#typewriter ghost

“I thought there was a detailed account of the royal lineage stashed away in here somewhere,” he responds, and as he does so suddenly realizes this old, notoriously congested storage closet should have been the very last place he’d kept the thing. He flips over a curiously modern file folder in order to read the label, spies the large spider he has disturbed by doing so clinging to the back of it, and swiftly flips it back over again, gingerly putting it back in its place with the strictly controlled poise he’s known for. Albeit stretched over a brimming pool of anxiety just yearning to spill over.

Such an old document wouldn’t have been stored in a place like that, anyway, he reassures himself.

“Oh, that old thing.”

Natori sighs. “Yes, that old thing.”

“Probably should have kept it in a more orderly place.”

Natori’s sigh this time has more than a touch of exasperation; granted, with some directed at himself for having no other response to vent his frustration than to sigh a little harder.

“I am already aware.”

Then, silence aside from the rustling of the older of the two rifling through what looks to be a series of much earlier childhood drawings made by one charcoal-colored prince and slowing rather noticeably.

The guest had arrived just recently, bereft of an entourage or any other expected accoutrements befitting a cat of her supposed status. In fact, she had all but crashed through the stained glass ceiling of the ballroom like a furry comet, unfurling from her protective huddle and shaking off the colorful shards of broken glass before noticing she had a captive, horrified audience.

It was then, and only then, Natori was too happy to remind everyone, that she had bowed and introduced herself as the Countess Affenpinscher, distant and thrice-removed but most assuredly illustrious cousin of a well-off aunt. She offered no explanation for the mysterious spectacle of her arrival, even as slivers of colored glass upon her shoulders made the burgundy of her dress sparkle.

When Natori had shrewdly remarked he'd never heard of such a relative, she had laughed and waved it off— oh, we're a private bunch, lovely, I'm not surprised— and when she'd started to falter upon naming the kingdom she supposedly hailed from, and Natori had felt they were all on the verge of revealing her opaque secret, the king had spoken up obliviously instead, one paw curled against his cheek as he lounged contently on his throne.

I think it's gotta be the Silvervine Kingdom, babe, he'd claimed with a familiar charmed sparkle in his eyes. She's got that sphinx-y luster.

The Countess Affenpinscher had smiled winsomely upon him, a slow expression which spread across her face in a fashion that had read as uncomfortably knowing, indulgent, to the royal advisor.

Clever man, Your Majesty. It's a rare cat who can see us for the royalty we are. Perhaps you have some of that shimmering sphinx lineage yourself.

And that had settled it really. The king would hear no words to the contrary, and neither, to Natori’s confused dismay, would the Queen Persephone, smiling from behind her fan with an almost sheepish amusement which he couldn’t quite parse. But there was still one cat in the king’s court she’d yet to win over, and he was currently adjusting his glasses and squinting upon what he was starting to suspect was an unsavory doodle on an ancient manuscript, and with such intensity he might very well set it ablaze.

“I think you’re worrying over nothing,” Natoru says after a long moment of that silence.

"It may very well be nothing," Natori starts in that loud but measured tone of voice that tells her he's winding himself up for a lecture. "And she may very well mean entirely no harm to the kingdom, but it's quite conspicuous all the same and is due at least some vigilance! She must have an end goal of some sort. No one pretends to be a royal just for fun."

"The king does." Spoken with a hapless shrug and a content smile, as if she isn't exquisitely aware of the magnitude of what she's just said, but Natori most certainly is.

"...Sometimes I think you delight in being thrown out the window," he finally manages in slumped resignation after nearly a full minute of opening and closing his mouth, lost on how to respond. There’s almost a sense of pity in the way he looks at her.

"Sometimes it does liven things up a bit," Natoru answers, unbothered.

"Well! I'll not entertain your bad behavior and join you for the inevitable consequences. If I'm to be taught how to fly, I refuse to do so under an instructor utilizing sink-or-swim methods."

“You’d definitely be under him.”

Natori gleans the meaning behind her facetious comment much faster than she planned for, and retribution is regrettably swift. She doesn’t have time to dodge the rolled up sheaf of papers he’d been straightening that comes down on her head, and the suddenness of it has her head spinning a little, despite the lack of sincere enmity in Natori’s reprisal.

“Oh. I forgot you don’t appreciate good humor,” she laments with a wounded, haughty sniff.

For his part, she does catch him looking upon her with a strange kind of expression, though he soon after carries on as if nothing had happened.

“Natoru,” he begins with a great sigh, exasperated but soft, lacking the usual sharpness he employs when he is in the mood to reprove,“I do not see the humor in being characterized as an unscrupulous homewrecker, no. No doubt one day you’ll engage in some manner of mummery that manages to amuse me, but as of this present moment I’m afraid it has me quite weary.”

“Oh, that’s not ‘cause of my bad jokes, it’s because you’re always suffering twice.”

“...what?”

She pats his arm. "You worry too much, sir."

Natori doesn’t answer for a long moment, but then, after a noncommittal noise of absent disgruntlement, he murmurs, "So I've been told."

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck.”

-----------------------------------

But… alas, once more. Her courage withers. Instead, she goes back to her doleful mopping. Still, there is at least enough nerve left in her to present him with one continuing question on the topic.

"Is it... is it for the special guests?"

Natori pauses, giving her something of a searching glance. "...It is, yes." Then, after a few seconds spent appearing to think this over, he continues ringing out the bottom hem of his robe. It seems at some point while she was distracted, he’d laid the drenched towel at his feet. "I see word spreads fast through the kitchens."

To herself, she thinks that he has no idea how true that is, nor precisely how fast it truly does.

Finally satisfied with all that the towel can accomplish in drying him off (and evidently feeling his now damp robe will no longer leave any puddles as he wanders through the castle), he returns it to her. "Now, Topolina, please try to keep the mishaps to a minimum. We do have exceptional guests today, after all."

She only nods frantically, all too aware of her ears flapping up and down. To this, he gives an approving nod of his own, and then finally turns on his heel and leaves. Secure in her admittedly paltry position for at least another day, Topolina breathes a sigh of relief as she puts the mop away.

"Has anyone ever told you how attractive you are?"

Beerus knows, by the startlingly genuine way Whis smiles, the way his eyes crinkle, that what the angel is about to say is either going to embarrass him or make him wish he could shake his attendant like a condescending snow globe.

"Noo, my lord," Whis replies, right on cue. "No one has ever thought to mention it before you. I've gone my entire, woebegone life locked away in a dark room, far away from all civilized company. You've truly spoken to my anguished, forlorn little heart."

Beerus scoffs, annoyed, and leans forward, pinning Whis' hands against the bed and settling his weight on the angel's hips and middle in a way that might be threatening to anyone who didn't know him very well. "You're more trouble than you're worth, Whis. Don't think for a second I don't notice you moping when I keep my compliments to myself."

Whis laughs, eyes closing, his hands reaching upward to wrap about Beerus' wrists.

"You know me," he murmurs. "I suppose I shouldn't poke so much fun at you, then, should I?"

"No, you shouldn't."

And maybe it is a kind of subtle, slow burn of a compliment. Whis knows he is, as Earthlings like to say, easy on the eyes. The face he shows to the universe at large is quite carefully crafted by him, as painstakingly made-up as the metaphorical facade he upholds. But not in this moment, it's not. Not when his hair is mussed and falling about his face. Not when his makeup is smudged.

Not even a handful of people have seen him like this throughout his long existence. It strikes Whis in a matter of mere seconds, that he might then call his bare legs, his disheveled appearance, and the flush still adorning his face special.

He opens his eyes again, regarding Beerus with some measure of sudden clarity. The god is observing him with a rather strange expression, equal parts fading aggravation and lingering sentiment the both of them are no good at conveying.

Gently, Whis tugs his hands free, reaching up and linking his arms over Beerus' shoulders and behind his neck. The force he uses to try to pull Beerus down to him is ginger, hesitant; as expected, the god stiffens at the first intimation of strength, refusing to yield, holding himself up over Whis as obstinately as he ever is. The angel doesn't force it, his arms' hold slackening, but he knows he doesn't have to. A moment later, Beerus gives in, burying his face against the fabric of Whis' robe and his sharp shoulder.

Whis lets out a soft exhale and closes his eyes again, resting his cheek against Beerus' ears and the side of his face. He finds himself focusing on the sturdy weight of the god on top of him, feels the way Beerus' leg has wedged itself between his own as if it had been made to be there.

From there, it's simply comfortable silence between the two of them. But then...

"Whis."

"Hm?"

"Your breath is tickling my ear."

"Do you want to get up, then?"

"No, no, that won't be necessary. Just stop breathing."

The kingdom feels Lune's loss keenly, but perhaps none so noticeably as the king himself— he becomes quiet, listless. He vanishes from the kingdom's affairs, and no prodding to the contrary is enough to galvanize him back into his old life; too much pressing, in fact, and Natori learns rather harshly that he will retaliate, and violently so if he feels it necessary. But his anger remains the mercurial spark it always was— it burns itself out in seconds and then disappears as if it had only been imagined.

By the time he begins to spend long hours shut resolutely in solitude, Natori simply lets him be outside of the occasional admonition to eat or drink, the aching tenderness of his arm an effective reminder. He takes only cautious and dutiful steps in private to keep his old companion looking at least a little presentable, if he cannot nudge him into eating.

Grief is an unpredictable animal, he reasons desperately to himself sometimes. If it's more time the king needs before he can return, then he can certainly have it. Natori can endure and hold fort in the meantime. Anything, he thinks, if it means he will recover eventually.

But not everyone feels that same gentle, forlorn patience. He catches rumors sometimes, whispers which were not intended to reach him— stirrings of resentful unrest, nonchalantly-spoken rambles about aspirations of luxury and authority, and improbable jests to test the waters (waters which are looking quite captivatingly viable by the day). They can not be stifled; at best, Natori can only hope the king returns to his position before they can root themselves too firmly.

