Owlcatober 2023 Day 2: Favorite Food
Second entry for Owlcatober! (@owlcatober)!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: The Commander/Regill (Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous) Characters: The Commander (Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous), Wilcer Garms Additional Tags: Owlcatober (Pathfinder), Food as a Metaphor for Love, Food Metaphors, Comfort Food, Comfort Series: Part 2 of Siren's Owlcatober 2023 Summary:
Knight Commander Arangeir is a Wiscrani down to her very—hurting—soul. She hasn't been home in so long that she doesn't even know if she can say home as she knows it even really exists anymore. Those that care about her in the Crusade, though, know how to make miracles happen, and this time home finds a way to come to her.
“Ah, Commander!”
Minovae paused mid-step as a familiar voice called out above the din of the Drezen market thoroughfare. Deep yet cheery, she knew immediately that it’d come from over a rather magnificent beard before even turning toward the source.
And a pit of dread clawed into her stomach at the sound.
She turned on her heel, nevertheless, flashing a bright smile toward the man. Wilcer Garms, kindness and generosity personified, yet with a shrewd sense of responsibility that kept him steady in his role as quartermaster, was waving her over from his usual position at his stall next to the blacksmithy. His dark eyes practically lit alight as she acknowledged him, and his waving changed to one of beckoning—just as she’d feared.
Wilcer was good. Not just at his job, but just in being in the army. He was so close to the rank and file as to have an ear to its heartbeat, and was practically an artery in his own right connecting that heart to her own. As for himself, he was personable when addressed, yet rarely sought out his superiors for anything that wasn’t strictly business, keeping friendly conversation to when she came to find him. On the off chance he did seek her out specifically, it was for one of two things: to deliver a package she’d personally requisitioned… or to deliver one she most definitely hadn’t.
And she knew one thing: she hadn’t ordered anything from him in some time.
Hence, the dread.
Just how many gifts need she turn down or ‘return’ before he and the men understood she could never accept such a thing from them? First it’d been coins, which had been the last thing she’d needed after finalizing sales and count of the treasury upon reclaiming Drezen. Even aside from her personal savings, the idea of the rank and file pooling their own funds together to give to her? Not the Crusade but her, specifically. She’d curled Wilcer’s hand back closed around that coin purse with a gracious smile and grateful refusal faster than she’d executed any of the demons in the very fortress they were now standing in. Next had been the whittled prayer figures, and while she’d been honored by the thought she also knew she had no right to accept such a thing with her beliefs. Those had been harder and even more awkward to turn down, as the free time that’d gone into crafting them wasn’t something that could be returned; not like a sack of gold.
It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the efforts; no, quite the opposite. She was honored beyond words to be thought of by her soldiers in such a way, just as she was disquieted by it in equal measure. All she wanted was to be more like them: not adored; not worshiped; just another soldier. Just another mortal. That’s how it should have been, but leadership always seemed to settle on her shoulders like black feathers to carrion no matter how unappetizing she tried to appear for it.
As for what gift Wilcer might have for her now… Actually, it dawned on her that it could very well not be another attempt at a gift. She was reminded of the horror and despair that’d looked upon her from countless eyes when they’d returned from the Abyss—just as monstrous as the demons that’d fallen to her merciless hammer. She’d then stood down a crusader goddess, a demon lord, and a protean lord all at once, damning all three with the same bleeding breath and not caring at all for what the assembled soldiers might think. Her people hadn’t even heard the apologies and explanations from her own mouth afterward; a shattered soul had kept her down and out of sight to all but her closest staff and companions for weeks. This was one of the first times in nearly a month she’d been allowed to leave the inner citadel since then, and without supervision to boot.
Did the men still fawn over her as they did before, much less believe in her, she wondered? It was her greatest fear stepping back into active command: that she’d lost their trust and hopes and become either another monster to rid the world of in their eyes or a parable of failure. Her staff assured her she was respected all the same, even more so actually, given how public it was now how much she’d suffered and given of herself in the name of ending this damned war. The truth remained to be seen, however.
…But Wilcer right there and then might’ve held the key to it. Meaning, for the first time ever in her life, Minovae Arangeir selfishly hoped beyond hope that someone was about to give her a gift.
