As always, thanks to my awesome editors, Drucilla and BlueShifted!
This isn't exactly one of the stories I've desired to do forever or had locked up in my head for ages - this is more of a challenge to see if I could do it. I plan for it to be a short tale like The Nutcracker Prince (although I did intend that to be shorter than it turned out to be, so who knows?) But no matter what, I hope you enjoy the ride.
Waking up from deep, long dreams can often be an exhausting experience, as the young woman laying in her bed was learning. The sun was poking in through ratty curtains, casting a simple yet unwelcome glow on her face. With a tiny grunt, she turned over, trying to hold what remained of a blanket close to her chest. The remains of the dream were already beginning to scatter, and reminders of what the real world was like crawled in to take their place. Within seconds she had forgotten what the dream was about, and could only be sure that she had dreamed. The memories of it slipped through her fingers, and she grunted again, disappointed, though she didn't know why.
But morning was here, and that meant it was time to get up and face the day. She gave up on trying to remember what she'd forgotten, and sat up in bed, yawning quietly as she stretched her small arms. She doubted that even if her yawn was loud and bellowing it'd wake up her brother, but she preferred to make as little noise as possible. She never liked loud things, and often her brother would tease her that the reason was because of her large, black ears. She'd counter that at least she had ears, as his were incredibly small and hidden behind his white feathers. It was a ridiculous argument that usually wound up in silly laughter, but these days the funny exchanges were harder to find. Life was getting difficult.
With one more yawn, she crawled out of bed, no longer wincing when her bare feet touched the cold floor. She shuffled over to her small dresser drawer, deciding that today she could forgo a bath – water had to be carefully saved, now that King Mortimer had declared a tax on using the local wells. Everything had a tax nowadays, and many depressingly mused that one day the King would issue a tax on complaining about the taxes. If that joke ever became reality, her brother would be in the poorhouse within minutes. Then again, as she glanced at their cold, dirty, moth-eaten surroundings, was there a house poorer than this? But thinking on such a glum matter this early wouldn't get anything done, and she tried to shake the sad thoughts from her mind.
She tried thinking about the positives, like how her favorite pink frilly socks didn't have any holes and that there was less straw on the floor than usual. Her older brother worked with animals - horses were his personal favorite - and often he'd come home covered in straw. She made a mental note to sweep the floor later, although it would only stay clean for a couple of hours. With her outfit for the day chosen, she walked to her brother's room, not bothering to knock. Many years ago, this large house had been filled with happy relatives, until each one married or left to pursue their own adventurous life. Now it was just the two of them.
Her brother was laying on his stomach, snoring obnoxiously and drooling on his pillow. He shivered occasionally from the cold – there had been only one blanket left after selling most of their possessions, and after a long, heated debate, her brother ranted that if she didn't take it, he'd throw it out. Such angry stubbornness was often the way he showed how much he loved her, and she did appreciate it, although it also made her feel guilty, as it did now. She sighed heavily, and then began to shake his shoulder. "Donald, it's time to get up! We have to get to the market before everything is sold out!"
Donald had probably been awake for some time now, but unlike his sister who could easily roll out of bed, he needed additional assistance. "Don't wanna," he mumbled into the bed. "Go away."
"We have to buy eggs, and milk, and bread! And we have to get that hole in the roof fixed! And you have to go to work, and I have to fix Clarabelle's dress, and..."
"Don't wanna," he repeated in the same tired tone, having not listened to a word she said.
She rolled her eyes, but knew exactly what to say to get his attention. "Okay, go back to sleep. Daisy had stopped by to visit, but I guess I'll just tell her to leave-"
The moment Daisy's name was mentioned, Donald bolted upright, scrambling so fast to get out of bed that he tripped over his own feet and landed on the floor face first. He dizzily slid the rest of his body onto the floor, and once he'd regained his senses, cast a small glare at his little sister. "Daisy's not here, is she?"
"Good morning, Donald." She smiled sweetly.
"...Good morning, Minnie." One day he wasn't going to fall for that trick, but it certainly wasn't going to be anytime soon. He rolled onto his back and managed to find his feet, standing up and smoothing down his white feathers. His stomach rumbled and the siblings did their best to pretend they hadn't heard it. Breakfast was sometimes a luxury, but if everything went right at the market, they might be able to have it for a few days. Donald dragged himself to his own drawer, merely choosing to slap a coat over his pajamas, mumbling that he didn't care as to what other people saw – which was a lie, he cared far too much, but he didn't want to make his sister worry that he was running out of clothing. "Eggs, milk, and... what was the last one?"
