Fic: A House for the Mouse (Ladyhawke)
Jan. 2nd, 2021 02:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookishwenchNo copyright infringement is intended and no profit is made. Written for DestielsDestiny for Yuletide Madness 2020.
A House for the Mouse
Imperius, as it turned out, was a terrible cook. It was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back for Philippe. He could put up with the snoring that sounded like doomsday arriving, the constant complaining about his aching back, even the monk’s insistence on following his order’s rules about gambling and music, but when it came out into the bargain that the monk couldn’t cook a fish without charring it to blackened bits, it was too much. Philippe was polite, of course, as he still liked the old man, and he claimed he needed to see the world again before settling somewhere as an honest man should. Imperius nodded his understanding and gave him his blessing, and off Philippe scurried, a free Mouse again, able to go where he liked, eat decent food, and when no one was looking, rob blind the occasional stuffy noble.
Within a month he was so bored he could scream, and he often did in his wandering monologues to the Almighty.
“Where, O Lord, am I to go? I’m sure You have some ideas on the matter, but You keep quiet on it. I know You know I’ve become a thief again, but I also know You know I take only from those who don’t need it. Well, not very much, anyway. So, while I know I’m not the most worthy of Your children, I’d still like a bit of help. Where precisely am I supposed to go?” he asked aloud as he wandered through yet another forest as the autumn crept closer.
To his surprise, a large hawk landed in a tree just in front of him, sitting on a branch at eye level. It regarded him carefully, its golden eyes seeming to hold secrets.
“I suppose it’s always better to greet an animal cordially after what I’ve seen, just to be polite. One never knows,” Philippe said. “So, hello.”
The bird cocked its head to one side, then flew away again, its wingspan awe-inspiring.
“Yes, well, Lord, that was a very quick and specific answer, and I would also like to thank You that you didn’t send a wolf to stare at me instead. That was really a most considerate choice,” Philippe said.
He turned to the south and began walking towards the home of Isabeau and Navarre because if that hadn’t been a sign, then they didn’t exist at all.
Three months it took Philippe to cross France. He didn’t move in a straight line, of course, and he had a series of adventures along the way, including meeting up with a much less pleasant band of thieves than himself who tried and failed to rob an old woman who turned out to be a rather pleasant witch who needed the roof of her cottage re-thatched, earning him enough money to buy a new pair of boots from a cobbler whose wife was in need of rescuing, and after he had broken the enchantment on her, he still had a long way to go. Adventures could be very inconvenient.
As it was, he reached his destination on the night before Christmas. They lived in a comfortable home not far from town, and Philippe could smell the woodsmoke in their fireplace from a good way off. As he lifted his hand to knock on the door, he was filled with a sudden anxiety that this was a bad idea. They may not want him there. It sounded like a party was going on. He would be intruding. The wind blew colder, and he shuddered. No, he thought as he listened to the sounds of music and merry voices within, this had been a mistake from the beginning. His part in the story was over long ago. He would leave. This wasn’t meant for him. The truth was it sounded too much like a home, and a happy one at that. He had never had one of those in all his life. He stopped perhaps fifty yards from the front door, pulling his cloak more tightly around him as the snow began to drift on the evening wind. Then he turned and walked away, going back down the road. Perhaps the town pub would have a warm spot by the fire and a pint of ale in return for a good story.
“Philippe?”
He paused with one foot up and the other down, looking like a fool in the middle of the road. Cautiously, he peered over his shoulder.
“It is you!”
In a moment he was held in a tight embrace by the enormous arms of the captain of the guard, listening to his warm laughter.
“Our Christmas wish came true after all,” he said, rumpling the younger man’s hair affectionately before calling out in a louder voice, “Isabeau! Come out and see who the Christmas star has brought to our door!”
Philippe saw her familiar shape silhouetted in the warm light of the doorframe for a moment before she ran through the growing snow to join them, her delighted laughter like sweet bells.
“Come inside before you freeze,” she said, taking him by the hand and leading him towards that house as Navarre threw an arm around his shoulders. “I was so hoping you might come!”
To Philippe’s astonishment, he was given the best spot at the table, surrounded by Navarre’s comrades in arms and Isabeau’s friends, all of whom seemed to know already who he was at once. It was as though he had been expected. Navarre and Isabeau pressed him to tell his tales of all that had happened since they last met, and they laughed in all the right places and admired his more dangerous exploits, all while he ate the most wonderful roast boar he had ever tasted and drank the most delicious wine. As the warmth of the fire soaked into his bones, he realized that he had finally come home.