And so, smile wide despite the roiling anxiety gripping her within, she approached the man from across the market street with as casual a gait she could muster. Others around her parted like water despite her small statue, her presence more than palpable on her behalf despite her lack of armor, though nearly all of Drezen had their eyes on their Commander when she was about, regardless. Especially since her renewed appearance in public was still so fresh. As such, none wanted to impede their recently-back-in-action Commander’s business, and yet the space revealed itself along her path with not silence or fleeing steps, as no small part of her feared, but polite nods and jovial greetings. The faces that met hers were lit with genuine relief and glee as she returned as many as of those greetings as she could, while her tail pantomimed a nod to those she couldn’t do so the more proper way with chin and smile.
It helped pry loose the grip in her gut, those bright expressions. Just a little.
As did the fact that, with each step closer, Wilcer’s own smile widened all the more. Nor could she deny that the air around him was practically crackling in his mild tempered and polite excitement. Her heart thrummed in relief, realizing he probably did have a gift for her. It also faltered anxiously for the exact same reason. The only ‘gift’ she truly wanted was proof—proof that she hadn’t failed her men as she so agonizingly feared.
“Wilcer!”, she reached out to clap the man on the arm just as he planted his own on her shoulder. No pauldron to catch it, she nearly jumped at the sensation, still so unused to walking about without her armor, much less feeling another’s touch where and when said armor would typically catch it. Part of her soared at the sensation. Kinship. Camaraderie. A show of friendship. A show of mortal connection. Wilcer at least still believes in you. You haven’t lost them all.
It fed into her smile as she continued, miraculously without missing a beat, “You look as eager as a boy on his birthday! What’s got you in such a bright mood?”
“Commander”, he nodded, giving her a quick, friendly squeeze on the shoulder before straightening. “I’m merely happy to see you looking so well since your return. We’ve been worried about you since the announcement.”
He said it so diplomatically as to give her pause: ‘Since your return.’ It carried with it all the implication needed—of Abyssal purple and red tinting the scales on her body that hadn’t sloughed off from corruption, the feathers that’d turned black with rot and fallen out in clumps, and the maddened rage that’d even changed her violet eyes red. Sosiel and Arsinoe had done wonders since then, driving the Abyss from her spirit and body both during her recovery. Everything was mostly back to opalescent sea foam, shiny and strong, feathers soft and healthy, and disposition closer to her once easier-going self.
The men shouldn’t have seen her like that to begin with, though. She shouldn’t have let herself fall so far. And so her smile faltered slightly at the reminder, only for it to dawn on her what else he’d said: the announcement.
Heat took to her cheeks like flame beneath her scales. When she’d come to her senses enough after her two weeks of unconsciousness, she’d asked what exactly had been told to the Crusade at large about what’d happened to her. Their answer, sheepishly danced around by Seelah and Irabeth until Anevia had spit it out, had been the worst thing she could think of: the truth.
‘It humanized you, Minovae! Your soul shattered because the guy you love gave up his life to save yours after you did everything you could to be a normal mortal again. Knowing that their Commander nearly died from a broken heart made you like a saint to them! Even better, now you’re both alive and are Hellknights in love. It’s like right out of a tawdry romance novel—People eat this stuff up, trust me.’
Wilcer’s lips pressed together tightly into a poorly contained smile, obviously attempting to keep down his palpable excitement.
“We’re very happy for you both. Paralictor Derenge seems as fiercely devoted a partner one could ever have. Knowing someone is looking after you as you look after all of us is quite the relief—that’s probably why you’re looking so much better so soon.”
“Ah… ahaha…”, she chuckled nervously, her tail writhing behind her so aggressively that it nearly tripped some poor bystander merely looking at the neighboring smithy’s wares. How strange it was, having lived so many years pining over a man she thought incapable of ever returning her feelings and now they’d been together for not even two full weeks and everyone seemed to know about it.
Much more, was happy to see it!
She coughed into her curled fist, fighting for a shred of composure. “I can’t give him all the credit, even as… happy as he makes me—“, her face burned even hotter, “—Sosiel and Arsinoe have worked real miracles getting me back to fighting shape. Still not cleared to wear my armor, but at least I’m allowed out of my sickbed now, yeah?”
Her smile was bright, but she could tell just how bashful it was. All her outward confidence and charm oozed out of her like a leaky barrel the very second anything regarding the Relationship became involved.
Wilcer merely chuckled himself. He waved his hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry Commander, I didn’t call you over here to interrogate you about your personal life.”
She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Good, because you might just send me back to the clerics’ care if you do”, she dryly snorted. “Anyway, what did you call me over for?”
He smirked knowingly. “Only your favorite thing: a care-package from the men.”
And, before she could interrupt him, to politely and preemptively decline as he—rightfully—expected, he whipped up a finger before her face, asking her without word to pause.
