I still remember the day we met. Know it like the back of my hand. It was a chance meeting—Kallas always insisted it was fate. I’m a realist, unlike him though, but… in hindsight that I might’ve believed him then.

— Milaine

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New Farrow was exactly as one would expect it to look like, given its seclusion to the rest of the world. It wasn’t technologically advanced by any means, nor was it economically advanced as well. The village relied on inventions like watermills, wells to collect water, and typically circulated its own economy by doing trade. The concept of money was not entirely foreign to the people, given that travellers would pass by for a quick stop—Timols were very valuable in that instance. But for the most part, New Farrow was a very self-circulating village.

If one were to point out anything ‘new’ from the old school village, it would be that the clearing had widened exponentially, and with it, the village increased as well. The burning from a few years back had destroyed much of the village’s foundations, and the forest around it had been caught in the crossfire as well. And rebuilding a village in less than five years with as little as a thousand people was certainly unfeasible. In that instance, help was requested from neighbouring villages and towns.

That was when a lot of the internal change began. Workers from other towns would stay in New Farrow, some temporarily and others permanently. With that, the village grew bigger and bigger, and new faces would emerge here and there. Now, New Farrow, while still keeping its old look, had more modern traditions and values.

This put New Farrow in a weird place: on one hand, they were very conservative, keeping the Old Farrow style in mind, but on the other hand, they ingrained more modern values and traditions. Perhaps the most surprising part of this was how there was little sign of unrest. One would expect the clashing values to eventually cause internal discourse, but luckily nothing of the sort occurred on a grand scale; there were still small skirmishes, however, and that did cause the development of a combined, traditional hierarchy. New Farrow was run by two people, each representing the different values that the town had, and together they developed solutions for different problems.

All of this gave Kallas an indescribable emotion. He accepted the change. In fact, he welcomed it wholeheartedly. He knew it was something that Old Farrow desperately needed, which was falling behind with the times and would eventually be forgotten in the annals of history if not dealt with. But at the same time, he felt annoyed, frustrated and vexed that the village he once knew turned into something he couldn’t recognize.

Kallas always enjoyed seeing the familiar faces as he walked by, the different vendors, tailors, blacksmiths, and residents who walked to and fro in the small village. But now, as he walked along the village’s many paths, he didn’t recognize many faces. There were some that he noticed, giving a small wave and salutations before moving along, but the rest of them were people whom he had no relation to.

And it wasn’t just the people that had changed—rather, the quality that Old Farrow was known for had dissipated into thin air, almost unrecognisable to his native eyes. Before, there would be many vendors who’d offered to read one’s fortune through prayer, and now these vendors were replaced by travelling merchants, seeking to gain an edge in the market. There was no mystical quality in New Farrow now, no fortunes to be had, no fates to be read, and more than ever, there was no God that the people worshipped.

It was then that Kallas reached a sombre cemetery, the place desolate and removed from the village. Very few people were here, if any, and those who were present had all withered in age, trying to cling onto the one thing which tied them to the past.

Kallas walked down the path, trees hanging over his head as the shadows loomed over him. He pushed through vines and brushes, mumbling to himself how the cemetery needed a new gardener, given that the Dawnstriders were no longer in work. Eventually, Kallas stopped in front of a particular tree. A willow tree. A tree hunched over with overgrown leaves which brushed the ground. A tree which looked on the verge of tears. A tree filled with sorrow.

That was the one tribute they made to her, to Milaine, who laid right under the leaves as it embraced the gravestone. It’s clean, Kallas thought, knowing that Royd would come back once a week to remove the dirt and grime from the gravestone. That man was always too kind for his manners back then, though nowadays he seemed to have become more mellow. It was always enigmatic how time withered even the purest of souls.

Kallas crouched down, reading the label as he held the top of the stone.

M. Lucy.

Died, 21.

The purest of souls.

He’d always wondered what that meant—to be pure, to be removed of the mundane and attached to the imaginative. Or perhaps it referred to the kindness of the heart, the fondness of being, or the quality of empathy. It stayed an unknown variable to him even now, and when the rest of the Dawnstriders agreed upon the phrase, he unknowingly accepted too. Now, he was left at a loss, and never bothered to ask anybody simply because he was scared. Scared of the truth.

There, Kallas stared upon the gravestone in silence. He wished he had flowers at the moment, but unfortunately he hadn’t taken the time to visit any florists of the sort. A burning emotion started welling up inside of him, not the kind of passion or of love, but of sorrow. A hollow, empty sorrow, which could not be filled by anything in the world, which could not heal with any indefinite time. It was just there, to be seated at his right hand, forever coating his hands with the blood of guilt. The punishment that he’d bestowed upon himself.

It was a price that could not be paid.

“Milaine… I—” Kallas spoke in a broken voice. “Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Nobody responded.

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“I took up work at the Capital, you see. It’s a lovely place, an amazing place filled with many different kinds of people. Everyday, I meet somebody new, a face I haven’t seen before, and everyday, I get to know them like they’re the closest of friends…though you guys already know who beats them.”

Nobody responded.