Imperius, as it turned out, was a terrible cook. It was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back for Philippe. He could put up with the snoring that sounded like doomsday arriving, the constant complaining about his aching back, even the monk’s insistence on following his order’s rules about gambling and music, but when it came out into the bargain that the monk couldn’t cook a fish without charring it to blackened bits, it was too much. Philippe was polite, of course, as he still liked the old man, and he claimed he needed to see the world again before settling somewhere as an honest man should. Imperius nodded his understanding and gave him his blessing, and off Philippe scurried, a free Mouse again, able to go where he liked, eat decent food, and when no one was looking, rob blind the occasional stuffy noble.
Within a month he was so bored he could scream, and he often did in his wandering monologues to the Almighty.
“Where, O Lord, am I to go? I’m sure You have some ideas on the matter, but You keep quiet on it. I know You know I’ve become a thief again, but I also know You know I take only from those who don’t need it. Well, not very much, anyway. So, while I know I’m not the most worthy of Your children, I’d still like a bit of help. Where precisely am I supposed to go?” he asked aloud as he wandered through yet another forest as the autumn crept closer.
To his surprise, a large hawk landed in a tree just in front of him, sitting on a branch at eye level. It regarded him carefully, its golden eyes seeming to hold secrets.
“I suppose it’s always better to greet an animal cordially after what I’ve seen, just to be polite. One never knows,” Philippe said. “So, hello.”
The bird cocked its head to one side, then flew away again, its wingspan awe-inspiring.
“Yes, well, Lord, that was a very quick and specific answer, and I would also like to thank You that you didn’t send a wolf to stare at me instead. That was really a most considerate choice,” Philippe said.
He turned to the south and began walking towards the home of Isabeau and Navarre because if that hadn’t been a sign, then they didn’t exist at all.
Three months it took Philippe to cross France. He didn’t move in a straight line, of course, and he had a series of adventures along the way, including meeting up with a much less pleasant band of thieves than himself who tried and failed to rob an old woman who turned out to be a rather pleasant witch who needed the roof of her cottage re-thatched, earning him enough money to buy a new pair of boots from a cobbler whose wife was in need of rescuing, and after he had broken the enchantment on her, he still had a long way to go. Adventures could be very inconvenient.
As it was, he reached his destination on the night before Christmas. They lived in a comfortable home not far from town, and Philippe could smell the woodsmoke in their fireplace from a good way off. As he lifted his hand to knock on the door, he was filled with a sudden anxiety that this was a bad idea. They may not want him there. It sounded like a party was going on. He would be intruding. The wind blew colder, and he shuddered. No, he thought as he listened to the sounds of music and merry voices within, this had been a mistake from the beginning. His part in the story was over long ago. He would leave. This wasn’t meant for him. The truth was it sounded too much like a home, and a happy one at that. He had never had one of those in all his life. He stopped perhaps fifty yards from the front door, pulling his cloak more tightly around him as the snow began to drift on the evening wind. Then he turned and walked away, going back down the road. Perhaps the town pub would have a warm spot by the fire and a pint of ale in return for a good story.
“Philippe?”
He paused with one foot up and the other down, looking like a fool in the middle of the road. Cautiously, he peered over his shoulder.
“It is you!”
In a moment he was held in a tight embrace by the enormous arms of the captain of the guard, listening to his warm laughter.
“Our Christmas wish came true after all,” he said, rumpling the younger man’s hair affectionately before calling out in a louder voice, “Isabeau! Come out and see who the Christmas star has brought to our door!”
Philippe saw her familiar shape silhouetted in the warm light of the doorframe for a moment before she ran through the growing snow to join them, her delighted laughter like sweet bells.
“Come inside before you freeze,” she said, taking him by the hand and leading him towards that house as Navarre threw an arm around his shoulders. “I was so hoping you might come!”
To Philippe’s astonishment, he was given the best spot at the table, surrounded by Navarre’s comrades in arms and Isabeau’s friends, all of whom seemed to know already who he was at once. It was as though he had been expected. Navarre and Isabeau pressed him to tell his tales of all that had happened since they last met, and they laughed in all the right places and admired his more dangerous exploits, all while he ate the most wonderful roast boar he had ever tasted and drank the most delicious wine. As the warmth of the fire soaked into his bones, he realized that he had finally come home.
