#o basilicum

“I do.”

Basil kicked at the dirt with his good leg, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his trousers. Ace poked reverently at a newly sprouted bean plant.

“It’s just… What if you’re not ready?”

With a sigh, Ace straightened up from the garden bed.

“I’m ready, Basil. All healed up. I’ve got folks waiting up for me, and I don’t want to keep them worrying any longer than I already have.”

Please don’t go, Basil thought, I can’t lose you again. They’d kill you if they knew.

But Basil didn’t say any of that. What he said instead was:

“I know, just… Be careful, alright?”

In response, Ace smiled, like he knew what Basil meant anyway. He often did.

“I’ll do my best.”

They lapsed into silence again in the garden. The morning sun finally breached the treeline, dappling the hillside in shades of white and gold. Basil breathed deep and wrapped himself in the quiet moment, committing it to memory in case there was never another one like it.

Just in case.

* * *

What Basil was not expecting in the slightest was to open the front door a mere week or so later to find Ace shuddering on Frida’s doorstep, haggard and dirty, an old bow on his back, with a young girl of about twelve or thirteen at his side.

“Hey,” Ace said.

“Hey yourself.” Basil looked between them. “You know, when I said you’d be back, I didn’t mean right away.”

His attempt at levity went unappreciated. Ace looked at him, pained. Something had gone deeply, horribly wrong.

“Come in, both of you,” Basil insisted, opening the door wide. “Frida!”

Frida came hurrying into the hall from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Basil, dear, who’s at the—oh, gods above.”

“Hi, Frida,” Ace said. “This is Petra. She’s my friend—”

“Honorary sister,” the girl, Petra, interjected. Ace rolled his eyes, as if it were a private joke.

“Fine, sure, whatever.” Ace shuffled uncomfortably where he stood, while Frida just gaped at him. “She… we don’t have anywhere to go, anymore. Do you think you could—“

“Basil, keep an eye on that soup for me, will you? Come on, dear,” Frida said, guiding Petra by the shoulder toward the clinic. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Ace has told me so much about you.”

Petra went without argument, though she did look over her shoulder at Basil and Ace, eyeing the pair of them with a strange expression. Ace followed Basil silently into the kitchen and dropped into one of the chairs at the table. The air was fragrant with herbs and spices cooking in the large pot on the stove. Basil stirred it carefully with a wooden spoon, just for something to do.

He didn’t ask for an explanation. He wasn’t sure he needed one. It was clear the worst had happened, after all—the other shoe had finally dropped, and Ace was once again lucky to have escaped with his life.

“I should have gone back sooner,” Ace said hoarsely. “I could have—“

“There’s nothing you could have done.”

“They killed him. Bertrand’s dead, Basil. There wasn’t even a body left behind, just nothing but ash. If I’d been there, I could have surrendered—“

“They wouldn’t have spared him, Ace. You know they wouldn’t.”

Basil doled out a bowl of soup and placed it in front of Ace, who didn’t so much as reach for his spoon despite how hungry the journey must have made him. He sat motionless while Basil scooped out another helping and sat across from him, eyes searching. He, too, didn’t eat a single bite.

“Petra used to remind me of you,” Ace finally said, eyes crinkling with the admittance. “Optimistic. Headstrong. Not afraid of anything.”

“And now?”

“Now? Now all I see is my own grief. It was supposed to be different for her, Basil.” Ace frowned into his untouched soup, voice going soft. “I did this to her.”

In the silence that followed, Basil thought back to that first day, screaming himself hoarse in half-dead terror. He remembered the guilt, the sorrow, the many days spent unable to walk. Basil thought even further back, years before, to those peaceful days they’d spent together as children. That version of Basil had been long gone for quite some time now, and he wasn’t ever coming back. Optimism was a hard-earned burden he stubbornly carried, not a prize to be bartered for.

Before Basil could say anything of the sort, however, Petra came slinking back into the room with Frida on her heels, looking quite a bit less worse for wear than when they’d arrived. Her face was clean and her short-cropped hair smoothed out, with bandages plastered over the cuts that rogue branches and brambles had left on her skin. She peered at Ace knowingly, solemnly, as she sunk into the chair beside him, eyes roving over his sullen expression. Basil felt a kinship at that.

For his part, Ace was still hunched over his bowl, face and hands smeared with dirt and grime. He still needed to get cleaned up, once they got this situation sorted out. Basil would probably have to force him.

“You boys need to eat,” Frida chided softly, pouring soup for herself and Petra, who muttered a quiet thanks.

“I need to ask,” Basil said quietly. “Did anyone else make it?”

“I got mostly everyone out before the royal guard came,” Petra said. “But some folks didn’t want to leave. Bertrand…”

“Stubborn old man,” Ace muttered with subdued fondness.

“They got out,” Frida repeated. “I don’t know what you mean, dear. Where are they now?”

Petra looked up from her soup, eyes hard and pained, and said, “I don’t know.”

In that moment, Basil’s blood ran hot, and he thought he finally understood, after all these years, what it was that had kept Hank going, day after day. How long did this have to go on? How could anyone let this go on? But what could Basil do?

Ace had stumbled into something far greater than either of them, something on the level of kings. And what had that gotten him? Another abandoned home, more missing friends, another dead guardian? There were no heroes and villains, no monsters come alive from fairy tales. There were only two kinds of people: those with power, and those without. It was a simple answer, but then again, those were always the hardest to accept.

That night, long after the soup had gone cold and Petra had been set up with a cot in Frida’s bedroom, Basil kept Ace company on the front step, both of them too tired to sleep. The sky was clear, and full of stars, but no matter how much Basil tried, he couldn’t discern any meaningful pattern among them. After all these years, that was it—he was all out of answers.

“So,” he said. “What are you going to do now?”

Ace picked at a loose thread on his pant leg and shrugged.

“I can’t leave Petra behind like that again. She was all alone, waiting for me for months. She deserves a better life than that.”

“Then stay,” Basil said. “Stay for now, stay forever, I don’t mind. You know I’ll always be here.”