“I…got to know a group of children recently, and a girl who was willing to look over them. Varna’s her name— isn’t it lovely? Rolls off the tip of your tongue, doesn’t it? She's a real piece of work—doesn’t speak Marlyn well and apparently comes from a faraway country. How cool is that? I bet you’d become the best of friends.

“And Ellen, one of the children. She’d gotten really attached to me, and honestly, me too. She’s just so sweet and kind. Doesn’t talk much, but that’s part of her charm as well.”

Nobody responded, and Kallas just sighed.

“I miss you, Milaine. We all miss you. Please, if you could just talk to us again…who am I kidding?”

Kallas stood up from the gravestone, legs aching.

“I need to leave now. I’m sorry. But, I’ll be back with flowers for you from everyone. We’ll all hang out again, under this tree. I’m sure you’d love it.”

He stood there, in silence. Not in prayer, just the solemn quiet, before reluctantly walking away from the gravestone. Pushing through the weeds and passing under the trees, he made his way back to the cemetery entrance. Instinctively, he moved his hand to reach for the Scarf he’d gotten earlier, only to grasp at nothing but the air. He remembered that Varna held it.

Who was she? The mysterious, white-haired girl with an equally mysterious Scarf. He never did ask for anything about her, nor did it ever cross his mind. But, with the children rescued and them taking refuge, he had plenty of time to ask…only that he couldn’t. He didn’t want to go any further than what he had now. Bonds were fickle things, like papers fluttering in the wind. One day, it floats in calm, and others it flies in a storm; they are unpredictable. Uncontrollable.

He didn’t want to risk anything. Just a friendship as it is was good enough for him.

“Kallas.” A voice said. A familiar voice. Varna’s voice.

Kallas found her waiting against the gated entrance of the cemetery. She leaned against the stone pillar, holding the Scarf in her hands, folded neatly and with none of the dirt in sight. Pushing herself off of the pillar, she held out the Scarf for Kallas.

“Here.” She said, insisting that he take it.

Kallas looked between the Scarf and Varna for a while, before reaching out to take the Scarf. He wrapped the Scarf around his neck, and despite the sunny weather and hot air, the wool felt cool to the touch.

“You’re awake.” He said.

She nodded.

“Were you waiting for me?” He asked, holding on to the ends of the Scarf.

“Mm.” A nod of affirmation.

Kallas gestured to walk back the path they came from. “Sorry if you were waiting a while. Let’s talk on the road.”

He suggested, but Varna didn’t seem to be in the best of moods. Perhaps it was the post-prisonbreak fatigue hitting her now, but something about her seemed rather low in spirit, though he wasn’t sure what.

“You don’t seem too well. Are you alright? Still tired?” He asked, worried.

Varna shook her head insisting that she was alright.

“Are you sure? If there’s anything I can do then—”

“You look sad.” She interrupted.

“Me?”

“Mm.” She nodded. “Somebody you knew?”

For a while, there was no response, just the sorrowful silence as the nature around them played their music. The sound of running water, the flapping of wings, and the cool breeze filled the gap of noise in their ears. Varna knew that she may have asked a question too personal, but now she wanted to know more about the young man. She wanted to know more of who he was, and what he believed in, much as she wanted him to know her.

Finally, he spoke. “Yeah. Yeah, an old friend.”

“Is it Milaine?”

Kallas didn’t seem too surprised to hear her name appear once more. In fact, she had come up several times already prior to today. It was just that neither of them paid any attention to it; now, she was the centre of the story.

“Mhm.” He nodded.

“Can you tell?”

Kallas could tell her everything. He could. He wanted to. But at the same time, he’d rather not relive the memories. He’d rather not relive the narrative he’d believed in all his life, which burned away far long ago. Perhaps it would be better if she were just left in the dark.

“It’s a long story. You wouldn’t want to hear it.” He said.

“I like stories.”

“Are you sure? We haven’t got all day—I’m sure you’re here for something.” He insisted.

“I am.”

“Then, wouldn’t that be more important?” He tried.

“I don’t care.”

And he failed. There was no convincing her, the headstrong woman that he knew. She always found a way to convince him otherwise. She was a lot like Milaine in that way—she knew what she wanted, and she didn’t compromise for less. If she needed to get it done, she would; if she needed to see it through, she would. She was her own person, and Kallas admired that.

“Okay,” He gave up, “but I’m warning you. It’s a long story, and we might not have any time to do whatever it is you wanted to do.”

“That’s okay.”

“Then…I’ll tell you about it along the way.”

That he would. Like Milaine, Kallas was a man of promise. He was a man who sought to see things through to the end. So, despite his reluctance to tell his story, he would not compromise for less. He never could, and he never will ever again.

But for now, Varna had to be satisfied with only half of the tale. He didn’t want to share his secrets—that meant trust; that meant value; that meant a bond that was less than lovers but more than friends, and Kallas was satisfied with less than that here.

He thought back to the gravestone, to Milaine, to Old Farrow which burned several years ago. And he knew that was something that no human should ever experience. And to protect her from such tragedy, he would only tell half of the story. That was half the truth.

The rest of it?

He was too scared.