The First Weeks
The days began to acquire a rhythm, a routine that gradually became less strange and more... normal.
konstant woke before dawn, when the sky was still dark but beginning to lighten at the edges. Gareth always waited for him in the same spot, along with Luna, who somehow had even more energy in the morning than she did during the day. They entered the forest, and that's when the real work began: checking traps, tracking animals, learning to read the signs the forest left.
In the first week, konstant was just trying not to get lost. The forest was vast, and everything seemed the same at firstenormous trees, dense vegetation, trails that snaked without apparent logic. But Gareth forced him to pay attention, to memorize landmarks, to understand how to navigate.
"See the tree with the 'X' shaped mark on the bark? That mark points north. The stream always flows East-West. Moss grows thicker on the south side of stones. Learn to read the environment."
And konstant learned. His natural observation skills, sharpened by his months alone before, served him well here. He began to notice patterns, recognize areas, understand the flow of the forest.
Luna was a konstant and noisy companion. She talked nonstop, changing subjects all the time. konstant sometimes didn't know how to answer her questions, and she told stories that started in one place and ended in another completely different. She talked a lot, but she knew a lot, too. She knew the forest as well as Gareth. She knew where to find fruit to eat, where animals liked to make their dens, and which sounds meant danger.
"How do you know so much?" konstant asked her one day, after she led him straight to a hidden bush laden with sweet berries he would never have found on his own.
Luna shrugged, a careless motion, but her eyes avoided his. "My father taught me. Before." A brief pause. "He liked the forest. Said it was the only place he could really think."
It was one of the few times she mentioned her parents without immediately changing the subject or filling the silence with more words. konstant didn't press. He just nodded.
"He taught you well. You know a lot."
Luna smiled, but it was a small, sad smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah. He was good at it." As always, she recovered quickly. "Hey, do you think you can climb to that branch? I bet you can't! I bet I can climb faster!"
And she was running, and the moment had passed.
konstant learned to recognize these moments, these cracks in Luna's cheerful armor. He learned when to push gently and when to let it be. He learned that sometimes, the best thing he could do was just be present, be konstant, not disappear like her parents had.
Luna's opening up was a slow process, so gradual it was easy to miss the signs. One day, while they were fixing a damaged trap, she observed, without looking at him, "My father had hands as rough as this rope, but he could fix anything." That was all. Nothing more was said that day. Another morning, passing through a stretch of pine trees, she took a deep breath and said, "This smell reminds me of my mother's dress." These fragments of a painful past were deposited between them like small stones placed one by one to form a new path in the forest.
"Mama used to sing this song," she said one day, humming something quietly. "It was about... I don't remember. But the melody sticks in your head."
"It was pretty," konstant offered when she stopped.
"Yeah. It was." Luna was quiet for a whole, rare moment. "Do you think they'll come back? My parents?"
It was the first time she had asked the question directly. konstant didn't know what to say. Lying would be easy, but wrong. And telling the truth would be too cruel.
"I don't know," he said finally. "But I know that, whether they come back or not, you'll be okay. Gareth is here. The village is here. And..." he hesitated, "I'm here too. For now."
Luna looked at him with those eyes too big for her small face. "Promise you won't just disappear suddenly? Like, without warning?"
"I promise that if I have to go somewhere, I'll tell you first. Always."
He couldn't promise to stay forever, because he desperately wanted to find his way back to his own world. But it was a promise of honesty, of not letting her wake up one day to find him simply gone.
It was the best he could offer. And apparently it was enough, because Luna nodded and smiled again, though not as frantically as usual.
"Okay. Then now you have to teach me that thing from your world! The one you talked about... what was it again? Electronic games?"
"Videogames," konstant corrected, half smiling despite himself. "But there's no way to show you here. They don't work without electricity and special screens."
"Then tell me about them! How do they work? Are they like a play, but you control it? That sounds so cool!"
She was chattering again, and konstant was explaining the concepts of videogames to a six-year-old in another world while they walked through a forest and checked traps.
His life had gotten very strange.
