#minish!four

The morning sun hadn’t fully yet melted the dew that accumulated atop grass tips; but still, you were angry. 

There wasn’t any light in the house, not even the dull ricochet from downstairs, and you knew immediately that the fire had been doused. The tips of your toes and the ends of your fingers were cold with the chill bite of autumn. A long sigh left your body, some will to rouse leaving with it as it became quickly apparent how the cold had seeped into your joints, stiffening them past their years and leaving you longing for just five more minutes. 

Your head spun as you sat up, reeling from the stress of going to the ever-hectic market yesterday and the business of the day still to come.

You quietly thanked Hylia, for at least you wouldn’t have to return to the market. It was nothing bad, not extensively, these were the same faces and same vendors you grew up with. But the loud chatter so early and the delay on the first batches’ bake times just makes the day feel so much longer. Not to mention just how fussy people get when they have to wait an extra hour for their bread. You love bread, you own a bakery, but you don’t get why they get so grouchy.

Days where you have to go to the market are their own special punishment— just for you. Your back always hurts twice as much and the time passes at half the pace. 

The beginning of your morning was mostly lacking in frustration, aside from the loop of your apron getting caught on the door handle and the floorboards being too cold as you sleepily stumbled around. You'd told Wren last night to keep the fire in the hearth lit, especially since you didn’t make enough money to afford one of those new steam heaters. But still, the fireplace was filled with only ash when you’d finally found some slippers and made your way downstairs.

Defeated, you pushed a few logs onto the iron rod supports, watching with quiet enamor as the fire ate away at the wood. A sharp wind shakes the windows in their panes, and you curse Wren for not following the instructions you laid out, inadvertently letting your house grow cold as dying as the trees. You took a moment to settle yourself when the doorbell rang. You could forgive Wren, and you most certainly would with time. She was just a child, hardly even 13. She really didn’t know better some of the time.

 The fool currently blabbing to you, however, was old enough to know better.

Well old enough to know better.

 Ammi wasn’t usually a horrible neighbour. In fact, you’d even bargain to say she was quite nice most of the time. She made you a tart when you moved in, bought your first ever loaf of bread, burnt as its’ heels were. She nodded and waved whenever she saw you in the streets or on your front porch, and all her house parties were quiet and ended at a reasonable hour; the adeius ending before the moon could settle its place in the sky.

But in this exact moment, you wanted nothing more than to grab her by her greys and chuck her into the street.

The prominent wrinkle between her brows settled deep as she looked over you, those warm eyes suddenly feeling lacking in welcome. Her hand grabbed your shoulder, an attempt as connection and sincere, all bony as they were.

“You’d better listen now, dear! I’ve seen so, so many of them these last few weeks.” Her voice was light– well intentioned, you’re sure. But still, you couldn’t trust yourself to force any words out, and she continued.

She liked to hear herself talk at times, but the company usually didn’t feel so intrusive. It was helpful on rainy days at the market or walking back from festivals at night, to have someone to carry the conversation. Especially given your lack of excitement when it comes to conversation. Unfortunately for you, it now meant being backed into a corner, figuratively and semi-literally.

Y’know, given slamming the door in her face wasn’t generally seen as a polite ending to a conversation. 

“All you’d have to do is add some of that molasses you got for makin’ those ginger-knights and a little bit of bakin’ soda, and you’ll have all those little buggers right caught” She smiled, her smoker’s lines leading to the thin, lacquered line of her lips. She preened for a moment, proud of her discovery as you stood baffled. 

“Din give me strength-“ You pinch at your furrowed brow as if it might help, “you’re trapping picori?” You finally trust yourself to ask after a cool breath dampens the fire that lived behind your ribs. You crossed your arms as best you can manage and leaned into your doorframe. At least it managed give you the support in the absolute dumbassery that was your neighbour’s reasoning.

