where plot bunnies go to die

Quite often he will find himself reluctant to ask those questions he so dearly covets answers for, simply out of a fear that those same answers shall prove ultimately devastating. Tonight, his courage refuses to falter.

"Did you know?" Shen asks his old caretaker (a position she's rather wordlessly slipped back into, though he will not dwell on the similarities now). "Did you know I'd do it?"

"I knew you had the potential to travel down a very dark path," she eventually answers with a measured cadence, and Shen fills in the blanks that she hadn't foreseen just how much darkness that path had had the capacity for.

                                                        +++

He had tried to promise himself once, in a fleeting, blinding instant of childish fury, the source of which has been long obscured by time. 

He had tried to promise himself that anyone who tried to harm her would meet with an agonizing fate, and he had taken a certain amount of comfort and pleasure in imagining just how he might make good on that promise.

He thinks of it nowadays sometimes when she leaves early in the morning, when he pretends to sleep so she doesn’t know he knows he wasn’t the only one unable to sleep through the night. 

(They are both such prideful creatures.)

He thinks about how he is in a far more convenient position to keep his word now, how he would not hesitate, and he wonders if that is perhaps the closest he will ever come to real love.

                                                        +++

What will he do, he wonders sometimes against his will, when she is gone? He has but one friend left in the wide, blue world, and being a creature quite comfortably accustomed to a literal army of supporters kept in line with fear, the instability inherent in this new status quo is perhaps more distressing than even he realizes.

Shen spies the Soothsayer drifting off at her table as she works once or twice, and it lights in him a difficult to define, frenzied knot of half-emotions. He makes mention of her fatigue once. Her response, he assumes, is to put more effort into keeping up her composure in his presence, as he doesn’t catch her dozing again.

It isn't fair, it isn't fair, and sometimes he's so frustrated by what he’s managed to do how things have ended up that he can't stand it. It's then, again, that he thinks he should leave.

                                                        +++

He doesn't know her story. Somehow in all their years together, interrupted as they've been, she has never been compelled to share it with him. It's fine that way. It's the way it ought to be, he supposes.

Yet, every now and again, he will glimpse some shared similarity, some shared response to a petty trauma, and for the first time find himself musing on what other familiarities might linger in their pasts. 

                                                        +++

Even now, the memory will so often come back to him, unwanted, unprompted. Pulling himself up over a balustrade in a clumsy attempt to see over it, to catch a faraway glimpse of Mother, needling curiosity and awe always tempered so expertly by the lingering haze of unbelonging.

For so long he has recalled this moment as one of solitude and numb resentment, but like a buoyant balloon eventually resurfacing after being shoved under bathwater, he remembers the Soothsayer calling to him from down the hall, and how he'd so eagerly abandoned his hiding spot to bound to her side. She had smiled at him, had asked what it was which had captured his attention so thoroughly.

And something rises in him, then, a sharp stab of remorse so powerful it aches in a way he’d never thought possible.

If only. If only.

                                                        +++

Too often she approaches his occasional fleeting tantrums with nothing more than mutely exasperated resignation, her hooves folded neatly on the top of her cane as she surveys the petty devastation he's left behind— an upended side table, scattered incense and old, singed bowls now lying in disarray.

"Was it unworthy of me?" She eventually asks flatly, and Shen barks out a harsh laugh despite himself.

“Yes,” he says, with an unhinged lightness he hasn’t felt in decades. “It should be better. It should be ornately and ostentatiously decorated and well-constructed enough to last literal dynasties. Then it’d be a worthy addition to your meager collection of furniture.”

There she smiles at him, familiarly, a half-crooked one that speaks to decade’s worth of dealing with his childish temper. He’d seen it, too, all that time ago, in the feverish and sleep-deprived days of his biggest scheme, but at the time it’d only infuriated him, made him feel intrinsically small. Here, now, the sight of it elicits a wash of comfort to come over him, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

He laughs, but the sound is thick with emotion, and he flees shortly after.

                                                        +++

"I should leave."

He speaks it into existence with all the strength of a flickering candle, hoping it might pass by unnoticed, perhaps. Yet like a candle in a darkened room, this hushed murmur's reach in the silence of the midnight stillness betrays him.

The clatter of the Soothsayer’s pestle somewhere across the expanse between them tells him she’s heard him. When she speaks, it’s soft but reluctant.

“...Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to leave.”

“But I should.”

She doesn’t respond to that, but he can feel that she wants to. He can imagine her when he closes his eyes, searching desperately for something to make this all alright. To make it work for the best. Something that makes it not so hopeless. But she’s smart, he knows. She’ll come to the same conclusion. If she hasn’t already.

Somewhere, there comes that same memory of running to her side, taking her outstretched hoof in his wing, already starting in on some inane factoid he’d picked up in his studies that day, eager to share with her his discoveries.

"I-I'm sorry."

It slips away from him without his approval, before he has a chance to stifle and drown it with any kind of success, and it comes out as a broken whisper. His vision as he stares out the window has started swimming. Some part of him wishes it was because he has begun breathing his last breaths.

Even now, he remains selfish and weak— were he truly so sorry, he thinks, he would have simply disappeared from her life in the night, with only a letter to explain his thoughts; he would have vanished just as unceremoniously as he had arrived, and left her in peace.

But he had done that once, he remembers abruptly.

I thought you died. It comes back to him in pieces.

And now he knows what he is apologizing for. There’s no one left to blame it all on. There is only him. And now for the first time does he feel so thoroughly where he has ruined himself with his own hands only to have pointed the bloodied finger outward to everyone else.

This is a mistake which can not be mended, and he’s known it all along.

Somewhere in the midst of it all he’s aware of a ginger touch to his wing. It’s the Soothsayer, looking up at him with an expression he finds quite difficult to interpret— the furrowed brow of regret, of heartache, but the quirk of hesitant hopefulness. When she speaks, her voice is just as frustratingly troublesome for him to comprehend, soft and sad and vastly unfitting for the words she has decided upon.

“...I’ve wanted to hear you say that for a long time.”

“It’s not enough—” Shen starts, and he can already hear the beginnings of his old hysteria rising in his protest, can feel his age-old pessimism awakening, but the gentle shake of her head in apparent, paradoxical agreement prompts him to hold his tongue.

Natori gives a cool chuckle but otherwise doesn't outright respond, settling down beside the king with some chicken skin yakitori (which is, as the king had complained, not quite as fresh as one might hope) now that the bag is empty.

That this is a midnight snack is vastly more difficult to fathom in the eternal noontime of the Cat Kingdom, even in the normally frenzied kitchen which currently lies empty and abandoned, allowing the two of them to eat in peace.

It doesn’t take long for Natori to pick up on the fact that the king wants to say something, but that he hasn’t spoken up with his usual blunt observations means he’s clearly not certain how to say what’s on his mind, eyes lowered to a strawberry cake he’s unwrapping (his bowl of oden lies near-abandoned off to his side). Natori doesn’t rush him, content with leeching some of the warmth from the stove he’d settled against.

When Claudius does start speaking, that reservation doesn’t dissipate.

“...was it something you said in the heat of the moment? That you’d join me in retirement?”

That’s… quite at odds with any of the topics Natori had expected, and he’s momentarily not sure how to respond. The yakitori is laid in his lap (despite the faint strings of protest that sound suspiciously close to his grandmother echoing distantly somewhere in his head).

“Well… i-it was fairly impulsive of me,” Natori admits quietly. “But I wouldn’t say I’m having second thoughts, I suppose.”

Then, after regarding the king in silence for a timid moment, “...why do you ask, sire?”

