Archive of Our Own

Volo, now four months behind on guild dues, strolled into Jubilife Village like he had not a care in the world. Ginter kept eyes on him, huffing when Volo's long stride grew noticeably longer the closer he got to the cart, when he suddenly found occasion to fiddle with the brim of his hat and shade his face.

"Er," Tuli said, shooting Ginter a sideways look.

Ginter cocked his head. "Volo!"

To his credit, Volo didn't miss a beat, pivoting like he'd meant to stop by the cart all along. "Ah, Ginter! And Tuli. How are things? Selling well?"

Ginter inhaled slowly. Volo was so good-natured, it was hard to find fault with him even when there was clear fault to find. But he'd win no friends playing favorites. "Into the cart, Volo, lad."

Volo's smile grew a touch more strained. He widened his eyes at Tuli. "Oh, dear."

"Come on."

The cart was tiny and full of awkwardly-shaped packages, but it was the only kind of privacy they were likely to get. It creaked ominously under Ginter's weight, and groaned in earnest when Volo tucked himself in. He had to fold himself up in a way that looked truly uncomfortable, but his smile never wavered. "How can I help you, Ginter?"

Of course he wasn't going to make this easy. Ginter sighed and pulled out his ledger book. With a practiced hand, he flipped open to the page where he'd marked down Volo's debts in red ink and held it up demonstratively.

Volo peered at it. "Ah, I see! Goodness, I have been straining the limits of your patience, haven't I? My humblest apologies. I hadn't realized it had been so long."

Ginter raised an eyebrow. "You hadn't realized it's been five months since you last paid your guild dues?"

"Four months, surely," Volo said, pointing at one of the columns.

"Then five," Ginter said, gesturing toward the heavens, where the moon kept time. He sighed. "Then six, then seven."

"Oh, come now," Volo said. "I wouldn't leave it that long."

"Let's see your records, lad," Ginter said, putting his own book away.

Volo widened his eyes, adopting a look of guileless innocence. "My records? Surely that's not necessary—"

"Show me."

Volo's look crystallized into something resembling ill-concealed panic. "Of course!" 

He made quite the show of squirming out of his backpack straps and digging through its contents, though it was clearly almost empty. His money bag didn't even clink when it hit the ground. Ginter pressed a finger to his temple. Volo was going to get hinself in real trouble if he didn't get his act together.

"Here we are," Volo said at last, pulling out a battered book of old leather and Hisuian paper.

Ginter held out his hand. "Let me see."

"If you have so little faith in my record-keeping—"

"Volo."

Pressing his lips together, Volo handed over the ledger. Ginter flipped through, careful not the rip the fragile paper, which was already torn in some places.

Volo's record-keeping had a pattern to it. First, a few immaculate columns, obviously drawn with a straight edge. Small numbers, colored inks. Then, a more esoteric system, all in black. And finally, page after page of doodles: various ruins, small Pokémon, pillars reaching skyward, some fantastical creature with many legs and a sharp beak. And then, as though none of it had happened, another page of immaculate columns and color-coded numerals. To make matters worse, he wrote half in some system Ginter had never seen before (except in Volo's records), and half in the Galarian numerals favored by Laventon and Kamado. It was enough to give anyone a headache.

Ginter squinted at the page, trying to separate black ink numbers from a black ink drawing of that horrifying beaked creature. "Volo, what is this?"

Volo laughed, sounding a little strained. Perhaps the gravity of his situation had at last begun to set in. "I have the most vivid dreams sometimes—"

"No, no." Ginter pointed to a spot within the dream-creature's segmented body. "Is this a six or an eight?"

"Ah." Volo leaned in to peer at the page. "That is a zero."

Zero.

A zero.

As Ginter stared at it, more and more of them popped up all over the page, and the one following it. In between sketches of Pokémon and ruins. Wedged in the gaps of poorly-drawn columns and rows. In black ink and red ink, green and blue. Zeroes.

Ginter inhaled slowly. "You've made no profits for the past three months?"

