The Gilded Cage

[Rousseau]

Dear Rousseau,
You know, you really should write us more.  Just the other day, I was pacing around by the docks when I run into a beast I?m sure you?d recognize, Zihark, your captain.  Because you hadn?t written to me and your mum for several months, I was thinking about you, and so naturally I had to ask.  And you know what the old fox tells me? He tells me you?ve gone and gotten yourself promoted to the head of our own ship! And you see, had I not run into the beast, I would have never known this. This is why you should write us more, Rouss.

So, what?s it like?  Do you have a fine crew? Ha, are you ordering beasts around?  Zihark told me that you?ve already been ordered by the king to establish some sort of trade or alliance or something with the beasts of Kotir.  Is this true?  How much are you getting paid for it??

Rousseau stopped reading here, knowing that she didn?t actually need to read the rest of her father?s letter.  Past this point it would say what it always said, that they were still having trouble making it through every week with their lack of money, which the rat should send them more of so they could have food on their table, and that it would be a waste of her new position if she didn?t.  In the end, her father would tell her to write more because they were worried about her.  

Or rather, that their pockets wouldn?t be filled.

Rousseau, clutching her temple and trying to ward off her headache, took a glance across the parchment and studied its surface carefully.  It was different from the usual parchment their letters were put upon.  It was a cream color absent of stains or marks and was soft in her claws, like it was made out of a fabric of sorts instead of the yellowed, rough documents that were similar to her sketchbook paper.  The ink spread upon it was smooth across the surface, not blotting up or leaving air bubbles.  The rat?s first thought was that the parchment and ink were expensive; something a master artist would sketch with. Her second was to toss the letter to the side.

She sighed.

After Alan had disappeared to the roof, Rousseau had searched for someplace quiet, where she could think about what had happened. The rat adjusted her position in her seat and glanced down at the ground.  The square canvas of Vulpuz?s unfinished portrait was still face down on the cold floor.  Rousseau took one look at it before grabbing it up from where it lay.  The crimson eyes stared back at her the same way she had painted them: cruel and curious.

?Why?? she said. ?Why him??

?Because you needed motivation.?

?Motivation? I was doing wot I was supposed to, wasn?t I?? Rousseau asked him. ?Some of us are supposed t? die aren?t we?  Wasn?t it my turn??

?Rousseau, you were doing what you usually do: running.  You wanted to die because you were tired of all of this.  I simply enacted something to keep you living so that you didn?t run from your duties once more.?

?Wot do ya mean, running?? Rousseau snarled. ?I haven?t run from a fight yet!?

Rousseau heard the fox laugh. ?You?re amusing, captain.  Look around.  Where are you?  Secluded in the darkness of your room as usual.  If that?s not running, I don?t know what is. You would think you would be trying harder to save that weasel?s life.?

?Shut up!? A bottle of black paint was in Rousseau?s paw in an instant. It sailed from her paw in the same second, shattering against the canvas with a smash and sending black paint and shards of glass flying.  Vulpuz?s eyes were gone, swallowed by the puddle of paint.  

Luka?s comment about them being pawns in Vulpuz?s game came back to her.

Rousseau panted.  She didn?t care if the black fox was using her, enough beasts already were.  But with a snarl, she said, ?Willump ain?t yer toy. Stop playin? like ?e is.?

The rattess reached into her pocket and felt the soft pearls of the necklace she had thought she had gotten rid of only days before.  She blinked and threw it to the side.

?Damn you, Reginald,? she muttered.

Tapap.

Calder had an interesting way of knocking.  

?Wot is it?? she said, glancing quickly at the unlocked bolt on the door. ?Door?s unlocked.?

The door opened and the cook walked in quietly.  ?Had some oafs tell me I should take a break with me work, so I obliged an? went t? look fer you.? The rat sat down on her bed. ?I thought I might find ya here.? He glanced around the room, noticing the shards of glass and paint splatters. ?What in Hellgates happened here??

?I got mad.?

Both beasts were silent for a moment until Calder continued, ?So I heard that-?

?Aye.?

Calder was silent.

?I didn?t ask ?im to,? Rousseau said.

?I never said that ya did.?

?You were thinkin? it.?

Calder, fiddling with his apron, had no response.

?They were gonna kill me,? Rousseau continued. ?Will stepped in an? stopped ?em at the last second, an? I promoted ?im t? captain. Told ?im t? take my place as head of The Lass. An? ya know wot the beast does?  He abuses ?is power immediately an? orders me t? let ?im take my place, havin? an excuse an? sayin? that a captain shouldn?t leave ?is crew behind.? The rat stopped. ?He saved my life, ya know.  An? yet, fer that, he may have doomed us all.?

?Ya said they were gonna kill ya,? Calder said. ?An? that Will took yer place.? He lowered his head and glanced at his paw.  ?Is he dead??

Rousseau shook her head. ?Not yet.?

?Well then, yer a bloody fool,? the cook stated. ?Will saved ya from dyin? and isn?t dead ?imself.  I think that?s a fair trade.?

