Ozpin is, without question, the greatest and the most famous Huntsman in Remnant. How did that come to be? The answers lie scattered though time, shrouded in stories of heroes and villains; ancient legends whose truths were never brought to light...until now.
We Don't Own Our Heavens
Speak To Me
It was a plain, boring, ordinary day in the life of Oscar Pinchas Diggs.
Or, that's perhaps what he would have preferred. Living on the streets gave one a profound appreciation for boring days. Boring days were ones where nothing went wrong; where nobody tried to pinch your soup before you got a chance to eat it; where you found enough change on the streets to buy some bread to go along with it; where the soup stayed warm, the bread wasn't moldy, and no one pissed in your blankets while you were away.
As it stood, he laid crumpled and burned and in agony that he'd never imagined. He felt like every inch of him had been beaten, singed, and stabbed, and then his body had been flung from a great height. All at once. He was lying on cool grass—a pleasant balm for his scorched skin—instead of the military-station gravel he'd been expecting, and the clouds and gentle rain had been replaced by late afternoon sunshine. It felt like a warm summer day, but it was unseasonably early after a particularly cold winter for that, especially in Jersey. There was some murmuring above him, back and forth between what sounded like two small girls, but there was a vague impression in his dazed mind that there should have been a lot of panicked screaming. Or at least someone shouting at him for being somewhere he shouldn't be, because he had the strangest feeling that whatever had happened, he shouldn't have been anywhere around it. And to top it all off, someone was poking him in the face with a stick.
"Ow…" he groaned, deadpan.
"I think he's dead," said one of the girls. Another prod followed, and he decided she must be the one with the stick.
"He's not dead, Elphie, he just said 'Ow'," the other girl said, very sensibly.
There was a pause, then another poke. "I don't think he did, Glynda. And he's dead, so it doesn't even matter. Look at him, he's probably been in the War."
"Elphie, he's not dead, and Teacher said there isn't a war; you're just being rude!"
"Since when have I cared about being rude?" Another poke, this time prolonged.
The last statement seemed to perplex Glynda for a moment. "…but he's injured! We should wait for Mister Dillimon."
"Nessa's getting him," Elphie said absently, pressing harder.
"Elphie!"
After a long moment, the stick withdrew. "Fine. Maybe he's not dead. Yet. But I'm telling you, I've got a bad feeling."
Glynda scoffed. "Your 'bad feelings' are usually about what we're having for lunch, or that it's going to rain, Elphie."
A huff. "And I'm usually right, Glynda! And I'm right this time, too. Something bad is going to happen, and everything is going to change…"
"Over here, sir!" A new voice, from an even younger girl, drawing nearer. Footsteps that seemed to grow more distant even as they got closer, and everything seemed further away somehow. Was someone coming to help him? Could anyone help him? Distant or no, everything hurt so much.
"Glynda, Elphie, give the boy some space for pity's sake," came a rough, older voice, and someone finally rolled him over. The sunshine, pleasant though it had seemed on his back, was a bit much for his eyes, and he flinched. Three small figures were still hovering near, but his blurring eyes only made out blobs of blonde, black, and for some reason, green. Much nearer was the only face he could really make out, an older man with a long, thin tuft of a beard, and…did he have horns?
"Looks like he fell in a cart of Burn Dust…" he muttered, before noticing his patient was awake. "What's your name?" he asked kindly, peering over a pair of small, round spectacles. "Speak to me."
Taking a deep breath…caused a fit of agonizing coughs. Okay, maybe not going to get through the entire name, but was worth a shot. "Oz…Pin—" The coughs got deeper, and he suddenly tasted blood.
"Oh dear." The bearded man lifted him gently, but the motion was too much, and he finally passed out, hearing the murmuring of the girls.
"Good morning, Oscar," His mother murmured, reaching up to run a hand through the silver streak in his hair. He had hated his hair growing up, but his mother said it made him look 'dignified', and would then giggle that it was the same 'dignity' that drew her to his father. She never appeared to notice that the scowl the comment drew had grown darker over the years, as his father continued to take deployments far from home, and never took the family with him.
