For some reason, over time, The Oaf's aggression lowered... and I noticed him at times even trying to escape me – as if I'd dared him to try it. The sheer fucking reversal of this fine logic must have cost him a spinal disc, for bending backwards that far out. I'd stuck to my truth, and was better for it in droves. I still felt he was a threat, but he seemed distracted. That, or he might have been getting his kicks elsewhere, and was simply too impatient not to let his whims spill out all over the room. Perhaps he simply saw me as the most expendable member of the household. To someone who was taught that a man is made of his habits, it was plainly obvious what he found regular – and domestic life wasn't it. And yet, he busied himself with bragging and burnt food. He ate it messily, and then decreed I was to wash all of his dishes, even though he was only cooking for himself. Because he'd brought (an overstated) half of the home's income, he was to be treated as I'd previously described a sacred artifact: idolic, undisturbed, unforced to cooperate. Yet he showed me no such faith, nor anyone else – not even his wife, whom he regularly insulted (and then apologized to, in cyclical sport). He felt entitled to all that because he was a stove-piper, on-site, who helped assemble stoves out of sheet metal; or barrels out of metal rings and wood. The stoves were used for smelting ores from the derricks, and the barrels for transporting the black oil. The barrels were sealed with a special wax, which kept the liquid from leaking, as well as built to the tightest possible compaction to prevent the flow of air. It was impressive work, if anything should be said for the man, and he took his skills home to repair things like faucets, windows, walls, and doors. And that caught me off-guard, because I remembered he was still the person who made me feel unsafe here, in this house which was constantly his to fix. Somehow, despite every moment I felt was proof of his terrible heart, I was disarmed by mundane moments – once again forgetting the danger of my situation. The dishwater washed my hands of anger, and I once again forgot what it was for. I was blending in too well, on enemy soil. Once, I caught myself almost calling him "grandfather", which I'd been instructed to do by The Rationeer – and it boiled my fucking blood, because I'd already had a better one.

After another of The Oaf's beration sessions with the other workers, I found the sulking man as he was leaving, and said: "I know exactly how you feel – they're practically slave-drivers if not for the food. You're lucky you get to leave."
I gave him a pipe that was given to me for my 'birthday', which was absolutely not on November 24th, but was for some reason crucial to celebrate on that very day. The party had been their idea, and mostly benefited them anyway – they'd exclusively bought presents and snacks that only they themselves could enjoy, and made a show of how much they cared. Much like the shows of affection where the pair of them gruesomely kissed in the halls, making absolutely certain I was there to bear witness to their love – like an authenticator to what I knew was a lie. My guts wretched to see it, and somehow, it seemed sickly possible that they even wanted me to be jealous – for I'd no such luck finding another liar to exploit. She for his funds and home repairs, and he for the pride to show his village he was a man of responsibility and means... at least, on the surface. Wealthy though they may have been, they were of no such caliber to impress anyone. Not while dulled by their own misdeeds, and the kegs of mead I'd rolled into their scullery for them. Whenever that fact began to creep on them, The Oaf would run out to the market and buy something shiny and extravagant for his dearest. She'd scold him for spending too much, and lavish with it anyway. The metal and jewels were his way of saying he cared, but his shortage of funds for the next week's food said he hadn't thought that through. It was, as far as I could tell, the only thing he'd ever actually done for her, or anyone else: throwing his money around.
The man took the pipe meekly, uncertain because I lived in the house where all the money in the village ended up, and thanked me. It seemed he wasn't sure he was going to keep his head as long as he held onto it, and I assured him he was doing a fantastic job – The Rationeer and Oaf would probably ruin it later anyway, on their way out. The man had a beautiful wife and daughter, and the daughter I was smitten with on sight – but I was, as it turned out, too meek and uncertain as to whether or not I deserved her attention, either. For one, she was with her parents, which seemed awkward; secondly, I'd just lain with The Knight, though we weren't exclusive anyway. I was not the 'harem-keeping' type, because outside of raw fantasy and tyrants' palaces, we had another convention for webbed love: it was called 'casual dating'. All considered, I'd risk The Knight's jealousy for another loving connection that kept my heart safe from oafish intruders. Thirdly, it was because I'd been serving the foul bastards who threatened their ability to eat that night. The food our neighbors farmed couldn't reach their table without something to trade for it. Taxes were powerful, I'd learned – they could make money out of paper, which made homes out of forests, and gardens out of rolling hills. And they could keep your pantry cleaner than a glassy river stream, as if the shine of your cupboards was the only treat you deserved.
That was what they'd done to my heart, as well. It was either their rotted rations, or nothing. I chose nothing, and waited for my friend, The Knight.

