Work Text:
Castorice gently took the poetry collection she had just redeemed in her hands, holding it with care.
The binding was simple, yet it had a rustic sturdiness, as if made to be read not just once but turned through again and again. Still, The corners were worn and the cover was faded, just as the years age a person's face.
She slowly opened the cover, as if awakening it from its slumber. To a connoisseur, a used book could often be considered more valuable than a new one. Aside from the rarity of being out of print, it could also be seen as a manifestation of a continuous thread connecting people across time and acquaintance, passed down and entrusted from person to person in a world that is gradually being swallowed by the black tide. It was a common custom for people to entrust the books of a deceased loved one to the next person. In a way, it had traded the pristine beauty of being new for the romance of human history, imprinted on its pages.
She didn't know who compiled this old poetry collection or whose hands it had passed through. There was no editor's name, and the poems seemed to possess different flavors from various city-states. Some of those cities had long since been destroyed by the black tide or by war. Perhaps a traveling bard had compiled it for themselves.
Knowing it was worn, but wanting to check it over, she began to flip through the pages. Immediately, on page nine, she noticed an unfamiliar object catching her finger.
It’s not uncommon for a bookmark, placed with a small vow to return later or tomorrow, to go unnoticed and reach a new owner. However, this particular bookmark, and the handwritten annotation on the page, caught her attention.
A dry, pressed leaf was attached to a slip of paper. Judging from the poem and the note, the leaf seemed to be rosemary. The note read,
"If it were me, I'd entrust it to rosemary. This scent is the best."
Are you going to Marmoreal Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Remember me to one who lives there,
For she is still a true love of mine.
Tell her to weave me a tapestry,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Without a single trace of sorrow or strife,
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
…
It must have been a long time ago, in historical times, when the Marmoreal Market was still called a "fair" — a place where stalls were set up on an irregular basis. She felt as though she had reached across time to touch the heart of someone who, even back then, sang of love in a time of war.
What kind of person was "she," the object of the poet's true love?
The poignant repetition of love entrusted to herbs filled her with a profound wistfulness, a blush similar to how she felt reading stories of Titans’ love, and she gently closed the poetry collection. Even if she was filled with so much love here in Okhema—friendship, affection, respect, romantic love was, quite literally, something she could not touch.
She paused for a moment and opened the page again, hoping to at least touch the scent the poet had favored. She plucked the bookmark with the herbs to smell it, but the dried, faded herbs had lost their scent, as if veiled by the passage of time.
There was only a faint, rusty smell, like a relic of the battlefield. Had this book really been read in a place where blood was shed? It reminded her of someone fated to traverse battlefields, yet who valued peace above all else.
＊
The first time she witnessed him, Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, was at the same time Okhema and Chrysos Heirs discovered the child of Strife. Yet, the impression she received was almost certainly different from that of her companions.
A warrior, a true flame of life, faced off against a soldier clad in the blue and white livery crafted by the Gold Weaver. Seeking to gauge each other's strength and conviction, the two heroes clashed, sword against spear. Near the end of the combat performance that shook Okhema the Holy City, the Chrysos Heirs, and the martial pride of the mist-shrouded Kremnos, she "met" the man named Mydeimos.
After nearly ten days of fierce fighting and encampment on the plains, even these two masters showed signs of fatigue. Yet, perhaps out of a desire to avoid dishonor or a stubborn refusal to let go of such a rare and worthy opponent, the sword and spear parried, found openings, and clashed against each other.
It was not either of them, but the long spear, that finally gave way under the repeated blows. For a moment, as the broken shaft of the spear flew past and obscured the view, the sword aimed for the warrior's chest. Perhaps no one, not even the soldier himself, could see the golden blood dripping in the dust, but the daughter of Styx could vividly feel death reaching out to claim him. She turned pale, and the Weaver beside her peered at her, puzzled. Just as she began to explain in a trembling voice, the next shock hit her.
He was alive, though he should have been dead. "The Undying Mydeimos"—just as the prophecy foretold. Death had rejected him.
