal Ajilenakh Cakes, Shakshuka, and Manakish,” she declared happily. Scaramouche had never tried, or even heard of any of these before, but found the flavor to be remarkably agreeable. He had never been particularly picky, but that had been because he had never really cared about what he was eating before. Anything quick and easy would do. In the past, he would place a bulk order for freezer meals once a month at the grocery store, and pick them up all at once.

“Homegrown tomatoes are the best. Aside from their superior flavor, they’re also softer, and incorporate more easily into stews and dips,” Nahida once said. “I don’t have any right now, but these heirloom tomatoes should work just fine. Can you taste the difference between these, and the plum tomatoes I used last time?”

After school, Nahida would bring over Scaramouche’s coursework, and read a book as he completed it. He did not particularly care much about his grades, but still took care to maintain them.

When Scaramouche was younger, he heard a classmate bragging about how her parents took her out for ice cream after she won their district spelling bee. Her friends chimed in with similar anecdotes, and he felt an odd pang in his heart, though at the time, he had yet to understand why. Scaramouche had never particularly enjoyed desserts, but he knew that his mother adored them. He wondered if Ei could take him to her favorite sweets shop if he scored well on the end-of-term exams…

When he graduated — if, a malicious voice whispered — he would use all of this, and more, as leverage to fly far, far away.

For some odd reason, Nahida seemed to never have any homework of her own. Did eight-year-olds even get assigned any? But she had to have been taking advanced classes, or something. Nahida seemed to be freakishly smart, after all. As expected of Rukkhadevata’s daughter. Maybe she just finishes it at school.

“Can I see what you’re working on?” Nahida asked one day, unprompted.

His reply was sarcastic. “Why? Are you going to check it over for mistakes?”

“I’m just curious.”

Regardless, Scaramouche had not shown her his worksheets, and Nahida did not ask again. He turned this conversation over in his head, confused about why it seemed to bother him. Nahida said odd things all the time. Perhaps it was the flash of something that he saw in her eye for a split second, or the fact that she had only asked once, and never again. If there was one thing he knew about Nahida, it was that she was annoyingly persistent.

Despite being around each other so often, Scaramouche still felt like the younger girl was a complete mystery to him in many ways.

Aside from these rare occurrences, however, things were going almost suspiciously well. What exactly was Nahida getting out of this arrangement, he wondered? Yes, he had promised to be her assistant, but that simply meant all she had to do was keep him alive until then. Surely she had friends to hang out with, and a family to get back to. Her mother’s probably wondering why she comes here all the time, a mocking voice whispered. Scaramouche ignored it.

“Ah — an associate of mine said he wanted to borrow my research journals, and he hasn’t returned them to me yet…”

“An associate? How do you have associates at your age? Just call him a friend or whatever, like a normal kid,” Scaramouche commanded.

“Ugh… well, he said he’s returning them to me next week!” Nahida retorted. These outbursts of emotion were rare for her, and Scaramouche was childishly pleased whenever he managed to provoke one. Kids that acted like adults were a little bit creepy, if he was being honest. “Anyways… I’m really excited to show them to you, though! I worked super hard on them,” she beamed at Scaramouche, who fought back a scowl.

The twee-twees of cicadas resonated throughout the house as the game continued, and to no one’s surprise, Nahida claimed a crushing victory.

“Alright! Time to start prepping for dinner,” she said casually.

On the first day of their new arrangement, Scaramouche had all but shoved Nahida out the door after she dropped off the groceries. “Thanks! See you tomorrow!” he yelled very loudly.

“Wait! I still need to cut up the vegetables, and make tonight’s dinner!”

“You’re cooking? ” Scaramouche asked, incredulous. “I told you, I don’t need any of that garba — !” He cut himself off as he rifled through the bags, noting furiously that he did not see any of the freezer meals he had requested in them.

“Nahida,” he said pleasantly. “Thank you very much for getting the groceries.”

“You’re welcome — !”

“Ah-ah, I’m not done speaking yet! It has come to my attention that the contents of these bags contain what appears to be rabbit food,” he said nastily.

“Ahaha… well… I couldn’t reach any of the meals you wanted in the freezer aisle!”

“Yeah, right!” Scaramouche yanked the door open, watching a very sheepish looking Nahida shuffle from side to side.

“Come on in, then,” he sighed, aggrieved. “But just for today!”

The meal was excellent — soft potato and cheese balls simmered in flavorful curry, served with garlic naan for dipping. “Masala cheese balls, or paneer kofta!” Nahida said proudly. It felt oddly ridiculous to berate someone who was cooking for him, and so if Nahida made no move to leave after dropping off his homework the day after that, then Scaramouche did not chase her off.

As it turns out, heirloom tomatoes have a bright, complex flavor, the perfect balance between sweet and acidic. They can be sliced and eaten raw with a sprinkle of salt, or used in a variety of dishes. Plum tomatoes taste milder by comparison, and are perfect for roasting in the oven.

“Do you need any help with tonight’s dinner? I feel a bit awkward standing by while watching you work.”

“Don’t worry about it! Just focus on getting better, okay? You still can’t stand for long periods yet.”

“I know,” Scaramouche replied slowly, trying to keep his temper under control. He hated it when Nahida treated him like a child — it was ridiculous, and furthermore, she was a literal eight-year-old. “Quit treating me like an invalid. I can sit down while chopping vegetables.”

“Ah, okay!” Nahida replied with a small start. Scaramouche felt slightly guilty, but immediately stamped it down. He had warmed up considerably to Nahida since their first ill-fated meeting, but his old irritation would still flare up whenever he felt like she was infantilizing him.

There was an awkward silence as he quietly chopped the onions and potatoes they’d need for tonight’s dinner, until Nahida suddenly piped up. “Scara, do you know any stories?”

“Don’t call me Scara,” he retorted, but continued before Nahida could reply. “Of course I do — just not many, though. Why are you asking?”

There was a slight pause, and Scaramouche was just about to tell her to spit out whatever she was thinking before Nahida spoke up again. “You’ve seen me read a lot of books. I enjoy experiencing the world through the eyes of others, and getting lost among distant, vibrant landscapes, fictional or not. Everything I’ve read has been published and recorded in text, though.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Do you know any spoken stories, Scaramouche? It can be from anywhere — an urban legend, a folktale, a bedtime story… I’m just curious about what sorts of differences there might be between stories that are passed around orally between other people, as opposed to stories that are typeset and published as books.”