It's one particularly warm day when Natori feels he hits the ledge of what had been perhaps naive hopefulness, when it's shown to him in stark, vivid relief just how bleak the situation has become, and that frail hope is laid to rest with all the quiet resignation of the waning moon.

It had begun so conventionally, so innocuously. 

He’d led the king to a chair in his bedroom, and Claudius had followed him dutifully, in much the same unthinking, silent way an obedient and browbeaten child might.

Once, Natori recalls wishing the king might mellow some in his old age, and now he can’t help but to look upon that wish as if it had itself brought them to this state of affairs. He would give anything, now, he thinks sometimes, for the king to toss some unfortunate entertainer out a window or make some no doubt inane proclamation about Casual Fridays because he’d heard some passing mention of the same thing in the human world.

His poorly-named conversations with the king during their time together always meander, necessarily superficial and perfunctory, as Natori mentions old favorite subjects and sidles past memories of the ash-colored kitten they all so dearly miss.

Today, however, he can not seem to stop himself.

“It’s almost his birthday.”

Even saying it aloud is like a lightning rod right to his heart, but he can not help but to continue. “Do… Do you remember, sire..? That one birthday? H-He must have been only four or so at the time. You had gotten him an aquarium, but he was too young— he didn’t understand. I still remember him, even now, looking back and forth between it and you, admiring it as he tapped his little paws together—” Here he cuts himself off with a painful gulping breath. He can not go any further. If he does, he’ll break down; he’ll scream. Instead, with a steadying breath, he rubs at his face and changes topics in desperation.

Yet his newest topic ends up being of little more comfort.

"There's been some rumblings, sire," Natori says as he shakily continues to comb through the occasional mat. The king is silent still, languid. When Natori continues, his voice trembles as well despite his best efforts, prey to the helpless frustration churning away in his chest, the fresh grief which was just upturned, "They're saying there are changes coming, and I— I think they may be right to believe so. Some of our residents are growing restless, and wish to take matters into their own hands, sire. They see opportunity, understand."

Natori hesitates there, breaths shallow, thinking distantly of the too close, trailing looks he's glimpsed when their owners think he's not paying attention. Something rises in his chest then, whether it is that apprehension, or perhaps his agitated strain finally getting the better of him, and for the second time that day, he cannot help the words which next erupt from him.

"I'm— I'm frightened, sire. Please— I-I’m so afraid. This has stretched on for so long, I suppose it's little wonder they might begin to feel so bold. I-I know you don't wish to— it's... I understand perhaps it's still so soon, but... there remains still the question of succession. I cannot make that decision myself, sire, not if we can expect it to be upheld. I— we need you to come back. Please..."

The metal comb in his paws seems suddenly quite foreign and heavy, and so he sets it down on the side table and rubs hastily at his eyes with shaking paws. From there, he wanders around to the king's front, kneels before him in a beseeching way he's certain he hasn't before. Muted shame at his own weakness is evident on the proverbial horizon, but for now the trepidation he's spent too long repressing is in firm control.

"...please, Claudius," he echoes, a mournful plea which is near whispered.

Yet the king seems unmoved, taciturn, staring down at him in blank but resolute detachment.

He should have known better, Natori thinks to himself mournfully as hot tears gather in his eyes against his will— banking on his physical frailty when it comes to Claudius has never worked. The king forgets far too easily, even when emotion isn’t clouding his judgment. Never before now has Natori had the despondent thought that perhaps the king simply doesn’t care to remember.

“...answer me.” Natori is surprised by the harsh stillness of his voice. “Say something, sire.”

Claudius remains silent. That earlier frustrated emotion which had risen in his chest and churned returns, but this time it utterly boils over, just as he’d feared. From far away, Natori watches himself reach for the king with trembling, clumsy paws, gripping at his lethargic companion’s fur and all but frantically shaking him as he cries aloud, his voice broken, gasping.

“Do you understand that we will collapse without you, sire?! The castle, the kingdom, all of us who— wh-who care for you—! Th-They’re going to seize the throne and drag it all out from under you, and I daresay it’s a matter of mere days before they do..! Do something— say something..!”

It’s at the king’s continuing, obstinate silence that Natori utters an exasperated sob, gradually becoming aware of his lapse in self-restraint and the callous words he’d spoken. 

Overwhelmed by both guilt and dying, worried anger, he pushes away and hides his face in the fabric of his oversized sleeves, working futilely to get himself back under control. He’s only distracted from his stubborn tears by a very soft touch to his shoulder, feather-light and hesitant, and when he looks up to find the source (vaguely expecting to see Lune’s winsome, sympathetic smile, because he supposes his mind hasn’t been cruel enough to him already), it’s to find himself face-to-face with the king.

The ghost of his earlier forlorn hope flutters weakly… but is ultimately stamped out.

Claudius stares at him blankly for a fleeting moment, and then wordlessly moves to lay his head against the space between Natori’s neck and his shoulder, and although he does rest his paw on his advisor’s as if in reassurance, it's limply, without interest. His apathy is clear.

Natori feels quite cold; some deeply betrayed part of him wishes to pull away, but the looming separation he can now so clearly see on the near horizon keeps him where he is. He will soon stand alone. He already does. His explosive emotion from just moments ago seems now like some hazy, hard-to-comprehend dream. Perhaps because of that, he bows his head so his face may also be hidden against Claudius' shoulder, and draws him close to him for the first time.

It proves also to be the last. When the king is gone, Natori waits, and he doesn't wait for long.

They storm the castle’s rooms, and weary from grief and loss and too much time spent cultivating what has ultimately proven to be fruitless, he offers no resistance when they do.

+++

It is nearing winter, he thinks, in the human world. The sun shines warmly still in the Cat Kingdom, however, and by some equally-aching miracle, Natori remains as well. He counts down his days in silence until he loses track, and then he waits in stillness for the day when his apparent usefulness is extinguished.

It is nearing winter when he snaps out of a thick fugue to find himself alive. The air feels cold. Stale. Empty. His paws, where they've settled limply in his lap and across the chair's arms, are shaking ever so slightly in his sleeves. He is crumpled in a chair, and from the stiffness in his back, he has been there quite some time.

There are voices outside.

No— there is someone across from him, murmuring contentedly in the gloom.

Natori gradually recognizes him as Caishen, the Siamese cat's identity coming back to him in scattered pieces and indistinct interactions. An ambitious noble, unfittingly mild-mannered and retiring for his lofty, covetous goals. They'd spoken on many occasions before this, with a telling increase in frequency the longer the king's absence had persisted. He was well-spoken, persuasive, Natori had often thought to himself… and always a little too close for comfort, in a way Natori had felt reluctant to put a word to. He had often breathed a private sigh of relief once he was out of the other cat’s presence, and that he appears now to be saddled with his company without any obvious escape inspires quite little optimism in him. 

Today, Caishen seems to have brought a spotted hairbrush with him, which he is now using to gently brush through the thin fur on what Natori slowly registers as his own leg.

He's speaking.

"...ould have you reinstated—— no, raised above even your old position. Not one courtier would dare speak against you nor my decision for fear of incurring my ire, not were I in charge. A familiar, comfortable little nook for you, don't you think..?"

Here he notices Natori’s gaze on him and his movements, more clear-eyed attention than the grey cat has ever given him before today. When he continues, it's with a noticeably more roused tone. He looks up to Natori with the stifled, knowing excitement of a child on the morning of his birthday.

"Yes. I remember you back then. You worked hard, didn't you? And yet it was so, so often thrown away. Left by the wayside. I remember you then— there was a haggardness to you then that I don't see anymore. You're free. You’re free because I released you."

Natori's eyes feel warm. His throat aches.

"But to retain that freedom, that's the impasse we've arrived at. All you need do… is speak to me. Tell me what you know, and give me something compelling. I'll continue to guarantee your safety, as I've been doing, you know, no small feat considering your close ties to the last king, you must understand— and your reputation, of course. You will live comfortably, and finely, and be properly appreciated for all you've done bes—"

"...curled demurely in the palm of your hand," Natori wearily interrupts him, and he's surprised by the sound of his own voice— soft, hoarse from disuse. Unfamiliar, now.

Caishen shares his gaze just long enough for his expectant expression to darken into a scowl, after which he looks away with a disappointed tsk. He stands and starts for the door in an insulted huff, and before he leaves, turns to face his captive companion again with what seems to be a final word of warning.

"You've been more trouble than you're worth, Natori. And that's not going to change. But I want you to remember that I offered you an out."

You offered me a worthless shroud to hide the dehisced wound.

Yet, as the trackless days wear on and his implied execution never comes to pass, it becomes quite clear to him that Caishen has something more particular in mind for him, and it must extend beyond whatever inane secrets he believes he might glean from the ex-advisor. Natori isn't certain how much more time he spends lost in that dazed dream, nor how many more times the noble visits him in that time span. One particularly lucid day sees him recalling his time caring for dear ailing Claudius with a faraway stab of grief, musing on his continued survival, and coming quite abruptly to a conclusion which should already have been obvious— he is valuable.

And once that realization takes root, it’s not long at all before he understands his dilemma; he thinks back to the other cat’s gentleness, his insistent tenderness, in his mind’s eye, the sharpest it's been in quite some time. What questionable acts have taken place while he’s been metaphorically away? No more.

Somewhere, also, the bare, surface fact that he might indeed be manipulated into betraying that which remains still precious to him should he not gather his wits reignites a powerful resentment he'd not been entirely aware of harboring before now.

From there, Natori waves a proverbial farewell to the comforting fugue. He takes a deep breath, wades into the muck which has accumulated about him in his stupor, and begins walking resignedly forward.