"Bread," Minnie reminded him, waiting patiently for him to finish. "I can take care of the eggs, and talk to Clarabelle about her dress at the same time. Once you get the milk and bread, you can head straight to work." She felt it necessary to add, "And I do mean straight to work."
Donald tugged on his coat. He knew full well what his sister meant, but pride controlled his beak. "What's that supposed to mean? I always go right to work." He headed for the hall, hoping that it would end the conversation, but Minnie tailed him.
"I mean, don't get into any fights, and don't start lying again." She stayed right at his side, giving him a knowing look while he refused to meet her eyes.
"Name one time I have ever lied," Donald replied, trying to dodge at least one complaint.
"You told Horace you could lift a wagon with one arm. You told Miss Cluck we were descendants of pirate vikings. You told Mister Jones we had a secret supply of expensive talking silk-worms hidden in the basement. You told the blacksmith-"
"I SAID NAME ONE TIME!"
Minnie was unfazed by her brother's yell as they made it to the front door, and Donald hemmed and hawed, trying to calm down before they were in public. "So maybe, on occasion, I exaggerate a smidgen."
Arguing semantics would take all day, so Minnie skipped ahead. "I just don't understand why you do it. You know everyone is going to call you out on it, and then you look worse than before." She grabbed a small wicker basket that sat by the door, lightly swinging it by its worn-out handle.
They stepped into the gentle, dim sunlight which was now beginning to loom over the small kingdom. Their home was the furthest away from the castle, and often had the most travelers roll by their door. When Minnie was younger, she was always happy to see a carriage slow down to a stop, as it meant a potential customer had come by with clothes that needed patching or sewing. Travelers were seen less and less now, as nobody wanted to come visit their land, the once beautiful Kingdom of Haulm.
Donald stuck his hands in his pockets as they walked. "Is it so wrong that I wish we were better than what we are? A down-on-their luck family that's struggling to get by, in a miserable kingdom with a rotten king..."
"That sounds like everyone here," Minnie replied, glancing around to make sure the captain of the guards wasn't around. He was the only man who cared when someone bad-mouthed the King, and even then it was only because he was rewarded when pointing out 'traitors to the crown'. "But I like who we are!"
"But I don't want to be like everyone else." Donald snorted hard. "I wish we were special in some way! Something that makes us stand out, something that says we're worth being alive, something like... I don't know, just a purpose." He kicked a pebble out of his way, knowing that explaining this was fruitless. "Every day we do the same things, and nothing ever changes."
They were getting closer to the marketplace, with people loudly shouting their wares and the sounds of chickens clucking mixed with mooing cows. Minnie spotted a familiar, welcome face in the early crowd. "Well...things don't always have to be that way. I know someone who would like a big change only you can provide."
Donald had a fair guess as to what Minnie was referring to, and he glanced to where she was looking. A young lady duck was carefully setting out displays of freshly picked flowers, tied up neatly in elaborate ribbons. While everyone in the village had meager means, some were less meager than others. It would only be a matter of time before she was in the same boat as everyone else, but for now she could afford dresses with extra length and extra decorations. She was beautiful, and she knew it, often using a flirtatious wink or tilt of her hips to guarantee a sale. But once money had been exchanged, she made it clear that she herself was not for sale, and was quite happily taken – by Donald.
Donald made a long, uncomfortable noise in his throat before speaking. "Not yet. Just... not yet." He knew Minnie was going to launch into a full tirade and tried to cut her off. "Look, I'm not going to marry her until I know you'll be okay!" With Daisy's extra riches, Donald would have lived with her instead of the other way around, but that was not a choice he could live with just yet, despite his sister's insistence.
"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Minnie put her hands on her hips, her pale cheeks puffing out. "I don't need to wait for a man to sweep me off my feet and protect me forever! I can do just fine without anyone! You can go live with Daisy and live happily ever after without me."
"It's not a happily ever after until I know my sister is happy." Donald lightly poked Minnie on the nose, but it failed to elicit a giggle like when she was younger. "I know you can live well enough on your own, it's not like that. It's not about you being protected or taken care of or anything like that." For all his faults, ill assumptions about the other sex wasn't one of them. "I just don't want you to be alone."
