Oma shifted the pack on their shoulders. 

They liked the trip to the cities. They stayed out of everyone’s way, dressed in brighter colors than usual to blend in with the people. But they got to watch people be social on Trader’s Way from a distance. 

Once they were in the city, they would have to actually interact with people. But here on the track, they could simply observe the chattering merchants making their treks from city to city. 

Most merchants stayed in a city for a week or so, and then made the trip over to the other capital. But Oma left the moment they had everything they needed. It helped, they were sure, that they lived where they did. They didn’t have to travel all the way back to one territory or the other to get home. The Kelp Forests were neutral ground, and they were protected by order of both capitals from the warring armies. 

They still had to trade, after all. Even if each side despised the other, the Merans needed the food grown in the larger inland area of the Calmaran’s territory, and the Calmarans relied on Meran engineering for nearly all their technology. So they’d set up aside neutral land, and Trader’s Way was built as a natural response. 

Trader’s Way didn’t go very deep into the forest, though, mostly staying on the edge, closer to the territory boundaries. This was due to a deep-seated, intense fear the majority population had of the Kelp Forests. 

Oma had lived in the forests their entire life. But a sheltered Calmaran or Meran wouldn’t dare go near. 

…at least, so they had thought before Emerson. So it had always been, before Emerson. 

Even soldiers desperate to desert would rarely flee into the forest if given the chance. 

There was nothing beyond the forest, not if you ran directly from the front. Nowhere to escape to, nowhere civilized to go. If you ran into the forest, all there would be was forest. 

Unless you could survive off the land, you wouldn’t live long. 

Unless you were like Oma, or had help from someone like Oma, you would die in the forest. 

Or, apparently, if you were Benedict Emerson Dashwood and happened to stumble right into Oma’s house and refuse to leave. 

They supposed it was a little bit their fault, but still. 

He had been… 

Interesting, to say the very least. 

Oma didn’t know why they did what they did around Emerson. They shouldn’t have changed their plans for him, or moved him to their bed, or done a lot of things. They really shouldn’t have kept coming up with things to do before taking him home just so he would stay longer. 

Oma didn’t know how to admit to enjoying someone’s company, even to themself. 

They hadn’t had any sort of reaction to most people in a very long time. The most they felt these days was a sense of duty to the deserters who passed through their territory, and there were less and less of those these days. 

So for Emerson to be so interesting to them, even in an annoying way, was… worrisome. 

The last person Oma had found interesting, well… everyone knew how that went. 

They had gotten dozens of deserters to where they needed to be. Each of them knew the risks of what they were doing. Avwyn knew the risks when she stayed. They shouldered no blame. 

And yet… 

Oma shifted their pack again, trying not to think. 

They were almost to the capital. They wondered idly what the chances of meeting Emerson there were. 

Hopefully low, so they didn’t drive themself insane. 

Or maybe… maybe it would be nice to see him. Maybe he would talk to them, and that actually didn’t sound so bad. Normally they dreaded the prospect of someone talking to them while they were trying to sell, but… Emerson could be the exception, they supposed. 

They weren’t as reluctant about the whole thing as they knew they should be. 

They did wonder, though, if he’d actually remember his promise to bring Oma something. They wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot. They wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t thought about Oma once since leaving their cabin, if he had simply returned to his comfortable, familiar life and decided to never interact with Oma again. 

They didn’t blame him. Oma wasn’t exactly ideal company, and Emerson surely had plenty of other, more interesting people to keep as company. The ones who owned museums or furnished large portions of the Calmaran treasury. 

They knew better than to think someone like him would find someone like them interesting. They were just another poor person, just one more in the masses. He probably didn’t even know the legends. Why would he? There was no reason for him to know the strange folktales the soldiers passed around. No reason for him to know what Oma did. 

True, Oma was no war hero. They were no general. They weren’t on the front lines. But they had saved a total of sixty-three lives with only one failed run, though no one could ever know about it. 

Not even Emerson. 

They tried to drill this into their mind. Even if Emerson did mean well, even if he was genuine – which was still debatable – he couldn’t know this secret. That would put him, Oma, and the escaped deserters in mortal danger. 