+++

When next Caishen sees fit to visit him, he finds Natori seated bonelessly in the ragged, once-elegant chair he's been provided, staring up at the ceiling with an odd amount of intensity, rumination— attention which very quickly moves to center on him when he enters the room. Were it not for the cold hostility lining that focus, he might find the grey cat's unusual lucidity favorable.

Ever the optimist, he approaches Natori and kneels before him, pats his leg as if nothing is out of the ordinary (noting the apparent irritated twitch in Natori's expression as he does), and airily remarks, "Someone looks quite hale and hearty today." 

Then, conversationally, peering up at Natori as if they are only two old friends meeting up after a long separation,"Has your stay been comfortable? Have they treated you nicely?"

Natori narrows his eyes at him. Caishen certainly knows the answers to those questions already (as well as the fact that Natori himself doesn't), so he doesn't bother providing his own, instead moving his gaze pointedly away. 

"Is there anything I can get you?"

An offer which the both of them know cannot be genuine; again Natori remains silent and pays him little mind. It's there that Caishen sighs with affected exasperation in response, as if he is the long-suffering parent doing their best to cajole an uncooperative child into sharing a toy or finishing off a detested vegetable. He pushes himself up to a standing position, now staring down at his companion with a bemused smile.

"You're finally lucid enough for proper conversation, and you still choose the path of petulant reticence. You can't ignore me forever, now."

Natori scowls lightly despite himself.

A tsk. "I'm not so bad, you know. And I only have your best interests at heart. Which is more than I could say for yourself, if this pathological stubbornness you've been so committed to is anything to judge by."

"...I'm not going to give you what you want." It's quiet, but spoken with the weary resolution of the steadfast bastion Natori feels he's been reduced to. Just as obstinately, he also doesn't raise his eyes to meet his companion's, still gazing into the shrouded corner to his right.

"You don't even know what I want, dear," Caishen responds gently, unfazed, and right then and there Natori is abruptly aware of how much he detests the softness with which this cat is intent on treating him. Having pulled the same tricks and tactics countless times in his lifetime as advisor to a temperamental king, he's not at all fooled nor made docile by them, and the very idea this condescending noble might assume otherwise irks him.

Perhaps because of this, his tone is quite biting and icy when he replies in kind, and he makes no effort to temper or retract his words. He finally locks eyes with the other cat, too, just to sharpen his point, to leave no room for doubts. "You could desire your own undoing, Caishen, and I still wouldn't give it to you."

There's little change in Caishen's outward demeanor— only a tightening in his jaw, the barest glimpse of teeth, and a coldness to rival Natori's own.

"Well," he finally says, brisk and chagrined. "We'll see what you end up giving to me."

Natori flashes him a brittle, wan smile, but in the end he chooses not to offer his own dispute. He is not an aggressive creature, but he most certainly can be a mercilessly stubborn one, and the other cat will learn that even more emphatically in due time.

Caishen does not call him ‘dear’ again.

+++

He has no evident place in the kingdom, not anymore. He supposes it's little surprise. Outside of a select few who know otherwise, most he imagines are likely to assume he'd met a grim fate at the hands of zealous nobles. Yet to have subtly vanished in such a way leaves him uncertain how to feel overall.

Strange, too, to have gone from near sole executive to secluded ghost story in only a matter of hours. He wakes occasionally with a start, certain with the persistent haze of the dream world that he has abandoned an important task, that he has left the king, or Lune, or sometimes even his sisters too long without guidance, and always he will come to in this unadorned room alone. He aches terribly sometimes. He presses his paws firmly against his eyes sometimes, so that he doesn’t stare too deeply into that yawning despair.

The bedroom he's been confined to is small, similar to the one he'd called his own throughout his residence here. He thinks it must have once belonged to a handful of servants before all this. It would have been decorated and enveloped in various personal effects then, awash in countless minuscule signs of life and history and love. Now it is bare, dark, and crumbling, home only to an old chair and a thin bed.

Natori spends most of his time pacing wearily from one end of the room to the other, lingering occasionally before the boarded window to peek out at the kingdom he will most likely never see unobscured by those shutters again. But that also aches relentlessly, so he begins avoiding the window. The gaps are too small to see much of anything anyway; even the sunlight seems to find it difficult to penetrate them.

Staunchly avoided also are thoughts of family; he hopes they are safe, that they will forgive him for his most likely fatal obstinance, and then quite mechanically moves on.

And Caishen continues to visit him. He talks to Natori, tells him stories of questionable veracity about the state of the kingdom, its victories and its beauties, how dreadfully hard he is working against those other nefarious, power-hungry nobles to get his own way (a goal which is exceedingly benevolent, of course). He seems to find particular amusement in combing through Natori’s fur as he speaks, and the once advisor puts together quite swiftly that his own feelings on the matter are of meager significance. If Natori is standing when he arrives, he will insistently entreat him to sit, to rest, and if still he stonily refuses, Caishen will none-too-gently wrest him there himself with that ever-present grim tolerance of a put-upon parent tending to his unruly toddler.

Natori will stare up at the darkened ceiling, numb but for the roiling sense of resentment and revulsion, and silently pick apart Caishen’s words in the same manner as a seasoned critic. He will unwillingly remember his own stint as faithful attendant for Claudius as he’d declined, and feel as if the hot contempt it sparks within him might burn him down from the inside out. He had looked after the previous king out of earnest devotion, out of love, much as it aches to admit it. He’d wanted nothing more than for the king’s recovery, and he had wept quite sincerely in his own time when the fact that that recovery never would come about finally became unequivocally evident. That Caishen might believe his own intentions are in any way comparable leaves a sharply bitter taste in his mouth.

It's one such trying day when the Siamese cat brings to him an ostensible gift— a richly-colored maroon changshan, not entirely unlike the one Natori is presently clad in. When it catches the meager sunlight, he glimpses the looping pattern which sprawls idly across the glossy silk. There are floral designs stitched onto the sleeves' black trims. He has hazy memories of once wearing something similar for another of Lune's birthday celebrations (albeit markedly more worn), and the memory, muddled as it is, still scalds him like a hot iron, and he flinches away on instinct.

Without lifting his gaze from the fabric, mildly he asks, "Does my appearance perturb you..? Too starkly haggard for your taste, perhaps?" When he does finally look to Caishen, it's with a hooded, austere gaze. Something about that word picks futilely at an indistinct memory from their early days together; somewhere Natori knows using it in such a way will irk his companion. "You seem to be laboring still under the delusion that I'm only a wayward guest."

The smile Caishen gives him is urbane enough, but frustrated, irritated, and Natori realizes he finds some passive-aggressive pleasure in prompting that reaction from one he despises so immensely.

"It has nothing to do with me," the other cat eventually responds, laying the material across Natori's seated form as if to assure himself it will be the right size. Natori raises no efforts to help him, gaze wandering instead to the window again, where his eyes eventually droop shut. "It's for your own sake. Think of it as... mm, a very small piece of dignity given back to you."

Then, as he lifts one of Natori's limp arms to gauge how long the sleeves of the changshan will be on him, he adds, "I can't imagine you would be all that enthused by the prospect of attending the upcoming coronation in this old thing." A disdainful pluck at the high collar of his current threadbare attire.

Natori feels as though he's been dropped into a vat of ice water, and the jolt this news has given him quite clearly doesn't pass Caishen by, if his crooked, knowing smile is anything to go by. He glances from his work to Natori’s face with a cursory interest, before he straightens to inspect the changshan’s overall length.

"Yes. A sovereign has been decided upon. You will never guess who it is."

Exactly how long has he been confined to this room? Natori wonders dizzily to himself in a feverish frenzy. It frustrates and alarms him even more than he could have imagined to be unable to differentiate what time has passed, his memory still stubbornly, permanently, shrouded in a fog he can not hope to ever penetrate.

Yet despite his fractured, hazy recollections of his past… while, he's very close to certain it's not been nearly long enough for Caishen to have secured his position so firmly.

Somewhere distant, there begins a panicking dread, frantically picking through the conversations he does recall, fearing he may have cracked after all, yet he thankfully comes up empty-handed.

What underhanded, unscrupulous manipulations must Caishen have undertaken in his pursuit, to have risen so rapidly to triumph over the others?

How long has he been confined..?

“...already..?”

“Already, you ask? It’s not been a mere eyeblink, now. Let’s not go minimizing my hard work.”

The fatigue he's been staving off now for some trackless eternity finally overwhelms him; Natori is certain he must look much like a tired, wilting plant— the lame beast which has finally found itself facing down the barrel that will end its torment— and can not find the drive to work to obscure it.

"...then what do you still need me for..?" It's fainter than he'd expected, mournful and weary.

Caishen, by contrast, only gives a pensive hum, having moved on to measuring the body of the new robe across Natori's thin frame (thinner now than Caishen remembers it being; silently he makes a note to inquire about his little jewel’s meal allowances when next he speaks with the chef). "No one has ever said anything about need, Natori. You’re here because I want you here, and my mind has yet to change on that front— despite your best efforts, of course."

As much as he wants to plead for that finishing gunshot he'd been so certain was right on the horizon, or argue that Caishen has indeed implied his necessity to his goals many times, Natori falls silent and turns his head away in defeat.

+++

Despite Natori's vain attempts to otherwise remain cognizant of his surroundings, the coronation passes in rather disjointed chunks of hazy time; he is moved from place to place seemingly without logic, in erratic ways he can not altogether grasp. He recalls being led to a cushioned seat decorated with a veil and an opaque strip of red fabric spilling over its edges, and that the proceedings had seemed unbearably long, and then suddenly comes to some time later sitting slouched languidly in a different chair some short distance from Caishen. The Siamese is chatting amiably with another handful of nobles like himself, but Natori glimpses flashes of bitterness and umbrage among them all, a second-long lapse in a smile here, a surreptitious flex of the claws there. It’s telling, particularly when those gestures of suspicion and disdain dwell on him.

