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At seven years old, Varian sneaks into one of Horace’s lessons.
‘Sneaks’ is a broad word, really, and an inaccurate one at that. It’s more like he tries and fails to listen in. His ear presses against the sturdy oak wood, straining to hear just a single word of Professor Darius’s lecture- before he misplaces his hand on the handle to try and press himself harder against the door and stumbles right in.
Both men jump at the sudden intrusion, and Varian, under the surprised gaze of his prince as well as his prince’s tutor, shrinks in on himself. But Horace’s face lights up with something gleeful, almost relieved, and he calls out to Varian before Darius gets a chance.
“Hairstripe!” Horace calls, and Varian perks up a bit at the affection in his voice. “What’re you doing hangin’ out in the halls, buddy?” He asks. His professor, Darius, a tall man with a crooked nose and slicked back bangs, his long but oily hair parted on his shoulders, shoots the young prince a glare behind his oval-shaped spectacles.
“I was-...I-I was just-...” Hot shame bubbles in Varian’s stomach. He’d been snooping, is what, and he didn’t have to be told to know it was wrong of him. His eyes shift from Darius to Horace, back and forth, before he finally sighs and wrings his hands guiltily. “I was trying to listen to the lesson.” He admits. His eyes finally land on the floor. “I wanted to learn what…what you were. I’m sorry.”
Horace lets out an amused snort, leaning back on his bench to get a good look at Varian- and also to stretch. “Trust me, buddy.” He starts. “This isn’t worth learning. Why don’t you head to the library, see if you can find something more fun to read about?” Horace casually ignores an offended scoff and glare from Darius, who looks something like the prince had personally insulted his mother.
“Not- your highness,” The professor tries, and Horace rolls his eyes, not even looking at the older man. “With all due respect, alchemical basics are extremely important, especially for a man of your birth! Why, what are you to say when the royal scientists come to you with an alchemical solution to approve of, and you don’t even know what it does?”
Lazily, the young prince rolls his head back. “Then I’ll ask them, Darius. Simple as that.” He turns back to Varian with a relaxed grin. “Seriously, buddy. If you go wait in the library, when I finish up here I’ll come pick out a Flynn Rider book for us to read together. How does that sound?” His grin turns to a winning smile, but Varian still looks unconvinced.
He looks back to Darius, taking a cautious, shy step forward. “...What’s 'alchemic-al'?” He asks, testing the word in his mouth and inching closer to Horace’s bench. Craning his neck to peek behind the tall professor, he can spot different tubes and vials in neat little rows, some filled with colorful liquid, others completely empty, or with powders of all different kinds, and a strange looking bowl.”It looks…”
“Boring? Complicated? Mind numbing?” Horace supplies helpfully, looking awfully smug at Darius’s offended squawk.
“...Fun.” Varian finishes as if he hadn’t heard, firmly planting himself on the bench next to Horace.
“Absolutely not.” Darius says, crossing behind them and placing his hands on Varian’s shoulders in an attempt to get him to move. “ Alchemy can be incredibly dangerous, it isn’t for children.” He continues to push Varian roughly, ignoring his protests. “Additionally, the young prince needs to focus. You’ve eaten up enough of our time, and-”
“Ah c’mon, Darius.” Horace says, suddenly protective, and places a hand on his tutor’s shoulder to give a light shove. “If the kid wants to watch, let him watch. I promise he’s an excellent listener during storytime.” Once Varian is free from Darius’s grip, Horace gives Varian’s messy hair an affectionate ruffle. The younger boy giggles, playfully swatting at the prince’s hands with his own smaller ones. He looks back up at Darius with a sharp, smug grin on his face, and says, “Who knows, if you can keep from boring him to sleep, maybe one of us will actually learn something.”
The professor fumes, hands clenched at his sides. He takes a deep breath in, forces it out, and mutters a word Varian doesn’t know the meaning of quite yet, but that leaves Horace scrambling to cover the younger’s ears with a gentle ‘ahem’.
“...Fine.” Darius snaps, and Horace uncovers Varian’s ears. “He can stay. If, ” Darius raises an accusing finger to Horace. “You actually take these notes.”
