Chapter Text
Normally, the road back home would pass by mindlessly. His brain would trip on a lesson from class learned earlier that day, or an addictive tune the intercom played at lunch. His mind would wander, occupied by nothing other than exploring the meandering paths that burst out like spring shoots from that singular thought.
The grass and trees and sidewalk remained unchanged by the sudden torrent yesterday, simply blinking away the dew that had collected on their outturned leaves. This left Scaramouche, frustratingly, with nothing else to focus on other than his own trepidation. What would he find when he returned home, he wondered?
It was the first time he would be seeing his mother in nearly five years. Yes, there were the video calls that were cut short — always by her, his brain helpfully supplied — and the random assortment of gifts that would sometimes show up at his door, as if she has woken up that day and remembered she had a son.
Yet, despite all his years of worry and anger and anxiety, he couldn’t help but want to see her again. He wanted to lay on her lap and tell her about his day and ask her about her day — “it’s just work as usual” she would laugh and say — and then she would brush aside the hair on his forehead with a hand and card her fingers through his hair, as if she were petting a little black cat she found by her rosebushes — and, and, and —
And anyways, wasn’t it time to stop such childish lines of thinking? She had made the terms of their relationship clear when she accepted that research position in Helsinki. Sure, she had pretended to be torn up by it, hemming and hawing for ages, but he understood the truth, even at such a young age. He could see it in her errant glances, in the initial hesitation whenever she hugged him.
His mother hated him.
Scaramouche wasn’t sure as to the circumstances of his birth, as his mother had always refused to talk about the subject. “Have you heard of Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom?” she demurred, smiling. “Her children sprung from her temple like wild horses, racing out into the world. Can you imagine how surprised I was when one day, I suddenly had a little child burst forth from my head?”
…As if. Yet the comparison to Athena was not entirely untrue — his mother utterly devoted herself to her work. She had made countless advancements in her field, each one more impressive than the last. It was no surprise that she would suddenly be called away to Russia on an extended research trip. A very long trip, that paid very well, and that had to be accepted very quickly…
Just as he thought — he couldn’t help but hate and love her in equal terms. Even now, he stupidly craved her affection.
Scaramouche stared at the familiar door to his mother’s house. He had been standing outside of it for the past five minutes now. He held his breath, turned the doorknob, and walked in.
Even in stasis, his mother’s house breathed. Inhaling and exhaling, it performed its routine checks, autonomously adjusting its temperature, inspecting the water pressure in the pipes, turning the sprinklers in the garden on and off. A deep hum resonated throughout the house, a sound Scaramouche was all too familiar with. This confused him — his mother should have already been home, so the house’s startup routine shouldn’t have started just now… unless.
Heart in his mouth, Scaramouche leapt for the dining room table like a wild animal, where a singular note in white awaited him.
Dear Scaramouche,
There’s been an issue at work, and they need my help in resolving it. I’m very sorry to put off our long-awaited reunion, but would you mind waiting just a bit longer?
Best Wishes,
Ei
A little ways beyond the backyard of his mother’s house, past the lines and rows of neat, orderly homes, there was a lonely cliff on top of which a boulder older than time rested. All manner of interesting plants and flowers grew on all sides of said boulder, as if it had been blessed by a dryad. The the local flora surrounding the boulder had once been the subject of many a botanist’s research report, but none were able to explain exactly why there was a miracle localized to the fifty or so square feet surrounding this singular rock.
Though Scaramouche had never really held an interest in plants, he thought that the miracle extended far beyond the reaches of this bluff. The roses in his mother’s garden never wilted nor wanted for sunshine or rain, and bloomed ardently all season long. He’s pretty sure neighbor’s begonias had won some Who-The-Fuck-Care’s gardening award several years in a row, and stranger still, there was the matter of the radish seeds he had brought home from school one day sprouting overnight, pale white-pink flowers expanding, waving breezily before his eyes…
It was not the rock itself that Scaramouche had any interest in, but rather, the forest beyond it. Dark and old and beguiling, the Forest of Suma cradled the valley and town they lived in with roots that extended far deeper than anyone seemed to know. There was talk of cutting down swathes of it, to make room for new houses, new malls, new buildings, but everyone knew that talk was all it was. The forest felt strange and alive, like some massive organism that had existed long before the town of Suma had existed. It seemed childish to hold such superstitions in today’s day and age, but the people of Suma had always insisted on old, esoteric traditions that were only understood by the dead and gone. Who would want to risk cutting off the wing or horn or tail of a living, breathing god, and risk inviting its wrath?
It was in this forest that Scaramouche would hide. He left the house with nothing but a small backpack.
The dappled sunlight was inviting, and he had no qualms about walking the well-trodden path before him. It wouldn’t be long until creeping vines and opportunistic shrubs dotted the meager trails, marking his descent into uncharted territory.