To himself he thinks that Caishen’s succession is not nearly as ironclad as he would prefer Natori to believe, and again his own suspicions regarding the speed at which it was obtained resurface. As well, and of perhaps more pressing significance, his own continuing survival appears to be a matter of contention.

He remembers Caishen's original 'offer', that proclamation that he would so gallantly protect Natori from the wrath of the other nobles if he would only cooperate, and wonders if the Siamese is primed to follow through on that promise.

Someone sneezes beside him.

There's a guard there, he notices belatedly. When Natori twists in startled alarm to survey him, he recognizes the cat's face with another twitch. Vino, if he recalls correctly. He'd been a young cat the last time Natori had seen him, new to the kingdom and his position among the guards, eager but markedly careless. On more than one occasion, Natori had thoughtlessly reached for his arm (or his tail, in one notable instance) in the hopes of stopping him in his tracks as he’d set off for a confrontation for which he had little hope of emerging victorious. 

At the time, Natori had found the parallel in their respective impulsive behaviors rather amusing, if a little revealing.

Now, however, those memories of kinder, brighter days which come to him unbidden, unwelcome, with the distinct lingering contentment of tranquil dreams, bring also a potent sorrow to the surface, and for a fleeting few instants, he is certain he’s drowning above water.

“Um— h… hey, are you doing okay..?” Uneasy words accompanied by a tentative, feather-light touch to the side of his face, and Natori feels as though he crashes headfirst back into the present. Vino had settled in the chair beside him at some point, and now sits staring at him as if terrified he’d broken him. When he sees the awareness filter back into Natori’s expression, he removes his paw and sets it in his lap.

Here Natori is suddenly uncomfortably aware of both his swimming vision and the wet fur about his eyes, and he hastily rubs at his face once it registers just what had transpired in his split-second collapse.

“Sorry,” Vino says awkwardly in the meantime with a shrug and a long sniff, rubbing at his grey nose casually. “Didn’t mean to scare you like that. If I’d known you were dozing, I would have taken more care to smother it. I mean, you know, for all the good it’d done.”

“...no,” Natori finally manages, muted and hoarse. “No, you’re fine.”

Then, after a good stretch of silence between them, Natori slowly becomes aware of the fact Vino seems to wish to tell him something, uncertain gaze moving back and forth between the mingling courtiers out in front of them and Natori at his right. Eventually, once Natori turns his own half-lidded gaze to him and stares impassively without blinking, Vino clears his throat and comes clean, so to speak.

“I— um, I didn’t know you were still— er, around, you know? Not until tonight, when that guy asked me to look after you.”

Sitting straightly is proving to be quite tiring; Natori’s posture slackens, and he moves his despondent gaze from Vino to the ceiling.

“I won’t hold it against you,” he murmurs. “Doubtless you’re far from the only one.”

There Natori frowns, however, even as his attention remains fixed on some indeterminate spot above him. “...Did you say he asked you to look after me..?”

“Huh? Oh— yeah, he did. His words, exactly, not mine.”

To that, Natori doesn’t respond, but it’s no great feat of brainpower for him to glean that Vino’s presence is not for mere companionship, nor is it intended as a safeguard to foil any escape attempts— no. His current companion has been tasked with shadowing his unsteady steps as protection against the other nobles, and something about that knowledge leaves Natori quite agitated, in a way he can’t quite comprehend.

“...You know, also,” Vino begins unexpectedly, startling his ‘charge’ yet again, “I’m, uh, guessing since most of us didn’t know you were still around, you’re probably not all that up-to-date on everyone else’s situations, huh..?”

It takes Natori a minute to catch on, but once he does, all of his attention is on Vino.

“Who..?” He all but croaks.

Vino seems surprised by Natori’s keen interest, blinking once with his ears pinned back, but he recovers soon enough, looking to the side with a cough.

“Uh— well, Natoru, for one, I guess? Not that I know her exact condition and whereabouts, but… I can make an educated guess, you know?”

“How is she? She’s safe..?”

Vino nods at him, just once, with a blink. “I think so. I last saw her disappearing through the tower’s portal. As far as I know, she’s still out and about in the human world. I dunno what she’s doing there, though. Probably enjoying the street food or something.”

Natori feels his drained expression shakily quirk up into a smile at that familiar sentiment, an instinct he hasn’t felt in what suddenly seems like decades. Something about the idea of Natoru so characteristically chasing after the human’s street food heartens him, even as tears cloud his eyesight again.

“A-And my sisters..? Their families? Have you seen them? Are they well?” He hears himself asking, as well, though even as he says it, the amount of optimism he feels over receiving a conclusive answer dims.

As expected, here Vino shrinks, ears flattening only slightly. “Oh— sorry, sir, I don’t know that. I wasn’t even aware you had sisters before now.”

The potent mixture of yawning disappointment and regret which opens up at this admission almost winds him, but Natori manages a sigh instead, closing his eyes with a nod and a twitching smile which is threatening to shift to a tearful grimace.

“No, I understand. Not… not many I worked with then knew about them, I believe.” A helpless laugh, one he must cut off prematurely lest it dissolve into a sob.

“Vino.”

Natori jumps quite dramatically, but Vino only turns his attention out to the newcomer to their ongoing conversation with the same informal, unconcerned energy of a teenager. It’s Caishen, and he’s gazing upon the two of them with a not altogether kind look. Vino seems to realize belatedly that he is perhaps inappropriately sitting beside his charge as if the two are nothing more than a pair of old wives trading gossip, and he is quick to stand… though his posture remains rather slouched.

“Quite dutiful of you to keep Natori company, as I asked you to. Your service is no longer necessary, however. I will accompany him the rest of the night. So you are dismissed.”

Vino straightens with a brisk nod. “You got it, sir. Let me know if you need me again.”

“I will.”

It’s there he leaves the two of them, glancing back only once before wandering out the banquet hall’s door and into the hallway. Caishen waves to him, a motion that almost seems to double as a gesture shooing him away, and then, after contemplating Natori for a long moment, sits in the now vacated chair beside him with the decorum of the sovereign he’s been allowed to believe he is. From there, it’s a long stretch of silence, Caishen gazing out at the few remaining stragglers, and Natori doing much the same, but with a blankness which makes it clear he’s not entirely present.

“What charming conversation did the two of you have, to have elicited such a smile from you?” Caishen eventually asks, and although his words are pleasant enough, the cool stiffness of his tone is unmistakable.

Natori, sensing all too familiar warning signals and thinking distantly of young Vino becoming a far-too-artless target of the other cat’s ire, responds offhandedly… but carefully. “It was too short to be a conversation. He told me a joke.”

“Oh? It must have been quite a joke, then. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you smile, and I’ve known you quite some time, haven’t I?”

“It was a very good joke,” Natori says, clipped, gaze dropping so typically to the floor, as if the ongoing exchange is tiring him. “It was one I’ve never heard before.”

“Is that so.” Caishen is losing his patience. The mask of affability is showing some cracks. “Am I to be let in on this secret, or shall I simply have to languish forever with the unsolved mystery of some humble guard’s marvelously clever wit?”

“...The man who created the umbrella was originally going to name it simply the ‘brella.’ But he hesitated.”

It’s clear to Natori that Caishen is not impressed by his last-second substitution, though one corner of his dark muzzle remains curved in evident amusement (or exasperation, perhaps). He stands quite abruptly, pulling Natori up into a similar standing position by the paws, and then tugs him into a brisk walk beside him toward the same exit Vino had just disappeared through. Natori stumbles some, resorting to clinging to his companion’s arm with a sharp stab of fleeting hatred. Caishen most certainly would have known this pace would be difficult for him to maintain, particularly given the floor-length robe the cat has seen fit to dress him in. Distantly, Natori realizes he couldn’t have fled from the scene even if he wanted to, not with his legs so bound.

“I had no idea that your sense of humor was so vapid, Natori. Seems a shame to me.”

“If I didn’t know better, I might believe you were feeling some measure of jealousy,” Natori eventually remarks as they move into the hall. Nonchalantly, flatly, he also adds, “I imagine it must sting a great deal, after all, to have never brought a smile to one you proclaim to hold so dearly.”

Caishen’s grip on his arm tightens noticeably, to a painful degree (Natori can’t help but to gasp feebly, on old instinct he doesn’t wish to reveal the roots of); the corresponding smile the noble intends as genuine shows far too many teeth to successfully conceal his fury. His voice, as well, resonates taut and cold.

“Shall I tell you an amusing joke of my own, then..?”

“You may try.”

“My joke is about a child,” Caishen continues glibly. “This child accompanied by a man deep within the unforgiving woods. Certainly, not an ideal situation for this child, don’t you think? Well, he doesn’t think so, either. And the woods are so terribly dark. He complains to his escort, then, perhaps in the misguided belief to do so might inspire some mercy within him. Isn’t that charming? How silly of him. ‘This is a forbidding place,’ he says, ‘and it scares me, sir.’ Do you know what the man said back to him, then, Natori..?”

“No.”

“Why, as most likely expected, he admonished his young companion, as this eerie scenario wouldn’t have been necessary had the child simply done as he was told. And then he says ‘Besides, how do you think I feel? I shall have to walk back through here alone.’”

In the silence which settles after the conclusion of this ‘joke’, Natori eventually mumbles, “So much for your unconditional love.”

“Unconditional love is a fallacy, Natori,” Caishen responds smoothly. “And I have never promised it to you.”

To that, Natori has no response; his gaze moves again to the floor, to his concealed feet buried within the folds of this ridiculous outfit.

