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The first thing Varian sees when he opens his eyes is a scroll. Not the one he found in his dad’s room, that speaks of the Sundrop and black rocks, that the men in red are so interested in. No, it’s a random scroll with some calculations for a formula scribbled on it; the ink is even a little smudged where his head has been resting on it, as though he dozed off while working before it could dry.
Varian sits up, a blanket slides off his shoulders in the process and covers Ruddiger, who’s still sleeping peacefully behind him on the chair. Carefully, as to not wake his raccoon friend, Varian stands up, and somehow, his brain only now registers the situation.
He’s in his lab. That much isn’t strange; if Varian had to guess, he’d say he spends more time there than in any other place. Still, something feels… off, but even as he looks around, he can’t pin down what it is that’s different. He’s fallen asleep here plenty of times before, if anything, the only unusual thing is that his body doesn’t ache even a bit. It feels unusually light, in fact, but all in all, it’s not enough to be suspicious.
Varian stretches, yawning as he turns to leave his lab. The sun outside is bright, but even though he just woke up, it doesn’t hurt his eyes. It feels good, actually, as though it’s the first time in a while that he gets to enjoy the sunlight. How long has he been working down there? Varian briefly tries to think back, only to realise he doesn’t remember; the greatest part of him doesn’t really care either, though. Instead he decides he might as well go for a walk, for no reason in particular. Simply because there’s nothing stopping him.
Moving his legs feels nice. The air is warm, everything looks so bright. Varian finds himself admiring his surroundings as though he’s never been here before, which is silly, of course. He’s lived here all his life, he could navigate through the village with his eyes closed (which he doesn’t, because Old Corona looks beautiful in the morning sun and he’s too busy etching the sight in his mind). The path to the orchard is over there, the other turn leads down to the river. Two bay horses are grazing in the pasture. Dad is working in the field, but he pauses when Varian approaches him, turning around with a faint smile on his lips.
W-wait, that doesn't make sense. There is the amber, and- and last time he remembers, Dad was still encased in it. Varian tries to think back; did Rapunzel’s hair break the amber? Is his memory incorrect, or was everything just a bad dream after all?
He shakes off these thoughts before he arrives at a conclusion, because it doesn’t matter. Dad is here, and for once, Varian doesn’t care about the why.
“Dad!“ He runs towards his dad like he hasn’t done since he was a little child, practically leaps at him and would have probably knocked him off his feet if he wasn’t about half his size and weight. Dad takes a step backwards, maybe from the impact, maybe out of surprise, but he returns the hug as Varian clasps him in his arms, feeling like his heart might just explode with relief. “Dad! You- you’re alive!“
(He’s known, of course, the amber wouldn’t kill Quirin, he’s known, but now that he’s seeing him alive and healthy, maybe he can admit that-) he thought he’d never get to hug him again.
“Varian?“ Dad sounds surprised, confused, a little concerned even, but all Varian cares about is that he’s hearing his voice, that his dad is alive and talking and moving and here, with him. “Are you alright?“
“Y-yeah.“ Varian’s voice is trembling, in sync with his shaky nod. Usually, that’d probably indicate he’s lying, but he doesn’t have it in him to care right now; he means it with his whole heart, and something inside him is certain that Dad knows. “Yeah, I’m- I’ve-“ that’s where he gives up on trying to explain and simply squeezes his eyes shut, hugging Dad a little more tightly. “I love you, Dad,“ he whispers into the fabric of Quirin’s clothes instead, and he doesn’t even care that his voice is cracking. He’ll say it a thousand times more; he’s just so glad Dad is here, that he can feel his warmth and his heart beating and his arms cradling him as he replies. “I love you too, Varian.“
Apparently, that’s enough to break Varian. He sobs, actually sobs out of sheer relief and happiness. Dad is here. Everything is alright for the first time in so long, and it feels like all the despair that’s built up inside him is finally taken off his chest and he can breathe again.
“It’s okay, son.“ Dad brings up a hand to Varian’s head, gently ruffling his hair, and Varian interrupts the hug to lean into his touch. Before the amber, he disliked it when his dad would do this- he’s not a child anymore, come on- but after getting confronted with the possibility of never experiencing it again, he could spend hours like this.