"There's a reason I haven't paid my dues," Volo said with a strained laugh. "Anyway! There's no need to worry, Ginter. I can raise whatever money I owe you in no time. Why? Because I'm willing to go where no one else goes!"

Oh, this child. Ginter stared at him. "You don't even know how much money you owe me, do you?"

"Oh, I'm sure I have it written down somewhere," Volo said airily. "Or you do."

Silence. Dead silence. Even the ambient noise from the village died for a moment. Ginter kept his eyes fixed on Volo's face. A young face, innocent, but deeply in need of guidance. He had to learn, one way or the other, that he couldn't just skate through life on charm and smiles.

"Er," Volo said, shifting. The wagon creaked. "Was that all?"

"No." Ginter snapped Volo's logbook shut.

"No, that's not all. If you want to keep your place in the Ginkgo Guild, you will be my apprentice until your debt is paid."

Volo's eyes flashed. For just a moment, a look of malice distorted his features, so deep and so cold it made Ginter twitch.

But it passed, and Volo nodded in picture-perfect chastisement. "Of course. That's perfectly fair." A bit more apprehensive, he added, "So I'll be like Tuli? We're going to sit in the village all day?"

"Oh, no." Ginter shook his head. "We're going into the wilds."

—

They set off for the Highlands before sunrise the next day, leaving the wagon in Tuli's capable hands, Volo maintained a chastised silence for a while, allowing Ginter to appreciate the world of growing things around them. With spring came abundance, and with abundance came work. Plenty of people were happy to pay the Ginkgo Guild to harvest what was needed to make medicines or field supplies. But anyone could come to the Fieldlands and gather up wayfairer's friend by the basketful. Volo needed to get his hands dirty, to learn the sweet pain of hard work and the satisfaction of bounty.

When the flat grass began to give way to steeper grades and scree dotted with scrubby vegetation, Volo began to chatter again, regaling Ginter with tales of the various ruins and artifacts that had been discovered in the area, and his theories about them.

Ginter kept quiet for the most part, scanning the ground. If he'd thought Volo's energy would wane as the grade got steeper and the terrain got difficult, he was mistaken. No matter how much he had to gasp for breath between sentences, Volo just kept talking.

It took him far too long to run out of steam. They'd been hiking for hours when the mountain gravel slid out from under his foot, and he slipped forward, catching himself on his palms with a grunt. "Ginter?"

Ginter turned himself sideways on the slope to keep from meeting the same fate as his companion, who was now sitting and inspecting his hands. "Yes, lad?"

"Where are we going?"

"Nowhere," Ginter said with a shrug.

"Nowhere?" Volo rolled onto his back, or tried to, and only succeeded in rocking his weight onto his backpack and sliding down the mountain a bit.

Ginter extended a hand to him. "We're looking for weeping mountain lily."

"What's that?" Volo asked, taking the hand and getting gingerly to his feet.

"I'll let you know when we find it," Ginter said, and continued walking.
Weeping mountain lily grew at high elevations on difficult terrain, and because of this, people were all too willing to pay for it whenever it was available. It was the perfect thing to teach Volo the rewards of hard work. It was just a matter of finding it.

They trudged on, higher and higher up the base of Mt Coronet, coating themselves in stealth spray when needed, until at last, a stand of flowers caught Ginter's eye. Tall, white flowers that drooped, silvery spikes and beads of thick sap running along the woody stem. He stopped.

"Volo."

"Huh?" Volo sounded worn out already.

"There." Ginter pointed. The longer he looked, the more flowers seemed to emerge from the uniform gray-white of the mountainside. They were everywhere.

"Oh. Wonderful."

"Come on." Ginter led him to the nearest plant and knelt on the harsh grade, digging his knees into the dirt to clear out the worst of the sharp rocks. "Choose an area that looks like it hasn't been harvested."

"None of these have been harvested," Volo interrupted, furrowing his brow.

"Yes, lad, but that's not always the case. If someone had been here before us, there would be signs."