He moved like a spring, probably in an instant, from his kneeling position. He had also cast aside his spearhead. Sharp red crystals protruded like thorns from his body, which glistened with sweat. He held the same substance in his hand. As he parried the sword with his gauntlet, he swung his fist.
The soldier did not let go of his sword, and the warrior kept his eyes fixed on his opponent. But neither seemed to have the strength to lunge from exhaustion; their shoulders heaved violently, and they squinted through the sweat and blood. It was in this momentary lull that Aglaea intervened. There, he—Mydeimos, or Mydei—acknowledged the strength of the soldier Phainon, was touched by the conviction of the leader Aglaea, and agreed to side with Okhema and the Chrysos Heirs.
But Castorice's heart was not healed from its fear, shock, and worry—not until she learned that in the Holy City, he was a quiet person, one who cared deeply for its people while worrying about their faith, was good at looking after others, had outstanding skills about cooking, and enjoyed friendly competition and companionship; a person crowned with reason and peace.
Though, the Holy City also forced him into battle, a fierce one at that, involving death and a return to life. His destiny was likely bound to the battlefield, whether he liked it or not. Just as she had always lived closely with death, in the execution ground and in the cemetery.
She likened herself, unable to touch life, to him on the battlefield, and before she knew it, she had come to see him as her signpost. She saw his courage in not fearing the pain of his undying curse, his strength to live each day with his feet on the ground through cooking and training, and his will to move forward despite worrying about the future of his people and his own mission.
＊
"We tried a personality test from you a while ago, didn't we?"
After a meeting of the Chrysos Heirs had ended, she called Tribios over and asked. The three young girls’ faces lit up, or they let out a small laugh.
"It was a suuuper loooong one! Everyone had a tough time with the answers, didn't they?"
"Hehe... I wonder. Do you remember if my result happened to include rosemary?"
"Yeah. 'Rosemary and Wormwood.'... Maybe Cas's gentle personality is like rosemary?"
Even back then, she had understood that the wormwood part alluded to her curse. Her chest tightened a little, but she hadn't asked in order to get lost in thought.
"I'm a little embarrassed to admit I pretended I knew back then... but what does rosemary smell like?"
"It's okay. But... you want to experience it, not just hear about it in words, don't you, Cas?"
Tribbie pondered the question, and Trinnon rubbed her hidden eyes sleepily.
"...Rosemary is often used in cooking."
"You're in luck, Cas! I bet the good cook Dei will teach you!"
Trianne nodded, as if a brilliant idea had just occurred to her.
Though the three of them smiled and gave their stamp of approval, Castorice's steps felt heavy as she left the Bath. The person she wanted to ask for guidance, Mydei, was by no means difficult. Even if there were still many people in the Holy City who thought so. Although she was looking for him, she might not have had the courage to approach him with a personal request.
Still, when she saw his tall, striking back turning a corner, she called his name and ran toward him, maintaining the self-control to stay five steps away.
"Lord Mydei,"
"...Oh, it's you."
He turned around, his shoulders slightly moving as he relaxed from a guarded stance. It was similar to a lion prepared for a fight, now lowering its guard.
"Don't sneak up on me like that. I might hurt you by mistake."
Mydei looked at her again, scrutinizing her face.
"...What's wrong? A message from Aglaea?"
"Ah... no. It's not that..."
She faltered, as if she had used up all her courage just to call out to him. Without the armor of an excuse like the one he had just offered, she felt as if she were standing defenseless before a warrior.
"If you're busy... it's nothing that's worth bothering you for..."
"Hey."
He said, sounding exasperated, then let out a small laugh.
"You came looking for me, so you must have something to say. Tell me."
His amber eyes, as if setting a small test, watched Castorice with a generous curiosity. She gripped her clasped hands a little tighter than usual.
"...Do you know the scent of rosemary?"
His eyes widened slightly. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. However, his confusion didn't last for long.
"You're right to ask a cook. After all, seeing is believing."
He nodded.
"But, unfortunately, I'm out of stock... Castorice, do you have time?"
"Yes. ...Huh?"
