Chapter Twenty-Two: Varn

Varn watched Carys's face pale as the final threads of the spell unraveled and the last shimmering tendrils of magic faded into the air as their memories returned to them. The anguish in her eyes twisted something deep inside him, a knot of fear and confusion coiling tighter with each passing second. The room, once filled with soft candlelight and the comforting scents of herbs and cake, now felt suffocating.

"Carys," he murmured, reaching out, but she took a step back, pulling her hand from his grasp.

"I—" She shook her head, looking at him as if he were a monster. "I just…need some space."

What just happened? his dragon asked, filled with confusion. He tried to sift through the stream of memories flooding into his mind—they had already met so many times.

A sense of loss swept over Varn. Not just because it felt as if he were on the precipice of losing his mate all over again, but because they had already spent so much time together that neither of them had been aware of. They had already made so many memories and moments that were lost for so long.

The memories that swirled in his head were like a tangle of vines. They were so entwined that he could not put them in chronological order.

Could not pinpoint what he'd done to make Carys react the way she had.

"Wait." Varn got up as she did. "What did you see? Please, tell me what I did wrong… I'm struggling to see everything clearly."

"You will." Her voice wavered, but her eyes burned with hurt. "I don't know if I can…trust you. If I can trust any of this."

This? Varn's blood ran cold.

Does she mean the mating bond? his dragon asked.

I don't know. Varn put his hand to his temple. I don't know anything anymore.

What should have been a celebration had turned into nothing short of a disaster.

Varn's chest tightened painfully. He needed to do something, say something. There had to be a way to put this right. "Carys, I…" But she held up a hand, the motion halting him as effectively as any spell.

"Please, just give me time to process. I'll… I'll talk to you later."

Every instinct urged him to step forward, to pull her into his arms, to tell her that whatever she thought, it wasn't true. But the look in her eyes—those tortured eyes—rooted him to the spot.

The silence between them stretched unbearably until finally, she turned and walked away, leaving Varn standing alone amidst the witches and decorations. The witches murmured softly among themselves, their sympathetic gazes following Carys's retreating figure.

"What just happened?" he asked no one in particular, his voice thick with bewilderment and hurt. He glanced at Elsbeth, who watched him with a mixture of pity and understanding.

"She'll need time," Elsbeth said gently. "Whatever she saw…well, it clearly wasn't what she expected."

"But what did she see?" He scrubbed a hand over his face, a growl of frustration building in his throat. "What did I do?"

"When she's ready, I'm sure she'll come find you," Marilla reassured him. "Or perhaps you'll eventually find the memory of whatever happened and be able to make it up to her."

But Varn was not reassured. The sense of dread inside him grew, its roots deep.

We need answers, his dragon said.

How can we get answers if Carys refuses to speak to us? Varn replied.

"Someone must have manipulated her memories," Varn murmured.

Yes, that had to be what happened. Whoever had cast the spell had manipulated the truth. Because there was no way he could ever have done anything to hurt his mate.

Varn took a step forward. He needed to talk to Carys. But a firm hand on his arm stopped him.

"Give her time, Varn," Harry said.

"But I…" Varn began.

"You are only going to make it worse if you don't give Carys the space she needs," Stan told him, his tone heartbreakingly gentle.

"I need to make this right," Varn insisted.

"And you will." Burt placed his hand under Varn's elbow, and the Regulars guided him toward the door. "But not right now."

Under the gaze of the coven, they escorted Varn to the door.

"Wait." Varn turned around and faced the women who had broken the curse. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," Wilhelmina said with pursed lips.

"And I want you to know, I would not, could not, hurt Carys. This is a mistake," he said, resolve hardening his voice. "I need to prove that none of it was real. That she can trust me."

Elsbeth nodded. "And how do you plan to do that?"

Varn glanced toward the door where Carys had disappeared, every nerve in his body screaming to follow her. But he couldn't—not yet. Not until he took some time to calm down and reflect. "I'll figure it out," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "There has to be a way."

With a final nod to the witches, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the house. It was only when he reached the porch that he realized something had changed.

He could sense her. Carys. Her presence burned bright in his mind, like a pulsing beacon that drew him like a lodestone.

The bond. It was there. He could feel it.