Ace chuckled. “I don’t know if she’ll be able to stay put like that for long.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about Petra?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ace said with a glare, though there wasn’t any heat behind it.

Basil leaned back on his palms, searching the sky.

“You should rest,” he said. “Live the best life you can, for yourselves. It’s simple, but it’s enough.”

Ace nodded, though his expression told Basil he wasn’t convinced.

“I’m going to sleep.” He pushed to his feet and made his way back inside. “Goodnight, Basil.”

“Goodnight.”

The screen door slammed shut, leaving Basil alone in the quiet night. He pulled his knife from his belt loop and turned it over in his palm. Moonlight glinted off the blade.

Basil kept his silent vigil well into the night, until the entire hillside fell quiet and even the crickets went to sleep. He kept one hand on the hilt of his blade all the while.

He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old, all knobby knees and scrawny in the hips like he hadn’t eaten in days. The brush seemed to grow up around him where he sat against an oak tree, as if he were part of the ground itself. His tan skin was mottled with scrapes and cuts, and his dark hair looked like a robin had made a nest in it. The boy’s glassy eyes stared forward sightlessly, gaunt face smeared with dirt and grime. Whatever had happened to him, his left leg had seen the worst of it—it was swollen at the knee, and covered in an unsightly array of bruises.

Hank was well acquainted with necrosis, and he was pretty sure this kid was dead. He knelt down and reached to check for a pulse, and sure enough, found nothing.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “Poor kid.”

Suddenly, the boy flinched away and yelped like an unfortunate rabbit caught in the maw of a hungry fox.

“Shit!” Hank scrambled back. “He’s still alive!”

“Hank? Was that you?” Ann’s voice called from afar.

“Ann! Get over here, quick!” Hank shouted. The kid hadn’t moved again or made another sound, and his eyes still stared lifelessly. No pulse, but still breathing. Hank’s own breath caught in his throat.

“What’s wrong? What is it?”

“It’s a kid.”

Ann crashed through the treeline into the small clearing where Hank knelt before the boy’s motionless taxidermied form. She skidded to a halt behind him, curly hair escaping its braid.

“What?”

“I said it’s a kid,” Hank repeated, scooting aside. “See for yourself. I damn near shot him.”

Ann crouched beside Hank, eyebrows knitted together. “Shit,” she muttered with bewilderment. “Is he alive?”

“As alive as you or I am. Here, take this.” With ease, Hank took off his bow and passed it to Ann, who took it reluctantly. Her eyes drifted to the child still slumped motionless against the oak, and lit up faintly with recognition.

“I see,” she said softly. “Hank, you really think it’s a good idea to move him in this state?”

When he’d first heard those tall tales, so many years ago, maybe there was already a part of him that doubted their validity. How could it be that he, who was only ever a child trying to live a quiet life and make friends, could be cursed? How could he be destined to bring evil upon the world, when it was other children who had beaten and berated him? What divine irony was that, that he should be considered the monstrous one, while others—with their supposed pure and unyielding love—could attempt to maim or even kill him with impunity?

The thing was, believing it had been easy. It was not hard to convince himself that surely, monster or not, evil or not, he had been cursed with some affliction. The truth was far harder to stomach—that anyone who believed they had the right to hurt him had been deluding themselves. Basil had never truly believed that there was something inhuman about him; but when that was how other people treated you anyway, what use was the truth?

There was no divine destiny, no cosmic reason, good or evil, that he should be born the way he was. It was simply the way of things, like nature. The sun rose every morning. Basil did not have a heart.

This new understanding should have brought him solace. It should have been vindicating, to know that his belief in his own humanity hadn’t been misplaced. It brought him no such peace. But it didn’t make him angry, either. Instead, Basil only felt a quiet sense of resignation. After all, what difference did it make? 

Before they knew what he was, the children of Swallow’s Point had treated Basil just like they would any other. He was strange, perhaps—he didn’t always relate to or understand the things they would joke about, like their crushes or their lofty dreams of being wed to someone wealthy from the capital—but they did not shun him. The way they turned on him so rapidly made it obvious that it didn’t matter who he was, only what he was. Once they decided there was something wrong with him, it didn’t matter who he’d proven himself to be. It wouldn’t have even mattered if he could prove the curse wasn’t real.

Deep down, Basil knew the truth: they would have considered him to be a freak either way.

When he tried to broach the subject with Jim, he’d only received a strange look in response. The others had reacted much the same, if a bit more graciously (save for Dusty, who’d jokingly agreed and then made him repeat it next to the new garden beds to “at least put that horseshit to good use”). Ann had attempted a clumsy diatribe about why he shouldn’t speak of himself that way before quickly giving up in embarrassment. When he’d mentioned it to Frida, it had been during a crying spell immediately following a nightmare, and she’d only tried to console him. Only Hank had given him somewhat of a straight answer, saying, “You know better than that by now” with a knowing expression before lapsing into silence on the trail.

And so, that had been that.

Today, Basil sat on Frida’s porch, toes in the grass, weaving. The motion soothed him, and reminded him fondly of warm days in Swallow’s Point, making daisy chains and flower crowns in the meadow. Now, however, he was working on a much more ambitious project.

“What’s that you’re working on?”

Basil looked up from his work. Ann crested the hill to the house, pack over her shoulder. As usual, she carried her bow on her back and a knife on her belt. It was rare to see her without them, even though the village was relatively safe and Hank always went about town unarmed.

“A sunhat. I want to finish it by summer,” Basil said. His attempts in years previous had not gone as planned; his best hat had only held up for a few weeks before falling apart. He hoped his new strategy would be more successful. “What’s in there?”

“Hides,” Ann said, hefting the bag. “Frida asked for them. Can’t imagine what she needs them for.”

Basil’s face lit up. “For blankets!” he explained. “Warmer ones, for when folks are sick.”

Ann’s lip twitched in a smile. “Well, look at you. Someone’s become the perfect apprentice.”

“Helping people,” Basil said, bashful. “It just feels right. Everyone took care of me when I was younger, so I ought to do the same. We have to look after one another. No one else will.”