***
On the other side of the village, Keiko was fighting her own battle.
Mira did not get easier. If anything, she became more demanding as she saw that Keiko could handle it.
"You learn fast," Mira commented at the end of the first week, which, coming from her, was practically a speech full of praise. "Your hands are still clumsy, but you pay attention. That's half the battle."
Keiko had learned that "clumsy hands" was the closest thing to affection Mira offered. The woman simply didn't give compliments in the normal way. But there was recognition in her tone, and that was something.
The work was physical in ways Keiko had never experienced. Grinding herbs until her arms burned. Carrying heavy water repeatedly. Squatting to organize jars until her legs screamed. Washing, drying, hanging, sorting, mixing.
But there was also real learning. Mira began to actually teach about the plants, not just their names, but their properties. She taught, for example, that certain leaves could reduce fever. She also taught how certain roots helped with pain but were poisonous in the wrong doses. She taught how to prepare potions for wounds. She also taught how to make preserves that would last for months.
"Pay attention," Mira warned, her grave voice cutting through the herb-laden air. "An apothecary who gets doses wrong kills people. There is no room for 'more or less' here. It's either right, or it's wrong." She made a dramatic pause, holding a thin glass vial between her fingers. "And wrong... means death."
It was crushing pressure for a twelve-year-old. But unlike piano lessons or the subtle teachings of etiquette, this knowledge was important. It was real. It had the weight of life and death, a purpose that made French seem like mere background noise for a hollow life.
Keiko found that she liked it. She liked feeling that she was learning things that mattered. That if she did well, she could actually help someone.
And she was getting better. Her hands, initially soft and useless, were developing calluses, getting stronger, more adept. Her arms, which could barely grind for five minutes, now lasted much longer. Her memory, trained in years of school, absorbed plant names and their uses with surprising efficiency.
"Moonleaf for fever. Beastroot for muscle pain, but poisonous in excess. Ironbark to stop bleeding. Dreamseed to help with insomnia, but never give to small children or pregnant women," she recited one day when Mira tested her knowledge.
Mira nodded approval. "Good. But knowing by memory isn't enough. You need to recognize them in practice." She grabbed a handful of mixed dried herbs and threw them in front of Keiko. "Separate them. Identify each one."
Keiko picked up the first one, examining the leaf shape, texture, the faint smell when crushed between her fingers. "Moonleaf."
"Correct. Next."
She got some right and some wrong. But now she was getting more right than wrong, and that was progress.
At the end of the second week, Mira let her help prepare a real remedy for someone from the village. A woman had come complaining of joint pain, and Mira prepared a specific ointment while explaining each step.
Her hands, still clumsy with the task, repeated Mira's instructions like a prayer: "Ground beastroot..." She crushed the dried root until it became a brownish powder and mixed it with sunseed oil at a precise three-to-one ratio. As she heated the mixture in the cauldron, an earthy, pungent aroma filled the air. "Heat gently, but do not boil." She said, pulling it from the flames at the exact moment, her eyes fixed on the surface just beginning to shimmer. "Boiling destroys the properties." Then, melted beeswax was added, thickening the unguent. She stirred without stopping, her arm beginning to ache, until she felt the consistency change against the stone bottom. Only then, as the mixture was partially cooling, did she transfer it to an immaculately clean glass jar and seal it with a wooden lid.
Keiko watched every movement, memorizing them. When Mira asked, "Now you make a second batch yourself, while I watch," she managed it. The consistency wasn't perfect, a bit thicker than Mira's, but functional.
"Acceptable," Mira declared, which Keiko had learned meant 'good job'. "Keep practicing. Eventually your hands will learn the right touch."
It was strange, but Keiko was beginning to... not exactly *like* Mira, but respect her. The woman was hard as stone, with no patience for drama or excuses, but she was fair. If Keiko did well, she received recognition. If she did poorly, she received direct correction without unnecessary cruelty. It was clear, it was consistent, it was... safe in a way.