… Did he know any spoken stories? It’s not as if he really spoke to anyone, aside from Nahida. Before the accident, he exchanged pleasantries with classmates and teachers out of necessity, but mostly kept to himself aside from those brief, surface-level conversations.

He reached back further, into a thorny web of memories. He had to step carefully here, or else he’d get pricked.

“I know one.”

“Would you mind telling it to me?”

Surprisingly, he did not. “This was a bedtime story that someone once recited to me.”

“There was once a beautiful girl named Sayo who lived in a very poor village. The village had been plagued by droughts all summer long, and their harvest was middling. They couldn’t afford to both feed themselves and pay their tithes to the daimyō.”

“One day, Sayo encountered a little fox on the side of the road, exhausted from heatstroke. She gave it some water, and slowly nursed it back to health over the next couple of weeks. Meanwhile, the drought was getting worse, and the villagers were getting desperate.”

“The villagers sought the help of a foreign merchant, who told them that he could summon the rains and bring bountiful harvests. The only thing he wanted in return was to take Sayo as his bride. The villagers agreed, and that night, Sayo was to be wed to the merchant.”

“Sayo did not want to marry the merchant, but she had no choice. Suddenly, the little fox spoke. He thanked her for taking care of him, and said that he could take her far away from her village and the merchant. All she needed to do was give the word, and grab onto his tail.”

“Sayo agreed, and the fox grew to ten times his size. Together, they ran, faster than any arrow, across valleys and rivers, forests and plains. They searched far and wide for the biggest rainclouds, and brought them back to her village.”

“When they returned, however, they found Sayo’s village reduced to cinders. The merchant, angered by Sayo’s disappearance, burned the villagers and bamboo huts to ashes, and salted the rice paddies that they had worked so hard to maintain.”

“The fox leapt at the merchant, and the three of them battled for five days and five nights. By the end, the fox and the merchant lay dead, and Sayo disappeared, her fate left unknown.”

Scaramouche paused — this was the end of the story, but was that really it? He must have been remembering something incorrectly. What a terrible bedtime story… “I think that’s it. This story is quite depressing, though sometimes they’re just like that.”

He looked towards the ceiling, trying to recall if there were any details that he missed. He didn’t think so — plenty of tales from this era were similar to the one he just told. Admittedly, they may not have been the most inspiring sagas, but perhaps the tragedies they depicted brought some measure of comfort to the listeners. There were plenty of real, historical accounts of travelers leaving their hometown for some reason or another, and coming back to see it completely decimated by forces beyond their control.

“Anyways, I hope that answered your question.” Scaramouche glanced over at Nahida, only to be taken aback when he realized that her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

That’s strange. I know for a fact she’s read sadder tales than this. He was about to tell her to snap out of it, before he stopped himself.

What are you supposed to do, when you see someone crying?

Scaramouche didn’t know. If it were him he’d simply want to be left alone. See him crying? No, you didn’t. Don’t ask, and don’t tell. What was he even supposed to say to her, anyways? Telling her to shape up likely wouldn’t do any good, and might even make her cry more. There was no way he could deal with something like that.

Thoughts in turmoil, he continued chopping the potatoes, and quietly let her know that they were done before retiring to the living room.

“Dinner’s done!” Nahida’s voice didn’t waver at all when she exclaimed that their meal was ready, and Scaramouche was glad for it. He snuck a quick peek at her face, and was relieved to see that she appeared to be feeling better.

“What did you make this time?”

“Samosas!” This was another dish that Scaramouche had never tried before, but much like the others, he found it enjoyable. The potatoes had been mashed into a creamy consistency, and provided a nice textural contrast to the crispy outer shell of the samosas. Whatever blend of spices Nahida had used was also incredible — savory, earthy, and a little bit spicy. “How are they?”

“Good as usual.”

“That’s good to hear. I ate these a lot growing up. What are some of your favorite foods, Scaramouche? The dishes I’ve made so far are those that I’m familiar with, but I also want to try making things that you like.”

“These are good enough, Nahida. Don’t bother yourself with extra work.”

“Tell me! I want to know!”

Scaramouche sighed. If he didn’t tell her, she was sure to pester him until he did. “I like ochazuke with salmon, I suppose. I’m partial to most fish, actually.”

“Oh… really? Um… what your other favorite types of food?”

“Wow,” Scaramouche drawled. “I see how it is.”

Their conversation continued amicably until suddenly, there was a series of loud knocks from the door. Nahida flinched, surprised. He frowned — he wasn’t expecting any visitors. Tighnari wasn’t due back for another two weeks. And Ei? Definitely not, if her radio silence was any indication.

“I’ll go get it!” Nahida opened the door, and a man with a white and black suit stepped inside. He had ice blue hair, and a smile that seemed to show altogether far too many teeth.

“Ah!” Scaramouche had never heard Nahida sound so… scared, before? Surely, that couldn’t be right. That girl did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. Yet there was a note of recognition in her voice. Did she know this clown?

“Hello. Who might you be,” he kept his voice purposefully disinterested, devoid of any inflection.

“Greetings. My name is Dottore,” the man suddenly lurched into a deep bow. Scaramouche narrowed his eyes — something about the way he moved felt deeply unnatural, like he was being jerked around on puppet strings. Also, why was he bowing? What century was he from? “So this is where you’ve been running off too, little chickadee. Your mother and I have been very concerned,” Dottore clucked in disapproval.

“I left a note.” Nahida’s voice was so quiet that Scaramouche had to strain to hear her. “How did you find me?”

If Dottore heard the question, he simply ignored it. “And who are you?” he asked jauntily, striding over to the dining room.

“Scaramouche. What are you doing in my house?” It was difficult to look up at the other man when he was speaking, tall as he was. His boots had mud on them for some weird reason, and he hadn’t bothered to wipe his feet before coming in.

“Just here to collect a lost little bird,” Dottore replied, giving him a quick once-over. His gaze lingered on his cast, and Scaramouche fought the urge to squirm in his seat. He had the feeling Dottore could see right through him, and being the target of his attention felt oddly repulsive.

