Raising the Princess to Overcome Death-Chapter 313: The Language of Flowers
312: The Language of Flowers
/ "Yes, Brother. I gave the King the medicine," I said, and you shouted at me. But I gave you a chance. Reisia could have loved you.
Everything could have gone well."
— Excerpt from Baneca’s journal. /
+ + +
The morning of a disheveled beggar begins with a sense of unreality. Curled up against the cold, his body stirs sluggishly, and with a rough swallow of saliva mixed with grime, his eyes open.
But he doesn’t move right away.
As a habit, he takes a deep breath—one for sighing. The air that settles on the ground is clear and crisp. It is at this moment that he feels the weight of time, equal for everyone yet meaningless.
With trembling eyelids, he surveys his surroundings blankly and exhales the breath he had unwittingly drawn in.
Slowly.
He fills his empty lungs with reasons, excuses, and the absurdities of the world, and this alleviates the ache that had settled in his chest. A loud growl of hunger soon follows, sweeping away any lingering drowsiness.
Now, he is ready. Ready to live another meaningless day.
My name is Zavad.
Zavad Hohenheim.
“Hey. Ahem. Hey, get up.”
Without even getting up himself, he had become brazen enough to nudge others awake. Zavad, tapping the person next to him with his knee, promptly shut his eyes again.
*
Early in the morning, the beggars roam the market. They gather food scraps discarded from the previous night or, if lucky, those freshly tossed out. Zavad only gave directions.
Part of the reason was his twisted arm, but having been born the illegitimate son of Baron Hohenheim, receiving a high-quality education, he knew how to manage people.
Zavad occasionally sniffed and helped discern what was edible and what wasn’t, finishing his morning tasks.
As the morning wore on, the streets began to fill with people. The beggars, reading the situation, slipped into the alleyways, out of the merchants' sight. There was no benefit in angering the merchants, and besides, they had another place to be.
The north gate.
They were heading to the lake north of Orville to wash up. At this time, beggars could pass through the gates freely.
From early morning until just before noon, countless water wagons hauled water from the lake to supply the massive city, and the guards couldn't possibly check every single one.
The beggars took advantage of this.
The reason the guards turned a blind eye to them was simple: if they barred their way, the beggars would hitch rides on the water wagons, which was considered unsanitary. In the end, it was better for everyone to just let them pass.
The beggars passed through the gate with ease. Of course, they didn’t actually go all the way to the lake; they stopped midway. The lake was much farther than it seemed.
There was no point in walking for over an hour to get there. The beggars dropped their bags in an empty lot not far from the north gate. Soon enough, a few water wagons approached and came to a stop.
"Did you make good sales today?"
"Just about. Hurry up and use it."
These were wagons on their way to dump unused water.
Not all the water they hauled from the lake was sold. There was competition even in this line of work, so often, more than half of the water remained unsold. Dumping it within the city was illegal, so the wagons were headed back to the lake to dispose of it.
The water had become sticky over time.
It was hard labor to take it back to the lake, and coming and going consumed a lot of time, so this arrangement was mutually beneficial.
The beggars dragged down the water-filled barrels from the wagon and used them freely. The drivers, in the meantime, lit cigarettes and chatted with one another.
“Ah, it’s starting to get chilly.”
“Yeah. Boss, from now on, let’s come only every five days. It’s getting colder.”
Zavad, washing up like the other beggars, shrugged his shoulders.
“If you’re already saying that, what are you going to do in the winter?”
“Ah, honestly, boss, you’re a bit too muChapter Other teams come maybe once a month. There’s no need for us to come every day…”
Zavad shook his head and pointed his finger at them.
“The clothes we wear, the shoes on our feet, the blankets in our shelter—we got all of them from Mr. Obert, didn’t we? So, we have to keep our promise. Besides, there’s no harm in washing, and it’s about time we paid him a visit.”
TChapter Well, that’s true.
Some of the beggars grumbled, but Zavad coaxed them into sticking with their usual routine. Keeping the promise with Obert was important to him as well.
The Rauno Family.
There was something there. Perhaps a way to settle his long-standing grudge.
Feeling the ache in his broken, unusable arm, Zavad returned with the beggars to the execution grounds. As always, Zavad Hohenheim smelled the blood that didn’t linger.
His parents, his wife, and his relatives. His arm trembled uncontrollably before the shaking subsided.
"Let’s get on with preparing the meal."
Of course, beggars didn’t have pots or firewood. They pooled what they had scavenged and shared it. Still, Zavad made sure to select the best edible food for the beggar who could barely move, on the verge of death.
In a bad way, it was insurance.
Someday, he too would fall ill, unable to move, and he didn’t want to suffer hunger in his final moments.
Not that there was any particular purpose behind this—it was simply that beggars had no reason to be harsh to one another.
It was all scavenged anyway, so if they were going to live harshly, they would have resorted to stealing. For the beggars, it was pitiful, but that misery gave birth to a strange sense of camaraderie.
Having hungrily gobbled down their meager raw meal, one by one, the beggars lay down to rest.
The strong young orphans and youth went off to tend to their various tasks, while the rest, with their heavy stomachs, began to doze off.