They were not so stupid as to ignore that. Not after Avwyn. 

Trader’s Way started rumbling to a stop, and Oma hopped off while it was still rolling. They shuffled into the crowd, trying valiantly to prevent from touching anyone as they worked their way to their usual spots. Sometimes, when they needed more money, they would set up earlier and sell their larger items. But today, when all they needed was thread and fresh bread, they could work trades. 

“Ah, there he is,” the baker grinned when he saw them approaching his stall. “Haven’t seen you in a while, my daughter’s been terribly disappointed!” 

Oma smiled slightly. The baker’s daughter was very young and loved the critters Oma carved. 

“What can I get for you?” the baker asked, his voice mostly drowned out by the rattling of Trader’s Way starting off again. 

Oma held out a carved turtle. It was made of light, porous wood, allowing them to stain the shell a dark green. It was one of their favorite carvings, the lines of the shell and the tiny stones set in for eyes. 

“Well, now, that one’s just lovely,” the baker exclaimed, taking it, turning it over in his hands. It was around the size of his palm, a good size for a young daughter who might try to eat anything small enough. “That’ll get you…” he put together a paper bag of a few kinds of breads for Oma, passing it over. “Good deal?” 

Oma nodded, bowing their head. They tucked the bag into their pack and moved along, waving a thankful good-bye. They knew he didn’t have to do these trades for them, but he did, and it made their life considerably easier. 

The tailors tended to be more traditional, so they worked their way along the stalls, managing to sell a few things for a few coins. Hopefully it would be enough, because they didn’t want to be here any longer than they had to be. Far too many people. 

They were headed for one of the fabric stalls when they felt a tug on their pack. No one had tried to pickpocket them in a very long time. Gritting their teeth in annoyance, they spun around, catching the thief by the wrist. 

Emerson yelped, looking surprised, trying to tug his hand away. “Hey! What’re you doing?” 

Oma blinked at him. “I thought you were a thief.” 

“No,” Emerson said, sounding offended. “I was just trying to get your attention. You can’t exactly hear much over all this, I wasn’t about to call for you.” 

Oma nodded warily, carefully releasing him. They hadn’t really expected to see him here. The capital city was far from the Dashwood county and estate. Even stranger, this was the low district of the capital. Emerson stuck out like blood in a snowstorm, too brightly colored, too well-dressed among the swarm of hagglers who all had worn and dull clothing, just enough to keep warm or the sun off their backs. 

Emerson shouldn’t be here, among the common, poor folk. Even now Oma could hear the muttering, the people around them speaking in the Nirayon trade language. 

Upperfolk. The derogatory word used to describe those of high class. The Nirayon trade language was developed by the poor – it never had spoken highly of the rich. The scattered words around them were tainted with the lilt of displeasure. 

Upperfolk in lowtown. 

Too many people, too many of them on edge. Emerson was a walking target. 

But… that wasn’t really Oma’s problem. 

Right? 

“I’m assuming you’re here on business!” Emerson said cheerfully, gesturing to their pack. “Personally I’m here because I was able to tag along on my father’s work trip.” He smiled brightly. “I’ve got nothing to do.” 

Oma just nodded. Of course Emerson had to know they were here to get thread to mend the shirt. He had been there when the creature had torn it. The creature had been a Spaedron, they were sure of it. They didn’t see them very often, and were glad for it. They were just as territorial as Oma themself but much less communicative. 

They started off for the fabric stall again. 

Emerson followed them. “Where are we going?” 

Oma sighed. Apparently they had been too optimistic in assuming he would put that together. “I need to mend my shirt.” 

“Ah, right,” Emerson nodded. “I suppose if any of my clothes got torn I’d just give them to my servants to patch up. It really is terribly convenient, having servants.” 

Oma bit back a comment about how they probably never would have had the privilege of being serving-class if they had lived among the rest of these people. “Hm.” 

“Have you ever been to Dashwood county?” Emerson continued, now walking alongside them at their elbow. His face was still cheerful. Oma had a wonderful ability to quickly kill the smiles of many, so why his was stuck they had no idea. “Or the estate?” 