An odd look passed across Ann’s face, and she took a knee in front of Basil with a sigh. Damn, he thought. Not this again.

“Kid, we’re not gonna be able to protect you forever.”

“I know.”

“You’re absolutely positive you don’t want me to teach you how to shoot? You have the steady hands for it.”

Basil’s stomach lurched. He’d accompanied Ann and Hank on a hunt exactly once, and he’d thrown up in the bushes and had to go home. That had been the end of that.

“I’m sure,” he said, voice strangled, idly fiddling with the loose strands of soft green grass poking out of his unfinished hat.

“Basil. I know you don’t want to hear it, but if you’re going to walk around in the woods by yourself like you have been, you ought to be able to defend yourself. This is me trying to keep you safe.”

“I’m not doing it.” Basil crossed his arms over his chest, indignant. “I promise to be careful, but I’m not shooting that thing.”

Ann sighed and rubbed at her temple. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

Most people in town had never held a weapon in their life. Plenty of the villagers went wandering about, yet only Basil was subject to Ann’s incessant prodding about learning self defense. It was unfair to be treated this way—in a short time, Basil went from feared and derided to lauded as something uniquely precious. He was either a scourge on the world or the paragon of hope and virtue; there was no winning either way.

“I don’t know what it is you all see in me,” Basil said. “I’m not some kind of hero.”

“It ain’t about you being a hero. It’s just that, well…” Ann grimaced, looking rather sheepish. “You’re young, and you only narrowly survived your way here. It gives the rest of us something to live for, knowing you’ll be alright.”

Basil suppressed a smirk. It was a peculiar sentiment, given that he in his young life had experienced far more direct violence than most of the other townspeople. Ann didn’t seem to notice the irony. Instead, she looked at him wistfully before shaking herself out of it and pushing past him into the house, ruffling his hair as she passed.

Once she was gone, Basil plucked another blade of long grass from his basket and returned to his weaving. He worked steadily for a while, worming his toes in the cool dirt. After some time, he grew curious and scooted up closer to the kitchen window to eavesdrop..

“...he’s so stubborn about it, Frida! Can’t he see how important this is?”

Startled, Basil leaned closer to hear, hands stilling.

“Ann, please don’t push the boy. If it’s upsetting to him, we ought to not force him to do it.”

“Someone’s going to come for him some day. You know where he’s from. If he wanders off too far—”

“Hush now. It’s safe here. No one is going to come.”

Ann took a ragged breath. “Hank was right from the start. We should have done something about this.”

“Absolutely not. We do not need to risk further traumatizing the poor boy.”

“Frida, do you know the way he talks? Things about being cursed, about—”

“Yes, yes, he’s said the same to me too. It’s a common myth, Ann. He’s growing up, trying to understand what he is.”

“He worries me. I told myself in the beginning not to get attached, because—”

“He’ll be alright, dear. He’s a teenager now, and a smart one at that. You should see the way he is around the house; so bright and kind. Thank you for looking out for him.”

Basil set his project aside, hands trembling. Anger washed over him, though at what, he didn’t know. Anger at the people who had lied to him for so long, perhaps. Anger at those who had hurt him and ruined his life. Anger at himself, even, for still being frightened after all this time, for being too weak to protect himself, for proving Ann right with his own fragility.

Not wanting the others to know he’d been eavesdropping, Basil grabbed his cane and scurried further from the house, adrenaline pushing him a good deal across the hillside before he dropped back into the grass, legs quaking. He stayed there for a long while, arms wrapped around his knees, trying to breathe slowly through the anger and panic.

The sun was setting by the time Frida came to fetch him, settling beside him in the grass, not minding the way it stained her skirts.

“Basil, dear? Are you okay?” she asked, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. It was his quilt, the same old one she’d given him the day he’d arrived in Verdigris, those years ago.

Basil shrugged.

“Is it alright if I touch you?”

Basil nodded, and Frida draped an arm around him and tugged him close, brushing his shoulder gently with her thumb in a soothing motion. He was nearly taller than her now, though that wasn’t saying much. Both of them were still short. For a moment, they sat quietly in the rustling grass, watching the sun go down over Verdigris. Eventually, Frida spoke again.

“You know you aren’t cursed, don’t you, Basil? There is nothing evil or wrong about how you were born.”

“I know,” Basil said softly. He nestled closer to her side. “A part of me always knew. But it doesn’t change anything.”

“I know. But I thought you deserved to hear someone say it to you anyway.”

Briefly, Basil felt a twinge of regret, thinking of those left behind. Ace, if he was truly still out there, and any others like him would have to go on believing in a lie that had only been crafted to hurt them. But that pain was quickly superseded by the feeling of the huge weight he’d been carrying for years being lifted from his shoulders. Two years before everything had gone wrong, Basil had been warned of his own existence like it were a ghost story, and he and Ace had both carried that burden like a seed deep within their chests from that day on. The moment had brought them together, but it also represented a threat to whatever little peace they’d had.

“Hey, that used to be my sweater!” a voice called from behind. Basil stumbled, barely catching himself on his crutches and carefully turning himself around. Across the road, back from where Basil had come, an older boy of about fifteen was waving to him with a hammer, perched on a nearby rooftop. Basil recognized him. His name was Jim, and though he was Heartless himself, his mother and older sister were not—they had moved here with him as a toddler to keep him safe.

Basil looked down at his green knit sweater. It hung a bit loose on him; days on the run with little to eat had made him scrawny.

“I don’t suppose you want it back?” he called.

Jim chuckled. He had a boisterous, snorting laugh.

“No, I’m about a foot too tall for that old thing. It suits you, kid. How are Garth’s old crutches working out for you?”

“Fine,” Basil said.

“You don’t talk much, do you.”

Basil scowled. Though he knew he had no reason to be, Basil was wary of the other kids in town. There weren’t many of them, only a few other than he and Jim. Most had lived in Verdigris for most of their lives.

“Jim!” a voice shouted from inside the house. “Are you bothering that new boy?”

“I’m not, Ma!” Jim yelled back.