“Oh please!” She bats a hand at you noncommittally, dismissing your worries as silly, and the action fans the dying embers to a healthy flame, “They’re rats! It’s not as if they have feelings. And anywho, we’d be doing them a favour from such a miserable life.” She pauses at the ringing of a bell, her fat cat rubbing at her ankles, begging for her undivided attention. Ammi bends down, struggling to pick up her chunky cat.

“Much better as snacks to Luci, huh?” Her voice defaults to that baby voice that everyone unanimously decided to be used on pets, nuzzling its little nose. The zapped wires of its whiskers wasn’t screaming ‘cute baby’ as much as it was screaming feral. Ammi turns her attention back to you, and she smiles as though you’d understand. As if you’d come around eventually. Your face scrunches in distaste at the woman in front of you, and her dreaded cat.

Sure, people had to eat and animals had to be slaughtered. Such was the way of life. But glue traps, got any animal were cruel— ensuring their last moments were spent suffering and struggling for freedom they could never get. And still, they’d die of exhaustion and hunger, drawing out their pain as long as possible.

But the Picori weren’t just animals. They were innocence and kindness and hope and the light of warm childhood lingering upon such a scary existence. And this woman has the utter gall to- 

There’s the sound of wincing struggle, a hefty woosh, and a loud thud as something hits the floor with a solid smack. The vibrations move through the floorboards, even though the kitchen is a decent bit away.

“UH- Boss?!” Wren calls, light and panicky. Just like the bird. Just as innocent.

You sigh and through Ammi a look of exhaustion in the hopes that she’d get the que and back off already. Her eyes turn satisfied while she adjusts her woollen cardigan and catters something about going to the market and to save her some bread. You scoff, the only image your mind could conjure was of that cruel woman using it to lure poor, hungry animals. 

When you do reach the kitchen, you see a lot more white than there’s supposed to be.

A lot more white.

In fact, it seemed as if flour had gotten everywhere. In every corner. In every appliance.

You felt your shoulders tense in some mix of bewilderment and belligerence, the anger from before now targeting anew on the waste of what must’ve been three whole sacks of flour. 

“Look- I- I’m so sorry- I just saw you weren’t having a good morning so I thought I’d do the lifting for you since that’s your least favourite job, but they slipped and I-” She cuts herself off to finally look at you, and it seems as if her skeleton tried to jump from her skin in pure fear.

“Please- I really need this job, and I understand if you fire me but I’ll find some way to make it up! Dock my pay, I’ll work extra shifts, I’ll do anything just-”

“I’m not going to dock your pay, Wren” Your shoulders sag as the anger leaves you as empty as your fireplace. Cold as soot. She shuffles awkwardly in place, too scared to do anything else it seems. Too scared to make another mistake. 

“It’s ok, really. It happens. We make mistakes. I, much worse at your age. I’d be a hypocrite to punish you” You manage a light chuckle, and that seems to put her at ease that nothing will happen to her by your hand. “I’ll have to get more flour, so you can clean this up while I go to the market to get more.” 

“But you’ll miss sales-” 

“And I’ll miss even more if you keep fretting” Your voice holds a chaotic whimsy that returns a similar smile to her face.

“So let's get to it!” 

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The market was crisp and cold, as it usually was around mid autumn. The shades of the leaves, the burn of the air in the back of your throat, the smell of the first few batches of spiced wine, it was all beautiful.

There were less people out and about than in the spring and summer, but it was nice to have the beauty to yourself. You were alone, but you were by no means lonely. You handed over a small bag of rupees to the man from the mills and ached as you took two bags on each shoulder. The air was just cold enough to sap the warmth form your joints and leave you stiff, the journey to haul the bags back to your house now twice as arduous. You focused on anything you could to take away from the pain. The slightly wobbly cobblestones as you walk onto your street, the plumes of white smoke from chimneys of your neighbours, the rattle of brittle branches in the wind, the soft squeaking by your ankle- The what? 

You looked down towards your ankle as you stood upon the stoop and realised dully there was nothing there. Empty space. You huffed, about to kick on the door with your foot (the closest thing to a knock as you could about get), when you heard the squeaking be joined by the satanic growl of Luci. You looked over at the crooked little hellspawn before you realised that it was about to pounce upon something caught in one of Ammi’s little traps.