Her voice wavered slightly at the sound of her name. Her cheeks grew hot, but luckily, or perhaps not, he was no longer looking at her.
"Let's go buy some."
Already starting to walk, he said casually, "I'll show you the real thing. Follow me."
The market was not a place of comfort for her. She loved the atmosphere of the Marmoreal Market, but being in the middle of it, her fear always overshadowed her enjoyment. What if a running child bumped into her? What if the shopkeeper's outstretched hand brushed against hers? Such fears were endless. She kept her shopping to a minimum, and when she did go, she would return home with a large haul, like a wholesale purchase.
Mydei, without a thought to hiding his striking appearance, walked at a leisurely pace. Perhaps he usually strode with a longer gait, but now he maintained a pace that was just right for her to follow. His powerful, tall frame cut through the crowd and pushed it away, unexpectedly securing enough space to allow her to rest easy for a while.
(There's the Crown Prince of Kremnos.)
(Where is he going alone?)
(No, look closely, the Servant of Death is with him.)
(What are they up to... just stay away, it's dangerous.)
He paid no mind to the whispers exchanged all over the market. From time to time, he would look back to check on her, and let out a small sigh of relief when he saw she was there. She had the illusion that his back was tensed just a little.
"...This is it."
He gradually slowed his pace, gesturing toward the herb shop, making sure she wouldn't stumble and run into him. As they drew closer, a blend of fragrances so pleasant it could only be described as pure delight drifted toward them.
"Welcome."
The old shopkeeper closed the book he was reading and raised his glasses. Behind him, she could see a towering pile of books, shelves filled with jars, and medicinal herbs hanging on the wall.
"Meat or fish today, folks?"
"Meat. I need some rosemary, both fresh and dried."
"Coming right up."
Silence fell as the shopkeeper went to the back. She watched his chest slowly rise and fall and asked in a murmur,
"Do you come to this shop often?"
"Yeah... I can avoid smelling rust here."
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Castorice stood enveloped in the same scent as he was, humming the lines of the poem in her heart.
"The scent won't get mixed up here. Here."
After walking a little and sitting on a bench, Mydei pinched the top of the paper bag and held it out to her. She reached out and took it, holding the bottom to support it. As she opened the bag, the trapped scent tickled her nose, sinking in with each breath. A cool, crisp, refreshing aroma. She could now understand the feelings of the poetry collection's previous owner, who wanted to entrust a message and a wish.
"...Lady Tribios suggested you're like this."
She looked up at him with a gasp.
"You mean... the personality test by them?"
"Yeah."
He took off his gauntleted arm. He had been looking for a place to put his hands after handing her the rosemary.
"You're rosemary... and wormwood, Castorice. Can you tell me what I was?"
"...'Pure-blood T-bone Steak'?"
"Yeah."
He stopped fidgeting with his hands and arms as he answered again.
"Let me tell you. Rosemary gets rid of the raw smell of meat and enhances its flavor."
"...Oh..."
It's just like a poem.
That was the only thought that came to her mind.
It was her turn to let her gaze wander. She lowered her gaze, watching people walk, stop, and sit in the market beyond his body. A couple had just sat down on the bench directly across from them. They held bags and seemed to be measuring their distance, not quite touching, but it was clear their eyes were warm and intertwined. When she realized this, she got an intense suggestion, stronger than the envy she had felt before, and nearly jumped up.
"U-um,"
He blinked back at Castorice, who was stammering.
"Could it be that... the way we're sitting like this, it looks like... a d... date...?"
"Let people think what they want. The reputation of the 'Chrysos Heirs' is just built on wild tales and rumors anyway."
Mydei shrugged, then grinned.
"But... I don't mind if they think we’re on a date."
He saw her cheeks, which were usually so pale they were a cause for worry, and the pointed ears peeking from her pale purple hair turn bright red. After committing the sight to memory, he held out his hand.
"Close the bag before you get too used to the scent. ...I'll let you taste rosemary's true power at dinner."
