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“Varian of Old Corona,” Varian’s eyes opened slowly. His sight was blurred for the first couple of seconds, and it took them a minute to realise that they were looking down at their wrists, which were chained together. They lifted their head, confused and disorientated, and realised that they were on a raised platform, surrounded by a crowd. He was in Corona, he knew that much. He also knew some of the people in the crowds, though they couldn"t say they felt any fondness for them. Feldspar, the cobbler, Mrs Crowley, the cleaner, that woman with flowers in her hair, and so many others.
The thing that was the most familiar with, however, were the looks on their faces as they glowered at him. Their eyes were hard, unforgiving, smouldering with a cold fire from the deepest depths of hell. Some of their teeth were borne, as though they were wild animals, snarling at their prey, others had clenched jaws or faint smiles. They all looked…satisfied, full of venom and bitterness. Varian was almost sure that a couple of them looked ever so slightly excited.
And no wonder. Beside Varian stood a tall, broad figure clad in black robes, their face and, thus, their feelings, hidden, their gloved hands held at their sides. They stared straight ahead, and Varian followed their gaze to see…
A noose.
A fucking noose.
Everything suddenly made sense.
“You are to be hanged for the following crimes: high treason, assault, kidnapping…” the alchemist’s head jerked up to find the source of the regal voice. A tall, slender man with a ponytail and a moustache under his large noise was stood on a platform near him, reading off a curled piece of parchment. Nigel, the royal advisor, the one who had ordered he be thrown out of the castle into a blizzard, the one who had spread the word that he had attacked the precious princess of the sun. A squadron of guards spread out either side of him, examining the crowd with narrow eyes and regarding Varian with the same cold contempt as the rest of the citizens.
“Non-consensual drug use, theft, unethical animal experiment…” the list went on and on as Varian struggled with the chains around their wrists. What the fuck was going on? Rapunzel convinced the king not to have them hanged! They were given a prison sentence, not the gallows!
He could remember it, vaguely. He’d been to prison, he’d started to serve his time! He’d…
Wait, a prison sentence? It was fading rapidly. Just just out of reach. There was a reasonable explanation for all this, there had to be! They could feel it! They sensed it, they knew it was there, he just couldn’t quite grasp it…
Dammit, why couldn’t he remember!?
“Attempted murder, attempted regicide…” he stared out at the crowd, at their hard, unsympathetic expressions. They were more than happy to let a sixteen fourteen year-old be hanged. They were looking forward to watching his neck snap, his eyes go dull, his limbs go limp. They wanted Varian to die today.
But the worst part? He knew he deserved it. He deserved every jeer that they would call out, every glare that came his way, every bit of terror that was pooling in their gut.
The only thing they didn’t deserve was how fast it was going to be.
“And finally, patricide,”
Varian stared up at the man.
Patricide. The killing of one’s own father.
An image of his father’s carcass, forever crystallized in an unbreakable amber, a product of his own ignorance. He was the one who spilled that compound. He was the one who ran when his father begged him to stay. He was the one who was wrong, who deduced that the sunflower would help, and then that the princess would.
Patricide.
That was what Varian had committed.
They had killed their own father.
They had murdered the man who they had always wanted to please, who’s face he had watched, so many times, morph into disappointment, who he had pushed away whilst claiming to know best.
Varian had murdered his father.
He wanted it to stop. He wanted them all to stop staring at him and wishing he was dead already. He wanted his neck to break and his lungs to freeze. He wanted his head to stop spinning with nauseating guilt, the knowledge that he had killed his own father taunting him with its presence.
Make it stop.
“Is there anything you would like to say?”
Varian lowered his gaze, closed his eyes, and shook his head.
He just wanted it to be over.
“No?” drooled Nigel in that exaggerated posh accent of his, “Very well, then. Execute him,”
Varian inhaled deeply, their heart pounding in their ears, faster and faster as he felt the cloaked figure move beside him. He felt each breath and each beat of his heart, and he appreciated each one. There weren’t many left, after all.