“No doubt you’ve deluded yourself into believing that slavish devotion you once heaped upon our last king was, in fact, a kind of unconditional love, but we both know now that simply isn’t true… don’t we?” Caishen goes on with too much relish for Natori’s liking.

It feels now as if it’s been quite some time since he had been removed from his position of tacit authority, that senseless stretch of time when he had spent his days numb and detached, oblivious to the chaos he’d eventually awoken to. Between Caishen’s needling words and his continuing touch, the way he squeezes Natori’s paw as if he is offering support through an interminable, onerous trial, Natori is beset suddenly by the powerful urge to succumb to that unfeeling languor again and this time never resurface. 

"...he wasn't the only one I was devoted to," Natori murmurs, subdued, regretting the words the very second they leave his tongue. He turns his head away.

At this, Caishen stops, looks him over with a searching, almost pitying, curiosity.

“Is that so..? Why, pray tell, what other no-doubt undeserving soul found themselves the recipient of your boundless obedience?”

“Do what you do best and jump to your own witless conclusions,” Natori says lowly, already curling in on himself in an effort to emotionally exit the conversation.

Caishen again grips his arm too tight, this time yanking him closer to him as they come upon the door to an outside balcony. 

“Another secret, I see. Well, I’ll be acquainted with them all someday. In fact, I have quite the secret for you now, Natori, dear.”

The pet name still rankles, even after all this time.

[ i can’t for the life of me remember where this was going to go rip i think i might have had some vague idea of caishen showing natori like vino’s execution or something but it seemed too dark and mean-spirited lmao and then i had nothing to replace it with and i was too burnt out to figure out how to rework it orz ]

[ there’s also some connecting stuff through here about natori being moved to a different room and Stuff Like That, but the main thing is that somehow he comes face to face with yuki, who he recognizes bc this fic was meant to go the ‘lune and yuki’ were childhood friends route :v ]

It’s another familiar face, although this one elicits perhaps a touch more pain than the last— too intimately connected to young Lune for Natori to remain comfortably detached from the loss as he has been for so long. 

As well, Yuki’s appearance tells him that whatever the life she’s been leading in the time since the kingdom’s collapse, it’s been an invariably arduous experience, and he finds himself distantly pained looking upon her. From the subdued pity he sees reflected back at him in her own expression, however, he can only assume he must look rather careworn, as well. (And what an odd thought that is. How long has it been since he had access to a mirror..? Suddenly, he’s aware that he scarcely remembers his own face.)

It’s only the distant crash of something and some clamorous voices which shakes them out of their shared stupor— Natori peers down the hallway to the source of the noise briefly, gesturing for Yuki to enter the room behind him. She wastes no time in doing so, and he hastily closes the door behind her. 

When he turns, he notices first that she is gazing hungrily upon the plate of fish he’d been too heartsick to eat, the one which is still sitting forlornly abandoned on the lavish bed. Gesturing with old, stilted manners to it, Natori stammers, “Please— take as much as you want—”

Yuki doesn’t hesitate.

It’s as Natori anxiously watches her wolf down his untouched breakfast, settling in his usual seat as he does, that he eventually and hesitantly speaks up. “...Is it… quite harsh outside..? I, ah, assume it’s where you’ve come from.”

Yuki nods, though her attention doesn’t waver from the food. She speaks still with the same soft, sweet voice, even when it’s around a mouthful of cold fish, breathless and brisk.

“It’s hard. There’s not much food, and everyone is always hungry. And sometimes… sometimes people do wicked things to get it.”

“Ah. I was afraid of that.”

“..and you..?” Here Natori sees the faintest glimmer of suspicion in her eyes as she looks up from the plate, and he can not find even a bare speck of insult within himself for it. He looks to his folded paws.

“...I’ve been, ah, made into something of a special interest, it seems. Someone has argued against my inclusion into the ranks of the deceased in the hopes of—” He hesitates only briefly. “—the hopes of uncovering whatever absurd secrets about our last king he’s certain I’m holding on to.”

“Are there any..?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Natori replies, in a firm tone which is perhaps the closest he’s come to his old formality in quite some time. “The answer remains the same regardless.”

Yuki doesn’t respond, and the conversation fades.

[ something more was meant to happen through here-- i really wanted to write the two of them reminiscing or cheering each other a Tiny Amount or something but i’ve just run out of steam lies down they make plans to sort of meet again whenever yuki can manage it and discuss secret signs, etc, as natori is happy to provide her with some food, at least, and she can give him info on what’s going on Outside. but she never does return 

instead here we have the beginning of the end ]

He thinks his heart is starting to beat harder every day. Sorrow and worry weigh heavily on him; old grief sits undigested deep within him somewhere, and he’s certain with each day that passes it sinks further, reaches with sharp, inky little tendrils and plants itself deeper. The nebulous comfort of his once fugue calls to him now with more determination than ever.

Caishen still comes to tell him stories, but Natori finds himself unable to focus on them as he once did. He thinks, if nothing else, that if he doesn’t speak or speaks only very little, then he can not betray what he loves, not even when he drifts against his will. 

He thinks often of kinder days, sweeter days— sneaking away at odd intervals to steal naps in the sun, when the eternal noontime of the kingdom felt less like an unending eternity and more like a brimming, warm drink. He will reminisce on birthday celebrations, and impulsive outings to Little Sister Lake, and quiet work in the study, even as each one distantly wounds him. He claws at them in the way a drowning man might desperately cling to some floating, flimsy wreckage.

“I have something for you, dear,” Caishen says today, in an almost lilting tone. Natori can not say how long they’ve shared the room, and he makes no move to flinch away when the other cat kneels before him with what seems to be a bundle of objects clutched closely to himself. 

“I’ve been saving these for some time now,“ the other cat continues, and it’s there Natori notices something inexplicably strange in his voice and manner, the near lilting aside. He is… excited. Had he the energy to be wary, Natori might have braced himself.

It’s another gift, but this one expresses quite a different message than the silky qipao Caishen had originally bestowed upon him. Natori’s indolent gaze moves over the cluster of items the Siamese holds out before him (a gathering of peonies and a poppy-like bloom Natori doesn’t recognize lying upon a crystalline platter, surrounded by a handful of scattered pomegranate arils, an ornately-decorated red veil with a pearly sheen, a wine bottle wrapped too loosely in twine and ribbon), and a sickened dread in the pit of his stomach grows infinitely more pressing with each one that’s identified, until he is shaking. 

Yet it’s only the look he spies upon Caishen’s face, the unmistakable glow of anticipation and unhinged eagerness in his expression, and the burgeoning realization then that there’s any optimism that he might accept this proposition, which proves to be the hardest to swallow.

Natori straightens in his seat without realizing it, reaching first for the platter with a mechanical manner that his companion misses— not only does Caishen’s expression perk noticeably, but he sets the wine to the side and gently tosses the veil over Natori’s head, smoothing it into place with shaky, fumbling paws so that it frames the once advisor’s face. The look in his eyes seems glazed, far away, as he works, and when he speaks, that same dazed excitement permeates his tone as well.

“I knew it would happen this way, dear— I knew I was charming you, slowly but surely. I knew— oh, I knew if I only kept at it, then I could win you over. You would admit your feelings. You would yield to me.”

Natori looks from the plate of seeds and the bouquet in his lap to Caishen, studying his face with a numbness he knows must make him look quite cold, forbidding. 

“I would yield to you.”

Natori’s eyes narrow, and he pulls himself up to sit even straighter yet, but those are the only warnings Caishen gets. With a sudden invigorating sense of insult Natori won’t, can’t, ignore, he raises the platter in his paws, nearly to Caishen’s own eye level, and then simply lets go of it. The shattering crash of it hitting the ground and splintering into pieces strikes Natori as a deafening boom. 

It seems to take Caishen an aggravatingly long time to register just what has happened, what message Natori intends to send, but it’s unmistakable once it does— his hopeful, manic expression crumbles, darkens, and he twitches away as if he’s been struck in the face with an exposed wire. The ugly scowl he’s left with is quite a far cry from his giddy excitement from just seconds earlier.

“You— you’re such a— you’re so infuriatingly, needlessly stubborn, Natori..!” His name hissed like a dirty word, practically mangled with enough contempt to show just what he thinks of the old cat. “I was charming you—! I’ve gotten through to you! I’m certain I have!!”

“Who could be charmed by a snake?” Natori isn’t altogether sure where his sudden sharp tongue is coming from, but he does little to rein it in.

“This is why you’re here,” Caishen continues then in a low snarl, towering over Natori’s seated form after kicking the remains of the platter away; he rests his paws against the arms of Natori’s chair, settling his weight into the menacing position in a manner noticeably reminiscent of the predator they both are, forcing Natori to lean against the back again lest they be nose to nose. “You were always so devoted, so concerned with him that you ignored and belittled every other opportunity to find love for yourself. And look where it’s gotten you. Old, bitter, and all alone. And he didn’t even feel the same, did he? The prince entertains one little fatal dance with a human’s truck, and he fades away and leaves you here because you weren’t enough.”

Natori can scarcely breathe. This is too much, the one transgression he can not bring himself to abide nor forgive.

It isn’t enough to present him with an offering of items so cloaked in covetous symbolism yet twisted beyond their original sentiments, sentiments he had once quite admired, and behind which lies binding obligation. And it isn’t enough for the other to assume he might feel some ridiculous resentment over Claudius valuing him less than his own son. No, Caishen must also dig his intrusive little fingers into past wounds, pull out staples and unravel stitches until he can study the raw gore within, and then chide his victim for screaming. Between this jab and his vicious reminder of Lune's fate, Natori finally feels his fortitude dissolve. Finally, the tears come.