Minnie's lips pressed together and she didn't say anything right away. The big problem was that Minnie didn't want to live alone either. She was a social creature by nature, and dreaded the thought of being in that big house all by herself, of days without happy conversations and affectionate embraces. Ever since Donald and Daisy had started their courtship over a year ago, an ugly jealousy had grown in her big heart – not just for "losing" her beloved brother, but longing deeply for something similar. Yet she pressed down on these unpleasant emotions and suddenly shoved Donald on the back. "Well, I'm fine to go shopping alone so keep that in mind!" It took another shove for Donald to give up on talking and head towards Daisy, offering a tired wave. Daisy perked up to see him, and once he was close, kissed him on the cheek. He blushed, smiling as he tucked an arm around her shoulders, asking about her day and her plans.
Minnie watched them for a moment longer, each beat of her heart like a ferocious wasp stinging her flesh. Donald deserved to be happy with his beloved, and Minnie was the one obstacle preventing that. Daisy spotted Minnie out of the corner of her eye, and she began to wave, trying to invite her over. Daisy was sometimes curt and a little too honest, but she was a good woman, and perfect for Minnie's brother. It wouldn't have surprised Minnie if Daisy would have also welcomed her into her home once the knot was tied, yet Minnie couldn't see herself accepting the generous offer. Perhaps stubbornness was a family trait. Minnie wouldn't let herself be a burden on Donald's shoulders for the rest of his life.
She waved back but was quick to walk off, suppressing her sadness once again. What about the rest of her life? Minnie would be happy to continue fixing people's clothes, as it gave her great joy to restore life to everyone's favorite pieces of fabric. The look of a man's face as he saw his old trousers ready for farm-work again, the giddy laughter of children showing off their born-again socks, the eager gratitude of old women feeling young again in their restored lace...These were worth far more than any coin. Helping others was the best kind of feeling – so knowing that she couldn't help Donald was in turn the worst feeling.
The easiest solution would be if she got married, and while hardly narcissistic, Minnie knew she wasn't unattractive. Even with bags under her eyes and her stomach caving in, she still got interested glances from many men, such as today as she headed for Clarabelle's booth. There had been a number of times when, upon fixing a stranger's ripped pants she could clearly tell the tear was hand-made and not an accident so they had claimed. It'd merely been a way to try to offer a date as a payment. It had been cute the first time, suspicious the second, and by the fifth time someone had done it she'd up and thrown her sewing needle at his head. If she was going to date anyone, she wanted them to be honest, not skip out on giving her hard-earned money.
Then there was that last thing that she wouldn't tell anyone – not Donald, not Daisy, not Clarabelle, she wouldn't even speak it outside of her own mind. It was just... a feeling. A feeling that being with someone wasn't right. It was stronger than distaste or revulsion – it was if someone in the back of her mind wouldn't let her date anyone, screaming at her the moment she even dared to think of it, her entire body refusing to accept anyone. No matter how handsome or nice they were, this unnamed feeling sat in the back of her eye like a watchful stranger. She knew if she ever told someone, she'd sound insane, and had to wonder sometimes if she actually was insane since she couldn't understand this feeling. A sensation that something was missing. A pause in the great plan of life. She walked on.
Clarabelle was cuddling one of her favorite chickens, believing that if her beloved birds saw how well their eggs sold, it would encourage them to lay more. When Minnie approached, the old cow smiled, and bent over to kiss Minnie's cheek. "Good morning, Minnie! It is a deee-light to see you, it truly is."
Minnie easily wore her smile like make-up, forgoing all her bad thoughts. "Good morning, Clarabelle. Do you know you say that every morning?"
"Because it's true every morning!" Clarabelle grinned, and Minnie let out a little laugh. "How are you, my dear? Keeping Donald out of trouble?"
"Trying to, at the very least," Minnie quipped, putting her basket on the table. "I just started work on your dress. It should be finished by Friday...but I wanted to ask you about the seams. You see, if I do it a certain way, it-"
Clarabelle held up a hand. "Tut-tut-tut!" and her chicken copied with a cluck-cluck-cluck. "Minnie, you've been fixing my clothes for ages, I trust you way more than I trust myself! Whatever you do is the right decision, it always has been and it always will be. Why, sometimes I trust you more than my own husband."
