For several hours, Wallace was about as bored as a person could possibly be bored. He was unable to leave the manor, given that he was stark naked and unable to cover up. The only form of entertainment around the building was a set of locked doors he could try to pick and a collection of books he could not read. This had been fine for a while, since he could at least amuse himself by skulking around around and trying to sneak leers at the nervous mouse that he shared the house with. That is, until he convinced that mouse to go attempt a supply run in town, leaving Wallace entirely alone. Then he did not even have mouse ass to keep himself occupied.
For several hours, Wallace paced aimlessly around the building. He flipped through books, trying to find illuminations that might have been amusing (he found none). He held his picks in the vague direction of locked doors and asked himself whether it was worth the effort (he decided it was not). At one point he tried to strike up a conversation with the air, in the hopes that Dierdre was listening in and might be convinced to come down and sample his prod again (she did not respond to him). With every passing minute, he had more and more cause to regret goading Beckett into leaving, more and more temptation to leave and... do something. Probably something dangerous, or illegal. Very probably something sinful. Damn it all, however; he felt like he was going to die if he did not go and do something.
Fortunately for his short attention span, the sound of the front door opening quashed any ideas of afternoon streaking. Perhaps a bit too eagerly he rushed to meet Beckett at the bottom of the stairs. There, he found the dormouse in a state that made him pause. The velvets were gone; he was once again naked. His fur was mussed and frazzled. There were cuts on his arms and flanks from a reckless flight through deep woods. He was entirely out of breath. His ears were flat against his head. His eyes were glassy, as if his mind had completely retreated somewhere far away from the room where he stood. His paws were once again between his legs, the fur on top once again warped with the dried remains of an obvious public embarrassment.
Perhaps he should have greeted Beckett with a bit more tact. However, he was far too happy to have somebody around to talk to. He was so happy that, without thinking, he jumped into unguarded ribbing. "So," he said down to the dormouse, smiling crookedly. "I take it the trip went well."
Beckett looked up. For a moment, his expression was blank, mouth open as he struggled to regain his breath. Then, slowly, the crisis he had just been through began to settle in. A rasp began to form in the back of his throat with every gasp. Tears welled in his eyes. "Wallace..."
Wallace's mirth evaporated almost immediately. In its place was that very specific dread one can only feel when they have gotten too greedy, pushed a little too far into the wrong nobleman's house and are now staring into the eyes of a house guard with an especially sharp looking sword. "Shit." He took a hesitant step down the stairs. "Beck, I'm..."
"Stay back!"
Both of them flinched and backed away. Beckett shook his head, unable to keep his head up, let alone look Wallace in the eye. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled, I... please, just... don't... look..." His legs felt like jelly, but even so he was off into one of the side corridors as fast as he could waddle. Wallace watched him leave, heard the slam of a door. Only then did he start moving again in pursuit. He made it to the little ground floor bathroom just as Beckett was barricading the inside with his body.
"Beck." No answer. Just the soft, unmistakable sound of crying. Wallace knocked on the door. "Beck! Come on, man. What happened? Was it the Weaver? Did she-" The door opened suddenly, just a crack. Wallace smiled, expecting to see a snout poking out from inside. But then, a backpack flew out into the hallway and the door slammed shut again. He slapped his palm against the door. "Beck!"
"There's supplies in the bag," Beckett called out, his voice strained. "Food for a few days, at least. Take some if you don't have any."
"Beck-"
"I'm fine!" Beckett lied. "I'll be fine, just..." Opening his eyes, Beckett looked around him. The room was small and windowless, and but for a tiny sliver of sunlight peeking out from around his thighs there was no light. Nothing could see him, here. Not unless they were right in front of him, standing in the old and slimy tub. For better or worse, it was the only room in this entire house where he felt completely safe. "Please, I just... I can't let you look at me. Not now. Not like th..." The tears hit him, then, and Beckett said the closest thing to a swear as he had done in years before burying his face in his paws and letting those tears flow.
Wallace took a step back, scowling at the door. He had never been one to predict how his little schemes would go. It was honestly one of his worst qualities, at least when it ended in consequences. He could honestly say that he had not predicted that goading a dormouse into walking into town, naked as a babe, would end in that dormouse crying in a bathroom. He felt a certain sense of guilt, an idea that some of this might have been his fault. He also felt the looming sense that perhaps trafficking with one of the Fair Folk was not exactly his most level-headed of schemes.
He grabbed Beckett's bag, determined to take a portion of the food for himself and let that distract him from his growing concerns.