Horace groans dramatically. With a smile, though, he reaches around Varian and pulls him closer, so they’re side-by-side. “You owe me for this, m'kay buddy?” He teases, and Varian giggles along before settling down at his side, determined to stay focused.
Truth be told, he couldn’t understand most of the complicated chemical names or the lengthy words of Horace’s textbook. But what he could gather from the demonstrations and processes and information that Horace could (struggle to) explain in simpler terms set something in his gut aflutter in a way he’d never felt before. His head buzzed with questions from beginning to end, and when the lesson ended and he and Horace set off for the castle library, with Varian up on the young prince’s shoulders, it wasn’t just the Flynnigan Rider books his heart was set on finding.
-
Varian is twelve years old when he finally gets it right.
His steel-toed boots echo through the castle hallways. He’s done it! He can’t believe he’s actually done it, his first real alchemical compound that he made- all on his own, with his own research! Giddily, he races through the tall, dark hallways, swerving around guards and staff alike, who all from step to jump to leap to get out of his way. He supposes, as he races through a set of doors, that it’s understandable- he’d built himself…something of a reputation in recent years, always fussing about with chemicals and mechanics that seemed to somehow always go awry.
But not this one! He thought smugly as he slowed to a stop in front of two familiar faces.
“Mister Darius! Miss Selena!”
Darius jumps about a foot in the air, grunting with a surprised, dramatic, “u-wAHuh?” While his apprentice, Selena Caprise, turns with a calm, inquisitive smile.
“Varian!” She says happily, and, oh, it does something strange to the already excited bundle of butterflies in his throat. But this was not the time! He was a scientist on a mission!
“Have you guys seen my father?” He asks with a tired wheeze. He’d run all the way from home, desperate to show his father his success before he returned too tired to listen. “It’s really, really important- not dangerous important! Just important, you see I think I’ve really gotten something worth showing him and I really, really, really can’t wait until he’s off duty, so I’d really just like to-”
“Varian,” Selena says with a laugh, and it stops him instantly. “Slow down. You’re going to hurt yourself!” She teases. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck, embarrassed.
“Or someone else.” Darius sighs. But the man smiles something exasperatedly fond. Though their start had been rocky, and he did constantly seem to grimace as if he’d swallowed a lemon, they came to a mutual camaraderie once Varian had started coming to him directly with questions. “You were looking for your father, yes?” At Varian’s excited nod, the older alchemist points down the eastern hallway. “He’s in attendance with the King, Queen and young Prince at the moment. I’m sure he’ll have attention to spare you afterward, but for now…” His smile faltered, and fell into a more somber grimace. “It may be best to let them be.”
Slowly, Varian nodded. “Oh- o-okay!” He said, not to be deterred by the unforeseen wait time. “Thank you again!” He said, waving as he started down the hallway. Selene offered him a playful salute and Darius a respectful nod as he went.
His pace slowed greatly then- his father’s meetings with the King weren’t uncommon, but they usually came with burdens. Burdens that Dad never seemed to want to share. Or maybe he just couldn’t? Varian…wasn’t too sure, actually. The Brotherhood was a selection of knights under King Edmund’s direct command, of course they’d have secrets they’d be forced to keep.
But...still, he thought, looking up at the arching stained windows, tinted teal-blue, lighting the room in a brilliantly enchanting hue. Still, it made his heart twist in a way he couldn’t explain to be so distant from the man who had tried as hard as he could to raise him. But sometimes the Brotherhood had to come first. Varian knew that. Time wasn’t a blessing his father had much of.
Varian wonders if he’d have more, had he just been a better son.
Later, much later, that thought would blanket him entirely.
But for now, at a young twelve years old, it’s only a nagging insecurity that lingers for no more than a second, because he’s confident that his new compound would fix it. Giddily, he takes the vial from the pouch at his side and gives it an experimental shake. He watches, entranced, as the neon pink powder settled at the bottom came to life in the thin liquid it was surrounded by, until the whole vial was a pink, glowing masterpiece of alchemical genius. Long lasting liquid light, all in the palm of his hand! As he came to face the massive doors of the throne room, he shook it again in delight. His dad would be so, so prou-
The doors flew open.
