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When Throné and Temenos first drag Osvald up out of the snow, he hasn’t had a bite to eat in three days. Before that: five long years of subsisting on sips of thin, watery milk, along with as many small bits of bread he could manage to push through his mask before someone took them from him.
He throws up the first bowl of fatty stew they feed him, trembling and shivering before the fireplace in the inn. Just the lingering taste of it is nearly enough to drive him mad with hunger, even shot through with bile as it is, and yet… try as he might, he cannot keep it down. He gulps and swallows helplessly for minutes afterward, fighting the urge to vomit again.
It’s Throné who figures it out. “He needs simpler stuff right now”, she says, and vanishes out into the cold night, only to return with a bowl of thin broth and a slice of bread. (Later, it occurs to him to wonder which village table it must’ve disappeared from.) Osvald soaks small bits of the bread in the broth until they go soft, and lets them dissolve inside his mouth, one by one.
It’s quite possibly the finest thing he’s ever tasted.
—
Things go on like this for some days: broth, and bread, and taking it slow. He and Temenos and Throné pick their way down the coast together, headed for Wellgrove and Conning Creek. By the time they reach the port, they’ve managed to scrape up enough leaves to buy passage for three. The waves make their journey miserable, though, especially for Osvald… and when they reach their destination, it turns out to have been the wrong continent entirely.
(It seems fortuitous enough, regardless. They meet a cheerful, eager hunter with one hell of an axe arm. She comes with a large bag of jerky, even though Osvald can’t eat it… and it’s warm on Toto’haha, at any rate.)
“Here,” Ochette says, a few days later. “For you, Pops.”
In her hand is a basket of eggs, each the size of the pad of her palm, speckled brown and white.
“I thought Temenos told you. I can’t handle much solid food, because–”
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I brought these! Beastlings say eggs are the best when you’re off your feed. Master Juvah says it’s ‘cause they’re ‘packed with nutrients’... but there’s not much to ‘em, so they won’t upset your tummy.”
“I’ve nothing to fry them up with…” Osvald mutters.
“No, no,” Ochette says, cheerfully. “Just break one and toss it back. If you pour it into your hand first, like this,” she demonstrates, cracking it into her palm, “You can just kinda spread your fingers and hold your hand over yrr mouff, like iss, an’--” She gulps, noisily. “And that way you won’t get the yellow part, see? ‘Cause it might be too rich for you.”
Osvald sees. The yolk is, indeed, still nestled in Ochette’s palm. Osvald blanches at the sight, even as Ochette flicks the remainder over to Mahina, who catches it with a quick snap of her beak.
“Raw, though? Surely that isn’t sanitary…”
“No way!” Ochette cries, affronted. “Nothing on the island is gross. It’s totally safe.”
Throne’ chuckles. “She’s right, you know. A raw egg and a cigarette is a classic Blacksnake hangover cure. Fixes what ails you.”
Osvald peers at her, but she meets his gaze flatly, as if daring him to contradict her. (He decides not to.)
“Surely it won’t hurt to try?” Temenos’ voice sounds ever so slightly amused. “The Sacred Flame is always here to put your poor stomach to rights, if things do happen to go awry.”
“Just try one already!” Ochette agrees. “You have to eat sometime. If you get sick, we’ll know it’s still too soon.”
The egg feels unusually heavy in Osvald’s hand – or, perhaps, it’s just been some years since he handled one. But he manages to crack it into his palm, the way Ochette did. He catches (almost) all of it before it runs out of his hand, and even performs the spread-fingers-over-his-head trick without getting *too* much egg in his beard.
He braces for the taste of it, but there almost isn’t any; since he’s already looking up at his hand, most of the whites slide through his fingers and down his throat before he can overthink it.
Ochette lets out a cheer-howl, or a howl-cheer, and Throne’ laughs. Osvald looks down at the yolk in his hand. “What am I supposed to do with–”
Ochette turns her head and slurps it up in the same motion, stunning him into silence. (Her tongue feels warm, and the slightest bit raspy.) From behind him, Osvald can hear Temenos say something that sounds a lot like “my, my.”
“Thanks, Pops!” Ochette grins. “I’ll take one tomorrow, too.”
Osvald watches her go. After a long moment, he wipes his hand against the ragged hem of his uniform, and heads off to bed.
(Despite the purely scientific degree of skepticism he finds himself still entertaining when he drops off to sleep, he does feel better when he wakes the next morning: a bit less like he might dry up and blow away.)
(Within three weeks, he’s up to four eggs a day, including the yolk of one, plus the usual bread and broth. The condition of his skin and nails begins to improve, slowly but surely. Not long after, the new apothecary they meet in Canalbrine – Castti – says she remembers recommending eggs for the ill, even if she can’t remember her own name.)
