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“I don’t think you’re useful, if that’s helpful,” Water offered with a mocking sort of cheerfulness.
Avid didn’t falter. He knew how to play this game.
“It is helpful,” they replied, easily. “You know,” he added, the ghost of a grin beginning to grow on their face in anticipation, “speaking of useful… we are running super low on dumplings, and I- just- I’m hungry.”
Avid knew it was a low blow, but couldn’t find it in himself to care. This was just how it was — this was how they operated, tossing barbs and jabs at each other until they really stung; until someone relented.
To Avid’s disappointment, Water didn’t seem to take the bait.
“Is there anything you know how to do well?” he asked, the question likely meant to be rhetorical, but Avid took it as an opening instead.
“Yes,” he replied, already giggling, “this—” but as they went to pick his pockets, Water turned and left.
“Well, great, you left me in your room, now! I’ll steal whatever I want, then!” Avid called out to his retreating form, still laughing as they pilfered through his things… but the game was over, now. Water had left.
With a dejected sigh, Avid left the room, trying their hardest not to dwell on what Water had said. Is there anything you know how to do well?
Every meal was decadent: the berries were fresh, even in the off-season; the meat was hearty, cooked precisely how he liked it without ever having to ask; their glass was always refilled before they’d had a moment to look down and notice it was nearly empty.
Avid never wanted for anything, never had the need to — there were people hired specifically to do so for him, to anticipate his needs before they’d even had the chance to form.
There was no reason for them to learn how the food was prepared, not that he’d ever been given the opportunity to try — every time Avid so much as addressed a member of the waitstaff directly to thank them, they’d just stare, wide-eyed, as if it was a terrifying marvel to be spoken to at all, mumbling a: “Thank you, My Prince,” before scurrying away.
Things were different, of course, once he left.
*
Avid was high on leftover adrenaline, tearing blindly through the forest with a fervor, aware of the swarm of guards that might still be on his tail.
They ducked behind a tree for a moment, just to catch their breath, heart pounding against his chest so loud he worried they could hear it.
He couldn’t wait long. The sky had begun to lighten, the day threatening to begin — they’d spot him easily in the daylight.
Avid took one deep, steadying breath, and shot out again, darting between the trees and dodging roots beneath their feet until, miraculously, the outline of a neighboring town began to take shape.
*
It was foreign, the ache that had formed in his stomach — an empty, clawing thing, scraping its talons across their gut.
His stomach growled — not an angry sound, exactly, but a cry all the same — and Avid blinked, momentarily confused, before the smell of freshly baked bread filled their nostrils, and his stomach answered its call. Oh, they thought, this is what being hungry feels like.
He stole, at first. It was easy, the ability to exist unseen something they’d learned from all the sneaking around he’d done at home in the Castle.
(He hadn’t thought to bring any sort of money with him.
He’d never had to worry about that sort of thing before).
And then, like all good things freed of their glimmering masks, he saw it: the owner of the bakery, an older woman, looking forlorn as she counted her earnings.
“I don’t know what to do,” she’d told another older woman stood beside her, grief-stricken as she burrowed herself in her embrace, “I thought we’d have enough by now… I don’t want to have to sell the house.”
The other woman shook her head, tutting lovingly, and kissed her forehead. “It’ll be alright, love. We’ll figure it out. I’ll pick up another job.”
Avid turned the corner and hid, shame filling his body in a way it had only ever done twice before — once, when he’d been caught with him; a second time, when they’d learned what had become of him, what their parents had done — and vowed to never steal from anyone that didn’t deserve it.
They took to watching from afar, instead. Studying.
He watched the butcher from under the cover of the trees, saw the way they flayed and cut the meat; he watched how the townspeople gathered ingredients and prepared their food, how they mended clothes and cut down trees to make fires.
Once he’d slain the man who collected the townspeople’s rent and taxes, Avid moved on to the next town — but they took those lessons with them, to dingy caves and dilapidated houses and alleyways only visited by fellow stray animals who knew very little of home or had vowed to not return to it.
It didn’t weigh on him.
Not as they visited Amber’s grave with Graecie, everything they’d thought they were — this noble crusade borne of a righteous fury and a righteous guilt — crumbling before him at the revelation of innocent blood on his hands.
Not as he told her that she was his only friend — his lifeline, his anchor; the first and only person to believe in him, to look at them and see the remnants of goodness he’d thought they’d buried too deep to be unearthed — and promised, foolishly, not to die.