He looks up at Dad with wide eyes that are shimmering with tears and hope and joy, eagerly waiting for him to speak up again, because he has a feeling what’s left that his dad wants to tell him; I’m proud of you. Not that Varian has done anything in particular to earn these words, but with the way his heart is beating in his chest like it’s about to burst and the warm bliss hanging in the air between them and all the love in Dad’s expression, it just seems like the only logical thing to say.
Quirin’s smile softens as his hand gently slides down Varian’s head to rest on his shoulder. His voice is as soft as before. “I forgive you.“
And at once, Varian’s entire world turns cold.
His eyes widen, his feet take a step backwards, away from his dad, without his doing or his permission. Quirin doesn’t seem to care, he doesn’t move, nor does his smile or the warm shine in his eyes fade. Just a second ago, seeing this would have been enough to soothe Varian on its own, but now it only sharpens the icy crystals in his veins, because that expression shouldn’t be going along with these words.
Why would Dad forgive him?
Okay, Varian has- if Varian had listened to him about the black rocks, none of this would have happened, so maybe that much was his fault, but he was just trying to help, someone had to do it! Rapunzel is the one who broke her promise and refused to come with him, she’s the reason his dad was encased, and hasn’t he done everything in his power to try and fix the consequences of her betrayal? He tried so hard, he- he used the princess to steal a national treasure, he declared war on the whole kingdom, he kidnapped and threatened the queen to blackmail the royal family, and- yes, he failed, but it wasn’t his fault, it was all-
Varian runs out of air, he coughs, only realising that he’s said all of this out loud when the ringing in his ears stops as he tries to catch his breath. It certainly explains why his mouth is so dry, why his throat is burning, why his heart is racing. He has never spelled out all his crimes like that before (fine, not that these are all his crimes, but like, it’s a pretty solid list to get started with), not even when they tried preparing him for his trial, and only as he looks up at Dad again, the thought that perhaps this isn’t something to be proud of brushes his mind.
“Oh, Varian.“ Quirin’s expression is sunken, there’s nothing left of the soft fondness from before; it almost reminds Varian of the way his dad would look at him after another experiment that got a little too close to destroying himself, their house, or in the most extreme cases, their whole village. It’s his tone that doesn’t match, because there’s no disappointment, no anger, just something Varian can only identify as sadness.
“N-no, you- you don’t understand, I-“ Varian stutters, his voice is trembling with desperation. So maybe he was the villain, maybe he even enjoyed it to be the one in control, to be heard for once, but that doesn’t mean he was in the wrong. It wasn’t his fault, he was trying to fix everything, but if Dad doesn’t believe him, then none of that matters. They can execute him for all he cares, but the thought of Dad seeing him as the one responsible for all of this, as the one who needs his forgiveness, fills Varian with more dread than anything else. “I did this for you, Dad, I was trying to help, it’s not-“
“That’s enough, Varian.“ Dad cuts him off, and all of Varian’s feeble excuses die down at once. He wasn’t even speaking loudly; Quirin rarely actually raises his voice at him, possibly because they both know that if Varian is willing to listen (and if he isn’t, yelling isn’t going to change that either), this firm tone is all it takes, just like it is now. “Let’s not speak of this again.“ (Varian knows what these words mean, he’s heard them often enough- hide it, burn it, bury it and Varian’s feelings along with it, close the lid shut on another bottle of secrets and toss it on the let’s-not-speak-of-this-again pile, to all of Varian’s failed experiments, to the black rocks, to Ulla; and usually, that’d send a wave of angry frustration surge through his body, but now it barely brushes his mind.)
“But…“ This time, Varian’s voice fades away all on its own, without Quirin interrupting or Varian choking on his words. The cold around him has settled inside him; it’s as though it’s ripped out his heart to replace it with a dark, frigid void of dread and despair. He takes a step backwards, one of his legs give in and he loses his balance, but he doesn’t hit the ground- he just keeps falling, and can do nothing but watch as the sky, Old Corona, and finally Dad’s face is swallowed by darkness.
The first thing Varian sees when he opens his eyes is a dark grey wall, just inches away from his face. For a moment of blissful numbness, it’s all his mind registers, before his other senses catch up to him. He’s lying down on something hard. A breeze blows through the window, cold is seeping through his clothes and deep into his body. He’s back in his prison cell.