For some time, Beckett sat in his dark little room, on the hard stone tiles. There, he listened to the sound of his own shuddering breaths and squeaking whines. He kicked himself mentally for lingering in town. He lamented the fact that some man (a priest of the Goddess, no less) could be so cruel as to strip away his magic. He drove himself into a fit of hyperventilating panic, wondering if things were only going to get worse. Would the villagers come after him? Would the priest? What if the Weaver's goal was to have him dragged out into the public square and executed? Or worse, what if she wanted him put in the stocks? Did they have stocks in town? Would the villagers clothe him, before throwing him in one? Or would they leave him in broad daylight, vulnerable to any and all...
At some point, Beckett would recognize that his thoughts had run amok, that he was no longer in control of himself. This was not the first time. It might have been the worst, if he was inclined to rank such things. He was not, however. It never helped trying to rank his terror spikes. What helped was for him to breathe like a regular person. In. Out. In. Out. He pulled his paws from his snout, tried to sit like someone with even a shred of dignity. In. Out. Eyes forward. He put on the expression he had practiced in the mirror for weeks, in preparation for his presentation to the magisters at the University. He was okay. He was okay.
In. Out.
He was going to be okay.
Eventually his heart would stop pounding, and his breath would become less audible. He felt his thoughts still to the point where he finally trusted that they could be used for something other than predicting calamity. This was good, because when these moments passed he would always force his thoughts to turn to what needed to happen next.
The sights and sounds of the crowd he had been forced to endure still burned in his mind. Were it not for the fatigue he felt, it would probably be inspiring a fresh wave of "fear." He remembered shock. And laughter. Mostly laughter. So much laughter he was almost certainly fixating on it. In. Out. What he did not recall was censure, or fear, or any indication that the villagers were liable to become an angry mob. But for the one priest, nobody even seemed to raise their voice. If they were to come, there was a chance they would come peacefully. Maybe they would bring the law. Or maybe they would try to talk. Beckett liked that last idea. If he could talk to the villagers, if he could explain his plight, maybe he could get help.
But then he would have to talk to someone from the village. While he was naked.
In. Out. How could he fix that? There was illusion magic. It seemed like he could definitely make that work. But that was risky. Besides, everyone in town would know, which means they might be able to see through it if they tried. If only he could have some real clothes. Something made of actual material, that blocked the wind and the sun and the prying eyes of everyone. If only...
"But you did not make them."
Beckett looked up, staring at the dark ceiling, as something the Weaver said came back to him. "I did not make them," he muttered.
"Then they aren't yours!"
"I didn't make them... so they aren't mine." Slowly, his lips curled into a smile. "I didn't make them so they aren't mine. I didn't make them so they aren't mine!" An excited, boyish giggle slipped from him as he lumbered up to his feet. "That's it! That's how we beat her!"
He burst from the room and into the hall. He was so excited he almost forgot to cover himself. Almost. Looking around, he thought to share his idea with Wallace, but the rat was gone along with his bag. He was too energized to go looking. Instead, he waddled his way back to the front door and out to the yard. Looking up at the walls of his home, he saw the answer to his problems.
Great, massive, choking knots of ivy.
Pulling them down was difficult work. His run had already caught up with him, and he was hardly a dexterous gardener when one hand was forced to cover his privates. Fortunately for him, it did not matter how clumsy his attempts were. There was simply so much plant matter at his pawpads that any inelegant tug on his part was certain to give him something he could use. By the end of his labors he was a puffing wreck, a tangled pile of vines at his footpaws. This he gathered up as well as he could (again, with only one hand) and dragged into the foyer.
It took him a moment to figure out how to proceed from there. Experimentally, he tried twisting two vines together into a makeshift rope. It was awkward work, navigating around the broad, lobed leaves. He quickly realized it would be almost impossible to do without the use of both paws. Reluctantly, he had to settle for sitting on his tail, letting it tuck around to the front of him and hang over one thigh while he worked. In time, he had his braid, thinner than his finger and long enough to comfortably fit around his hip. He built a second such rope, faster now that he had a handle on the technique, and this he fashioned into a larger loop for the bottom.
He stared at his handiwork, feeling an emotion that was partially pride in his creation and partially the manic hope of the desperate. He worked faster. This needed to be made.
Wallace took his dinner in the only room he had heretofore not bothered to unlock. It was every bit as disappointing as he thought it was going to be, little more than a servant's quarters whose owner was apparently important enough to deserve a lock. He had declined to use his picks on it, purely out of the knowledge that it was the very last lock that remained closed to him, and now that he sat on the remains of an empty bed frame he found himself regretting having spoiled the mystery.
In fact, he was in a bad mood, all around. He told himself he had no reason to be. This detour had been nothing if not entertaining. He got to sleep in a Duke's manor. He managed to rob a small village, a target he had previously considered untouchable. He had fucked a Fair One, for Goddess's sake! Not even she was depraved enough to consider something like that. And he had managed to come out of said Fair One fucking with a promise from the bobcat! If there was nothing else he could claim from this trip, he had stories he could milk for days at any one of a dozen taverns.