It didn’t weigh on them as he added another target to his Kill List to protect her, or as they tried to level with Water and come to an understanding but were left, instead, feeling more alone than ever.
It didn’t weigh on Avid as he ate from the collection of food they’d pillaged from the village many days before — anything that hadn’t been made with “grain” — or as he lay in bed, in the dark, Killian at their feet, thinking of his burnt mask and vow of taking action.
It bothered them so little, in fact, that he sought Graecie out the next day to ask about it.
“I think we talked about it before, but, um,” he began, feeling a little silly as heat rose to their cheeks, “what have you been doing, uh, food-wise since you stopped eating the dumplings Water made?”
Graecie’s eyes widened, face brightening. “Oh!” she chirped. “Well, I’ve bought some things from the market, plus all the stuff people gave me, but I’ve also been spending a lot of time in the kitchen with Zam! She’s become really good at cooking.”
Avid hummed, nodding. “It’s, uh… it’s a little embarrassing, but, um- I never really had a chance to learn how to cook anything other than the essentials.”
“Ohh,” Graecie mused, “that’s okay! I didn’t, either. I was really bad at it before Zam showed me.”
Avid thought of the two of them, how their lives were paralleled but often intersected, in the strangest of ways: indoctrinated into the beliefs of others, isolated but surrounded by people, chosen, running away from home and finding comfort in sleeping on the floor, forced to make up for their stilted knowledge of the world through trial and error —
Graecie gasped and said: “I bet she could show you, too!”
“Really?” Avid asked, unsure. “I don’t want to be a bother…”
Graecie shook her head. “Nonono, I’m sure! You wouldn’t bother her. I know she’d be happy to show you! She’s never minded me hanging out in the kitchen while she cooks.”
Graecie’s warm, easy smile put Avid at ease despite himself, and he found themself nodding and agreeing to accompany her down to the kitchen that evening to watch.
*
“So, it’s, um, it’s pretty easy,” Zam explained, eyes trained on the cookbook in front of her.
“No it’s not,” Graecie argued, “you’re being too humble!”
Zam shook her head. “No, no,” she mumbled, a light purple flush dusting her cheeks.
Graecie grinned, turning to face where Avid was perched on the counter, observing from a distance in a strange imitation of how they once watched the people of the towns they visited — but this time was different, this time was a dim kitchen light and the smiling face of their best friend and a Martian showing them how to cook out in the open.
“Here,” Graecie urged, “Avid, come see!”
And now this time was even more different because he approached the counter to watch up close, and was given their own space to set out their own ingredients and follow the steps in tandem.
It was different because the three of them stood in giddy anticipation as the food cooked, almost too excited to wait for the dish to cool before they tried it.
It was different, too, because when Avid’s was done and plated, Graecie and Zam each took a bite and then cheered, genuinely delighted, and the sound of clapping and ringing bells flooded Avid’s ears with an overwhelming sense of warmth.
It was good, too.
He’d tried the dish himself, noted a couple flaws to improve upon next time, but it was good. And Avid found themself cheering, too — face flushed and giggling, pleasantly embarrassed by all of the praise — and, for the first time in as long as they could remember, he felt weightless. Unburdened.
*
(What he didn’t see — what none of them saw, as Graecie cheered: “Avid! This is so good! I told you you could do it!” and Zam agreed, “Yes, mhm, it’s good!” and Avid giggled, ducking their head, and said, “Thank you, guys, for taking the time to show me. It, uh, it means a lot.” — was Water, frozen at the foot of the stairs, watching the scene unfold before him.
He wanted, more than anything, to be angry.
And he was — of course he was, as he watched all his fears once again materialize in front of him, yet another bonding moment between friends that he wasn’t a part of — but he’d done it to himself, hadn’t he?
He’d stopped making dumplings. He’d asked Avid, the day before, if they could do anything well. And then the two of them had yet another falling out, more proof of the fact that Water couldn’t afford to rely on anyone but himself.
He’d thought, before, that Avid was like that, too. That their scars looked similar.
But now he watched as the fallen prince basked in the praise of their supposed friends, eyes and voice soft and vulnerable in a way he’d seldom seen, and Water was reminded of the truth.
Slowly, he crept back up the stairs, trying to push down an image that had begun to play out in his brain, unbidden: of him being in the kitchen, with all of them, showing them all how to make dumplings — existing, if just for a moment, in that warmth).
*