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If there was one thing Fufucha understood, it was plants. From the moment she had been old enough to walk and talk, she had been fascinated by their ability to provide protection, sustenance, and even tell a story in their own subtle ways. She also knew all too well the potential danger nature could harbor – how the same tree that provided shade on a hot summer day could be transformed into a weapon of war.
Thus had Fufucha thrown herself fully into mastering the art of botany, dedicating many years of her life to ensuring the gifts of the forest were used to preserve life rather than take it. In time, her passion carried her to the rank of guildmaster, allowing her to become intimately acquainted with not just the plants under her care but also the people who frequented the Botanist’s Guild. She learned their names and their stories through the plants she provided them. She had learned that the way a person treated a plant could tell her far more about them than words ever could.
So when a young, harried Elezen man came striding through the Guild’s doors one afternoon, Fufucha was momentarily taken aback. She knew every person who frequented the Growery and yet this man was a stranger to her, though the bow and quiver on his back signaled he was one of Gridania’s many archers.
“I need the guildmaster,” the man said, looking around the guild almost frantically. “It’s an emergency.”
Fufucha regarded the young man for a moment, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the tight, strained line of his mouth. The man looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, a mixture of panic and urgency practically vibrating off him.
“That would be me,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m Guildmaster Fufucha. What sort of emergency would send a Quiverman to me rather than Guildmaster Beatin?”
“It’s these plants, you see,” the man said in a rushed voice, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I can’t crack what I’m doing wrong! I swear I’m doing all the same things he does, but the plants just keep looking worse and worse and he’s going to be so upset if they die, he’s so careful about ‘em, but I just can’t get it right–”
“Hold on a moment, lad,” Fufucha interrupted, raising her hands. “Take a breath and start from the beginning, you’re not making much sense. Why don’t you start with your name?”
The younger archer rubbed his hands over his face, pressing his palms against his eyes while he took a deep, steadying breath. He dropped his hands and looked right at Fufucha, the frantic panic that had been etched on his face when he entered the guild replaced with a deep sadness. .
“I’m Guydelot Thildonnet, formerly of the Gold Bulls,” he said. “Now I’m a bard in Captain Smyth’s bard unit.”
Fufucha’s face lit up at the Captain’s name. “Oh, you mean Sanson!” she said. Sanson was a frequent visitor to the Botanist Guild, his friendly face and warm smile lighting up the Growery every time he came to collect a new plant. She had spent many a bell chattering away with Sanson about the finer points of horticulture. “He’s always a dear when he comes in here. He likes to get a new plant everytime he wants to celebrate a big life achievement. Is he alright?”
Guydelot’s face somehow crumbled even more, causing an ice cold rock of dread to settle into Fufucha’s stomach. If something had happened to Sanson, she would be heartbroken.
“Not quite,” Guydelot said slowly, rubbing the back of his head. “I can’t go into the details, Adder business and all that, but he’s uh. He’s missing.”
“By the Twelve,” she said, placing her hand on her heart. “May Nophica guide him home safely.”
Guydelot crossed his arms and looked down at his feet. “He’s been gone for almost two weeks and I only remember the plants a few days ago. When I got to his home, they were in a sorry state – we’ve been away in Gyr Abania for some time, but he hadn’t thought we would be gone long enough to have someone check on them. I’ve tried everything I can to make them happy, but they’re only looking worse.”
“I see.” Fufucha said. She offered Guydelot a kind smile. “Those plants are very important to Sanson, so let’s see if we can’t get them looking better before he returns. Now, if memory serves, he has quite a few, so I think it would be best if I head over there and assess the situation myself. Just give me a moment please.”
She gathered up a few supplies in a basket while Guydelot fidgeted with a prickly succulent sitting on a shelf. The bard was a ball of nervous energy, moving from the succulent to fiddle with the stem of a particularly large pumpkin. As she filled her basket with different fertilizers and plant nutrients, she could see from the corner of her eye the way he kept flexing his free hand, squeezing into a tight fist before releasing it. The man was practically buzzing with energy, in desperate need to do something in his Captain’s absence.
They headed towards Sanson’s home in silence, Fufucha nearly having to jog to keep up with Guydelot’s long strides as he hurried along the path. She debated saying something, but then decided against it – Guydelot’s face was set in a determined scowl and Fufucha suspected having a mission, something to focus on that wasn’t whatever had befallen Sanson, was the only thing moving him forward.
