TACO Run

Chapter 22

Alfyn whistled softly to himself, strolling down the street. The little map missus Inko had given him had led to a library like he'd hoped, but Cyrus had never been there. He knew, because he'd spent a few minutes making a—not bad—sketch of the scholar and doing his best to chat up the guy running the counter. And despite the language barrier, he was pretty sure he'd gotten the right questions across, and gotten proper answers back.

Alfyn's plan wasn't a great one, honestly speaking. It wasn't bad, he didn't think, and it wasn't like he had a ton of options, but in a city this big wandering from shop to shop asking questions via gestures and not-bad sketches was probably just a hair above futile.

Still, it was what he had, so Alfyn had just gotten directions to the next closest bookstore, thanked the librarian, and moved on.

He'd done that again, and again, and again, and again, and by the time he got directions from the fifth bookstore, they were shutting down for the evening, because walking took time. And he hadn't been able to find an inn, so he'd just wandered around until he found a river, followed it to a bridge, and camped out underneath.

To be honest, he was kinda shocked by how many bookstores there were, and the weird places they were, too. Like, one of them was in a basement, down a really narrow set of stairs next to another shop of some kind, and Alfyn almost felt like he should be walking sideways to get down 'em, though his shoulders didn't actually touch the walls.

Alfyn wondered if this place was a scholar's city like Atlasdam, only about a hundred times bigger. Because it looked like everyone knew how to read—more than just market prices, too—and missus Inko had had a bookshelf at home, and the cool-cabinet thing she'd stored her food in, which was really pretty neat, and probably took some kind of magic to operate. Maybe rune magic? That lasted longer than the regular kind, from what he'd seen of Tressa using her Balogar-granted skills. And he knew that scholars could make magic lock-type-things, from Therion's dealings with those Barham and Orlick guys in Noblecourt, though maybe they had to be a specific kind of scholar for that, 'cause Cyrus hadn't ever done anything like that.

Hell, Cyrus'd once told him that the main reason he knew much about ritual magic at all was because it'd been used so much throughout history that he'd studied up on it just so he could properly understand what the old texts were talking about.

It'd taken Alfyn a little while to realize that there were all kinds of scholars, just like there were all kinds of warriors, or merchants. Sure, Cyrus could and would study just about anything he ran across, but he specialized in history. Just like Tressa could and would find a bargain for anything she set her eyes on, but her family specialized in travel gear and provisions. And just like how you'd go to an armorer if you wanted weaponry, if you wanted to learn something specific, you had to find a scholar who specialized in that.

Y'know, Alfyn mused to himself, I bet Cyrus is having the time of his life, being here. There was just so much that was weird and new, it was basically an endless learning opportunity, and there wasn't much that the scholar loved more than a chance to learn.

Then again, Alfyn hadn't seen a single thing he could read yet, and he was probably the best reader of the guys, behind Cyrus. Not that Olberic or Therion were bad at all! They were definitely literate, and Olberic had even been taught formally, while he served Hornburg. But there was still a difference between 'reading because you need to' and 'reading because it's interesting', and neither of them did that.

Not that Alfyn did too much, either. Nowhere near as much as Cyrus! Maybe about as much as Tressa—they'd wander markets together sometimes, and sneak peeks together at books they found, to see if they were interesting or if they'd make good presents for the scholar. It was kinda funny, seeing Tressa go red when they found the occasional saucy book mixed in with the epics and compendiums.

Alfyn thought it was funny, the way Cyrus read saucy books. Because he didn't read 'em for the sauce, he read them for the 'examples of how the author believes such relationships should function, and the examples of even minor aspects of everyday life in the setting thus described'. Which was apparently a good way to learn stuff everyone considered common knowledge, when you weren't one of the people that 'common knowledge' applied to. He'd said something about one of his scholar colleagues—Harold or something?—having a big collection of saucy books like that. And since the Royal Library wouldn't accept them as donations, he just gave them to him whenever he was done 'gleaning what he could from the pages'.

It'd started raining while Alfyn was asleep, and he'd woken up to a feral cat stepping on his kidneys—and been creeped out by the realization that his camping-spot was apparently the local meet-up spot for feral cats, because there'd been a good seven or eight of them taking shelter from the rain, and staring him down in a way that said they'd enjoy eating his tender bits, if he wasn't so much bigger than them.