So that was a dream. Which makes a lot of sense. Of course he wouldn’t just magically wake up in his lab one day, and even if he did, his dad wouldn’t be here to greet him. And hypothetically, if he were to indulge in the fantasy because Corona has a life-saving flower that gave its princess magic indestructible hair and apparently control over the black rocks that ruined Varian’s life (honestly, he doesn’t quite understand how that worked, but he’s been too hung up on the utter irony of it for his scientific curiosity to switch on), so why wouldn’t this damned world be on his side for a change- even if it had been real, Dad wouldn’t… he wouldn’t say that, right?
Varian bites his lip as he feels pressure building up behind his eyes upon that thought. Prison is an awful place for a crying fit, he learned that the hard way on his second day. The guards don’t offer any kind of sympathy in such situations, much unlike his weird cellmate who has shown an interest in getting to know him better for some reason, to Varian’s dismay. (Usually, he would have jumped at the opportunity to make a friend who’s interested in learning about his alchemy- he even used the term science, not magic!- but he didn’t go to prison hoping to bond with the next-best criminal. Besides that, in light of how his last friendships ended, he decided he’s done with this stuff as a whole.) Either way, attracting anyone’s attention is the last thing Varian wants right now.
So instead, he closes his eyes shut and reaches out hoping to feel Ruddiger’s warm fur next to him, but all his hand grasps is the thin blanket that barely provides any warmth, let alone comfort.
The greatest part of him isn’t even surprised, but it doesn’t help the overwhelming emptiness, the loneliness welling up inside him. Ruddiger doesn’t usually stay here for the whole night; the guards mostly let him come and go as he pleases, and Varian is eternally grateful for it. It wouldn’t feel right to keep his only friend trapped here, without access to sunlight or apples or more than a few meters to move. Ruddiger would lose his mind in this place if he couldn’t leave every now and then. Varian can barely stand it, and he’s- (he doesn’t finish that thought, blocking out any impulses about whatever he is, and it leaves behind nothing but a stinging unease in his chest).
But it also means that sometimes he isn’t here when Varian needs him the most. Times like right now.
Varian purses his lips together, pushes the blanket away and sits up against the wall, hugging his legs close to his body like having something to wrap his arms around will do anything to make him feel less alone. It doesn’t help that the only noise around him is the snoring of the other inmates, not even guards are chatting outside the door. Hearing a human voice would probably ease the weight on his chest already. Although, Varian would be happy with anything else at that point.
Because that’s the thing about prison, it’s boring. There’s nothing meaningful to do. Varian doesn’t even know how long he’s been here because nothing ever changes; it’s always the same people, the same food, the same bars. He’s found that the hardest part to adjust to so far, no less because his dad still needs him, and he’s quite literally stuck here doing nothing.
That is, nothing but let his thoughts spiral. His mind and intellect are used to a lot more stimulation than prison has to offer, so now it feels like his brain is running overtime just to compensate for that. Maybe that’s the whole idea, maybe he’s simply made sit in a corner to think about what he has done or something like that, except that the corner is a cell he’ll spend the rest of his life in, if half of the guards have a say in it (or until he is executed, if the other half of the guards has a say in it, but Varian supposes that still means he’ll spend the rest of his life here). Joke’s on them, though, because giving Varian room to wallow in his own thoughts only reinforced what he already knows. It wasn’t his fault. If he’s spent so many hours analysing everything that happened since the black rocks started getting out of control, and keeps arriving at that conclusion, then it must be correct. That’s perfectly logical, and Varian has used that thought to reassure himself of it.
He’s starting to wonder if that had side effects.
I forgive you. Those weren’t Dad’s actual words- it was a dream, a fantasy split apart from any sort of reality, but even so, the deep naturalness that echoed in his voice is heavy enough to crush something inside Varian.