“Now, before you try and return this one, at least see it out first. I promise, this one I think you’ll be grateful to accept.”
Her lips parted, about to speak, but the way her heart was soaring left all her typical, responsible refusals behind. They had gotten her something out of concern and care, and the gesture of that alone filled her with so much relief and warmth. They deserved for her to, at the very least, know what it was.
She let her shoulders fall, and audibly sighed with a tilt of her head, though did nothing to contain her grin stretching wide. “Alright, alright. Fine. Lay it on me, then. What did you all get together that I, as your commanding officer, should responsibly decline?”
Wilcer smirked almost mischievously. There was a self-assured smugness in his demeanor that further piqued her curiosity. He was so sure that it was something she would, this time, accept?
Rubbing his hands together, he turned and stepped toward a pile of crates, where he dug around until he revealed a box that seemed to be made of solid metal, of all things. An impressive and complex looking latch kept it sealed shut, and, to her eyes, a band of strange looking material—resin?—created what might have been an airtight seal.
“Now, when we’d heard what’d happened, the men had a thought. All the clerics in the world could tend to whatever wounds or illness, but it seemed to us, that what was really ailing you was soul deep.”
She nodded inwardly. They’d been right about that, given her soul had literally shattered. Where exactly was he going with this?
“So, I asked some questions to those who know you best, because I know what tends to pick any man or woman out of the dumps.”
He grunted as he hefted up the box, signaling its weight. Wilcer was a big guy; for him to struggle to lift it suggested in her mind that the box must’ve weighed a hundred pounds. Minimum.
She stepped forward impulsively. “Hey, hey. That looks heavy as hell. Let me help—“
The empty table he sat it down on creaked beneath the weight. He merely looked at her in amusement, as polite as it was incredulous. “Forgive me for the insubordination Commander, but did you not just say you haven’t even been permitted to wear your armor yet?”
Embarrassment rippled through her. She crossed her arms as the tip of her tail rattled in frustration. A grumble under her breath confirmed his assertion. ‘Hate’ didn’t even begin to describe how exactly she felt about being so weak and helpless—but he was right. Even she would’ve probably crumpled beneath that box as she was right now.
“Anyway”, Wilcer continued, beckoning her over closer as he handily undid the complex latch. Curiosity won out over the spot of bitterness, and she stepped forward, taking a spot next to him. “We all agreed that what you could really use…”
The lid opened, and a wave of frigid air washed over her face and neck. She gasped at the sensation of it, from both not having expected it at all combined with just how cold it was. Even through the thick wool scarf—for it was winter in Sarkoris—she felt it, colder than the ambient northern winter chill.
And as she took in what exactly was in the box, that gasp left her mouth hanging open.
The walls of it were coated in ice, and on the lid was a mechanism like an ioun stone latched into place. Only, instead of emitting a transmutation aura, it radiated cold. The reason why was obvious, as the cargo in the box proper would spoil within an hour without it. Razer clams, scallops, whole squid, octopus tentacles, shrimps and prawns, sardines and pilchards, even soft-shelled crabs which shouldn’t even be in season were neatly organized in different sections of the box, filling it to the brim.
“…a meal from home”, Wilcer concluded. The pride in his warm tone was unmistakable, but she hardly noted it.
Her attention was all but enraptured with what might have been the most sincere and perfect gift she’d ever received. She stared, and stared, and stared. Even if Wilcer hadn’t said so, she knew the entire haul had come from Westcrown. This was what she’d grown up eating in the orphanage—the cheap fish like the sardines, and prawns when it was spawning season and the nobles were so sick of them that fishermen had to sell them at a discount. It was what she’d grown up smelling from the restaurants and cafes she’d dreamed of eating at as a girl, with their expensive menus featuring shellfish carefully raised and harvested just for spendy customers. It was what she’d come to enjoy as an adult anyway, a Hellknight’s salary just as good as anyone else’s despite what they’d done to the city, buying her plates of those crabs and calamari and scallops like she was some businesswoman or of noblestock.
And it was what she hadn’t been able to have in years. The closest she’d found here in the Worldwound had been the river fish and crayfish, noticeably lacking the buttery sweetness only saltwater could nurture.
Even more, her eyes, desperate to take it all in lest it disappear right in front of her, alighted upon a name. A familiar one. Martessa.