Claudius lifts his head, but he looks past Natori, out at the wall through the open door beside him. His expression and eyes are unusually blank, leaving Natori no clues as to what he must be thinking to have chosen this topic. Eventually, he shrugs, picking up the bowl of oden again.

“Dunno. Felt curious about it.”

Natori thinks for a minute. “Did you expect me to stay behind?”

“Yeh. Got kinda surprised when you said you’d quit with me,” the king admits readily, nonchalantly fishing a radish out of his broth. “Thought you’d try to go for three or something, with Lune coming up on the throne.”

“Ha,” Natori says, but it’s quiet and breathy, just a nervous space-filler as opposed to a bona fide laugh; his gaze is averted to fix rather obstinately on some imperfection in the stone floor (the edge of the rug doesn’t match up to the line of the stone square, he notes absently).

It is something he’d thought of— that he could have been able to claim the spot of advisor through three different generations of the same family, and what pride such a claim would bring him! What prestige! ...but in the end, it hadn’t been Lune that he’d seen needing his assistance, and he would always follow where he was truly needed.

So, hesitantly, unused to this amount of direct intimacy when speaking aloud to his employer (or, indeed, anyone), “You’re my king, sire. I do believe it may stay that way, despite everything.”

So much tends to remain unspoken between them; Natori thinks now that he may dare to say he’s spent quite little time in the last several years even contemplating the ways in which their relationship works. Nor how it doesn’t. What is simply understood. What and who gives and takes. All very important matters that must have been long decided and assigned. Like the tide, he supposes it’s all quite a natural push and pull by this point. He has always been the one to dutifully trail after Claudius, to sweep up the unsightly disarray while simultaneously scrutinizing the path ahead. Natori has always been the keeper, the caretaker. And he’s enjoyed his position, even during those times he’s found himself struggling to keep up.

Now, though, something is... changing. He hadn’t been able to quite identify it until the fiasco with Miss Haru and the baron’s Cat Bureau. Not until he’d watched in frozen panic as his old friend scaled a castle wall with nothing but his own claws and an inordinate amount of unbridled determination, all to pick a fight he had little hope of winning. Not until he’d come across the king forlornly slumped in apparent defeat on one of the tower’s catwalks, curiously half-shaven and passively, meekly waiting for someone to come fetch him. 

Had he assumed that someone would be Natori?

Now more than ever, a keeper is necessary, and in a perhaps primordial part of himself, Natori realizes he is only too happy to continue playing the part.

Through this lengthy silence, the king has finished up the last of his broth with all his usual attendant.... gracelessness. He seems to then set his sights on Natori’s half-eaten chicken skin yakitori (neglected during his rumination on the topic at hand), which the other cat resignedly surrenders. Instead, Natori turns to open the rice ball he’d requested.

“...It’s good you’re here, Natty,” the king then responds abruptly, distracting him.

When it seems he isn’t going to continue, to clarify or explain or even backtrack in a fluster, Natori only fixes the other cat with an almost helpless smile, an earnest one. Self-deprecating, even, though he doesn’t explicitly mean it to be. “I’m glad you feel that way, sire.”

Claudius sniffs once, working his mouth like he’s uncharacteristically tasting his words before responding, and—

And one of the countless doors to the kitchen creaks open.

It’s Natoru, evidently sneaking into the kitchen to get a ‘midnight’ snack herself. It’s when she spies the two of them that her secretive manner drops, however, leaving her to simply stare at her two superiors and the array of food wrappers surrounding them. 

“You went to the human world without me?” Natoru questions plaintively. “And you didn’t even bring back something tasty for me? An’ all this time I thought we were friends…”

“Sounds like a second trip in the making, babe—” The Cat King starts. Natoru lights up like a human child on their way to an amusement park.

Natori, on the other hand, glances to the still untouched onigiri in his paws (this one happens to be filled with aged salmon— his favorite flavor, of course), mourns it for a full thirty seconds, and then jumps in to be the ever-suffering voice of reason, quickly handing it over to Natoru.

“Please be reasonable, you two— I’m not certain Miss Haru will be amenable to lending her assistance any more tonight.” Or ever again, if her reaction to the king's last words are anything to go by.

He ignores Natoru’s shrill complaint of, “You guys went to visit Miss Haru without me, too?”—which is just as well, as her attention fixates on the rice ball shortly after.

At least this protest gets through to the king… for once. He yawns, picking himself up off the ground to stretch for good measure.

“Guess that’s a good point.” He sounds lost, at least for a moment, but it’s vanished by the time he adds, “There’s always tomorrow night, though. Heh.”

Before Natori can linger on that for too long and inevitably argue against this habit-in-the-making, Natoru, having already gleefully devoured Natori’s sacrifice favorite onigiri, pipes up.

“You know, if you guys keep running off to the human world on your own, you won’t even need me anymore. I’ll be all out of a job, poor me.”

“Now, now,” Natori starts primly. “You know as well as we do that the future of your position is out of our hands now.” Then, relenting, “But the prince is bound to find other duties for you. Just because you’ll have less opportunity to scope out the best ikayaki stands doesn’t mean you’re going to be unceremoniously fired.”

“It’s just too bad.” Natoru sighs. “It’s about to start getting cold in the human world— I can’t bear to think of all the yakiimo I’m going to miss out on!”

Natori shakes his head in evident disappointment at her. “I just don’t understand what it is about the way human street vendors cook their food that has you so enamored with them. There’s no reason why Cook can’t grill a sweet potato for you.”

“It’s just not the same,” Natoru whines.

“You just don’t get it, Natty,” the king suddenly decides to interject, much like he had earlier with Haru. “It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.” Spoken in a half-awed tone that tells Natori the other cat is rather pleased with his pithy adage.

Natoru certainly is, at least, poised perhaps to clap and nodding fervently in approval.

“...Yes. So they say,” Natori eventually settles on, feeling under pressure to agree with the two who are now looking at him expectantly.

“Besides, my job's nowhere near as secure as you make it sound, Natori— Lune’s all grown up, and he has Yuki to keep him in line,” Natoru retorts sullenly, in a way that was clearly meant facetiously, and yet... the reminder seems to give them all three pause. Natori stares at her from his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t truly see her. His gaze feels wavery, flickering, remembering the hazy visage of a tiny, enthusiastic kitten who had so often run to him with dirty paws, clutching his latest squirmy find like a precious treasure. And now he’s so tall. He’s getting married, and taking on such big, big responsibilities.

He looks briefly to the king, noticing perhaps the same lost confusion in his own eyes, and quickly averts his gaze.

“Yeh,” Claudius eventually responds, but his voice sounds clipped and thick. “Lune’s all grown up, huh.”

“He is,” Natori agrees with something of a helpless laugh, still staring resolutely at the floor.

“We should toast to Lune. I meant what I said earlier, an’ no one should doubt it— Lune’s a five-star son, and he’s gonna make a groovy king. He doesn’t need the extra luck, but it can’t hurt.”

“Ooh, ooh, I saw some lavender wine in here the other day— let me see if I can find it again—” Natoru patters to one of the nearby pantries, tossing the doors open and… well, making a mess of its contents, most likely. When she comes back with the dark bottle, it’s under the reproachful gaze of Natori, though as per usual she seems no more concerned with his disapproval than she might the distant noise of a truck backfiring. He sighs and lets it rest.

When they raise their mismatched glasses, it seems the three of them find themselves at something of a loss for words, glancing between each other and the misshapen triangle their glasses are forming. It’s Natoru, eventually, who decides to throw her hat in the ring and get the ball rolling, and roll it certainly does.