“You had better not be,” Jim’s mother called. “You’re supposed to be fixing that roof.”

“I am, Ma!” Jim rolled his eyes, then winked down at Basil. He explained, “My mother wants this roof patched up before winter and she’s already on my case about it. You know how mothers are.”

Basil said nothing. Jim gave him an odd look, then shrugged and went back to hammering. Unsure what to do, Basil stood there for a few more moments in silence before hobbling back toward Frida’s house. He’d had enough of the town for one day, and besides, Frida would soon be expecting him home for lunch.

**

Time passed, and winter fell on Verdigris. The trees went bare and the grass wilted and turned brown. A blanket of pure white snow draped itself over the hills and rooftops, and the sky was dyed a permanent shade of gray.

Most importantly, Basil found he couldn’t really walk anymore.

Frida had explained to him that because he had been walking on it for so long before she’d been able to treat his injuries, his leg hadn’t fully healed correctly. It was better, and could bear weight—but it was stiff and painful to walk on, and the cold weather made it worse. Now, he couldn’t do much more than move around the house without losing his balance, and hobbling on crutches in the ice and snow was out of the question.

With Basil being essentially housebound for the time being, Frida did her best to keep him busy by giving him books to study, and teaching him how to mix basic herbal supplements to help with common ailments. Basil found that he liked the work, and he liked Frida. She was kind to him, and didn’t push him to talk about the things that had happened to him. But for Basil, who had spent most of his childhood running about outside, being cooped in the house all winter made him grouchy and restless like a caged animal.

And so it was that when Hank came to the door one day, stomping snow off his big boots in the entryway, and told him he had something to show him, Basil agreed immediately.

“Hold on, now,” Frida said, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s this about, Hank?”

“I want to take him up to the Ridge,” Hank said.

“That’s nearly an hour’s walk!”

“I’ll carry him on my back.” He smiled down at Basil in his kitchen chair. “That alright with you, kid?”

Basil looked to Frida with a pleading expression. “Please?”

Frida sighed. “Alright. But you be careful!”

“I’ll bring him back in one piece, Frida,” Hank said. “You know I will.”

They bundled Basil up from head to toe—boots, a thick wool cloak (an old one of Ann’s that had been hemmed to fit but was still much too long), and a knit hat, scarf, and mittens. Then Hank hoisted him onto his back and they bid the house farewell, Frida watching like a hawk through the kitchen window until they were out of sight.

The town was hushed, as if slumbering. Hank’s boots crunching in the snow made the only sound. It was peaceful, serene. Basil found he liked it. Snowy days back in Swallow’s Point had been chaos, racing to see who could build the best fort or shoving snow down each other’s coats. Basil’s parents had always called him talkative, but these days he was content to say nothing, and Hank didn’t ask him to. He liked that about him.

There was a lot to like about Hank. Hank knew a lot about a lot of things. He had visited often while Basil was initially recovering, and told him all about the different trees in the forest, and pointed out plants in Frida’s books of medicinal herbs that he recognized from his travels.

“You alright back there?” Hank asked after a while. He’d taken them into the woods east of town, where the tree cover was sparser than in the area where he and Ann typically hunted. They were climbing uphill, now, but Hank didn’t seem to be struggling.

Basil hummed in confirmation.

“You know, kid, I don’t think I ought to be able to carry a ten-year-old all this way. You really are scrawny.”

“No, you’re just strong,” Basil said, scowling.

Hank bellowed a laugh. His chest shook with the motion. “So I am,” he conceded. “But I don’t mean anything by it. You stay with Frida long enough and I’m sure she’ll have you getting big and strong in no time.”

Basil didn’t say anything.

“Do you… have someplace to go back to? Family waiting for you somewhere?” Hank shifted Basil’s weight on his back, stepping over an exposed tree root. “Some time, maybe when you are bigger and stronger, I can take you anywhere it is you want to go. I don’t mean to make it seem like you’ve gotta stay here if you don’t want to.”

“I have a family,” Basil said softly. “But I don’t know if I can go back to them.”

Hank didn’t respond right away, so Basil thought he must not have heard him. But then, Hank sighed.

“Basil, you’re from Amistadia, aren’t you.”

Basil’s stomach lurched. He clenched his fists in the shoulders of Hank’s coat. Maybe he’d make him go back. Maybe that’s where Hank was taking him now. But, no, they’d gone the opposite direction, hadn’t they? Hank would never—

“Hey, you’re alright,” Hank said gently. “You’re okay. Don’t worry, I had an inkling that was the case the day I found you. Proximity aside, few places are so brutal. Other places, they may treat you something terrible. But that? To a child? Shit. Jim’s family, they’re from Amistadia. He doesn’t remember because he was a baby, but that’s why they left.”

Basil loosened his grip. “Have you been there?”

“No, ‘course not. I haven’t left Verdigris in twenty years. I didn’t come all this way to make a new life for myself just to risk giving it up.”

“But you said you’d take me anywhere.”

“I would,” Hank said. “You’re worth the risk. Now, see here, look.” He pointed ahead to a break in the treeline. There, Basil could see where the gray sky met the snowy horizon in a sea of white. Before they quite reached that distant point, Hank turned to face the way they’d come.

“This,” he said, gesturing out over the hillside, “is the Ridge.”

Basil gasped. From this vantage point, he could see out over all of Verdigris, past the edge of the woods and beyond. If he squinted, he could even see Amistadia, the pointy spire of King Brutus’ extravagant central palace peeking out over the distant treeline. He’d never imagined he’d ever get to see it, as much as he’d pretended at delusions of grandeur—he certainly had never thought he might see it from this distance.

Somewhere that way lay a home he’d likely never see again, either. Maybe Ace was still out there. Maybe he wasn’t. As long as he was safe, that was all Basil cared about.

“Impressive? Well, that’s not even what I wanted to show you.”

Hank turned around, and Basil’s breath caught in his throat. On this side, facing eastward, Basil could now see out to that faraway point on the horizon where the blank sky seemed to stretch to infinity. In the snow-dappled valley below, distant homes and villages dotted the pristine white landscape, down through the hillside and all the way out to a frozen lake shimmering in the distance like a pretty polished stone.

