Work Text:
The cottage was dilapidated; far more than it should have been.
Castti had barely noticed the last time she was here. But now, standing before what was once her home with an unclouded mind, adrenaline no longer pumping through her veins, the scars the poison rain had left were obvious. In that way, the chipped paint and rotted wood of Haeleaks’ buildings were not so different from the purple blotches dotting her arms.
This place had been abandoned less than two years prior. But it might has well have been a lifetime ago.
The town was desolate, just as she’d expected. Pastures once filled with grazing cows and pigs, now overgrown. A horse stable, once housing Jeyah and his equine companions, now unoccupied. Fences falling over, footpaths in disrepair, and homes – once beloved and well-cared for – empty.
No one wanted to live among the ghosts.
A part of her wanted to cry for her herb garden, of all things. It was a silly impulse – out of everything she’d lost, that was by far the most easily replaced. She could grow new herbs whenever she wanted now, tend to a garden even larger if she wished. But she’d put so much effort and care into this tiny plot of land, cultivating the most difficult to acquire herbs for her little band of healers, that seeing it now, dusty and desolate and poisoned, cut like a scythe into her heart.
It wasn’t just the herbs. It was the memories they brought. Memories that had now returned to Castti in a bittersweet flood.
Sometimes, in her darkest moments, when she would lie awake unable to stop the tears, she wished they hadn’t.
But that was selfish. She needed to remember, and to hold those memories close.
She was the only one left who could.
Dropping to her knees in the dusty patch of dirt that had once nurtured her life-saving herbs, she remembered Elma’s laughter as Randy chased her with the watering can, threatening to drench her fiery, perfectly curled hair. She remembered Andy, rolling his eyes at his brother’s antics as he carefully hoed neat rows for the delicate plants. She even remembered Trousseau, before he was corrupted and twisted and filled with despair, carefully taking notes as Castti explained how to balance the nutrients in the soil.
Yes, she remembered all of them, this little band of misfits she called a family. But mostly, she remembered Malaya.
She remembered how Malaya’s tanned hands would dig confidently into the earth, and how she would teasingly remind Castti to wear her wide-brimmed hat, lest her own pale skin burn in the summer sun. She could almost feel how their shoulders would bump as they carefully tended to their tiny charges. And a part of her could still hear how Malaya, when she thought no one was watching, would tenderly sing to the plants, those charming folk songs in her smooth alto voice carried off by the gentle breeze.
That breeze, such a staple of their valley in the summer, tugged a loose hair from Castti’s bun, and she could almost imagine Malaya’s fingers in its place, carefully removing the pins from her hair before they settled down for the night.
It was like she was still with her.
It was like she was a lifetime away.
Tears sprang fresh and hot to Castti’s eyes now, and there was little she could do to hold them back. Sinking further into the ground as a sob tore through her, she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, a silent show of support as Osvald crouched next to the garden as well.
He had been the right choice of companion for this. Not that he’d left her with much of a choice.
She’d originally intended to return to Haeleaks alone, but that plan had been met with a resounding ‘no’ by the scholar as soon as she’d shared it. Despite her insistence that she would be fine, that he need not disrupt his new life with Elena so soon, he’d been resolute.
“You don’t yet know how hard this will be, Castti. I won’t get in your way, but you need someone there.”
He was right. She’d had no idea how hard this would be.
On that first return to Haeleaks, she’d been so consumed with horror at what had happened, and fear for what it meant for Timberain, that she’d barely had time to process her own grief. But now, with the threat neutralized and Timberian – not to mention all of Solistia – saved, she had nothing else to distract her from all she had lost.
And she’d lost so, so much.
Osvald’s fingers tightened on her shoulders, sturdy and steadfast, before his gruff voice brought her from her thoughts.
“Something’s growing.”
Following his line of sight, she gasped.
There, amongst the poisoned dirt and dead, twisted weeds, was a small patch of herbs.
It was clear they were struggling to survive. The plants were small, very small, and their leaves had taken on a sickly yellow hue. Herbs like these needed a nurturing hand, especially in suboptimal conditions, which she strongly expected the soil remained even years after the purple rain. But nonetheless, these tiny, stubborn, beautiful plants grew.
The herbs had yet to flower (perhaps they never would), but she’d recognize the shape of those leaves anywhere.
“Snowdrops.”
An unbroken bond.
For the first time since entering the town, Castti smiled through her tears.
The snowdrops gave Castti the strength she needed to stand, making her way towards the cottage’s front door with Osvald following her like a comforting shadow. But as her hand brushed the cool metal of the doorknob, she hesitated and looked up at her friend.
“Please don’t feel obligated to come inside with me,” she offered. “It might not be pretty.”
Osvald just shook his head. “You were there for me, when I returned to my home. I will do the same for you.”
“Very well.” She knew better than to argue as she twisted the handle and stepped inside.
The interior of the cottage looked considerably better than the outside. It made sense, she supposed – the poison rain would not have scarred the indoors. But it still felt unbearably lonely.
It didn’t look lived in. In Castti’s memories, the cottage was messy – six people living under one roof would do that. Randy and Malaya in particular had a tendency to leave their cloaks strewn across chairs and their boots in the entryway. Andy had a bad habit of never collecting his tea mugs, Elma procrastinated with the dishes on her nights to clean, and Trousseau frequently left books face down on the kitchen table, intending to pick up where he’d left off the next morning. But none of those signs of life were present now.