“To Lune, who’s all grown up—”

“And Miss Yuki, heaven help her—”

“What’s that supposed to mean, babe..?”

“And also to us, because Lune grew up and we turned into old farts—”

“I’m not old,” the king predictably protests.

“Okay, Natori became more of an old fart than he already was and you and me only got sexier.”

“That’s better.”

“Let’s not idle,” Baron cuts in as politely as he’s able, giving Muta a discerning look where Vanya can not see. “Time is against us, and, as previously detailed, we ought to shave off as much unnecessary labor as we possibly can in our endeavors. Mr. Vanya,” he starts, turning to the fox, “This is your home, and you know the ins and outs of the environment much more thoroughly than we do. We will follow your direction.”

“I’m still gonna complain when it doesn’t make sense, though,” Muta grumbles from the side.

“With your comprehension skills? That’s going to be a lot of complaining,” Toto is swift to remark.

“At least I’m not a birdbrain!”

“That is Oostal, though!” Vanya chirps, having clapped his paws together a few times in delight while listening to the two bicker. Then, thoughtfully, “There is a caravan that accepts passengers. It will take us to the Top-Top.”

“It’s too far to walk?”

“No,” Vanya chirrups again, scampering away and waving for the four of them to follow him shortly after. They share a dubious look with each other before complying, leaving the tidy border of the Sown Forest behind them.

When Haru turns to look just moments later out of nothing more than muted curiosity, she finds that the orderly line of white trees which made up the framework of the forest are no more than faint outlines, like a particularly abstract watercolor painting or a distant cityscape through rain-dotted glass. Seeing also that she’s let a fairly substantial gap form between her and the others even as Muta pauses to let her catch up (having noticed her absence), she jogs forward to continue beside him, putting the oddity out of her mind.

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The roving carriage that Vanya leads them to is, like many things in Oostal, not so terribly outlandish so as to be wholly alien, but still just enough to feel… unfamiliar.

It’s at once delicate and rusted, another relic of Oostal’s ostensible fading vitality, or perhaps of its apparent age, two rows of seating enveloped in a velvety but threadbare and stained layer of scarlet cloth. What had likely once been quite a pretty canopy stretched over the back of it now lies in ragged gauze hanging from bent and dainty posts. The creaking of its wearied joints and wheels echo throughout the air as it rolls stubbornly over the landscape.

There are no horses. Nor is there an apparent driver. More than that, there’s no apparent motor attached to it (and had there been, it would have been the most traditionally technologically advanced object in Oostal the Bureau had yet seen). Yet Vanya is forced to break into a modest jog to catch up to the thing, and it still doesn’t stop in its implacable journey even when he manages to gallop alongside it and clear its side.

“It’s easy!” He calls to them once he’s settled in the back of the wagon.

Amusingly, simply gaining a passenger, even one so minuscule as Vanya, seems to slow the carriage, enough so that it’s little more than a meager sprint the Bureau must employ to catch up. And the addition of four more passengers results in it coming to a momentary stop; then, with all the weary resignation of a browbeaten beast of burden, it circles back around in the direction it had just come, and they are again on their way. At least, Haru assumes they are.

She notices Baron open his mouth and almost immediately close it again, looking faintly discomfited with something, and to herself she hazards a very plausible guess that it was most likely to ask how long the journey might take them.

They’ve all gathered by now that Vanya’s grasp of the passage of time is… tenuous, to say the least. It’s not an entirely comfortable handicap, considering.

So, as a rather roundabout way to procure an answer, Toto instead asks, “Would you advise getting comfortable, Vanya?”

Vanya wastes no time in flopping down into a sitting position at the edge of the base, tail twitching contentedly. “It won’t hurt!”

“So, when were you gonna tell us about that whole ‘spend too long in the forest and you can’t leave’ bit?” Muta asks sourly in the proceeding silence.

“We weren’t going to be there that long,” Vanya sniffs.

Muta appears unsurprisingly unsatisfied with this answer, and he stares the fox down for a good minute before the lack of reaction from Vanya leads to him giving up the ghost for the time being and figuratively throwing his paws in the air.

“Whatever. I deserve a nap. Don’t talk to me until we get there.”

Vanya surreptitiously turns up his nose, but otherwise doesn’t respond, and Muta wanders a short distance away to the driver’s seat, where he quickly plonks into a sleeping position with his back turned to the rest of them. Baron, having watched this show of exasperation with a small measure of knowing affection, then turns that same half-crooked smile to Vanya, this time with a faint edge of sympathy.

“...Well, if there’s room for rest—”

“A short rest,” Vanya clarifies, back to his earlier agreeable tone.

“A short rest, then— I believe I’ll take advantage of it, as well. Don’t hesitate to let us know when we’ve arrived.”

“It’ll be obvious.”

Baron nods once in acknowledgement before moving to join Muta in the front seat. The indistinct, murmuring conversation they begin shortly after is quick to fade into the ambient noise of the laboring of their current mode of transport.

Toto seems content to remain where he is, perched upon one of the velvety seats lined along the side. Haru sits across from him on the opposite row of seats.

“Not to sound skeptical or ungrateful, Vanya, but it’s awfully convenient that this carriage is so willing to take us to our next destination. Does Oostal have a lot of secrets like this?” Toto starts.

“Yes,” Vanya doesn’t hesitate to answer. Then, more thoughtfully, “...or, maybe no.”

He leans back a little and stretches, and when he continues, there’s a certain impassively dazed quality in his voice, “...The Muta Cat complains a lot about Oostal. He wants Oostal to make sense, but Oostal wasn’t made that way. It is what it is.”

“Don’t fret too much about Muta,” Toto says with a dismissive wave of his wing. “He’s just grumpy because we didn’t bring enough snacks.”

Vanya gives an amused-sounding hum.

“...also, out of curiosity, why are we using it anyhow?” The crow pats one of the cushions under him with a talon. “At least, since it’s not too far to walk.”

“Hmm, because it makes it easier.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“Because sitting down is easier than walking,” Vanya replies with a glib obliviousness, the sincerity of which Haru finds she can’t quite discern one way or the other.

Toto, at least, only laughs. “I guess you have me there.”

“It seemed like it was already on its way somewhere, though,” Haru then begins, and the oddness inherent in this ostensibly sentient carriage is not at all lost on her, though she neglects to address it specifically. “Where was it going before we, er… commandeered it..?”

“Nobody knows,” Vanya explains blithely. “Always on a journey Somewhere, though. We just let it roam, because it never stops.”

He pats the faded wooden base under him, almost affectionately.

“Maybe it will finally sit down and sleep when it gets There. In the meantime, it takes you anywhere you wish.”

For a fleeting moment, Haru thinks to ask how the wagon knows the way to all these locations, but she’s by now gathered that, however it works, locations in Oostal do not exist in the same way they do on Earth (or, indeed, in her general understanding of how such things exist). She has often liked to think of herself as being a natural with directions, and yet has consistently felt lost in Oostal (the inherent disorientation seemingly built into the Sown Forest notwithstanding).

She watches Vanya kick his dangling feet for a few minutes, and then moves from her seat to sit beside him.

“I haven’t asked yet, but I’m curious, Vanya—” She eventually starts. “What is the witch like? Does she have a name?”

Vanya seems happy enough to answer, long tail thumping once against the worn base of the carriage and one tiny paw going to his chin in thought. “We call her Grandmother.”

“Grandmother?” Toto sounds profoundly amused, and Haru can’t blame him.

