Chapter Text
It wasn’t that Osmond was a misanthrope. They considered themself people-neutral. Humans were a sort of passive fixture in existence, like a road or a sunset. Some people liked roads, and some people hated sunsets, and some people—Osmond—didn’t have much of an opinion either way.
Hating people would actually have made Osmond’s job more difficult. In their opinion, it was dangerous for any hunter to let errant emotions interfere with one’s focus: a matter most imperative in Osmond’s line of work, hunting this particular game. A canny target could take advantage of anger, frustration, or contempt, weaponizing their hunter’s very personhood. Osmond had encountered and dispatched many such manipulative types. The reason Osmond was so very renowned for their ability was that they did not give these tricksters any material. A target couldn’t seize an opening if Osmond never provided one.
Suffice it to say that Osmond was both naturally apathetic and practiced in the art of privacy. They enjoyed, at least in a passive sense, being “hard to read, and harder to get to know.” To be called callous was to receive an affirmation of their practical, occupational skill. Osmond rarely felt insulted by such comments.
However.
There was a small problem that accompanied all of this, a little, minuscule issue that almost never bit at Osmond’s heels:
Osmond was entirely out of practice at giving their emotions away.
This hadn’t caused Osmond much trouble when they’d worked alone, of course. But in their current job, working with a double handful of mercenaries in the middle of an ongoing cosmic Event, it was suddenly quite a detriment: trust was hard to build without revealing pieces of yourself to others. To compound matters further, working with other people meant incurring the risk of owing someone else one’s life—a shortcut to vulnerability, some might say.
Osmond was currently in just such a predicament. They had spent a few days simmering while the Crimson Curse worked out of their system, and they had decided, after much consideration, that they owed no less than three of their coworkers some kind of acknowledgment of sacrifice. Because not only had these people defended Osmond from that raving lunatic Fanatic (for whom Osmond was struggling to smother the embers of their uncharacteristic vitriol), and not only had their efforts resulted in Osmond acquiring the means to cure their Curse, but any or all of them could easily have died. Vatteville very nearly had. And Osmond was people-neutral by default, sure, but when someone almost dies for you, you have to give them a few points of favor.
Which meant Osmond was going to have to bite the bullet and show some gratitude.
Osmond wanted to talk to Vatteville first, because they suspected Vatteville would be more interested in the Curse cure than in Osmond’s feelings. This would take the focus off of Osmond’s sure-to-be clumsy profession of thanks.
Unfortunately, the doctor was less recovered than Osmond had assumed. Not only was the conversation cut short by Vatteville’s justified breakdown, but Osmond was so profoundly bothered by the extent of Vat’s injury (and despair) that they completely lost their nerve.
So that was a bust.
With cold, destabilizing fury trying to lock talons into their gut, Osmond retreated from the doctor's station feeling much worse than before. If they ever saw the Fanatic again, they swore to themself, there wouldn’t be enough left of him to fit in a vial. Some horrible part of Osmond that refused to repress the memory of Thirsting said, Devour him. Swallow him whole.
Osmond considered leaving Hamlet briefly to headhunt along the Old Road.
It wouldn’t be worth it, their logical mind said. Those bastards didn’t even cause trouble anymore. Besides, being angry like this would throw Osmond off their game, and they couldn’t risk a mistake even against an Old Road bandit.
No. Osmond just needed to take a few deep breaths, suck it up, and give it another shot.
They decided to try Vivers. He was fucking nuts, so he wouldn’t care whether Osmond tripped over their unpracticed words. And he’d probably say something weird enough to distract Osmond from whatever awkwardness they felt. Plus, Reynauld was off on the week's venture—that narrowed it down.
If there was one thing Osmond missed about the Crimson Curse, it was the heightened sense of smell: they could have tracked Vivers down much more quickly with a better nose. They tried the penance hall first, but, surprisingly, Vivers wasn’t there. Holliday, the senior ward, suggested that perhaps he had gone to the smithy to see about sharpening the metal spikes at the ends of his whip.
Osmond grimaced under their helmet. “Why can’t he sharpen ‘em here?”
