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zwy01 · 1 month

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Noble OCs - Siriana

Making five OCs for every clan!

Tianming Siriana: Pureblood. Alive in the present day, belongs to Lagus’ generation.

Tianming is smart, cunning, and manipulative. He takes great pride in being a noble and enjoys flaunting the power he possesses. His favorite pastime is playing with humans and pulling on their puppet strings. The world is his little ant farm and he views humans as brainless ants who only know how to move around in circles. A long time ago, a very bored Tianming wanted to spice things up. If human history was a canvas, he wanted to be the painter. Tianming used his noble superpowers to make himself look like he descended from the heavens and blessed the humans with his presence. Then, he announced himself as one of the gods, and told the humans about the “Mandate of Heaven”; something about there only being one legitimate ruler at a time, and if a king rules unfairly he could lose heaven’s approval, etc. The humans were in total awe and soaked up his teachings like a sponge. Little did they know it was nonsense he made up on spot because he just wanted to stir up drama. Tianming often disguised himself as a human and dwelled amongst them, taking part in rebellions to overthrow rulers he helped to establish in the past. He’d partake in the creation of a new dynasty, play with them for a little while, and accelerate the downfall of said dynasty once he gets bored. And this would be the norm for subsequent dynasties. Tianming’s having a blast with his little role-play game in the human world. He doesn’t fine-tune events for any particular outcome and simply enjoys being the steering wheel in the shadows. Even if it’s an anthill, he wants his piece of the ants’ treasure. The other nobles are aware of his unusual hobby and most are neutral. Some look at him with disdain, chaos-lovers cheer him on. Tianming doesn’t kill humans, so nobles who think he should be dealt with can’t do much about him. He has no urge to kill, but he doesn’t mind seeing people do it to each other. Their screams and cries make nice background music. Even better than an orchestra, how neat. Tianming is the father of Raizel’s brother, whom he had with the Previous Noblesse. He shows little to no emotion at her death nor does he acknowledge their son’s death. His exact relationship with the Previous Noblesse remains a mystery.

Guanyin Siriana: Pureblood. Entered eternal sleep, belonged to Gejutel’s generation.

Guanyin was the mother and predecessor of Zarga. She wasn’t exactly the best mother nor did she spend much effort in at least trying to be one. To her, Zarga was merely another noble amongst the crowd and she viewed him as an average acquaintance. His “special” connection to her existed solely because she gave birth to him and was his mother in simple terms. Precisely, she created him from a soul fragment. That was all. Guanyin didn’t exactly shun Zarga, but she never once referred to him as her son. To her, he was more like a younger colleague who had a permanent residence in her home. She didn’t show affection for him, and simply sat still and stared whenever he had his typical child moments. She heard him, but didn’t listen to what he had to say. She saw him, but didn’t integrate him into her field of view. Zarga had no one to praise him for his milestones nor did he have anyone to hold and comfort him when he felt sad. On the flip side, he was never punished for anything he did as long as he made progress with his education and training. He wasn’t the type to break rules for fun, but he was functionally free to do so to his heart’s desire. His mother would be the last person on this planet to discipline him. Guanyin’s concern for Zarga was minimal. He was her heir, she was his Clan Leader; their relationship stopped there. She treated him with respect and even bowed to him like she would in a greeting with another noble of similar status. She completely ignored the child part of his identity and grouped him with her adult colleagues. She never held him in her arms. Zarga’s other parent and soul fragment donor had no role in his life either. Zarga’s birth was planned a long time ago, when his other parent owed Guanyin a favor in his youth thus offered to have a soul fragment available for her when she needed one for her heir. The absence of reliable parental figures in Zarga’s life meant he felt lonely at times. From his mother’s perspective, her lack of any sort of emotion towards her son wasn’t her being personal at all. Rather, she felt almost nothing for her own kind in general. She had her duty towards her clan and fellow citizens of Lukedonia, and she did a good job. No one could ask her to be involved beyond that in any of their business.

Ironically, Guanyin was known as the “Goddess of Mercy and Compassion” in the human world. She felt neutral towards her own kind but loved humans unconditionally. She offered comfort to them. She was their spiritual and physical savior. She represented compassion, mercy, and love. The free time she could’ve spent with Zarga was always given to the humans without any hesitation. Guanyin was truly dedicated to her cause. She was revered as a goddess for a good reason. Perhaps Guanyin’s blatant favoritism sowed a seed of bitterness in Zarga’s heart. To add insult to injury, Guanyin addressed the humans as her “children”, which was a luxury Zarga never got to experience. Zarga was reluctant to admit that he missed his mother and tried to convince himself that he didn’t need her. He hated how he wanted her to notice him and felt pathetic. Guanyin was many people’s savior, yet never once reached out to the one who needed her most.

Caishen Siriana: Non-pureblood. Alive in the present day, belongs to the Previous Lord’s generation.