“She’s given us no other name. We came up with our own, and I think she likes it. It is a very affectionate name.”

“Yeah, it is. From her antics, I would have expected her to have a more… um, nefarious name. Definitely not something so casual.” Then, after a moment of further deliberation, “Is she really a grandmother?”

Vanya emits his pealing laugh again, flapping one of his paws. “She is a witch! She has no family. She has lived almost as long as Oostal itself!”

“Th-That long? How old is Oostal..?”

“Old,” Vanya responds unhelpfully, as per usual. Haru is abruptly reminded of Muta’s earlier assertion of the same, back when they’d been searching through the Sown Forest.

“...I see.” Haru glances out at the rolling scenery— a golden sky streaked with teal blue, long, pearlescent grasses that wave in the breeze, and dark water in the distance. It’s beautiful, scenery unlike anything she’s seen before, and so blissfully dreamlike. Then, seemingly just as soon as she’d expressed her appreciation, it all shifts in an instant. It’s seamless, but… indescribably disorienting, how the colors and shapes of their surroundings suddenly melt away into something new.

The sky now is dark, clear of clouds or gold or teal-colored streaks. The gentle hills and their shimmering grasses vanish; all around them the landscape has flattened. Like the Sown Forest, the horizon stretches on so far so as to be near unfathomable. And despite the fact they had previously been traveling uphill and are now incomprehensibly rolling across a flat surface without reaching the top of the hill, there had been no crash downwards, the transition from hills to plains as unremarkable as the one from their surroundings.

If Haru spends too long questioning it, her head will start hurting, she knows it.

“I’m no expert on witches,” Toto starts behind them, “But I’ve always heard many of them have an unassuming object which serves as a source of power for them, nefarious or not. In fact, I recall one which had hidden her soul inside a flower. Does Grandmother have one..? It isn’t often I hear of mischievous witches who also happen to be very graceful losers, after all.”

“Mm, a source of her power, maybe not, but Grandmother is the sole proprietor of a very curious book,” Vanya answers. “It’s the only one of its kind, and no one quite knows just how she came to be the owner of it.”

“Oh? And what sort of book is this mysterious tome..?” Toto asks.

Vanya gives a questioning, thoughtful noise, twisting a little to look at the crow as he does. “It is like an address book. Every creature that now lives in Oostal, or once has— its name is written in that book. Its real name, that is.”

It’s here Toto tilts his head, and his eyes, to Haru, sharpen just so, not so abruptly so as to cause alarm or suspicion, but noticeably for someone who has become more accustomed to his mannerisms. When he speaks, it’s with a marked delicateness.

“...I imagine such a book would be quite coveted.”

“Oh, yes.”

It’s when they pass through a broken iron gate that Vanya suddenly stands, dusting off his hands and sides excitedly before pointing out in the distance behind the two of them (Haru has to crane her neck to see what’s got his attention; as she does, she sees that Toto is following suit, as well). 

“There it is! The ruined workshop of the Top-Top. Once home to the finest crafters of decorative eggs in all of Oostal.”

Haru, again feeling the faintest veneer of old destruction and deterioration lingering over yet another Oostal location, gazes up at the looming structure, overgrown with red ivy and moss, and the deteriorating gate they’d just rolled through, and then asks, “...What happened to the Top-Top?”

“Nobody is quite sure,” Vanya answers blithely; his own eyes never leave the dilapidated factory, and Haru gets quite the impression that where she sees the echoes of a lamentable catastrophe, he sees something quite different. “It happened overnight, and by the time there were explorers doughty enough to traverse the city, there were no remains to tell the story.”

“That’s a sad story,” Haru says.

“Mm! Sad! It’s an enduring mystery, all right. Virtuous Siree is obsessed with it. Oh! There— on the side, there’s an entrance. That was for their clients.” Vanya hops over the side of the carriage with such speed, he’s little more than a wispy, white blur. Haru slides off the back end to follow him, sharing a — look with Toto before she sees that Vanya has been joined a short ways away by Baron and Muta. 

“There will be many eggs inside,” Vanya is explaining.

“So, what, we just go in and grab one that looks good..?” Muta asks with a shrug.

“Were you paying attention to the original riddle at all?” Toto replies.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“It means not just any egg will do, Hairball Brain. From the sounds of it, we’re looking for one that never had the chance to be decorated. Isn’t that right, Vanya?”

Something in Vanya’s expression appears lightly annoyed, as if he feels Toto had rather upstaged him and his no doubt theatrical reveal of the answer to this particular stanza of the witch’s riddle.

“That’s right,” he answers, but his clipped tone at least doesn’t last. He laughs again, though, clapping his paws together once. “A bird should know his eggs, shouldn’t he? Here, follow me.”

                                                          &&&

If the outside of the old factory had looked desolate and crumbling, then the inside only furthers the aesthetic— peeling wallpaper, overturned furniture, thick, dusty cobwebs. The air is stale, cold. And unlike the Sown Forest, there is no persistent ambient noise to temper the silence. There are, however, hundreds (if not thousands) of tiny eggs scattered across every surface. They litter the floor. Some of them appear to have been dropped and now lie in shattered slivers across the stone flooring. 

...Not one of them, from what they can see by the door, has been decorated.

“Wa— hold on, how are we supposed to tell which one is the right one..?”

“We take them all!” Vanya responds brightly.

“You can’t be serious,” Haru starts.

“I’m not.” He scampers to a nearby cluster of eggs and swipes one, holding it out to the rest of them so that they can more easily discern the thin seam along the middle. Then, when he’s certain they’ve all four seen it, Vanya takes both paws and… gently pries it open much like a jewelry box. 

“Oh!” Haru responds with breathy awe. “It’s beautiful!”

In contrast to its plain, unadorned outside, the inside of the egg boasts a vibrant green coating, whitish gold lining an overlapping shell pattern in dainty filaments. The same gleaming platinum is present just below the egg’s seam, forming a tiny floor, upon which rests a minuscule, lace-clad mouse carved from something that resembles ivory.

“It reminds me of a music box,” Haru continues softly.

“Mm! ...But not every egg here is like this. One of them must be unlovely both inside and out.”

“It’s just a little plain, that’s all,” Haru feels oddly compelled to counter.

Muta, on the other hand, appears to have singled out a different issue in the present discussion.

“...so, the plan is to just… open every single egg here and hope one doesn’t have some glitzy trinket in it? How are we supposed to do that in just— how long do we have left..?”

“Somewhere around 28 hours,” Baron says.

“In just 25 hours! Look at all these things— there’s gotta be an easier way..!”

“There is, but…” Vanya appears rather uncharacteristically abashed, paws linked behind his back and stance nearly cringing inward. 

“But..?” Muta prompts warily.

“You can not be upset with me! It had to be done!”

“Mr. Vanya,” Baron starts with measured patience. “Please, we are here to assist you and your daughter— there is no need to keep secrets. What is the faster method you know of?”

Appeased, the fox clasps his paws together and then opens them again, revealing a modest handful of the scarlet-colored berries from the Sown Forest. 

It doesn’t take long for the pieces to fall into place.

“It was you! You’re the reason those things all turned on us!”

“I was promised there would be no upset!” Vanya cries, apparently deeming Baron the least likely to condemn him, as he quite swiftly scurries behind the Creation, only peeking out to yelp his defense. “Pretty Vanya happened across a berry bush while running to meet the others! It couldn’t hurt to have extras! What if something happened to the one the Helpful Bureau was given?”

“Cut the crap, twerp, you picked them up because you knew we’d need them to make this egg hunt easier,” Muta argues. “Why else would you have worried we’d get mad at you, like it was your fault?!”