Hector, in what he could tell was a muffled fury, stormed past, not even paying him a glance. Varian felt his heart sink.
Varian turned to face the throne room again, meeting the quiet stares of his father, aunt, and royal family. He was caught so completely transfixed in the shocked silence that he didn’t dare breathe a word. Nobody did.
That was, until Prince Horace stood, loudly clapping his hands.
“Well!” He said, a fake mask of charm plastered over his face as he met Varian’s eyes. “I think we can all agree that this calls for a break.” The prince looked to his father, who grimly nodded. The queen, on his other side, gently touched his hand in support.
Dad looked…Distant. Like his head was someplace else entirely. And then, just like that, it was gone. He gave the royal family a stiff nod and a bow, before turning to Adira and offering her a respectful nod that she returned before leaving the room, walking past Varian entirely.
Varian glanced at the silent throne room before turning and sprinting to catch up with his father.
So quickly that he didn’t notice the pained expression Prince Horace gave him as he left.
“Dad!” He called, and then quieter as he finally reached the man’s side, “Dad, what…what happened?”
“It was nothing, Varian.” Curt. Closed off.
“B-but I saw Uncle Hector, that wasn’t nothing.” He argued, struggling not to trip over himself. “Is everyone okay? What’s going on?”
“Varian,” Quirin began. He sounded tired. More so than Varian had ever heard him. “Hector will be fine. Nothing is wrong, and-” finally, whatever had happened in the throne room was pushed aside long enough to catch up with the present moment. “-And why are you here? ” He asked.
Oh, he’d been so excited to hear that question before. But now, he toyed with the vial between his fingertips nervously. Dad was- this wasn’t the time to explain, but he was asked a question, and he knew it was one he had to answer. “I-I- Well,” He fumbled, holding up the vial for his dad to see, “I wanted to show you what I made and- wh-oAH!”
His foot stutters on the smooth marble floor, and with the grace of a baby deer, he stumbled, hitting the floor with a solid oomf. It hadn’t hurt, not really, but…
Something in his chest squeezed at the distinct crack of broken glass.
Bright magenta light oozed between his gloved fingers as he tried to stand, the remnants of the vial having completely shattered in his grip where it hit the solid floor. Hesitantly, he picked himself up- no- nonono-
Not another mess.
Varian looked up at his father. His first expression was one of concern, eyes stuck to where Varian’s glove met the compound before falling the the glass shards, but his face quickly fell into a small, tired grimace.
“Varian…” He began. Varian’s stomach rolled with anxious nausea. At least he didn’t sound… disappointed, just..Tired.
“Go home, Varian.” He said. “We can- talk about this later.”
As if he’d dropped the vial a second time over, Varian felt, rather than heard, another distinct crack buried deep in his chest.
“I-” He tried, but couldn’t find the words. “I-I just- Uhm-” He met his father’s gaze, and ducked his head in shame as he picked himself up, gathering as many of the large shards as he could in his (very gloved, thank goodness) hands. “O-okay, I’ll just…”
He couldn’t look at his dad. Not through the tears, not with his eyes glued to the luminescent pink mess on the floor, between his gloves, staining his tunic.
“Sure, Dad. I’ll see you later.”
And without a word more, he starts towards the castle gates.
-
When Varian is fourteen, he learns that his father is just a man. A man who can love, a man who can laugh, a man who can cry, yes, to all of these things-
But Hector is the one who hands him the bundle with shaking, angry hands.
“This,” he says, with more emotion than Varian has ever heard him use, “belongs to you.” Gently, eyes wide and uncomprehending, Varian takes the leather in his hands. Upon closer inspection, it’s a sash, emblazoned with the Brotherhood’s sigil. Confused, he looks up for a moment, trying to meet Hector’s eyes, and when he can’t, when Hector won’t let him-
Panic sparks deep in his gut. Nausea comes in one great wave. It tosses and rolls in his stomach, which clenches tight. Quirin has been gone for three months now. Quirin and Hector both were, on some quest for some- some flower, or something, he doesn’t know, doesn’t remember. Doesn’t care to try. His hands begin to shake as he unwraps the sash, afraid he already knows what’s inside and- and- and-
The sheath is simple, leather with steel forged around its edges. Three metal buttons line down the center, leading up to a simply, sloppily stitched ‘Q’.