For a moment, Volo's eyes darkened as they had in the wagon. With a visible effort, he straightened and smiled. "Ah! How very knowledgeable you are, Ginter! Do go on."

Ginter hesitated just for a moment. It had been a long morning. No one could keep Volo's sparkle forever. He was probably tired. "Choose an area that hasn't been harvested. Leave roughly a quarter of the plants untouched, dig up the the roots of another quarter, and cut the remaining half off at the stem."

Volo nodded, somehow finding a way to bounce on his toes without toppling over. "Is that all?"

Ginter shrugged. "And watch out for the sap. It's poisonous until it's been boiled."
With that, they set out about their business. Ginter made no secret of keeping an eye on Volo, who scarcely seemed to notice anyway. It took him a while, somehow, to find his knife in his nearly-empty backpack, longer still to find his itani and whetstone (because of course, his knife was dull). Ginter found himself drifting farther and farther away, falling into the rhythm of his own work. 

His resolution to keep an eye Volo soon diminished to keeping half an eye on Volo, and then merely to listening. The sounds of rummaging did eventually give way to the sound of digging and gravel crunching underfoot, and Ginter sank into the meditation of an old routine. He'd have to find a stream after this; his fingers were already sticky with sap. That was alright; it was ingesting or getting it in the eyes it that really caused trouble. Not much of a hazard up here, except that with no shade, and the sun gleaming off the ever-present patches of icy snow, it was all too easy to forget about the danger and wipe away a tear. But even that was only a mild annoyance as long as there was running water nearby, and there had to be, because weeping mountain lily needed it.

Ginter had drifted too far away for conversation by the time Volo got to work, and the lad, thankfully, knew better than to shout with so many dangerous Pokémon nearby. Ginter had a Luxray that liked to follow him around, and would even fight on his behalf, but caution was always preferable to a fight.

Occasionally, the wind carried over Volo's voice as he talked to himself or sang quietly in some melodic language Ginter didn't understand, and it was a pleasant alternative to the lonely silence in which Ginter usually worked. Of course, with Volo around, the quietude couldn't last. After a few hours, he shattered it with an exclamation that, to his credit, sounded entirely involuntary: "Ouch!"

"What happened?" Ginter asked, raising his head on a slight delay. 

"Mm." Volo took his finger out of his mouth and clenched his hand into a fist.

"Nothing. One of the thorns got me." He opened his hand and examined it, then pressed the cut to his mouth again.

Ginter sat back on his heels, letting his knife and itani fall to the dirt. "Need help?"

"No, no," Volo said around his finger. "It'll stop bleeding soon."

Ginter stuck a little closer to Volo after that. The sun continued its journey into the sky. Ginter kept working, entertaining a quiet hunger and trying not to enjoy the sound of Volo singing. No good to get used to things that wouldn't last. You couldn't really rely on anyone out here in Hisui, you could only hope.

Just as Ginter had known it would, the stand of lilies eventually led them to a mountain stream. Volo's singing petered out and gave way to the burble of the water and, after a short moment, the sound of labored breathing.

Ginter paused and cocked his head, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Heavy breathing. Puncuated by the occasional breathy vocalization, as though in great effort or great pain. Slowly, Ginter looked up. His eyes fell on Volo at once.

The lad had slumped forward on his knees, his palms braced heavily against his thighs, apron wrinkling under his fingers. His hair had fallen in his face, obscuring his expression, but his posture looked stiff.

Ginter frowned. Perhaps his knife had slipped. "Volo? Did you cut yourself again?"

"No," Volo said, sounding strained. He dipped his chin and swallowed, his mouth falling open again almost immediately to accommodate more panting. "Just, uh—Unh..." Another hard swallow.

Hm. Ginter pressed his tongue to his lower lip, surveying the scene. It all looked in perfect order. The lilies in Volo's pack, the knife, the itani. Nothing out of place. No new cuts on his fingers. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Volo snapped, curling further forward. One hand wandered to his belt and clutched at it, his thumb pressing hard into the edge of the buckle. The breeze picked up, stirring the top layers of his bangs, revealing a pale face and blond locks matted to a sweaty cheek.

