Rattus Rex

Chapter 45 - Reunion

—Chunk—

The sound of the axe hitting the wood was quiet but insistent, refusing the wood its cohesive existence in favor of a new dualistic reality.

—Chunk—

Another hit, another split. From setting up the wood, raising the axe, and finally rending asunder the innocent material, a rhythm filled the clearing with a hymn of destruction.

—Chunk—

Hamelin paused, axe in hand, seeing the havoc he had wrought. Around him lay several pieces of wood, strewn about as if in some bizarre pattern, from the result of his industry. Breathing, the cold air of early spring stung in his adolescent lungs as he composed himself.

Straightening to his full height, which was nothing too impressive, he looked over his shoulder and into the shadows of the forest, where the outline of a figure was visible. The figure had been standing there for some while, he knew, but had not elected to step forward.

Tired of waiting, he called out, “Come out Mosel, I know you’re there.”

Hamelin’s older brother, Mosel Regias, stepped forward wringing his hands. He had grown, Hamelin noticed, since he had last seen him five years ago. Taller and lankier, Mosel wore a pair of rotund glasses on his nose. His hair had grown longer and now framed his face with a halo of auburn, complimenting the more defined features of his now-teenage appearance.

“Hello Brother,” Mosel said, waiving awkwardly, understandably so. Hamelin had seen no one from his family since his exile five years earlier, nor had he attempted to contact them. They were dead to him, as far as he was concerned.

At that thought, the glass marble at his chest seemed to burn. For the umpteenth time, he seriously considered throwing away the trinket. Seeing Mosel, who had given him the bead five years ago, only made the urge stronger.

“Are we brothers?” Hamelin said, setting the axe aside and crossing his arms, “I can’t seem to recall.”

Mosel flinched, but nodded with understanding. “I get that, Hamelin, I really do. I’ve asked father about you almost every day for the past five years. He refused to tell me where you were.”

“And yet here you are… What changed his mind?”

Mosel kicked the dirt in front of him and chewed his lip. He looked reluctant to answer, and Hamelin felt his impatience grow. He was happily minding his own business, so why was Mosel appearing and complicating matters?

“I… I told father I would refuse my seat in the academy if he didn’t tell me,” Mosel finally admitted. Hamelin raised an eyebrow, seeing how embarrassed Mosel appeared to be.

“I see,” He finally said, “You got accepted then? Congratulations.”

“Ahh… thank you,” Mosel’s cheeks reddened in tune with Hamelin’s flat tone. It was not that Hamelin was trying to be difficult, but he did not understand why Mosel was here, unless it was to taunt him and make a display out of his own success.

“So, why are you here?”

Mosel looked surprised at the question. Opening his mouth, he was about to speak, when instead he stopped himself and appeared to think it over in more detail. This was exactly what made Hamelin wary of Mosel, whom he considered the most unpredictable of his brothers.

After another moment of silence, Mosel gestured toward the small shed that had been Hamelin’s home for the past five years, and said, “Can I come in?”

Narrowing his eyes, Hamelin kept a close eye on every movement this interloper made. Mosel did not look threatening, nor did he appear to have an ulterior motive, however, that only made him more dangerous. The young man could surely hide his intentions deeply, of that Hamelin was certain.

“Why?”

Again Mosel hesitated, but answered a little quicker this time. “I just want to talk, Hamelin. Please?”

Though he was loathe to admit it, Hamelin understood that Mosel had been one of maybe two people in the Regias household who cared about him. When he considered turning away Mosel, his stomach felt like like a twisted rag, making him nauseous, even as he did not understand why.

“Fine,” He admitted to himself and Mosel. Setting down the axe, he began collecting the firewood around him.

“Let me help you with tha—” Mosel moved toward him, which made Hamelin turn a furious glare on his brother and say, “Don’t.”

Swallowing, Mosel nodded and allowed Hamelin to pick up the wood on his own. As Hamelin made his way to the shed, Mosel followed on from behind, at least ten steps away. Opening the door, Hamelin walked into his small home and set down the firewood near the small stove, turning to find Mosel staring up at the small sign that hung above Hamelin’s shed.

Blinking, his older brother finally turned his eyes back on Hamelin and said, “You’ve kept practicing your Indric, I see.”

Hamelin bit his lip in frustration. He had completely forgotten about the inscription he had made above the entryway. Though Mosel had only taught him a few proper characters, Hamelin had often found himself practicing the ancient script whenever he needed time to think.

It was a strangely meditative practice, one he had grown to appreciate over the past five years. The fact that his older brother had taught it to him was an inconvenient coincidence. Mosel’s eyes sparkled with appreciation, as if he had seen some proof that their bonds were stronger than Hamelin let on.

Scoffing, Hamelin said, “There’s not much else to do when you’re stuck in a forest.”

Mosel flinched at that comment, but looked back up at the sign regardless. “The sign of waste, within the circle of renewal. It’s not an orthodox spelling, but I can see you put thought into it. What do you call it?”

“Home,” Hamelin growled.

Mosel eyed him, smiling. Hamelin bared his teeth, but meeting his brother’s crystal clear stare, he relented and mumbled, “Undergrowth.”

“Where the waste of the forest feeds life in the shade,” Mosel nodded with appreciation, although he had put a lot more thought into it than Hamelin ever had. He just found it a suitable name for a shed in the middle of a forest.