Long ago, a team of cartographers ventured into the forest determined to explore every inch of it. They were astonished at the fact that this untouched verdure existed in the middle of suburban Suma, and talked excitedly, almost incredulously about the secrets they would surely discover. The people of Suma knew that the forest did not give up its treasures easily, but they demurred against warning them. For whatever god breathed life into the forest, it was surely a kind one. The explorers would learn, in time.
The cartographers met with a popular, national news station before beginning their expedition. They planned to be gone for ten days and ten nights. Once they published their findings, this initial survey would easily fund future ventures.
Five hours later, the team found themselves frustrated and at their wits’ end. No matter what they did, no matter which way they turned, they could not get past the initial clearing that the townspeople now dubbed “Explorer’s Folly.”
The expedition was a failure, and while hordes of curious tourists would continue to visit Suma for decades to come, the woods never gave up their secret.
Scaramouche glanced around the Folly. Its branching paths beckoned invitingly to him. Would any of them let him pass, or would he be forced to turn back in the same direction he came from?
It mattered little which road he took; if the forest wanted him here, it would lead him ever deeper.
He decided to choose the path on the right. If asked, he wouldn’t have said he had any reason for doing so. Both trails looked nearly identical.
He was pleased as the shadows grew ever so slightly longer, and the blades of grass grew to knee-high length. The air took on an intoxicating quality, rich with wild, spicy, floral fragrances. It seemed as though whatever spirit inhabited the land favored him, after all.
As he walked further and further, his traitorous mind began to wander in turn. Had he really brought enough water? He hadn’t. Did he bring enough food? Definitely not . What if the grasses and reeds grew so high that he drowned among —
“Hi! Who are you?”
…What?
Scaramouche’s head snapped to the side so fast that he was surprised he didn’t twist anything. “Who are you?” he snapped, more out of reflex and shock than anything. He hadn’t even gotten a good look at the speaker yet.
Impossibly, a young girl in a frog-hat and a white and green dress smiled up at him from her seat on a log.
“Oh! I guess it’s only polite to introduce myself first, since I asked for your name. I’m Nahida!”
Scaramouche couldn’t care less about her name.
“That’s — I mean — what are you doing here?” the words tripped out of him, and he felt himself glow with embarrassment.
“I think it’s for the same reason you are…”
“You’re here to run away?” he blurted out. What was he doing? He hadn’t meant to say that at all!
The girl paused, head tilted sideways. She looked like a little bird — a little, suspicious bird. What kind of parent lets their kid wander around the Great Forest of Suma all alone? Maybe she was an evil spirit, a will-o-the-wisp meant to lead lost souls astray, frog hat and all.
“Er… not quite. I’m just here to play. Are you here to run away, then?” the girl’s eyes widened. They were a bright, viridescent green, the color of new buds poking through the soil.
“None of your business!” Scaramouche snapped. Who the hell comes to the Forest of Suma to play? Forget evil spirit, this girl was just plain stupid.
The forest opened itself up to her, though , his traitorous brain supplied. That means it wants her to be here, or doesn’t mind her being here.
The girl didn’t seem taken aback at all. “You were the one who told me you were here to run away,” she replied, matter-of-factly.
Scaramouche kicked a nearby rock, immediately regretting it. “Shut up! I’m leaving!” He knew that he was acting immature, but he didn’t care. Soon, nothing would matter — especially not this conversation with frog-hat gremlin. Why did he care that a child was out here, all by herself? If she found her way here, she could definitely find her way back. He had other business to take care of.
He marched forward, heading for the path at the far end of the clearing. “I’m leaving, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”
There was a small tug at the back of his shirt. Great. “Who said anything about stopping you?” the girl said innocently.
“Stop following me, then!”
The girl laughed, annoying little giggles that only served to make Scaramouche even angrier. “We’re just going the same direction. Oh, watch out for that —!”
Scaramouche tripped over a vine that definitely wasn’t there before, falling flat on his face. He spat out a mouthful of dirt before pushing himself back up, determined to ditch the little brat — before immediately falling back down.
To his surprise, the girl didn’t laugh at all. Instead, she crouched down next to him, peering intently. “You twisted your ankle,” she said softly.
Wonderful. Now the weird frog-hat brat was a doctor. Still, if the shooting pain through his foot was any indication, she was probably right.
“That’s fantastic. As if I didn’t have enough problems,” he said bitterly. Frog girl was rummaging through his bag now, but he didn’t care. God, Scaramouche had no clue what children were thinking half the time. Maybe she was trying to steal all of his nonexistent snacks, now that he was incapacitated.
“Your backpack is kind of empty,” the girl piped up. “And by that, I mean there’s basically nothing in here.”
“Yeah. I know, because it’s my own bag.” Scaramouche turned his face towards the dirt. A change of clothes, a bottle of water, and a small knife. He had wanted to get out of that house as fast as possible, and didn’t really think about what he was bringing.
…Perhaps, that was ill-advised.