Is it true? Varian isn’t stupid- he was perfectly aware he was taking the position of the bad guy, but that wasn’t a decision he made just for the fun of it. They forced him into it, no one cared about what was happening in Old Corona, the princess broke her promise and refused to help him (the princess is the reason his dad was encased, that was all her fault), no one bothered to help him try to save Dad, or later defend himself and his dad’s belongings against the men in red- what choice did Varian have? He tried asking nicely, waiting, asking a little less nicely, doing whatever he was told, but not a single one of his so-called friends cared to listen until he turned to villainy. He did what he had to do, and he did it for Dad, so why-
So why does it hurt so much to wonder what Dad would think if he could see Varian right now? Curled in on himself in a prison cell, fighting back tears over a bad dream, and with no hope of anything getting better anytime soon, or ever again. He was in the right, he knows that, he- he has to believe that he knows, because once he lets go of that, what’s left for him? To acknowledge that this place is where he belongs, that he’ll really have to ask for Dad’s forgiveness when- if- he sees him again, and Quirin probably won’t offer it as freely as he did in the dream? That he has to stop trying to pin the blame on anybody else, when apparently deep down, he knows who really is at fault?
Varian winces, more because of the thought that cuts deeper than any physical weapon could rather than the stinging pain he’s only becoming aware of now. His nails have left trails on his bare forearms- they wouldn’t let him keep his gloves, and sometimes, Varian still feels naked without them- irregular lines painted with blood. Burning, acidic sickness bubbles up in his throat, but it’s almost scary how easy it is to swallow it down. Part of him wants to believe it’s just because he can’t see the blood properly in the bad lighting of the cell, but the truth is probably closer to the fact that he’s had plenty of opportunities to get used to it lately. Progress! In the wrong direction, but nonetheless.
Something inside Varian twists, he hugs his legs closer to his body like it’d give him any warmth or comfort or whatever he’s looking for. Who is he fooling? It’s over. The princess has won, as long as he’s locked up in here, he has no chance of doing anything to help Dad, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to get out soon. He’s lost everything that ever was important to him, so why would he still care about such ridiculous successes?
He doesn’t, deep down he knows, and he’s starting to believe he has lost one too many parts of himself to still feel like a person.
Varian blinks; it doesn’t help, he can feel his eyes fill with tears. Great, he tried so hard to keep it together, but his mind always end up at the same points, and the pressure on his chest never went away. It never goes away, actually, and it’s just in moments like this that it gets heavy enough to suffocate him. Lowering his head deeper, Varian buries his face in his sleeves (he’s going to regret it, they’ll get soaked, cold, uncomfortable, but hey, at least he’ll be as miserable on the outside as he’s on the inside). At least it’s nighttime, that’s as much privacy as he gets in this place. Or that’s what he thinks until the first sob escapes his lips, echoing in the cell at a volume that’s almost enough to make him wince. He purses his lips, but the more he tries to hold it in, the harder the sobs seem to push.
He sounds so broken, and he hates himself for it. He’s supposed to be strong, resilient- invulnerable. He’s supposed to stand tall, above the tolls prison has on him, he’s supposed to give Dad a reason to be proud of him. He’s supposed to live up to the image he’s created of himself, so why does he feel so fragile?
His control over… everything in his life, actually, on top of himself, has worn so thin. Before prison, he could make something of his emotions, use his anger to fuel him and work towards fixing everything, but now he doesn’t have any sort of outlet anymore. He’s tried to shove them down instead, which worked for a while, then they only returned with more persistence.
And it’s exhausting.
Varian is so tired of it, of everything. In his fantasy, he’s one of his machines (an automaton, he’s decided, just to grant himself some irony that stings more than it soothes), cold and strong and unfeeling, and easy to switch off in an instant if you know how to do it. Yes, that’s it actually, he just wants all of this to end. He doesn’t want to feel. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to be here.
Maybe the right thing to do in this moment would be to call for the guards and openly admit to all his charges whether he actually committed them or not, plead guilty and accept his fate. He’s no expert on Coronan law, but he can do the maths of what his sentence is going to be. That is, his fastest and most secure bet at putting an end to this.
He toys with the thought, imagines himself getting up from his cot, walking to the door, imagines the feeling of the cold metal of the bars in hands as he calls out for a guard. He tries to give his legs the impulse to move, but the greatest part of him isn’t surprised when they refuse to. If he dies now, he’s taking his dad’s only hope of getting help down with him, and he can’t do that.
He can’t do anything, no matter how he tries to twist and turn the situation. Maybe that’s his true punishment, that he’s forced to sit here in inaction, except it’s once again his dad who has to bear the consequences of it. That’s Corona for you.