There came that sting again, and Minnie fought it valiantly. Wasn't there an old saying that when you were unlucky in love, you saw nothing but couples around you? "And how is Horace? Is his back any better?"
Clarabelle clicked her tongue. "He still needs a few more days...the doctor said he can wait on payment, but you know how men can be. He refuses to get himself checked out until he can properly pay for it, but he can't pay for it unless he works, and we don't know when he can work until a doctor can check him out..." She rolled her hand, showing the ridiculous loop that her husband insisted upon. "Oh, but I can't blame the doctor for his prices. Everyone has to make a living." It was here that Clarabelle paused and glanced down at her chicken sadly, as if dreading the moment to come.
"I'm sure things will work out." Minnie tried for an air of positivity, pulling coins from her pocket and counting them over. "If you can wake up and see tomorrow, then you're already better off... eight, nine, ten... All right! I'll have our usual dozen."
Clarabelle sighed so heavily that Minnie thought she was deflating. "That'll be... twenty silver."
Minnie nodded once before actually hearing the amount, and she almost dropped all her coins in shock. "Twenty?!" she repeated so loudly that a few heads around began to swivel. "But... but that's twice as much as usual! I can't afford that!" She doubted most people could.
Clarabelle's shoulders dropped, and she hugged her chicken protectively. "I'm so sorry, Minnie, but... what with all of King Mortimer's new taxes, I have to raise my prices just to keep the farm running! He put a new tax on chicken feed, on our coops, on our seeds... At this rate, I might need to up it to thirty if he keeps adding more charges."
"But that's..." 'not fair', Minnie wanted to say, but what would be the point? She looked down at the coins in her hands, fighting off a wave of tears. How could things get worse in such a short amount of time? "Things didn't always use to be this way," she said softly.
"No they weren't, I tell you what," Clarabelle agreed, easing her hold on her chicken. "His father, now that was a righteous man! He cared for the people, he listened, and this whole kingdom used to a beautiful place! And then along comes his son..." She glanced around for any sign of the captain, and not seeing a trace of him, ranted louder than before, with a few grumbles of agreement echoing off in the distance. "Here's what I don't get – how does such a good man raise such a horrid brat? Didn't he teach Mortimer anything? How could he have let his son take the crown before he kicked the bucket? Shoot, I think Donald would've made a better king than Mortimer! It's like one day, everything's sunshine, and then," a snap of her fingers, "nothing but storm clouds for the rest of our lives!"
Minnie could do nothing but nod along. It really didn't make sense when it was said out loud. Mortimer's father had been a loving man, a wise man, one who actually knew how a decent economy worked. Then there was the lovely queen, although Minnie hadn't known her, since she had died before Minnie was even born, due to...
Due to...
Huh. There was that funny feeling again, like a roadblock that wouldn't budge between her lobes. She lifted her head. "Say, Clarabelle, how did the Queen die?"
Clarabelle blinked rapidly, surprised at the change in topic, and then more so when she couldn't give a proper answer. She scratched her head, trying to sort through a fog. "Well, hm. Hmmm. If I remember correctly...some kind of... I think it was...Oh, yes, there was something wrong with her body, she was a weak woman."
"What was wrong with her?"
"She was just weak. That's all." Clarabelle seemed to be in a hurry to dismiss the subject, perhaps embarrassed that she wasn't entirely sure. Minnie couldn't blame her – being unable to answer a question was often fraught with humiliation.
While the subject still lingered in her mind, Minnie knew she couldn't spend all day sitting on it, and fished out what coins she could spare. "I can only afford six, in any case." She began to slip the coins onto the table, and Clarabelle popped the eggs into her basket.
"Oooh, deary me," an old, weary voice suddenly broke through, haggard and ghastly. "Are you taking them all?"
Both women turned to look at what appeared to be a very old man, although this was mostly a guess because the stranger was covered in a dark black hood from head to toe. The only hints of his appearance was a scraggly white beard that trailed endlessly from the hood, and a wrinkled, gray furred hand clutching a walking stick that had seen better days. Broken yellow nails clutched the decorated top of the stick that had once held an elaborate jewel but now was a broken mess of splinters. There was a hunch in his back, and as he breathed, exhaustion was obvious in each snort of his nostrils. He wouldn't lift his head, so it was impossible to see his face.