Basil drummed his palms against Hank’s shoulders, wanting to be put down. Hank carefully lowered him to the ground, and Basil gripped onto his cloak for balance.

“Easy there,” Hank warned, holding him back by the shoulder. “If you get hurt, Frida will have my hide.”

“It’s amazing,” Basil whispered, a huge grin splitting his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled like that—the muscles in his face almost felt stiff at the motion. Above him, Hank chuckled in what almost seemed like fond surprise.

“There’s a whole, great big world out there, Basil,” Hank said softly, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s not all so dark as the one that you have known.”

They stood there for a few minutes in silence, staring out over the Ridge. Basil thought it almost mystical—like if he stood there long enough, watching, that milky horizon might just swallow him up, taking the shining pearl lake with it in one big, terrestrial gulp.

Maybe Hank was right. Maybe this whole thing was far bigger than him, bigger than he’d ever imagined.

Hank picked him back up and turned away from that horizon.

The figure before him—a young man Basil’s own age—bled profusely from a gash in his chest several inches wide, right through his ribcage where the heart should be. By now, the wound was already beginning to clot, although it still oozed heavily with the rotten smell of decay. Basil’s stomach twisted and lurched, terror clawing at his insides, but he steeled himself, leaning forward.

He knew that face. It had grown older, harder, more defined and less baby-faced, of course, than he remembered. But Basil had promised himself he’d never forget this face, and Basil was never one to break his promises.

The face looked back at him, and blinked.

Basil scrambled backward, rolled over onto his palms, and vomited into the blood-soaked dirt.

Quickly, he tried to compose himself, breathing heavily, trying to remember what Frida had taught him. But he’d never been good at tending to wounds beyond the shallowest of scrapes—he’d always been far too squeamish to handle it, and Frida had given up. Normally, that was knowledge he never needed, but now, in the face of his own powerlessness, Basil felt ashamed. Eight years of apprenticeship and this is what it had gotten him? He couldn’t even cut away fabric to help staunch the bleeding; Ann had given him a small knife to carry with him, just in case, but he always stubbornly, stupidly, left it in his bedside drawer at home.

Sitting back in the dirt, Basil—with great effort—looked back at the pale, ghastly face. The eyes were closed, now, as if they’d never opened. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, or of Basil’s own frazzled mind.

He pushed himself to his feet, groaning, and hoisted the body onto his back. Basil retrieved his cane and set off the way he’d come, free arm hooked around one leg to keep the body in place. He wasn’t very strong, and putting this much weight on his leg was bound to be painful. He had been walking for quite some time before—it would take him hours to walk back. There was a chance he wouldn’t make it. There was a chance he was already too late, anyway. Ann’s constant insistence on the danger had always been warranted, but Basil couldn’t help but be drawn to it anyway. He’d always felt he’d lost something in these woods, eight long years ago. Now that he might have found it, he had no other choice but to do what Hank and Ann had done for him way back when.

He had to get him home.

*

Basil walked and walked, stumbling along through brambles and mud with his cane until his leg hurt so badly that the edges of his vision started to go black. Finally, Basil’s body gave out under the weight of a heavier person, and he collapsed to the ground, shaking and weeping at his pain and his uselessness.

Someone had tried to kill his best friend. They’d nearly succeeded, and if Basil didn’t find help soon, they very well might. That danger had started to feel far-off, like something from a distant life. But it had never been more than a stone’s throw away, always visible from the Ridge, far closer than any gleaming, better world that Basil had envisioned beyond the horizon that day. That pointed spire had been a threat from the start—and it wasn’t going away.

Whoever had done this had better be dead. It was the fate they deserved.

Basil shook himself, startled by the depth of his own anger.

“Basil!” a voice called in the distance. “Kid, where are you?”

“Ann!” Basil shouted.

“Basil? Is that you?”

“Hurry!”

Moments later, Ann crashed through the trees toward him, bow drawn.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Frida’s been worried sick—oh, god, that’s a lot of blood.”

Weakly, Basil gestured beside him. “He’s breathing.”

Ann’s face went pale. “Fucking hell. Hank!” She dropped her bow and knelt, one hand on Basil’s shoulder while she prodded at the body. Basil couldn’t bring himself to look, afraid of finding those eyes staring at him again, or worse—that it had been a different face entirely.

Desperate and pained, Basil forced himself to focus on the firm hand on his shoulder, tethering him to reality. If he let his mind drift only for a moment, the horror and the agony brought him back to that place eight years before, lying in the dirt like a cornered animal, watching Ace’s retreating back. Sticks and stones and child-sized boots colliding mercilessly with his ribs, with his very soul, the sensation of the bone in his leg cracking—

“Basil! Hey! Kid, what happened?” Hank’s voice pleaded. Basil blinked and saw the man squatting in front of him. He hadn’t noticed the time passing. When had he arrived? Basil shook his head, curling inward on himself.

“Take our new friend here back with you, and fast,” Ann said sharply. “Who knows how long he has left, with a wound like that.”

Basil sobbed, wrapping his arms around his torso. He thought he might throw up again.

“What about him?” Hank asked.

“I’ve got him,” Ann said, hand still gripping Basil’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine. Just go.”

There was some rustling, and then Hank’s heavy footsteps departed at a breakneck pace. Basil didn’t move, crying into his knees.

“Basil, hey. Woah, hey, you’re alright.”

“It’s all my fucking fault,” Basil blubbered. “He’s going to die.”

“You did what you could, alright? Frida will take it from here.”

“My parents were right.”

“No, they weren’t. You know they weren’t.”

“Look at me, Ann!” Basil lifted his head. Ann winced. “Everywhere I go, it chases me! It’s my fault this happened to him. And I’m too weak to do anything about it!”

Ann gripped both of his shoulders, squeezing. She peered into his eyes, searching. Her hair had come loose from its usual braid, a few grays framing her face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she admitted. “But you may very well have just saved that kid’s life. You’re one of the strongest people I have ever met. Walking all this way? Kid, how are you even conscious?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, just… Put all of that out of your mind for now, alright? We’ve gotta get you home. Are you okay?”