She supposed it made sense. All of them save Trousseau had just returned home when the poison rain started. And he’d known he would never be returning to the cottage to read.
Aside from the cobwebs and the dust, the cottage was perfectly neat.
Castti hated that.
With a deep sigh, she made her way to the kitchen. She’d come here to grieve, yes, but she also had another purpose. There were a few items of personal importance she wished to collect.
The first of those she found without trouble – it was right where she’d left it. A white sugar dish with a pattern of blue flowers and matching serving spoon, with a tiny chip in the lid.
“My grandmother’s,” she explained to Osvald, finding it less overwhelming if she filled the silence. “She raised me, you know, after my parents died. And she gave me this when I set out on my own, telling me that even a traveling apothecary needed to be a good host.”
Osvald looked hesitant for a moment, but eventually shared, “I found one of Rita’s teacups, after the fire. It has a chip in it too, but it’s… nice to have.”
Giving him an understanding smile, Castti nodded. He found a cloth, reaching for the sugar dish and wrapping it carefully before storing it in the empty bag slung over his shoulder.
“Thank you, Osvald.”
“Think nothing of it.”
But it wasn’t nothing. It mattered that he understood.
She collected a few other items. A children’s story book about an apothecary’s adventures she was fond of. Another, more serious medical anthology. A favored shawl in various tones of blue. Castti took her time in the communal spaces of the home, avoiding the private rooms of her fellow apothecaries. Those were spaces reserved for their families, if they so wished to visit.
Finally, she found herself outside the door to her own bedroom. The room she’d shared with Malaya.
Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle.
Much like the rest of the cottage, it was dusty yet neat. The bed was made, the wardrobe closed tightly, the desk empty save for a spare mortar and pestle. Cobwebs were thicker in the smaller space, and the air was damp and dank due to the closed windows and door.
She’d always found their room to be cozy. A place of peace. But now, it all felt wrong.
Everything felt wrong without her.
Castti found she did not wish to linger here, so she moved immediately towards the bedside table, where she knew Malaya’s sketchbook would rest. Flipping through the first few pages to ensure it hadn’t been damaged by the humidity, she found a drawing of herself and choked on another sob.
It was a little rough, clearly just a sketch that Malaya had never finished. But the look on her face was so soft, so unburdened, so clearly happy, that it took her breath away.
Malaya had always seen the best in her. And that still made Castti want to be better.
Ignoring the dust, she sat heavily on the bed as she allowed herself to cry for the future she’d lost. Soon, she felt the mattress dip beside her, and Osvald wrapped his large arm around her shoulders, awkwardly pulling her into a hug.
Eventually, her tears ran out, and she pulled back from Osvald, forcing herself not to apologize. Malaya was always telling her she was too quick to say sorry, and Osvald was her friend. He’d chosen to be here, knowing full well what that meant.
“She was talented,” Osvald offered kindly, gesturing to the sketch book.
“She was,” Castti agreed, handing it to him to store with her other precious items. She stood, making her way to the wardrobe. Despite not being entirely sure she wanted to talk, the words flowed from her lips. “Some of my memories have yet to return, you know. I don’t… I don’t recall how Malaya and I met.”
“Memory is a fickle thing,” Osvald agreed. “I find my memories of Rita becoming less clear over time, even as I try to…” He paused. “I’m sorry. That is not helpful.”
“It’s fine,” Castti assured him with a slight laugh. “It… helps this all feel a little more normal.” She found Malaya’s worn brown coat, handing it to Osvald. “I know that we loved one another, and I suppose that is enough.”
A few more of Castti’s personal items went into the bag, before she stood on her toes to reach the top shelf of the wardrobe, feeling blindly until her fingers brushed against a small leather bag.
Inside was a ring, a simple silver band housing a single sapphire. Just as she remembered.
“This was Malaya’s mother’s wedding ring,” she told Osvald, noting that he looked genuinely curious. “She… she gave it to me. Promised me that we’d grow old together.” Her voice broke around the lump in her throat, but the tears did not come. “I was terrified I would lose it while treating a patient, so I always left it here when we were traveling.”
“Wear it around your neck.”
The words were confident and blunt, in Osvald’s characteristic way, but also unexpected. Castti raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“The ring,” Osvald explained, tugging under his collar to reveal a simple golden band on a leather chord. “If you wear it around your neck, you won’t worry about losing it.”
Castti felt a single tear slide down her cheek, but she also couldn’t help but smile. “I think I will… Thank you, Osvald.” For now, she slipped the ring into her satchel. “There’s just one last thing I want to collect before we leave. But I might need a little help.”
Eventually, the two of them managed to break into the old gardener’s shed, finding a trowel and a couple small pots. Castti carefully dug up a few of the snowdrops from the herb garden, promising herself that she would find better soil for them as soon as they returned to Conning Creek. Osvald produced some chips of ice and melted them down into water for the tiny plants, taking one of the pots from Castti’s hands as they turned to leave Haeleaks behind.
Osvald waited for her at the edge of the road, but she paused. With one last glance towards the cottage, she whispered, “Rest well, my love.”
When the wind tangled in her hair once again, it sounded like Malaya’s song.