A knife. It’s his father’s knife.
“This belongs to you.”
Varian drops to his knees,
and screams.
-
Varian is just fourteen when he realizes his father is a man who can die.
-
“Varian?” Asks Horace from the other side of the door. Quirin’s service has long since passed. His son, his living, breathing son, skipped the dinner afterwards, electing instead to curl up in his bed, still fully dressed in his puffy black shirt and his stuffy black pants with a single teal broach pressed onto his breast. His hair was still freshly shorn. He’d done it himself with his- Quirin’s- the knife. When Horace knocks again, he doesn’t answer.
Not taking the hint, it seems, Horace opens the door.
“Varian…” He tries, and Varian hates it, hates it, hates it. “...I didn’t see you at dinner.” He says. “I understand if you don’t- if you don’t feel like eating right now, but, well…” He pads a bit further into the room, and Varian can smell something like stew coming from where the prince stands behind him. It makes his stomach swirl and growl at the same time, like his body can’t make up its mind. He doesn’t blame it. Neither can he.
“I wanted you to have the option, if you needed to.”
Horace lingers behind him, and Varian refuses to move. Even if he wanted to speak, there’s nothing to say. Except…Maybe.
“Thank you.” He whispers, throat raw from tears and unuse.
“Of course.” The prince says. Varian expects him to leave then, to shut the door and let him sit in the dark. Horace, for all he was a good friend, had never been good with emotions. It shines through in the way he talks to Varian. He sounds…Small. Varian’s eyes screwed shut, brimming with tears. That wasn’t right. Horace was…Loud, confident, took up all the space in a room and knew how to make it work for him. He didn’t like this shadow standing idly behind him, watching him in mixed helplessness and sympathy or pity or whatever it was- anger twisted in Varian’s gut. Why was he still here, anyway? What did he think he was trying to do?
Deep down, Varian knew this was unfair. That it wasn’t Horace he was angry with.
But every second the older man lingered sparked a flare of irritation in his chest.
Varian felt the bed dip on the side facing the door. Tangled in his sheets, his hands curled into fists.
“If you want, I can maybe…stay with you a bit?”
Varian did not want. Varian wanted to scream, and thrash, and throw something- abruptly, his stomach churned and growled again -and suddenly he wanted to cry into Horace’s chest, wrap his arms around his friend until he cried himself out and couldn’t cry anymore.
What a mess.
“Prince Horace?” Varian says, and can’t keep the angerdesperationloneliness out of his voice.
“Yes?” Horace asks, perking up a bit. Eager to please, like a puppy.
Varian’s stomach settles on nausea.
“Get out.”
-
Three months have passed. He’s out of bed more, these days. Rolls out around noon and treads the castle grounds. King Edmund and Queen Helena had both insisted on him living there, now, instead of the house that was too big and empty and too small and suffocating. He supposes it’s not so bad, not always. The tinted glass in a rare window makes everything feel so dreamlike, it’s easy to lose himself in its haze.
He doesn’t see much of Prince Horace anymore. Something about court, something about duty, something about suitors. He doesn’t really pay attention. Instead, he trails through the castle gardens as he does now- despite the rock issue, there were some areas able to be preserved through extreme dedication -to wander and, if he felt up to it, to observe. The head gardener, a small woman with tanned skin and bright frizzy red hair named Avaline, would indulge him, let him take notes on the flora. On good days, his best days, where he feels like nothing has happened at all (of which thus far he has had less than a handful) he would joke about taking some for experimentation, and she would rib right back that she’d have his head hunted for the offense.
But today is not one of those days. And instead, he sits on a fountain ledge, staring at a carefully maintained bush of lavender flowers.
“Varian?” Calls a voice that makes him jump. With wide eyes, he turns to face Queen Helena herself standing regally in the opening of the round. Her head was held high on broad shoulders, though her expression was one of muted surprise.