Walking away felt like tearing himself in two, but he forced himself to do it. He needed to prove to her—no, to both of them—that he was a good man. A man worthy of her love.

But was he? Without knowing what he was being accused of, how could he clear his name?

He had done things in the service of his father and the old dragon lord that he regretted, but had he truly performed a duty so awful that his mate could not forgive him? Since the fall of the regime, he had tried to make amends where he could, and this would be no different.

He took off, taking long strides as he tried to figure out his next move. "Not so fast, Varn," came Stan's voice as he ran to catch up. "You're not ditching us that easily."

Varn spun around, coming face to face with the Regulars, their expressions uncharacteristically serious.

"I have things I need to do," he told them.

"Only one thing. You're coming with us," Harry announced, his tone brooking no argument. "You need to calm down. And think straight. Running off all hot-headed will not help anyone."

He has a point, Varn's dragon said.

Varn blinked, too drained to even argue. "What do you have in mind?"

"We're taking you to The Lonely Tavern, of course," Burt said, stepping forward and leading the way. "You need some advice and a clear head before you go charging off trying to fix everything."

"But Carys…"

"Will be okay for just a little while," Stan cut in, a rare note of firmness in his voice. "You need to give yourself time to breathe, Varn. You can't fix anything if you're a mess."

And you are a mess, his dragon agreed.

And you aren't? Varn replied tartly.

He was being unfair, but the truth of their words stung.

He couldn't deny it. He was a mess—a tangled knot of emotions, half-formed memories, and confusion. "Fine," he muttered. "Lead the way."

The Regulars flanked him as they made their way through the quiet streets as if they were worried he might make a break for it and run back to Carys.

But he knew in his heart they were right and so he shoved his hands into his coat pockets, hunching his shoulders against the chill that seemed to have settled into his bones.

When they finally reached The Lonely Tavern, the familiar sight of its warm lights and creaking sign brought a strange sense of comfort.

And when the door swung open as they approached, he knew that this was where he needed to be. At least for now.

Especially when he saw a message written in chalk on the slate plaque of the host table.

The ghosts of our pasts should stay there.

If only that were true, his dragon grumbled.

Morwenna was leaning over the bar looking at what looked like a furniture catalog, which she hastily slid off the bar, pretending for a moment not to notice them enter. But as she glanced up as they approached, her sharp eyes narrowed as they landed on Varn's face. "Uh-oh. Forgot his mate again, did he?"

Varn shook his head, feeling suddenly exhausted. "Worse."

She raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the Regulars, who shook their heads. "I'll get you something to take the edge off."

The Regulars ushered him to the bar, and Varn climbed onto a stool, his shoulders slumping forward as if the weight of the world were pressing down on him.

Moments later, a tankard of something dark and foul-smelling was set in front of him.

"A cure for everything," Morwenna announced proudly.

"Bread beer," Harry announced with a barely hidden wince before taking a swig from his own mug. "Good for the soul."

"If nothing else," Burt mumbled but heartily drank his own drink.

Varn stared at the murky liquid, his nose wrinkling. It smells like week-old socks.

I don't know about you, but I feel like a week-old sock right about now, his dragon told him.

"Matches the mood, doesn't it?" Stan said, taking a gulp.

"What, foul?" Burt asked, ignoring the look Morwenna shot him as he took a sip.

With a resigned sigh, Varn lifted the mug and took a tentative sip. The bitterness hit his tongue like a punch, but he forced it down. They were right. It matched his mood perfectly—bitter, dark, and twisted.

"So," Morwenna leaned on the bar as if about to listen to some juicy gossip. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

Varn hesitated, then nodded slowly. He needed to talk, to start sorting through the mess in his head. "I remembered…my mate…"

"I'm sorry, am I missing something?" Morwenna asked. "I thought that was what you wanted. When I saw Wilhelmina earlier, she was on her way to Elsbeth's house to help try to break the spell. It seems it worked, to their credit."

"It did," Varn replied.

"I'm still failing to see the problem." Morwenna swept her arms wide. "As you can see, I've kept the tavern empty, as I was really expecting there to be some sort of big celebration after your curse was broken, but I can see I've set myself up for disappointment."