Today, however, Zavad couldn’t sleep. He wandered aimlessly around the vacant lot where an execution platform once stood, briefly bothering the napping beggars, when a civilian stepped into the beggars' den.
Despite the worn-out cloak and hood covering the figure, Zavad recognized them immediately.
This person wasn’t a beggar. And moreover...
[Quest: Traitor 10/10 - {Royal Blood} ability increases by one stage.]
“You’ve been quite the talk of the town lately. What brings you here?” Zavad sensed that the time for his revenge was drawing near. The young man approaching, with slow yet wide strides, was about to stir up Zavad’s past.
“Zavad Hohenheim. The former head servant of the Tatalia royal family—what a sight you've become.”
*
“Haha.”
The owner of the chicken shop smiled brightly as he kept his hands busy.
Endless streams of customers. He was relishing the daily rush where the ingredients bought for the day were sold out within two hours.
He had sold his store in the main market.
Using the difference from the cheaper land near the southern gate's flea market, he opened a new shop, but not with the goal of making money. He wanted to study cooking.
Instead of just focusing on chicken, he opened a restaurant that handled all kinds of ingredients... but for a while, things didn’t go well.
‘Why?’—At first, he was bewildered.
Sure, he wasn’t as familiar with ingredients other than chicken, but he was still a chef. It wasn’t like the central part of Orville anymore, where wealthy patrons dined; the people in this area had modest tastes, and he was sure he could win them over.
But despite praise from some customers, even those who claimed his food was delicious would end up visiting the old lady's store next door. There was something he wasn’t getting.
What was it? He even tried the food at the neighboring shop, but he was confident his was better.
Then one day, he heard the answer from a young lady.
A charming girl wearing a light purple skirt. He didn’t even know her name yet, but she ran a shoe shop not far away.
“The food is good, but it’s unnecessarily expensive.”
“Huh? But with the cost of ingredients... I put so much effort into these dishes. That’s a bit harsh.”
“You asked for an honest opinion. And it’s not that your food is bad. It’s just that it feels like a burden because it’s too expensive. You see that grandma’s place next door? For the same price, you could eat three meals there.”
Three meals! An insult to any chef. But he had to admit, she had a point. This area of Orville wasn’t as affluent.
“I see... I’ll work on a new recipe. Would you mind coming by again tomorrow? Oh, by the way, since you work nearby, may I know your name? I’m...”
The shop owner introduced himself. The young lady chuckled softly and replied.
“Just call me Cassia.”
“Cassia... Thanks for the advice. Come back tomorrow—there’ll be something to look forward to.”
“...Sure.”
With a somewhat darkened expression, she left the shop. After that, the owner’s business took off.
He realized there was no need for overly elaborate dishes. No more superficial flourishes or intricate plating; instead, he focused on emphasizing the natural flavors of the main ingredients, avoiding heavy-handed use of spices.
As a result, his food became more flavorful, and prices dropped. Customers who had once passed by started returning.
“This is all thanks to Cassia.”
“...Is it? By the way, how long are you going to keep calling me ‘Miss Cassia’? I’d rather you just call me by my name.”
Her dark hair swayed as she spoke calmly, but the owner’s heart pounded. He realized how oblivious he’d been.
It wasn’t just him with these feelings. At this age, he never thought he’d find a match.
In his early thirties, he was already stepping into middle age.
In his youth, he had spent his time learning under a strict master. In his twenties, he worked hard to save money to open his own shop. After that, he struggled just to keep it afloat. Marriage was never even a consideration.
Had it been the same for Cassia? She had told him she was an orphan... Life couldn’t have been easy for her either.
The shop owner prepared flowers in advance.
Purple balsam, the flower she (probably) liked. When he bought them from a florist in the main market area where he used to work, the young flower seller asked him what they were for. Embarrassed by his age, the bachelor replied that it was a secret.
Soirin, the florist, casually thought, ‘Maybe he has a daughter? After all, he’s not likely planning to confess to someone at his age.’
Little did she know, balsam is perhaps the worst flower to use for a confession. But it was practical and fun to use for dyeing nails with its petals, so that was the reasoning behind it.
With a nervous heart, he stashed the flowers and spent another busy lunch hour at the shop. But during an awkward lull, a beggar walked in. Probably one from the nearby den looking for a handout. He was about to drive them away when—
“Huh?!”
“Ah! Haha! So this is where you’ve been hiding. Well... this person is with me.”
“Oh, I see.”
It was a nobleman he’d met a couple of months ago.
Why did this man always bring beggars with him? Although this one wasn’t as dirty as the last girl he brought... The owner seated them and handed over the menu.
Despite the cheap prices, the owner was proud of his dishes. With well-practiced skills, he quickly prepared the food. The two guests, who had stopped by at a time too late for lunch but too early for dinner, talked as they ate before leaving and parting ways outside.
Soon, Cassia would arrive.
Not that it mattered much, but he carefully combed his hair and straightened his chef’s hat.
Of course, it was normal for a chef's uniform to be stained with food, but he changed into a fresh one and waited anxiously. Until she, always dining alone, would arrive.
A petal from the balsam flowers quietly fell to the floor.
Chapter 313: The Language of Flowers
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