Neither woman recognized him, which was an oddity in and of itself. The Kingdom wasn't large by any means, and almost everyone knew everyone else. Of course, meeting someone new wasn't impossible, but for reasons they couldn't pinpoint the two women automatically knew this was an outsider. Clarabelle took to this stranger with distrust, not saying anything just yet, but Minnie's consistent kindness shined. "Oh no, not at all," Minnie replied, smiling sweetly, always happy to make a new friend. "Just six!"
"But the price has gone up," Clarabelle reminded them both.
"Gone up, has it?" the man asked, his head lowering even further. "This is a true tragedy... I only had enough for one, but if that's the case, I can't have any at all." He opened his other hand, showing a singular dirty coin. "Ma'am, can you not spare even one egg for this poor soul? I can't even recall the last time I've eaten," ee lamented with a sad sigh, his hand dropping.
"If I do, then I become the next poor soul," Clarabelle replied, even though there was a guilty tone in her voice. "Look, mister, I'm sorry that you have a sob story, but I have to make a choice between feeding my family and feeding strangers..."
"Yes, yes, I understand." The old man drew a deep breath, trying to turn back around. "This is a time to eat or be eaten..."
Minnie looked down at the remaining coins in her hand, the ones she couldn't afford to needlessly give away, and then to the basket full of eggs. Her hesitation only lasted two seconds more before she snatched the basket and quickly strode up to the stranger. "Here, you can have mine!"
Clarabelle groaned Minnie's name, not deeply surprised, and it was the only warning she could think to give. The old man lifted his head, and while Minnie still couldn't make out where his mouth or nose was, she thought she saw a hint of dazzling blue eyes. But when she blinked it was gone, and the old man was speaking. "All of them? Are you sure?"
"Of course I am." Minnie smiled as she spoke, the same smile that endeared the kingdom and made hearts melt. "I already paid, and I don't need them. My brother Donald will be getting us bread and milk, that'll be enough for us! You need them more than I do anyway. Here, please." Donald would be upset, as would her empty stomach, but her heart would be full knowing that this man wouldn't starve. She held out the basket, waiting.
Though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt them staring at her, gazing intently. A strange thing happened when he talked again. "You haven't changed at all." His voice sounded younger in that sentence, softer too, yet also agonized in ways that were beyond Minnie's comprehension.
She tilted her head. "I'm sorry, have we met before?" She was quite sure she hadn't, but she'd hardly call her memory perfect.
The old man's hands flinched as if the words had drove a knife right into his chest. He cleared his throat, the age in his voice once more, and he took the basket. "Thank you," he said, completely ignoring her question. "You are a very generous young lady."
"Too generous, if you ask me," said Clarabelle, even though no one had asked her.
"I try," Minnie replied, never one to fully accept a compliment. "Do you need any more help? The market can really busy this time of morning, I can show you around!" The idea was a little exciting, as even though the kingdom was dark and depressing, it was still her home and thus still a place she loved dearly. She would have been happy to introduce whoever this was to her brother and all her friends. "And if your clothes ever need fixing, you can always come to me, Minnie!" She pointed at herself, hoping to put a smile on the man's face even if she couldn't see it.
"No, this is where we will part," the old man said, and he reached out to take Minnie's hand. Clarabelle had half a mind to climb over the table and slap it off, but Minnie didn't look distressed. His wrinkled flesh held Minnie's hand gently, a thumb pressing into Minnie's palm. On sudden instinct Minnie found her fingers wrapping around it, and she looked down at their joined hands, befuddled. "I will repay your kindness," he said in that low, soft tone again. "I promise."
He took his time pulling his hand back, and then he walked away with the basket and his stick, shuffling along with his head down, ignored by all the other villagers.
Once the old man was far enough away, Clarabelle huffed. "Donald's going to tan your hide for that, Minnie." She waited for a retort that didn't come, and when she looked at her small friend, found Minnie's cheek had a tear rolling down. "Minnie!" She tossed her chicken onto the ground, where it rolled around until it dizzily landed on its rump. Clarabelle was in front of Minnie in seconds, grasping her hand. "Oh, I knew it, I knew he was trouble, where did he hurt you?"