"...Yes, I loved him," he says, and he's surprised by the great tremble in his words, though in hindsight he supposes he shouldn’t be. "I loved him uncontrollably! I spent the greater part of my life by his side, and he will never know just how dearly I cared for him. Neither of them will." He doesn't remember when he'd covered his face, but although it does well to obscure his tears, it isn't so efficient at masking shuddering breaths. He can't recall the last time he was this distraught, the last time he'd lost his composure to such a profound degree; his voice sounds like that of a stranger's in his ears. 

"There is nothing you can offer me that will ever overcome that monstrous wound— no wealth, no privilege, not another, and most certainly not you—" Practically spat out like poison, and he hopes beyond hope that it burns Caishen like the vindictive acid it is. "And the sooner you come to terms with it, the sooner we can end this ludicrous charade—!"

In the silence which settles after his second outburst in the span of a few minutes, as he tries in vain to regain his composure, Natori feels acutely that his value lies shattered across the metaphorical floor like the splinters of the crystal platter beneath their feet. This is it, he can feel it. This is when he finally meets his end.

There is something quite gaunt, wounded, perhaps, in Caishen's face. A bubbling rage behind his usual cool anger; something finally breaking loose. He's still and cold for only a fraught moment. When he crosses the distance between them in seconds, Natori is unsurprised, yet still had made no attempt to evade him. He's never been a fighter, always more content to talk or flee, and he stands little chance of victory against a younger, fitter cat, no matter how few years truly separate them. Caishen easily shoves him to the ground with a hissing snarl, all bared teeth and injured, furious pride, and when he speaks, it's with the unhinged ferocity of an animal denied its true nature for too long.

"Then I would make you..! I would make you! I would bind you to my side with shackles if I had to, and you would come to love me..!"

Natori had been listlessly resigned to his final fate, looking upon Caishen with a tearful but wearied gaze, until he'd uttered that foolishness. Until he’d become quite explicitly aware of their arrangement, the way he is pinned to the ground like a lifeless specimen soon to be dissected. Rage, the likes of which he hasn't felt in recent or distant memory, which overshadows even both his outbursts from just moments earlier, and an overwhelming sense of revulsion flood his senses in an instant. From seemingly far away he watches himself rear his paw back, claws unsheathed, and strike Caishen's face with a viscerally satisfying impact. He digs his claws in until they catch in whatever flesh he can find, until it takes all his withered strength to drag them through.

Caishen yowls in startled pain, jerking backwards and falling clumsily to the side. Natori clambers out from under him, scrambling for the door with the desperate blindness of an injured hare. 

He doesn't make it far.

Caishen catches him by the ankle and sends him crashing to the floor again, and when Natori rolls over in a panicked effort to kick him off, he only scarcely glimpses the glinting of something in the other cat’s paw before pain erupts along his side— twice, then three, four, times— exploding across his ribs and sternum in a fiery wave. It’s enough to sap his breath away, leave him shaken enough that Caishen effortlessly subdues him again; holds him down, blade raised in the air for another plunge. 

He should have known better, Natori despairs to himself distantly through the haze of pain— nobles, even in the idyllic Cat Kingdom, were by and large quite dangerous folk. His lashing out had been based in impulse and unthinking fury, but he should still have known the reprisal would come swiftly and without mercy.

It’s instinct, more than anything, which has his paws weakly scrabbling across the floor at his sides and above his head, and it’s instinct again, after he slices one of his paw pads open on an errant fragment of broken glass, which has him gripping its jagged edges in his bloodied paw.

Caishen notices it too late.

Impulse and instinct are what got him into this mess to begin with, yet they seem fair-enough guardians, as they’re also what get him out— with strength he can’t quite fathom, Natori drives his makeshift blade into the vulnerable flesh and muscle of the other cat’s neck.

The noise Caishen gives this time is… odd, strangled. He cuts himself off as he stumbles back, one paw reaching dazedly for his neck, grazing against the jutting glass there. Eventually, he hits the wall, and collapses there, still tapping hesitantly, gingerly, at the protrusion which will with any luck spell his end. Natori pushes himself away, huddled panting by the door he’d initially run for, weak now that the immediate threat seems to be extinguished.

Caishen looks confused, pitiful, from his crumpled spot against the wall; he stares out at Natori with the doleful incomprehension of a dying animal, and traitorously the grey cat thinks to himself that were their circumstances different, he might indeed feel some measure of absurd sympathy for the other in this moment.

“I only wanted you…” The words are gurgled and hard to understand, halting, and the sentiment sounds patently unfinished, but Caishen ultimately trails off and leaves it that way.

“ …If you come for me, I will kill you,” Natori rasps. It’s an empty threat, and both of them know it. Still, heaving himself up onto unsteady paws, he wrenches open the door and flees without a look back.

He has no destination in mind; the castle hallways he initially staggers through are starkly empty and devoid of life and activity, and in the part of his mind not overrun by pain and overwrought instinct, he realizes something about that is quite troubling, eerie. When he does finally hear voices, panicked and unable to focus, he climbs through a nearby window and leaps (falls?) to the ground. It’s certainly no elegant landing— he lands heavily on all fours, and they give out beneath him, resulting in him pitching forward into an ungainly sprawl. It’s only his continuing, nebulous fear which ultimately spurs him on, hauling himself back up and tottering on his way.

From there, he runs only until he stumbles one too many times, until he is too weak and dizzy even to crawl, and he at last collapses into a dense patch of cattails and wildflowers, where he lies for an insensible stretch of time. Natori has never been a terribly sturdy creature, less so now while steadily dwindling from the combined strain of his long confinement and his wounds.

How long has he been confined to the castle? He still can not say. As he struggles to roll over, panting from the effort he’s so inadvisably expended in his flight from his prison, he wonders if the kingdom has at all changed— if he will turn his face to the sky to find it bleak, ashen. Unnaturally overcast, just to make it quite clear everything is wrong.

Yet when he lies finally on his back, he's greeted with the pale baby blue it's always been, cradled on all sides by gentle, evergreen hills and grasses, the snow globe effect he'd once found to be quite charming, bucolic. Sunlight streams through densely-crowned branches above him, dotting his surroundings and his own blood-stained frame in speckled patches. He cannot decide whether the familiar scenery is comforting, reassuring even, or simply an extra twist of the knife.

Out a little ways beyond him, he hears the telltale crash of gentle waves on the shore of Little Sister Lake, and the wind rustling the long grass which obscures his leaden form. To himself, hazily, he remembers his forlorn assumption from long ago that he would never again see the kingdom unencumbered by shutters, and is abruptly afflicted with an exquisite despair, one which is tempered rather oddly with some edge of heartbroken gratefulness. A cruel kindness to allow him a glimpse of that which he's long cherished only as he lies dying within it… but a kindness nonetheless. 

Somewhere, he wonders if he may ask for one more of those backhanded kindnesses— that his grief and hardship fade into obscurity, never to be uncovered by family nor friend, that they may be allowed to believe he had met his ultimate end quickly, painlessly, and be at peace. No one need grieve wretchedly for him the way he had for little Lune. No one need know how gracelessly protracted it all was.

“This is a waste of time,” he starts now. “You an’ I both know there’s no such thing as werewolves.”

“Do we?”

It’s only the withering glare Muta directs at him that gets Baron to smile apologetically and respond otherwise.

“It’s unlikely, yes, Muta. But according to the vast majority of humans, there’s no such thing as a Cat Kingdom, either.”

“Yeah, well, humans aren’t the brightest, either.”

“Still. It may prove to be wise to see what’s going on with this particular stray human. If nothing else, then to ensure they don’t come to any harm by admittedly well-intentioned cats.”

“Aw, we wouldn’t hurt her,” interjects the voice of their escort— a little tan cat with what seems to be an ever-present, sunny smile.

Muta’s glare is turned now to her. “Listening in on private conversations, uh?”

“I wanted to know!” The escort admits readily. “You can’t go around whispering in the Cat Kingdom and not expect to attract some curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, and so on, I suppose.”

“And satisfaction brought it back,” the escort agrees with a nod. Then, “Is it true, though? Are werewolves really just a fantasy?”

“Yes,” Baron says. “At least, as far as my knowledge goes.”

Their escort waddles a little further out ahead of them, paws joined behind her back now.

“Boy, Natori’s gonna be pretty embarrassed when he hears that.”

+++

Natori, despite the similar name, is a quite disparate sight beside his apparent coworker, being not only a tall and thin cat but prim as an aged governess as well.

He greets them shortly after they enter the castle doors, expression trained into one of aloof formality, and regards their escort, who seems to be struggling not to spill the beans on the apparent embarrassment coming his way, with no small amount of disapproval as she smiles innocently at him. 

To Baron, it’s rather evident the two have worked together for some time.

“Just this way, gentlemen. I’m afraid it’s a relatively lengthy journey.”

The human they’re led to is no more than a teenager. Her chocolate brown hair is tied back into a ponytail which at one point must have been rather neat and tidy but now sits upon her head in loose straggles due to her short (but no doubt trying) confinement. When she sees them all approach her cramped cell, her hopeful expression drops, and the exasperation in her voice can not be ignored.

“Oh, not more cats,” she starts. “You said you were bringing in a human expert.” 

“Yes,” Natori responds with no small amount of perplexity, glancing back to survey his new companions. “These two are experts on humans.”

Here the teen hesitates for only a second before putting her face in her hands.

“...That’s on me, I guess.” Then, with more vigor, “I’ve already told you all I don’t even know how many times that I don’t know what you’re talking about! Before today, I didn’t even know cats could talk, much less that they had a whole kingdom to themselves..!”

Baron looks to Muta, who quite pointedly looks away.

“What is your name?” The ginger cat then eventually asks their human companion.

“Haru,” she answers with a good deal of caution.

Baron inclines his head politely and continues. “If you don’t mind speaking with me, Miss Haru, how exactly did you arrive here? From what I understand, it’s something of a rarity for humans like yourself to appear here. Isn’t that right?”