Vanya doesn’t respond, but the way his eyes widen in apparent consternation, and the vulnerable, searching look he directs to the four of them says that he hadn’t expected to get caught in one of his own fibs. Even Baron, ever the charitable gentleman, displays some misgiving as he stares at the fox cowering behind him.

“...There do appear to be a number of details you’ve neglected to advise us of, Mr. Vanya,” he eventually agrees softly.

Feeling evidently betrayed by this quiet admonishment from Even Baron, Vanya backs away from the four of them, glancing rapidly between them all again and giving the impression he’s quite frantically running through all his options in his mind. Perhaps predictably, he settles on… well, what they’ve all come to expect as the usual.

“It has been a long time!” He cries, hiding his face in his scarf. “Little Virtuous Siree has spent so long being the way she is now! I wanted a surefire way to gain Helpful Bureau’s assistance, and fast! A time limit, I thought, was the easiest way to do it. The Pretty Vanya Creature is not so devious!”

“Th… that’s it?” Haru pauses. “I guess that explains the time measurements always being off.”

“And the speed of the riddle being solved,” Toto adds. “You must have been working on this for a while, Vanya.”

Muta seems unconvinced, but reluctantly so. “Are you really telling me that a witch not only gave you no restrictions about getting outside help but also didn’t slap down a time limit on you? Eh, look, I’m not trying to be that guy, but that just seems real careless to me, specially for a witch.”

Vanya only cries more loudly.

“Now, now,” Baron starts, offering his own handkerchief to the fox. “It is understandable why you’d feel the need to fabricate this, er, half-truth, but I do promise you, it’s not necessary. We of the Cat Bureau are quite happy to offer our assistance to you in a timely fashion, Mr. Vanya, legitimate time limit or not. And I do hope you will, here on out, feel comfortable placing your complete trust in us.”

Vanya’s black eyes, always rather stark against the pale ivory of his fur, shine now as if they’ve been dusted with glitter as he regards Baron with his paws clasped.

“Yes, yes! The Prettiest Vanya Creature promises— from here, no more fibs.”

“Good.” Baron responds with an obliging nod.

“Alright,” Toto agrees, as well, before continuing, “These berries you picked up at our last location, though— they’re going to help us find the right egg in a quicker fashion? How’s that?”

“We eat them,” Vanya answers bluntly, miming the motion of popping one of the little berries in his mouth.

A reluctant uneasiness settles over the group, then. Their eccentric client has just promised to abandon his exaggerations and falsehoods, and Haru, personally, thinks to herself she’s never been the type to rebuff a genuine apology, but… So, too, does she think this feels like an awfully monumental amount of trust to place in someone so fickle so soon.

“Eat them…” Toto echoes pensively, softly.

“...They don’t taste gross, do they?” Muta asks, unimpressed.

“Hmm, I don’t know. There are no records kept in Oostal about the taste of the Sown Forest berries. So few people have had them!”

“Well,” Baron starts, again the voice of optimism, “If, even though there have been but a handful of pioneers who have tried this particular curiosity, it hasn’t yet gained a reputation as an anathema, then I believe it should be taken as a sign of favorable fortune. No news is good news, as some might say.” 

“Bet they said the same thing about enemas,” Muta grumbles under his breath.

Vanya holds his own little red berry above his head, as if attempting to see the light pass through the opaque sphere, and smiles at it in the same way a mother might her stumbling toddler. “They are very special, like most sacred things. And because of that, they allow those who have been gifted with them a most impressive temporary ability.”

“Oh, yeah? And what ability is that..?”

Vanya smiles at Muta, distracted from the fruit. “To see to the heart of anything.”

“Ah,” Baron says with an acknowledging nod, “Like the Lubov, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“Well…” Muta sighs, interrupting the silence that settles seconds after. “Bottoms up, I guess.”

“Ah, yes—” Natori first says, only to quickly backpedal when he realizes what that technically sounds like, “—or, I suppose I should say no. There’s no need to worry about that.” Actually, there might have been, given the king’s occasionally vengeful nature, but he’s going to assume (hope) that the cat’s continuing affection for Haru would stay his hand. “You probably wouldn’t have heard, I realize, but His Majesty has retired. Prince Lune and Miss Yuki are currently in the process of taking over the royal duties.”

Then, knowing that explanation doesn’t entirely address her question but unwilling to reveal the true depths of the king’s capriciousness (as if she doesn’t already know), he adds weakly, “...I… suppose he thought, ah, traveling light was the most fitting option given the circumstances.”

Haru seems unconvinced, but it’s the mention of Prince Lune and Yuki that ultimately sways her from pursuing the topic (much as he’d hoped it would).

“How are Lune and Yuki doing..?” Her tone is hesitant.

“They’re doing quite well!” Natori is quick to reply. “I believe the two of them have been adjusting marvelously to their new positions.”

“‘Course they are,” the Cat King suddenly interjects from his spot ahead of them, and Haru realizes abruptly that he must have been listening to their conversation despite his ample distance. Inwardly, she tries to remember if she’d said anything... damning. “It’s what Lune was raised to do! He’s a five-star son. An’ he’s gonna make a groovy king, too. You’ll see.”

“Well, I believe you,” Haru says.

“Yes, we all have the utmost confidence in him,” Natori adds affectionately. “But we mustn’t forget Miss Yuki. Together, they seem to be fairly well-matched. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah… I guess. Still think Haru woulda made a prettier bride, though…” This perhaps intended to be muttered to himself, but the king makes little effort to lower his voice to a more discreet level, which is terribly in-character for him, Natori realizes. He and Haru both hear every word.

Tentatively, he glances up to Haru to gauge her reaction. Heaping praise upon who he can only imagine to be her two favorite residents of the kingdom had registered as a sensible strategy to keep her agreeable, but, as history has shown straitlaced, practical Natori again and again, the soundest method in any existing world is absolutely no match for the tumultuous shipwreck known as the Cat King.

“You know,” Haru eventually starts after this exchange, casually linking her hands behind her back as she walks. Natori gets the distinct impression she’s feeling perhaps impishly uncooperative, and her airy line seconds later only confirms it. “If you keep saying ridiculous things like that, I’m not going to help you guys out after all.”

“But you promised!” Is the king’s immediate response, so distressingly similar to Natori’s memories of his youngest sister around the age of four or five that he’s momentarily struck dumb. The king’s paws are even halfway balled into fists at his side.

Of course, then, much to Natori’s dismay, Haru counters this protest with a similarly familiar retort, easily drawn in to bounce back the king’s childish energy, if only because his reaction had been so humorously over-the-top.

“That’s where you’re wrong, king— I didn’t promise anything.”

The king opens his mouth to retaliate, and then— promptly closes it again. The paw with which he’d been so close to pointing plaintively at Haru settles by his side instead, and he leans back as if to allow himself to survey her whole person, one eye squinted in aggravation in her general direction.

“...so you didn’t. I see.”

In the silence that follows, Haru standing confidently with her arms crossed again and the Cat King eyeing her like a particularly tricky crossword puzzle, Natori feels a faint amount of electricity settle among them. He looks helplessly from Haru to the Cat King, wise to the fact that he has faded into the background for the both of them. Were they any other duo, anyone else but his erratic employer and the young woman he’d once witnessed shout down said employer, it’d be so simple for him to don his so-called Mom Voice™ and put his foot down. All this for an errant comment! Honestly!

