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“ Here on out, I ask that you lead an honorable life. ”
Every person on the road has a glint in their eye yearning for something.
Whether it be for freedom, answers, security, identity, peace, prosperity, or stardom — for one to viably pursue such goals, it is logical to form a group that will cover one’s weaknesses in the wake of trouble. Strategizing the formation of a team without knowing who you would be dealing with is exactly what Osvald would do, but knowing his skill as a scholar, he would seamlessly account for contingencies that may arise.
After escaping the prison in Frigit Isle, the days of ‘freedom’ felt more akin to a blurry dream, reliving the days of slaving away in the snowy mines while constantly observing and planning his escape, then also making sure his body was prepared to withstand this exact moment.
Only for a few more days does he have to survive, as his journey away from the Winterlands led the disheveled former convict to a warmer city in the Brightlands. Despite its placing in the region, Osvald would not describe this place as particularly ‘bright,’ but rather a home for the common vices of men. A few examples include the lingering stink of imported cigars etched on the fabric of the bourgeois, a common man with missing fingers lining up to the game parlor, and the occasional drunk seen lying on the outskirts of town.
Needless to say, he does not feel welcome here.
“…You must be hungry. Here, have this.”
His eyes focused on the woman sheathing her dagger in front of him. Silently, out of politeness, he took the offered meal and scanned his surroundings.
Two men lay behind her, unconscious — with burn marks laced on the edges of their clothing. Trembling beside her was a limping puppy. Just like that, he felt the dream end and he finally woke up.
“I’m Throné, and I’m on a hunt for two particular individuals.”
“Throné… My name is Osvald, I’m a scholar. I, too, am… looking for someone.”
Throné knelt and tended to the puppy. “Well Osvald, thank you for protecting my little friend.” A small smile perked from the sides of her lips, an expression meant to be concealed from the stranger, but it was hard to hide such things from an observant man like himself.
Having escaped his dissociated state, he managed to piece together that he protected the injured puppy from those men, and to that, the scholar only nodded in approval of his good behavior.
“You’re a traveler, right?”
“…More or less.”
“Would you happen to need a hand on your journey?”
The offer was sudden and it almost blindsided Osvald. Though, he was more amused by how quickly she might have trusted him. “What is it that you do?” Throné made the scabbard on her thigh clear, “I’d hate to be blasé about it. Perhaps you could take a guess.”
The scholar’s intuition did not require her choice of weapon to recognize the life she has led up to that point, but the likeness of each other’s eyes — a life of crime, or a life surrounded by it. Osvald had a different feeling overwhelming him by this observation, a wrenching churn inside his gut that caused him to frown.
Someone as young as her has to live through a life he would never wish upon his daughter.
The scholar shook his head. “—You will be a wonderful teammate.”
“…All right.” The thief took a few steps ahead of him, “Well then… let’s go.”
Throné has business in the direction Osvald originated from in the Winterlands, but they agreed to head up to the mountainous Crestlands for the scholar’s investigation and the thief’s training.
That was the most they’d spoken to each other, as the days of journeying toward it remained relatively silent — with most conversations that they’d had lasting no more than 3 minutes during combat.
In one silent night a few days after the encounter, the thief thought to practice initiating conversations with him as they set up camp safely on the edge of the forest.
Osvald was in charge of creating the campfire, while Thorné assigned herself the task of looking for sticks and making a comfortable surface on the ground to sleep. He always acknowledged the effort made by her with an appreciative grunt.
Osvald to her is ‘interesting,’ alongside ‘brooding’ and ‘mysterious.’ The flame seemed to burn just for him — his body hunched mere centimeters away yet completely unbothered by the crackling embers flying close. Shuffling her eyes between Osvald and the flame, she was noticeably hesitant to speak.
“Hm?” It was almost a grumble, but it pierced through the silence. Throné was relieved by the initiative despite the delivery.
“How’d you know I wanted to say something?”
“…Your posture.”
“My posture?”
The scholar kicked his legs crossed and placed his weight on his arms behind his back. Up until that point, the thief had not realized how attentive he was to her — or just generally. Jokingly, she scoffed at this demonstration. For a brief moment, he smiled when he caught on to the playful tone. The atmosphere felt less stuffy after that.
Osvald returned to his usual posture now donning a softer expression, and Throné straightened her back, further from the flame. “So… Why do you travel, professor?”
“ … ”
Why does he travel? His expression remained soft, although she could tell there was a tinge of sadness. Now staring back, his hand was placed over the chain that hung from the shackle on his neck.
“Perhaps you could take a guess...” Calling back to what she once told him when they first met. “So are you on the run from authorities?” That is not the case, but the scholar regardless refused to answer. Throné respected that, it wasn’t like she answered him when he once asked.
Osvald simply looked up at the dark blue sky speckled with shining stars. The provincial areas were always the best spots to stop and observe its constellations — unlike New Delsta whence the light pollution originated. Osvald always studied the stars as an academic, recognizing their significance only from their chemistry and formation.
Throné looked up after him. “Ah! It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Beauty.
The scholar does not, and would never understand what that means. Subjectiveness is not the strong suit of an academic, who believes only to be able to measure meaning through facts and numbers.
Yet there was a night he would carry his restless Elena on one arm and an old telescope on the other. He set the girl on the windowsill overlooking the vast Harborland waters. There, he would carefully crack the screechy old window open so as to not wake Rita, and his wife, up. Then, he would teach Elena about physical science and its connections with the study of the cosmos.
“…Beautiful.” He repeated.
He does not know what that means, but if he were allowed to form his definition—that memory—the cool winds, the cymbal-like crash of the ocean waves, the contrasted warmth of his daughter’s embrace, having found itself lost and blurry as time further flew. “It would be nice if I could stay like this for much longer.”
Yes, but it was more than nice.
It was everything.
“A man.” He said, “…He took everything from me.”
Every person on the road has a glint in their eye. Reflected in his eyes—the flame—that glint that yearns for something. Those eyes, Throné discovered, yearn for revenge.
She sighed, “…I see.” The words shared between the pair were enough progress for tonight, but her curiosity has yet to be satiated. The scholar stood and silently excused himself away from the campsite and walked into the forest. Right, they haven’t eaten yet. Throné presumed that he went off to hunt. She scuffled through her belongings for some grapes and mumbled to herself sarcastically.
“How forthcoming of him.”
He could describe every detail of that day. The acrid smoke and its miasmic smog stung the senses of those who steered closely. The destruction of his home obstructed what could have been a warm supper under a twilight sky, but instead dragged by authorities with the stones of the ground scraping his knees…
And how could one forget?
That disgusting monologue—his laugh—all from whom Osvald once called his equal.
Harvey.
One thousand, eight hundred, and seventy-nine. That was the last day on that horrid island where he stopped counting, knowing that any day after that point, the only sound of Harvey’s that Osvald would remember is the anguished screams as he dies…
“ Lead an honorable life… That day shall never come. ”