His bitter musings were cut short as his mother's hand trembled and dropped. He caught it before it fell too far, and set it gently back on her bedspread. "Do you need anything, mother?" He asked. "A glass of water?"
She nodded weakly, and he fetched it as quickly as he could, helping her sit up to sip at it. "Isn't it almost time for school?" she whispered, plainly saving her energy since he was so close.
"I…yes, nearly," Oscar nodded. A neat lie, which never failed to twist his guts. He'd stopped going to school weeks ago, seeking out a job instead. "I'll leave when you're comfortable again."
"You worry too much for your age," his mother chastised him softly. "Stay in school, Oscar. You're such a smart boy."
Guilt coiled in his stomach. "Only as smart as you helped me to be, Mother."
She clicked her tongue. "You're selling yourself too short. You could go to college and be a lawyer or a schoolteacher yourself someday." She ruffled his hair again.
Oscar bore this with dignity. "Of course, Mother. You should lie back down now, though. You're not hungry?" She had eaten a little, earlier, but the soup could only stretch so far.
She shook her head as he helped lower her head back to the pillow. "I'll have a little more later," she said, her gaunt cheeks stretching in a strained smile. "You had breakfast too?"
"Of course," he repeated. Another lie. He'd given her his portion, hoping to give her the strength to get better. Some part of him knew it wasn't helping—before she'd fallen ill, his mother would have known instinctively when he was lying to her, but she never seemed to notice anymore.
She was looking out the window now. "Maybe your father will come home, soon. He was hopeful in his last letter."
Oscar felt his fists clench. "He's been saying that for a year," he growled under his breath.
His mother patted his hand without looking. "A soldier's job is to protect the innocent and help people who need it," she said, echoing his father's words, her voice growing stronger from the water and laying down again.
"You need it," Oscar hissed. He took a deep breath and released it. He glanced at the clock, then bent to kiss his mother's forehead. "I have to go. Take care, Mother."
"Have a good day, dear," she said, sounding almost normal, still gazing out the window. "And don't let yourself get so down. I'll be here when you get back home."
She wasn't.
When he next awoke, it was dark out. He was lying on his back and staring up at a ceiling made of straw. How quaint. Rolling his neck to look at the rest of the room, he heard a gasp, and saw a tiny shape pattering toward the door.
"Mister Dillimon!" the little girl called. "He's awake!"
A moment later, the door opened again to reveal the bearded man from before, wearing a flat cap and putting on his spectacles. The little red-haired girl peeped nervously out from behind him. "Ah, so he is. Very good, Nessa." He patted the girl's head absently, moving forward to check on Oscar. "How are you feeling?"
Oscar paused to consider the question. He was still sore all over, but it was more a lingering ache than the agony he thought it should be. Memories slotted into place the longer he thought about it. The bus, the rain, the crunch of gravel, the balloon, the fire…and then the grass, the poking, the voices of two little girls. "Better than I have any right to, something tells me," he answered at last, voice only a little hoarse.
The older man chuckled. "Better, I expect, than you would be had you not stumbled into this particular village. Most fortunately for you, young man, I have a Healing Semblance." He smiled, though his eyes still showed a little strain. "My name is Dillimon Rigmar. And I'm afraid we didn't get as far as your last name, earlier, my boy." He trailed off, leaving the question implied.
"Oscar Diggs," Oscar supplied, his mouth twisting as it always did on the second word. The little red-haired girl squeaked and sprinted out of the room as he continued. "My friends call me Oz." Or they had, when he'd been around people his own age enough to have friends. Hartie had called him Oz too, though, he reflected. Hartie was his friend. "Where am I, exactly?"
"This is the village of Lavendermoor, on the outskirts of the Kingdom of Vytal, Oscar," said Dillimon, perching himself on a chair beside the bed and peering over his spectacles again in what was apparently a characteristic way. "Where is it you came from?"
"Uh," Oscar's brows furrowed at the unfamiliar names. "I was in Manchester…"
"I see. And is that a village in Diggs?" Dillimon asked, sounding wary.
"No," Oscar said, confused. "It's in Jersey. Why would my name be a place?"