Caishen is charming and optimistic. His special talent is being lucky. The world somehow always has coincidences set up so he avoids everything that could possibly harm him. It’s as if he has an invisible shield following him around at all times. This may sound like a blessing, but it’s a minor huge inconvenience on his part. A perfectly fine table would collapse just because he’s about to stub his toe from being careless and not looking at where he’s walking. Dang, what a pity, that table was a real work of art. Or he’s about to accidentally trip himself and rather than falling onto the floor, there’s always someone nearby and he’ll fall on them instead and he’s fine because they took the blow for him. For this reason, the nobles all avoid him because they think he’s going to bring them bad luck. Everyone thinks he’s unlucky. Nobles look at his friends and wonder why they even hang out with him. Caishen is naturally clumsy but learns to be more careful to not let his luckiness cost others their wellbeing. He also tries his best because he doesn’t want his belongings to keep destroying themselves. Caishen carries red envelopes with handwritten letters, candies and toys stuffed inside on him at all times and gives them to people he likes. Then he exclaims “gong xi fa cai!” and laughs. Nobles eventually come to appreciate his gifts and affectionately calls them “Caishen’s unlucky red envelopes”. His quirky gift-giving ritual spreads to the human world and inspires “lucky red envelopes” filled with money in some human cultures. Even his gibberish catchphrase becomes a classic verbal blessing humans exchange with friends and family. Caishen has a Chinese dragon buddy named Jikuai and the two of them go on adventures in the human world once every twelve years. They visit villages and give out gifts of money, food, and other goods to residents. The humans mark their calendars and every twelfth year is the Year of the Dragon. Caishen and Jikuai are very flattered. To humans, they are the bringers of good fortune and prosperity. How flattering! Caishen’s hobby is making sycees.

Ganesha Siriana: Non-pureblood. Alive in the present day, belongs to Raskreia’s generation.

Ganesha is a bit shy. He usually wears an elephant headdress covering his own head entirely and only takes it off around people he knows. He speaks in two different voices depending on whether he has his headdress on or off. His friends ask him why he does his voice changes and to be frank he doesn’t know either. Ganesha is very intelligent. He was born with a gift, and he also spends a lot of time studying in the library tower Minerva. He’s very well acquainted with the Paradiso scholars there, and they often engage in deep conversations on all kinds of subjects. The scholars miss him when he’s busy and can’t come, and look forward to each of his visits. He tends to not announce when he comes and goes, so they hope he does remember to drop by. Ganesha’s creative thinking skills are excellent and nobles go to him for advice sometimes. He’s smart, cool, dignified, and elegant. That is, until he sees sweets. He goes extra crazy for pastries and won’t calm down until he’s had his fill. Thank goodness they’re nobles and overeating isn’t really detrimental to them. Ganesha is the person who stuffs his friend Geirmundr Landegre’s mouth with a cake to show him a new world. Geirmundr becomes a baker and in his career, he creates a very tasty dessert he names modaka, which is Ganesha’s all-time favorite. Ganesha has a supernatural giant rat friend named Kroncha and they’re inseparable. Sometimes Ganesha rides Kroncha on walks. Ganesha has two partners, Buddhi and Siddhi.

Erdene Siriana: Non-pureblood. Entered forced eternal sleep, belonged to Gejutel’s generation.

Erdene was the younger sister of Harald Siriana, the mother of Valentina Mergas, and the caretaker and tutor of Zarga Siriana. Erdene was sweet, empathetic, and patient. Zarga’s mother Guanyin being uninvolved in raising him meant that he spent his early years rotating between countless caretakers and nannies. They were Siriana clan members arranged to take care of Zarga in Guanyin’s stead because she couldn’t spare time for her own son. Some of them agreed it would’ve been better for their future Clan Leader to have his mother in his life, but they were in no place to suggest that to Guanyin. They could only listen to her orders as they had no say in such matters. The caretakers’ faces all blur in Zarga’s memory. Since there were so many of them and each only stuck around for short time, they often left just as he was about to grow attached to them, and that was very stressful for a young Zarga. Guanyin’s arrangements for her heir would continue to overwhelm him, until Erdene stepped up. While the other caretakers left as soon as their part of the job had been completed, Erdene couldn’t bring herself to leave behind the child who clutched onto her sleeves. His grip was weak, signaling that she was free to pull away as he didn’t expect her to stay with him even though he wanted her to. Erdene stayed with Zarga and requested to meet with Guanyin, and proposed that she would like to be the young heir’s primary caretaker. Guanyin, with her usual disregard for her son, agreed to the proposal. She didn’t care about who took care of him as long as he had someone. Erdene and Zarga grew very close to each other and he called her “Miss Erdene” and later “Mother”, which started when he had a slip-up because he viewed her as one and got confused for a second. He was flustered and promptly apologized for his mistake, but a teary-eyed Erdene insisted that he could call her that. He teared up too, and they shared a happy embrace. When Zarga became a little older and more independent, Erdene took up the role of tutor and instructed him on Clan Leader duties because Guanyin was nowhere to be seen yet again. If we’re being nice, she had full trust in Erdene’s competence with her heir. If we’re being honest, she was too busy saving humans to even remember that her son existed. Fortunately, Guanyin’s continued absence in Zarga’s life didn’t bother him as much anymore because he had his beloved Erdene. He sort of had a sister as well, though she wasn’t too keen on calling him her brother despite thinking of him as one. Erdene’s daughter Valentina, the Mergas heir, sometimes studied with Zarga and the children were close. They were similar in age and personality, and though the two clans had different educational systems, there were some overlapping areas so they occasionally shared study sessions.