—
It’s not much longer before Osvald is eating more-or-less normally, if carefully. Conning Creek is known for simple, rustic fare, which is good, because Osvald vomits up the remainder of a bowl of chowder after finding the fire soulstone in the chest behind his burned-out home.
(Was what you did to my family not enough for you, Harvey? Was it not sufficient to take their lives, to take them from me? No? You had to leave this here, just so I’d find it? You– you had to–)
Osvald’s research is gone: this is the first thing he discovers after he finishes wiping the sick from his beard. Which is fine, because the fact that Harvey has taken it tells Osvald where to find him. If he intends to complete Osvald’s equations and seek the One True Magic, only Montwise will avail him… so only Montwise will avail Osvald, too.
(There’s more in Conning Creek, of course. The man who put Osvald through that farce of a trial… and Lady Clarissa, too. But Osvald does not allow himself to stop to think about it too much.)
From there, Osvald’s companions decide to travel back up the coast toward Wellgrove. Osvald doesn’t push. When he finds Harvey, he will need to be ready to take his revenge, and the simple truth is that he still isn’t; long days of traveling and fighting make him feel hollow and weak.
Weakness, he cannot afford.
—
The desert north of Canalbrine proves challenging, full of armored moles and hungry, swooping birds. Ochette’s arrows and Osvald’s magic are the party’s best long-range options, so the other three act as support. Ochette howls while Osvald gulps down inspiriting plums, barraging the enemy with the elements.
He’s dragging his feet by the time they reach the next town, but the bowl of stew at the inn rejuvenates him. He’s never had anything quite like it: it’s thick and spicy, full of tender cubes of pork and big, toothsome pieces of corn. The way the broth burns on his tongue reminds him ever-so-slightly of Rita’s goulash. Nobody mentions the way his eyes tear up behind his glasses, though.
Maybe it’s the spice.
After dinner, Osvald climbs a nearby hill for a better view of their surroundings, and meets an odd, yellow man who says something strange about his eyes. (He’s not wrong about Osvald’s strong convictions. But still. It’s weird. It's strange to feel so… seen.) Partitio carries a polearm, though, and they do need more long-distance support if they’re to complete their missions alive, so Osvald brings him back to meet the others.
(On their way out of town, Partitio cocks his head, as if listening. Then he leads them some distance up the opposite path, to an altar hidden among the mines. Nothing of note happens there, seemingly. But the moles and birds seem interested in making business deals afterward, so their path back through the desert becomes a good deal easier.)
Partitio, too, speaks of not having had enough to eat. (There were no weeds on Frigit Isle. But if there had been, Osvald would have eaten them in desperation, just like Partitio says he did.) It shows in the way he checks and re-checks the group’s food stores, haggling for more at every stop. It shows in the way he takes apart anything they catch, side by side with Ochette, chatting over which bits are the best. And it shows, counter-intuitively, in the way Partitio insists on sharing every scrap he has, as though the group’s collective survival hangs on doing so.
Osvald doesn’t drink, yet Partitio includes him in every hung-over lunch and late-night pub crawl, no less than thrice before they even leave Oresrush. There's always a cup of coffee or a pastry, or some other small thing Partitio says “made me think of you, Mr. Osvald”. Osvald sits with his book and listens, with half an ear, as their merchant makes new friends and new deals and new money, sipping his coffee in peace.
(It’s nice, he thinks. It’s something he didn’t know he needed.)
(His stomach’s feeling better, it seems.)
—
Cropdale is famous for its raspberry pie, or so says everyone in town… including a large, gaudy banner that reads RASPBERRY FESTIVAL. Throné gives a little gasp at this, and promptly vanishes. Ochette and Mahina are not far behind, as if lured by the scent of dessert. After watching the chattering crowds for a minute, Temenos ambles off, too, his cassock dappled by the shadows of the leaves.
Castti stands alone, gazing off into the middle distance, as if captivated by something only she can see. She follows it, silently, over the bridge and further into town.
“Seriously?” Partitio laughs. “We just got here, and we’re splittin’ up already?”
Osvald shrugs. He’s always liked savory foods better, anyway.
“Welp, looks like they got themselves a market here. Might as well see if there’s any deals to be made…”
Partitio eyes Osvald, as if expecting him to offer to come along, but truth be told: Osvald is tired. He’d forgotten how tiring it can be to talk to people, to say the right things when they ask him questions. It makes him think of home, of work – of his house in Conning Creek, of the academy in Montwise – and he can’t afford that right now.
