Chapter Text
Osvald wasn’t sure which part of him hurt the most, but his fingers stung the most acutely. He’d been out at sea for four days, keeping himself as warm as he could without melting and sinking his boat, so after seeing land on the horizon, nothing could stop him from rowing towards it. The paddle he had previously fashioned out of ice stung his frostnipped hands in their useless fingerless gloves, and every unused muscle flaring into action at once burnt his joints and seized his muscles. As wet sand slowed his boat to a halt, he finally dropped the paddle. It stuck to his fingers until he summoned a small flame in each palm. He didn't have the energy to bring the fire spell any further even if he wanted to. He could feel his heart beat with each painful throb through his purplish hands.
That didn’t stop him from shoving them into the sand to help him drag the rest of his aching body out of the icy raft. He was weaker than he’d ever been, after four days lying in his cocoon of ice without food and with only a little fresh water from the handfuls of snow he’d hurriedly packed into the bottom of his boat. But he was ashore, and he was alive. He was minutes away from a tavern or inn where he might find warmth and food and drink. But he couldn't get his hopes too high. Given he was still dressed in his prison garb, with a thick chain hanging from his neck and not a single leaf to his name, he might die on the shores of this town if the locals didn't feel especially generous.
That would be doubly true if he couldn’t get to his feet. He still hadn’t caught his breath, and his throat burned trying to get a lungful of cold air. His hands and knees couldn’t support his weight anymore with no calories to fuel them, but he couldn't rest. Not now, when he was so close, when staying awake could mean food and drink. He planted one foot in the sand, steadying himself on the other knee, and attempted to rise. All the heat that had gathered in his cheeks from exertion drained from them, and the town in front of him blurred. The only thing he could do was shift to one side so his mouth and nose wouldn’t be buried in the sand when, inevitably, his vision faded to black.
There was a warm pressure. It started under his arms, and soon spread to the back of his head, neck, and shoulders. Then the backs of his knees, as he gradually stopped feeling the cold, gritty sand beneath him. Osvald struggled. The guards hadn't thought to bind his wrists or ankles this time. Maybe they'd drugged him strongly enough they thought he couldn't fight back either way. As he kicked, he heard a woman yelp, and one of his legs slammed to the ground.
"Hey, hey, chill out!" That must be the man holding under his arms. There was a gentle rumble behind Osvald's head, likely the man's chest vibrating as he talked. He had a drawl Osvald didn't recognize from anyone from Frigit Isle. "We were gonna let you walk, but you tried to stand a few minutes ago and passed right on out again." Osvald didn't remember that. "We're just taking you inside. We've got a room at the inn, where our friends're cooking. How's a warm fire 'n a bowl of soup sound? Then we'll be on our way. Just don' wanna leave you out in the cold."
"Mm…" That sounded… quite necessary for his survival. Osvald stopped struggling, and he felt the woman hesitantly take hold of his limp leg once again.
"There we go. Castti, you good? Get kicked anywhere important?"
"I'm just fine," said the woman, though she sounded a bit breathless. “Let’s hurry. It’s a good sign he’s moving, but he feels worryingly cold. It might be hypothermia. I’ll take his temperature when we get back.”
The strangers carried him to the inn. There were three of them, Osvald gradually pieced together, as there was one person holding each of his legs. Perhaps he wouldn't have been able to struggle against them after all. One of them quickly explained the situation to the innkeep. Osvald wasn’t sure which. Seconds, or maybe minutes or hours, passed without his notice. Then he felt the heat of the nearby fireplace radiating towards him. He was on his back, on the floor, with a pillow beneath his head, and there were people all around him.
“His hands, especially his fingers, are badly frostbitten,” said the woman he had probably kicked. That was strange. His fingers didn’t hurt anymore. They didn't feel like anything at all. “I’ll need some water to warm them in. Not boiling, but quite warm.”
“On it!” another woman declared, racing out of the room.
“Thank you, Ochette.” The woman he'd kicked laid his arm down. He hadn’t noticed she’d been holding it. “His temperature is low, and there is milder frostbite in several other places. It is likely he was trapped on that ice raft for quite some time. He may have trouble handling cutlery with his hands in this condition, but I am sure he must be hungry and thirsty.”
Osvald nodded. Moving his head made the room seem to spin.
“He’s responding!” Another voice he didn’t recognize. “I’m sure I can help him eat. The soup will be ready soon, and I can offer him water and bread in the meantime." A minute later, someone new was sitting beside him. "Can you open your mouth, Mister Seafarer? I'll go slowly."
As he drank, the others continued speaking. Osvald didn't process much of it. Finally, water he could drink! What a cruel joke the ocean and all its salt was. Even his ice magic hadn't helped much. The spell drew water from the nearest source and pulled energy from it until it solidified. Often that source was humidity in the air, but when surrounded by ocean, he inevitably drew saltwater from just below his raft, taking the salt with it. After he finished a cup of water, the woman feeding him tore a piece of bread and placed it in his mouth. He'd never had a very strong opinion about bread, but now, it might as well be the food of the Gods. He let it sit in his mouth, savouring the taste as it dissolved in his saliva.