“If he could, we’re not sure he’d ever leave,” Holliday confessed, scratching their cheek with a sense of vague discomfort. “We’ve given him a couple of rules like that.”
Osmond snorted dismissively and left.
“Not here,” Hilsauer the blacksmith grumbled, directing them to the Guild.
“Not here,” Ignoble said, and Jiàng shrugged and said Vivers might be in the tavern.
“No,” said Greyson. She polished a glass in rigid, circular motions. “Sorry.”
Osmond was on the verge of giving up and ordering a drink when they sensed Omori, another member of the bar staff, hovering by their elbow. They turned to see what he wanted.
Omori smiled up at them. “You’re looking for Vivers?” he asked. His voice was soft and reedy.
“That’s right,” Osmond said. Though, perhaps, they thought again, perhaps it could wait until tomorrow…
“Have you tried the cloister?”
Osmond shook their head, confused. Of course they hadn’t. Why would he be there?
“You should,” Omori said, nodding his head. “I see him there all the time.”
Osmond frowned. “When do you go to the cloister?” They didn’t think they’d ever seen Omori outside of the tavern.
Omori smiled again, as if he and Osmond were sharing a private joke. “At night.”
Osmond shrugged and gave him a nod of thanks. Weird town. Weird people.
They dragged their feet on their way back to the abbey. If Vivers wasn’t there, they’d have wasted their energy for nothing, and they’d have gotten all worked up for a gesture of appreciation they wouldn’t even get to make.
They kicked at the dirt.
The cloister looked empty. A miserable tree hunched over a platform of raised earth in the center of the courtyard. Everything was pleasantly symmetrical.
Osmond hadn’t visited the cloister in a while themself, though when they’d first arrived in Hamlet it had seemed a necessary and welcome respite from the chaos of the Estate. Lately, Osmond had felt more as if the solace offered here was a hollow farce. But it was difficult to deny the soothing stillness of the grasses over the courtyard, even if they were more brown than green.
Circling the courtyard slowly, Osmond saw that they were not the only person there: Ditton was seated on the opposite side of the central tree. Solid and poised, entirely motionless, he could have been mistaken for a statue if he’d been wearing his mask.
He heard Osmond’s approach—there was no point in sneaking. “Good afternoon,” he said stiffly, with the sort of bristly, guarded formality Osmond was used to receiving from the other mercs. “Am I needed for a venture?” He put on his mask with practiced ease.
“Not that I know of,” Osmond said. He didn’t have to put the mask on, they thought.
This seemed to lower Ditton’s hackles. “Light be praised,” he muttered. “That is—it felt early.”
It was early. The current party was still out in the Warrens. Or was it the Weald? Osmond rarely paid attention to such irrelevancies. If there was anything they needed to know, one of the others would tell them.
“So what is it you require?” Ditton prompted.
Osmond realized they were probably interrupting his meditation. They felt a bit sorry about that. Moments of peace could be few and far between; loath were they to encroach on such rare serenity. “Looking for Vivers,” they grumbled. “Omori said he might be ‘round here.”
To their surprise, Ditton chuckled. “Ah,” he said, and raised his voice. “You hear that, Vivers? Call for you.”
With no warning, a body crashed down from the withered tree behind Ditton, landing heavily in the dirt and springing immediately to its feet.
“Hullo,” Vivers said. His lip was bleeding into his teeth.
“…Hullo,” Osmond said, not startled, exactly, but sort of awestruck, the way anyone was liable to be awestruck by Vivers’s ceaseless pursuit of pain.
“You rang?”
“Don’t tease,” Ditton said in a quiet scoff.
Osmond felt suddenly very ill-equipped for their task. “I,” they began. “I, ah, I wanted…” This was already going sideways. Why was Vivers here and not in the penance hall? Why couldn’t Osmond get their words out? Why did they have to be the one owing their bloody life to these bloody bastards? “I wanted to say,” they tried, and faltered again. I wanted to say, they thought, but the words stuck deep in their throat. Vivers just watched them struggle, impassive.
Which was welcome, actually: it felt professional, a coldness Osmond understood.