(Maybe not ever. Not ever again.)
Osvald makes a noncommittal noise, belatedly, in response to Partitio’s question. Partitio nods, just as though he’d said something coherent, and heads for the market, hands in his pockets, whistling.
Osvald wanders up the road. It’s crowded. A river cuts through town – or a stream, rather? – so Osvald climbs down and picks his way along the riverbank instead, scrutinizing, looking for treasures. It’s cooler down there, and dark, but in a pleasant, safe sort of way. Salamanders scuttle in the shade along both sides of the stream, yellow and black. One of them curls up and opens its round little mouth at him when he disturbs it with his boot, as if silently hissing.
(That feels like a familiar sentiment, so Osvald lets the salamander be.)
Osvald finds a snail shell with an intriguing striped pattern, and a good, stout walking stick, and a treasure chest with an olive of life in it. He makes note of a building with a water wheel (a flour mill? A weaver’s hut?) to investigate later, when he’s feeling more talkative. Then he scrambles back up the bank, leaning on his new stick.
He finds Partitio, Castti, and Ochette standing roughly where he’d left them. Ochette waves a chunk of barbeque nearly the size of her head in a wild, messy greeting. Mahina hops in the dust, cleaning up after her.
“Look, Pops!” Ochette cries. “They got all kinds of stuff!”
They must, indeed, have all kinds of stuff. Partitio is leaning on the fence, with a small pile of weapons tied into a bundle beside him.
“Hey. I got you this,” he says, once Osvald gets close. The staff he hands over is a deep, vibrant blue, practically humming with magic. Osvald ditches the stick he’d found earlier, tossing it by the side of the road.
“My tha–” Osvald begins.
“There’d better be a knife in there,” Throné says, practically into his ear. (Osvald only just manages not to turn and brain her with the staff. Prison instincts.) Partitio tosses Throné a bronze dagger, and she snatches it neatly out of the air before it flips twice.
“Well, well. Looks like the gang’s all here!”
Osvald turns to see Temenos standing at the end of the road, his Inquisitor’s staff held high above his head.
“Behold! The one I did guide is… a dancer!” He steps to the side, flourishing his staff into a graceful bow. Behind him stands a woman in a frilled, orange dress, clutching a coin purse in her hands.
“A dancer?” Throné asks.
Partitio chuckles. “Heh. Knew there was a reason I bought two knives.”
—
“So what brings y’all to Cropdale, if it ain't the festival?” Agnea asks, over the hubbub of the packed tavern.
“Oh, you know,” Temenos says. “This and that.”
(The burning fires of revenge, Osvald does not say. But he does think it.)
“I’m on a journey to find three legendary beasts!” Ochette says. “I already got this one.” From her pocket, Acta mews and sticks out her head.
“Well, aren’t you a cutie?” Agnea gushes. (Osvald isn’t sure if she means Ochette, or Acta, or possibly both.) “How ‘bout you?”
“I’m after freedom. It’s… kind of a family thing.”
“Oh.”
“Really, we can talk about it later,” says Temenos. “There’ll be plenty of time on the road. I promised this young woman’s sister I’d look after her, as if she were my own little lamb.”
Throné coughs.
“Yes, quite right. My mistake: as if she were a different little lamb.”
Just then, their table’s pie arrives: golden brown, oozing with raspberry compote, with a wisp of visible steam rising from the top.
It’s good. Really good: a delicate touch of – is that vanilla? – brings out the natural flavor of the fruit in lieu of too much sugar. Osvald doesn’t care for sweets, but he eats two slices just the same. Then he tunes out the conversation for a while, leaning back in his chair, until Castti finally nudges him awake.
“Go on upstairs, Osvald. See you in the morning.”
—
Agnea insists that she knows the way to Wellgrove, which is how they end up in Ryu. They’re there for three minutes before a scuffle breaks out, between a swordsman in red and three men yelling about teaching someone a lesson. (Arrogant guards. Osvald loves these.)
(He just never tires of burning them.)
Afterward, Castti drops to her knees by Osvald’s side. She pulls a length of gauze from her satchel and slaps it into his hand. “Put pressure on that wound! Quickly, he’ll die!”
Osvald might be indifferent toward the fate of an arrogant guard… were he anywhere on the planet other than beneath Castti’s stern gaze.
He puts pressure.
“Harder!” Castti says. Osvald bears down firmly, unsure if it will be enough to stop the flow of blood. The man beneath him struggles, slapping weakly at Osvald's arms. His feet kick in the dust.
Osvald keeps him pinned. Blood oozes, more slowly now, from beneath his hands.
“Almost there,” Castti says. Her pestle whirls in its mortar. “Two more minutes.”