Holy fuck it was a Picori. 

You unceremoniously drop the flour, ironic, your previous efforts forgotten in favour of now saving your new friend. By the time you leapt from your doorstep to Ammi’s, the cat had begun to pounce, claws fully extended. Your freezing knuckles wrapped around the trap with enough time to save the small mouse from the flurry of attacks. Your knuckles were bleeding; but as you peeled back your hands to see your small friend, you saw he was unharmed.

You scurry over to your house, opening the door frantically. All the meanwhile, the small body in your hands tried everything short of biting you to get out. You try to keep your composure as you rich to the kitchen, thankful to see Wren almost finished cleaning. Her eyes don’t catch on the dripping red blood, entirely focused on the stubborn flour in the cracks of the hardware she’d set to clean. 

“Uh- I sliced my hand on the way over- would you mind taking in the bags while I dress my cut?” Your voice is too high-pitched to make the request seem unsuspicious, but she leaves without casting you a thorough glance. One of the few times you could thank her naivety. She beams a smile while throwing her tea towel over her shoulder, turning on the ball of her foot to make steadfast for the door; and so it seems that’s the last of your inspection. You set down the trap and finally get a good look at the small creature squirming about. 

He’s small of course, they all are, dressed in his own small clothes. His tunic is sewn and embroidered into quadrants, with each little seam holding its own careful pattern and detail. Among the tiny motifs you see the weaving lines of kinestones, all leading back to the clover leaves where the quadrants meet. His little feet were wrapped in little booties of surprisingly fine leather, though it was hard to see in the thickened molasses tacked over them. His fur coat was a light blonde, the hair lengthened to frame the small face in something akin to a bob. Scraping against the wood backing of the trap was a tiny sword at his back, scabbard scratching at the wood as it used all of what little might it had to try and pull free.

You can swear for just the briefest moment that you’d seen it before in some sort of folklore… but the thought escapes you before you can seem to place it.

The differences were stark from the usual picori, the whole ensemble surprisingly ornate, something you’d usually assume the wealthy might wear if they were full size garments.

“Hey…” You started, but didn’t really know where you were going with this, much less where it would end. Finally, He stopped to turn to you, giving up the struggle of pulling his mitts from the tack.  

“I know how to get you out, there’s no need to tire yourself out” You chuckle lightly, half at the way the thing squints at you in some mix of indignation and incredulousness, and half for the sheer oddity of your situation.

Most sane people don’t stand about in their kitchen trying to assure trapped magic mice, but to your defence, when he finally did cease the struggle and turn its attention upon you, his eyes were so… knowing? 

Animals were sentient, sure, but fully conscious? …That’s a stretch.

Still, both beady eyes stayed affixed on you, the tips of small ears flicking slightly whenever you'd mutter something to yourself.

Warm water would dissolve the molasses, and oil could help separate the fur while incurring as little damage as possible. Good, gentle oil was harder to come by, most of it sourced from other domains, sent through merchants and sold for the rich. You supposed olive oil could work in the pinch, so long as you rinsed it off well enough. 

Settling for that, you set the glue trap down and headed into the stores, chuckling at how the little head followed you wherever you went. You hefted up the metle container of pressed oil and poured some into one of your soup bowls, setting it back where it was, mindful to close the lid. 

Bowl of oil in hand, and surprisingly docile (surprisingly armed) magic mouse by your side, you snuck upstairs just in time to check on Wren in the doorway as she tried her best to waddle from the front to the store room with a sack of flour. Credit where it was due, you doubted you could’ve done much better than her at her age. 

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Your actual private living space was much less adorned than the downstairs area. Most working folk didn’t spend time in their private quarters. You awoke in a room with bare, white walls, in sheets that you scraped together to afford when you bought the house, and got ready with clothes weaved by hands and from wool which both were birthed and would likely die in this town.