When they arrived and entered Sanson’s small home (using a key that Guydelot produced from his pocket, Fufucha noted), she couldn’t help but smile as she entered, finding the quaint living space to be distinctly Sanson in nature. The living room was an organized chaos, cluttered but somehow orderly at the same time. There was a large bookshelf along one wall practically bursting with old books and journals. A desk near the window was piled high with papers and more tomes, a journal sitting open where its author had left it with a quill laying across its pages, as if he would be returning in just a moment to continue where he had left off.
There was a worn sofa with a thick, well-loved blanket draped across the back of it. In front of the sofa was a coffee table with two empty mugs placed between several loose papers bearing song notes and lyrics. A tome lay open on the table, turned upside down to hold its place. Glancing over the title, Fufucha realized with a fond smile it was a book about bards and battlesongs. The books weren’t what truly caught her attention though.
There were plants all over Sanson’s home. He had a large shelf across from his sofa stacked full of plants of all shapes and sizes. A long vine had wrapped itself around one of the posts, sneaking its way downwards. On his windowsill, there were fresh herbs and succulents in various colors. Sanson had managed to squeeze them onto his desk, onto the coffee table, and even had several large planters in the corners of the room.
When the plants were healthy, Fufucha had no doubt this home felt alive and filled with love. But Guydelot was right – the plants were in a sorry state. Many of their leaves were drooping, turning yellow and forming brown spots. Others had begun to lose their leaves entirely, littering the ground where they had fallen.
“Oh, poor dears,” Fufucha said, gently touching a particularly sad looking fern. “They’re missing their owner it seems.”
“I tried to fix them,” Guydelot said in a miserable voice. “I watered ‘em and gave them that plant food Sanson always gives them. But I’ve only managed to muck it up worse.”
“Hmm, well they’re not beyond hope just yet,” Fufucha said, examining the cactus on the desk. “I think we can save most of them still, don’t you worry about that.”
Guydelot moved slowly behind her, approaching the main shelf with all the plants on it. “Thank the Twelver for that,” he said in a quiet voice, stroking the leaves of one plant. “He’d nag my ear off if he came back and they had all died on my watch.”
Fufucha glanced over her shoulder at him, noticing the sad, fond look on his face. She had seen that look before on many a forlorn lover who had wandered into her guild, searching for a plant to impress their sweetheart with.
“The two of you must know each other quite well,” she said softly. “I didn’t think of it at the time, but now I remember him talking about you last time he stopped by the guild. He was very excited about his new bard unit being approved and couldn’t stop talking about how excited he was to be working with you. About how talented you are.”
“Aye, that sounds like him,” Guydelot said, a small smile on his face. He picked up a large bamboo plant from the shelf, turning to face Fufucha. “He got this plant when the bard unit was approved. I made a joke about it looking like a pile of sticks but he said–” Guydelot’s voice broke for a moment as he stared down at the yellowing bamboo plant. Fufucha could see the pot shaking slightly in his hands. “He said it was lucky. That it represented good things for the bard unit.”
Fufucha’s heart ached with sympathy as he carefully placed the plant back on its shelf. Guydelot pointed at a different plant and said, “That one there, he got that one after we got back from our first mission together.” He picked up another dying plant and said, “This one is from when he got promoted to Captain in the Adder. He’s really proud of this one.”
She watched as Guydelot went around the room, pointing out the different plants and explaining to her what each one of them meant to Sanson. Without seeming to realize it, Guydelot painted a beautiful story of the man Sanson was – someone who worked hard for everything he had, who loved with all his heart, and who strove to make the world around him a better place in whatever small ways he could. A man whose prolonged absence was clearly taking a toll on more than just the plants he cared for.
“And this one,” Guydelot said, pausing at the desk Fufucha was standing beside. He took the potted cactus that was sitting there in his hands gingerly, almost reverently. “This one he got when we…well, he said it reminded him of me.”
The cactus was a lovely little thing, the main body a shade of green that nearly matched the color of Guydelot’s coat. There was a bright pink flower on the top that had just begun to bloom above the long white spines that jutted out from all over the plant.
“Prickly, yet beautiful,” Fufucha grinned. “A hearty plant that’s tough to kill. It’s easily in the best shape out of all the plants here.”
“He was being cheeky ,” Guydelot said with a huff. He was smiling though. “He said even though we sometimes still poke and prod at each other, what we’re creating together with the bard unit is…is…”
Fufucha blinked, realizing the plant in Guydelot’s hands was shaking. She looked up and was shocked to realize he was crying, large tears sneaking out from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks despite how hard he was trying to hold them back.