Immediately, Varian jumped off the fountain ledge. Lost as he may have been in his head, one does not simply ignore the queen of his own kingdom, and he was in no rush to be labeled ungrateful. “Your Majesty-!” He yelped, moving to kneel, but she waved her hand dismissively.
“No need.” She said simply. His confusion must’ve shown on his face, because she followed it with, “You are a son of my friend, and a friend of my son. Formalities have little place here. May I sit?” She asks, gesturing to where he had been sitting. And of course, he nods.
With a grateful nod, she crossed the walkway, seeming to glide as she did. She looked at him expectantly when she sat. At his reluctance, she made a face that frighteningly resembled Horace’s expressions of fond exasperation, and patted the stone next to her. Taking the hint, he sat, rigid and bewildered.
What was this? He wanted to ask. What was even happening? For all his getaways to the gardens, he’d never once seen either royal parent- and Horace had only ever entered looking for either Varian or a rose to steal for a pretty lord or lady. So to have the Queen herself here, beside him, looking to talk to him… It was nothing short of surreal. Mind boggling.
The silence remained tense on Varian’s end. No, he knew why she was here. She could only want to ask about his distance with Horace, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to- in fact, no, he was sure he wasn’t ready to-
“Your hair is growing.” She says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
…What?
“I-” He says, ready to question her, before he thinks better of it. “I…Guess, yeah.”
“Do you feel yourself growing with it?”
Varian’s shoulders quiver as he unconsciously raises his hand to toy with the disheveled strands. They were mismatched lengths, some sections longer than others, now steadily healing from the knife’s assault after his father’s funeral. He opens his mouth once, closes it, and opens it again.
“I..I don’t know.”
Queen Helena looks thoughtful and turns to face him. “Varian, do you know why we cut our hair?”
“To- to grieve.” He says. She lets out a small hum.
“Not quite.” She says. “It’s what we do when we grieve, because of why we do it.” She reaches out slowly and gently to arrange Varian’s hair, and, shocked still, he allows it. She continues. As her hands brush against his head, she says, “This is a part of you. A physical part of you. It grows as you. It is a physical embodiment of your history.” She tucks some hacked strands behind his ear. “Sometimes, stories change. Our hearts change. Our choices change. And when that change comes-” She pushes his bangs back. “-We start anew.”
Finally, her hands drop, and she gives a strong nod of approval at her work. Curiously, Varian turns to the fountain to face his reflection.
He stares back at himself with wide blue eyes. The messy, uneven strands are now carefully arranged, pushed behind his ears and his bangs loosely pushed back, revealing more of his freckled face than he’d ever liked on display. But it looked…Good. Despite the uneven cuts made out of grief-stricken agony, it looked good.
“It is alright if you feel no changes yet.” She explains. “You’ve only just begun to grow. But,” she breathed, “you are growing. You are always growing. Just watch for it, embrace it’s new path- you will see.”
He turned to look at her, her face turned into a warm smile. But as she met his eyes, it fell, slowly, almost into something curious and…sad.
“You have your mother’s eyes. Did you know that?” She breathes quietly.
It makes his spine tingle with something cold as his breath catches.
Just like that, the strange expression is gone, replaced with a soft laugh. “Oh, excuse me. I must not be myself.” She says, standing. As she begins to walk back towards where she came from, Varian finds his voice.
“Your Majesty!” He calls, and she stops.
With that as his only invitation, he continues. “I…Thank you. For everything.” The room, the gardens, the talk- his hair- it was only right.
She looks at him over her shoulder, smiling. “Of course. You are a friend of my son, and a son of my friend.” She repeats. “They both only wish you well.” With a bit of pause, she adds, almost teasingly, “Darius wouldn’t have allowed me to send you anywhere else. He and Selena are too excited for their future royal scientist to join their...misadventures.”
With not much else, she disappears into the hedges.
Bewildered by her teasing, he almost misses the prickling feeling of discomfort stabbing at his chest.
-
He’s awake late that night, staring down two lone objects atop his nightstand.