Unfortunately, tragedy would follow and both Valentina and Zarga’s happiness came to an abrupt end during their teenage years. Erdene truly wanted to help Zarga, after all. She was his mother figure in practice, but she also hoped that his real mother would pay more attention to him. As much as Zarga appreciated the sentiment, he was more or less annoyed with Erdene’s unwavering persistence with her futile efforts regarding Guanyin. To him, it was a bit like her saying she was planning on leaving him, which would be a wrong assumption on his part. On Erdene’s part, she thought maybe Zarga still longed for his “real” mother and hoped to help him reconnect with her. This mutual misunderstanding drove an invisible wedge between them. One day, Zarga grew tired of Erdene’s refusal to let go of the impossible and in a split second, he snapped at her and told her that she shouldn’t try to meddle with his life because she wasn’t his real mother anyway, and at least his mother never bothered him. Zarga regretted it immediately, but his pride kept him from apologizing. Erdene was hurt, but blamed it on herself and quietly left after apologizing to Zarga, which just made him feel even worse. Unbeknownst to them, that would become their last interaction. Erdene left Lukedonia in hopes of finding a suitable gift for Zarga to cheer him up, but was unfortunately ambushed and killed by werewolves on her way back. Zarga was devastated, and so was Valentina. Their friendship ended when Valentina called him her mother’s killer. Zarga, feeling numb and guilty, accepted Valentina’s accusation. Erdene’s funeral was short and simple. Zarga didn’t attend because Valentina told him she’d kill him if he dared to show up. When Erdene was alive, her hobby was making mooncakes.

Thank you for reading! Drosia is next!

#noblesse #manhwa #myart #oc #original character #tianming siriana #caishen siriana #guanyin siriana #ganesha siriana #erdene siriana

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ploffskinpluffskin · 2 years

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Title: The Ruins Rating: PG-13ish Warnings: god Implicit and explicit character death(s), unhappy ending, Natori spends the entire fic grieving and/or trapped in a bleak situation orz, probably manipulation and gaslighting, some short-lived violence and blood at the end, being at the mercy of someone who thinks they love you......... 6^6;; Characters: Natori, mostly (sorry). An OC by the name of Caishen. Other characters like the Cat King, Natoru, Lune, and Yuki are mentioned or make brief appearances but it’s mostly comprised of interactions between Natori and various OCs rip. This has become pretty much an exercise in ‘I wonder how much suffering I can dump on my favorite character’ Summary: How many strings does one good deed pull? For the Cat Kingdom and its residents, the absence of one impulsive act of goodwill possesses farther reaching consequences than anyone could have expected.

Notes: So this idea originally came about from just kind of a small part of @catsafarithewriter‘s Disappearance of Haru Yoshioka which mentioned briefly that without Haru's rescue of Lune, the king died without an heir, and the Cat Kingdom descended into chaos. Me, being lightly obsessed with the Cat Kingdom and also being an absolute sucker for bleak situations, saw My Favorite Character Natori to the side, thought about how losing not only Lune and the Cat King, but also the entire kingdom's peace and prosperity, would just utterly destroy him and quietly wondered if in this kind of situation he would be one of the first casualties or if for some reason someone might want to keep him alive for ‘useful knowledge’ and voila. You have this pit of despair. I did ask catsafari if it was alright to take inspiration in the way I did, just for the record `~`;

I wasn’t certain for a while whether I would eventually publish this one or not, not only because the idea came from someone else’s fic, but also because it’s. well. very dark compared to what I normally write, and I feel I’ve long since sorta pigeonholed myself into being the Cute one who writes just lighthearted subjects, and even when I do venture into darker, sadder topics, it’s usually still with an overarching sense of idealism to it— that things will be alright Eventually. This… is not that

because of that, i have decided ultimately to just post it here on this private-ish side blog. also be aware this sucker is Long As Hell and unfinished, but i’ve added notes for the missing parts

+++

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.

He'd remained dutiful and devoted to the end. Watching the blurred, wavering sky gradually fade from his sight, Natori supposes he can't have hoped for any more than that.

#typewriter ghost #the ruins #ufjfdka this is my 420th post here w at

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