Unlike her parents, who had always been overprotective out of fear, or the staff, who had always been too kind because they were paid to be. Mira had no hidden agendas. It was just work, learning, and the expectation that Keiko would manage if she tried.
It was, surprisingly, the kind of relationship Keiko didn't know she needed.
She also began to meet other people from the village who came for remedies. Women with sick babies. Men with work injuries. Elderly people with konstant pain. And seeing Mira help them, seeing the remedies work, seeing genuine gratitude...
It was good. It was real purpose.
"You are less insufferable now," Mira commented at the end of the third week. "Less drama, more work. Good."
Coming from Mira, it was practically a declaration of affection. Keiko smiled despite herself.
***
In the fields, Raid was having his own discoveries.
The physical work never got exactly *easy*, but his body was adapting. Muscles he didn't even know he had were getting stronger. His hands, initially soft, now had thick calluses that protected against blisters. His broad shoulders, always hunched before in an attempt to disappear, were straightening naturally under the konstant weight of tools and work.
Tomos remained a man of few words, but Raid had learned to read his silence. A specific grunt meant approval. A pause while looking at Raid's work meant he was checking quality. A nod of the head was full praise.
And, gradually, Tomos began to trust Raid with more tasks. Not just planting, but deciding where to plant. He didn't just pull weeds, but identified which plants needed attention. He also started carrying water and knowing when each section of the field needed irrigation.
"Good eye," Tomos would say occasionally when Raid pointed out something subtle a plant beginning to wilt, signs of insects on specific leaves, variations in soil color indicating need for different nutrients.
It was konstant validation of that natural talent Raid had for observing details. And for the first time in his life, something that usually overwhelmed him in social situations was useful. It was valued.
Lira continued to be a warm, konstant presence. She brought hearty lunches, always making sure Raid ate enough. She chatted gently about random things that didn't require complex answers. She smoothed his hair when it was too messy, mended tears in his clothes without being asked, made sure he had clean water to wash with before dinner.
It was maternal in a way Raid had never experienced. And part of him... clung to it. To the care without expectations. To the kindness without conditions.
"You're eating better," she commented in the third week. "Good. You were too thin when you arrived."
It was true. The konstant work and regular food were visibly changing his body. Not a lot yet, but enough to notice.
One afternoon, a neighbor came asking for help with something in his own field. Tomos went, but instead of taking Raid along, he just said, "Continue here. You know what to do."
It was trust. Trust to leave Raid alone, knowing he would work well without supervision.
Raid worked with fierce focus during Tomos's absence, wanting to prove he deserved that trust. When Tomos returned an hour later and inspected the work, he nodded approval.
"Good work. You are learning."
They were only four words. But to Raid, they were worth much more than any long speech.
In the evening, after work, Raid usually spent some time with Tomos and Lira before going to meet konstant and Keiko. And it was during these quiet evenings that he began to feel... part of something. Not family exactly, not yet, but something close.
Lira would sew or cook, humming quietly. Tomos would fix tools or just sit smoking a sweet-smelling pipe. Raid sometimes just sat there, absorbing the peaceful atmosphere, letting the quiet fill spaces inside him that had always been noisy and agitated.
"You can stay here whenever you want, you know," Lira said one evening. "Even after you have your own house eventually. You'll always have a place at our table."
Raid couldn't answer verbally. He just nodded, that small movement hoping to convey a gratitude that words couldn't carry.
***
And so the weeks passed, turning into one month. Then two.
The three continued to meet at the end of each day to share experiences in fragmented conversations. konstant talked about life in the forest and about Luna, and about how he was getting better at tracking. Keiko complained about Mira, but there was pride in her voice when she mentioned the remedies she had contributed to. Raid spoke little, but listened to everything and, occasionally, offered brief observations about the fields.
They were no longer complete strangers in the village. People began to greet them by name. Children who had initially kept their distance began to approach with curiosity. The three from another world were becoming just... part of the community.
It wasn't home. It wasn't a substitute for what they had lost. But it was something. It was a place where they had purpose, where they contributed, where they were seen and valued.
And for now, that had to be enough.