Dillimon blinked. "The Kingdom to our North is named 'Diggs'," he said slowly, with an air of explaining the obvious. "They are currently making war on the other Kingdoms, and primarily our own." He was watching Oscar very closely, apparently monitoring his reaction.
Oscar just blinked. "Kingdoms?" He repeated.
Dillimon removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "I happen to be a trusting man, young Oscar," he said slowly. "And I am very much under the impression—impossible though it is—that you genuinely do not know what I am talking about."
"I don't," Oscar said, but Dillimon continued as if he hadn't spoken.
"But whether you are telling me the truth or not, the fact remains that a less trusting person than I would not give you the benefit of the doubt. If you do not want to be taken for a spy or someone dangerous, I must recommend that you keep that name to yourself."
"I don't have a problem with that," Oscar said immediately. Useless, self-righteous, family-abandoning… "I never cared for it anyway." He glanced at the door. "What about her?"
"Nessa won't speak to anyone but her sister, who is not a gossip," Dillimon replied easily, slipping his glasses back on. "I will speak with both of them later. "Now, I do believe you started to say another name, when I asked you before. It began 'Pin'?"
"Pinchas," Oscar supplied, this time with an eye roll. "My middle name. It's a very old-fashioned name, apparently."
"I suppose it could work as a surname," Dillimon mused. "Oscar Pinchas. Yes, that will do. Is it common for citizens of Diggs to have three names?" he asked.
"I don't know; I've never even heard of the place," Oscar snapped. "I'm from New York."
Dillimon gave a brittle smile. "Either honest, or a better spy than I have the skill to detect." He sighed. "I will not test you like that again, Oscar. You have my apologies. My question stands, then, in a friendly way. Are three names common, where you are from?" He began unwrapping some bandages from Oz's arm as he asked this, apparently simply wanting to keep conversation going during his checkup.
"I think so?" Oz said. He had been sitting up for too long, he thought, and was starting to get dizzy. "Some people have two, but most people have a middle name. Is that rare, here?"
Dillimon chuckled, helping Oscar lay down as he checked him over. "This far away from the center of the Kingdom, most of the peasantry will only have one name, with perhaps the occasional tradesman having an occupational surname. Closer to the more populous areas, patronymics and other family names are becoming fairly common…" He smiled at the confused look on Oscar's face. "Others choose to adopt a second name as a mark of distinguishment, or, as in my case, upon attaining a certain level of education. Rare as that is for my people."
Oz felt consciousness slipping away again, though in a more pleasant way than before—merely drifting off to an exhausted sleep, rather than passing out.
"Rest, boy," Dillimon said. "You'll feel better again when you wake." He wiped at the sweat on his forehead, which dislodged his hat.
Oscar blinked sleepily up at him. "You've…got horns. Thought I imagined that…"
"Indeed I do, Oscar," Dillimon nodded absently, examining his stomach. "I hope you don't have any issue with the Faunus."
"What…the hell is a Faunus?" Oz asked, trying to stay awake, but it was no use.
Dillimon clicked his tongue, just like Oscar's mother used to do. "No need for foul language, my boy. There are plenty of children in this village. I ought to know; I teach them. Now, just rest."
Oscar was screwed. He couldn't stay here, but where was he supposed to go. He didn't make enough to stay here, and the landlord would never take the rent payment from a teenager—not without getting nosy, after a while. And he couldn't face the prospect of burying his mother. She'd had some form of finances, even in these difficult times, thanks to his father.
Oscar's lip curled. Bastard. Did he even know his wife had been sick? Would he even care that she was dead? And what were Oscar's prospects, then? To be dragged all over the damn country with a man he hated? To hell with that, he could take care of himself.
Still fuming, he tore a scrap of paper out of his unused school notebook.
Where is your precious military now? Protecting the innocent, right? Helping the helpless?
Where were you when we needed you; when mom needed you? Where were all the fucking soldiers when your wife was wasting away to nothing? Good thing you were protecting and serving and abandoning us.
I don't know how you can stand yourself, how you can defend yourself, when she's
When mom is
He made himself stop, hissing angrily as he wiped an arm covered in scratchy, low-quality fabric over his eyes.