“If Nahida shows up again, would you mind calling the number on this card?” He reluctantly took the sleek business card that the other man held out. It was strangely thick, and was printed on what felt like high-quality cardstock. The card was completely black and white, save for the ice-blue lettering of a phone number.

“...Sure.” Scaramouche planned on throwing the card away the second the man left, and he got the sense that Dottore knew it. If possible, the other man grinned even more widely. “We’re in the middle of our dinner. It was nice meeting you.” A clear dismissal.

Scaramouche’s eyes flicked to the door, where Nahida was standing completely straight. Her eyes were wide, and she hadn’t moved from her spot since opening the door.

Dottore laughed, and clapped his hands. “I’m afraid that won’t do, Scaramouche. Dr. Buer has requested Nahida’s presence posthaste. We’ll bid you adieu here. Come along now, girl,” he motioned to Nahida, who followed him mutely, hands clutching the front of her skirt. Dottore did not look back as he left, nor did he bother to close the door.

The cries of the cicadas were deafening. Scaramouche sat at the dinner table, watching as steam curled up from the dishes and dissipated, again and again until eventually the food had completely coolled. He saw a flash of dull green from a corner of the living room, and realized that Nahida hadn’t even taken her backpack with her.

Chapter Text

Winters were typically mild in the city of Sumer, and it was a rare year that temperatures dipped low enough for snowflakes to form. On such occasions, the city’s infrastructure would completely shut down, seemingly paralyzed by the scant flurries. Schools would close for the day, offices told their employees to work remotely, and storefronts boarded up shop early, if they even opened at all. The city of Sumer would stand silent and still, as its citizens tided out the cold weather in their cozy homes.

On such a day, a young boy in a white coat with red trim ventured outside. He watched as his breath expanded upwards and outwards in ghostly puffs of air, and marveled at the little crunching noises he created with every step he took. The path behind him was clearly marked by twin sets of footsteps, gray and black indentations in the vast field of white. Ahead, his friend waved to him from atop a hill.

“Hurry up!” his friend laughed. “It’s cold up here!”

The boy waved back and slowly began to hike up the incline. His little coat and fluffy hood were already caked with snow, and he shook a fine dusting of it off of his back. Making snow angels had been fun, but now, he wanted to experience his first snowball fight.

He stopped to catch his breath for a moment, gazing out at the city. Powdery mounds dusted the tops of every building and every window, making the surrounding landscape look as if it had been frosted in sugar. He attempted to fish his phone out of his pocket, a futile endeavor given the fact that he was wearing mittens, and, more importantly, had forgotten it back at home. The boy gave up, and turned his gaze skywards once more —

And watched in horror as his friend coughed up a fountain of blood. The child on the hill grabbed his throat, retching as he stumbled to the side, then backwards, before finally tipping over the threshold where gravity took hold and sent him tumbling down the slope.

The boy couldn’t move. His feet were frozen ice blocks, and his heart refused to beat.

His friend’s ragdoll fall finally stopped after reaching the foot of the incline. He did not get up. 

The boy’s heart gave a sudden lurch, and he ran, stumbling over himself. “████! ████!” Did the sound of his cries ever reach his friend, or had the snow swallowed up his screams? He could barely hear himself over the pounding of his heart, could barely see anything with the flurries he was kicking up in his panic.

His friend didn’t appear to be breathing. A line of blood trailed out of the corner of his mouth, running off the side and painting the path of his descent down the hill dark red.

Halfway across town, the indentations of two snow angels began to melt in the drowning rays of the setting sun.

It had been six days since Nahida left with the puppet man, and Scaramouche was at his wit’s end.

“Are you ‘shore’ that you don’t want any more? It’s de-eel-licious,” the man in front of him intoned. Lame jokes aside, hadn’t this person ever heard of delivery? It must have taken an incredible amount of willpower to say such ridiculous things with a straight face. Either that, or he was just braindead.

“No, I do not want any more,” Scaramouche enunciated every syllable in his reply, speaking slowly, as if he were talking to a toddler.

“Suit yourself, then,” the man said, helping himself to seconds.

The fact that they were eating one of Scaramouche’s favorite dishes, unagi don, did nothing to take the edge off his sour mood. If this man thought that he could bribe his way into Scaramouche’s good graces with food, he was sorely mistaken.

“Cyno, if he doesn’t want to eat, then your jokes certainly aren’t helping.” Tighnari shot the other man an exasperated glance from his end of the table. “Though, you really should eat a little more. If you don’t want it right now, we’ll leave it in the fridge for you.”

“When are you two leaving?”

Scaramouche didn’t miss the look that the other two exchanged with one another, and it only served to fuel the dull anger in the pit of his stomach. He never thought he’d admit — out loud, at least — that he missed Nahida, but he vastly preferred her company to that of her other “assistants.” Or, were they Nahida’s uncles? Her friends? Associates? They started showing up every evening the day after Nahida left with Dottore.

He supposed that he should be thanking them, instead of telling them to get out. After all, his ankle was still stitching itself together, and moving around the house remained a challenge. But, still! It wasn’t like he was completely incapable of taking care of himself. He had plenty of groceries in the fridge, and even if he couldn’t prepare the more elaborate meals that Nahida typically made, he definitely didn’t need the assistance of these two clowns.

The first day they showed up, Scaramouche questioned them endlessly. He told them about the unsettling interaction they’d had with Dottore, but the two just nodded grimly, as if the news was not unexpected.

“That night, Nahida sent me a message. She asked if we could check in on you,” Tighnari replied, frowning. “And that she likely wouldn’t be able to do so for a while. I asked her what was wrong, but I didn’t get a response.”

Scaramouche had also been texting the girl every day since she left, but likewise, received no reply.

“If she were in trouble, Dr. Buer would have told me,” Cyno said simply. He worked security for her — who knew doctors needed bodyguards? Apparently, ones as famous as Rukkhadevata did. “Dr. Buer would be inconsolable if anything happened to Nahida. Besides that, the Doctor is a trusted business partner of hers.”

“Why do you guys call him that, anyways? The Doctor.” The words sounded like poison on his tongue, though he didn’t know why.

“That’s what he prefers to be known as.”

Though Scaramouche had been relieved to see them at first — anything to get some answers — he had been considerably less so when they showed up at his door the next day, and when they continued to do so with no signs of stopping.

“Did you two get evicted? Are you living on the streets? Is that why you’re here all the time?”