Oma shook their head. There was no reason for them to go to Dashwood county. There was nothing for them there. It was a long trek from where they lived. That made no sense. 

“You should visit sometime!” Emerson said brightly. “Well, not the estate, obviously. If my parents found out you existed… who knows, I don’t really want to think about it.” 

Oma rolled their eyes. They had spent their entire life watching from the sidelines as the warring armies built up urban legends about them, twisted their determination to save deserters into a bloodlust. This war had turned everyone, including them, into a monster. Of course Oma couldn’t go to the Dashwood estate. That would be a death sentence. 

Besides, they couldn’t go without Avwyn. 

They smiled slightly to themself. Avwyn talked about how beautiful the estate had been the one time she’d passed through the county on escort. She loved that place, and had always wanted to visit someday. 

“Have you seen it?” 

Oma turned away from the fire to look at her. She was sitting in the chair near them, swinging her legs. 

“Seen what?” 

“The Dashwood estate,” she said. She was smiling. 

Oma shook their head. “Have you?” 

“Yes,” she said, wiggling happily in her seat. “It’s so beautiful, Oma. I only just got a glimpse. My patrol was on escort and we were passing through the county. Oh, stars, Oma, it was amazing.” 

“Escort?” Oma asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. 

She nodded, still swinging her legs but never kicking them. “We were moving someone out of the front. It doesn’t really matter who, anymore, he’s dead.” She said it offhandedly. Oma wondered if she had ever known the man they were escorting. She seemed to treat death as something entirely impersonal. “We weren’t even that close to the estate, really.” She sighed. “Maybe it’s my memory twisting things, but I just remember cresting this hill – god, my gun felt so heavy, we must have been walking for hours. But we got over the hill and just as soon as we did I could see these towers, turrets, and the sun was setting behind them…” she trailed off, looking a little wistful. Oma wished they were seeing what she was in her mind. “I wish I could show it to you,” she said, and Oma smiled. 

“I was thinking the same thing.” 

Avwyn giggled. It was a light, silly sound she didn’t make often, but sometimes when the sun was low and the fire was warm and they were both doing a whole lot of entirely nothing important, she would smile like that and her laugh would turn all bubbly. “Maybe I could draw it!” 

Oma tilted their head in question. “You can draw?” 

She laughed again. “Not at all!” she said happily. 

“Alright, then,” Oma agreed, smiling back before they stood to fetch a paper and pencil. 

The rest of the evening blurred, a little, most of it just Oma laying on the floor, watching her sketch the turrets peeking over the hill, the sunset, the edges of the walls in the distance, the way wildflowers seemed to lead her there. 

She was right. She couldn’t draw. But Oma could see what she had seen, in their mind, and that was all they wanted. 

Oma.

Oma. 

“Oma!” 

They jolted slightly, pulling away on automatic, top lip curling back in a defensive snarl, showing their teeth. 

“Woah,” Emerson said, eyes wide, hands up in a defensive gesture. “Okay, I’m sorry, it’s just me, please don’t…” 

Oma stared at him, then blinked around. Slowly their senses seemed to seep back in. It was quiet, wherever they were. No bustling crowds of people. They could still feel their pack on them. The sun was in the same position in the sky. They pressed a hand to their own neck, feeling their heart race. 

“Are you okay?” Emerson asked tentatively. 

Oma nodded slowly. They hadn’t thought about her like that in a long time. 

They then felt a weird, uncomfortable mix of feelings about the fact that Emerson had come with them, had seen them like… that. It was rather sweet of him to worry, they supposed, but now he had seen them weak, vulnerable, and they didn’t like that. He had asked if they were okay. They needed him to fear them, certainly not think of them as someone who needed help or comfort. Oma had never needed help before, and they didn’t need it now. 

It was different when Avwyn helped. Oma wanted that help, then. They didn’t want this help now. There was nothing even to help. 

They got to their feet and started back towards the market. 

They still had to buy thread. 

“Wait, where are you going?” Emerson exclaimed, scrambling after them. “Oma! You can’t just… will you tell me what just happened?” 