And sure, he had made some poor dormouse cry, in the bargain...
He slouched forward on the edge of the bedframe. One of his footpaws began to jitter anxiously.
It was not that he felt guilty. Wallace prided himself on the fact that he lost his sense of guilt somewhere around the time he lost his virginity to a married fox and left before finding out if her future children would have ropy tails. He stole. He cheated. He did not feel guilt. Guilt was for those without the fortitude to embrace a life of freedom, as he had.
His mind wandered, a moment. He could hear Beckett's sobs, in the silence.
There was nothing he could do for him. Wallace's footpaw continued to jiggle. There was nothing he could do. Beckett was in the grip of fairy magic, right now. He might as well have been pinned under a castle, for how much help Wallace could be. And besides, why should he help? The dormouse had nothing to offer but a few free hunks of cheese and a prod that went off if you looked at it too hard. The only reason Wallace stayed around was because he was almost certain Beckett had never had a man in his backside, and claiming one more maidenhood would only make the tavern story that much more glorious.
And it truly would be a maidenhood. Idly, Wallace found himself thinking that Beckett could not even bother to cry like a man. It was such a pathetic noise he heard on the other side of that door, so small and weak and...
With half an oath on his lips, Wallace stood and began to paw through the room. He was not going to find anything, but the act of rattling drawers made him feel like he was doing something. He would do the last bit of work he could do in this place, and then perhaps he would think about just leaving. He had a promise he would get his clothes back, so it's not like he...
In the top drawer of the servant's dresser, he found them. A collection of clean, glimmering jewels. Wallace watched one of them roll around in lazy circles, dumbfounded. He hesitated, when he reached a paw out to grab one. There was no way these were real. These had to be some kind of fairy magic or something. Such thoughts only stopped him for a moment, however, and soon he was rolling a ruby brooch in his fingers. He laughed. It was real. It was so real. If he could get an even halfway respectable fence, there was enough money in this one drawer to keep him in booze and bawds for... months? Weeks? Would he even survive trying to find out how fast he could fritter this much coin away?
A clattering from down the hall made him flinch. He dropped the brooch back into the drawer and had it halfway closed before he recognized what that noise could be. Beckett was walking around, again. Slowly, he looked from the door, back to the dresser. He closed the drawer slowly, trying to make sure it was just as he left it. Then, he quietly padded out into the hall, to follow the source of that noise.
He paused for a bit, when he saw the hallway was covered in leaves and bits of vines. They left a trail from the top of the stairs into the master bedroom, where a mass of vines spilled out like a green, ropy tongue. A green ropy tongue that twitched and jiggled as somebody on the other end pulled at its strands. "Beck?" He rounded the doorway and stepped in. "Beck, are you...?"
Inside, he saw Beckett bent over the old fourpost bed, fiddling with vines which he tied in knots. Despite the fact that the dormouse's ass was in his face, Wallace only saw green. Beckett had managed to fashion together something like a kilt from vines. Two loops of braided green rope, held together with vertical braids with more vines weaved in horizontally. The process was incomplete, with holes everywhere, though the occasional leaf left in helped. Beckett no longer looked naked. At least, he did not look entirely naked.
Wallace looked away from the dormouse's ass. His ears flattened. Was he blushing?
Beckett was definitely blushing, when he realized he was being stared at. Quickly, he stood up straight. "Wallace." His heart rate spiked to do so, but he moved his paws to draw attention to his creation. "Wh-what do you think? It works, right? You can't... you know..."
"Not right now," Wallace replied, trying his best to seem casual. "There's gonna be a dozen angles where I think I could see something, though."
"D-don't look too closely, then." There was an attempt on Beckett's part of being sardonic, if the lopsided smirk he managed to pull off was any indication. It almost hid the fact that what he said was a genuine request. "It's not perfect, and I don't know how long these are going to stay usable. But the Weaver didn't stop me."
"Wait... you're right. Why didn't she?"
"It's the Vengeance Quest," Beckett chirped. Despite everything, he was genuinely happy to know something and eager to explain himself. "You said it yourself. She can't touch anything that doesn't directly relate to her Quest. She told me, the day we met, that my clothes weren't mine because I 'didn't make them.' Well..." He began to indicate himself again, paused, blushed, and then decided not to. "I've made these. So, if I understand the particulars of whatever grievance she has..."
"...she can't take that away from you." Wallace knew enough about the Fair Folk to know Beckett was probably onto something. Belatedly, he remembered that he wasn't supposed to know all that and added "What if you're wrong, though? What if she just comes around and steals those, as well?"