He slammed the note on the counter, weighted it down with the medicine his mother would never finish, and packed a duffel full of whatever he could carry or hock. He couldn't face having to see his mother buried, but he couldn't leave her there. So. Fully dressed for a much colder climate than there was today, and with a bag of his possessions on his back, he stopped by the door and picked up the phone, spinning the rotary dial and waiting for an operator. When the call connected, he was setting the key on the counter—he'd leave the door closed, but unlocked, and he wasn't planning on coming back.
"Hello, how can I help you?" Came the voice over the line.
Oscar drew a breath. This was it. He'd make the call, and then walk away.
"I need to report a death."
Oscar next woke shortly after dawn, as the sun broke over the treetops and hit him directly in the face. "Ugh, why did I sleep facing East? I know better…" He groaned, flinging an arm across his face. He felt soft cloth on his nose, and his eyes flew open.
He wasn't lying in his usual nest of blankets beneath an angled crate lid in Riverside, but in a small, narrow bed under a thatched roof. Bandages wrapped around his arms, legs, and chest. "Oh…"
He tried to remember everything that had happened yesterday. A village…Lavendermoor. Three little girls, two young, one even younger. A goat-man with spectacles who helped to heal him. Kingdoms at war that sounded more like a fairy story than any history he'd ever heard of. He needed more information.
"You sleep a lot," said a voice, and he jumped, looking around. He wasn't alone after all. A girl was standing beside him, holding a tray with a covered bowl and a hunk of bread. She raised a blonde eyebrow at his startlement. "And you're not very observant."
"I just woke up," he complained, sitting up and accepting the tray. "Thank you," he said to the girl. Her voice had seemed a bit familiar. "Were you one of the ones who found me yesterday?"
She blinked wide green eyes at him. "Yes. Elphie found you first, though."
He thought for a moment. "Was she the one with the stick?"
The girl blushed a little. "I told her not to do that," she mumbled. "She thought you were dead."
"So did I," he said, picking up the spoon. "Until somebody started poking me with a stick." The girl giggled. "My name's Oscar," he introduced himself again. "You can call me Oz."
The girl blinked at him for a moment, then gave a short curtsey that set her curly hair bouncing. "My name is Glynda Gillikin. It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, apparently reciting by rote.
He smiled, and approximated a bow as well as he could, sitting in bed. "The pleasure is mine." His mother had made sure he knew his manners. "Is this your home?"
"No, me and Elphie and Nessa came here to go to school. There isn't a school in our village. Mister Dillimon is the teacher here." She was bouncing on her feet a little, apparently very excited to be able to tell all this to someone who didn't already know it. "You were right outside the schoolhouse when we found you. It's by the woods, that's where Elphie found the stick. And Nessa ran to get help because you looked all burned and you weren't moving. How did you get burned?"
"Fire," said Oz promptly.
Glynda pouted at him, puffing her cheeks out. "But how?"
"I don't know," Oz chuckled. "I can't remember." It was close to the truth, anyway. He thought he knew why he was burned, but couldn't for the life of him explain how he came to be outside their schoolhouse.
"That's weird," Glynda pronounced, crossing her arms. "Nessa said your name is Diggs, but Mister Dillimon told us you're not actually from Diggs, is that right?" Oz nodded. "Huh. Nessa was worried that Mister Dillimon might be wrong. But you don't seem like you're from Diggs, either."
"Is Nessa your sister?" Oz asked, remembering what Dillimon had said about the red-haired girl earlier.
"Huh?" Glynda said, sounding bemused at the sudden question. "No, Nessa is Elphie's sister. Where did you get that?"
"You both have light hair," said Oz. "But I haven't met Elphie properly, so I just guessed wrong."
Glynda glanced over her shoulder at the door, then leaned in. "I think they might have different dads," she whispered conspiratorially. "But they're definitely sisters. They both get real mad if you say they're not."
"Well, I wouldn't ever say that, then," Oz grinned.
"That's good." Glynda sounded genuinely relieved. "Elphie would probably kick your shins, and that wouldn't be nice because you're hurt." Abruptly, she seemed to remember something. "I'm supposed to go tell Teacher that you're awake. He says to eat up, please."