He looked like he'd— Ginter recoiled. Nobody was that stupid, or that defiant. He glanced at the lilies Volo had collected. "Did you eat one?" Surely not.

"Of course not!" Volo glared at him, his visible eye glinting like polished steel. "Do you think I'm st— Ah!" He shook himself slightly, relaxing all the malice out of his face. "I'm so sorry, Ginter. I'm not feeling quite myself."

Yes. This was something Volo evidently knew well, that there was no trust in Hisui. It was no surprise he couldn't stand to have Ginter see him like this. They were alone in the mountains. Ginter had a knife, as well as several pounds on him, and his health. Any rational person would be paranoid.

With a quiet grunt, Volo hunched even further forward, until his forehead brushed the sharp scree and he had to brace himself on one forearm to keep from toppling over.

Ginter put his knife down, and his itani, and crept a good distance away from his pack. Keeping in Volo's eyeline, he knelt and let his empty palms rest against his legs. "Stomach ache?"

"Listen," Volo said, and gave a shuddering exhale.  Hunched over like this, with his pale face and baleful gaze, he looked like a creature about to strike. "I know I'm n-not the best worker in the guild, but I do know h-how to follow instructions."

Ginter sat back on his heels. Weeping mountain lily sap caused severe stomach distress, and Volo had been fine earlier. This couldn't be coincidence. If he'd absentmindedly touched his face— Ah. "Lad," Ginter said gently, "are your hands sticky?"

This seemed to jerk Volo out of his daze. Clear-eyed, he looked at Ginter thoughtfully. "Yes."

Ginter nodded. "You put your finger in your mouth after you cut yourself, remember?"

"Shit!" Volo screwed up his face, groaning under his breath. "What did you drag me up here for?"

"To pay off your debt," Ginter said pointedly. Volo may have been in pain, but it was no reason to lash out like this.

"Of course." Volo braced like he wanted to get up, but paled considerably and relaxed again, guarding his abdomen with his forearm. "How long is this going to last?"

"I'm going to make camp," Ginter said.
Volo swore again and straightened his arm, forcing himself into an upright position. His belt, which he'd evidently unbuckled at some point, fell away, and his apron sagged downward. 

Ah, youth. Ginter watched dispassionately. Volo really did have an aspect of the feral about him. Lashing out like this, so primal and unthinking. It wasn't going to do him any good.

Sure enough, the energetic outburst didn't last. Volo started to rise and fell back hard, dislodging his apron into his lap, where it landed in a white heap. Sweat had already soaked into the back of his jumpsuit. Volo cupped a hand to his stomach and let out a choked breath like he was trying not to gag.

"Don't move," Ginter said.

Volo closed his eyes, the bridge of his nose wrinkling and then smoothing in a repressed snarl. "I don't think I can, anyway."

Ginter nodded shortly. "And if you need to be sick, don't do it in the stream."

To Volo's credit, he held himself together remarkably well while Ginter made camp. A few trees allowed him to make a small ridge tent on a relatively flat patch by the river, which would afford Volo at least the illusion of privacy, though he was doing quite the job of keeping breakfast down.

He sat quietly on the rocks, his eyes glinting silver under his bangs as he watched Ginter build up a fire to boil Pecha berries and meadow rue.

Altogether, it was a short process, and Ginter soon found himself kneeling in front of Volo. "You know, lad, this is the longest I've ever heard you go without speaking."

"I'm trying not to get sick on you," Volo said, adding a faint smile a split second too late.

It was obviously meant to be a joke, but he was a little too pale and a little too shaky for comfort. Ginter jerked his head toward the tent he'd made. "Think you can make it a few steps?"

"Just leave me to die out here," Volo said, and swallowed hard. "To be honest, Ginter, I don't really want your help."

"Well, to be honest, lad, I'd rather you didn't die before paying me what you owe." 

Volo laughed humorlessly. "Yes, of course."