He had also stopped by a butcher, a green grocer, and a bakery, as he had said he would. Then he brought her into the mansion in the middle of the Action Hour. It was a space that Aglaea, one of the Holy City's wealthiest individuals, had opened up for the shared use of the Chrysos Heirs. Castorice passed through the gate, concerned about the gaze of the guard, a Weaveress, but found that she wasn't in any conspicuous spot inside. The golden threads were undoubtedly spread everywhere, but the master of the house was willing to look the other way.
When they arrived at the kitchen and dining area, he gestured for her to sit at the table, but her brows furrowed.
"I don't get too close to things, so may I just watch?"
"...Alright. I don't know if it will be interesting, though."
He answered and began cooking with an economy of motion. He wrapped a cloudsheep shoulder and set it aside, then roughly chopped vegetables.
"You're cooking without a recipe?"
"Yeah."
He answered as he sliced the cloudsheep meat with his knife. His expression was serious yet calm; perhaps it was better for him to cut up meat with a kitchen knife than to pierce and tear apart his enemies' bodies with a spear and blood crystals. She thought of this obvious, yet important, fact. Although she could certainly smell the raw scent of the meat, it was already a pleasant, appetizing aroma.
"I started cooking when I was wandering. ...Even my comrade-in-arms, who was a bookworm, didn't bring a recipe book with him from Kremnos. I only had my senses of taste and smell to rely on. ...Look, this is where I use the rosemary."
As if demonstrating, he lightly slapped the rosemary with his hand to make the aroma rise, then scattered it on a tray. He sprinkled salt and black pepper on the shoulder meat and placed slices of garlic on top. He set a large frying pan on the heat and drizzled in some olive oil. The aromas of base steak meat and the rosemary mixed together, filling the space around them.
"This is about right."
Holding his hand over the frying pan, he tipped the meat and the contents of the tray in. He then placed a sprig of rosemary on top of the meat. The sizzling sound was soothing.
"...It smells good," Castorice murmured, her expression softening. Below her clasped hands, her stomach gave a little growl. He noticed.
"All that's left is to flip it over. You can sit down and wait."
As he had instructed, she waited at the table. The meat was flipped, then removed, the vegetables steamed, and the sauce made.
"Here."
A simple phrase struck her ears as she dozed, her hunger half-satisfied by the sounds and aromas. His left hand held out a white, flat plate with cloudsheep steak garnished with rosemary and pink pepper. His right hand was lightly hidden behind his back. His expression looked confident and unwavering, yet in reality, his mouth was tightly set and his amber eyes stared at her, hinting at a touch of anxiety.
"Oh, I... Thank you!"
As if it were some sort of ritual, she rose from her chair and received the plate with both hands. He finally smiled when he saw her lavender eyes shine with admiration.
It was a fortunate coincidence that their meals were almost done when both their teleslates vibrated.
The news that refugees being chased by the black tide were being attacked by Titankin just before they reached Okhema was followed by a series of deployment orders for each of the Chrysos Heir members in the Holy City.
"...I have to go."
Mydei glanced at the group chat and stood up.
"You're supposed to be welcoming the refugees at the city gate, right? I'll get as many of them to you as I can, so take care of them."
"Yes, I understand, Lord Mydei."
She followed him out of the building, through the uncrowded market of the Parting Hour. Just as they reached the place where she was supposed to fulfill her role, she couldn't help herself. As he was about to venture out into the darkness beyond the reach of the Dawn Device to join Phainon who had to clear out the pursuing Titankin, Castorice called out to his back.
"Please, be safe!"
In such a critical situation, Mydei was already starting to run, not even bothering with a speed contest. Still, he looked back and yelled in response,
"I'm immortal!"
And with that, the figures of the two men who were pillars of the Holy City disappeared into the Triangular Gate.
Left behind in the calm sunlight, she hugged herself with both arms during the brief moments before the soldiers with the same role gathered. Mydei's role was to be a shield, to stand between the refugees and the Titankin, and to hold back the latter. She knew all too well what it meant for him to be assigned this task alone, without an accompanying squad.
He would once again wield a blade of his own blood, not steel.