After a long day's work, I'd retire to the kitchen to fry myself some eggs, chug some milk, and toast bread for a handful of berries and some honey to drizzle over them. I was eating finely, no doubt – between cattle steak, home-baked sweets, pork pasta, chicken soup, campfire roasted fish, and buckets upon buckets of fruit and yogurt, I was making The King look like a starving squatter in his own house. Living with an accountant and an oil-driller had its perks. I was looking as strong as I felt, no longer threatened by The Oaf's callous harassment, and was beginning to make even him look rather weak. But I wanted to respect the balance, so eventually, I started picking my meals more carefully, making sure not to outgrow the de-facto man of the house – even if I was certain I could handle my own against him. Or at least, in my young, thirteen-year old hubris, that was what I assumed. I still never wanted to find out, and I was still sore from the time he pushed me into the wall in front of everyone else to establish social dominance. I don't even remember what he said – just his arm on my neck. It appeared that my progress would pose a challenge, so I needed to avoid too much progress to avoid any conflict. So I hid myself in long sleeves and baggy pants, suggesting nothing of me by looks. In town, I trusted people not to gawk. Here, not so much. He was a persistent, quaking annoyance, but my bedroom was blessed with a lock to which he resentfully had no key; so I never met him in a way that wasn't supervised. The Rationeer wouldn't let him take me back abroad after she'd heard of my smashed compass, and his shack-shaking, and realized he'd been too unmanageable towards me. She gave him excuses, but she saw something was wrong... at least, part of the way. It would have to do, and her defense on my behalf was invaluable. Even when, in my private throes, I'd accidentally made too much noise, and heard him complain to her about my banging on the wall – he was unable to reach me for reproach, locked behind my bedroom door.
"Aren't we going to stop him doing that?" he whined.
I heard her reply, "Aren't you worse?"
She was a complicated person: both his accomplice at times, and my only advocate at others. Perhaps my cases gave her fuel for the rivalry she needed from him.

One day, I came back to find a room full of people I couldn't recognize. It was another holiday, I presumed, and these were The Rationeer's relatives. None of The Oaf's were close enough to attend, and neither was I – often snuck back to my room to write, or guess cards facing down. There was an advantage to The Rationeer's constant family gatherings, with people I hardly knew: someone was always there to see him on his best, and he was decidedly more preoccupied with making sure they laughed at his jokes. Nobody else was allowed to be funny except for him. Either way, he was bound to return for Arabia to farm more liquids for their barons and tycoons. Though he bragged about his role as spokesperson for the other employees, as their representative, I had a murky feeling he was overstating his helpfulness to them – because he always seemed to have a little more money than you'd expect from someone who'd just traveled home. That, and his work poisoned the land of his brethren – it was lucky they were unable to reach The New World, or they'd have done the same there already, and turned all their rivers just as black. I wondered how long that would last, given the way Silk Roads are sewn so fast.
Regardless, with him gone for another year, I was free to relax. Within months, I was back to my old ways as a vegetable-picker, and eating raw carrots to stave off the hunger pangs that came from quitting flesh. It was a mad craving, for steak, chicken, and especially fish, that demanded all of my faculties – and bred in me a lust for violence, action, and gnashing teeth. I could feel the fire in my lungs and lower belly, and it set me entirely ablaze! If I hadn't quit eating it on such a regular basis, I'd have become a wolf, or a tiger, or something far, far worse. I wasn't even sure what. I could see nothing in my dreams but pounding paws and fleeing prey for weeks. It took me a while to reason out there was a civilized way to hunt, and an uncivilized way – that kept man from eating himself, and all those around him. But I did not contain that civilization myself, so long as I was addicted to the carnal source. This made me scared of myself, and the only method of blowing off steam was to take it out on the yard. I quit cow's milk and eggs, while I was at it, just in case they carried too much of what made an animal's flesh. I still had soy milk, anyway, and The Potionist was right – it settled my stomach better.