Only those who could afford to lie in bed, or dress in clothes brought from foreign lands, would see to decorating their private quarters. Your bathing room was much similar to the rest of the private quarters, plain outside of the necessities. Sink, soap cabinet, copper basin for the water, towels hung, only what you needed. You set your little friend down and rolled up your sleeves, drawing water into the copper bath and lighting the small fire beneath it so it may warm. 

You take a moment to sigh, meaning over the bath with your forearms braced on the thick lips of the copper. You take a moment to accept how off-kilter the day had gotten from the usual routine of bread and sales. 

When you do finally lift your head, it’s to look at the picori, who stands as politely as one could when stuck in a glue trap.

“You stayin’ in those clothes?” You draw up the strength to conjure words for your audience who can't reply. He nods fervorously, to the point where the flat foundation of the glue trap begins to rock back and forth.

Beneath the golden fur, you can almost imagine the flush taking over its face by how it covers its face when it thinks you aren't looking.

You laugh, using the tips of your fingers to stop him from falling flat on his back. Would it really be flat given his back was stuck about an inch into the glue trap?

You suppose not, but it's an entertaining mental debate you’ll shelve for the next time it’s a slow day.

Now, instead, you snuff out the fire beneath the bath and pick up the trap, using your other hand to test the temperature of the water. Just warmer than lukewarm, a comfy temperature that could still dissolve all that molasses. You remove the little green hat atop its head, minding the little clack the gold bird charm makes as it’s set against your tile.

He wriggles slightly to loops its tiny chin over where your hands are cupped around him, trying his best to stay above the water. You work first massaging the warm water against the tacky sort of glue, loosening it to a sort of thicker liquid. By the time it's mostly melted, you dip one set of fingertips into the oil and massage away what’s left of the stickiness from where it's gripping onto the fur. Some gentle pressure and scraping with your nails, the majority of the sticky substance removes itself from the roots of the fur. Cleaning the clothes still on the little body and the feathery tail is actually much harder than the fur, given how the oil can stain the clothes and the delicacy of the tail. But with a dip in the warm water and some soap, most of the oil lifts from the fabric. With gentle care, you can pry the tacky board from his feet, allowing him to finally relax in your hold. Out of some minor curiosity, you use the very edge of your nail to scritch at his scalp, and are delightedly met with a choir of happy squeaks as he nuzzles into your hands.

Not long after, his large eyes flutter, sleepy after all that effort of trying to free themselves and the warmth of the water.You keep the small body tightly wrapped in your palms so they can leech of that warmth and stay cozy. And cozy it was, given how they try to burrow into you as they sleep away, one of the highest compliments. Your hand leaves for a moment to take a towel off the rack, your hand freezing halfway as the most pitiful whine leaves the form in your hands. You look down to see worried little eyes, groggy and confused as to where all the warmth went. 

“Oh shush” You grabbed the towel, slipping it over your wrist  so your hand could return to the picori in your grasp. 

“See? I have you now, you don’t need to worry” You assure quietly, hiding your amusement as he begins to make himself cozy again. You know you can’t hold him forever, unfortunately, you did need to work.

And so began the plot to find the warmest place in the house. Your sleeping quarters were above the kitchen… and with the ovens on all day, the heat would make its way up.  You nudge the door open with your hip, lest it keep squeaking at you in defiance whenever you remove your hands. You nestle the comically large bundle of towel among the pillows and watch in amusement as he cozies up against the pillows. 

All considering how immensely unprepared you were, you considered this a great success. 

You return to the bathroom to wrap up your now no longer bleeding knuckles, cursing at the little bird charm at the end of the small green hat, left discarded on the tile. Hylia- it was small but painful. You put the little hat in your pocket, laughing at the mental image of trying to explain this to someone. Oh yeah! My neighbour traps and feeds mythical rodents to her devil cat and it scratched me when I was trying to stop it.

Honestly, if you weren’t so crucial to the village, you’re sure they’d send you to a convent.