"Huh?" Minnie blinked at Clarabelle's over the top of the reaction. She didn't realize anything was odd until she felt a cold sensation on her cheek. How odd. "Oh, Clarabelle, it's nothing! You worry too much." Yet she welcomed the worry, as it was a clear sign of friendship, and hoped a hug would settle the problem. She was disappointed that she couldn't help the old man any further, but it was no reason to cry. So why had her eyes disobeyed her mind?
Minnie felt it, and so did Clarabelle, and a great number of villagers felt it too, that sensation in their minds that something... that someone had...
… And then it was gone. The day was normal. Minnie went home, hoping her brother had better luck.
Amazingly enough, Donald's luck was not only better, it was actually spectacular. After a loving encounter with Daisy, he had found someone's dropped coin, finders keepers. The baker had made a miscalculation with the loaves, which meant Donald got an extra one for his troubles. The milk was fresh, and it came with a jovial conversation about their mutual friends, that perhaps things weren't as bad as all that. To top it off, Mister Jones, who Donald typically tended to argue with, actually needed help with his horses, which not only meant more money in Donald's pocket but a boost to his ego as well. Not a single lie had been spoken.
Much like Minnie had magic with clothes, Donald was a wizard when it came to animals. They adored him and would listen to anything he said, and he in turn loved them just as deeply. Animals didn't care about your social status or your place in the world. His official job was working in the royal stables, but more often than not he wound up doing odd jobs for all the various farmers. He was the one who could convince shy lambs that it was time to get a cut, the pigs that they needed medicine, the horses that they'd look better with new shoes. Naturally this came with manual labor, cleaning and brushing and clipping, but that also pleased him, since physical work made him feel like a stronger person.
With his mood high in the clouds, he even began to whistle as he headed towards the looming castle after dropping off the milk and bread at home. What a swell day! Daisy gave him a kiss, they'd have eggs, milk and bread to last them a while, people were happy, he made more income, there was absolutely nothing that could ruin – oh, he'd just doomed himself, didn't he?
"Enough with the noise, quackers!"
Yep, Donald should have known better than to think he'd have a good day. Donald had made it to the stables and pushed open the door, but there had come that grating voice right behind him, a shadow towering over and demanding attention. Donald wanted to launch a tirade, but Minnie's words hovered around him, and he swallowed it down. "Pete."
"That's Captain Pete to you!" Once upon a time Pete's armor fit him perfectly, as he'd once been a fit, muscular man. But now he was a sagging, fleshy monstrosity, his gut peeking out under silver armor and his sleeves struggling to stay in place. A wise man would have simply gotten new armor, but this wasn't a wise man. Pete was Captain of the Guard, the man who gave out orders to all guardsmen that protected the castle. During the former King's reign, this protection extended to all the citizens, but Mortimer had decreed his life was far more valuable and this needed far more protection. More than anything, Pete was a middleman between the two, and it might have explained his frequent bullying. Donald was his favorite target. "You gotta learn some respect towards your superiors!"
Donald visibly shook from the effort not to rise to the challenge. "Yes, sir," he hissed through his teeth, placing his sack down in a corner. "I've got to get to work."
Pete frowned. It was no fun picking on someone when they refused to acknowledge it, and if Pete couldn't make people feel they were less than him, he would feel lesser himself. "You better not start anything today, duck. One wrong word and I could tell the King to kick you out!"
Donald glanced over, pondering if Pete actually had that power, but he doubted it. "I'm not going to start a thing," he replied as calmly as he could make it, picking up a rake and using it to push hay around. The day started with clean-up, and would end with clean-up. A few nearby horses whinnied in their stalls, pleased to see their friend. "I'm just here to work. Same as you."
"Same as me?" This caused Pete to laugh. "You're nothin' like me! I've got a real job, with real power, and real authority! And what're you? A pooper scooper!"
Don't get into any fights. Don't start lying again. Minnie's voice rang in his ears. If he did either one, they'd get into trouble, and they didn't need trouble, so Donald raked harder. "There's nothing wrong with what I do. I like my work."
"Of course you do, 'cause it suits you!" Pete sneered, apparently having nothing better to do with his time than antagonize Donald. This was not hyperbole – rotten as Mortimer was, there hadn't been any attempts on his life or mass criminal conspiracies. It was as if once Mortimer had taken the crown, everyone had effectively given up. Strangely enough this also included Pete. "A low job for a low person!"