To his surprise, it was Cyno that replied. Scaramouche had been surprised when the stoic man cracked a joke in his direction for the first time in his usual deadpan fashion. Everyone that Nahida knew was weird, apparently.

They’re here just because she asked them to come? They’re adults! They have to have their own lives, but here they are like clockwork every day, just because an eight-year-old asked them to keep me company. It’d be laughable, if he weren’t so fucking bewildered.

“But the fun is just be-gill-ning,” Cyno snatched a piece of eel from Tighnari’s bowl, earning him a disapproving glare. Scaramouche resisted the urge to smack his face against the dinner table. Maybe he’d even do it again, and again until they were disturbed enough to leave, and he was hopefully left as a vegetable.

“Fine then! Stay!”

Nahida did not return the next day, nor the one after that. The days grew longer, and the flowers in his mother’s garden were now in full bloom. Azaleas, chrysanthemums, hydrangeas, and many more that Scaramouche had since forgotten the names of. Nahida told him once, though he had only been half-listening.

He once took a pair of gardening shears to his mother’s garden — cutting up stems, ripping up shoots, and scattering flower petals all across the sand-and-stone pathways. He was sure she saw the carnage, positive that the landscapers must have told her about it.

Ei didn’t mention it at all. The next day, the flowerbeds were filled with fresh compost and soil, and the following week, it looked like nothing had even happened at all. When she smiled at him through the video call and asked if he was eating properly, he wanted to drive a knife through the screen.

He didn’t, of course. What was the point, if everything simply returned to their places in the end, without so much of a word? He had once learned how a famous philosopher posited that the reason why people sought out companions was to impart proof of their own existences. If they died the next day, someone would remember them.

Is this why ghosts and poltergeists acted the way they did, snuffing out candleflames, rattlings drawers, shattering wineglasses? Did they simply want to prove to the residents of their haunts that they once existed? Did they scream in a thousand little different ways, every day, begging for the living to notice them, to truly see them? Surely as these residents relit their candles, oiled their cabinets, and swept their floorboards, their specters received that attestation that they so desperately sought. Or maybe, once all evidence of their efforts had been cleared away, they felt that familiar dread creep in once more, leaving them to redouble their efforts all for the same cycle to repeat endlessly.

Sometimes, the absence of something, or someone, is more easily perceived than their presence. Dark footsteps in freshly fallen snow.

His memories had turned in an undesirable direction. He shook his head, shuddering despite the warm evening breeze that drifted through the windows.

The full moon was high in the sky, and all the world was all aglow with pale silver. The air was heavy with the promise of rain; it looked as if the seasonal monsoons that Sumer entertained would come late this year. Summer was in full swing, Scaramouche having taken the last of his finals a couple days prior. They passed in a complete blur, questions and answers dripping off the screen and melding into meaningless digital conglomerates. At the very least, schoolwork had helped him keep track of the days, and now, he didn’t even have that.

Tighnari and Cyno had left hours ago. Though he still had not yet grown to enjoy their presence, he had gotten used to it. Their constant conversation provided a comforting backdrop, a distraction from his usual thoughts.

…When had things gotten so bad?

Was it when Ei hadn’t shown up to a single school event of his? When she started taking longer and longer business trips, and hadn’t even bothered to tell Scaramouche when she’d be gone? Was it when his classmates began to hide muffled laughs and snickers whenever he walked by? No? How about when his first, and only ever friend, ████ —

Breathe in. Breath out.

No. That wasn’t quite it, either.

So — what was the answer, then? How had he spent night after night in this home all these years, without spiraling like he did now? He hadn’t been happy, but he had accepted it, knew how this game was played, and distracted himself with all manner of meaningless activities until the sun set and the moon rose and it was time to start all fucking over again.

Somewhere inside him, he knows the answer.

A frog in a well knows only of the sky above him, and is content with his surroundings. Lift him out, above the lipped edge, and show him the world. He blinks his eyes, one at a time, stunned by the harsh sunlight. When his vision adjusts, the vista before him is unlike one that he’s ever witnessed, full of life, color, movement, a far cry from the gray stones of his former prison. He croaks with delight, wants to drink up every drop of the wonders before him, desiring more and more until the world simply has nothing left to give.

I wish I never met Nahida. He would never have known her friendship, but in return, he would never have felt her absence. No — even if she returned, Scaramouche would not see her again. The front door would remain shut, and locked , this time, regardless of how many times she knocked. He couldn’t deal with this pattern of behavior any longer, of longing for the company of another person who clearly did not want the same. He was better off as a solitary —

Ping! Ping, ping, ping!

Inconceivably, the patio door was being pelted by little rocks.

He stumbled to his feet, cursing all the while. When he opened the door, he saw — of course. Who else it could it have been, except for a familiar frog-hat girl, sitting in a tree?

“Where you have been ,” Scaramouche hissed, all but forgetting his earlier resolve. “You’d better have an amazing explanation for that disappearing act. And why didn’t you respond to any of my texts? …Also, why were you in my backyard? On a tree? That you couldn’t get out of?”

It was a near-impossible task manuevering Nahida off the tall maple, but it had been accomplished. Miraculously, he hadn’t exacerbated his own condition, and Nahida had not broken any bones of her own in the process. They were both inside the house now. Nahida’s gaze darted to-and-fro like a trapped bird’s, and Scaramouche, in spite of himself, was more than slightly concerned.

“Ah, yes! I’m very sorry for disappearing for so long.” To her credit, Nahida did seem genuinely remorseful. “I’ll answer your questions in order, I suppose...”

 “Yeah, get talking.” Scaramouche was pleased to see her, but not that pleased.

“The Doctor took my phone,” Nahida said quietly, quickly, as if she couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “He wouldn’t give it back, and when he finally did, it was completely wiped. He said it was — it was an accident,” her voice dropped. It was barely above a whisper now. “If you sent me any messages, I’m sorry, but I didn’t receive them.”

“The hell? Why? Did you tell your mom?”

“I don’t know. He says it was so I could focus on my studies, but that’s definitely not the reason,” she shook her head adamantly. “I didn’t tell Mama. She was at a conference, and I… I didn’t want to worry her. If I told her, I’m sure she would have dropped everything to help, but her work is too important,” Nahida’s voice grew fierce. “She doesn’t need someone like me bothering her at every turn.”