“It’s special,” Guydelot continued, voice rough as he raised his arm to wipe at his face. “Like the flower on top of the cactus.”
“Oh dear,” Fufucha said, placing her on his leg and pushing him towards the sofa. “Come on, sit down and let it all out.”
Guydelot collapsed onto the couch and hunched over Sanson’s plant, cradling it in his arms as he fought to keep the tears at bay. Fufucha climbed up next and gently rubbed his arm, offering whatever comfort she could.
“It’s all my fault,” he mumbled, wiping at his face again. “We’re supposed to watch out for each other, have each other’s backs. But I let him go off on his own and he got kidnapped. I should have been there to protect him.”
Fufucha raised her eyebrows at the mention of kidnapping but didn’t press for details. She knew how the Twin Adder could be about these kinds of things. “I’m sure he doesn’t blame you for it,” she said instead, rubbing small circles onto his back. “I may not know Sanson as well as you do, but I imagine he would be devastated if anything had happened to you.”
“If he dies, it’s my fault,” Guydelot continued. His shoulders slumped, the guilt of the entire situation crushing down on him. “I let him down. And now I can’t even take care of his plants. They’re going to die too and that will be all my bloody fault as well.”
All the pieces clicked into place and Fufucha could finally see the whole picture. It was about more than just the plants. It was about Sanson, who had loved and cared for these pants and whose story could be told through their very existence. The plants dying were, for Guydelot at least, akin to losing Sanson himself. His frantic attempts to save Sanson’s plants and his inability to do so served as a stark reminder of how Guydelot had, in his own mind at least, failed the man clearly cared so deeply about.
Fufucah was no stranger to guilt. How long had she felt turmoil over the role her guild had played in the conflicts within the Twelveswood. She would have wallowed in that guilt for the rest of her life if a kind adventurer had not shown her a different picture.
“Now, now,” Fufucha said. “It’s not too late, for either the plants or Sanson. You can’t give up. We can fix this yet.”
Guydelot released a shaky sigh, shaking his head slightly. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean to fall to pieces. Don’t tell Sanson I did that, he’ll laugh at me.”
Fufucha chuckled. “Somehow, I doubt that,” she replied. “Now, as for the plants, it looks worse than it actually is for most of them. You’ve simply overwatered them. A common beginner’s mistake and one Sanson himself made plenty of times when he was first starting as a gardener.”
“Hells, I didn’t realize they could get too much water,” he sniffled, poking at the damp soil in the pot. “Suppose that makes sense though.”
Fufucha hopped off the couch and headed for the shelf, picking up two pots from the bottom. “We’ll put these outside so they can get some sunlight and the soil can dry up a bit. That should set them right. I also have a special fertilizer here we can put in some of the worst looking ones to revitalize the soil with nutrients. They’ll be looking nice and healthy again by the time you bring Sanson home.”
Guydelot followed her to the shelf and plucked a few pots from the top, holding them carefully in his arms. He seemed to have pulled himself together again, the desperation replaced with determination now that Fufucha had given him a path forward. She offered him a warm smile as she led the way outside.
“You know, some people say talking to plants can be good for them,” She informed him as they carefully set the plants down. “Have you tried talking to them at all? Oh, maybe you could try playing them a song!”
“I was too busy drowning them to think of that apparently,” Guydelot replied, a small smile playing at his lips. “Suppose it couldn’t hurt to try though.”
He held up the cactus and gave it a very serious look. “I’ll bring him home,” Guydelot told the plant. “I promise. He’ll be back before your soil is even dry.”
Fufucha gave him an approving smile and nod as he gingerly set the plant down. As they moved back towards the house, Guydelot cleared his throat and said, “Thanks by the way. For helping save the plants.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she replied, tilting her head way back to look up at him. Hells, he was tall. “Just bring Sanson back safe and I’ll consider it a debt repaid.”
Guydelot smiled back at her. He still looked exhausted, but she could see a glimmer of hope sparkling in his eyes. “When we get back, I’ll bring him to the Botanist’s Guild,” he said suddenly. “And I’ll help him pick out a new plant to celebrate the fact that he’s safe.”
“I think he would like that very much,” Fufucha said. A plant that represented the depths of Guydelot’s affections for Sanson. She couldn’t think of a better gift.