Donald sucked the inside of his cheek, but he could only hold back so much. "Can you answer me one question?" he asked without turning around.
"I can answer any question about anything!" Pete boasted, sticking out his gut.
The stable hand looked over his shoulder. "What did I ever do to you?"
Turns out Pete couldn't answer any question about anything because he was completely thrown off. His big eyes widened, and he scratched his fuzzy cheek. "Huh?"
"I mean it. What did I do?" Now Donald did turn around, the rake still in his hand, straw already beginning to cling to his clothes. "When I first started working here, you didn't pick on me at all. We didn't talk much, but at least you weren't constantly trying to ruffle my feathers! I could've even called you nice once. So, just tell me... what did I do?"
"What did you do?" Pete repeated the question, as if accusing Donald of forgetting – but Pete didn't have the answer. Donald wasn't wrong, and his own memories of those first days were as clear as glass. He was in better shape then, commanded respect, and on that day when Donald was assigned to work at the stables, he'd been told to show Donald around, be cordial, be nice. The people of the castle should all be like one big happy family. Back then he had no reason to want to make Donald miserable, or anyone miserable, because Pete hadn't felt miserable. The decision to hire Donald had come from...
… well, well it must have come from Mortimer. Of course it did, who else would it have been? The King had been older by then, and such little choices could be left up to his son. Mortimer must have hired Donald. Yet – yet when Pete really tried to visualize the memory, of Donald on day one, smiling brightly at the man who hired him – it wasn't Mortimer, but – but it must have been – a throbbing headache began to build up in Pete's head. "What does it matter?!" Pete suddenly yelled, almost knocking Donald over with the force of his shout. "Get to work and stop bothering me with stupid questions!"
"I was trying to work, you keep interrupting me!" So much for not fighting. Donald would have to apologize to his little sister later.
"I can interrupt you whenever I want, I've got the power!" Pete stuck a thumb to his chest. "And you? You're nothing! You and your whole family is nothing!"
Now Pete had struck a nerve. Insulting Donald was bad enough, but daring to imply anything bad about his family was enough to make Donald see red. "My family is amazing, you gigantic tin can!"
Pete leaned in dangerously close. "They are not! You and your whole bunch are useless good-for-nothings! There's nothing amazing about any of you!"
"Yes there is!" Donald shouted back, although he could not think of anything absolutely amazing off the top of his head. Straw had begun to itch his neck and he pulled a strand out of his collar. "Minnie can do really amazing things!"
"Oh yeah?" Pete scoffed. "What amazing things can she do?"
"She can...she can..." Donald looked at the strand of straw in his hand, and came up with the absolute worst, silliest, outlandish lie he had ever told in his entire life. "She can spin straw into gold!"
Silence fell on the stable, with even the horses going quiet, as if in awe of how ridiculousness that fib sounded. Pete stood up straight, his face pulling all sorts of confused expressions. "She can...what?"
The real problem with Donald's lies weren't that he told them, but that once he'd said them, he refused to back down until evidence proved him false. "She can turn straw into gold," Donald said again, weaving an elaborate tale in his head. "How else do you think we can survive under all these harsh conditions? Night after night, she weaves all the straw I bring home into pure gold. She's got a rare talent, only one in a million has it. You've seen the way she fixes clothes like new, it's the same deal! That's how amazing she is." Minnie was going to have his tail for this – if she found out, and that was a pretty big if. Donald knew what he was saying was pure nonsense, and Pete wouldn't actually believe him, thus he wouldn't ask for proof, thus nobody got hurt.
Indeed, Pete seemed stupefied by the sheer leaps in logic Donald was making. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "If that is true," without sounding like he thought it was, "then you ought to be richer than the king right now."
"Maybe I am," Donald said, the rake feeling like a shovel he was digging his grave with.
Pete inhaled deeply through his nostrils. You really couldn't insult someone who had clearly lost their marbles. Angered, he stormed out of the stable, slamming the door hard behind him. Donald smirked, and twirled the rake around in victory. Okay, so he'd broke his word to Minnie, but what was the harm? He began whistling again, and resumed his work, ignoring the disapproving looks of the horses.
Every now and then he wondered about his unanswered question – about the Pete that had once smiled without a trace of malice – but it was swept away with the hay.