Oma didn’t respond. They weren’t about to explain anything to him. He didn’t need to know about their past. Besides, he could put them both in jeopardy. They had to remember that. 

Emerson couldn’t know anything about what they did. 

He just couldn’t. 

He didn’t know what he was asking for. He thought he was asking for a simple explanation. What he was really asking for was years worth of history and a secret he would have to bear with his life and take to his grave. Or at least to Oma’s. But Oma had always been good at outliving people. 

Oma wouldn’t tell him anything. He would never know about what they did. He would never know about the safehouse. 

He would never know Avwyn even existed. 

They tuned Emerson out as they went to the fabric stall and bought themself a small spool of strong thread. They reasoned it had cost them about three carvings, or around five hours. 

Five hours for a little rip they’d gotten in two minutes saving this stupid little rich boy who wouldn’t shut up. 

The same stupid little rich boy that they couldn’t seem to bring themself to tell to go away. 

The same stupid little rich boy who had just roughly collided with their side. 

“Ow!” Emerson complained, rubbing his shoulder. “Sorry, Oma. It’s just so crowded!” 

Oma grunted an acknowledgement, continuing on towards the dairy merchant. But they couldn’t help paying a little more attention, and the next time it happened, it had been clear it was intentional. 

Emerson crashed into Oma’s side, squeaking slightly in surprise as he did. 

Well. Not intentional by Emerson, at least. But the man on Emerson’s other side, turning back into the crowd now, had pushed him on purpose. 

Oma narrowed their eyes at the surrounding folk. They didn’t like much that Emerson was here, either, but they weren’t about to let him get shoved around. He hadn’t done anything, at least not knowingly. He was just here. That wasn’t reason enough. 

Oma noticed someone, their hood was pulled low, reaching for Emerson through the crowd, their hand directed towards his pockets. 

In one smooth motion, Oma pushed Emerson behind them by the shoulder, grabbing the wrist of the would-be pickpocket. 

“Hey, what was that for?” Emerson yelped, but Oma ignored him. 

“Let go!” The thief tried to twist themself free. 

“Thieves get their hands cut off,” Oma reminded them lowly, then repeated the sentiment in the Nirayon trade language. 

They scoffed. “He’s upperfolk. It don’t count,” the thief replied, choosing to respond in the language Oma had initially spoken with, the common tongue of Saion. “He’s got enough in his pocket to feed me for a month.” 

There was a soft, fluttering laugh behind Oma. “Goodness, just ask, then,” Emerson said lightly, stepping forward, shooing Oma’s hand away from the thief’s wrist. “I’m afraid I really don’t have much in my pockets, but will this do?” 

Oma watched, beyond confused, as Emerson easily removed a bracelet from his right wrist, handing it over to the thief. 

“What is this, some sort of trick?” the thief demanded, looking suspicious. 

“No!” Emerson exclaimed, sounding offended. “Does everyone like you think everything’s dangerous?” he asked, looking to Oma. 

Oma shrugged. “Never know.” 

“Gods, that sort of paranoia sounds exhausting,” Emerson said, pressing the bracelet into the thief’s palm. “Well, feel free to get rid of it if you’re really that worried. I wouldn’t call that wise, but it’s yours now, so do with it as you please.” 

The thief stared at him for a moment. 

Finally their attention shifted up to Oma. “Where did you find him?” 

“He found me.” 

“I’m right here,” Emerson said, sounding exasperated. “Oma, let’s just go.” 

Oma leveled one last glare at the thief. Emerson might be forgiving, but they were not, and they didn’t want that thief trying anything again. 

They really didn’t understand Emerson at all. Oma could have easily scared them off. Emerson wouldn’t have had to give up anything. 

Was his wealth truly that expendable? To the point where he could just give away something like that, for no reason at all? They knew of course that the Dashwoods were wealthy. But they hadn’t exactly interacted with upperfolk for long before, and even then the upperfolk they had seen weren’t the sort to have an entire county named after them. 

Emerson was a different level of wealth, one that Oma couldn’t hope to understand. 

They wondered, for the first time, if Emerson couldn’t understand them for the same reason.