?An? at wot ground?? Rousseau snapped. ?Willump, the only beast ?ere who I?ve ever relied on an? the only beast among this crew who actually meets the requirements o? bein? captain, is with them! An? instead o? him leadin? you beasts t? victory against those rats, you get me! How is this fair?? the rattess panted.

?Both of ya are alive, aren?t ya!?? he said. ?An? so long as he?s alive, there?s a chance we kin save him.  Don?t ya want t? save ?im, Rouss??

The corsair clenched her fist. ?Don?t talk t? me like I don?t. O? course I do.?

The cook, noticing her anger, thought over his next statement. ?Why?  Is it because he helped ya?? he said simply.

Rousseau blinked. ?Because,? she said. ?I-I? ya know, I?ve only been a Captain o? the Navy fer little over a month, an? he?s the only beast that hasn?t asked nothin? o? me or criticized me. I think he?s the only beast aboard The Lass that when I talk to ?im doesn?t yell at me.? She sighed. ?Because he?s my friend, I guess.

?But the thing is, Cal,? the rattess continued, ?wot if I don?t save ?im? Wot if he dies because o? me?? For a brief moment, Rousseau thought of Luka. ?I?m jest tired o? beasts sufferin? fer my mistakes.?

Calder chuckled. ?Then be our cap?n.?

?I think I told ya this, but I never asked fer this job, Cal, or t? join Terramort?s blasted Navy,? Rousseau said. ?Fer my tenth nameday, I got two gifts.  We lived rather poor, so two was a lot in our house.  Me granddad got me a cheap set o? watercolor paints.  It was some stupid woodlander-made kit with colors like ocean blue an? strawberry red, but I loved that little set.  Me mum an? dad got me a rapier, the one I use now.  It was beautiful, I won?t lie, an? must ?ave cost them a fortune.? She sighed. ?The next day, I got enrolled in the Naval Academy because my parents wanted me helpin' t' bring food t? the table. It was needless t? say in the end, I liked my paint kit better.

?But I didn?t mind helping? ?em. It felt good, ya could say.  An? so I ask fer some favors with a rat who had caught fancy with me in order t? get more money an? get t? higher ranks. It worked fer a good bit until recently. It?s just, as I slowly got through the ranks, gettin? better at paintin? too, they stopped helpin? me," Rousseau said. ?An? here I am, trapped in a job most beasts would an? do kill t? have.  I have power, generous sums o? wealth, an? beasts t? do my biddin?.  An? yet I can?t forsake my duties fer fear that I?d leave my family t? starve an? my fellow crew t? be murdered. A gilded cage, some beasts might say.

?An' ya know, I like sailin', I do.  The breeze feels nice in my fur an' I like the smell o' the salt in the water. But, all I?ve ever wanted t? do was paint, an? maybe have some peace an? quiet,? the rattess finished.

?Like it or not, yer our cap?n, Rouss,? Calder said.

?I know.  Wot I?m tryin? t? say is that I need somebeast I kin rely on.? Rousseau paused for a moment. ?I?ve got a few beasts, but they?re not enough, an? I need somebeast a part o? the crew-?

?Are ya askin? me fer help, cap?n?? the cook asked.

Rousseau didn?t say anything.

?Or are ya askin? me t? do it for ya??

?I want t? save Will,? Rousseau said simply. ?I understand, with me bein? the captain, that ya might not want to, but I need yer help more ?an anything.? With a pause, she added, ?Please.?

Calder didn?t say anything for a few heartbeats. He smiled. ?I?ll have t? think about it.?  

Rousseau chuckled. ?Thank ya, mate.?

The cook stood up from where he was sitting and dusted off his apron.  ?It?s startin? t? get late.  I best be goin?.  Those oafs have probably destroyed my kitchens by now an? I gotta get out o? here if I?ll have the time t? ration out tomorrow?s meal.?

Rousseau waved her paw for him to go.

?Good luck t? ya, Rouss.?

?Aye.?

As the cook exited back to his domain, Rousseau glanced to her easel. She sighed and gathered up any documents she might need, glancing at her sketchbook and where it lay beside her.  She picked it up quickly and made to put it back into the pocket of her coat, but immediately tossed it away onto her bed.

Not now.  

Rousseau opened her door and looked to her waist, the usually-present rapier missing from her side.  At that moment the beautiful blade was probably buckled to the side of one of the rats, Cefin, and being misused in some way or another.  She sighed and continued moving through the stone corridors of Kotir, the moonlight shining from the windows lighting her path.

A few of the dead bodies of Kotir beast and rat alike still littered the floors from the previous evening, not yet having been cleaned up from where they lay.  If the rattess wanted to slay Morleo and save Willump, she would first need a replacement for her blade.  Rousseau stopped at the body of one of Morleo?s rats, a glint of silver light betraying the presence of a sword still gripped in his paw. She reached down and grabbed the cutlass.

She spat in distaste. She hated cutlasses. If blades were brushes, they were one of the most peculiar brushes she had ever laid paw on. It was heavy in her paw, different from the lightweight rapier she was used to, and had a thick blade that would leave wide lines across the canvas.  Hesitantly, Rousseau stuffed it into her belt. It was no time to be picky.

And, after all, if she wanted to survive and save Willump's life, an artist would need to adapt to her materials.