*In my defense, my muse left me. Like, she said I wasn't paying her enough attention, and she packed her bags and left a mess and took a taxi to her mother's house, and she's threatened to take half my creativity in a divorce… so that's my defense for why it's been a while lol. But I'm trying to coax her to come back to live with me again.

I'm actually setting my mind to updating this story regularly again instead of taking 3-month-breaks in between chapters, especially since I have so much support from you guys. I'm starting to work on the next chapter, but it's a little difficult figuring out the exact pacing of it all… Hope you enjoy my attempt to get back into writing again lol.

Robbery

While Noir lay in a coma, Chatte Blanc Lune spent time upon the roof of the villa, ignoring the others who would come up to the roof to practice their hand-to-hand. It was obvious that most of the rest of them were excited for the upcoming invasion of the palace, eager to spill Aesir blood as payment for the wrongs they had been done—the lashings of whips upon plantations, the hangings of family members who were caught thieving, the suppression that had prevented them from having real lives. With every swing of a blade or sweep of a leg or block with a shield, the rebels grew more prepared and more confident. Blanc, on the other hand, did not join in. He gave the excuse that he had been in enough brawls and battles to hold his own, and he needed no more practice. Instead, he sat on the roof, ignoring the others, and merely contemplated… contemplated everything.

While Noir woke from her coma in Loki's arms, Blanc was eating dinner with a few of the others, who debated knife-throwing techniques and the merits of various knife types. He only gave his opinion when it was directly asked of him, and even then didn't fully commit to the conversation, thinking of other things.

While Loki brushed Noir's hair out of the way and tied her handkerchiefs around her neck before the royal supper, Blanc was ignoring glares from the other rebels that said behind his back that he was useless and they weren't sure why he was even amongst them.

While Loki said goodnight to Noir in the healers' wing, Blanc was curled up in bed, and elsewhere in the villa, Catalysseur assured a few of the others that he would speak to Blanc about his apathetic behavior over the last several days.

While Thor taught Marron how to play the card game she would later grow frustrated with, Blanc left the roof of the villa to speak to Catalysseur about something he decided he needed to do.

As Noir's lips met Loki's for the first time, Blanc stormed out of the rebels' hideout as Chatte Rouge Catalysseur sighed and shook his head, and Chatte Noir Soir looked puzzled but irritated. The talk had not gone as well as they had hoped.

00000

All Catalysseur had wanted to do was ensure that Blanc Lune was still committed to the cause—after all, he had heard some reports and claims about the white neko who had been friends with the girls they had brought in from the palace. He hadn't been practicing or preparing for the battle. He was lazy: all he did was sit around and eat and sleep, and he was unfriendly to the other nekos. As the leader, Catalysseur needed to make sure that his group was whole and working together. They didn't need Lune to be bringing everyone else down—not in something so important.

And so, when Chatte Blanc Lune came down the stairs sometime midmorning, Catalysseur made a point to call him over for a talk.

Before the rebel leader could open his mouth, though, Blanc spoke: "I have to leave today, but I'll be back late tonight."

Catalysseur blinked his russet eyes slowly, looking in surprise at the young recruit. Only rarely did nekos request to leave. Often, he assigned certain rebels to go out for the day for stealing more food or money in an attempt to sustain their quickly dwindling food supplies. But as for someone requesting leave? "Whatever for?"

Lune's icy blue eyes looked dark, and he appeared tired. "I have to return to my old hideout to do something."

"Do what?" Soir asked from where she had been sharpening a pile of knives a few feet away.

Lune gritted his teeth and replied, "I have to get something. It's important that I do this."

"For the cause?" Catalysseur asked skeptically.

"There's nothing of value left there," Soir answered nonchalantly. "We got what little money there was, and the spare clothes and lamps we found there were already picked through for their usefulness to us. I can't imagine what you'd want there."

"I needed to see if there was a cloak—" Lune stopped, going rigid. "What do you mean you already picked through the things there for their usefulness?" he whispered, suddenly sounding shocked and perhaps angered.