Here he turns to regard Natori behind them, who quickly nods in agreement.

“Yes, you’re correct! It is quite rare, particularly for us to entertain a human who has already aged out of childhood.”

“I’m not that old,” Haru mumbles. “And I don’t know how I got here, exactly— I was just walking home from school like normal, and the next thing I know I’m surrounded by cats all accusing me of being some weird monster.”

“You don’t remember anything in between that?”

“Well… yes, but it’s a little hazy and confusing.”

“That’s understandable. You’ve learned a lot of strange things in a quite short amount of time, Miss Haru. Just try your best.” 

Haru seems heartened, and starts, “Like I said, I was walking home from school like I usually do. My best friend, Hiromi, usually walks with me, too, but she was on cleanup duty after school today, and she couldn’t get me to take her place for her. So she can be there to support Tsuge, fine, but I’m not letting her bribe me into it willy-nilly.” 

Then, continuing in a more chastened sort of manner, as if concerned she’d overshared, “...Um, but, anyway— don’t think I’m a bad friend, okay? I usually do all kinds of things for her, really I do. She’s my best friend.”

“Of course,” Baron agrees, sympathetic.

“Well, I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye, just a little shadow or something. It had me curious, so I followed where I thought I’d seen it— down an alley. I don’t… um, I don’t understand how it happened, exactly, but I swear it seems like I just turned a corner somewhere and suddenly there were cattails and grassy hills everywhere.”

“Does that sound feasible to you, Mr. Natori?”

Natori seems reluctant to answer. “...Well. Yes, there are actually countless, ah, gaps in the boundary between our world and hers, you might say. It’s not at all unlikely she might have accidentally passed through one without realizing it.”

“I see.” 

“What do you think, then?” Natori asks under his breath.

“...I do regret being the bearer of unfortunate news, but the creature you’re thinking of— this ‘werewolf’, is merely a product of fiction in the human world,” Baron begins gently, looking from Haru to the other cat. “While her presence in your kingdom is admittedly unusual, I don’t believe she is your monster.”

The way Natori’s expression falls is almost comical— a mixture of disappointment, surprise, and embarrassment, much as Natoru had predicted. When he speaks, however, it’s with the same composed formality he’s exhibited thus far.

“Ah, I see.” Then, after another reluctant pause, “As the, ah, expert on humans in this case, what do you propose we do with her, then? Is it prudent to simply send her back to her home? Will she find her way back here in a vengeful haze..? I imagine it might be wise to offer our sincerest apologies and a gift basket as consolation, at least.”

“I’m not certain the gift basket is necessary, but I imagine an apology shall be quite appreciated,” Baron whispers back. Then, aloud, he adds, “However, yes, there is likely to be no harm in sending her back to her home.”

“Oh!” Haru says upon hearing that, her hands clasped in relief. “You ended up being my knight in shining armor after all..! I was so scared I’d be stuck here forever!”

“We wouldn’t have kept you forever,” Natoru says. “Eventually we would have shot you with a silver bullet or something.”

Beside her, Natori appears to struggle through a silent test of faith, but ultimately seems to see fit to say nothing to offset his shorter coworker’s blunt claim, much to Haru’s dismay. Instead, he clears his throat and addresses her directly as Natoru flips through the heavy key ring at the door.

“On behalf of the esteemed Cat Kingdom, I offer our most sincere apologies. I’m afraid you came upon our dominion at a quite trying, inopportune time.”

“You know, if any of you had just said werewolf, I would have understood. I could have told you myself those don’t actually exist,” Haru says plaintively, but her laments don't last, not when she hears the door to the cell clinking open. It takes a little bit of maneuvering, but she manages to crawl through the exit, standing slightly hunched against the higher ceiling outside the cell. For the first time, Muta finds himself wondering how a bunch of cats had even managed to get her in there in the first place.

“Even so, it’s doubtful they would have taken your word for it,” Baron tries to reassure her. Natori coughs.

“Well… thank you, anyway,” she says, tucking a stray hair behind her ear self-consciously.

“Think nothing of it.” Then, “By the by, Miss Haru, you said you saw something out of the corner of your eye and that it led you here.”

“Yes.”

“Do you happen to recall what it was? Any particularly strange features, anything that stuck out to you?”

“It was small, but not as small as a cat. I think maybe that’s why it caught my attention. I thought someone had maybe lost their dog. Sorry, I wish I could remember more.”

“That’s quite alright.” Then, to Natori, “If you don’t mind, my colleague and I would like to offer our services— those outside our expertise on humans and their world, that is— in order to uncover your mystery creature and help you to regain some sense of security in your fair kingdom.”

Somewhere behind him, Muta speaks up.

“We would—?!”

“Yes,” Baron responds without hesitation, without so much as a glance back at the cat. “I believe we may have some other insight to offer the situation.”

“Oh—!” Natori practically claps his paws together. “We could only be so fortunate to receive your continued help in this matter! I was going to do this anyway, you must understand, but do please let us treat the two of you to a banquet in gratitude for your trouble, and your future assistance.” Here he looks to Haru, as well, addressing her with the same deference, “And you, as well, Miss Haru— as a most sincere apology for your confinement, of course.”

“A banquet? Okay.”

Baron’s smile isn’t directed at Muta himself, but it’s clear the cat’s sudden willingness to entertain a longer stay is what brought the expression about.

“Yes,” he agrees, too, “I believe such an occasion may prove to be a fertile ground to gather more intel as well as repay kindness. Will the king be present?”

“Of course.”

+++

The Cat King is perhaps not quite as stately as his regal title might lead one to expect. He’s rather tall for a cat, like his advisor (or at least Baron surmises he would be were he standing), but covered in long lavender fur which seems to point in whatever random direction it pleases, giving him an appearance that might almost be unfortunately described as slovenly. At the moment, he lounges idly in an ornate chair at the head of the table.

When Natori introduces them all, the king merely mumbles something to himself, and then greets them with an indolent, almost sullen-sounding, “Hey.”

“Your Majesty,” Natori then continues, in a pressured way that belies some amount of exasperation, “The Baron von Gikkingen and his colleague, Muta, have decided to continue to offer their expertise— that is, their expertise outside that which they possess on humans, in their own words— in order to help solve our creature mystery.”

“Oh, yeah?” The king all but drawls. “That’s cool, babe.”

At this, Natori seems to deflate, asking them all to sit while he checks on the meal. It’s only after he’s left that the conversation continues.

“I do hate to seem as if I’m all business, if you will,” Baron begins, “But I’m quite interested in your own opinions on this mystery creature business, Your Majesty.”

The Cat King sniffs a time or two, resting the side of his head against his paw propped against the arm of his chair. His attention seems drawn to the shiny metal of one of the forks sitting beside the platter before him as opposed to any of his kingdom’s guests. When he does finally respond, it’s with a bored tone, and spoken while combing absentmindedly through his mustache.

“It’s not a fun time, I’ll tell you that much. Haven’t had an upset this annoying since that time I tried to implement taxes. If you ask me, the sooner it goes away, the better. I’m tired of hearing about it.” Then, before anyone can respond to any of that, he eyes Haru blearily a few seconds and asks, “How come you’re so huge, babe?”

Haru, sitting upon a low bench with her knees hopelessly drawn a couple inches above the table and admiring the tiny silverware, reddens a little. “I’m not, sir..! I’m short for a human.”

“Huh. Didn’t know that about humans. I always pictured them like little garden gnomes.”

“I’ve known a handful of garden gnomes,” Baron adds thoughtfully. 

Muta clears his throat loudly, staring at Baron with the —.

“...but I suppose that’s not important right now.”

[ insert dinner arriving, as well as natori coming back probably ]

“Baron,” Haru suddenly whispers from beside him. When he turns to her, he sees that she’s staring down at the array of forks spread out upon the tablecloth with a palpable amount of abrupt apprehension, no longer simply admiring them.

“The one farthest to the left is appropriate for appetizers,” he whispers back helpfully, guessing what her conundrum is, and seemingly correctly at that, as her manner noticeably relaxes.

“Oh, thank goodness.” She gingerly picks it up.

“What can you tell us about the monster so far, anyway?” Muta asks as he inspects the plate set before him hungrily, soon after wasting no time in gulping down his first bite.

“Not much, babe. Just sorta showed up a couple weeks ago and started terrorizing the place. Lune was the one who’d seen it the most,” the king recalls, lazily spinning his fork in his paw. From her seat, Haru notices it’s the wrong one (at least, according to Baron’s advice).

“The prince,” Natori supplies quietly from his standing spot behind the Cat King’s seat. 

“...Was..?”

At this the king gives a vaguely discomfited noise, leaning back to talk with his advisor in low tones. Eventually, he answers in a pressured manner that speaks to some uncertain annoyance, “No one knows it yet, but we sent Lune on some made-up errand this morning to get him away from the castle.” He levels his fork this time at their guests, eyes narrowed and lip curled. “And that means you three can’t go blabbing about it now, either. No one outside this room needs to be getting any ideas about some monster stalking the royal family.”

“Is it then safe to assume you yourself have had encounters with this creature?”

Baron’s question seems to catch the king off-guard. What had been a narrowed, almost unimpressed glower very quickly relaxes. The king shrugs.

“Sometimes I’d think I saw something outta the corner of my eye, but it’s always turned out to be something else. You’ll have to ask the servants and other riffraff who’ve seen it to give you a description.”

“Or Natori,” Natoru pipes up from her own station by the door. “It stalked him once, he told me.”

“Only from a distance,” Natori is quick to correct when attention then turns to him. “I’m afraid I didn’t see it very clearly. My own experience is likely to be of little help compared with the likes of Lune’s or even that of our head chef’s.”

“What, is your monster just looking for a snack?”