The uncomfortable memory of being flung aside like day-old laundry is still quite fresh, quite visceral, but he shoves down whatever apprehension the action might bring him and wedges himself between Haru and the king. Haru, for her part, at least straightens in apparent curiosity, staring down at him as if she’d only just remembered he was here at all.

“N-Now, let’s be sensible about all this, shall we..?” Natori starts diffidently. “His Majesty did mention to me how fortunate it might be for you to have him in your debt. Didn’t you, Sire?” Here he turns hopefully to the king, who is still regarding Haru with surly skepticism. No help there, it seems. Nevertheless, he continues, “Should you choose to offer your services as, erm… courier, I’m certain we could find some equivalent favor with which to repay you.” And hastily, seeing Haru preparing to point out the obvious, “No mice, matatabi, or marriage involved, of course.”

“This is sounding an awful lot like what happened last time,” Haru says skeptically.

Natori thinks about that for a moment. He can’t argue that, and no matter what he says in reassurance, if the king decides he wishes to reward Haru for her trouble with mice or matatabi or even marriage again after all, no word to the contrary will sway him. He would much rather avoid another fiasco with the Cat Bureau.

“Well…” He starts. “Rather than leave your recompense up to two, er, out-of-touch cats, why not personally select your precise, desired repayment? Should His Majesty fulfill your request, and to your satisfaction, of course, then we shall all three consider the matter closed. There will be no need for any later reevaluations of the exchange.”

“I guess that sounds a little better,” Haru admits, but her tone is pensive and perhaps not altogether convinced.

“Would you like a moment to deliberate?” Natori asks.

Haru nods, gaze still a little faraway. He guesses she’s most likely trying to think of an ‘equivalent favor.’ Or at least, he hopes she is. “Yeah. I could use a minute to think, thanks.”

It’s only when he and the king have moved a little ways down the sidewalk to give her some space that Claudius decides to voice his own opinion on this proposal (why he couldn’t do something similar to his comment about Yuki, Natori resignedly opts not to contemplate).

“This is a lot more work than I thought it’d be,” he sniffs. 

“Oh? Is it?” Natori hopes fervently the king picks up on the tremendous amount of deadpan criticism he’d mercilessly stuffed into those three little words, a liberty he doesn’t normally allow himself.

But of course, if he does, the king gives no acknowledgement of the same. “Yeh. It’s been, what, more than half a year since the whole kerfuffle? Didn’t think humans’d hold grudges that long.”

Natori wonders if it’s worth pointing out that the catastrophe involving Haru and the Cat Bureau had been closer to a little over three months ago, and that the king himself has held grudges for far longer than that. In the end, he supposes it’ll have little purpose and only aggravate Claudius more.

There's little time to wonder, anyhow, as the two are approached by a rather triumphant-looking Haru shortly after, hands again folded behind her back.

"Alright," she announces. "I've given your proposal some thought."

"Yes?" Natori's voice is faint, despite his best efforts.

"I have decided... to take you up on your offer. A favor of my choosing for my courier service."

"Oh, marvelous!" Natori claps his paws together once gratefully. "And what favor is it you wish for, Miss Haru?"

"A small thing— I just want to hear the king say three things he likes about Yuki." Then, hastily, "Three genuine things. No lies, not even white ones!"

Natori turns his attention to the king, head canted just slightly toward him. "Is that a favor you're willing to honor, sire?"

The Cat King doesn't answer immediately, staring into indeterminate space while pensively combing his claws through his mustache. Eventually, he shrugs with an agreeable noise, soon after giving a single nod of approval.

"Yeh. Sounds easy enough."

“Wonderful!” Natori then extends one of his paws to Haru in the hopes of sealing the agreement.

But there’s a look on her face that’s hard for Natori to puzzle out— remorse? Uncertainty? He wonders if perhaps she is rethinking her request and its apparent simplicity. Wary that she may continue with her decision to renege after all, his paw falters slightly.

“I’d offer something more binding like a pinky swear, but I’m afraid that may prove to be rather difficult for me,” he adds earnestly. 

This attempt at levity has its intended effect— Haru snorts softly and soon after stoops to his level, taking his paw with a gentle but confident shake. “Alright, you have a deal, sir.”

“Ah, excellent.”

Haru returns to her full height, hands loosely planted at her hips. “You’re not going to get me on a technicality because I didn’t shake your actual hand— er, paw, though, are you?”

Natori glances at the oversized sleeves spilling over his paws. “Well, now that you’ve pointed it out, no.” 

“Aha! See, I’m learning.”

“So you are!”

“Yeah, yeah, alright, alright, that’s enough flirting,” Claudius abruptly interrupts, seemingly edging in out of nowhere to stand between them. Natori having already squeezed into the earlier space between Haru and the king means there’s little room for this maneuver, and he finds himself being shoved out of the metaphorical picture. Haru remains less than impressed.

“You remember I’m not interested in marrying a cat, right?”

“Well, you can’t take him as an assistant, either,” the king counters grumpily.

“Well?” Haru decides to interject as an abrupt subject change, and Natori feels a great swell of gratitude to her for it. “Have at it, Your Majesty. I’m expecting to be blown away by what nice things you have to say about Yuki.”

Claudius appears rather amusingly unprepared, if not downright vulnerable; he looks once to Natori, again, as if in search of one of his advisor’s usual loopholes or a proviso in his favor, but the bespectacled cat only clears his throat and inclines his head at the king expectantly. He’s not getting out of this one with Natori’s help, it seems. Oh, he’ll remember this, Natori. He’ll remember this.

Whining lowly and plaintively to himself, he finally…! 

Pulls a fast one.

“It ain’t happening right now, babe— what if I give Lune’s bride a nice little compliment and you decide you’re not helping after all? Only one of us has a history of backing out of things, you know. I’ll give you all the nice words you want… after I have my snacks. Sound peachy?“

“I’ll compromise,” Haru responds loftily, knowing she's the one with the high ground in this particular case. “One compliment now. The other two once I’ve handed over your snacks.”

The Cat King huffs, almost in an offended manner. “Fine, fine.” Then, rather surprisingly quick, yet genuine-sounding enough that Haru, at least, isn’t disposed to find it suspicious despite the speed, “...That bow. Cutesy to some, maybe, but nice anyhow. Stands out. Always liked a cat who knows how to accessorize.”

This praise comes across as decidedly pleased, as though the memory of this accessory alone is enough to change his vague opinion on the future queen altogether. The king is so impulsive, and so capricious, Natori isn’t sure he’d put it past him.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Haru is saying.

“Yeah, babe, but down to brass tacks. Where’s my goodies?”

Haru rolls her eyes, gesturing down the street. “The store’s right around that corner. You’ll have them as soon as I grab them from the shelves.” Then, after a pause, “So what do you guys want me to pick up, anyway?”

She looks to the king, who looks to Natori, who busily digs one sheet of paper out of… well, Haru had either blinked just in time to miss it, or he’d been storing it in a sleeve, perhaps. She’s not sure which is funnier. In any case, she’s soon after offered the list. 

The… inordinately long list.

“You want all of this..? For a midnight snack?” She chances a dubious glance at the cats before her, and the first thing she notices is that Natori is trying to inconspicuously direct a frantic throat-slitting gesture at her. She quickly adds, “How am I supposed to pay for this, anyway?”

“Natori?”

“Ah— yes—” Snapping out of his silent panic from before, Natori again pulls out a money clip from seeming hammerspace. “I’m afraid I’m not too terribly practiced in dealing with human currency.” This spoken as he hands the bulging clip to Haru. “Will this amount suffice?”