His mother’s goggles, the ones he’d worn since he was seven, the only artifact of her he had left, and his father’s knife tucked safely inside it’s sheath. Discomfort prickles in his fingers again, and he reaches up to smooth a hand through his hair.
“You are always growing. Just watch for it, embrace it’s new path- you will see.”
With trembling figures, he embraces the path his heart shows to him. It’s only right.
He picks up his mother’s goggles, feeling the familiar brass between his fingertips-
-and places them in the nightstand drawer, safely tucking them away to stay.
In the morning, he would take the knife to Adira and Hector. In the morning, he would ask for their blessings, would ask them to present him to the king as a Brother worth training. In the morning, he would make that fight.
But for now, he runs his fingertips against the spine of the sheath, and embraces the strange, jagged, messy new way his hair grows.
-
Varian brushes the soft brown fur with shaking fingers. He knows he can’t put it off forever- but the thought does nothing to squash the rolling anxiety in his gut. The vest he holds isn’t his, never would be, much like the knife now attached to his belt. Unlike the knife, though, this was different. Unlike the cold, dead metal, the bear fur managed to retain his dad’s smell three long years later, having been preserved in a box with the rest of the belongings Varian couldn’t bear to let go of just yet. Memories flooded behind his eyes just at the smell, warm, bright, and so far away-
-Dad had a garden he would tend to, at the old house. He always said it kept him human despite it all. The way the lilies would bloom in the summer always made him perk up with pride-
-The house itself, well-loved and decorated, something like leather and polish and, somewhere near the basement, something sharp and undeniably chemical-
-Pumpkin stew in the fall, they’d make it in the pumpkin itself, and would make enough to feed their neighbors. Varian would always make a face at the beets that his dad would laugh at, telling him that the roots might finally kick him into his growth spurt-
-Varian hugs the fur vest to his face, burying himself in the memories he had left.
Shame suddenly overtook him. He was older, now, a trained soldier and almost a true knight. Three and a half years had been enough time to pull himself together for this, and here he was, acting like a child. He turns to look at the mirror again. He could do this. It was just a vest- just a vest, just a few memories, just one night. At the end of the night he could put it back in the box and safely tuck it away forever.
With a shaky breath, he undoes the modifying clasp holding it together and slides it over his black dress shirt and teal vest. He redoes the clasp, adjusting it on his shoulders, and…shivers.
He first notices that it’s big on him. Very, very big. This…makes sense, he knows, and it almost makes him laugh. He’d always been told he had more of his mother’s physique, and even now, fully grown, it drapes over him like an oversized blanket. It’s warm, too. It still smells like home.
It’s then that the door opens, and in the mirror’s reflection, Varian watches Prince Horace sheepishly raise a hand to knock. After opening the door. He rolls his eyes.
Typical.
“Hey.” The prince says, waving away a pair of guards tailing him before stepping in and closing the door, without even a hint of an invitation. Typical, typical, typical, Horace. “I, uh…Heard it’s a pretty special day today. Initiation’s a pretty big deal.” He says with a lighthearted shrug of his large shoulders.
Varian nods. “So it is, Your Highness.”
Horace seems to deflate a bit, his celebratory facade crumbling quickly. It was the title that upset him, Varian knows, but what is he supposed to do? He’s a knight now, or at least almost is, he can’t just call the prince by name anymore. Especially if he was to be his personal bodyguard. They weren’t kids anymore- though, Varian thinks, Horace didn’t seem to care much for that fact. If anything, he acts more like a child than Varian does, even a whole decade older. Honestly, Varian thinks as he reaches to adjust his ruffled ascot. Typical.
“Do you need anything, Your Highness?” he asks briskly, trying to ignore how much he looks like a child in his father’s uniform. Trying to ignore how much he really was.
Horace perked right back up at that. “Actually,” he says. “I came to ask you that!”
Varian stops suddenly. “...I’m sorry?”
“I offered to help with your preparations in Hector’s place!” He says cheerfully, casually leaning back against Varian’s wall. “Honestly, I thought you’d appreciate the change in pace. Hector can be so…” He pauses. “...Hector.”