Catalysseur narrowed his eyes. "Everyone must make their contribution to the cause, Lune."

Lune blinked in frustrated confusion. "What do you-?"

"You told us where you lived when you joined us," Soir said simply. "We took the liberty of helping ourselves when you didn't volunteer to donate what you had."

Silence for a long moment as the white neko took in the information. "…Without permission?"

Catalysseur raised his eyebrows. "Did we need your permission?"

"You're lucky the first time we at least waited until all of you were out," Soir added.

Lune's fists clenched. "The first time? You mean…" Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by indignant offense. "You were the ones who ransacked our place the day Marron was captured!"

"She was arrested that day?" Soir repeated indifferently. "Probably served her right."

In the next moment, Blanc was storming out of the villa, white cape only an inch away from getting slammed in the door as it closed behind him.

Catalysseur shook his head and glanced at Soir. "You could have done without saying that last part."

Soir's eyes flashed dangerously. "He's a nuisance anyway. We'll do fine without him. Why did he want to go back to his old hiding place again, anyway? A cloak? We have spare clothes here."

Catalysseur shrugged, still shaking his head at his second-in-command.

00000

It didn't take long for Blanc to make his way back to the little shack. It looked exactly the same, except that the second step wasn't quite in place. Blanc dropped to his knees in front of it and gently eased it out of the way so he could look down into the shaft that went down into the home where they had lived for a little while. Since… blast, since Gris had died. They had moved themselves after that had happened, and discovered this little hidey-hole for the three of them, with enough room for three beds instead of four, because there had only been three of them suddenly.

The next thing he knew, he dropped himself down the shaft and rolled back to his feet—but caught his foot on a box left untidily in the middle of the floor. He only managed to stumble to the wall and catch himself from falling by sheer luck. With a deep breath, he looked over the wreckage and felt his throat tighten.

Yes, the place had been gone through quite thoroughly. The beds were still in their places, more or less, but shifted slightly, as if someone had lifted them to check that there was nothing of value hidden underneath. The boxes and crates were empty but for dust, straw, and other empty boxes. Any spare coins that had been left here when the group split up the day Loki took the girls to the palace were gone now, and so was any food. And no clothing, either. Blanc had hoped for a spare black cloak—Noir always had two or three cloaks in her belongings, but they were gone now, and Blanc sighed in bitter disappointment.

He had never suspected that it had been the rebels that had taken their money and food that first time the hideout had been robbed. Perhaps he should have known, but he had been too distracted by everything else to think too hard about it. Too much had been going on for him to mull it over. Marron's arrest, the prison break, the riot at the palace gates, and the subsequent breaking of their group. But the rebels had been the ones who had stolen the coins and the food. It made sense. Blanc had known from the start that they were desperate… but even so. He had explained that he couldn't donate anything to the cause at the moment because he and his group still needed to live until he could get the girls to join the rebellion.

And they had come and taken it by force instead, while he had gone in frantic search of the girls when they had not returned from the Trade District. Maybe it was supposed to have been incentive for him to get the girls to the rebels faster, a hint for Blanc to get a move on with being more committed to the rebellion. But the message had gone right over Blanc's head until now.

Carefully, he picked his way over to his old bed and sat down gingerly. Straight across from him was Noir's bed, and against the wall to his left was Marron's bed. He switched positions and instead took up residence on Noir's bed, laying down with his face in the bare straw (pillows and blankets were missing from the room, taken). There was no smell of Noir here. Weeks had now passed since Noir had slept here last, and now she would not sleep here again. Resentment filled him as he recalled that Noir hadn't been the last one to sleep in this bed, anyway. Their last night here, Noir had been sleeping with marron in the other bed. Prince Loki had slept here. Precious Prince Loki, who Noir had somehow changed her last name for, who Noir had chosen over Blanc. Jealousy and aching sadness curdled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the love of a dead girl going to Prince Loki when Blanc had loved her for so much longer than Noir had Loki.

