Chapter 332: 333: Forgone conclusions

“And so, they made a lot of money and all of their problems were solved forever. The end,” says Jubilee, closing the book with soft affection to their movements. They let out a long sigh. “That’s my favorite story,” they say, softly rubbing the cover of the book on the counter with their hand.

The four of them are downstairs, the shop is closed after their first, very successful day of business in the central city.

Basil, sitting down across from Jubilee, with her head in her hand and her elbow on the counter, stares at them dryly. “That’s our ledger,” states Basil, unimpressed as she looks at the book that Jubilee is doting on.

“Let me have this, Basil,” says Jubilee. “It’s the only thing I have in my life that brings me joy.”

The priestess raises an eyebrow. “The sad thing is that I believe you.”

“My dream is to save up enough money so that I can escape you people forever,” explains Jubilee, setting the ledger down below the counter.

“Seems like a pain,” remarks the priestess. “Do you know how much money we’re going to have to save to keep up with you then?” she asks. “Traveling is expensive.”

Jubilee rests their elbows on the counter, folding their hands together in front of their face. “I think you don’t understand what the word ‘escape’ means,” remarks Jubilee.

Basil lifts a hand, pressing it against their face, letting the tips of her fingers scratch Jubilee’s hair. “Touch.”

Jubilee sighs and just sits there, accepting their horrible fate. Though, Fresh feels both Basil’s as well as Jubilee’s eyes turn back her way.

Fresh blinks, turning back to look ahead of herself as she thinks about the events of that previous afternoon, as she thinks about the red-wizard who had once again crossed paths with her. Fate seems intent on making her see that person again and again. Every time she feels like the hurt is slowly starting to heal and that it’s about time to take the metaphorical bandage off, the universe always comes back and shoves the red-wizard right into her face, as if it were doing so on purpose.

“Medicine, huh?” mutters Fresh to herself, her hand running along her ribs as she feels the knick present in the bones there. It still hurts to touch a bit, like the scars on her shoulders. Those early days here in this world, those early memories, they caused a lot of scars.

A hand grabs her from the side and hoists her up to her feet. “Work,” says Shamrock, nudging her forward towards the shelves.

She looks back towards him for a moment and then nods. He’s right. She can’t go down that rabbit-hole of bad feelings and self pity again. That’s what the bad-thing would want her to do.

Shaking her head, she moves to the shelves and gets to work, getting everything ready for the next day.

Six words. The red-wizard had said six words.

The woman had been standing at the counter, staring at her for a while in a moment that Fresh can only describe as terrifying. A small boy had run up and disturbed the scene, grabbing the wizard’s hand and pulling her away. He had called her ‘sister’.

“I’m sorry. I need medicine. Please,” Fresh repeats the words to herself over and over in her mind, not sure if she isn’t whispering them under her breath too. What is she supposed to do with that?

They’re still alive. They haven’t been chased out of town or attacked or anything of the sort. The red-wizard apparently, despite recognizing them and having every reason to call them out, has done no such thing. Of course, this was always a risk connected to them living in the central-city. But she hadn’t expected it to happen so fast, so soon.

And now what?

She’s ‘sorry’? ‘She needs medicine’?

What is she supposed to do with those statements? She doesn’t care if the wizard says that she’s sorry. That just… it just doesn’t cut it.

If the wizard had attacked them or done any of the things that Fresh would have expected her to do, she’d know how to feel, how to react. It would be frightening and terrifying, but in a way, comfortingly familiar. But how is she even supposed to feel about ‘I’m sorry. I need medicine. Please’?

“Will you stop fucking grumbling?!” barks Jubilee from the counter over towards her. Fresh blinks, looking back at them before looking back at her work, her hand holding onto a few bottles of Basil’s medicine.

Red.

Fresh stares at the pale red concoction in the bottles that her hand is hovering over. A glimmer of light comes in through the window, catching the small, glass chicken on her string bracelet.

Red.

Her fingers clutch the bottle, getting ready to throw it against the wall, simply as a release of her frustrations. Fresh isn’t usually one for outbursts of this nature, but -

She sees the paleness of her cold, clammy fingers, wrapped around the glass of the bottle that she herself had lovingly made for Basil to sell her medicines in. The skin on her fingers is white and pale, as if the sun itself had chosen to reject her from its bounty of warmth and touch. But beneath it, there’s a tinge of strained muscle and sinew.

Red.

Fresh lets go of the bottle, setting it back down, ashamed that she was about to destroy something that her friend had worked so hard on for no real reason.

“Everything is going to be fine,” assures Basil, grabbing her from behind, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

“I’m scared, Basil,” admits Fresh, her throat clenching, her eyes growing damp as she looks back over her shoulder to her friend. “There’s nowhere left for us.” Sure, as party-leader, perhaps more confidence and inspiration would be desirable for her to project out to the others. But right now, those simply aren’t available to her.

Basil shakes her head. “As long as we keep ourselves and each other,” starts the priestess. “We’ll always find a place to belong somewhere.”

“Worst case, we’ll live in the fucking forest,” sighs Jubilee.

Shamrock walks by, carrying a crate of new manuals. “Dungeon,” is all that the man says.

Fresh doesn’t have it in her to apologize, so she just holds on to Basil’s hands which are pressing against her stomach and does her best not to cry at work. That would be unprofessional behavior.

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She doesn’t manage. But the others assure her that she is allowed to keep her job nonetheless.

At least they can afford real, nourishing food again.

With a profit of nearly a thousand Obols each, there is ample dinner on the table. After the stress of the day, they have forgone cooking and once again splurged on street food. Is it the best thing ever, health-wise? No. But right now, after a bad day, it feels like the best thing ever.

“You shouldn’t eat your stress away,” remarks Basil.

Fresh chooses to ignore the sage priestess this time, biting into her second wrap and then taking a long drink of her doubly sweet sweet-tea.

“Yeah, you’re gonna cave in the floor,” remarks Jubilee.

Shamrock lifts his hands, poking both Basil and Jubilee once in their stomachs. Fresh laughs, appreciating the moral support as she bites into her second dinner again.

Sure, gluttony isn’t a good trait to have. But after days of soup and bread, even if they were lovingly home-made, she just wants to eat garbage and a lot of it. It’s a reasonable way to live your life, she feels.

Although, later that night, as three of them sleep in the beds with a fourth person staying awake to keep a lookout, she finds that she has trouble sleeping because her stomach hurts from eating too much. Is there a lesson here to be learned?

Perhaps.

Fresh lies awake in their half-finished bedroom, staring at the dark ceiling above their heads as she thinks about her feelings, trying to decipher which ones are legitimate and which ones are simply a touch of something tainted on her personality, as well as trying to decipher if such a differentiation even exists.

‘I’m sorry. I need medicine. Please’.

She rolls over to her side again.

“Enough,” says an annoyed Jubilee, laying next to her. They scoot over to her from behind, placing an arm under her pillow and another over her shoulder. “Go the fuck to sleep,” they say, squeezing her with a hand that Fresh can see in the soft glow of the moonlight dancing in through the high windows.

The skin of the hand, as she has so often identified, is red.

Fresh finds sleep and eventually, the next day to come finds them and brings with it no new danger or inherent threats that hadn’t already existed the day before, if not only in their own minds.

Razmatazz

-) That's right. I off-camera'd you. This is going to be a whole thing with the red-wizard this arc.

-) In Weaponsmith, this would be considered a holy chapter. Since we're talking about holy things, here's a holy Basil for you, friends!

(Done by @5enketsu)

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