Scaramouche forced down a sudden wave of nausea. “Does… does that man, Dottore, usually pull these types of stunts? When your mom is away?”

Nahida’s answering silence was all the reply he needed.

“What the fuck,” Scaramouche hissed. “Okay, maybe you didn’t have your phone, but you still could’ve come here! It’s not like I’m going anywhere, anyways.” He saw Nahida cast a quick glance at his cast, and had to bite back a sudden wave of irritation. “Or, if you told Tighnari or Cyno, I’m sure they could’ve helped!”

Nahida began shaking her head before he had even finished speaking. “He’s been watching me,” she said miserably. “I don’t know how, but if I leave my house for anything, then he’s there, or one of his assistants is. I was able to sneak out tonight. I didn’t dare go through the front door, so I had to cut across some backyards and alleyways.”

“You’re the only one I’ve told.” Her voice taken on a desperate edge to it. “Please, keep it a secret! The others are nice, but… they only know me through my mother. In the end, I’m still just a child to them, and the Doctor is a well-respected coworker. If I mentioned anything, he’d just twist it the other way.”

The Doctor is well-respected. The Doctor is a trusted research partner. Scaramouche recalled Cyno’s earlier words. Somehow, it all seemed to come back to someone’s reputation. Dottore was established, he was trustworthy, he was a brilliant scientist, so surely he must be virtuous and upright in all other matters, right? He would never stalk a little girl, he must be only concerned about her wellbeing. He would never isolate her against her will, you must be mistaken. He would never tamper with someone’s phone, weren’t you listening? It was an accident, so don’t malign his good name again…

“What does he even want from you?” Scaramouche asked, dreading the answer. There were very few reasons that he could think of why a grown adult like Dottore would be this interested in Nahida, and he sincerely hoped that it wasn’t any of those. Would Nahida even realize, if he…

“He seems to be interested in my research journals.”

“...What? What journals?”

“My journals! About the Forest of Suma?”

Scaramouche had almost completely forgotten about those. “The journals? Why would he care about those?”

Evidently, Nahida didn’t know either. “I’m entirely not sure,” she admitted. “But every time I see him, he’s always asking me questions about the forest. If I’ve explored any new parts of it, or found any more interesting artifacts… he’s the the ‘associate’ I told you about, the one who borrowed my notebooks.”

“Why’s he so interested in some ancient forest?” Even as he asked, Scaramouche knew the answer to his own question. The forest was a complete mystery to everyone — the prospectors that flocked to their city, the researchers who conducted endless investigations on its unnatural growth, and even to the oldest, most powerful families in Sumer, whose wealth of riches and knowledge were powerless to help them here. It was one of the last remaining enigmas of their modern world, a byproduct of some ancient time that predated their contemporary existence. Though Dottore seemed to specialize in medical research, there wasn’t a single scientist that wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to break new ground on the last great mystery of their time.

“I think… I think the forest is keeping something secret, Scaramouche,” Nahida’s eyes lit up with a sudden excitement, the first real emotion he had seen from her all night. This was her usual self, the Nahida he had grown close to over the past month. Not the quiet, muted girl that timidly stepped into his house, and who held herself like she was trying to take up less room. “All of my research, all of my evidence — it all points to it. The Doctor wants to find out what it is, to take its treasure for himself — but we won’t let him. We’ll beat him to it, Scaramouche!”

Chapter Text

It was as if someone had lifted the veil of uncertainty shrouding his vision, the world sharpening before him with a burning clarity. He woke in the mornings with a sense of restless purpose, excited about what secrets they would unearth beneath the ivy-strangled trees of the ancient forest. Yet, despite his newfound agitation, the reality of their situation was that Scaramouche was still housebound due to his injury. If he risked venturing into the forest before he was fully recovered, he was liable to set their progress back even further.

Not all was lost, however. Dottore had been called away to attend a work-related engagement of his own, one that took him far away from Sumer. This meant that Nahida was now free to head over to Scaramouche’s house whenever she pleased. Shockingly enough, Dottore had also returned her notebooks before he left.

“I trust you’ll be a good girl while the adults are gone,” he’d said, almost mockingly. When Nahida relayed his words to Scaramouche, he fought to suppress a sudden surge of white-hot anger, hands curling into fists by his side.

“When I recover, we’re exploring that damn forest. Sundown to sunset,” he snapped. Admittedly, Scaramouche did not care so much about the secret of the forest as he did about snatching it from right under Dottore’s nose. And if in the process he made international news, if his face was plastered over every magazine and tabloid worldwide, if he reminded his mother that her son did, in fact, exist, then what was the harm?

A frog, once removed from its well, can never go back. These endless days of summer were fated to end, and he didn’t dare imagine what might lie beyond them. Would Nahida leave him once he had fulfilled his purpose? Would she one day open her eyes, and finally realize what a miserable companion he was? Should he try to make himself more likeable, more engaging, or should he distance himself instead, shield whatever heart he had left from the promise of more pain?

No, it was too late for any regrets now. He had already strayed too far from his well. The blazing sun beat mercilessly in the sky overhead, the land thrumming in time to its pulse. His mind raced in turn with a fever pitch; endless possibilities were surely within reach if he could just push himself a little further…

Yes, there was much to be done, and in a deceptively short amount of time. “When is the Doctor returning?” he quietly asked one day. Nahida didn’t know the answer, but they did find his name among the list of speakers presenting at the “11th Annual Symposium for Neuroscience Research,” taking place a month and a half from now. If he did a double take at the conference’s location, that was no one’s business but his; so what if it was the same city in which his mother was currently residing? Perhaps they’d even have the chance to cross paths, he thought humorlessly.

On the first day, Nahida arrived at Ei’s house in the early morning, before Scaramouche had awoken. He had been more than surprised to find her sprawled out across his living room, surrounded by pages and pages of paper.

“Are these all from your notebooks?” he asked disbelievingly, once he worked past his initial shock.

“Oh, no!” Nahida reached for her backpack. “My notebooks are in here. The other papers are just some thoughts I’ve written down, mostly speculatory. I’ve also printed out some articles that discussed the Forest of Suma, or the history of the city.”

To Scaramouche’s horror, Nahida did not only intend on going over all of the material encased in her own notebooks, she also wanted them to scour online sources, physical books, and ancient periodicals for every last scrap of information they could find on the forest.