His hands would not be kneading bread, but clenched tight to crush the Titankin's stone bodies.
He would be enveloped in the scent of blood and rust from the battlefield.
This night, too, his body and senses would be destroyed and rejected by death over and over again as he continued to fight.
How much time had passed, she wondered?
The refugees were arriving at Okhema's gates one after another.
"A warrior who looked like a Kremnoan protected this child—"
"He pulled out an arrow from his chest and broke it by hitting the Titankin in the neck with it—"
"I thought it was a red tornado—"
As she rejoiced in each of their lives, she thought of the man who was protecting them. She listened to them, as they spoke dazed while receiving first aid and guidance..
"Aah!"
"N-no, don't come closer...!"
She looked at where the refugees, who were about to be welcomed into the light of the Dawn Device, were screaming. A Titankin called the Furiae Troupe was gracefully descending from the sky, its wings spread wide. Castorice ran forward. She swung her scythe, imbued with the curse of death, with all her might. After the sensation of cracking stone, the golden blood they inherited from the Titan splattered.
The fact that they had come this far meant that beyond the darkness was a boundless battlefield. The line of refugees, who were desperately walking, was beginning to thin out. Soon, he too would be able to retreat. The soldiers should also be able to head out for backup. She repeated this to herself as she slaughtered the occasional Furiae Troupe and Archer that appeared.
It must have been Entry Hour's first quint.
There was no visible change in the light of the Dawn Device, but the sounds of human voices and footsteps from afar, and the vibration of their teleslates, announced the end of the long night. The soldiers began to appear, exhausted and blood-stained, but otherwise safe and sound. Wounded and incapacitated soldiers and refugees were arriving, supported by those who could still walk.
And at the very end of the line were the figures of the two strongest warriors in Okhema.
She let out a deep sigh of relief, leaning on her scythe. As if recognizing a companion waiting for their return, Phainon waved a big hello at the silhouette of a goddess of death. Mydei, next to him, did nothing in particular. He just came back, one step at a time.
"Good work, Castorice!"
"Oh no, you both... Ah... I'm so glad."
Even as she exchanged words of relief with them, her heart was in turmoil, as if swept away by a storm. The curse of death allowed her to know the traces of death etched by the immortal warrior.
"Wait for me at the Bath, Deliverer."
"Make sure you come. You can only cleanse that contamination in the bath, after all."
She watched as Phainon gave him a reminder and then left ahead of them. Only then did Mydei finally turn to her.
"...I'm back, Castorice."
He said only that. It was this man's nature not to pretend to be anything but immortal, nor to seek sympathy. There were no large, deep wounds on his body; they would disappear after he 'died' and rebirthed.
"Yes. ...Yes, Lord Mydei."
So she, too, tried to be brave.
Perhaps sensing the unspoken storm of emotion, he put his hand in his pocket and took out a small white bundle. When she held her hands together, forming a cup, it fell lightly into her palms.
"It's a sachet of rosemary." He explained.
"It's been dried, so it should last a while. You can put it anywhere, or carry it with you. ..."
As he spoke, he took one of the two identical bundles with the tip of his gauntleted finger. She felt a pang in her chest, both from his proximity and from the sight of the cracked metal.
"I'll keep one."
Did he still smell the blood and rust? Could the rosemary bring him a moment of peace?
Castorice gently brought the sachet to her face as if she were receiving a sacred offering. It was no longer an unknown scent. It was refreshing, gentle, and a little bitter.
＊
Marmoreal Fair
Author Unknown
Are you going to Marmoreal Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Remember me to one who lives there,
For she is still a true love of mine.
Tell her to weave me a tapestry,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Without a single trace of sorrow or strife,
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
Tell her to calm me with her hand,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
That hand which has only taken lives,
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
Tell her to sing me a lullaby,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
My ears are too used to battle's din,
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
Tell her to keep our dreams warm,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
For they may bloom in a sea of flowers,
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
If you say that you can't, then I shall reply,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Oh, at least tell me you won't stop trying,
And you will forever be a true love of mine.