“I’m terrified.”

“I can tell. You’re with me, okay? I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

Basil nodded. He sat there quietly in the dirt, shaking, steadying his breathing. Ann waited dutifully beside him, as if he were something truly precious. Eventually, with pain still pulsing in his knee, he looked at her questioningly. Ann smiled.

“Shit, you look terrible.”

Basil managed a weak chuckle, wiping at his tears. “This is so fucking unfair,” he croaked.

“I know. It’s the hand we’ve all been dealt, kid. You more than anyone. More than me.”

Feeling spent, Basil sighed. The terror was fading now, replaced with a gaping emptiness that echoed hollow in his ribcage. Now that the moment had passed, Basil had trouble convincing himself that he hadn’t imagined the familiar face he’d seen. Perhaps, in his panicked state, his mind had merely projected the image of what terrified him most. Perhaps it was just another unfortunate soul, left behind to die in the cold. God knows there certainly were enough of them.

Basil shivered.

“We’ve gotta get you home,” Ann repeated. “Frida will kill me where I stand if you get sick too. How’s the damage?”

With immense difficulty, Basil straightened his knee. He felt the swollen tendons stretch and pop into place, cursing under his breath at the sudden rush of pain.

Ann drew in a breath. “Well, I can’t carry you at your age. Think you can stand? It’s gonna hurt like a son of a bitch, I’m sorry, but you can lean on me and we’ll go nice and slow.”

Hesitantly, Basil nodded. With Ann’s help, he pulled himself to his feet. He really must have looked worse for wear; even his cane was streaked with blood and grime.

With Ann’s arm under his back, supporting him, Basil began the walk home.

“Can we keep this between us?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Please don’t tell Frida I swore so much.”

Ann laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it, kid.”

*

That night, Basil sat quietly at Frida’s kitchen table nursing a mug of hot tea, with Ann seated across from him, arms and legs crossed in a defensive posture. When they’d arrived, long after Hank, she’d made him change his soiled clothes before sitting him down and gently wiping the blood and dirt from his hands with a wet rag while he sat there, nearly catatonic. Now, she seemed almost embarrassed by the sudden burst of tenderness, though she was clearly trying not to show it.

Beneath the table, Basil’s leg throbbed with pain, though it was less now, thanks to the tea. Ann had clearly swiped something from Frida to put in it. He was grateful, although he did her the favor of not mentioning it.

They weren’t letting him into the room. Basil had a feeling they wouldn’t, not unless he could prove he could handle it.

“This was an attempted murder, Frida.”

As always, Frida and Hank argued in low voices just beyond the door. This time, they didn’t seem to care if Basil heard them or not.

“A nearly successful one, too,” Frida said. “He’s lucky you found Basil when you did.”

“But you think he’ll live.” It wasn’t a question.

“I certainly hope it’s the case. That’s all we can do.”

“All we can do? We should be doing more! Do you understand the kind of suffering that goes on beyond our borders?”

“Of course I do! Not one of us is a stranger to it! But Hank, please be reasonable! Do you understand the kind of violence we would potentially be inviting to our doorstep?”

“Eight damn years, Frida! How much longer are we going to let this go on?”

“We can’t fix it on our own! All we can do is help each other get by. Don’t you understand?”

Ann tapped the table. She gave Basil a look. Focus here, it said.

Basil nodded. He rested his head on his arms, staring at the lantern’s light flickering softly on the tabletop. Ann watched him out of the corner of her eye. The waiting was agony for Basil, but Ann didn’t seem to mind keeping her quiet vigil. She had insisted upon not leaving him alone.

There was a soft, strangled noise from the other room. Crying.

“I’m sorry,” Hank was saying, voice fragile. “I just can’t stand this feeling.”

“I know,” Frida said so softly that Basil had to strain to hear. “You saved both of their lives. Thank you.”

Ann caught Basil’s gaze from across the table, brows knitted together. She smiled sadly and reached over to ruffle his hair. Neither of them said anything; they didn’t have to. There was nothing left to say, anyway.

Long before then, Jim’s mother had passed away unexpectedly, and he had followed his older sister out of town. His parting gift to Basil had been a new cane, as his old one was much too short to be of use to him now.

“Don’t worry about me,” Jim had assured him. “I don’t know where I’m headed, but wherever it is, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Basil had been skeptical, but he hadn’t voiced his concerns. It was a dangerous world out there, but who knew? Maybe Hank was right. Maybe there was a better world out there. If Basil had resigned himself to never leaving, perhaps Jim could see enough of it for the both of them.

In the weeks and months that followed, Basil took up fishing alone. Throughout the warmer months, whenever he wasn’t running errands for Frida or working in the community garden with Dusty, he could often be found down in the creek, wading up to his knees. Other times, he took long walks in the woods with his cane, staying out as long as he dared before Frida would start to worry.

She worried less, these days. That was one of the more surprising changes. Perhaps Basil was just growing up, or perhaps it was something else. Either way, Frida spent less time fretting over him and more time lauding him for how far he’d come since arriving at her doorstep, battered and broken. She did still worry for him, of course. Such was the natural way of things: the sun rose every morning, Basil did not have a heart, and Frida worried.

After all, for how much things may have changed in Verdigris, others would always remain the same. Basil liked that just fine.

All of that to say: by his eighteenth birthday, Basil had become so firmly rooted in Verdigris that the thought of calling anywhere else home felt incredibly foreign. Where he had once been a stranger wearing someone else’s clothes, now Basil walked the dirt roads of the village like he’d been born there, his unsteady gait the only visible indicator of his former life. Two more years and he’d have spent half his life in Verdigris. Already, Swallow’s Point felt like a distant dream.