Their mornings, afternoons, and evenings were now entirely spent on reading through pages and pages of material, plumbing the depths of library books and prehistoric blogs alike for scraps of information and chasing down every passing reference they found. Scaramouche couldn't help but feel that they would make quicker progress if he pored over the massive amount of research while Nahida explored the forest, but the girl refused to venture in without him. “We’re in this together!” she insisted, in her usual annoying, yet oddly endearing manner. He would have argued his point more if he weren’t so touched, not that he ever would’ve admitted it aloud. When had someone last waited for him, for anything? When had his presence ever been a requirement? Regardless, he felt as though his point still had merit. He insisted upon it again from time to time, whereupon he was stonewalled at every turn.

By now, it had become part of their routine. Scaramouche would pester her about going into the forest, and she would, in a songlike voice, refute him once more, reminding him that progress was progress no matter what form it took, and that they had plenty to do for the time being anyways. Question and answer, beck and call. What a pair of odd birds we make, he thought wryly. 

The first couple of days had been spent entirely picking over Nahida’s notebooks, of which there were surprisingly many. Scaramouche hadn’t known what he expected — taped together sheets of construction paper, perhaps, with pencil scribbled all over them, or a raggedy, mud-stained binder that used sheafs of wild wax-leaves in place of paper. At this point, nothing would have surprised him, which meant that he didn’t even bat an eye when Nahida unexpectedly pulled out a set of heavy moleskine journals.

“These must’ve cost a fortune,” he said slowly, flipping through each page carefully. There was a genuine heft to the paper, a sturdiness that could accommodate the rows and rows of cramped writing and diagrams on every page.

“They were a gift,” she said happily. She didn’t mention who they were from, meaning they were from her mother. Again, Scaramouche was left to wonder how much exactly she knew about his own circumstances, to the point where she seemed to avoid the topic of family like a plague. The uncertainty frustrated him — it wasn’t as if he wanted to talk about his own sorry state of affairs, nor he did want to hear about the many ways in which Rukkhadevata was sure to display her affection for Nahida, but the lack of such discussion made him feel uneasy, as if the two were dancing over an empty step on a staircase that neither wanted to acknowledge.

He brushed over the notebook’s outer cover absentmindedly, noting the lily-of-the-valley embroidery stitched onto its front. Each page in the journal bore a similar emblem on its bottom right corner, and the same design could be found on its protective suede case. Every notebook appeared to have its own unique flower, and Scaramouche saw quite a few that he recognized among their number.

Nahida’s handwriting was exceptionally neat, a unique blend of print and cursive that wasn’t entirely one or the other. The ends of her words often curled upwards or sideways in little rivulets, helping to space out the cramped sentences. Her earliest entries in each notebook were actually much more reasonably laid out — it seemed as she filled page after page, she began to use the remaining space much more conservatively.

As he read, Scaramouche realized four things in succession. The first, the notebooks were an incredible wealth of information; the second, their opponent already knew everything that was in them; the third, Nahida was incredibly intelligent; and the last, Nahida could be unbelievably reckless.

“How long have you been working on this for?” Scaramouche asked disbelievingly. There was so much written here that it was difficult to reconcile this fact with the knowledge that it was written by a grade schooler. There was no doubt in his mind that it would have taken a small eternity to document the information gathered in these pages.

“I started these when I was six, I think? I’m not sure why, but I’ve always felt drawn towards the forest. I like to play there whenever I get a free chance.” She laughed a little bit, and stared off into space wistfully. What was she thinking of now, he wondered? His gaze dropped to the open pages of the notebook with a sunflower emblem on it, wherein Nahida had sketched a wildflower meadow she’d found one day…

Given what they had gathered, Scaramouche now knew that the Forest of Suma had been officially divided up into three main areas. The outskirts, the Outer Sanctum, and the Inner Sanctum. Several online communities, formed by enthusiasts of the forest also referred to them respectively as the first, second, and third layers. These areas were arranged in three concentric circles, with the outermost layers paling in size compared to the Inner Sanctum, which was largely unexplored. Most people were only capable of navigating the outskirts, with a rare few being able to access the second layer. As far as either of them knew, Nahida was the only person capable of entering the Inner Sanctum. There were numerous, unsubstantiated reports from people in various forum threads and blog posts claiming to have entered the heart of the forest, but Nahida saw through them instantly.

“The Inner Sanctum doesn’t actually look all that different from the outer one, actually,” she hummed, scrolling through another fictitious thread. “At least the bits that I’ve explored. The third layer is so massive, I’ve only been able to canvas a tiny portion of it…”

“What makes you think I’d be able to get in?”

“Just a feeling!”

Incredulous, Scaramouche was about to ask if she was really staking his oh-so-important position as her personal assistant on something as nebulous as as a hunch, before she piped up again. “Oh, and I think whoever I’m with can usually come along with me. I made Tighnari come with me once, and he was able to get to the Inner Sanctum just fine!”

“Why didn’t you just lead with that?” he asked, exasperated.

The majority of Nahida’s journals went into far more detail than they needed, but eventually, they were able to sketch out a rough map of the eastern part of the Outer Sanctum, including several pathways in which they could push through to the inner region. The other information the notebooks contained was more or less extraneous, being part encyclopedia, part diary. There were catalogues of the various species of flora and fauna that she’d encountered (she once filled an entire page with cramped handwriting on an unusual ladybug she’d seen), as well as logs of what she did for the day. These notebooks were a testament to the hundreds and thousands of hours she must have spent in the forest, where many a sunlit day had been whiled away among leaf-scudded canopies and mossy overgrowth.

One afternoon had been spent catching, or perhaps more accurately, attempting to catch tadpoles and guppies in rocky streams, and the dressing-down she got from her mother when she returned home covered in gravel and duckweed. The better part of the morning after that was devoted to climbing the sturdy branches of a tall tree whose crown peeked just over the edge of the canopy. Unsurprisingly, she had been unsuccessful, but did manage to get high enough to see a nest of baby songbirds clamouring for food. To commemorate the occasion, she picked a single leaf from a twig on that branch, sealing it in wax paper and pressing it between the pages of that entry, where it had remained to this day. Another evening had been spent stargazing in a remote clearing tucked away within the forest’s embrace, far enough from the city proper that the stars “didn’t have to be scared of fighting for attention,” as she put.

