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…I wonder how my brother is doing.
The thought made Maxwell start, breaking his gaze away from the floating flower before him. Wendy had left it near the sistern for Abigail to rest after their recent hound wave, the twin cross legged and weaving a flower crown with their other younger survivors.
He straightened, turning on his heel with a muttered excuse of wanting to work with his codex. It was practically his get out of jail free card at this point - he doubted anyone believed he would really be staring at the damned book that got him here so often. Like he hadn't memorised it cover to cover already- he shook his head, glancing up to distract himself. The gaping maw of nothing hovered over them as always, revealing nothing of the coming weather. He didn't know if the darkness always hanging over him was a personalised gift from Charlie, or a universal experience for all the survivors. None of them had ever commented on it though, so he could only assume it was the former. Then again, Higgsbury had made that stupid weather predicting gadget… but at his comment no one had batted an eye.
Maxwell looked up, the familiar stump coming into view. He had learnt that most of the other survivors only came to the pig village to barter with the King, and tended to avoid running too far out for fear of getting lost. So, when he spotted a small stump tucked away in an outcrop of the island, he decided to make it his own. No one had seemed to question the appearing wall of trees around it anyway, nor the former magician's tendency to only read his codex in the deciduous forest.
A smile broke his stern expression, face relaxing into something much more relaxed as he pulled a handful of twigs out of his pocket. “Hey… kići kići…” he held the bundle of twigs out before him, as he approached the stump. Ribbon swayed gently on one of the branches, a fresh pile of rot nearby. “Hey…” Two eyes peered out, followed by a broken screech. Or that was the best way to describe the muted sound the creature made, before it stuck it's head out entirely and snatched the bundle, stuffing its face with the provided branches. “Right right, calm yourself…” He let out a half hearted chuckle, lowering himself to the ground and reaching his hand out again, this time to scratch it's coarse fur. “There you are…” It leaned into the touch, before stumbling back and retching violently for a few seconds. Maxwell moved his hand well out of range.
“...ah. Seeds this time. Thank you.”
The catcoon walked away from it's mess in response, sharp nails digging into his skin as it crawled into the frail man's lap and settled comfortably. Nose nudging his elbow, it soon seemed ready to fal asleep where it had sat, and Maxwell could do nothing but smile and bite back cooing at the thing. It wasn't like him, he knew that - he was never a cat person, before the throne or after.
Jack was.
The catcoon nuzzled his sleeve, knocking his codex out from under his arm swiftly. It had shown a clear distaste for the thing from their first meeting - always hissing and eyeing the book like it had personally wronged it. Which… it probably had. “Yes yes, it's out and away. Don't worry darling.” The creature, satisfied with the distance, went back to languidly spreading its limbs out across the king's lap, as if Maxwell himself was its throne. The thought would have been humiliating, if not for the fact that it was about a cat.
“Wendy would get right along with you.” Though the daft thing would end up eating the flower Abi was contained in, or God forbid attacking the spectre. ..maybe not then. “The others would quickly believe you to be a pest, though. Higgsbury would cut you apart, Willow taunt you… Wickerbottom might have some kindness in her heart, she was fond of cats. Warly would make a lovely stew out of you though. He is french, after all.” Then there was the trouble with Woby, and general crowding of the base, and he was quickly reminded of why he hadn't tried to move the catcoon any closer.
Well. He glanced up at the sky. Still as black and empty as always, though there was a twinge of red to it now. Evening. He was also starting to feel a twinge of hunger, and knew it was time to head home. He prodded the creatures backside a few times until it hissed indignantly and jumped off, much to his amusement. “You've had your affections. Go on, back into your home.” It strutted back into the stump, allowing the King to stand again and pick up his codex. He didn't know how much longer he had until night, but did have a torch on him - so at worst he would be safe. Still, hunger gnawed at him, and he knew it was time to head back.
He had all of tomorrow to himself again anyway, before his name appeared on the chore list. And boy had the survivors not been kind on him outside of the additional day of rest (the cost of this was it being known as his ‘old man nap’, a courtesy not extended to Wickerbottom’s similar break, which was instead name a “honeymoon with time” by their apparent resident poet: W.P.Higgsbury. Who knew he was such a selective wordsmith).
Well.
He headed home.