"Now come on." Ginter got to his feet and offered Volo his hand to take. 
Upon standing, Volo made a choked sound and bent nearly double. Ginter braced himself, but nothing came of it, except that Volo's hat joined his belt and apron in the dusty gravel.

Volo was a little too good at holding back. He looked absolutely miserable, even after Ginter had gotten him tucked away in the tent, and it would only get worse if he didn't get the poison out of his system.

"I'm awfully sorry about this," Volo said, looking as though he were undergoing some great internal struggle. Other than his efforts not to vomit, which were becoming increasingly apparent. His shoulders kept hitching, and he kept swallowing.

"Accidents happen," Ginter said, flipping open his ledger to check his inventory. He'd only brought the one cookpot, but so close to the river, Volo was going to need something to get sick into. 

"I know, but I d— Hnk—"

Never mind, then. Ginter needed a solution now. The fire would have to mind itself for a few minutes. 

Volo, too, seemed to be trying to get up. Ginter spun on his heel, kicking up a little cloud of dust. "What are you doing?"

"My pack..." Volo said weakly, and then slapped a hand over his mouth.

Ginter picked it up easily, frowning when the rounded contour of a pot pressed into him. He reached in a and took it out, stooping to settle in the dirt under Volo's chin before pivoting neatly back to the fire. It was building up, but not without some difficulty. His cookpot kept shifting on the burning wood, stifling the flames. After adjusting it with a long stick, he raised his eyes to Volo. "Need anything else?"

In response, Volo retched into the makeshift basin. His hands, white-knuckling the rim, muffled the ring of liquid hitting metal. "Guh— Fuck." He raised his pale face to the heavens for a moment, as much as he could while lying on his stomach (which, now that Ginter thought about it, had to hurt), before ducking his head and vomiting again. At this angle, Ginter could see everything: the contraction of Volo's spine, even the first ejection of pale liquid before his mouth disappeared behind the wall of the pot. "Fuck!" He coughed hard, which only made him gag.

Ginter fed another stick into the fire. His wife had been the one to tend to their son, for the most part, whenever he fell ill, but that didn't mean he was wholly ignorant of what to do. 

"Ugh." Volo's stomach made a loud, angry noise. He shifted as though to curl in on hinself, and then seemed to think better of it.

Ginter stared the water in his cookpot. Bubbling, but still a few minutes off from boiling. Volo would have to endure.

In the tent, Volo adjusted again, changing his posture, rolling from his side to his back, his back to his side. All the shifting had pulled some of his hair loose from its bun. Some of it stuck to his cheek and lips, and some of it coiled against the damp fur lining the neck of his jumpsuit.

Volo didn't seem to notice, too occupied positioning his hands on his belly as though to find a position that would soothe away the pain. Nothing seemed to be working. He looked wretched. 

Ah, forget the water, then. Ginter got up again and approached the tent. "Volo."

Volo glared up at him, having settled on one hip and one shoulder with both hands cradling his stomach. "Get away from me."

"I'm going to help you," Ginter said. "Don't make this difficult."

"Nothing's easy," Volo spat, splaying his fingers open across the expanse of the jumpsuit, blue fabric pulled taut by an irritated stomach. "But that's not for you to understand."

"You're talking nonsense." Ginter knelt at the mouth of the tent and, gambling that Volo couldn't bear to ease the pressure on his stomach, reached out.

Sure enough, Volo only tense and bared his teeth. He could do nothing to keep Ginter from getting his hair out of his face or from pulling the leather cord loose from his tangles. Volo's hair was longer than he'd thought, and it fell around his shoulders in sheets. Ginter gathered it up as gently as he could and separated it into thirds.

"Why are you doing this?" Volo asked, in a tone like Ginter was attacking him.

Ginter worked a quick braid into Volo's hair. "The Ginkgo Guild is a brotherhood. We take care of each other."

"I'm not going to take care of anyone," Volo declared. "I'm going save the world."

Before Ginter could think, Volo bolted upright and retched into the pot. Unproductive. No less painful for it. Mercifully, the wind wafted over the smell of smoke.