Disappointingly, they found very little information that could hint as to whatever secret the forest held — with one notable exception.

One day, Nahida had fallen fifty feet down a ravine, purely by accident. “I was following an interesting bird I’d spotted earlier, wasn’t looking where I stepped,” she said, seemingly embarrassed. Miraculously, she’d escaped with just a few scrapes and bruises, and found herself in an area of the forest she’d never seen before.

“Something about it was different,” she’d whispered to Scaramouche, as if divulging a secret. “The forest is always full of life. New shoots are constantly pushing through the ground, young trees that will one day grow even taller than their parents and grandparents. The birds are teaching their little fledglings how to hop, hop, hop before taking flight, scolding them and praising them whenever they need a little more encouragement. The wind weaves through the branches, playing a melody older than time, and saying hello to old and new friends alike. Somewhere beneath your feet, a baby rabbit slumbers, kicking its paws as it races through tall grasses that tickle his fur. His mother returns through the secret entrance that only she knows of, and tells him stories of the outside world that’ll be his to explore, once he’s ready.”

She paused, a flicker of some unknown emotion shadowing her face for a brief moment before it was gone.

“There was none of that here. It was as if all the sounds of the forest had to swim through honey before reaching my ears. The trees were huge, and blotted out the sun. I couldn’t even see any of their branches, or a single leaf. I felt like a little ant crawling around on the feet of giants.”

“This part of the forest looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in a very, very long time. There was very little new growth on the ground, and there were no animals I could see at all — not even insects. I don’t know how that’s even possible, but… the Forest of Suma has always defied regular logic. If an ancient grove, older than time and frozen in amber existed somewhere on this planet, then it would make sense that it would be in this forest.”

She leveled her gaze at him, green eyes bright and clear. Her voice began to quicken, and Scaramouche leaned in instinctively, riveted. “What did you see next?”

“I saw some strange markings scratched onto part of a tree trunk,” she said, voice hushed. “I thought that at first, maybe an elk, or a bear had simply used the wood as a scratching post. I decided to make a charcoal rubbing of it to memorialize the day. After I made the rubbing, though…”

Nahida pulled out a paper that had been carefully sealed in a sheet protector. “Scaramouche, does it look like an animal could have created these?”

The image displayed on the rubbing was rough, criss-crossed by the massive grooves and valleys of the tree bark it had been taken off of. Despite Nahida’s best attempts at preserving the paper, the excess charcoal had smeared across parts of the drawing, making it impossible to tell what had originally been underneath it. But most importantly, the single figure that took center place, the figure now burned into his mind’s eye, was unmistakably, irrevocably human.

Scaramouche felt his pulse quicken, thunderstruck with excitement and delight. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think animals can hold tools.” This was it! This was actual proof that their research was leading up to something, a discovery much larger than two children, greater than whatever designs Dottore had, a groundbreaking, earth-shattering revelation even grander than the entire city of Sumer. His mind was alight with possibilities — could people have once lived in the forest long ago? Were he and Nahida on the cusp of discovering an ancient civilization? …Could they still be living there? Wait — he shouldn’t get ahead of himself. The markings were clearly manmade, but what if someone else had simply stumbled onto the same ancient grove that Nahida had, and decided to leave behind a token of their travels? It was too soon to jump to conclusions; their grand discovery could end up being no more than a passing blemish impinged upon ancient wood by a foolish tourist. Yet, try as he might, even his usual skepticism was soon overcome by burgeoning excitement.

“Nahida, I think you’re right,” he said, pacing back and forth restlessly. Gone were the crutches, gone was the phantom pain that streaked up his leg like lightning on his worst days. “The forest is hiding a secret. This, this,” he gripped the rubbing like it was a lifeline. “This is proof!”

Nahida was thoroughly delighted that Scaramouche shared her sentiments. She reminded him that Dottore knew everything they did, which immediately took the wind out of his sails, but they had a leg up on him as long as they continued their research. “He may know everything that’s in my journals,” she vowed. “But we will supplement our findings with all the accumulated knowledge that all of humanity has worked to record. We will piece together a brilliant mosaic of the Forest of Suma, a rendezvous of thoughts and ideas gathered from everyone all across the world.”

“I agree, but aren’t you being a bit grandiose? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Together, they began the meticulous task of categorizing and digitizing all of Nahida’s findings,  and cross-referencing them with the comparatively scant amount of information they were able to trawl off the internet.

“Will some of this even be of any use? I can’t imagine how documenting the mushroom you ate once and somehow didn’t die from would help,” he grumbled.

“It’s possible that particular observation may not be of any use,” Nahida admitted. “However, at this point, there are simply too many unknowns. We don’t know what form the secret of the Forest of Suma will take. Although something may seem insignificant now, we have no way of knowing whether it’ll reappear in the future or not in connection with something of more importance. Ideally, I’d like to narrow our search, but right now, it’d be best to cast as wide of a net as possible.” She tilted her head to the side, before continuing with a smile. “Besides, I think it’s fun!”

Though he already suspected it, Scaramouche was soon able to confirm that he and Nahida had very different ideas of what constituted fun. Unfortunately, the vast majority of information they found online was of frustratingly little use, most being simply wild rumors or unfounded anecdotes. There had been very little formal research done on the forest itself, though it hadn’t been due to lack of effort. It was near-impossible for anyone to gain access to the area, and the few people that were able to venture beyond its outskirts often refused to proceed further, recounting the myths and folktales that had taken root in their hearts as children and bloomed with cautionary colors.

“This is interesting,” Scaramouche remarked. He scanned the passage again, before snatching a different sheet of paper out from Nahida’s hands.

“What is it?” the girl asked impatiently, rolling to her left once, twice, before reaching Scaramouche. “I want to know!”

“This might be nothing,” he started, slowly. “But it seems like almost everyone who was actually able to make it further than the first layer was either accompanied by a resident of Sumer, or was a resident themselves.”

“Good find,” Nahida propped herself on her elbows, examining the papers with increased scrutiny. “There are a handful of people that don’t fit that description, though. But let’s write it down for now!”

“Yes, Miss Nahida,” Scaramouche rolled his eyes.