Varian huffs at the thought, or at least he tries to because all that comes out is another choked hiccup. His head is pounding, his eyes hurt, but his tears don’t seem to care for that. They keep falling even as he loses grasp at his own thoughts, the only thing he could still rely on. And he isn’t even surprised; it seems the parts of the person he used to be before the black rocks, the blizzard, the amber, the parts of that person that Varian hasn’t killed with his own hands will wither away in prison.
A noise from the other side of his cell interrupts his thoughts. Varian’s head jerks up before he’s even aware that his body is moving, which he regrets the second his mind catches up to the situation, because Andrew is sitting up and Varian has just ruined his chance at pretending he didn’t notice. It’s dark and his vision is blurry from tears, so he can’t see Andrew’s expression, but he can tell that his cellmate is looking at him. Great, that’s the last thing he needs right now; that’s his first thought at least, but he stops caring again almost as quickly. So what if Andrew is awake? It doesn’t mean Varian has to talk to him.
Unfortunately, Andrew doesn’t seem to share that opinion. “Quiet down a little, kid.“ Varian registers Andrew’s voice, but he doesn’t have the capacities to identify his tone, let alone what it means. Whether he’s annoyed, angry, concerned, and- why does it even matter? Why would he care what Andrew thinks? Neither of them is here together because they want to be, and Varian has no interest in forming any sort of connection. Andrew… exists, and as long as he leaves Varian alone, he can do what he wants. It’s none of his business. “You’re going to wake the whole block.“
Frankly, Varian could care less right now, but he bites down hard on his lip anyway. It stings at first, then fades into a dull throb that barely even reaches his consciousness. It helps, though, for about a few seconds where his sobs fade into sniffles; then his breath gets caught in his throat and shatters his control after all.
Not that it was Varian’s primary objective (or, like, an objective at all), but Andrew doesn’t seem impressed by his efforts. Because contrary to what Varian expected (and hoped), he doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he asks, “are you okay?“, which would be a stupid question even if Varian had any intentions of answering it truthfully.
He doesn’t want to talk. He tries to make that clear by shifting closer to the wall and turning away from Andrew in the process, but his body betrays him, another sob breaking past his pursed lips. Inhaling sharply, Varian hopes to collect himself with his next breath; he doesn’t, it gets stuck in his throat and he hiccups. His tears won’t stop spilling, it takes all the fragile self control he has left not to scream, to let himself fall apart for good. Because Andrew is right that he’ll wake everyone, and he’ll probably alert the guards, and Andrew is still looking at him, for some reason.
Given that they’re locked in a small cell together, there isn’t really anything Varian can do to hide from him; so lacking a better option, he buries his head in his arms again and tries to make himself as small as possible. It’s pathetic and only drives the glowing blade of self-loathing deeper into his chest, but he can’t bring himself to fight it right now. If he keeps ignoring him, maybe Andrew will just give up and go back to sleep.
There appears to be a major variable in this hypothesis that Varian hasn’t accounted for, however, because the next things he hears is footsteps, and then a quiet shuffling of his blanket as Andrew sits down next to him.
If he had the energy for it, Varian would lash out, push him away or at least leave, but all he can muster is his shoulders stiffening as he lowers his head a little deeper. Not that it’ll do anything; Andrew isn’t touching him, but he’s sitting close enough that Varian is sure he notices him shaking as he unsuccessfully tries to steady his breathing anyway.
“I know you don’t like me, but you won’t get anyone else in this place.“ Andrew leans back. His tone of voice is completely casual, almost friendly at that, but definitely too neutral to read any sort of malice into it. Or anything else, for that matter. “So I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for me for the time being.“
If Varian were in the condition to, he would have laughed. He doesn’t have to settle for anyone. He doesn’t want to talk about this- he doesn’t even want to think about it for any longer, and there’s nothing Andrew could offer him that could change his mind. Sweet, comforting words, pretty lies he can choose to believe in anyway? An embrace without any expectations, just letting himself be held?
Varian’s body tenses at the thought, but it’s causing him to curl in on himself, hugging himself a little more tightly. It doesn’t help the void in his chest; if anything, it tears it open wider, another sob shakes him. He must be looking utterly pitiful, he certainly feels like it, and quickly receives affirmation of it when Andrew puts his hand on his shoulder.