“If it is, it’s looking in the right place, babe,” the king responds without so much as a sniff of offense, and continues on with his usual casual vernacular,“Our chef’s the best in the kingdom. Knows how to roast a sweet potato the same way the humans do.”

“Oh,” Haru perks up. “You mean yakiimo?”

The king points his fork in her direction. “That’s the stuff.”

“Perhaps we might shadow your head chef tonight, then— not for his no doubt exemplary cooking skills, but since he appears to be the monster’s main target at the moment, with your son on an errand.”

[ insert continuing conversation and a transition scene to natori going about the castle at night. last minute checks and all. baron and muta stay with the chef for the night as they planned but i. admittedly don’t know where haru goes. natori has a run-in with the monster ]

Heat explodes over the top of his head and runs down his spine as his heart plummets with it. With an iron-clad calmness, the likes of which he’s certain he’s never experienced before, Natori reaches mechanically, gingerly, for the curtain covering the door to his right and inches toward it. Shuffling footsteps grow closer by the second, and he just manages to slip through the split in the fabric relatively soundlessly.

It’s only once he’s enveloped in the safety of what he recognizes as the king’s media room that he shakily rests against the wall closest to the door, breathing a sigh of relief and letting himself slide down to a hunched sitting position.

Such rotten luck, Natori thinks to himself, that he might encounter the creature after downplaying his other run-ins with the thing.

The reprieve from his fear is short-lived, however.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the curtain bowing inwards, and to his horror something peeks into the room once that curtain is parted. Despite what seems to be a lack of eyes, it immediately turns to the grey cat huddled against the wall to its right.

Having mostly seen the creature from a distance (that part hadn’t been a lie), Natori finds he’s rather unprepared for getting up close and personal with it. From afar, its cavernous maw hadn’t been obvious, though he’s now uncertain how, looking upon rows of large, rounded teeth and a broad tongue which sways from side to side as the creature barges into his space.

The noise Natori utters in response is something of a strangled, fearful sob and the wetness on his cheeks tells him his panicked tears have welled up and overflown significantly. 

“No— please—” Who is he hoping will hear his pleas? The creature? How ridiculous, he thinks.

“Hungry… hungry. Natori, hungry…”

The voice sounds familiar, albeit as if channeled through a moving fan. It’s there, at last, that he spies the king’s eye-like crown, crooked and tiny, but proudly displayed upon the creature’s massive head, as it normally would be upon a much more familiar visage.

“...Your Majesty..?” Natori breathes, transfixed in both horror and a tentative hopefulness.

The monster closes its yawning mouth, those rows of blunted teeth vanish, and it rears back in much the same manner an animal might upon being sprayed with water.

“Your Majesty—” Natori tries again, this time a touch more confidently.

Here the creature (the king..?) utters a low whine and slinks back, shies away and skulks through the curtain. It’s not panicked or quick enough to flee, but the retreat is obvious in any case. Natori hesitates, waits until the shuffling of its many feet is a distant hum, and then, with the same mechanical numbness he’d exhibited earlier upon first becoming aware of the monster’s presence, walks to the cabinet on the other side of the room, climbs into it, and silently waits for morning.

+++

It’s Natoru who finds him the next morning, and somewhere Natori feels he should have predicted that.

“I know I’ve found you in all kinds’a places, Natori, sir, but this one is… um, strange even for you.”

Natori, rubbing groggily at his face in the sudden light of the morning sun, can only agree faintly before he remembers the previous night through his sleep haze.

"H-His Majesty— where is the king..?"

"In his quarters, I'd assume," Natoru answers nonchalantly, watching as the advisor stumbles from the room.

+++

“Your Majesty..!”

It’s patently unlike Natori to enter the king’s quarters without knocking, and even more so to do so by throwing the door open, but that’s exactly what he does. The king’s room is large and airy, and his bed a disarray of blankets and pillows, some of which also lie scattered across the room. Being familiar with the Cat King’s erratic sleeping behavior (for reasons he’d rather not think about at this moment, not after last night’s encounter), Natori supposes the chaos isn’t entirely evidence of his theory on its own. The king himself appears to have rolled off the bed at Natori’s sudden intrusion, and now sits glowering at his advisor over the edge of the mattress.

“This better be good, babe.”

Natori teeters further into the room in a seeming daze, rounding the bed and reaching out for the king’s face, peering into his eyes, patting his arms as if unconvinced the other cat is real.

“You’re— ah, yourself..! You’re not— o-oh, now I’m quite confused.”

“What—? What are you rambling about now?”

“Well, er, I believe I may know who the creature is, sire.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, spit it out. Who?”

“You.”

[ insert. well, things i couldn’t figure out how to word and put together, like how they all come to the conclusion that it’s a curse which has been put upon the king, rumors of mystical and occasionally mischievous, if not mean-spirited, beings living in the woods surrounding the kingdom, and muta grudgingly volunteering himself to go speak with them since he is implied to have experience dealing with such beings. so enter toto ]

“You might think of me as a spur,” Toto says. Without any prior warning, he suddenly takes wing, alighting a few feet away on a barren branch. “One perhaps embedded in someone’s side, that rouses them into movement to dislodge it.”

“...Take it you’re the one who cursed the royal kitty cat, then,” Muta says as he follows after the crow, always a step or two behind.

“Yes, I’m the one who cast the curse,” Toto admits offhandedly, flapping his wings once, then twice, in an effort to get comfortable upon his new perch. “There’s no sense pretending I didn’t. But where it goes from there is not really in my own hands— well, wings— by now.”

“Seems kinda irresponsible to cast a curse you can’t control, if you ask me.”

“That’s the nature of them!” It’s there Toto studies Muta with an almost fond smile, though it’s cloaked in a muted amusement which the cat finds he does not care for at all. “You’ve not dealt with many curses before now, have you?”

“So what if I haven’t?” Muta asks with a toss of his head. “They just haven’t come up, is all.”

“Where are you from? You don’t have the manner of those kingdom cats.”

“That’s ‘cause I live in the human world like a normal cat.”

“That doesn’t tell me where you’re from,” Toto observes readily.

“No, it doesn’t. Are you gonna let me in on how to deal with your curse?”

“That depends.”

In the taut silence that follows, Muta defiantly refusing to break their eye contact and Toto’s smile unwavering, it occurs to the cat suddenly just how still the forest truly is. With great reluctance, as if the motion is being performed underwater, Muta looks away, gives their surroundings a stormy inspection, and when his budding suspicions appear to be supported, he clicks his tongue under his breath.

“...You got me, didn’t you. I should have been paying more attention.”

Toto only emits a brief chuckle, nonchalantly preening one of his wings.

“What do I have to do to get out of here, then?”

Here the crow stops, eyeing Muta indulgently, and answers, “I like you, Muta, so I’ll go easy on you. Here is my offer— one kiss, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about the curse. No kiss, and, well, I’ll tell you the way out.”

Muta crosses his arms.

“That’s not gonna work for me, crow. Sounds to me like you forgot something— if I do lower my standards enough to give some birdbrain a kiss, I didn’t hear anything about that birdbrain showing me the way out of here, too.”

“Oh, shoot, you figured me out. You’re a little smarter than I assumed.”

“You know what they say about assuming.”

“Hm. Smarter than I thought but not very original, I see.”

[ insert, yes, a kiss lmao it’s nothing more than a peck on the cheek, but still, i didn’t figure out how to word it in time ]

“I don’t do riddles,” Toto all but sniffs. “Alright. Here’s the thing— the king’s curse can only be broken by someone he loves, and who loves him.”

“That’s a tall order. You met the king..?”

Toto gestures to himself with a deadpan look. 

“...right.”

“I’ll tell you this, by my observations you have three choices. But choose wisely, as I can’t guarantee just any of those three will do the trick.”

“Alright, who’re the three, then?”

Here Toto hesitates.

“The king is an inordinately hungry creature even when he thinks he’s had his fill. The three you’re looking for feed him, in whatever way he craves at that moment.”

“Thoughtcha didn’t do riddles,” Muta says, unimpressed.

“Riddles rhyme.”

“So you’re not creative enough to rhyme, got it. What do they have to do then, the three, assuming we figure out who they are?”

“You only need one.” Toto hesitates, eyes narrowed at the cat in apparent agitation.

[ yada yada toto gives muta the answer but phrased in a vague unhelpful way. muta is less than impressed ]

“Now, how do I get out of here?”

“The same way you came in,” Toto answers, and the flat stoniness in his voice makes it clear he’s no longer feeling all that chummy toward the cat. Muta feels the surrounding forest become more suffocating. “Leave me be.”

“One last thing, then, just for my own curiosity— why’d you do it, uh? The curse?”

Here Toto lifts his head so that he stares down at the cat with an imperious gaze. He’s really pushing his luck. “Do I need a reason? You implied it yourself, didn’t you? He’s a loveless lout, with no concern for anything or anyone beyond what he wants in that very moment. Perhaps one day he crossed the wrong person; perhaps I simply saw him commit some unforgivably cruel act. In the end, it doesn’t matter. It was bound to happen in any case, if not by my hand, then by someone else’s.”

“And the staff? The prince? What did they do?”

“Nothing,” the crow responds, now soft and pensive again. “But that is the nature of curses.”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first time.”

“Best be on your way. Silly me, I forgot to mention time works differently here than it does in the kingdom. It’ll be dark by the time you get back.”

“Now you tell me. Thanks for nothing, birdbrain.”

“I could at least give you another insult to use on me before you leave.”

Muta grumbles to himself as he turns and treads back the way he came, ultimately giving Toto no reply, and, true to the crow’s words, the life and bustle of the forest returns as he drifts closer to the boundary between it and the kingdom, though it’s noticeably more tranquil than it had been when he’d entered closer to noontime. Night, as Toto had predicted, is certainly falling.