Fourteen years, he reflected, fourteen years of striving to make his father proud. Fourteen years of never living up to the oaths he had made. Fourteen years of failure, ended with a snapped neck, a patricide charge and a sack of sins that rested heavily on his aching shoulders.
Fourteen years, over.
Finally.
They felt the noose hook around their neck.
They breathed.
What would his father say if he could see them now? Would he push to the front of the crowd and demand that his son be realised? Would he smile warmly and reassure Varian that everything was going to be okay? Would he tell him that he forgave him?
No, he would look at Varian with the same unfeeling expression as everyone in the crowd. He would stare at them, and shake his head in horror or disgust. He would ask, in a low, hollow voice, how he could ever be proud of them, after everything they’ve done.
Make it stop.
The cloaked figure pulled the lever, and with a sudden lurch and a quick snap, everything finally stopped.
Waking up to screams was no longer an uncommon occurrence. Since Quirin had emerged from the amber, after being in there for almost a year and a half, he had discovered that his son was suffering from nightmares. Nightmares about Quirin, reaching out endlessly in his crystal prison, clutching a not in his hand that would never be read. Nightmares about robots and withered flowers and bars and a man with a cropped beard and a voice like honey.
Their relationship beforehand had been… well, he wouldn’t describe it as neglectful, and he severely hoped that Varian wouldn’t either. He had been busy in the village a lot of the time, and Varian spent practically every moment under the sun in his laboratory. They only tended to speak in the evenings, over food, and even then, their conversations often felt like interrogations. Sometimes, they’d go days without feeling like they had seen each other, and months without any interaction outside of those awkward dinnertime discussions.
Quirin now understood that Varian had been no happier about the arrangement than he had, if not even less so. Scratch that, definitely less so. He knew he had often come across as dismissive, or ashamed, or fed up, or plainly cold, but he hadn’t realised just how much it affected Varian. In hindsight, their only parental figure acting how he did was obviously bad, but the farmer only realised just how bad when he came out of the amber.
He understood that, as much as Varian needed to carry some responsibility for their actions, it was him withholding so much affection that had sent his son off into his little… rampage. The want to make his father proud had been the oxygen of the fire, the respite in the chaos, the right in the wrong. Quirin still found it difficult to comprehend what Varian had gotten up to when he hadn’t been there. The crimes he had committed, the Goddamn prison sentence, the takeover of Corona.
However, they were going to navigate it together, that much Quirin could comprehend, and he was never going to let his son think that he wasn’t proud of him ever again. And so, he headed up to Varian’s door. The sound of breathless sobs and hyperventilation were audible. He didn’t bother knocking- it would probably just scare them if he could hear it over his cries.
Quirin moved forward slowly, remaining in Varian’s line of sight all the while. He had already made the mistake of walking in on his son like this and not making his presence noticeable, and he didn’t intend to do it again. No need to go into detail, but Varian, in his panic, had lobbed a smoke bomb at him (because he just happened to have that in his bedside table…?). It had been harmless, and served to do nothing but disorientate Quirin and make him cough, but Varian had been convinced that he’d hurt him. The first stage of the panic attack had consisted of frantic pleas not to hurt them, which took him far too long to realise weren’t directed at him, but at that man, that man who had forced them to work for days without rest or food. The second stage, when Varian realised that he wasn’t Andrew, was not much prettier. It was made up of frenzied apologises and tears and promises that he’d never hurt him again.
That had been a long night.
“Son?” he murmured. Varian glanced up at him with bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. It was only then that Quirin noticed Ruddiger sat on Varian’s lap, chittering, probably attempting to calm the boy down. He felt a newfound appreciation for the raccoon, helping his son when he wasn’t around.
“D-dad?” they croaked. They wiped their face and sniffled before dropping their gaze completely.
“Do you think you can breathe with me?” he asked and sat on the edge of his son’s bed. Varian nodded convulsively, their hand travelling to stroke Ruddiger’s fur. Quirin began to talk them through one of their favourite breathing techniques- in for four, hold for four, out for four- called box breathing.
Varian’s breath hitched several times, and he broke into ragged breaths. Each time he apologised breathlessly, and each time Quirin whispered that it was completely fine. Eventually, he calmed down enough for Quirin to stop talking him through his breaths.