She left. Oz twitched the cloth off the bowl and stared down at the dark bread and onion soup. A taste of home, he thought with a wry, bitter smile, thinking of Hartie.
He'd been walking for two days and was getting hungry. He'd brought some tins of beans from his mother's home, but didn't have a can opener. Then somebody had taken his backpack the night before. With nothing to eat and nowhere to go, Oscar was reduced to wandering around the city, thinking that if his life was like one of his mother's stories, either he'd have to steal some food and somehow pay it back later, or else someone would take pity on him.
Neither had happened yet, because he had no idea how to go about stealing something, and nobody had given him a second glance. It had occurred to him that the second might have helped if he wanted to try stealing, but he also thought that if he did try to steal something and was caught, nobody would take pity on a thief, so he was stuck.
He edged away from the winos in the alleys and began making his way over to the next major road when he paused beside an open door—judging by the shimmering air and the smell of baking bread wafting out, the back entrance to a kitchen.
It was November and getting colder already, so the possibility of a place to warm his prickling fingers and possibly figure out how to beg a crust of bread was nearly as tempting as the prospect of escaping the drunks. He darted through the doorway. Nobody inside paid him any mind, the cooks moving back and forth with purpose, and he found himself instantly at a loss. Did he call out? Ask politely? Should he try to look pathetic? Did he already look pathetic? Oscar checked himself over, eyeing the dirtied knees of his pants and his threadbare raincoat in particular. He did look like a bit of a ragamuffin.
He was still debating when one of the cooks, a tall colored man, broke off and looked him up and down. Then, appearing to come to a decision, he said, "'Ey, where's the hock?"
Oscar started, looking up at him. "What?"
The man gave him a significant look. The other cooks had glanced around, but the man waved them back to their tasks and came over to Oscar, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Listen," he said quietly. "I know the look of a lad who needs a meal, and I know what it's like not to know how to accept charity." His eyes lingered on the ragged cuffs of what had once been a school uniform, the only long-sleeved shirt Oscar had. "So I'm offering you a chance to do a job in exchange for a meal." He steered Oscar back out to the alley. He pointed down the way Oscar hadn't originally come. "Head down there and take a left. Cross two streets and go into Fleischman's. Tell him Hartie is waiting on that beef hock, and he'll bag it up for you. Bring it back to me here, all right? Go on, beat it." He gave the still-stunned Oscar a little push in the right direction, then stepped back inside and pulled the door almost shut again.
Not having anything better to do, Oscar soon found himself stepping into the butcher shop. There was no line, so the sharp eyes of the hook-nosed man behind the counter fell on him at once. He said nothing, but raised an eyebrow, evidently doubting that Oscar could pay for anything. Which was, unfortunately, accurate; however…
"Um, I'm here for Hartie's beef hock?" Oscar said uncertainly. He wasn't sure what else to say or how else to say it, and was relieved when the man's eyes immediately softened.
As the butcher handed the bag over, he said, "Don't look so unsure, lad; it's all copacetic." Oscar blinked, and the man came around the counter, following him outside to light a cigarette. "Hartie sent you, so decent folks around here will all know you're on the level." He exhaled, and smoke plumed around his head. "Go on, he'll be needing that beef soon."
Oscar retraced his steps and soon found himself back in the alley. The winos all eyed him and the bag he was carrying, but none of them stopped him. A few even gave nods that looked approving. In no time he was slipping back through the door and wondering how to catch the cooks' attention, but once again, Hartie noticed him immediately.
"Ah, there we are." He unwrapped the hock and promptly dropped it into a pot that was simmering on the stove. "That'll do for dinner." He turned back for Oscar. "Head back 'round front, kiddo, and get in line for lunch. I'll set you up." He dropped a hand on Oscar's shoulder once more, steering him through another door out of the kitchen and into a new room, which looked remarkably like the lunchroom at his old school. There was already a small queue at a counter in the wall they'd just come from, where the other cooks were lugging more pots of soup and setting up stacks of bowls.
Oscar took his place in line as directed, and soon found himself being handed a bowl of onion soup and a thick piece of brown bread. "Thanks for helping me out today," Hartie said as he handed Oscar a spoon. In the bowl of the spoon was a nickel. Oscar pocketed it, looking up at Hartie in surprise. The man winked. "Stop by tomorrow, if you're about. I've got some other favors need doing. Now, go have a seat." And yet again, he shooed Oscar on his way.