There was the sound of tearing fabric, and Scaramouche turned to see the girl ripping off the end of his favorite shirt. “What are you doing ?” he demanded. He was so surprised that this question, meant to convey his wrathful belligerence, instead ferried only a sense of deep bewilderment.
“I’m making a splint!” Frog-girl pulled two sturdy-looking tree branches over, and started winding the fabric around the branches and his leg.
Scaramouche groaned internally. She better not ask him to vouch for a girl scout badge after this. How mortifying — his grand escapade into the wilderness had ended 30 minutes after it started, and all he had for his trouble was a sprained ankle.
“Can you stand?”
What if he didn’t want to try?
He heard the sound of anxious shuffling next to him, of someone shifting their weight to one foot, and then the other. Maybe if he stayed like this, she would get impatient, and leave. More shuffling, a bottle cap being twisted open, and —
“Hey! Stop that!” Scaramouche spluttered underneath the sudden onslaught of cold water being poured onto his face.
“Oh, you’re up! Sorry about the water, but I think you fainted just now.”
“I did not faint!” That’s it . Scaramouche rose up, towering above frog-girl. He would scare her off and be done with it. “And if it weren’t for you following me, like I said not to, I wouldn’t have tripped on that vine anyways! This is all your —”
“Wait just a second! I think the splint isn’t secure enough.”
The girl crouched next to Scaramouche’s leg, adjusting the makeshift bandages there. To his astonishment, Scaramouche noticed that while the pain wasn’t quite gone, it had abated. He was even able to get up just now without much issue.
“I still wouldn’t put any pressure on it, but you should be good to walk back, at least. Which way did you come in from?”
“I — you —” Scaramouche was at a loss for words, torn between anger, confusion, and another emotion he couldn’t quite identify. “How do you know how to make a splint, but don’t know that you shouldn’t pour water on the face of someone who’s fainted?” he blustered. What was he saying ? Why was he dispensing first aid tips? Still, it was the only thing he could think of that weren’t inane, half-formed words.
“The book I’m reading hasn’t gotten to that part yet,” frog-girl replied easily. “Wilderness First Aid! My mom’s friend wrote it — it’s pretty informative!”
Again, what?
This was the strangest conversation that Scaramouche had ever been a part of. Maybe this girl really was a kappa, or some other forest spirit, unversed in the ways of dialogue. In some ways, that would actually be easier to believe than the idea that this brat, who liked playing in the Forest of Suma and reading medical books for fun actually existed and lived among what presumably must be modern society, if her clothes were anything to go by. Unless…
“You’re the Doctor’s daughter,” Scaramouche’s said harshly. It sounded like an accusation.
The girl winced. “No, the Doctor works with my mom,” she murmured.
What is she actually talking about , Scaramouche thought, annoyed. “Who cares what you call her! The famous doctor — Rootadevato — or something, you’re her daughter! That’s why you know so much weird stuff, and talk funny! That’s why you come out here to play!”
“Rukkhadevata,” the girl corrected, meeting his gaze. “And I don’t talk funny!”
“You do too talk funny,” Scaramouche snickered, watching the girl pout. Perhaps it was childish of him to get try and get under her skin, but he didn’t care — he had been on the back foot in this conversation for far too long.
Even Scaramouche, who did not particularly care about other people, knew about Dr. Rukkhadevata Buer. The Buer family was the most prominent family in Suma, their lineage dating back to the first settlers of the country. Rukkhadevata was a medical researcher, and an incredible one, if Ei’s glossy magazine covers were anything to go by. She had made international news for her breakthroughs in stem cell research.
Despite her achievements, Dr. Buer had not accepted any invitations to to study at any famous laboratories or work for any well-funded studies — she preferred life in the town of Suma, and opted to instead to perform all of her incredible projects at their town’s now-sizeable hospital and laboratory clinic. Though her schedule must have been hellishly busy, Rukkhadevata still made a point to staff her little clinic every Sunday, where she would see the sick and injured citizens of the town.
Scaramouche had met her once, but only in passing. His only impression was that Rukkhadevata must be hiding some terrible secret, because surely no one could be that gracious and caring.
Medicine was simply in the Buer family’s genealogy — he vaguely recalled some comments that Rukkhadevata’s mother, and grandmother had also been widely respected, established professionals in their own fields, and that Dr. Buer had a young, brilliant daughter with some most peculiar mannerisms…
Scaramouche felt a familiar emotion rise in him. What was it like to have a genius mother, who also loved her children?
He couldn’t stay here. This was a disaster, and even he could now begrudgingly admit that he wasn’t well-equipped to have ventured out today. Furthermore, with his twisted ankle, he could put off all thoughts of running away, at least for the next couple of weeks.
Scaramouche grabbed his backpack, suppressing a wince as he did so. “I’m leaving now,” he spat with as much venom as he could muster. “Do not, for the love of God, follow me. Leave me alone, if you know what’s best for you.”