05-11-2015, 02:54 PM
Berthe’s house sat a few blocks down from the Prancing Pony Inn, and already it looked more welcoming. The lack of drunken idiots stumbling around contributed to that, perhaps, but the hulking woman also knew how to make a house a home. Even before Berthe pointed out the house, Mickey had seen the glow of a warm fire flickering in the window, and as they approached, a young boy—fifteen years old, at most—bounded outside and wrapped his arms around the Guard-Captain’s waist, burying his face in her armor.
“I missed you, mummy!” the boy shouted, and Mickey could not help but coo a little bit on the inside. This, he thought, this is what I’ve been missing. When the boy separated from his mother, he leaned around her gargantuan frame to see her guest. His expression grew quizzical—not hostile, like the men in the bar, but unfamiliar with him. His curiosity quickly got the better of him. “Who’s that, mummy?”
“That’s Ears,” she replied, glancing over at him, “He’s going to be staying with us tonight. That alright with you, sir?” Berthe smiled at her son and knelt down a little to be on his level. She even towered over him. The boy looked Mickey over (a familial habit, it seemed) and pursed his lips for a minute, then nodded. “Good,” she smiled, “now go inside and get washed up for dinner. We have to show Mr. Ears true Camelot hospitality, alright?”
“Yes, mummy!” the teenager grinned, looking over at Mickey once more before nodding matter-of-factly and sprinting back into the house.
“That’s my son, Robbie,” Berthe provided a belated introduction, “You’ll be bunking with him tonight. Good luck getting any rest—he’s such a ball of energy, I’m not sure he ever sleeps.” Mickey giggled a little, and then followed Berthe into her home. The warmth it projected on the outside was matched—perhaps even surpassed—by how homely the inside was. On one wall sat a stone fireplace, blazing proudly as Mickey walked in, surrounded by extremely comfortable-looking chairs. A quaint little kitchen sat opposite that living area, with everything you would need to keep your family fed. At the other end of the room a staircase led up to what, Mickey presumed, were the bedrooms and washrooms.
“It’s not much,” Berthe shrugged, “but being Guard-Captain does afford me a little more than the average person.” Mickey nodded, heading over to the fireplace and starting to warm his hands. “You can take those gloves off, you know—it’ll warm your hands quicker if the heat doesn’t have to fight through the fabric.”
Mickey glanced down at the big white gloves on his hands. “Um, I’m okay,” he said, not really knowing how to explain that he had never really taken off his gloves—they had always just been there, a part of him, no matter what outfit he was wearing.
“Why are you a mouse?”
Mickey turned to see that Robbie had returned, freshly washed up for dinner. The boy stood uncomfortably close to him, double his height but thin as a twig. Short, brown hair spiked up on top of his head, and his eyes—wider than ever right now as they observed the mouse—shone a brilliant blue. He may not have inherited his mother’s frame, but he certainly was as striking. And, it seemed, carried with him an unquenchable curiosity. “I, uh,” Mickey stammered, trying his best to come up with as simple an explanation as possible, “I was born this way?” His tone reflected his unease with the question, and luckily Berthe came to his rescue.
“He just is a mouse, honey,” she swooped in, patting her son on the back, “now stop bothering him and go and set the table, I’m sure Mr. Ears is very hungry after his journey.”
“Yes, mummy,” Robbie nodded, relaxing his transfixed gaze on the mouse. He turned to head to the table, but before he could get more than a few steps away, his attention refocused, once again, on Mickey. “Oh, and Mr. Ears?” the boy said, taking a couple of steps back toward the former king, “It’s… it’s very nice to meet you.”
The boy stuck his hand out. Mickey stared for a second before reaching out with one of his gloved hands and shaking it happily. “Nice to meet you, too, Robbie,” the mouse replied. So much relief washed over him—he was sure he must’ve been glowing as Robbie turned away and went to help his mother. At the very least, he beamed with happiness, glad to finally be somewhere comfortable—for the moment, anyway.
“I missed you, mummy!” the boy shouted, and Mickey could not help but coo a little bit on the inside. This, he thought, this is what I’ve been missing. When the boy separated from his mother, he leaned around her gargantuan frame to see her guest. His expression grew quizzical—not hostile, like the men in the bar, but unfamiliar with him. His curiosity quickly got the better of him. “Who’s that, mummy?”
“That’s Ears,” she replied, glancing over at him, “He’s going to be staying with us tonight. That alright with you, sir?” Berthe smiled at her son and knelt down a little to be on his level. She even towered over him. The boy looked Mickey over (a familial habit, it seemed) and pursed his lips for a minute, then nodded. “Good,” she smiled, “now go inside and get washed up for dinner. We have to show Mr. Ears true Camelot hospitality, alright?”
“Yes, mummy!” the teenager grinned, looking over at Mickey once more before nodding matter-of-factly and sprinting back into the house.
“That’s my son, Robbie,” Berthe provided a belated introduction, “You’ll be bunking with him tonight. Good luck getting any rest—he’s such a ball of energy, I’m not sure he ever sleeps.” Mickey giggled a little, and then followed Berthe into her home. The warmth it projected on the outside was matched—perhaps even surpassed—by how homely the inside was. On one wall sat a stone fireplace, blazing proudly as Mickey walked in, surrounded by extremely comfortable-looking chairs. A quaint little kitchen sat opposite that living area, with everything you would need to keep your family fed. At the other end of the room a staircase led up to what, Mickey presumed, were the bedrooms and washrooms.
“It’s not much,” Berthe shrugged, “but being Guard-Captain does afford me a little more than the average person.” Mickey nodded, heading over to the fireplace and starting to warm his hands. “You can take those gloves off, you know—it’ll warm your hands quicker if the heat doesn’t have to fight through the fabric.”
Mickey glanced down at the big white gloves on his hands. “Um, I’m okay,” he said, not really knowing how to explain that he had never really taken off his gloves—they had always just been there, a part of him, no matter what outfit he was wearing.
“Why are you a mouse?”
Mickey turned to see that Robbie had returned, freshly washed up for dinner. The boy stood uncomfortably close to him, double his height but thin as a twig. Short, brown hair spiked up on top of his head, and his eyes—wider than ever right now as they observed the mouse—shone a brilliant blue. He may not have inherited his mother’s frame, but he certainly was as striking. And, it seemed, carried with him an unquenchable curiosity. “I, uh,” Mickey stammered, trying his best to come up with as simple an explanation as possible, “I was born this way?” His tone reflected his unease with the question, and luckily Berthe came to his rescue.
“He just is a mouse, honey,” she swooped in, patting her son on the back, “now stop bothering him and go and set the table, I’m sure Mr. Ears is very hungry after his journey.”
“Yes, mummy,” Robbie nodded, relaxing his transfixed gaze on the mouse. He turned to head to the table, but before he could get more than a few steps away, his attention refocused, once again, on Mickey. “Oh, and Mr. Ears?” the boy said, taking a couple of steps back toward the former king, “It’s… it’s very nice to meet you.”
The boy stuck his hand out. Mickey stared for a second before reaching out with one of his gloved hands and shaking it happily. “Nice to meet you, too, Robbie,” the mouse replied. So much relief washed over him—he was sure he must’ve been glowing as Robbie turned away and went to help his mother. At the very least, he beamed with happiness, glad to finally be somewhere comfortable—for the moment, anyway.
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)