Alfyn wasn't actually all that worried about being attacked—cats were almost always bluffing—but he'd figured it was high time he skedaddled anyway.

So he'd found his way back to the last bookstore he'd gone to, and gotten directions from there to the next, and just kept going.

He knew it wasn't a great plan. He was tired and wet and hungry, since the little food he'd had on him had run out and attempting to forage in the city had had lackluster results—he'd found a few edible plants, but not enough, and some of them were just off enough that he wasn't sure he wanted to risk ingesting them.

It wasn't a great plan, but it was the only one he had.

The next bookstore he was headed for was apparently on the far side of a couple different bridges. Alfyn had noticed that this place had a lot of waterways, and most of them had that same deliberate, almost sculpted look of the one he'd first arrived at. On the one hand, creeks and rivers should've been a familiar and comforting sight, but that too-clean, planned-looking shape to 'em was just… weird. Not exactly off-putting, but it ruined whatever comfort he would've taken from 'em.

The rivers themselves didn't seem too deep. Chest-deep on him, maybe, though he couldn't really know without jumping in, which seemed like a stupid thing to do. And they were probably a bit deeper in the middle.

Leaning over the railing, Alfyn took a closer look. The river looked like it was ankle-deep by the banks, maybe knee-deep out to the first pillar. Then there was a bit of a drop-off, and from the color he'd guess the center swath was too deep for anything but swimming—and had a decent current to boot.

Alfyn shivered a little. He wasn't quite soaked to the skin, but he was getting there, and it was only early spring. He didn't mind rain, for the most part. It felt clean, and it helped things grow. But when it was chilly out, well…

He could hear Zeph now, telling him to stop lollygagging. Better get your thumb out, Alf!

Therion'd say something similar. Or… well, no, he wouldn't. He'd just give Alfyn that look, the one that said 'are you fucking kidding me? It's cold and gross out, you idiot.' And he'd keep standing there, givin' him that look until he took the hint and got his ass back home, or to the inn or tavern, or someplace else warm and dry.

Another shiver, and Alfyn pushed away from the railing, heading towards the bridge's far end. He wanted to find the other guys, he really, really did, but rushing it at the expense of his own health was stupid. Traveling had its own rules, and only an idiot ignored 'em.

Shelter. Water. Fire. Food. Those were the priorities, in that order. Shelter would be easy enough—as long as the river didn't rise too high, there was a nice flat area beneath this bridge he could use to camp in. Water was a no-brainer. He had his fire-striker and tinder safely wrapped up, so they'd still be usable. That just left food…

Alfyn's stomach growled, and he sighed, pulling out another spice-tree twig to chew on. It wasn't like it'd fill his belly, but having something in his mouth would help distract his stomach from how empty it was.

Once he reached the end of the bridge, Alfyn turned and slid down the rain-slick, grassy slope to the riverbank. There were already puddles forming on the open ground there, and he got mud on his boots, the seat of his trousers, and the heels of his hands, but it'd be easy enough to clean off. Checking under the bridge revealed that this one at least wasn't a home for feral cats, and the little bit of trash he found looked like it'd been blown or swept there instead of dropped off by people, so he wasn't stealing a homeless person's spot or anything. That was good.

Alfyn scrubbed at his hair, setting down his satchel. He had tinder and a fire striker, but he needed fuel to burn. Wet grass wouldn't cut it, and he didn't have his axe to lop limbs off of trees…

Cattails along the edge of the river caught his eye, and Alfyn grinned.

A few minutes later, he had a decent collection of cattail tubers he could roast once he had a fire going, and cattail fluff to work as secondary tinder. River rocks weren't great for a fire pit, since they might be waterlogged and could crack or splinter dangerously from a fire's heat, but there was plenty of damp gravel by the roadside he could gather and turn into a fire-resistant base for his campfire. If he could find a conifer of some kind, he should be able to collect cones from the lower branches that hadn't been soaked by the rain yet, and maybe snap off a few dead branches to use as real fuel once he had a halfway decent fire going.

He was just stripping the outer bark from his first armload—the inner bark was still dry—when an enormous splash made him jump and scramble to turn around, nearly falling on his ass in the process.

Something thrashed feebly in the water, already being swept downstream, and Alfyn lurched to his feet almost before he knew what he was doing. Shit, shit, someone fell in!

