High summer, the sky a blue vault overhead; the days are bright and dusty, the fields a patchwork of green vegetables and ripening wheat. Myrken Wood prospers, drowsing under the golden sun, lulled by the songs of thrushes and meadow grasshoppers. The nights are mild, cool breezes and soft rains bringing respite from the heat of the day.
It's been a difficult day for Cherny, a day spent at his knight's side as Sir Elliot in turn attended upon his Lady in his role as protector, champion, trophy. A day of silk and lace, perfume and powder; a day of contrived witticisms and brittle laughter; a day of remembering his posture, his tone, his manners, standing just so and smiling just so and speaking just so, and that only when spoken to. It is taxing, more so than even the days spent labouring in the sun, toiling away on charitable works. He retires early to his nest in the hayloft above the stables, near the loading door - Son has claimed the far end of the loft, claiming it to be less prone to draughts; Cherny, however, prefers to have the door open, so he might sit and gaze out towards the tavern, or across the lawn to the treeline and lakeshore. He's hung sackcloth curtains to claim the space as his own, and lies staring at the underside of the roof thatch in the fading daylight.
He can't say when, precisely, he is first aware of it; he half-dozes for a span, perhaps, or goes away in something like Ser Catch's fugues; a stretch of time in which even his thoughts are quiet, empty, steady breaths and slow heartbeats, animal stirring in the stalls below, a rustling in the straw above. It is a gradual realisation that he is watched, that he is looking into a face - narrow, wedge-shaped, with bead-black eyes and trembling whiskers, observing him from a shadowed gap between thatch and rafter. He blinks, frowns slightly as he focuses on the creature, knowing that he should probably do something - should throw something, should thrash at it with a stick, drive it away. Son would do that, would fling a boot and a curse, but the squire finds himself too weary for such excitement. And there are always more rats, unseen but often heard as they scamper and scrabble through the fabric of the building.
Instead he stays where he is, sprawled on his straw mattress, as the rat - small, lean, with the awkward proportions and uncertain movements of youth - squeezes out from its hiding place to creep down one of the beams. It hesitates as he shifts slightly, head turning to keep it in sight, but moves on when it becomes clear the boy's not about to leap into violent action. There's a plate there, by the loading door, where Cherny had sat and eaten his supper; a heel of rye bread, the core of an apple, a few crumbs of cheese. A feast, and the boy watches as his visitor picks over his leavings, taking a nibble of browning apple flesh or gnawing at a tough crust of bread, gripping it with paws like dainty hands.
He should despise it, should revile it as filthy vermin, but its coat is sleek, glossy as if fresh brushed. He should rebuke it for its boldness, its insolence - how dare it and its brutish kind exist in this new Myrken Wood, where all is smiles and silk and lace - but instead he only watches, observes in silence as the rat goes about its business.
Most of the apple core and the better part of the breadcrust it leaves, too much to eat in one sitting; it takes its time in scouring the plate of cheese crumbs, however, sniffing back and forth in case any have been overlooked; eventually, disappointed, it ventures a last glance for the squire, cautious, curious, before slinking over the lip of the door and out of sight, to continue its foraging elsewhere.
He lets it go, unchallenged, and it feels like a small rebellion.