|Tom's farm| 24.03.1178|
Naomi spends the next two hours tossing and turning, flipping her pillow every few minutes in search of comfort that never comes.
Finally, she lets out a frustrated sigh, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It's no use—sleep simply won't come.
Her mind is too loud, too restless. And when you're someone like Naomi, there's no escaping your own thoughts.
But it isn't the mysterious girl that keeps her awake. No—if she's honest, she already made peace with that part of it long ago. Not because she doesn't care. Whether or not she feels protective of the girl is... debatable.
But she trusts Tom. That's enough.
He's patched her and Misha up more times than she can count when they were younger—so often, in fact, it bordered on reckless. There were moments they'd felt invincible, daring, even foolish.
But after a while, that too subsided, and the two seemed to reflect on their own and understand how dangerous their escapades could be.
And all of this without Tom exerting any influence. Something Naomi can't really understand. How could she, after being so convinced of it, change her mind on her own?—No.
Tom must've used some kind of parenting trick to get her and Misha to do it.
And that's precisely why this girl's fate is more of a mystery to her than a matter of great concern. Why would a half-naked girl choose to run around in the woods? Was she looking for mushrooms? Was she running away from someone? Or... no.
Naomi doesn't want to think about it anymore. There are much more important things on her mind.
Why didn't Leine des Wanderers work?
She's very aware that constantly questioning her situation won't do her any good.
Tom, given his condition and the fact that Naomi isn't even sure if he knows anything about magic at all, won't be of any help.
And there aren't really any books on the subject, other than the one Misha gave her. After all, he had taken her with him to the Academy when he left four years ago.
Even the remote possibility—and probability—that the girl, if she's even responsive, is wearing on her. And yet:
Had she made the hand signs wrong? No, she definitely hadn't. She checked several times. Was it perhaps a spell that required the spell's name to be spoken?
No. Since there is no status-altering effect on her, it can't be gestic or oral spell combinations.
Does she simply have no anima? If so, why did Misha tell her she does? Does she have to activate her anima first? That could be the case, of course. However, she doesn't know for sure. She lacks information. Any, all information, to be exact.
What if anima requires a specific ritual to awaken? Unlikely, because Misha would surely know such important information and would have shared it.
She sits on the edge of her bed and looks out the window. The moon, though it has dipped slightly and is already slowly hiding behind the mountains, is still looking at her, and she gives a slight, almost gentle smile in return.
She lets out another sigh. >> Well, okay, << she thinks, >> it's worthless. It seems I'll have to apply to the Academy the normal way like everyone else, << she admits, touching her forehead.
Just as she, having long since given up on the delusion that she could still sleep tonight, is about to rush to Moscha's old room to read through the documents he left behind and come up with the one-to-one steps she could take to apply, the door flies open.
"Okay," a slight squeak escapes her lips as she jumps slightly.
Tom looks at her with a knowing smile. As if to say, You don't look like you're asleep. It seems as if the seriousness in his features has completely vanished, which Naomi can see through her very good eyesight. Tom, whose eyesight isn't nearly as good as hers, turns on the light and leans against the counter.
"So, want to talk about your little expedition?" he says with a raised eyebrow. Tom is not someone who is very strict.
He never once laid a hand on his children, and he keeps room for them to grow themselves. So Naomi has no conflict senses and knows she will be able to talk freely with him.
She shakes her head. "Not really. I guess I was just trying to kill time. Couldn't sleep," she says, leaving out the details of the night. I mean, it was right. She had to find any opportunity to restore the time she had lost by sleeping unexpectedly.
Tom shrugs softly. "Well, let's just say it was a happy little accident. After all, you saved someone's life today—our little friend down there is feeling better, he talked a bit before and is awake now."
Naomi blinks repeatedly at this. Did he just say he? Tom, who knows his foster daughter very well, already shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
"Did you think this was a flash-chested girl, or what?" he asks, an amused and teasing expression on his face. Naomi's face flushes lightly.
This girl is actually a guy? she thinks to herself.
Naomi can't claim wholeheartedly that she's seen many girls in her life. Of course, there were times when Tom would take her with him to the village near the farm to sell cows to the local butcher. And there she definitely saw some women and girls.
But did she see so few girls that she would honestly mistake a guy for one just because he has slightly longer hair?
Tom continues. "Do you want to see him? At first, I had thought that he would be startled or confused about the situation he's thrown into. However, he seems pretty normal," he says, his eyebrows slightly raised.
Normal? Naomi's confusion deepens. What does he mean by normal? She stands up, her curiosity sparked. Tom, who seems to make no movement to go down with her, makes space for her to pass him, heading to his own room instead.
Naomi's bare feet pad softly as she descends the stairs. The scent of dried herbs and blood still faintly lingers in the air as she approaches the living room, where the boy sits in an armchair. He doesn't seem to notice Naomi—his eyes are focused on the book in his hands.
Naomi takes the opportunity to get a closer look at him.
Maybe it's because she doesn't quite know how to start a conversation. But maybe it's also because she's too busy staring at him with slight tension in her face.
Now that she sees him calm and still, she actually starts to observe him more precisely.
The boy has a slender, almost delicate frame—his shoulders narrow, his neck long and graceful in a way that makes Naomi feel like she's intruding on something private just by looking. His obsidian-black hair, falling well past his shoulders in uneven, haphazard layers, looks like it was once cut with care but has since grown wild and free, framing his face like cascading ink.
Strands of it fall in front of his eyes, casting faint shadows over a face that seems sculpted from porcelain.
His skin is pale and smooth, untouched by the sun, giving him an almost ethereal quality, as if he's stepped out of a painting Naomi can't quite place.
His lips are full, slightly parted in concentration as he reads, and his lashes—absurdly long—curve darkly against his cheeks whenever he blinks.
There's a quiet stillness about him, like he exists at a slightly different pace than everything else around him. A softness, perhaps, that makes Naomi hesitate.
Is this truly a boy?
If Tom hadn't said so, she would've sworn otherwise. There's no harshness to his features, none of the angular sharpness she usually associates with boys her age.
In fact, the longer she looks, the more unsure she becomes.
And yet—something in the way he sits, the way his fingers turn the page with a kind of casual confidence—gives away no sign of discomfort or fragility.
He's not delicate in spirit. Just... strikingly, confusingly beautiful.
Naomi crosses her arms and leans slightly against the doorframe, eyes narrowed in half-suspicious, half-fascinated disbelief.
"So, how long will you keep staring?"
Her lips twitch as he finally lifts his gaze, his eyes locking with hers for a split second, revealing the shiny dark blue in them. Then, as his full face is in front of her, she can see a smile... no, a grin... no, the cockiest smirk she's ever seen on a face.
"My savior," he continues with a teasing tone in his voice.
Naomi's expression changes the moment she sees that gaze—the tension and heat in her features vanishing.
It was a mistake to save this guy.