Oz was dabbing the heel of bread around the dry bowl before he even noticed he was done. He glanced around, looking for a sink to clean his dishes, but saw nothing of the sort. Hmm.
Deciding to explore, he set the tray aside and prepared to rise. Before he could do more than swing his legs out of the bed, the door opened again and Dillimon entered, jacket and cap back in place. "Oscar, feeling better after a meal, I see?" he said briskly, moving to the bedside and taking Oz's elbow to help him stand. Oz did so gingerly, expecting the pain still ghosting around his body to increase, but nothing happened.
Seeing him standing successfully, Dillimon instead picked up the tray that Glynda had brought and led Oz into what looked like a back room. He set the tray beside some other dishes, proceeded past a small cot in which, Oz realized guiltily, Dillimon must be sleeping, and through another door into a larger room, rapidly emptying of small children.
"You've been in my quarters in the back of the schoolhouse," Dillimon answered the unasked question. "I came back to see if you were feeling up to some visitors, but since you're up, I thought you could come meet them up here. Always good to stretch one's legs, I find." He conducted Oz to a chair at the nearest table, where two girls were sitting. At the same moment, a tiny figure darted in against the flow of bodies and hopped into the lap of one of the girls at the table.
Oz settled into the chair gratefully, and leaned forward to look across at his companions. "Hello again, Nessa, Glynda," he said, nodding at the latecomer and the blonde. "And, this must be Elphie?" She looked to be of a height with Glynda, with long, straight black hair and…green skin? He made a concentrated effort not to let his eyes linger anywhere but on hers. "I hear it was you and your sister who helped me earlier. I'd like to say thank you—if you two hadn't called for Mr. Dillimon, I'd be… Well." Oz gave a rueful smile.
Nessa huffed obstinately. "I was the one as had to run all that way! Elphie just sat 'round looking at you." She paused, and then offered a belated, "And Glyndie kept you alive long enough for me to get back, so she helped too."
The black-haired girl sighed, putting on a long-suffering air so at odds with her age that it was actually quite funny. "Honestly, how many times am I supposed to apologize for that? I thought he was dead; it wasn't like he would have known I'd been poking at him if I was right!" Glynda stared at Elphie, apparently shocked into silence by her just-away-from-the-bedside manner. "What? It's true." She sounded almost petulant about being scolded for messing about with what she thought was a corpse. Oz wondered, not for the first time, what exactly these children had been taught, and by whom.
Though, he supposed she had a point…
Still, it wasn't a subject he expected children to be quite so comfortable with. Evidently Dillimon agreed, because he changed the subject. "Now, girls, you've seen him—up and about even—but he still needs his rest, so you run along."
Nessa bounced up, plainly unused to sitting still outside of school lessons, and zipped out the door with little more than a wave and a gap-toothed smile back at Oz. The older two lingered, watching as he carefully did not get up.
"I hope you recover quickly," said Glynda. Elphie nodded, her eyes still on his. He met her gaze and gave an appreciative nod and a smile.
"It was nice to finally meet you, Elphie," Oz added, and she nodded back brusquely before turning and hurrying after her sister. Glynda stared after her for a moment, then shrugged and followed.
When the door closed, Dillimon began to chuckle. "You seem to have made a good impression, lad."
Oz blinked. "What makes you say that?"
"Knowing Elphie as well as I do," he answered. "And you saw Glynda's confusion, too, just then. Elphie usually takes ill to strangers, and especially humans, but she didn't say anything particularly cutting and left without so much as a huff."
"'Especially humans'?" Oz repeated slowly.
Dillimon blinked at him. "I know you didn't fail to notice the girl's complexion," he said quietly. "So once again I find myself faced with a gap in your knowledge that shouldn't be possible, given that you seem otherwise a fairly well-educated boy."
Oz shrugged. "It seemed rude to stare, so I didn't," he offered. "But I don't know of any reason why that could happen to a person. I've never seen anything like it before."