Eventually, I began to crave more yardwork, and even impressed The Rationeer. For some reason, she'd asked that I start calling her 'Grandmother' then, and that I say 'I love you' with a hug every single night before bedtime. Like I'd earned some kind of commendation, I suppose. It was a welcome reprieve from The Oaf's harsh tyranny, who'd returned all-too soon once again. Like he was barely gone in the first place, which once more cast suspicion as to his true activities. Seeming rested, he set about to wasting resources, ruining luxuries, and consorting afar with none but the scum of the earth. His usual racket. The Rationeer made a far better Chieftan (or Chieftess), in my eyes, for keeping to her promises and focusing on the sale of their house. Even with her faults. At the same time, she had only disdain for my dietary reversal, once she realized I was getting thinner again and staying strong – to her, I suppose, it looked unnatural. Like some kind of comedy. They refused to be informed of how I'd done it, and told me "it'd never last" and that I was mad. All of my knowledge and advice, earned through years of medicinal schooling at the castle, was lost on them. They were busy with their divorce, entertaining their guests, and with their second helpings of beef stew, with gravy and biscuits.

Around the time the yard was finally finished, it was time to harvest the small, fenced garden in its far corner. I'd built wooden boxes and shoveled dirt into them for which the food to grow, and The Rationeer had made her mornings out of watering them every second day. I'd also heaped so much soil into those muddy pits they'd turned into flat, even ground. Practically at the same time, I was turning a hill into a stone sidewalk, complete with gravel beds for the trees, wood-chip beds for the bushes, and even a brick patio by the back door. The Oaf, though rarely present, had managed to build a wooden deck and a set of patio chairs for the family to lounge around in. It was the nicest thing he'd done since he'd made his return. He was forced to remain until the house had sold, and even if he left off for the oil-fields again, he was (as far as he knew) still married until the house sold. The tension was like a violin, strung with razor wire.

That was when The Collector, The Rationeer's daughter of a previous marriage, moved in. She (three children in tow) had just left a messy divorce of her own, with a man she'd called The Ogre. They'd had a house together two towns over, but he'd wasted away her goodwill and wife-hood on drugs an' whores aplenty. Just like The Oaf, he was in oil, but his task was to bring it home from ships so it could fuel lanterns and be used to start campfires. This left him almost entirely to his own devices, in a place he knew like the back of his hand; whether he was piss-drunk, fumigated, or everything in-between. The final straw was when he'd made a royal ass of himself at a child's birthday party, acting like one of their schoolyard bullies – fully blown out of his own mind like a wisp. By all his own relatives and hers, she was mightily embarrassed. The children were afraid for him, bereft of understanding for his drug-born lunacy.
Now, in fairness, The Rationeer had often used opium as a means to steal sleep from her husband, and avoid speaking to him or myself. The Oaf dabbled mostly to relieve his joints after another one of his self-grooming workout sessions. Those, by the way, were disgusting to behold, but at least kept him distracted... even if it seemed like he was grunting in my exact direction, for some sort of signal. A signal to behold his grotesque, lumpy majesty. I'd chosen not to respond, and to simply avoid eye-contact. My face couldn't have shown more disgust and apprehension if I'd tried – it was like being flexed at by a giant bearded baby, too proud of its girth and chubbiness to see its own ridiculous self for what it was. A creepy, obsessive, oversexed golem, with a vain flash behind his eyes. It made me feel like I was being cornered. Still, by the time I'd reached the other room, somehow. Gone was his care that he'd shown the wee ones – now, even they were starting to catch his fiery glare, like he'd 'held on for long enough'.