"Well, let's see if the old boy has any idea as to why Carys is so upset, and perhaps we can have our celebration yet." Harry nudged Varn. "She said that she couldn't trust you for some reason…I'm guessing something happened at Cairnnor?"

"It's hard to say, so much happened on Cairnnor under the old dragon lord." Varn frowned into his drink. "She thinks I betrayed her—"

"And did you?" Morwenna asked, her gaze piercing as she stared at him.

"No. I swear I didn't." His fingers tightened around the mug, his knuckles white. "I mean I couldn't. She's my mate."

Morwenna continued to stare at him unflinchingly. "But are you sure?"

"What do you mean?" Varn asked. "Of course, I'm sure. I could never hurt her, never betray her. She is my mate."

"But what if you didn't know you were betraying her?" Morwenna asked with a slowly raised eyebrow. "Hm? We're not infallible, after all."

Oh, Varn's dragon said. Morwenna does have a point.

We have always tried to act in an honorable way, Varn replied. We have always tried to make amends for the person our father was and the things he did.

But what if… His dragon let out a plume of smoke.

What if in trying to do the right thing, we inadvertently did the wrong thing, Varn finished.

Exactly, his dragon replied mournfully. Or perhaps she is another victim of some scheme our father was a part of and thinks we were somehow involved.

If that were true, was there any way he could win back his mate's trust? How bad was whatever happened to her?

"Varn!" Flint entered the bar area from the back room carrying a crate of mixers. "How did things go last night with Carys?"

The Regulars rolled their eyes at Flint and shook their heads.

"That good?" Flint asked.

"He forgot her again," Harry explained.

"And then this morning we went to Elsbeth's house, and the coven broke the spell," Stan added.

"And before you say anything, no, that is not good news," Burt said.

"I see." Flint set the crate down on the bar. "So, you had met before, I'm guessing?"

"So many times," Varn said, as the memories crowded in on him again.

It is so unfair, his dragon said. We could have had a life with our mate. We could have spent years together, raised a family together.

But they had been robbed of that life when they were robbed of their memories of each other at least half a dozen times over.

"I have to go back to Cairnnor, to the tower where I was held when this all began. It's the only way I can figure this out."

The Regulars exchanged glances, and Morwenna's brow furrowed.

"You're going back there ?" Flint did not hide his disapproval of this idea. "After what they did to you? You'd sworn to never go back there."

Varn's jaw tightened. "I have to. It's the only way to fix this. If I can find some record of what happened to Carys, perhaps from while I was imprisoned, or perhaps my father kept notes somewhere that might shed some light on what Carys is talking about."

Flint came around the bar and placed a hand on Varn's shoulder. "Just…be careful, Varn. That place holds more than just bad memories."

"I know," he whispered. The memories of his imprisonment—of the cold stone walls, the isolation, the pain—flashed through his mind, bringing a rush of nausea with them. But he forced the images back, focusing instead on Carys's face, on the fire in her eyes when she'd looked at him. "But I have to do this. For her. For us."

"Is there anything we can do?" Stan asked.

"No." He glanced at the Regulars, who were watching him with expressions of wary support. "Thank you."

"‘Course," Burt grunted, taking another swig of his beer.

"I need to pack." Varn pushed back from the bar and stood up abruptly, nearly sending the stool toppling over. "Thank you, all of you."

He turned and walked out of the tavern, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He had a mission now, a purpose. He would go back to the place that haunted his nightmares, and he would find the truth.

The cold air bit at him as he stalked through the town, heading back to his apartment. He was halfway there when he remembered—Leah and Ash. Dinner. He'd forgotten all about it in the midst of everything.

He would have to at least apologize to his gracious hosts for standing them up with no explanation.

With a muttered curse, he pivoted on his heel, making his way to a small shop that specialized in imported goods. He picked up a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates, his thoughts drifting to Carys as he did. He'd brought her the same gifts on the first day they had met. The memory burned bright and clear now.

How they had shared the wine and chocolates after making love.

How could he have forgotten those precious moments?

His chest tightened. He would win her back. He would prove to her that whatever had happened, whatever lies had been told, their bond was stronger. Everlasting.

And nothing—not memory spells, not old betrayals, not even his own personal demons—would keep him from her.

He just needed to drop off this apology to Leah and Ash with Flint, and then he would be on his way.