Basil had long ago given up any intention of ever returning to Amistadia. It wasn’t home to him any longer; being driven out of it had severed those ties completely. Even if he wanted to return, even if he thought it was safe to do so, he doubted he could manage it. And what would be the point in returning? Nothing awaited him there. Why leave Verdigris, the only place he’d ever truly been accepted as he was? Here, they were left alone. Basil had no doubt that passing travelers knew they were out here—but whether those strangers recognized them as Heartless, he couldn’t say, and did it matter? So long as they kept to themselves out here, no one thought of them as a threat. Sure, there were some who understood—Jim’s mother had been one of those precious few—but most never would, so it was best not to bother.

Even so, Verdigris was a small place. And Basil knew, from Hank’s many stories, that the world was much bigger than this. But he was no king, no god, no hero—after everything, a quiet life suited him just fine.

Basil hefted his pack over his shoulder as he walked home from the creek, barefoot in the tall grass. In it he kept his shoes and his canteen, and his cane hung from a leather loop attached to the outside, should he need it. Fireflies rose up from the grass around him, blinking softly as if keeping time with his own steady breathing. Crickets chirped and cicadas hummed their mournful evening song, like a choir all led by the gentle summer breeze blowing through the hillside. Basil walked slowly, taking it all in, though he didn’t have time to stop and rest a while. He was already late for supper; the sun was starting to set earlier than he had gotten accustomed to anticipating.

As he crested the hill, Basil squinted through the evening’s dying light. Dusty stood at Garth’s front gate, gesturing wildly. Raising a hand to keep his sunhat from blowing away with the breeze, Basil hurried up the road to meet them. His bucket slapped against his thigh as he went along.

“...and that’s what I don’t understand!” Dusty was saying animatedly when he arrived.

“What’s this?” Basil asked, expertly dodging Dusty’s waving arm.

“Ah!” Dusty said, pointing. “You! Tell the old man here to stop being so damn difficult.”

“Oi, don’t involve the poor lad in this,” Garth cut in, voice gruff. He was hunched behind the fence, leaning on an old, sanded down tree branch he used as a walking stick.

“Don’t involve me in what, exactly?” Basil asked again, setting down his bucket with a sigh. It looked like he wasn’t going to be home for supper after all.

“Old man Garth here won’t accept anything from the town garden,” Dusty explained, crossing their arms over their chest. “Not a single bite.”

“I grow my own food,” Garth said firmly. “Save what the town grows for others who need it.”

Dusty gestured at Garth’s garden, incredulous. About a week prior, animals had gotten into Garth’s yard and eaten most of his late summer harvest. Something had also eaten one of his chickens.

“I have enough,” Garth insisted. “I preserve most of what I grow. Save your charity for those who need it.”

“Save my— I don’t understand what you think the point of a community garden is if not to feed the community!”

“Stop,” Basil said. Dusty actually quieted. Despite being one of the younger folks in town, Basil seemed to have that kind of sway over people. Even Dusty, from time to time.

Basil glanced down at his bucket of fish. Only a few measly brook trout sat at the bottom, still with their scales (he was too squeamish with a knife to skin them himself). He’d been hoping to take these home to Frida; it was a poor afternoon’s catch, but it was something. Basil frowned. Then, he picked up the bucket and held it over the fence toward Garth.

“Here,” he said. “At least take this. Just in case.”

Garth peered in the bucket, wary. He raised his bushy gray eyebrows.

“I don’t need charity from you either, lad.”

“Don’t think of it as charity.” Basil shook the bucket. The fish slapped around wetly inside. “Think of it as payment. I still owe you for this.” With his other hand, he reached behind and pulled out his cane, tapping it against the dirt.

Garth’s expression softened. “It was just scraps, Basil. Jim did all the work both times.”

“Jim’s not here, so I can’t repay him. Besides, you taught him everything he knows. Please?”

Garth was quiet for a moment, scratching his short beard in thought. Then, finally, he sighed and took the bucket.

“Thank you, lad,” he said softly.

Basil smiled wide and turned to walk off. If he stayed any later, Frida would certainly have his hide. Dusty stared after him, feigning suspicion.

“I still expect your help in the garden tomorrow,” they called after him.

Without looking back, Basil lifted a hand and waved. He understood the code for what it was: he would almost certainly be interrogated tomorrow. Dusty liked to challenge and taunt him, whether that meant a mandatory heart-to-heart or getting his hands dirty. Often, it was both. Whereas it had once embarrassed him, now Basil found himself looking forward to it. Not that he’d ever admit it.

That was the greatest change since Basil’s arrival in Verdigris, although it was mostly an internal one. In a way, the people of Verdigris had become family to him more than even his own parents had been. Thinking that way made Basil feel guilty, but he hadn’t seen his parents in eight years, and doubted if they were even still alive. Maybe they had loved him unconditionally—they certainly risked a lot for him. But Basil wasn’t too concerned with love, not anymore.

The people of Verdigris had taken Basil in exactly as he was. They’d sheltered, fed, and clothed him. They—Frida, Hank, and Ann especially—had raised him, and saved his life. Basil wasn’t very strong, nor was he particularly skilled; but he would be there for them in return, in the only ways he knew how. But it wasn’t out of a sense of indebtedness—that wasn’t the kind of debt that could be repaid, anyway. It was simply what felt right.

Frida was waiting on the front porch with a lantern when Basil finally arrived. He committed the image to memory, deep within the well of his chest, of her standing with a light in the dark, waiting however late into the night for his safe return.

She looked at him disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” was all he said.

“You’re never going to listen to a word I tell you, are you, Basil?” Frida asked fondly. She glanced down and tilted her head, as if noticing he had arrived empty handed. “No catch today?”

“I gave it to Garth.”

Frida hummed, urging him into the house, not caring for the dirt on his feet.

“You make it difficult to be upset with you.”

Basil beamed ear-to-ear, which only seemed to weaken Frida’s resolve further.

“Hey, kid, don’t worry about them,” a voice piped up next to him. Basil jumped and tangled his hands in the quilt again. He’d nearly forgotten the woman had been sitting there—she and the man in the other room had been the ones to rescue him. He knew this, and even still—

The woman sighed. “I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re one of us, hear?”

Basil said nothing.

“I’m Ann. Do you want to tell me your name?”