Haru doesn’t know where to start, looking from the massive sheaf of folded bills in her hand to the two cats who had evidently been carting it around in some ill-defined dimension.

“...Wh… Where did you even get all this..?”

The Cat King scoffs in return, gesturing to himself with a look of utmost smugness. “King, babe.”

“...I-I guess that was kind of a dumb question…”

"If you have any questions regarding the items, please don't hesitate to ask," Natori adds helpfully.

"I think I've got it, but thanks."

Despite Natori’s weak protests, the king insists on standing close enough to the glass doors and walls of the store so that he can watch Haru traverse the aisles in the same way a particularly vigilant mother bear might, if that mother bear were more concerned with a bowl of soup than its own children. More than once, Natori spies the young clerk scrutinizing the two of them as they loiter outside the store and scratch her head, but much to his relief, ultimately nothing comes of it. 

When Haru returns with a shopping bag, she’s not forgotten any of their agreement.

“Alright, king, you have your ‘goodies.’ Now, out with two more nice comments on Yuki.”

“Make sure she’s not stiffing us, babe,” the Cat King mumbles to Natori, but not indistinctly enough so that Haru doesn’t hear.

She crosses her arms again. “Well..?”

This time he knows for certain Natori will be no help, so the king does little to look for outside help, instead glowering at the pavement as if he is thinking harder than he’s ever had to before in his life.

“Come on,” Haru starts with light exasperation. “It can’t be that hard to pick out nice things about her. She’s really nice, and if it wasn’t for her we’d all be worse off, don’t you think..?”

“It’s not that,” Natori suddenly pipes up from his place behind the king. He sounds distracted; having produced a clipboard from some unknown location, he now stands with his back to them, checking through their list. “Miss Yuki is quite a familiar face to us, you know. Not enough so to have gotten to know anything about her, however, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah! So, give me a break.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll get off your case about it, then. But I’m still expecting you to come through on your end of the bargain here. That wouldn’t be very kingly of you to let it fall through.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The king is back to glowering at the street. To himself, in some distant part of his brain, Natori wonders if perhaps Claudius is stalling so that he can take off with a rushed apology once Natori affirms their own requirements have been met. But he doubts it, too— a broken promise can have unforeseen consequences for one of their kind.

“Mm. You know, she has a musical voice, eh? Natori, you ever heard her sing? We should get her to do that and see. We’ve needed to round out our higher registered singers ever since Lune hit puberty.”

“...You sing..?” Haru asks faintly. She can’t imagine it. She doesn’t know that she wants to imagine it.

“We all do! I can give you a preview, if you want—”

“No, thank you. I’d really rather have my third and final Yuki compliment.”

“Oh. Hrmm… Well…” The king scratches at his chin, gaze distant. “...Lune likes her. And she seems to like him back, so you know she’s got good taste, huh?”

Haru looks somewhat dubious, but she eventually nods once. “Okay, I’ll accept that one, too. So, that’s three. You’ve upheld your end of the deal, Your Majesty.”

The king smiles his wide, proud smile, puffing up for good measure as well at even this light bit of commendation.

“Good, good. Are we all set, Natty?”

“Yes, sire.”

Here Haru glances to Natori— only to quite swiftly pull a double-take. The moderately-sized shopping bag she’d come out with has disappeared, and Natori looks none the burdened for it. Even the clipboard she’d last seen him reading through is gone. She’s just on the verge of asking what she will belatedly realize is a dumb question when the king speaks up and distracts her.

“You know, I’m feelin’ real good about this, babe— not you, princess, don’t get all ruffled again. If all I have to do is compliment Lune’s bride, I could rack up some good food points in no time at all.”

“Er— sire, I don’t think—”

“What?!” Haru, ever aware of the quiet stillness of the night, can not find it in herself to raise her voice much more than her usual speaking tone, but she hopes her indignation comes through anyhow. “No, no, don’t you dare go making a habit out of this—!”

“Sorry, can’t hear you, too far away—” Is what she receives as a reply, and true to his words, the king appears to have bolted down the street leaving Natori to futilely dash after him.

“Sire— please—!”

Haru is left with just a sinking feeling and a light swear.

To that, Claudius doesn’t respond for some time, staring out at the mellow passersby and combing absently at his mustache, an idle habit he’s never been able to totally shake.

Finally, Natori speaks up again, gentle, low. “How was our first meeting, Claudius..?”

His companion gives a pensive noise or two, still absently worrying at a handful of long fur before his mind seems to come back to him. “Feels kinda weird to relay the story to someone who was there, babe.”

“Well, pretend I’m someone else, then.” A light, almost playful piece of advice, but one which seems to loosen Claudius' tongue.

"Don't really want someone else, though.”

"That's sweet of you."

"Heh. I'm always sweet, babe."

"Some of your courtiers might be inclined to say otherwise."

"Bah, what do they know."

Natori laughs. "Not enough, I suppose."

They lapse into another silence, then, lost in the murmuring chatter of the residents of the Finch Kingdom going about their day. Natori is just on the verge of politely asking when they might leave.

"It was a disaster. I made an ass of myself."

"Oh, it couldn't have been that bad." Spoken affectionately, but with perhaps a knowing edge.

"It could and it was," Claudius persists. “I'd seen you over and over again, always trailing after the queen. I could tell you weren't royalty, an' I made a… an assumption."

Somewhere, Natori is beset by both a distant humiliation and the fervent wish that he might remember more, that this description, vague as it is, might be just the trigger to jog his unreliable memory. Alas, the vague but deeply-rooted embarrassment is all that arises.

“You thought I was a companion of a certain, ah, character.”

“Oh, so you do remember, you fibber.”

Natori laughs again. “That was only the logical conclusion.”

“I know.” Claudius’ chair comes finally crashing down with a thunderous clap, and he’s unfazed by the curious glances and annoyed frowns the action brings the two of them. Natori rather oddly feels no compulsion to direct apologetic smiles or other motions to their fellow diners, either.

“Guess we should get a move on.”

“Yes.”

They leave the Finch Kingdom behind, and start not for one of its neighboring kingdoms, but for the aimless, trackless space between them. Unusually, Claudius wordlessly trails after his advisor, trusting wholly in Natori's knowledge in a way he hasn't in quite some time.

“Has your mind changed?” Natori questions once, and even he himself can hear the veiled wish that his companion’s resolution might be faltering, despite his best efforts.

“How do you think Lune’s doing right now? You think he’s noticed we’re gone yet?”

“...I would be quite surprised if he hasn’t yet, yes.”

“It’s too bad, Natori. You know?”

“I know.”

“Just too bad,” Claudius continues to mumble under his breath.

Natori doesn’t answer.

“He’s going to be fine, though, you know? I think we prepared him pretty good, myself.”

“I’ll be keeping my eye on him for you,” is Natori’s subdued, faint reply, and it’s this time that Claudius finds himself unable to form a response, so much so that a thick silence settles heavily between them for a long moment. It isn’t lessened by Natori turning to survey him with measured uncertainty, either, and it seems to Claudius that they spend an inordinate eternity simply sharing this somber gaze, and gradually coming to an unspoken understanding.

Finally, when he can’t stand it anymore, he does look away with a restrained snort. There’s a lump in his throat that’s somewhat easily ignored, more so than the impossible to define tangle of emotions in his chest, at least.

“Still got it, babe. Sure know how to set an old cat’s mind at ease.”

The hesitant but affectionate smile Natori gives him is an oddly exquisite pain, too brittle and too honest; he almost wants to look away.