Volo made a noise like a whimper.
"I'm making a tea," Ginter said. "It will help."

"You're flicking water droplets at a bonfire," Volo said. "Unambitious, all of you." His stomach growled angrily. He made a noise in the back of his throat and slouched forward, the seams of his jumpsuit straining across the shoulders. "Ohhh."

"You're an odd one," Ginter said, going back to the fire. His own stomach growled, reminding him that he'd missed lunch. Still, he should probably wait until Volo was feeling a bit better. Didn't want to set him off again.

Volo gave a few coughing dry heaves snd sniffled, wiping his face with his cuff. "Has anyone ever died from this?"

"Not that I know of."

"Of course not. He wouldn't let me die."
"By 'he,' you of course mean me," Ginter said, dragging pack toward him across the gravel. The water was starting to dance now. It was about time to add the meadow rue. "Old Ginter wouldn't let you die."

"Oh, yes, of course," Volo said bitterly. "Not when there's a cent or two you could ring out of me."

"Leave the cynicism to your elders," Ginter said. "Idealism looks better on you young folk." It looked better on Volo, at least. His wide-eyed demeanor had always had its charm. It truly was a tragedy to see him so ill, even if it made him a bit prickly. 

"Idealism and realism are one and the same, my friend," Volo said, with a shade of his old optimism coloring a voice made rough from vomiting. "You'll see."

Volo managed to doze off while the tea was brewing. Meadow rue and Pecha berries. It would have been better to crush the berries and strain out of the flowers, but one had to travel light in the mountains. Volo would survive a little texture in his remedy.

Ginter filled a tin cup halfway with the tea and rested its bottom half in the stream to cool it down. All the while, Volo slept. The Luxray which had taken a shine to Ginter sat beside him and drank from the stream, eyeing him pointedly every now and again. Ginter tossed it an Oran berry before getting up to return to the tent.

The crunch of Ginter's boots in the gravel was enough to induce Volo to stir. He squinted at Ginter, looking like an entirely different person with his bangs swept out of his eyes.

Ginter knelt. "How's your stomach?"
"How do you think?"

Ginter shrugged and offered Volo the cup. "This should help."

Volo sat up slowly, using his arms more than his middle, and took the cup. "What's this?"

"Rue and Pecha berry. It's going to be bitter, but if you can keep it down, it should help."

Volo took a cautious sip and immediately jerked forward, slapping a hand over his mouth so hard it sounded painful.

"Swallow," Ginter urged him, but it looked to be a lost cause. Volo was trying, his throat spasming, eyes wet, stomach jumping visibly under his clothing. "Trust me, lad, things will be a lot better for you in the long run if you can—"

"Guh—" With a wet retch, Volo fell over the metal pot and hung his head. He spat weakly, his stomach gurgling in a way that sounded more defeated than angry.

Ginter whistled. "Sorry, lad. Sometimes the cure feels worse than the disease."

"Don't I know it," Volo said, flashing him a slightly manic grin. He sat up carefully, slouched, one hand drawing patterns over his stomach, where taut fabric made starburst wrinkles over a gut that was not just visibly upset, but audibly as well. 

Ginter eyed Volo's middle for just a moment, struggling to differentiate its wet churn from the bubble of the stream. All that trouble from a simple accident. "If you can't keep that tea down, I can..." He paused. He'd have to check his ledger; he'd left the majority of his goods behind with Tuli.

"No, no," Volo said sharply, flaring his eyes so the white showed above those flat gray irises. Cursed eyes, violent eyes. So they said here in Hisui. "I'm ready for it now." He picked up the cup where he had left it, on a patch of earth that tilted it dangerously toward his bedroll.

"Don't torture yourself," Ginter said.
Volo laughed, deep and strange and piercing. "This? This is nothing." He took a long swallow from the cup.

Immediately, Volo's stomach complained with a loud growl. Volo's knuckles whitened around the cup. Ginter shook his head. "I said don't torture yourself. Your stomach doesn't sound too happy."