Basil considered it. The words, however, wouldn’t come. Even if he’d wanted to, Basil had screamed so much he wasn’t sure he could speak at all anymore.

Ann was a woman in perhaps her mid-30s, with curly brown hair she kept in a long braid. She wore sturdy boots and work clothes with a hooded cloak and a leather belt. A bow and arrow hung on the back of the rickety wooden chair she was perched in at Basil’s bedside, one foot up over her knee and arms crossed over her chest. Ann didn’t look much like she really wanted to be there, playing babysitter for the healer woman, but Basil didn’t really want to be there either, so he supposed he couldn’t blame her.

“Anyway, don’t worry about those two,” Ann continued. “Hank gets real up in arms when something happens to one of our own, and Frida’s far too much of a principled pacifist to let him do anything about it. Important thing is that no one in this town is going to let anybody hurt you again.”

Basil wet his lips with his tongue. “One of our own?” he croaked.

Ann seemed briefly surprised, blinking back at him. It was the first coherent thing out of his mouth since he’d arrived, so again, he couldn’t really fault her for it.

“You haven’t pieced that one together? Kid, Hank felt your pulse when we found you in the woods. You don’t have one, and neither do we.”

A warm feeling settled over Basil. Two years ago, he and Ace had shared a similar secret among the fireflies one summer evening, and Basil had tackled his best friend in a hug and wept. Now, all he could do was sit there, stupefied. How ironic, that he should be violently cast out of one place for who he was, only to be given shelter in another for just the same. How fortuitous that Hank and Ann should have found him, and that he’d run this way at all. And how tragic it was that only he should be so lucky, while others, like Ace, were left behind.

There was nothing he could do about that now.

The door opened and Hank and Frida reentered, faces passive. They didn’t want Basil to know they’d been speaking about him; he was, unfortunately, smarter than they realized.

Hank was a tall man with brown skin and kind eyes, and he regarded Basil with a reassuring smile as he collected his things.

“We’d best head out, Ann,” he said to his companion. “We’re burning daylight.”

“Thank you for watching the boy,” Frida said. She was a short, matronly woman, graying at the temples, with a voice like clear bells.

“Sure, sure.” Ann waved a hand about. “We’re like two peas in a pod now, right, kid?”

Basil shied back and said nothing, holding tight to his blanket, but he couldn’t help but crack the smallest of smiles. It was comforting to know there were more people like him in the world than he thought, even if the scars he now bore made it difficult to trust them. Perhaps, with time, he could learn.

Ann and Hank departed, leaving Basil alone in the tiny clinic room with Frida. The fear threatened to overtake him again, but Frida made a point of sitting out of arm’s reach.

“Do you need to take something more for the pain?” she asked.

Basil shook his head. His knee still throbbed, but with it carefully wrapped and his leg in a splint, it wasn’t so bad now if he didn’t move. It was nothing compared to the pain of running on it for days at a time.

“Good,” Frida said. “I want to take a better look at you. May I?”

With great trepidation, Basil allowed himself a nod. Frida scooted her chair a bit closer, so she could examine the line of bruises that snaked its way up his entire left side. Basil tolerated the attention, but when the woman’s hand grazed the side of his ribcage, he jerked away and a guttural cry clawed its way out of his throat. Frida retracted her hand and hushed him gently.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I won’t hurt you, but I need to check for breaks. If it’s too much, you can tell me, alright?”

Trembling, Basil nodded once more. He steeled himself for the pain, trying and failing not to imagine the sensation of every kick, every punch, every blunt force blow to his small frame, but it never came. Frida prodded gently at Basil’s ribs, and though his bruises stung, she did not hurt him.

Basil let out a shaky breath. Frida paused her ministrations and drew Basil’s blankets around his shoulders. She held his gaze, eyes warm but keen.

“Did someone give you those bruises?” she asked.

“They were afraid of me,” Basil whispered, clutching the edges of the blanket. “But I’m not a monster.”

“No, you’re not a monster. What’s your name, dear?”

“It’s Basil.”

“Basil.” Frida smiled. “Well, you’re safe here. This is a town called Verdigris—a Heartless commune of sorts, really. Everyone here has their own stories of how they ended up here. We’ll have to ask around and get you some new clothes. And some crutches, too, so you can get around on your own. You’ll probably want a bath, as well, but that can wait until you’re feeling a bit better.”

Basil didn’t know what to say. He felt wrung out, like an old dishcloth. He’d spent all his young life living with this horrible secret, hiding from himself and from who he was. The moment that secret had come to light had ruined his life. Now, he found himself in a place where it didn’t matter at all. It didn’t even seem real. It felt like someone had pulled him straight out of the oven and dunked him in cold water, but for some reason he kept asking to go back to the coals.

Thankfully, Frida didn’t ask him to speak. She merely excused herself for a few moments and returned with a steaming bowl set on a wooden tray, which she placed down in front of Basil.

“Go ahead and eat up, Basil,” she said. “You need your strength.”

Basil peered into the bowl. It was filled with hot soup, little chunks of vegetables and grains floating in a warm broth with tender bits of meat. Just like his mother used to make. All at once, Basil crashed headfirst into the wall of grief that had chased him all the way here.

He’d likely never see his parents again. He’d never spend another summer afternoon out in the meadow picking wildflowers in the hot sun, or eating fresh raspberries under the shade of a willow tree, their ripe flesh bursting between his teeth like a bubble, sweet juices coating his tongue. He’d never build a snow fort with Ace again, telling secrets well into the night until their parents called them home. All too easily, it had all become part of the past. Just like that.

What would happen, if he returned to Swallow’s Point? Would he be attacked again? Killed? Arrested, thrown in some dark cellar, studied like a bug? Or would he be left alone, having served his penance for the crime of being born different? What would happen to his parents?

What had already happened to Ace?

If he’d kept his guard up, if he’d been more careful, maybe he’d be with them still. Had he never been discovered, life could have continued on in blissful perpetuity. Basil knew he’d never truly been the monster they all thought him to be; he’d only ever been a boy, doing his best. But it hadn’t mattered.