Something ugly flares in Varian’s stomach. It’s icy and curdled and reminds him of a time when he was still drowning in grief, pushing away Horace’s gentle hands and reassurances. He shoves it away. It wasn’t fair to Horace then, he knew, and it especially wasn’t now. He was grown. He had to act like it.
But maybe if he hadn’t pushed so hard-
“...I suppose I do.” Varian says, turning back to the mirror and struggling with the ascot. It wasn’t a complete lie, either. He loves his uncle, really, he does, but the man could be so intense. “...Thanks.” He says, giving Horace a small smile.
The prince absolutely beams right back at him. Then, his eyes follow Varian’s hands to the frumpled tie at his neck. Horace gives a little laugh, pushing off the wall.
“Let me help.” He says softly, extending a hand to the younger. Varian eyes it suspiciously.
“...I’m not a child, I can do it.” He insists.
Horace clicks his tongue. “Technically,” he says with a smirk, “You literally still are until the moonrise chime.” He teasingly flicks at Varian’s forehead, narrowly missing his slicked back hair. Varian squawks in a very sophisticated manner, thanks, and it only makes the prince laugh again.
“Well,” Varian spits. “Time is relative. I’m seventeen, it’s the day before my birthday, I’m pretty much eighteen, therefore, I’m technically an adult.”
“Ah, except,” Horace tuts, “That means that when you’re eighteen, you’ll pretty much still be seventeen, which means you’ll pretty much still be a child.” He winks. “Had the same conversation on my coronation day, kid. Adira gave me the whole run-around.” He extends his hand again in a friendly gesture.
Varian does not pout. He doesn’t.
He definitely does.
Reluctantly, he turns to face the older man, lifting his chin to give the prince some space.
“Attaboy!” Horace says, and it almost makes Varian smile. A pang of guilt hits him square in the chest as he starts adjusting Varian’s work. “Ah, see,” he says, “you got this part tucked all wrong.” But Varian isn’t paying attention.
A part of him misses Horace, he realizes. And he was the one who put this distance there in the first place. And the worst part is, he wasn’t sure he could fix it, now. Not after his initiation. Not after he was sworn to the crown- a friendship built on life’s service didn’t seem like much of a proper friendship at all.
If Horace had just- let Varian keep to himself-
“Et voila!” Horace says with a flourish, gesturing to the mirror.. “All fixed.”
Pulled from his thoughts, Varian follows Horace’s eyes to the mirror. It does look much better. Gently, he raises a hand to touch it, running his fingertips over the thin fabric. The room goes quiet over them. Varian looks himself over again in the mirror, eyes boring into the reflection. He bites the inside of his lip.
"...Horace?" Varian asks softly. So softly, he might've whispered it. The tone shift must startle the prince; he looks surprised, then bewildered, then...concerned.
"...Yes, Varian?" He can hear the way Horace's voice shakes.
I'm scared. He wants to say. Do you think he'd be proud of me?
Are you proud of me?
But instead he breathes deep. Just like Adira showed him a million times, letting it fill his lower belly with a sense of calm. Sturdy once more, he gives his friend a smile.
"Thanks for the help."
Horace falters. Varian doesn't like the strange and desperate look that passes his face before he fixes it into an easy smile. "Of course." He says, tone light again. He reaches out to ruffle Varian's hair, then hovers a moment before placing it on his shoulder instead. His touch burns through the bear skin vest. "I'm…I’m happy to help. And I’m really glad you’re doing this, kid.”
The smile falls into something easy and real. They fall into another comfortable silence. He lets himself have this, even if it hurts.
A bell chimes in the distance. Varian pulls his hands together nervously, toying with the chain of the silver ring bracelet. “I..I guess that’s my cue.”
Horace gives him a small smile. “I guess so.”
He holds out a supportive hand, offering. Asking. Varian takes it. With another deep breath, he relaxes.
Tonight would be just fine.
-
“And do you, Varian, Son of Quirin, marked by the light of the waxing gibbous, swear your sword, your head, and your heart, to serve and protect our crown and moon?”
“I do.”
-
One day at the age of fourteen, his world fell apart.
Now eighteen, Varian vows to put it back together.