Shucking out of his boots and coat, Alfyn sprinted along the side of the river, heedless of the puddles and mud, until he pulled ahead of the flailing person and could lunge out into the river itself, wading as fast as he could until it got deep enough that he had to swim instead. He struck out across the water at an angle, trying to intercept the person who'd fallen in, and almost got a elbow to the face for his trouble. Whoever it was thrashed harder once Alfyn got a hold of them, almost as if they were trying to fight him off in a panic.

Shit! It wasn't easy, but Alfyn got an arm across their chest and shoulder, and started hauling them towards the shore. Hells, just keeping the old guy—he thought it was an old guy—just keeping their head out of the water was a trial, but after about half a minute they just went limp in his grasp and he managed to get a foot on the riverbed.

"C'mon, c'mon, keep breathing mister…" Alfyn panted, hauling them both ashore and laying the old guy out on the muddy ground.

He was an old guy. Skin pale and papery beneath the wet, exhausted-looking bags under his eyes, thin white button-up shirt under a thicker jacket of some kind. He was still conscious, too, coughing and spitting out water and trying to feebly bat Alfyn's hands away.

Alfyn helped him roll over, and supported him while he hacked up any remaining water he might've inhaled. After a few seconds his breathing sounded pretty clear, and Alfyn sent up a quick thank-you prayer to Dohter, because breathing in liquids like that was a recipe for pneumonia.

The old guy would still need some after-care for a few days, just to be sure, but as long as Alfyn could get him to a local apothecary, he should be fine.

"Phew!" He grinned tiredly at the old guy, relieved, and shoved his hair back out of his face. "That was a close one, mister. Gotta be more careful on bridges, y'know? Next time Ol' Alfyn might not be there—ow!" What the hells? The old guy'd slugged him! It'd been a kind of pathetic excuse for a punch, just bouncing off of his shoulder weak-like, but still!

The old guy was still swinging at him clumsily, shouting roughly like Alfyn'd been the one to push him in or something.

"Calm down, calm down, gads!" Alfyn protested, getting his hands on the old guy's wrists and waiting for him to wear himself out.

It didn't take long. He must've been tired in the first place, and fighting the current like that hadn't helped, so it was only a few seconds before he sagged in Alfyn's grip, tears leaking from his eyes to mingle with the rain and river-water soaking his clothes.

"There we go," Alfyn sighed, relieved. "Got it out of your system, huh?" Panic could do awful things to a person. "Let's get out of this rain, maybe see if we can get warmed up, alright?" He had everything he needed for a fire now, so all that was left was starting it.

Hiraku sagged in his rescuer's grip, too tired to struggle any longer.

Ha. Too tired to struggle. That described him completely, didn't it? Too tired to fight for his job, too tired to find a new one, to tired to go home to his wife, to let her know what a failure of a husband he was.

He was just… tired.

So Hiraku didn't fight it, when his rescuer pulled him to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried him along the riverbank to the bridge he'd fallen from.

It had been… easy to fall. Why wouldn't he have fallen? It was raining out, and he was an old man. Not quite old enough for a pension, not for several more years, but still old enough that no one would question that he'd slipped. Not with the railings so low—the city was supposed to have replaced them with taller ones years ago, but the project kept getting delayed. And he still had life insurance through Onomura Medical Corp. It would only last until the end of the month, though, and then he'd have to get a new policy through a third party…

Which was another thing that he was too tired to do.

It had been so easy to fall. He hadn't planned on it, but he'd been crossing the bridge, cold and wet and so, so tired that when the thought flickered through his head that his life insurance would be enough for Miki to live comfortably for the rest of her life…

It had seemed so simple. So perfect. It would solve everything. And all he had to do… was fall.

A piercing whistle jolted Hiraku from his thoughts, and he coughed, shivering from the damp. He must have fallen into a daze, because he was sitting on the ground beneath the bridge, staring at a crackling fire and the old-fashioned tea kettle sitting on it.

A calloused hand gripped the kettle by its handle, lifting it from the fire and pouring boiling water into a ceramic camping mug. And as the rich, sharp scent of ginger filled the air, Hiraku finally got a good look at his rescuer.

A young man, with the rough-hewn and healthy look of someone raised in the countryside. Wiggling a twig between his teeth like some men would a toothpick, sleeves shoved up to the elbow to keep them out of the way as he filled another mug.