Behind him, someone says “I’m Hikari. I’m on the cusp of a journey, one to seek out my erstwhile allies.”
“Well, partner, it’s your lucky day! This lot ain't nothin’ if not erstwhile!”
“Ah. Have we met before, Mr…?”
“Yellowil! The name’s–”
“Got it,” Castti says, and the green glow of healing surrounds them, sparkling softly. The man under Osvald’s hands groans, and Osvald lets him go.
“Well,” says Castti. “A job well done. Thank you for lending your strength, Osvald.”
He blinks.
(Remember to check in with your body, dear. How are you feeling today?)
Oh. That’s right. Osvald doesn’t ache all the time anymore, or shiver through the night. Walking between towns no longer exhausts him to the point of collapse, and he feels alert again the next day, without needing to sleep well into the afternoon. He has strength, and the energy to use it. Now that he puts it together: his condition is trending upward.
But by the time he’s finished thinking about it, Castti is already busy with the next of the guards.
—
They spend the night camped in a clearing, some ways back toward Cropdale. The night is clear and crisp, studded with a million stars. Despite setting Mahina to watch, nothing disturbs the party’s peace.
“I apologize again for inconveniencing you,” their new warrior – Hikari – says. “If you’d permit it, I’d like to make up for it by preparing dinner for everyone tonight.”
Ochette cheers and then hugs him in answer. He goes very, very still beneath her grip.
“Well, now! Whatcha gonna make?” Partitio asks.
Hikari extricates himself with a level of care and gentleness that Ochette may or may not deserve (and definitely doesn’t require). “It’s not much, but I still have plenty of rice and pickles in my pack. If anyone has a piece of meat, I could–”
There’s a piece of jerky in his hand before he can finish his sentence.
“...Well. If I marinate this, it should get closer to the right texture…”
Hikari busies himself over the campfire, filling the travelers' battered steel pot with rice and a measured amount of water before setting it to boil. Then he chops the pickles and jerky, mixing the latter with dark, savory-smelling sauce from a corked bottle he pulls from his pack.
“There. Soy sauce should help soften the meat while the rice cooks.”
“What’s in that? It smells amazin’!” Agnea asks.
“Soybeans from the kingdom of U, and wheat from Sa. My friends in the castle town… well. They used to make this sauce, by fermenting soy and wheat together for months.”
The way he says this casts a pall over the group. The implication doesn’t escape Osvald. He used to live in Conning Creek; he used to be a family man.
“It looks delicious,” Castti says, delicately. “Thank you for cooking.”
“You’re most welcome,” Hikari sighs.
The conversation dies down. Osvald leans back, watching the fire glow. Once the rice begins to boil, Hikari reaches out once more. He wraps the handle of the pot in a cloth and moves it to a distant corner of the fire ring, without disturbing the lid.
“Ain’t it done yet?” Partitio asks.
“Soon. Letting it sit first will ensure that all of the water gets absorbed.”
“Just like makin' grits, then! Can’t wait.”
In the meantime, Hikari washes up with a handful of water from the gourd at his belt. When the rice is ready, he wets and salts his hands, gathers a generous pinch of pickles and meat, and wraps it in a handful of rice, pressing gently to form it into a rough triangular shape.
“Here you are. Fresh onigiri. I’ve no nori or anything else, and it’s nothing special, but...”
Ochette wolfs it down in two bites. “Whoa! That’s so good! Can Mahina have one, too?”
Hikari gravely makes a second, owl-sized onigiri for her, and then continues forming a larger row of them for everyone else. Osvald judges them worth the wait: the sauce gives them a satisfying flavor, salty and savory, with a crunchy pop of vinegar every time he bites into one of the pickled vegetables.
Nobody stops him when he reaches for the last one. Nobody takes, or threatens. Nobody starves.
Somehow, that makes it taste even finer.
—
The next morning, while the others are still asleep, Osvald runs through his exercises. The cool, clean air of the Leaflands fills his lungs, counterpoint to the burn in his muscles and the sweat that springs from his brow. It feels good. Osvald feels good.
Afterward, once they’re all up and around, they set forth on the path back to Wellgrove. Together they chat about their various goals, while Partitio’s white gloves dance in the air: sketching out options, making plans.
—
Hikari says he wants to go to Montwise.
—
I'm coming, Harvey, Osvald thinks. His scarred knuckles ache as he clenches his fists: a bright, bracing kiss of pain. Hitting Harvey won't hurt this much. Burning him, searing him, right down to the finest ash... it won't hurt Osvald at all.
It's going to be delicious.
Now that I'm ready, no force on Solistia will stop me.