Where had it all gone wrong? How had he so suddenly and inexplicably become alone, while Marron had disappeared and Noir had died in the streets somewhere.

It shouldn't be like this. The three of them should be together. If nothing else, Marron should at least be here, and they should have held their own personal funeral for Noir, just as they had done for Gris when he had been hung. Blanc shivered at the memory, recalling the time they had all tried to forget.

The four of them used to split into pairs when they would go out to nick their living out of pockets and off display tables. Sometimes it was the girls together while the boys paired up. Sometimes it was Noir and her brother while Blanc and Marron worked together. But that time… that time it had been the two elder teamed together while the two younger united. Blanc had always liked it best when he was paired with Noir. Gris was a fun and clever kit, though immature and faltering at times. Marron was quieter and more cautious, and while Blanc worked well with her, it wasn't what he would call enjoyable. Noir was enjoyable. She turned thieving into almost a game, and she was so certain and efficient. So, he had been glad to be working with her that day. They rarely paired this way because putting the younger and more inexperienced Marron and Gris together held potential for trouble. Blanc couldn't remember why they had let it happen that time. But the group had never spoken of the mistake aloud.

All Blanc could remember was how Noir had decided that day to be a juggler. She had stolen a sack of apples from one end of the market and gone to the other end, Blanc demanding to know what in the nine realms she was doing. Noir had simply asked that he trust her. And so Chatte Noir Etoile had become a juggler on the corner, tossing apples high in a circle as she leaned and twisted impressively. The act had soon drawn a crowd, and a few tiny meager coins had been dropped into the empty apple sack. But the miniscule contributions thrown into the sack were not where the real money came from. The real money came from Blanc slipping through the crowd lifting purses and plucking coins from pockets while Noir's grace and agility distracted the people. Blanc couldn't help smiling at the genius of it, almost but not quite surprised by Noir's ingenuity as he wove through the awestruck crowd.

That was, until they were distracted by another commotion down the street, turning and murmuring as they heard shouts and saw people converging in a place further down the street.

An arm had suddenly seized Blanc's, and a terror-struck Marron had stood there, tears brimming in her eyes as she fearfully whispered "Gris, it's Gris," over and over again. His heart had jumped into his throat, and in a moment, Blanc had dashed to Noir, and the apples all tumbled to the ground as she heard Marron's words. In the next instant, they had all run to where the shouts and crowd had gathered at one point. It took another minute before they could push through the crowd enough to see what was going on—it was only through Noir's insistence and determination that they were able to get through the crowd at all, but Noir would not take no for an answer when people in front of her wouldn't move. It was all Blanc could do to follow her through the press of citizens to the center of the gathering.

Blanc remembered it in single moments, unable to remember it all as a cohesive whole. Two guards were struggling to pin a lanky boy dressed in all gray, who refused to stay still but was already bleeding from his nose and had a cut on his lip as well as some of his clothes being torn from the fight. The image of Gris fighting to get free of the guards. A memory imprinted on his mind of Noir's horror. The feeling of her arm in his grip as he stopped her from diving in to help her little brother. Gris's eyes filled with fury and paralyzing fear. A guard's hand raising for a blow. Gris unconscious on the ground with a new cut on his temple. Tears streaking down Noir's cheeks to match Marron's, hands with fingerless gloves stifling sobs. Guards picking up Gris's limp form, the gray cloak slipping from his shoulders to remain on the cobblestones where he had lain. Blanc hadn't quite realized just how skinny the kit was until he saw him without his cloak wrapped around him and his muscles not in constant motion. Cuffs and a boy barely of age being dragged between two guards. A crowd dispersing and Noir falling to her knees, clutching at the cloak that had been left behind.

There had been no rescue for Chatte Gris Fumar. There had been no prince to help them inside, and none of them had even known where the stockades were up until that day, when Marron had asked around later that day while Noir lay in shock in her bed and Blanc tried to find some way to know that things would be okay and tell himself that it wasn't his fault, that this wasn't just because he had decided to work with Noir today and let Marron and Gris—but they were just kits, they couldn't do this on their own, what had he been thinking?