You laugh with each step down the warped wooden stairs and back into the kitchen, where Wren already began with the first batch of bread. Time passed quickly in the bakery. You always seem to get so absorbed in your work that you never realise the time passing you by. It was hardly ever now that you’d actually work baking. Wren, friendly as she was, didn't have her wits about her; and you’re certain that if she were to run sales, then every loaf of bread would be given away for free. There was nothing wrong with the front of house, but it wasn’t as if you opened a bakery because you wanted to talk to people. The conversations and the camaraderie and drama of the townsfolk were entertaining in some sense, but damn did you just like making bread. It was nice, after the hectics of the morning, to just spend your day doing something you liked, even if you had to stop every few minutes to explain to someone why their regular bread wasn’t out yet.

Late in the afternoon, after all the folks stopped by for whatever baked goods they needed, you split from cleaning the last counter to check in on the picori upstairs. The sun was fading out by now, the sky a brilliant mix of blues and pink, and you’d hate for him to just end up lost. 

Frustrated squeaking filled the quiet expanse of your bedroom as the little fiend struggled against his bindings (soft towel wrapping). You waited for him to tire himself out slightly, not particularly enthusiastic about the idea of more animal injuries. You weren’t certain of how sharp their swords could be, but you were certain that you didn’t fancy finding out if the hat was anything to go by. He lets you unwrap him from the towel, and seems fairly understanding that it’s time to go. You walk downstairs, making sure he isn’t jostled too much by the movement, and take a seat on the mossy stump a little ways back from your house. 

“Alright bud, this is it” You gently set him down, tilting your hand so he can slide off with little effort.

“Hope you enjoyed your stay, but it’s home time now” He scurries off for a few steps, tail bobbing and swishing with each step before he stops abruptly in his tracks. He turns around and pats his head, his little mitts held out to you expecting. What? Was this goodbye to them or- Oh that’s right he had a hat! 

You shuffle about in your pocket, eventually retrieving his little pointed hat, and placing it among his hands. You watched as he shuffled it about on his head, making sure the placement was perfect. Suddenly, he straightened, turning to face you, with those beady eyes bearing into you silently. Oddly, you feel a great amount of understanding between the two of you, just trying to get by and caught up in a greater web of things than you hoped. He lets out a string of squeaks you guess are supposed to make a sentence, and kneels in gratitude,regarding you for the entirety of the moment as you stand to leave. 

“Don’t even mention it” You held up a hand in dismissal of the grand gesture, pausing short when you do get an idea “well- maybe mention it to your friends. I don’t wanna see any of the rest of ya getting trapped, ok?” You raise your eyebrows expectantly, the whole embarrassment of talking to a rodent entirely out the window. Still, he nods, a pleased twinkle in his literal orbs for eyes, and scurries off to the safety of the foliage.

The next morning begins similarly to the last, lighting the fire in the hearth. Unfortunately (well, you suppose fortunately to the picori population) there’s no valid reason for you to forgo your usual work at the front of house. The first loaves of bread and savoury pastries are out when Wren arrives, the door handle nearly slamming a hole through your wall with how excited she was. You liked making bread, but this seemed like a bit much… even for her. She sets down her things and scrambles for an apron, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waits for you to finish up. 

“That’s 15 for the bread… and five for the pastry, so 20 rupees is your total” You try your best to ignore the jittering ball of energy just behind you as the old man fished for a red rupee. 

“Thank you, have a nice day now” He slides it across the counter, the small jem making little clinks against your uneven counter. He’s hardly even turned to walk away when Wren starts up.

“Ok so I know you don't really like it when I work the front but I really reeeeeaaallly want to just for today- I mean think about it it’d be really good experience and if I don’t learn now then I’ll never learn, and I’m not saying you’re a bad boss I’m just saying that my whole point of being here is to learn and I need to-” You never knew someone could talk so fast. You’ve heard bees buzz at a slower pace. 

“Take it.” Your words are blunt as you step into the back, retreating into your comfy corner away from all the people. 

“Really?!” 

“By the three- please.”