When he noticed Hiraku looking, he smiled. No, he grinned, broad and warm as a summer sky.

Hiraku hated it. Instantly, irrationally, he hated that smile. Hated the warmth and comfort of it, the ease with which it came. "You couldn't possibly understand!" he snapped, tears running down his face again. "You're young, healthy… you've got your whole life before you! Probably a girl waiting at home for you, too. How could someone like you possibly—"

Strong hands gripped Hiraku's shoulders suddenly, making him flinch at the abrupt contact. Warm brown eyes bored into his, a depth of sympathy and gentleness to them that Hiraku had never seen on a young man's face before.

Hiraku averted his eyes first, but they were caught by the scars tracing the young man's arms. Thin, old scars for the most part, the kind you might get in a hiking accident or while working a construction job of some kind, though there were more of them than Hiraku would have expected on such a young man. But one set stood out as different. Three jagged lines ran down his left arm from inner elbow to the underside of his wrist, parallel to the big veins. They were old scars too, but obviously deep. The kind that said the injury that had caused them would have been life-threatening.

And deliberate.

Hiraku swallowed, feeling like a fool. An old, angry fool who'd lashed out, just because he thought someone young couldn't possibly be as troubled as he was.

A gurgling rumble emanated from the young man's stomach, breaking the tension of the moment, and he released Hiraku as abruptly as he'd grabbed him, awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck with an embarrassed little laugh.

"I… I'm sorry," Hiraku managed, looking away from the scars. Of course he was hungry. His clothes were shabby; recently mended but old and well-worn. The young man wasn't some wealthy, well-meaning idiot of a tourist. He was poor. How had Hiraku not seen that before? He'd probably spent his life savings on this trip to Japan, only to jump in a river to save Hiraku's worthless life.

Savings. Twenty-eight years, I worked for Onomura Medical Corp. Miki and I have some money saved up, still. He wasn't quite old enough to receive a pension, but if they could hold out another few years…

Maybe Miki wouldn't need his life insurance money after all.

Hiraku swallowed again, and looked up at the young man who'd saved him.

He was looking at Hiraku with frank curiosity and slight concern.

Hiraku forced a faint, shaky smile. "Can I… buy you some ramen?"

Alfyn dug into the bowl of hot broth and boiled dough-strings, slurping hungrily. He didn't know what had helped the old guy calm down, but it had something to do with the scars Alfyn had gotten fighting the Ogre Eagle.

That was a nasty fight. He'd never have managed it without Olberic and H'aanit. One good rake of talons and he'd been down for a round, almost passing out from blood-loss before he could clean and bind his wounds. The warrior and huntress had kept the Ogre Eagle busy until he could perform First Aid on himself and rejoin the fight, though, and Prim's dancing had boosted H'aanit's lightning magic enough to make it a serious threat.

Nasty fight. Gorgeous beastie, though. Those rainbow wings might be toxic, but they sure were pretty. Made good medicine, too.

Sometimes the only medicine you need is a good, warm meal, though. Alfyn slurped his dough-strings the way the old man did, savoring the rich broth. There were toppings in the bowl too, curls of scallion-greens, slices of pork, some kind of tender white shoots… even half a boiled egg!

The old guy he'd rescued had seemed real sheepish once the panic wore off, and managed to get across that he wanted to buy Alfyn dinner to make up for being kind of an ass. Alfyn wanted to tell him he didn't have to, but then his stomach had growled again all loud and angry-like, and he'd had to laugh and accept.

He was glad he had. The food was good, and warm, and the old guy looked a lot better for having hot food in him. The guy running the food-stand was a real grouchy-lookin' old guy, who yelled at both of 'em something fierce when they showed up all soaking wet, and threw towels at their heads before pouring 'em each a drink of something clear and hot, and barking what was pretty obviously an order to sit the hell down.

The towels were pretty fluffy, too, which was neat, but when they sat, the old guy Alfyn'd rescued—he'd managed to figure out that his name was Hiraku—had seemed real sheepish about it, like he was just realizing how dumb it was to be out and about in the rain without a hat or a cloak or something to keep the wet off.

Not that Alfyn could point fingers, mind.