“How are you feeling, son?” he asked gently.
Varian focused on stroking Ruddiger’s fur, and muttered, “Better, I guess….”
Quirin pulled himself up next to his son in the bed, “Was it a nightmare?” he prompted, sliding his broad arms over Varian’s shoulders. They leaned into the contact greedily.
“Mhm…”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Varian stared down at Ruddiger, who purred as he fiddled with his fur. For a moment, Quirin thought he was going to say no, then he sighed and the tension fell from his shoulders, "...I... woke up, and I noticed my wrists were chained...” he mumbled. He glanced up at Quirin, as though looking for permission to continue, which he granted with a warm smile, “And I heard someone saying my name. I looked up, and I was on a platform. There were loads of people crowded around. They were all looking up at...at me,” he inhaled and leaned further into Quirin’s half-embrace. The man didn"t like where this was going, “It…was the people of Corona. I was in Corona. They all looked so disgusted with me, and, I realised that I was…” he went silent for a long moment, before swallowing hard and confessing, “There was a… noose, next to me,”
Quirin tensed and stared at him, “Oh,”
Varian laughed mirthlessly through his nose, “Yeah, oh. The Royal Advisor, Nigel, he was reading out my charges… “ they trailed off once again, for longer this time, “And…he read out..." they stopped, then swallowed so hard that it sounded like there was a physical lump in their throat. Hechoked out the next word as though it were poison in their mouth, "...Patricide,”
Quirin swallowed and tightened his embrace.
“He…he asked if I had anything to say, but I… I didn’t. I couldn’t speak, and I didn’t know what to say, and…” they shook their head, as though clearing away their thoughts, “And they put the noose around my neck, then… that was that,” his eyes misted up, “That was the end. Of-of the dream. And of…” they shuddered and buried their face in Quirin’s chest.
Quirin hugged him fully, sandwiching the poor raccoon between the two of them. He rocked from side to side comfortingly, “”Oh, my dear son,” he whispered.
“But you know what really scared me?” came Varian’s muffled, trembling voice, “I-I really, really wanted them to do it,”
Quirin drew away and stared down at his son. Their pale blue eyes stared down at nothing, seeing things that no-one else could, “The only reason I’m still alive is because Rapunzel begged her father not to hang me as soon as possible,” he admitted softly, “But sometimes… I really wish she didn’t,” they smiled sadly and didn"t look up, "That"s... pretty ungrateful, isn"t it?"
Quirin gathered him in another bone-crushing bear hug. He heard the raccoon squeak in surprise.
He took a few minutes to gather his thoughts before putting them into words.
“I love you Varian, okay? And I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, “I’m so proud that you’ve always done your best to help this village, even if it doesn’t always work out. I’m proud that you kept going, even when you could’ve given up. I’m proud you saw sense, and I’m proud you saved Corona,” he drew away and held Varian’s shoulders. They refused to meet his eyes, “Look at me, son,” they did, “And it’s not just things like that which make me proud. It’s the fact that every day, after everything you’ve been through, you get up and you eat, and you go outside and you do your little experiments. You feed Ruddiger here, and you groom him and you play with him," he stroked the raccoon, who purred, "I’m proud that when you think things like this, you push through, and you’re still here. I’m proud that you talk to me,”
Varian looked like he was about to cry.
“Do you think you’re ready to go back to bed?”
He smiled and wiped away some tears, “As I’ll ever be,” he whispered, “But… can you stay with me?”
Quirin’s gaze softened, “Of course. And we can talk about this more in the morning, if you want to,”
Varian smiled tightly, so he took that as a maybe.
A few minutes later, they were cured up in Varian’s bed together, Quirin with his massive arms wrapped protectively around his son and Varian allowing his father to shield them from the world. Ruddiger was sat in between them, purring his little grey face off.
“Hey, Dad?” Varian murmured drowsily, “I love you…”
Quirin smiled softly, “I love you too, Son…”
"...But do you think you can give me some of the blanket? You’re hogging it,”
“Oh, right!”