Wallace could tell, just by looking at the expression on the dormouse's face, that he not only had not considered that idea, but the mental image he was forming of Dierdre swooping in and stealing his clothes was far more dramatic than it necessarily had to be. It took him a moment to shake the mental image off, and when he did the boyish enthusiasm of knowing something was blunted. "Well," he said, hesitantly, "if she does... she won't have taken very much of value."
"Got it."
"I can always make another one."
"Aye."
An awkward silence settled over the room. Despite being told otherwise, Wallace found himself staring. The kilt, with its obvious holes, somehow made Beckett seem simultaneously clothed and naked. It also made Wallace feel strangely underdressed. He was underdressed, but... "What are you doing with the bed?" he asked, more to distract himself than for any other reason.
"Oh!" Once again, the boyish happiness of getting to be clever was back. Beckett beamed down at the rope he had tied between two of the posts. "Well, since I got a handle on weaving vines, I thought I'd see if I could make something like a hammock. It should be more comfortable than sleeping on the stones in the bathroom, and..." He blinked, looking back to the rat. "Oh, dear. You've been sleeping on the floor, too. I should probably make one for you, somewhere."
Wallace smirked. "No need to exert yourself. This bed's large enough; I'm sure we could share it."
Beckett's entire body shook at those words. The two of them stared into each other's eyes. Beckett had an expression like he was just asked to step into a pit of vipers. At least, he did for a moment. Then his eyes began to wander over Wallace's naked body. Wallace could practically feel the heat coming off of the dormouse's soft fur.
Wallace had lost his sense of guilt somewhere around the time he lost his virginity, but..
"Beck, come on." Wallace tried to laugh it off, scratching his cheek and taking an interest in the wall beside him. "It was a joke. You really are too easy to work up-"
"I would."
Wallace looked back. He was surprised, but not nearly as much as Beckett seemed to be at his own words. The dormouse's ears flattened, and he gripped his elbow nervously. "I... I would, Wallace." He did not seem any more confident saying it the second time, but even so Beckett pressed on. "You're stuck here because of me, I think. And you've already done so much to try and help. If you really wanted to... I would let you share a bed. It's just... um... goodness, I don't even know how to say this." He shrunk further and further into himself, almost incandescent with embarrassment. "Wallace, could I... could I trust you would not... you would not..." The last words came out almost inaudible. "...do anything to me?"
"Bwuh-" Wallace recoiled, as if those tiny words had enough weight to push him back. His face tightened, his ears flattened. He shook his head. Then, finally, he found his words. "Don't be a fool, lad." He tried to mask the million-and-one emotions in his mind with indignation. "I may not be an honest rat, but I'm not a monster. Besides, if I wanted to ravish you, I'd have done so by now."
"Oh. Oh, yes, I suppose you..."
Wallace waited for Beckett to finish that thought, but he didn't. Instead, the dormouse fidgeted in place, unsure what he was even about to say. Unwittingly, his eyes started to wander. Wallace watched the sweep as Beckett's gaze inched further and further down, before settling on the rat's crotch. Normally, this would not affect Wallace. He had been naked in front of Beckett for the better part of a week, at this point, after all. Besides, he had been naked before so many people at this point that one more person looking at his plums should not have affected him.
"It torments him..."
Unbidden, the airy growls of a bobcat popped back into Wallace's head.
"It torments him... and I want him tormented."
Once again, Wallace decided to replace every feeling he had with hostility. "Hey!" he barked. "What? So I'm not allowed to look at you when you're naked, but Wall's body is a sculpture in the town square to be admired?"
That caused Beckett to shrink backwards. "Oh! Oh, dear, I'm sorry. Forgive me, I didn't mean..." He looked down at himself, at the vague shadow of a bulge that perked up the front of his kilt. He looked back up at Beckett as if he were holding a bloody knife. Then, in what was perhaps the most artless attempt at deflection Wallace had ever seen in his life, Beckett smoothed out his clothing, put on a smile, and indicated the bed. "P-perhaps you'd like to give me a hand. You know, so we... we should have this done before nightfall and all..."
Wallace exhaled through his nose. Then, with a shrug he said "I suppose." He bent down to grab a handful of vines. "What are we doing? Just twisting these into ropes?" Beckett nodded, and Wallace nodded back. "Good. I know a thing or two about ropes and knot tying."
"Oh? Were you a sailor or something?" Beckett asked, transparently trying to make conversation.
Wallace's thoughts turned to a gray bobcat, tied up on this very bed with her legs splayed and a knot of fabric on her mouth.
"Never been to sea. I just... know about ropes, is all."