“Oh, I’m going to miss you,” the other cat murmurs in a manner which seems almost involuntary, and Claudius thinks it sounds something like a lovelorn admission of guilt. Or perhaps he only hopes.

“Well, who wouldn’t?” He declares.

“Who wouldn’t.” Natori echoes obligingly.

They walk for a long time. There comes a time when Claudius gets bored of it and sits, and Natori settles down beside him without comment or complaint.

“It’s a sorry place for a nap, babe,” Claudius remarks.

Natori’s response, Claudius realizes, is to lean into his shoulder with a contented noise, and it’s a show of comfort and affection that does not pass him by. The ex-king decides to return the favor, though he rather quickly finds lying across Natori’s lap a far more inviting position. Natori laughs.

“Intolerable, still, Claudius..?”

He waits a long moment to respond. He’d been bored, restless, not necessarily fatigued, but now he finds his eyelids are inexplicably heavy, and he doesn’t fight the urge to doze a little.

“...nah. I take it back.”

He can hear the fondness in Natori’s voice when he eventually replies. “Well. I’m always pleased to meet your expectations.”

It’s this muted emotion which stirs Claudius to let go of the remorse he’s been holding on to since they left. Since before they left. Perhaps he’s held it since they first met, humiliating wrong assumption regarding the cat’s position and all. Love at first sight. It’s a terribly impractical thing, but he’s nothing if he is not ruled by that kind of passion and impulsivity.

“I should have done it, babe. You know? When I first had the thought, when I first felt it, maybe even way back when Sephie left— I should have set you up beside me with a crown, too. Made it official and everything. Bet no one would have objected.” Or, more accurately, had they objected, they’d have most likely been in for a very long drop.

The faltering quirk to Natori’s muzzle makes his smile appear particularly rueful. “I’ve never wanted a crown of my own, Claudius.” Even in times long past when he’d been blessed with one in response to faint acquiescence alone.

“But you would have gone along with it anyway, wouldn’t you? If I had asked you to?”

The permissive (if inextricably reluctant) hum Natori uses to agree with him feels strangely comforting. Familiar. Claudius closes his eyes again.

“I would have,” Natori eventually murmurs. “If you had asked me to. But I was always most content where I was, ha. So, tell yourself nothing was wasted.”

“I’ll do that.”

It isn’t the admission of reciprocated sentiment he’d hoped for, and it stings, but he supposes it will do at the end of the world. When he leaves, he contents himself with a brushed kiss atop the head and the barest, lingering touch of their entwined paws.

1 || It’s relatively rare that he’s accompanied only by Basil anywhere, the youngest Danger normally preferring to have the company of his brothers over any others (at least, as far as Roh has seen). [ moon in hell || DBS ]

2 || Haircuts hadn’t always fallen under the expansive umbrella of Natori’s responsibilities. [ fernweh || TCR ]

3 || Natoru plays a lot of roles. [ Leave Us Your Stardust || TCR ]

4 || “I think Nataki is a good name for you.” [ ploffskin, pluffskin || TCR ]

5 || There have been a relatively healthy number of visitors to the Cat Bureau since Haru’s memorable rescue from the Cat Kingdom, and many have boasted much stranger forms than the one currently pleading his case before them all, and yet Haru finds herself unable to relax in his presence, much less take her eyes off him. [ A Very Small Wish || TCR ]

6 || Claudius could purposely wander into the raging river, and Natori would waste no time nor hesitation in wading in after him. It’s this, Claudius often finds himself thinking, which truly defines the unspoken relationship which exists between the two of them. [ the way you said it || TCR ]

7 || “Your paw is in your lap again.” [ Comme Il Faut || TCR ]

8 || It’s not even halfway through his hasty decision, when he’s ascended perhaps a fourth of the way up the steps leading to the window he’d spied the king clambering into, that Natori’s faith wavers. [ wool || TCR ]

9 || She oversleeps. That's the first unusual misfortune that happens to her on this particular day. [ But For Me It Was Today || TCR ]

10 || He sees it then— the millennia as they pass by, and the leaking ship that is Universe 9 sinks centimetre by centimetre into ruin and decay and infamy, and all while he toils tirelessly, too stubborn, too desperately loyal to give up the ghost and accept failure. [ aspectabund (prompt) || DBS ]

11 || It doesn’t take long at all for him to be followed, of course. He hears Natori’s arrival not as a patter of careful footsteps, but as a slight, brief increase in the music volume through an opened door, one that is just as quickly diminished. [ The Willow Bud Processional || TCR ]

12 || They ransack the castle, and weary from grief and loss and too many years prior spent cultivating what has ultimately proven to be futile and fruitless, he offers no resistance when they do. [ ruination || TCR ]

13 || Natori’s face is pressed against one of his paws. Rather uncomfortably, he should add, as it’s a gesture that anyone who wears glasses will tell you is difficult to pull off without some vexing little issues, feline or not. [ In the TV Light || TCR ]

14 || It’s as he’s sitting in the midday sun, the smell of a tea he doesn’t recognize on the air and the passing chatter of a bustling city out beyond him, that he realizes he isn’t certain this is what he’d wanted. [ last thoughts of a dying star || DBS ]

15 || It may be that father and son share the celestial names, and opposites, at that, but it is without a doubt king and advisor who in the end embody those symbolic traits— one faithful and steadfast, the other fickle and boisterous.  [ Adieu, False Heart || TCR ]

16 || It isn’t rebuilding the pillar that houses their most important link to the human world that causes them the most trouble– that’s all mere stone and mortar, labor and greased palms. [ Not Asking for a Storm || TCR ]

17 || Ah, how to describe Natori? ...Strait-laced, perhaps. Steadfast. More obstinate than many realize, in his quiet, meek way. When he’s allowed to have his way, of course, which... well, between her and the king, isn’t too terribly often.  [ Somniloquy || TCR ]

from here we have a few WIPs bc i don’t know that i have any other finished ones to share lies down

18 || It happens one long month in the ostensible springtime that the ruler of Cat Kingdom, the Cat King himself, decides to take an, in his own words, 'short' sabbatical, seemingly leaving only his queen in charge of the ruling duties in his absence. But as anyone who has worked in the castle for longer than... say, twenty minutes knows, with the king's advisor left behind, the burden of both responsibility and blame ends up rather oddly split. Contrarily so, at times. [ A Condensed History of Natori’s Career in the Kingdom of Cats yes really i’m sorry  || TCR ]

19 || There are a number of things cats like Natori simply do not do. Drink at parties, for one. Slack off in one’s responsibilities, for another. Indulge in colorful language. Pick out the vegetables from their meals (...in public, that is.) [ Sacre Couer || TCR ]

“According to our… inside source, our biggest obstacle will most likely prove to be Natori,” Baron explains, tapping a gloved finger against a grainy photo of the aforementioned cat. To herself, Haru thinks they maybe could have gotten a better picture of the guy— this one appears to feature him trying to wrestle a pair of shears away from a literal kitten. 

“What, the spineless advisor guy?”

“...Yes. He’s the most likely to notice aberrations. Despite his position, it’s rumored that his counsel actually holds quite little sway over the king’s ultimate actions, but better safe than sorry, as I like to say.”

“Baron, you’ve never said that before.”

"I most certainly have."

and much later on in the story rip

Natori looks far beyond chagrined to spy him among the arriving crowd, squinting just briefly in apparent suspicion before he's so characteristically distracted by yet another servant.

Even after the servant's departure, however, Natori's attention remains fixed on his work, and when he speaks up to remark on Muta’s presence, it's with a disdainful tone that unsurprisingly grates on the white cat’s nerves.