Most of the articles they found were intended for a different audience, people that resided in distant countries across the world. These articles simply presented surface-level facts about the Forest of Suma, commenting on its labyrinthine interior, the surrounding effects it seemed to have on the land, and the wide variety of plants and animals that had been spotted within or around the area. These pieces were often sensationalized and played up a darkness that didn’t exist, presenting the forest as a mystery akin to the Bermuda Triangle or the Loch Ness Monster. Scaramouche had never once recalled feeling scared in the forest, and Nahida shared this sentiment.

“How can I describe it?” she paused, looking upwards, as if trying to find the right words. “It’s the type of place that you can find yourself easily lost in, but if you gather the desire in your heart to return home, then it’s very easy to put one foot in front of the other and find your way out. You might feel as though you’re being watched, but is that really such a bad thing? If gods and magic do exist, then whatever god watches over the forest must surely be a kind one.”

…Well, he didn’t quite agree with that. If he were a god, then hopefully he’d have better things to do than watch over some dumb mortals.

Scaramouche had not ventured into the forest as often as Nahida had, and certainly not in recent years, unless one counted his disastrous expedition almost a month and half prior. The citizens of Sumer generally recognized it as a sacred place, and typically avoided disturbing it. Nevertheless, they dutifully documented what little content there was to be found from external sources. Several of the theories they found were entertaining, if nothing else.

“Proof of extraterrestrial life?” Nahida echoed, scanning a particularly sensationalized article. “A garden that sprouted from a seed not of this world. At least this one’s creative…”

“Abundantly fertile land may signify the presence of phosphorus, magnesium, and other deposits, typically found at sites of volcanic eruptions… possibility of subterranean geothermal activity… Ugh… this isn’t useful at all.”

“The Nara-rara are a species of small, fairylike creatures that take extra good care of the flowers and trees in Sumer!” Nahida giggled, flipping through the pages of a children’s book. “How adorable! I like this theory, even if it’s just for fun.”

“None of them are probably true,” Scaramouche groaned. “If people don’t know what they’re talking about, then they should just shut up. It would leave us less to sift through.”

“Even if it seems outlandish, it might remind us of something we’ve experienced, or have yet to experience,” Nahida said solemnly, eyes bright. “And that alone could get us started thinking in the right direction. That’s why it’s so important to listen to everyone’s thoughts! They will come together to form ideas greater than the sum of their parts.”

At night, Scaramouche’s head would swim with sentences and words from articles he’d read that day. Forest of Suma potentially mystical origins must have an explanation wet climate suitable for growth of megaflora species of animals unique to the area possibly affected by magnetic poles of the planet composition of minerals in soil no unknown elements precipitation regular witch’s territory ancient burial ground blessed by the gods. They echoed ceaselessly throughout his skull, on and on in an endless cacophony making it near-impossible to sleep.

On these nights, Scaramouche would often hear Nahida tossing and turning from her makeshift bed, and knew that she, too, was feeling mentally exhausted. The girl would often stay over on evenings when she was too tired to make the bike ride back home, or when she simply wanted to have a “sleepover.” Thankfully, after her first attempt at starting a pillow fight, Nahida seemed to have abandoned all thoughts of that idea, at least.

“Are you awake?” It was useless trying to rest. He got up, turning on the lights as he did so. He knew she was awake, anyways.

“Ye-es,” Nahida squeezed her eyes shut and burrowed deeper into her blankets. “Turn off the lights, please…”

“In a second.”

Scaramouche could now move around the house without the use of his crutches, as long as he was careful. His cast still wasn’t ready to come off yet, but it would be soon, as long as he stayed consistent with his exercises. Being confined to the house for the past month and a half hadn’t exactly done wonders for his stamina, but he was slowly regaining it — and at a pace much quicker than Tighnari had expected.

“What’re you doing, anyways?”

“You’ll see.”

He returned a couple minutes later with two steaming mugs of chamomile tea, complemented with milk and honey. He could see Nahida’s green eyes peeking out above the edges of her blanket, curious as always. “This is a recipe I saw from one of the blogs I was browsing today,” he yawned, handing one mug to Nahida. “The woman was a local. She liked to forage for edible plants in the forest, and used what she found in her recipes.”

He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the way the warmth spread throughout every part of his body and settled there, like the comforting weight of a purring cat. Not too sweet, either. He purposefully used a quarter of the amount of honey that the recipe called for for his own cup, and made sure to add the extra to Nahida’s. If the milk foam on her upper lip was any indication, she was enjoying her drink as well.

“There wasn’t anything really useful in her blog, unfortunately. She wasn’t able to make it into the deeper parts of the forest, though interestingly, she did mention how every time she ventured in, she found something that she could work with. In the past, she’s made pasta with wild morels, sweet and spicy pickled ramps, strawberry tarts, and acorn flour noodles. This time, it was chamomile.”

He blew on his drink to cool it down, before continuing. “I looked it up. Chamomile is a flower that’s mostly found in regions of North America, Europe, and parts of South America. It’s not native to Sumer. Granted, there’s always the possibility that these originated from seeds that someone discarded, but what about her other discoveries?” Scaramouche closed his eyes, lost in thought. “Morels, ramps. Neither of these two are commonly found here, either. And what are the chances that she just happened to stumble across all of these plants, on the outskirts of the forest? Never the same one twice, never in the same spot.”

He was connecting the pieces of an invisible puzzle in his mind. “What if,” he said slowly. “What if the forest someone knows what people who enter it are looking for?”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. “Nevermind, that’s ridiculous. I read too many conspiracy theories today, that’s all,” he grumbled. “Anyways, mushroom-lady also said chamomile had calming properties. Hopefully it can help us fall asleep.” He flicked off the lights, perhaps with slightly more force than was necessary.

There was a brief pause, and the faint clink of a mug being set aside on a table.

“I don’t think that a stupid idea,” Nahida said gently. “It’s because of the forest that we ended up meeting, after all.”

He wasn’t sure what to think about that. There was a sudden lump in his throat that he couldn’t seem to swallow, and he doesn’t trust himself to reply.

“This tea is excellent. Thank you, Scaramouche. Would you mind sharing the blog with me later? I’d like to take a look at her other recipes.”

He buried his face in his blankets, hoping that Nahida couldn’t hear the quake that was sure to be in his voice. “Sure. She isn’t making recipes anymore, though. Said she had to stop for personal reasons, or something.”