And as the hours passed, and foot traffic slowed, she was no less excited. You were half convinced that purely for the fact of her motivation alone, you’d let her run sales. 

The last tray of bread had been packaged when you finally got around to closing up. All the sourdough starters had been fed, all the floors swept, all the counters wiped. All you really had to do was count up the till and go feed the ducks before it got too dark out. The whole day passed in a flurry of familiar work. Mixing, kneading, resting, re-kneading, re-resting, glazing, baking, cooling, bagging, all mixed in a jumble of orders to the demand of the customers. And soon it’d all be don- 

“Hey boss?” Wren hung off the doorframe, a far too mischievous smile on her face to mean anything good for  you. The type of plotting smile, juvenile. 

“...What?”

“There’s a guy out here.” She looked proud of herself, as though she’d caught you among some scandal. It wasn’t the first time she’d accuse some poor bloke of catching interest in you, and you’re sure this wouldn’t be the last.  But you still failed to see why she thought it was necessary to come get you. If anything, it was more in character for her to go prying them for information. 

“Ok? Can’t you deal with him?” 

“He asked for you. Specifically” She waggled her eyebrows, the utter scandal of the situation practically confirmed in her mind. Oh how the gossip mills were… milling. You sighed, unsure of what even warrants someone asking specifically for you. Wren could be a bit much, but it's hardly anything that needs to be taken up with you. You rubbed your eyes, squinting as the thinnest stream of sunlight split from the tops of the buildings, winding down for the evening. You get a good look at the man in front of you and actually stop walking– one foot in the air and all. 

He had to look up at you, courtesy of both the slightly raised staff portion of the storefront and the fact he was short. His eyes shined in apparent amusement, complimented by the boyish smirk tugging at his lips and the challenge in his brow. The sun drifted lower and caught upon his hair, making the straw color alight to fine threads of spun gold. Unassuming at first, but all of a sudden priceless. The four quadrants of his tunic were equally as vibrant as they were yesterday and thankfully unstained by the oil, each stitch of the embroidery now visible to you. 

Holy fuck the picori was a man. 

Ok now life was just being unfair- what are you even supposed to say to that?! Screw the village sending you to the temple, you might just do it yourself at this rate. 

The man gets a kick out of your utter shock, leaning with his forearms on the display case and laughing. Besides your burnt frustration, you laughed alongside him, bracing your hands on your thighs. Your stomach burned as you laughed at the nonsensical fairytale your life had spiralled into as of late. Your cheeks burned as your eyes settled upon him again, fond as an old friend. 

“I was told you requested me?” You tease, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to heckle him. 

“No, I just wanted bread” He defends, trying to cover his tracks as best he could. 

“Mhm. Sure” You roll your eyes, “What’d you want?” You gesture to what you have left, slim as it may be. He looks about the small collection, sneaking looks at you as he does before picking a short loaf. Its rounded sourdough, filled with nuts and dried fruit, not really common outside of your village as far as you’d know.

“You sure?” You ask looking between him and the bread, “Not sure they have this where you’re from” It’s as much a dig at him being a literal rat as it is genuine question. He laughs still, cheeks reddened and eyes almighty. 

“I mean… c’mon, it’s bread. Can’t be that different, right?” He raises an eyebrow, amused by your bread gatekeeping. 

“Well… Usually, people share this over some spiced wine, dip it in n’ all that” You explain, caught off guard by just how intently he follows along, hanging off your every word. 

“Oh great.” He hods, finally, while sliding you entirely too much money. He takes the bread and a few steps back before you could stop him.

“Then we could share!” He smiles, bright and unrestrained this time, beaming with a joy that worms its way into your heart. 

“Uh- I mean we totally could, but you don't have to-” You backtrack through your explanation, not trying to force him into a date for your care.

“Great!” He nods. “It’s a date!” Oh dear. “I’ll meet you outside” Oh goddesses. 

He turns his back as he walks out of your modest storefront, and it finally hits you from where you’d seen that sword before. 

Oh goddesses.