Boats adorned with that name—a family and company both—flashed in her mind. Childhood memories of watching the ships emblazoned with the Martessa crest and name came to her like it was yesterday, though she’d only been but a young girl, kicking her legs out over the water, wondering what it’d be like to be a fisherman. All she’d heard was that they were paid in coin as much as they were a portion of their haul, and that’d been all it’d taken to make her dream. She would have gladly worked for just the fish, having fallen so in love with it on the days the orphanage matrons didn’t fill their dinner bowls with concrete-like gruel. The other kids had made fun of her for it, saying that with her scales and tail, she was lucky if they didn’t mistake her for just another fish to catch and gut right there on the deck.
That’d been nearly a hundred years ago.
“…Wha… How did you…?” Her voice was shaking. She blinked and realized that tears had formed at the rim of her eyes.
Wilcer’s chuckle was a merry one. He crossed his arms and rocked onto his heels, clearly pleased with her reaction. “Well, finding out your favorite foods was easy. Your companions were only too eager to share what you’d shared with them once they found out why I was asking.”
That made sense. She’d shared colorful stories with nearly all of them about the food she missed; with Daeran when he’d complained about the meager meals here in the Crusade, and Ember when she’d asked how her own childhood had been. Seelah and Lann, too, when they’d started to talk about wine and it’d reminded her of the white wines that went so well with all her favorites. And Regill, of course. He’d been there. They’d shared tins of Martessa sardines when holed up in the siege of Rego Plea during the civil war, and he’d been a captive audience to her own ramblings as she’d tried not to crumble from the fact she was lying siege to the very streets she’d run up and down barefoot as a girl.
“Then, it turns out that one of the boys is the youngest son of an old merchant family from Westcrown. Not many of their kind survived the war, you know. Most of those that didn’t go out of business moved out of Cheliax with the Ascendancy. The Martessas, though—“, Wilcer clicked his tongue cheekily, “—were more stubborn than that.”
They were still around? Something had survived that carnage and bloodshed she’d facilitated by her own armored hands?
She nodded at him to continue, chin beginning to wobble.
“They’re not nearly as big and successful as they were back then, but enough so that they had enough heirs to risk sending one off to the Crusades. He’s done alright for himself, even became a sergeant because a certain Knight Commander rightfully dismissed his previous officer for corruption.”
A sob laughed out of her at that. That’d been Regill’s suggestion shortly after they’d taken Drezen: cut out the corrupt and promote good men of the rank and file that deserved it. Had this Martessa’s name been on that list he’d offered her? She definitely hadn’t put the connection together.
“Anyway, hearing that that same Commander had grown up in Westcrown and had a preference for the local bounty, he put in a request to home. The Martessas were only too happy, and honored I might add, to send the Knight Commander that’d broken the siege of Drezen not once, but twice, some of their best catch. Especially because she’d done so right by their boy.”
Tears were rolling down her cheeks as rain by then. She could taste it as it hit her smile, as wide as it was trembling.
“I… I can’t even imagine what a pain it was to get all this up here”, she practically whispered. It was stupid to say. Her brain couldn’t put together much more than that right then, so overwhelmed.
Wilcer, surprisingly, hummed in disagreement. “Actually, Count Arendae secured the teleportation magic that brought it up here. Said something about it ‘going to much better use than all the rose bushes he’d wasted it on before.’ Would you believe me if some of these had only been out of the water for a few hours?”
She nearly burst into teary guffaws. Daeran had learned the hard way that her heart had belonged—unknowingly even to her then with her amnesia—to someone else. That he was able to joke about it spoke to how he was now one of her closest friends. There was more, though. It would be foolish of her not to assume that he’d been more than eager to help get such fresh seafood imported up here posthaste, just as desperate as she was for the taste.
“That sounds like him”, she chucked, sniffling.
An abrupt clap, this time, did make her jump. She turned and looked up into that bearded face, beaming like it was the very sun itself. Even through the tears blurring her vision she could make out that warm expression so very clearly.
“So, Commander? Am I to send this all the way back to Westcrown?”
Her lips pressed together before breaking into a gasped, wet laugh. “I think… I think I’d have to find some reason to court-martial you if you did.”
Wilcer’s smile somehow grew even more radiant. “Good! Because the Martessas event sent along recipes, and I’ve already discussed it with the kitchen staff. They’re eager to cook something different for once and I don’t have the heart to tell them about a change in plans.”
She nearly dropped to her knees right then and there in the Drezen market. Instead, she breathed deep, and for the first time that she could remember, appreciated that she had something to look forward to. “Thank you. Just… thank you… Convey it to the men. Please. This means more to me than I think I can ever properly say.”
“You’re most welcome Commander”, he nodded. “I certainly will.”