The stuff the soup-seller'd given them to drink smelled a little bit like wine, but a lot milder, and it was in these itty-bitty ceramic cups that probably didn't hold two mouthfuls. Alfyn sipped his, and it was kind of sweet, but not the same kind of sweet as mead. More of a… a clean sweet? If that made any sense. And it had an aftertaste almost like mushrooms or potatoes, which was weird, but not in a bad way, exactly.

And it had a bit of a kick to it, too. Not as much as hard liquors or anything, but enough that he could see why it was served in those itty-bitty cups. If it wasn't, the spirits would go right to your head real fast.

When Alfyn complimented the soup-seller on his broth and dough-strings—he still wasn't much good with the eating-sticks, so he'd made kind of a mess—it looked like the language barrier didn't even matter, 'cause he drew himself up all smug-like and crossed his arms proudly over his chest.

Mister Hiraku just smiled a little, though, and bought Alfyn another bowl.

Alfyn was on his fourth bowl—mister Hiraku was looking a little wide-eyed about it—when the soup-seller asked mister Hiraku a question that made him flinch and scramble at his weird jacket's pockets, until he pulled out a rectangle-thing like little Izuku had had. Only this one was dripping wet and nothing happened when he poked it.

Mister Hiraku sighed, and dropped it on the counter, burying his face in his hands for a long, exhausted moment.

Alfyn and the soup-seller exchanged worried looks, and the soup-seller asked mister Hiraku something else. Whatever answer he got, though, just made him scowl deeper, and he rummaged around in his apron-pocket for a rectangle thing of his own to hand over to mister Hiraku, growling out something sharp as he did.

Mister Hiraku took it shakily, and bit his lip, poking at it hesitantly for a few seconds and then holding it up to his ear.

Alfyn couldn't hear whoever he was talking to at first, but as soon as he said his name, whoever it was burst into tears, and Alfyn could hear that just fine. Seemed like he'd worried the missus, wandering out in the rain for a while or something,

There was a little bit of shouting going on from the lady, too, but it was angry-because-I-was-scared shouting, and after a little bit she calmed down enough that Alfyn couldn't hear anything else. There was a long, quiet, serious conversation after that, and Alfyn was kind of glad he couldn't understand it, because the soup-seller was being real careful to act like he couldn't hear anything mister Hiraku was saying, and handed Alfyn another bowl of dough-string soup to distract him. This one had reddish broth, and what looked like mushrooms and boiled shrimp, but when Alfyn took his first bite the soup damn near bit him back.

"Ow, hot, hothothot!" Alfyn hadn't had anything that spicy in a while! Some places in the Sunlands had hot peppers and the like, but whew!

The soup-seller chuckled and handed him a cup of water for him to guzzle down, and after a while the tingle-burn dulled a bit.

Alfyn managed to finish the spicy shrimp and dough-strings, but he couldn't quite make himself finish off the broth, and gave the soup-seller an apologetic look.

By that time, though, mister Hiraku had finished talking to his missus, and handed the soup-seller back his rectangle-thing. A couple minutes of back-and-forth, and mister Hiraku took Alfyn's bowl and drank all of the leftover broth in one go, making Alfyn's eyes bug out in the process.

"Holy shit, mister, how'd you do that?"

That got a kind of faint smile from him, and then he stood up, murmuring what sounded like a thanks to the soup-seller before digging a folded-leather wallet from his back pocket and paying him. After bowing his head—Alfyn had noticed that people did that a lot around here, to the point it was pretty weird—he looked over at Alfyn and waved a hand in an insistent little 'come with me, come with me' gesture.

Well, he'd brought all of his stuff along to the soup-stall, so Alfyn didn't figure there was any reason he couldn't follow mister Hiraku right now, if he really insisted like that.

He did wonder where he wanted to take him, though.

A/N: Balogar the Runeblade is the god of rune-lords and spell-swords, those who augment their physical attacks with elemental power through the use of transcribed runes.

A/N: Literacy in Octopath Traveler is a shaky thing. It's implied (via the sidequest involving Theracio and the fact that most businesses use pictures instead of words on their signs) that the commonfolk are not expected to be literate, but in practice everyone you meet who is an adult seems capable of reading and writing at least a little. So the compromise I went for is that most people get the very basics and can at least recognize numbers for market prices, as well as very simple sentences, but it's not universal.

A/N: Alfyn's final bowl was spicy sriracha shrimp ramen, poor guy. Hiraku is one of those guys who would casually munch raw habañeros as a snack.