Dillimon met his gaze squarely, then reached up and removed his hat. Oz blinked, startled. He hadn't been hallucinating or dreaming before; Dillimon did have goat horns.
"You saw my horns before, Oscar," Dillimon confirmed, sounding as confused as Oz felt.
"I…thought I'd imagined it," he answered honestly. "Is there a…polite term?"
"We are Faunus," said Dillimon calmly. "Also mortal, very close to humans. My father was human, as was young Nessa's." He paused. "There are…those who do not accept that Faunus can be fully human. As though a simple pair of ears or horns, or a set of claws or a tail, separate us to such a degree as to be little more than beasts."
"That's bullshit!" Oz snapped, before he could stop himself, memories rushing up at him.
Dillimon gave a genuine smile. "Perhaps not the most sensitive phrasing, but…" He trailed off when Oz blushed. "You seem familiar with, at least, the concept," he added. "I won't ask you to relate your story, only to bear in mind that whatever it was you seem to recognize, is probably much the same here." He tilted his head. "That said, you have never seen a Faunus before?"
Oz shook his own head.
Dillimon sighed, evidently still puzzled, but offered Oz a hand back to his feet. "You seem tired again, boy. Let's get you back to bed and I'll do a little more healing work." He conducted Oz toward the back room once more, ignoring the boy's efforts to lay on the cot they passed, and pressed him into the pillow. "Rest, now." He laid a hand on Oz's head, and the other on his chest, and shut his eyes.
This time, Oz felt a gentle warmth spread slowly from the two points of contact, soothing away the aches that still lingered in his joints and the places where his skin stretched. After a short while, Dillimon rose, swaying slightly, and shut off the lights, leaving Oz alone with his thoughts.
It was several months after their chance meeting. Oscar had become Hartie's main errand boy, helping the older man with as many chores as he could and doing his best to earn his keep. He still slept outside, despite Hartie's offers of a couch, always grinning and waving off the man's concern with "It's getting warmer!"
It was true, Oscar thought, as he shifted and the dew seeped through his blanket. Truer than it had been when the morning's first movement would crack the frost that rimed him, but it was already May, by now. At least, he thought it was. It was hard to keep track, but he thought they were at least a few days into the new month—Hartie had changed up the soup within the last week.
Still, he supposed as he made his way through the streets toward the kitchen, it would be nice when summer arrived properly. No doubt he'd be sweating and cursing the heat soon enough, but better that than ice forming on him at night.
He stood in line at the baker's for breakfast like everyone else—a heel of yesterday's bread was usual, and today was no different. If he wanted more bread later for his dinner, he would have to scrape up a few cents.
He dropped by the butcher shop he had visited the day he met Hartie, knocking gently on the window until a curly-haired old man cracked the door open. "Hello, Mister Fleischman," Oscar said. "Got any work for this poor ragamuffin?"
Fleischman—the father of the younger Mister Fleischman he'd met that first day and the owner of the shop—grinned and let him in. Most days, Oscar simply did the stocking and displays while Fleischman handled the butchery, but from time to time the old man would call him back to show him the best way to sharpen the knives, or cut around a troublesome joint. If Oscar had gained anything from it, it was a certain familiarity and comfort with blades. Mister Fleischman the elder had said to him enough times, 'Little cuts are only little cuts, but you'll never hurt yourself with a blade so long as you hold it right, and respect it.' Today was no different, and after a few hours of sharpening, nicking his thumb, and sawing apart bits of cow, Mister Fleischman sent him on his way with a dime and a knuckle for Hartie's beef stock.
Hartie accepted, laughing that he hadn't even had a chance to order the part this time, before sending Oscar around to get in line for lunch. This time, though, didn't end like most days. Most days, the various tramps and winos were content with their shares—typically grateful, like Oscar was, to be getting anything to eat at all—but occasionally somebody would get uppity. Most of the time, the others would talk them down, not wanting any trouble with one of the most reliable sources for a hot meal in town, but today the hood in question was just asking for the bum's rush. Oscar ignored the complaints like usual, until the subject of the man's ire turned from the establishment to Hartie himself.