Pete had additional duties that came with being the Captain, and that meant having his meals with the King. It wasn't exactly a rule, but Mortimer had made it clear that skipping it would mean he could "find another captain with more time on their hands." Pete didn't understand it the first couple of days, but the more time he spent in the castle, the more he understood. The first reason was that castle itself was creepy, and not a place you wanted to stay in alone.
After the King's death, several rooms had been locked up, with Mortimer forbidding anyone to enter them without giving them a solid reason. It gave the feeling that the castle was haunted by unseen ghosts, empty hallways echoing loudly with each step. There had also been paintings, tapestries, all kinds of decorative and functional works thrown into a fire, also with Mortimer's sole explanation being "because I said so". So in addition to the spooky silence, the castle looked unfurnished, half-done, as if entire chunks of life were missing.
The second reason was far more pathetic.
"So," Mortimer started, propping his legs on the table as his large, buck teeth ripped apart cow meat from bone. "Tell me, Captain, what loving praise have my people given me today?"
In contrast to Pete's stout girth, Mortimer was lean and tall, never really fitting into any chairs without obvious discomfort. A mouse like his father, his fur was black and his eyes were dark, with big round ears that only wanted to hear love and compliments. The table was covered in massive amounts of food that the two couldn't possibly finish, not for lack of trying. Pete was taking his time as he slowly munched on an apple. Unlike Donald, lies didn't come to him so easily as they required some level of creativity. "Well, um," he started. "I might have heard your name out there once or twice."
"Beautiful!" Mortimer clapped his hands together. "No doubt they're telling each other how much they adore their king! Come on, don't be shy, I want every last word!" He then paused. "Are you just having one apple?"
Pete swallowed. "Gee, Mortimer, I... I was thinkin' maybe I could go on a diet, or try to eat less." Donald's words had a ring that wouldn't leave, an image of when Pete didn't run out of breath when he walked.
Mortimer stared, and then howled with laughter, standing up to slap Pete on the back. "You? Eat less? Hey, we can't be what we're not, and you're a fat tub of lard! And you always will be! So eat up! A diet, that's rich..." Pete looked down at his plate sadly, and reached for a lone chicken breast. "Now then, back to the important stuff – me! What did they say about me?"
Therein came the second reason – Mortimer had no friends, and Pete was the closest one he could order to be one. He was of the belief that being a ruler meant instant love, no matter what he did. Pete decided that he was just delaying the inevitable. "They were complaining about the chicken feed tax." Clarabelle hadn't looked clearly enough when she was ranting about Mortimer's unfairness, unfortunately.
Mortimer's jovial expression turned sour, and the bone in his hand snapped. "They dared to complain about me? Those ingrates! If they worked harder, they could be rich! What do they expect me to do, live like them? Like a commoner?" He spat every question out and Pete knew well enough not to answer. "I'm the King! I'm supposed to have the riches! I give them inspiration so they can be more like me! They should grovel at my feet and apologize! Who was it? Who dared?!"
Pete slurped green pea soup. "Aw, it was just some stupid farm maid and the stable hand's sister."
"The stable hand's sister?" Mortimer repeated, aghast that someone working for him would be related to someone so disrespectful – but then the gears in his head turned. "The stable hand's sister?" he said once more, now thoughtful and introspective. "I've seen that girl come by to give him lunch..." And on other occasions – he thought – he wasn't clear on it, yet he knew he had seen her before. "She's a pretty thing, isn't she?"
"I guess." Pete shrugged. He preferred taller woman, ones with more punch. "But man, you should've heard the stable hand talk about her today! He said..." Remembering it now made him guffaw, his belly bouncing. "He said the girl can spin straw into gold! Can you believe it?" He laughed louder, pounding a fist on the table.
But Mortimer didn't laugh, walking to a nearby window and looking down at the filthy, grimy peasants that were lucky to have him as a ruler. They should've been happy to do whatever he wanted. He was the King, he inherited love. He inherited many things – including some dirty tricks he had locked away in his mind. This wasn't his father's kingdom, it was Mortimer's, all Mortimer's, and they needed to learn a lesson. Right on time, Minnie was heading to the stables to deliver lunch and reluctantly give the bad news about the missing eggs. She was indeed a pretty thing.
And something about her prettiness made him angry. Made him yearn. Made him want revenge.
Mortimer smiled. "Stranger things have happened, Pete."
And stranger things would keep happening.