"Ah," Volo said, raising a finger. "What did we just say about the cure feeling worse than the disease?"

Ginter cocked his head. "There's such a thing as going too far."

"Not for me!" Volo laughed again, though it clearly hurt him, and downed the rest of the tea.

Ginter couldn't help but wince. Volo had always taken things too lightly, but this was bordering on unhinged. All those airy smiles, all that good-natured cluelessness... Cloud cover for something deep and sharp.

Ginter's own body took a moment to remind that it had been hours since he'd last eaten, shooting a hollow pain through his gut. "Volo. Get some rest."

"I'm not tired," Volo said. He'd gotten somehow paler since finishing the tea, and though it seemed that the worst of the stomach cramps had passed, he certainly didn't look better. He swallowed frequently, convulsively, had taken to kneading his belly with a flat palm, a sure sign of interal turmoil in need of soothing.
Nausea.

"I'm going to cook," Ginter said. "There's a crossbreeze. Lie down and turn your face away."

Instead, Volo crawled out of the tent. He moved a little easier now, so he really must have been in less pain. "I'm getting bored in there."

Ginter shook his head and sat down heavily by the fire. The flames had at last started to give way to smoldering coals.

"You wouldn't be bored if you went to sleep."

"Not tired," Volo declared, joining Ginter beside the fire. "In fact, I'm cured."

Ginter looked him over with a slow, penetrating gaze. Pale. Shaking. Both palms flat to his stomach. Stains on his cuffs and the corner of his mouth. "Well, don't blame me when you get sick again."

—

They spent the night on the mountain. Though he'd managed to keep down dinner, Volo was still shaky, his stomach still obviously sore. Ginter slept under the stars, the fire crackling beside him, the friendly Luxray pacing circles around their camp.

He woke alone, with the ridge tent deconstructed, the rope coiled and the canvas folded beside him. A few footprints and cairns indicated Volo's path down the mountainside.

Ginter took his time following it. Tuli had the cart handled, and Volo could certainly navigate a mountainside by himself. That put Ginter in the rare circumstance of having no obligations. So he strolled and meandered, taking down the cairns as he went, and tried not to miss Volo's constant chatter, or the strange songs he sang.

The cairns led back to Jubilife Village, as Ginter had expected. He came through the gate under the mid-afternoon sun, arriving to the sound of melodious laughter coming from the direction of the guild cart.

Volo and Tuli stood side-by-side, conversing merrily, each with a healthy-looking money purse, which was enough to put a spring in Ginter's step.

Volo noticed him first. "Ginter! Glad to see you." He hadn't quite gotten all his color back. In fact, he'd probably be a bit queasy for a few days yet, but he seemed determined to put the matter behind him.

"Good day, Ginter," Tuli said, calmer and quieter.
"You'll be pleased to know my situation is much improved," Volo said with a wink, passing over his money purse. "Take what you're owed. Take more. I trust you'll notate it in that wonderful ledgerbook of yours."

Ginter balanced the purse on one of the wagon wheels to be dealt with later. "And what of your records, Volo?"

Volo raised his eyes, all shiny and innocent. "What of them?"

"Let's see." Ginter held out his hand.
"Ohhh, very well," Volo said with a great, put-upon sigh. "You know, you really musn't take me too seriously, Ginter. Everyone always says my head is in the clouds, and it's true. I say the strangest things sometimes—"

"Your ledger, Volo."

Volo sighed again and passed it over.
The page covering the day's profits was nearly immaculate— the lines were straight. the numbers were neat (and written using a system Ginter understood). Everything was in perfect order except for the massive, black-ink drawing spanning both pages. Some kind of four-legged creature bisected by a four-spoked wheel. Ginter pointed. "What's this?"

"Ah." Volo smiled. "You know, when I was ill, I had the most interesting dreams—"

"It's a seven," Tuli interrupted.

"Oh." Volo straightened. "Yes, it's a seven."
"Thank you," Ginter said, taking up Volo's money bag. Some things would never change.