14 . 2 . 08
This one-shot is by request of Clar the Pirate, as her reward for guessing one of my character's traits in "I Do, But That's It".
Disclaimer: His Excellency Samuel Morgan, Morag of Machenpeak, Ravenby Estate, and the basic idea for the whole one-shot belongs to Clar the Pirate. Roderic is mine. Brother and Sister belongs to nobody, though it was hijacked from general folklore by the Brothers Grimm.
His Excellency Samuel Morgan was having a very bad day.
Because so many documentaries start with a similar woeful beginning, I must endeavor to inform you exactly why his day was so much worse than the ordinary. That morning, he had been jerked drastically from his sleep instead of being gently eased into consciousness, and on top of that he had been awakened seven minutes later than he expressly told the servant the night before. That left very little time to meticulously slick his hair and trim his moustache and sideburns. His breakfast was cold and his toast damp, and no girl had given him a second glance on the way to the fencing court.
Despite this, he was confident in his victory of Prince Roderic in their friendly match, and was rehearsing his polite speech that he would give after he had won when Roderic disarmed him and lightly tapped his chest. Stunned, Samuel picked up his sword again, hardly hearing the genuine pleasantries that sounded almost like regrets falling from the young prince's lips.
They played again, and again Roderic won. It was then, with pursed lips, that Samuel congratulated him and held his head high as he left the court. His shoes were scuffed, he noticed, as he clicked down the hallway, and he grimaced with distaste. The only thing that could have made his day worse was the lady that appeared in front of him. She was his age, about nineteen, and her nose was red, a telltale sign that he was indeed facing Morag of Machenpeak. The only thing he thought noteworthy about Morag was that the intricacy and severity of her hairstyle rivaled his own cultivated facial hair. It was a healthy competition that Samuel didn't even think to think Morag was unaware of. She had the distinct air of one who is always on guard for a low blow, because she was painfully aware of the fact that her father, a Squire, had purchased his title in the profits from turnip trade.
"Good noon, lady," he said brusquely, making to pass her.
She kept pace with him, her stride uncommonly long for a woman.
"Good noon, Your Excellency," she replied in her odd gravelly voice that clearly spoke of her year-round cold, wiping her nose with a handkerchief before replacing it in her sleeve.
Samuel didn't bother restraining his curling lip. Really, he thought, she isn't even worth looking at, turnips and tissues aside. When it was obviously that he was going to say nothing else, she tentatively spoke again.
"How do you fare this day?"
"Even worse than usual, now," he said, not caring how she interpreted that statement.
She reddened. They had come outside without realizing it, walking at a fast clip through the gardens of Ravenby estate. He smiled fondly at his summer home, then frowned when he remembered his father's conditions for inheriting it. "That it must always be open to the noblemen as a home-away-from-home." That was the only reasons someone as homely and disgusting as Morag of Machenpeak was disgracing his lands.
"Your excellency," she said, with tempered annoyance since she had realized he was not going to mention anything having to do with turnips, "where are we walking?"
"Where does it look like we are walking?" he said testily, glancing to see where, indeed, they were walking.
Trees towered around them.
"The forest," Morag sighed with disdain. "Really, would you fall over dead if you said something polite to me?"
"I might," he sneered, and continued walking.
He began running through all the reasons why Morag was persisting in trailing him, then when that bored him, he thought of all the things he could say to ease the awkward silence but wouldn't, then he thought of the ways that his day might get suddenly better. Halfway through that list he stopped, realizing that he had no idea at all where they were, and he was thirsty.
"Where are we?" Morag asked, not bothering to preface her question with his title.
"In the forest," he said, looking at her with her very best "you're-more-stupid-than-you-look" glare.
"Samuel," she said sharply.
"Morag," he mocked, making her name sound as terrible as possible.
It must have worked, for the girl narrowed her eyes.
"It's getting near to lunch, and I for one am hungry," she said after a pause.
"Not that you need any more food," Samuel said meanly, letting his eyes fall to her thick waist.
She glared again.
"Take us back to Ravenby, if it pleases you, and even if it doesn't, Your Excellency," she said, in a syrupy sweet voice that was obviously sardonic.
"I would, because I am parched, but I haven't a clue as to which way the estate lies," he said casually, glancing up at the trees.
"We're lost?" Morag said with surprising calmness.
He nodded, espying moss growing on one side of the tree. Which side? West?
"You just might be as smart as you look," he commented, "which, though not prodigious, is better than my previous estimation of you."
"Oh really? And just what was that?" she said spitefully.
"That you're ugly as a rock, dumber than a stick, and your voice sounds like you might have eaten both," he replied with alacrity. "Not to mention that your nose is practically a faucet."
As he had caught her in the middle of another wipe, she could do nothing but glare and replace the handkerchief. This demonstration of wit had only dried his mouth further, and made him more desperate to find a spring of some kind.
"There's no point stopping," he added smugly, congratulating himself on silencing her.
