Julios
Legacy Name: Julios

But they say that things happen for a reason, and maybe that's why, when he can hardly see his spreadsheets through his swollen eyes, he picks up the call from the unknown number. Maybe that's why, as he swaps out coffee for honey lemon tea because his throat hurts from crying so much, he goes to the soliciter's office. And maybe that's why, because he's young and dumb and hurting, he accepts the inheritance that his late grandfather has apparently left him with.

Oak Groves Farm is neither a farm nor full of oaks. It's overgrown and scraggly, half reclaimed by the forests in which it was nestled in. It's in the corner of a picturesque valley that Julios can't quite appreciate, half-dismayed that he is over the sorry state of the tiny log cabin. The little patches of soil that could be arable are dry and in desperate need of fertilization. The mayor claps him on the shoulder and the three of them—mayor, local carpenter, and displaced city boy—share an awkward laugh over the work that needs to be done.

That first week, Julios cleans out the cabin as best he can, works out how to use the fireplace, and arranges for essentials. Then, he immediately spends all of spring wallowing in self-pity in his bed. He grows parsnips on the rare days where he feels less miserable, and only realizes after pulling out the first one that he hates them.

In summer, Julios stumbles upon the shattered remains of the old greenhouse, slowly begins making his rounds through town to make very late introductions, and trips into a pile of concerned junimos, not in that exact order, and certainly not in the same day. He tries his hand at growing sunflowers, because his mother is getting increasingly concerned about him, and he also grows wheat, because it's cheap and he's always liked the idyllic look of wheat fields bobbing in the wind. He is also (probably, most likely) conned into buying a strange black egg from an equally strange peddler hanging out in the woods, and that's when Robin swoops in for the kill, because what self-respecting farm doesn't have a chicken coop?

When the leaves start falling in autumn, Julios drives splinters into his hands learning how to make and mend fences. He plants pumpkins. When it rains he heads to the beach, ostensibly to fish, but mostly going to sit on the pier, sitting on a towel and huddling under a large umbrella, listening to the pitter-patter. Persephone perches on the fencing to cluck at him when he gets back. He makes one friend, then two, and even finds a favorite corner in the library in which to read trashy romance novels with them in.

As winter sets in he slides into the saloon, cocooning himself in boisterous laughter and hearty food and drink. He goes adventuring in the mines, collects scrapes and bruises and both rare and useless items as trophies. Errands start taking longer to run because he keeps getting sidetracked with personal matters, and isn't that nice? Having personal matters to attend to that don't involve getting his heart torn to shreds. He runs deliveries and reads books and starts a hobby making wine. His tiny cabin looks a little more like a home with each passing day.

"Are you happy?" his mother asks him one day. He's at his tiny kitchen table, phone wedged against his shoulder, marker squeaking in his hand as he wraps and labels gifts for the Feast of the Winter Star. Chester is pooled in his lap, purring up a storm. In a few hours he's going to go stargazing with his friends in the mountain clearing.

Is he happy right now? Sure. Is he happy most days? He supposes. But some days he wakes up in an empty bed and the ache is so painful that all he can do is curl up against the wall with an armful of cat. Some nights he thinks about last winter and gets so angry that he stomps down to the beach to hurl pebbles into the sea and yell, or down into the mines to sit blankly in some rocky corner. Sometimes he's still young and dumb and hurting, and sometimes it's hard to forget that because he wouldn't be here if he wasn't.

"I'm trying to be," he finally says, and his mother lets out a soft sigh, a little Oh, baby, like how she used to go when he was little. "One day I will be."

And for the first time in a long time, that's enough.


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