"And who decided it was up to some Colored how much we gets to eat, anyhow?" The man growled, and Oscar found himself on his feet. Before anyone could stop him, he'd crossed the room in three steps and crashed his fist into the man's nose.
Staggering, the man howled and clutched at his face. "Not exactly hittin' on all sixes are you, boy?" he snarled. "Defendin' a worthless old ni-"
Oscar hit him again, and this time the man launched himself forward in response. Oscar managed a few more solid punches, but had forgotten in his haste that he was fifteen and scrawny, while the other tramp had at least twenty years and fifty pounds on him.
In the end, the other patrons dragged him outside and slammed the door behind them, while Hartie hauled Oscar into the back room and tossed him a handkerchief while digging in a drawer for some bandages.
"All hard-boiled now, are ya, kiddo?" he asked rhetorically, as Oscar dabbed at his split lip.
"You've been the kindest to me out of anyone I've met in this city," Oscar said softly. "I'm not about to let anyone get away with saying things like that. Not without bruising my knuckles, anyway."
Hartie sighed, turning back to face him with bandages in hand. "You're gonna be wrapping yourself up more often than not, then. If you think that's the first time even this week I've heard things like that, you've got another think coming. And they ain't all gonna be palookas like that bum, neither; everybody thinks it from them on up to the big cheese."
"I don't," Oscar insisted. "It's bullshit."
Hartie shook his head. "I heard worse in the War anyhow." Oscar's head snapped up, but before he could ask about Hartie apparently being a soldier, the man went on. "Now, I think you'd best take a day or two before you come back in here, so that pill don't think to come looking for you. Or if he does, so the other boys can set him straight."
Oscar scowled. "I'm not afraid."
Hartie gave him a gentle smack upside the head. "I know what'll get you out of my hair," he said. "You been hearin' about that big Kraut zeppelin what's comin' over, yeah?"
Oscar nodded.
"Well, I heard through the grapevine that it's gonna be passin' over the city tomorrow; I was gonna take you to see it, but what with this, I got a better idea. Friend of mine's got a ticket to ride her on the trip back across the pond, and I'm thinking you ought to go see him off. You'd get to see the big balloon up close, and all."
Oscar bit his lip. He knew what Hartie was doing, but it was definitely a tempting offer. Zeppelins were a brilliant idea; the sort of idea he'd thought of as a child, tying things to the cords of balloons his mother had bought him at a fair before she'd fallen ill, and realizing that the same principle could potentially lift him, if he had a big enough balloon. When he'd learned that scientists had actually done such a thing, he'd been thrilled, and it was one of the things about himself he'd eventually shared with Hartie, when the man got him to open up a bit.
"Now, I know that face," Hartie said, interrupting his thoughts. "You want to go and you know it, so I'll dial up my friend and let him know he'll have a passenger on the way down. You'll have to make your own way back up here, but I got faith you can handle that."
Oscar cracked a smile.
"Just don't go wanderin' too close, all right?" Hartie added, stopping at the door. "I know you're all excited, but she's landin' at a Navy Air base, and you ain't a passenger, so you'll have to stay behind the fence. I know you, so all I'm sayin' is, don't go vaultin' that fence for a closer look.
Oscar rolled his eyes, crossing his fingers behind his back. He was about to see a zeppelin! Like hell he'd do it from half a mile away!
CuriousRavenclaw A/N: Hi, everyone! I'm so excited to share this joint work with you! Be aware: it's gonna be a monster of a fic. Like seriously, be ready for a long ride. But (hopefully) it'll be a damn fun one. There may even be some fun bonus content coming out, but don't quote me on that one.
BackslashEcho A/N: So. Welcome to Oz, I guess. This was supposed to go up yesterday, but I kind of worked myself into the ground and I crashed before I could post. A belated toast; to Monty, for inspiring us all. I hope we can match your resolve.
For the record, I am fully aware that Glinda is canonically the witch of the South, but 'Glynda Quadling' just doesn't sound very good in my opinion. Plus, this way, she gets to keep the alliteration. Any offensive language is meant only to be period-appropriate.
Author fun fact: This is the first story I've collaborated on, not as a beta or consultant, but as a legitimate co-writer. (Disclaimer: Fun facts may not be either fun or facts.)