He continued walking, but Morag did not follow.
"We should stay here, so that we won't become any more lost and they might find us sooner," she said stubbornly.
"Did it ever occur to you," he said sharply, "that we might wander out? This forest is only a mile wide at its longest point. If we walk in a straight line, we'll be out in no time."
He continued walking, hoping she would stay there, and he could have the glee of a snide "I-told-you-so" later. Regrettably, she caught up to him in a few stumbling strides. His mouth was dryer than he could remember it ever being, and his tongue felt like a swollen slab of meat, hot and raw and sticky in his mouth, leaving a bad taste he couldn't get rid of. He knew there were several small springs in the wood, having ventured into it several times with his father's hunting party, and he was sure they should have found one by the time ten slow minutes had passed.
Right as he thought he would die of thirst, a spring appeared in front of them. It was clear and bubbly, sloshing against stones and clumps of old leaves as it flowed leisurely. Samuel stooped for a drink, and he was about ready to dip his hands in when Morag cried out,
"Wait!" and put a hand on his arm.
Startled, he looked at her, shaking her hand off his arm as he did so. Her eyes were wide with fright.
"Don't drink that!" she said breathlessly.
Samuel stiffened at the command. Who is she to tell me what I can drink?
"I'm thirsty, and I would thank you to keep your germaphobic hysterics to yourself."
"No!" she said, pulling his hand back from the stream as he went to dip it again. "Can't you hear it? It's saying 'Whoever drinks from me will become a tiger.'"
Samuel listened, but heard nothing.
"Morag, you are crazy," he said harshly.
"Don't! Oh please, what if you do become a tiger? You'll tear me to pieces!"
She was almost in tears now, a singularly disconcerting phenomenon that, being a man, Samuel instinctively avoided at all costs. He stood up, sullenly and angrily, but he stood, which made Morag's face lift a little in relief.
"There are other springs," he muttered, stalking onward a faster pace. Morag had trouble keeping up.
His tongue was dryer and thicker than before, pressing against his teeth like a wild animal. A tiger. Really. In a much shorter span of time, they came upon another spring. Samuel instantly knelt to drink it, dipping his hands in the cool water.
"Stop!" Morag yelped, pulling him backward.
They both fell onto the hard ground. Samuel tumbled on top of Morag, who was, honestly speaking, not nearly as crushed as some of her female counterparts might have been. With only a moment's struggle, Samuel was upright again, wiping the dirt off his hands in annoyance.
"What the – what was that for?" he said, sorely tempted to ignore his noble upbringing and insert a few choice words.
"It said 'Whoever drinks from me will become a wolf'! Didn't you hear that?" she said in a panic, pushing herself ungracefully to her feet.
"No, I didn't," Samuel said, words soaked in acrimony, "and I don't appreciate your wild fantasies, either. I will drink at the next spring, and I don't care what you think it says!"
He whirled around and stomped along in high dudgeon, doing his best to keep a straight line. Morag trailed behind him, her fear giving way to anger at his 'stupidity'. She ranted and raved about how he was just being stubborn and very man-ish, and about how he should take well meant advice in a much better way, no matter how thirsty he was, and so on and so forth. Samuel was feeling an apoplexy coming on, and only his thirst kept him from saying anything. After not too much delay, they arrived at a third spring. Samuel, despite Morag's pleadings, brought a pool of water to his lips and drank, feeling the soothing liquid fill his mouth and swallowing.
"See? Nothing happened," he snapped at Morag who had given up panic and was just plain furious.
"Oh you are stupid!" she cried, and that's all Samuel heard before something very peculiar happened.
He was reaching to fill his hands again from the stream when suddenly, the stream appeared much larger, and he was infinitely closer to the ground. His paws were hovering off the edge of the bank, upsetting his balance. He almost fell in, but hopped backward with a shrill squeak of alarm. He froze, replaying what had just happened. His paw? He hopped? He squeaked? He looked down at himself and squeaked again when all he saw was white fur. He scrabbled to the edge of the spring and peered in, dreading a glimpse of himself. A white rabbit wiggled its nose back at him, blinking stupidly.
At least, he thought acidly, I have my moustache. And he did. The rabbit had a comical pattern of darkened fur on its upper lip, giving the semblance of a perfectly manicured moustache. Even the preservation of his facial hair was not enough to prevent his ebullition a moment later. He sprang backward, looking very far up at Morag and twitching his ears irately.
"How could you let this happen, insolent wench!" he yelled, "I have half a mind to ban your family from Ravenby forever! You can be sure that everyone will know how your father became a squire and you'll be the laughingstock of Rijhad more than you already are because of your ridiculous hair and constant allergie—"
"I don't speak rabbit," Morag said tartly, then spun on her heel and swished away.
Final word count: 1943
No, no, I won't show how he gets changed back. Use your imagination. Though, an optional epilogue may be added later if I get writer's block on 'I Do'.
Review, please! I'll give you a crepe with Nutella!