There hadn't been time, and they were all too frightened and lost to find a way to do anything. The public hanging had been the very next day, and the three nekos left in their little band had lain on a rooftop just far away enough that they couldn't see the expressions on the faces of those being hanged. There were six of them being hanged that day, those that hadn't been bought at auction for servitude in households or on plantations. The nekos watched as the criminals were led to the gallows, nooses slipped around their necks. Marron clutched to Noir and buried her face in her shoulder, already crying again. Noir's eyes were still fixed on the gallows, on her little brother, on the gray hair that was all she could see as he hung his head in defeat. Blanc kept glancing between the girls and Gris, trembling slightly with something not-quite-fear, something more like guilt and dread and anguish at his helplessness. Hardly able to believe that this could be happening to their group, to his family and the boy who had practically grown up with Blanc as his big brother.

The hangman was striding now to the lever that would drop the sentenced to their death, and now Noir's tears finally spilled down her cheeks again. Blanc swallowed thickly, watching silently as the hangman's gloved hand hovered over the lever for a moment. Blanc didn't think Noir was breathing anymore. One of the sentenced was wailing inconsolably, her head thrown back as she sobbed, her cries audible even from the rooftop. Gris wasn't moving, at least not that they could see, though Blanc imagined that tears to match Marron's and Noir's were slipping down his nose as he shook and shivered with his emotion. Of course, Blanc couldn't tell from this distance.

The hangman's hand suddenly rested on the lever, and Noir suddenly let out a choked gasp and jerked into a sitting position, turning away with a strangled, "I can't—"

The girls clung together, collapsed against each other as they fought for breath through their sobs. Blanc was the only one who was still watching when the hangman's hand pulled, and six bodies fell, and the woman who had been wailing her misery fell silent. Only now did the tears sting his eyes, and Blanc turned away. He crawled to the girls and took them both into his embrace, kissing them both atop the head as they cried, stroking their hair as he tried not to show that he was crying, too. For their loss. For their group, no longer whole. For family broken. For Gris.

That night, the three had gone to the edge of the city, carrying Gris's cloak between them as they might a body. Words were spoken about their lost friend, their lost brother. Marron and Blanc laid the cloak onto the wooden litter that they had put together. Noir was given the honor of dropping the torch onto it just as they pushed it out to sea. It wasn't enough for the boy, but it was all they could do for him. It was honest, at least, and the remaining three had huddled together as they watched it slowly float out to sea until it burned out, and they couldn't see it in the darkness of night anymore.

Noir should have had that. Marron and Blanc should be together now, and they should have one of Noir's cloaks to burn and push out to sea. But he didn't even have Marron with him to grieve, and he had nothing left of Noir to send her off. Not even something as simple as a cloak to burn for a meager funeral. He and Marron should have been able to give her the best that they could… but instead she had had nothing. No acknowledgment. Blanc felt dirty for it. He had gone wrong somewhere along the way, he knew.

Note from LoquaciousQuibbler: …because we were having a little too much happiness in this story recently, right? Lol. And we hadn't heard much from Blanc in a while, either, so I decided to bring him back in. We'll be seeing more of him again as we go on.

Evil rebels. Poor Gris. Poor everyone. For reference, Gris and Marron would have both been about fifteen when Gris was hanged. Noir was the equivalent of seventeen, and Blanc was approximately 18. So… yah. That happened lol.

…Sorry if that was a little too feelsy? Again, I'm out of my writing rhythm, so I can't really tell how good this chapter is… I suspect not very. Thank you to everyone who has been sticking with me and reviewing and favoriting and following the story. Thanks to all of you, we have reached over 100 favorites, over 200 follows, and we have now broken 400 reviews! You all are amazing and I love you all lots and lots, my ducklings. *blows kisses to various reviewers*

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