Osmond steadied themself, looking at the grasses struggling around the roots of the courtyard tree. “I wanted to say thanks,” they made themself say, the effort of it flattening their tone, “for your solid work. In the Weald. Recently.” Was that all they could manage? “I. Appreciate it.”
Vivers continued to look at them. Well—Osmond couldn’t be sure he was looking directly at them. His shroud covered his eyes.
“Alright,” Vivers said. The setting of the cloister made his voice sound strange, quiet yet piercing. “That all?”
“Y…es.”
“I’d do it again,” Vivers said.
“Thanks,” Osmond attempted. It was easier saying it the second time.
“I’d do it again better,” Vivers clarified. “If I see him again. That heathen.”
“Is he a heathen?” Osmond blurted, before they could stop themself. They swore they saw Ditton’s shoulders shake with withheld laughter.
Vivers shrugged. “Dunno,” he said, almost petulant. “Can’t think what to call him.”
Osmond could see his point. ‘Madman’ was a little too broad, wasn’t it? Half the mercenaries probably qualified as madmen: at least all the ones who were men. “Jackass,” they suggested.
“I don’t swear,” Vivers said.
“...Ah.”
“Louse,” Ditton offered. “Rat. Vermin.” He was laughing. Osmond could hear it in his voice.
Vivers began nodding excitedly. “Good. Those are good. I’ll bite his head off next time.” He put the fleshy part of his right hand up to his mouth and sank his teeth in. Then he turned wildly, ragged robes swinging, and ran out. Or perhaps a better word would be scampered.
Ditton angled his head to watch him go. “He appreciated that,” he said soberly, looking back to Osmond. “People rarely approach him, and certainly not with gratitude.” He paused to adjust the positioning of his legs and the drape of his cloak. “What made you decide to thank him? I admit I was surprised to hear you say it.” He paused. “Ah… I mean no offense.”
“None taken,” Osmond said, sitting down and folding their legs beneath them. If they were going to talk, they might as well take a load off. “It was,” they considered, “logical.”
“Oh?”
“I had the Curse. I brought the Fanatic upon them all. And they didn’t give me to him,” Osmond elaborated. Spelling it out made them feel better, more secure in their decision to undertake the whole endeavor. “Can’t pretend that that’s not… significant to me.”
“I can tell it was hard for you,” said Ditton, voice even and free of judgment.
Osmond bristled faintly anyway. “What—does that make it more noble?”
“Of course not.” He rolled his shoulders. “But I’m afraid it makes it very kind. People will start to get attached to you.” Again there was the hint of a chuckle in Ditton’s words.
“That was a risk I incurred when I took this job,” Osmond said.
"Ah," Ditton said. "Well worth, I'm sure, the promised fee."
"Worth the benefits of allyship… But the money helps," Osmond said, snorting. To their surprise, Ditton laughed along. His laugh was deep, not sonorously so, with a roughness that didn't usually come through in his voice.
"Indeed," Ditton said, "the money soothes a great many concerns."
"Wouldn't have thought you'd care much for that kind of thing," Osmond admitted.
Ditton laughed again, though not quite so fully as before. "Allow me to rectify your image of me. I donate most of my pay, and I value being able to make such generous gifts." One of his hands moved absently to massage the other. "But I appreciate the idea of keeping it for myself. I do."
"Hardly need it in this place. Practically kings, if kings were soaked in blood and filth."
"Some are," Ditton said. "But I take your point. We pay with more than gold."
Osmond frowned beneath their mask. "I don't think so," they said. They weren't quite sure what possessed them to say it aloud. Perhaps the thank-you earlier had opened a gate somewhere in their mouth. "I may not have summoned the Fanatic to myself, but the fact remains that he attacked where I was moving."
Ditton was quiet for a time. Finally, he said, "And does it bother you?"
"Not usually," said Osmond. "I spend a lot of money here."
They and Ditton looked at each other for a long moment, masks equally inscrutable. Osmond considered their own distorted reflections in the metal over Ditton's cheeks.
"I'll leave you to your meditation," they said at last, rising. Soon they would approach Reynauld, later Vatteville. The lone tree in the cloister, they thought, regarding it as they walked past: it didn't look so miserable.