“Are you going to come in, or are you going to quote me poetry?” Hamelin said, while arranging a kettle atop the stove, turning his back against Mosel so he couldn’t see the spreading flush to his face. The heat from the stove was getting to him.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Mosel said, a slight laugh to his voice as he entered. Once inside, Mosel looked around the meager room with a wrinkled nose, before taking a seat at the rickety table. While the water in the kettle began to heat, Hamelin kept his back turned on his brother so that he would not have to face the stare he felt directed at his back.

When the water was finally ready, he poured it into two clay cups, which he had filled with a herbal mixture. Setting one cup in front of Mosel, and taking the other for himself, he sat down by the table as well.

“So,” he said, waving in Mosel’s general direction, “Talk.”

“You’ve grown, Hamelin,” Mosel said, still a smile to his voice.

“So have you,” Hamelin noted, dryly, “Time will do that.”

“I don’t just mean in size,” Mosel said, shaking his head, “Father told me you would be different, but I did not expect to find you so…”

“Capable?” Hamelin said, when Mosel trailed off in thought.

“Right. When he told me where you were, I thought you might have died, or survived by the skin of your teeth, but you seem to have done remarkably well.”

Hamelin said nothing, but just looked at his brother with a deadbeat stare. When was this little human going to get to the point?

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re well. Mother has been worried sick about you, and she asked me to take some food with me,” Mosel reached down into the satchel he wore at his side, while Hamelin’s expression darkened. Again, the glass marble at his chest burned furiously, and he resolved himself to throwing it out as soon as Mosel left.

Although it had been five years, the image of his mother’s face was still vivid in the back of his mind, and he did not appreciate Mosel dragging that into the foreground.

Mosel retrieved a few, wrapped parcels, and unpacked them to reveal sausages and pies, enough to last for a few days. As soon as the smell wafted through the small shed, Hamelin’s stomach started to rumble ever so slightly.

Smiling at the sound, Mosel pushed the food in front of Hamelin and said, “She’s never forgotten about you.”

“Could have fooled me,” Hamelin said, annoyed at the bitter tone that had snuck into his voice. He would have left anyway, so why should he be concerned about the damn woman?

“I know, I know,” Mosel admitted, “It’s not fair the way you got treated. I tried prying out of father what happened, but he would say nothing. I’m not here to pour salt in the wound, or to mock you Hamelin; I’m here to say I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“Yes, very sorry,” Mosel nodded, taking a sip of the herbal tea, “And I want to let you know that no matter what happens, you’re still my brother.”

“What does that even mean; we’re still brothers? Neither of us chose to be born into the family, nor did we make any commitments to one another. For all intents and purposes, we are strangers who just happened to live under the same roof for a few years.”

“But we did make a commitment, Brother, or have you forgotten?” Mosel looked at Hamelin with an almost pleading expression. Screwing up his face, Hamelin could not make sense of what Mosel was talking about.

“Or at least, I did,” Mosel continued, his expression only growing more urgent, “I made you a promise, remember? Even if, as you say, us being being brothers is mere happenstance, I still promised that I would aid you whenever you asked for my help. I even gave you glass bead to remember the promise by.”

The glass bead at his chest burned hotter than ever before, and Hamelin were moments away from ripping it out and throwing it away then and there. With a monstrous display of discipline, he restrained himself and kept a calm exterior.

“I remember,” Hamelin admitted, “But I didn’t see the point of keeping that thing out here. I lost it years ago.”

“Ahh…” Mosel looked down, dispirited. When he looked up again, Hamelin could see determination in the young man’s face. “Even so—even without the bead, I will keep my promise. The making and keeping of promises is what separates us from beasts; it is what makes us human.”

Hamelin bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile and said, “And what if the one you made that promise with is no more than a beast? Why would you keep a promise to a beast?”

—Slam—

In a shocking outburst of emotion, Mosel hammered his palm into the unstable table and stood up from his seat, eyes aflame. “You, Hamelin,” he said, his voice strangely low, “Are not a beast. You are not waste, you are not expendable, nor are you useless. You are as human as myself. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Taken aback by the fervor in Mosel’s speech, Hamelin was utterly speechless. From his satchel, Mosel drew out another object and put it on the table, saying, “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but just… You must value yourself more, Hamelin. Just as both mother and I value you, and father as well, although he has difficulty showing it. He also values you, Hamelin, and he grieves for what he did.”

Hamelin did not know what to say, and so just continued his silence, observing Mosel as he walked around the table and knelt down in front of him. “Whatever happens in the future, you will always be my brother. Please remember that.”

With those words, he hugged Hamelin, who sat dumbfounded and allowed himself to be squeezed against his older brother’s chest. The paranoid rat within him told him to fend off the attack and make sure Mosel was not secretly stabbing him in the back, but there was another part of him that leaned into the physical embrace. Centered around the heat coming from the bead at his chest, Hamelin found himself giving into that warmth.

“I have to go,” Mosel said, when he finally gave up the hug, “I brought you a gift that might help occupy you out here. I think you’ll like it.”

With those words, Mosel stood up and walked out the shed. Hamelin followed, seeing the figure of his brother walking away, waving joyfully as he went. “Stay safe, Hamelin,” he called as he walked, “And come see me at the Academy when you can!”

Still confused, Hamelin raised his hand halfway up, waving it once or twice, before realizing what he was doing and sourly putting it down. Mosel faded into the surrounding forest, leaving Hamelin alone once again.

“Coming and leaving as you please,” he grumbled and shook his head. With the bead still burning at his chest, he resolved to never go near the Academy. Ever.