"...I'm just saying that you should all be more careful who you bring into our shared room. Cape Cold is close to Frigit Isle, and that man has prison clothes under his coat and a chain hanging from his neck I'm shocked none of you were concerned about."
"Throné…" the healer sighed. "I understand your concern, but it's my duty as an apothecary to help those who need my care. It doesn't matter whether they're rich or poor, man or woman, child or adult, criminal or saint. My role is to aid the sick and injured, not to pass judgement regarding who does or does not deserve help. You have admitted to us yourself that you are a thief. Would you have me refuse to heal you when you are injured, too?"
"Not if I'm the only one here who cares about throwing the entire lot of us into danger."
"He's hardly a danger!" That was the strange drawl of the man who'd held his upper body. "Look at 'im! He can't hardly walk on his own, an' who knows how long he's spent without eating."
"I'm inclined to agree," said a quieter man— the one who'd spoken to the innkeep, Osvald thought. "And Temenos, I hoped you would as well. Your healing magic could do a lot of good right now. Have you not also sworn to help all those you are able?"
"Clerics," said, presumably, 'Temenos', "aren't doctors, and you, o high and mighty Prince Hikari, are far too ready to put yourself in harm's way for the sake of someone in prison garb."
"What sort of leader would ignore a man who would die in the cold without him? Certainly not the kind I intend to be."
"He's not chewing," interrupted the woman sitting beside Osvald, startling not just him but everyone else in the room. "Castti, he swallowed the water just fine, but I gave him some bread, and he isn't chewing."
Osvald quickly swallowed the mouthful of bread— it had certainly had enough time to soften, and he didn't want to draw more attention than he already had. He'd… forgotten. He didn't have a muzzle over his mouth anymore, much as he could still feel the metal around his cheeks and neck. There was nothing stopping him from chewing his food. He just… hadn't. For over five years.
"Perhaps his jaw is injured?" Castti pondered. She prodded around his cheeks and down his chin. He didn't enjoy it, but he didn't flinch. His jaw didn't hurt any more than the rest of him. "Or there may be something wrong with his teeth. I haven't found anything out of the ordinary… but he seems remarkably tolerant of pain. It is a bit hard to tell, since he hasn't spoken a word to us. If he can still swallow, I recommend continuing as you were. It might take longer, but he still needs to eat and drink."
The girl who'd left for hot water returned and the soup finished cooking before Osvald finished the slice of bread. Two of them helped Osvald sit up against the wall with a blanket over his shoulders and his hands submerged in a bucket. Bizarrely, he saw the water and the gentle steam rising from the surface, but didn't feel the wetness or heat in his hands, only a steady thrum of fire through his veins. He could make his fingers move, but wouldn't know they were moving had he not been watching them.
He also saw the water gradually grow cloudy. There hadn't been many opportunities for a hot bath on Frigit Isle. He felt considerably better than he had on the shores of this town, so he removed his glasses, soaked one of his fingerless gloves in the water, and used it as a washcloth to clean his face. It was quite warm. Most of his skin was grey with ash and dirt, but specific lines were dirtied only by sweat and flaking skin. By the Gods, how long had it been since he'd cleaned his whole face without accounting for the metal contraption around his head?
"It wouldn't cost too much more for us to use the bathhouse." Prince(?) Hikari knelt down to place bowls of soup in front of both Osvald and… whoever had fed him bread and water. "Agnea, let me know if you get tired. I can take over, if you need." Agnea, then. That saved him the trouble of asking. He picked up the bowl of soup carefully, keeping an eye on his fingers, as he could no longer trust the feeling in them.
"I'm doing fine! Oh— you should keep your hands in the water," Agnea corrected him, taking the bowl from his hands. Apparently, she still intended to spoon-feed him. Unfortunately, he was still very hungry, and didn't have the energy to challenge her.
He stopped caring as soon as he tasted the hot soup overflowing with flavour. Nothing had tasted anything close to this on Frigit Isle. He'd grown so accustomed to bread and porridge, he'd almost forgotten what real food could be. Juicy meat and fresh vegetables and expensive spices flooded his senses. He closed his eyes, remembering all the times Rita had brought dinner to his study because he had been so busy with his research. All the meals he hadn't paid attention to and now wished he had.
He swallowed the broth and paused. He couldn't just… let this piece of potato sit in his mouth all evening. Slowly and deliberately, aware of every motion and every click of his underused jaw, he mashed it between his teeth again and again, until it was smooth enough to swallow. It was strangely tiring. The muscles already felt worn out, but he was still hungry. The next spoonful was even more difficult. He battled a piece of meat for three minutes, almost giving up and eventually settling for 'probably good enough'.
He didn't think he could manage that again. He put one hand up before Agnea gave him another spoonful. It dripped water back into the bucket, glowing orange on one side, with purple shadows on the other. "Just… broth. If you don't mind."
"Of course I don't mind," she replied. Several people were looking at him, he now noticed. The shortest among them— Ochette?— already had an empty bowl in front of her. "Sorry! I'm just surprised. I didn't know whether you could talk. Can I ask for your name?"
"...Osvald."