Varian wants to snap at him, he really does. He wants to get away from him, whatever that entails, switch off this whole pathetic display of despair at once and go back to coexisting with Andrew, where they only acknowledge each other’s existence if they absolutely have to.
But Andrew is so warm. Varian feels like he’s been freezing ever since he was incarcerated, a kind of cold on top of the one that’s seeped into every fiber of his being during the blizzard, and never really went away. He has gotten used to it, he has learned to live with it, or so he thought; because now, for the first time since then, he can feel the ice in his veins start to melt. It’s forming crystalline icicles in the process, surely sharp-edged enough to slice him open from the inside if he pulls away now, so every ounce of his being is screaming at him to give in, to allow the warmth to heal him, and his body leans a little closer to Andrew without his permission.
It’s a small shift, but Andrew seems to pick up on it, because he moves his hand over to Varian’s other shoulder; he gently brushes it across his back in the process and Varian whimpers. The shiver it sends down his spine makes him sick, it makes his skin prickle in a way that’s almost painful, and yet his body still seems to scream for more. He tries to suppress the impulse, but with every heartbeat his spirit gets taken over some more by Andrew’s touch, someone else is here with him someone is here for him it’s been solongpleasepleasepleasedon’ttakethisawayfromhim-
Varian opens his mouth, he doesn’t even know whether he wants to tell Andrew to get away from him or to beg him to stay, but it doesn’t matter, because the only thing he gets out is a shaky sob. Andrew responds by slowly rubbing his shoulder in a circular motion. It’s soothing, steady, and so comforting that something inside Varian breaks. He’s still hugging his legs to his body, which is the only thing that’s stopping him from sinking into the touch and burying himself in the embrace for good; it doesn’t stop him from shifting closer to him, though, hesitantly raising his head to rest it on Andrew’s chest. He can hear his heartbeat over his own crying; in fact, he can even feel a faint vibration as his cellmate speaks, softly, gently. “It’s okay, kid.“ And slowly, Andrew’s voice blends into his own thoughts. “It’s okay,“ he says. It’s okay.
There’s a part of Varian, a part he should probably pay more attention to, that tells him it’s not okay. His dad is still encased in the amber, and Varian, the only one who cared to try to save him, is miles away, trapped just like Dad is, except in a different place. Nonetheless a place that’s draining the life from him, and with each passing day, he feels as though he’s losing himself some more.
So maybe, maybe, he can allow himself to have this. If he goes mad in this place, it’s not going to help Dad either. It doesn’t mean he trusts Andrew- it doesn’t even mean he likes him, but his words seep into a part of Varian that’s been withered dry for… he doesn’t even know for how long. He doesn’t remember the last time someone spoke to him in such a gentle voice, the last time someone offered him pure, unfiltered comfort, and Varian’s psyche is begging him to let it absorb every last ounce of it.
Rationally, Varian can tell three things. One, giving in to this desperate plea is wrong, Andrew is not his friend and telling himself anything else is an utter disregard to his situation. Two, even so, he can’t keep going like this without risking losing his mind for good.
And three, no matter which of these points he should be listening to, he has run out of the strength to fight it.
Varian has barely finished that thought when he lets himself collapse, shift towards Andrew and bury his face in the fabric of his shirt. If Andrew cares that Varian is soaking it with tears and snot, he’s good at hiding it, or maybe it’s Varian who is long past paying attention to this sort of stuff. All he knows is that it’s muffling his sobs, and Andrew is rubbing soothing circles on his back, and his words still echo back inside Varian’s head.
It’s okay. He can’t tell if it’s Andrew anymore. It’s okay. If it’s his own thoughts. It’s okay. Or perhaps if it’s a whole different voice, one he’d give anything to hear just one more time, but it doesn’t matter. It’s okay. Because he’s starting to believe it, and the warmth it spreads in his body is so incredibly comforting. Varian doesn’t know when he last felt something like that, and if it’s Andrew who offers it, then maybe it’s not so bad to have him as a cellmate after all. It’s okay.
Varian’s breath hitches one last time, then he feels his body relax as he melts into Andrew’s embrace.
It’s okay.