#[[or by some fucky wucky magic he can't remember them or just have vague memories. reasons which will be revealed later]]

[perdicinae-observer]

𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫

Return.

𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫 𓅫

[*pip-pip!*] [*peep!*] [*kut!*] [*pi-pii-piii*]

Maintaining a giant château and its ever-expanding gardens all by yourself seems like a monumental task at first glance.

The first few years, you'd fret and worry about it not being perfect—about being unable to wrap up everything in one day, that perhaps it won't be ready or good enough for that certain someone you expect to return—but when you have centuries to spare with nothing but silence and birds to keep you company, however...

You'd learn to not be in much hurry.

[*peep-peep-peep*] [*pip!*] [*peep?*] [*taptap*]

The eventful week was behind him. It was back to the usual dull routine for the Iron Marshal. Perhaps for the better, for now. His head hurts. He just wanted to be alone right now.

With a trusty watering can in hand, Davout absentmindedly treaded along the various flowers and greenery, watered them individually, and made sure to not step on any of the daring soldiers of his partridge army.

[*taptaptaptap*] [*kut*] [*pi-pip!] [*peep! peep!*]

...

He was never a gardener.

He's an awful gardener, actually.

If it wasn't by some benevolent spirit of the realm or sheer luck that bought him time to hone the craft and kept most of these flowers alive, Davout wasn't sure if he could forgive himself if something happens.

Tending to these things was never a "like", but rather a "want"—a "need."

It has something to do with her. It always has something to do with her. How else could he have persevered otherwise?

Arguably though, with an afterlife this boring, paupers can't be choosers now, can they? This was something outdoors—and Lord knows he never had enough of that.

So here he was—like the tamed, senile warhorse that he is—taking care of plants that he didn't know half the names of and baby-talking chubby little birds.

…[*chuckles*] Je t'ai déjà nourri, ma chérie Louise…

Davout knelt down to coo at one of his soldiers, a particularly feisty hen named Louise that peeped ferociously at her owner, demanding more grains and affection. Of course, who was he to turn down such request and unyielding will?

With an amused smile, he rummaged his pocket for some leftovers, took a moment to feed her and others some just for being extra well-behaved today, before letting her clamber up to her throne that is his head.

(That spot seems to be a flock-favourite besides his shoulders and back, for some reason…sometimes he wished he had just a little more hair to keep them comfortable, but perhaps the exposedness of it all was what they find appealing. Not to mention that Louise *is* one of his favourites after all…)

The army seemed to be particularly appreciative of this meal however, as they began to huddle around their master, seeking his affectionate scratches, and do various things like sounding adorable and looking adorable—just overall cute.

Figuring that a little rest couldn’t hurt, Davout adjusted his position and laid down in the grass, his eyes facing toward the sky.

Louise was a little wordy about the sudden change in height, but quickly returned to socialising with her community. Others do what partridges do best: exploring, singing, pecking, sleeping, eating, et cetera et cetera.

The marshal smiled (a rare feat) as he simply let himself live in the moment, refusing to think of anything. The previous chaotic trip had perhaps restored his appreciation for the soft sensations of his abode: the wind, the little footsteps of his feathered children, and...the silence. Perhaps…this is heaven? ...

However, his eyes— his curious, wretched eyes— wandered to the wrong spot in that moment of tranquillity. A rose bush. A rose bush.

…

Something damp touched his skin, jerking him back to reality. Tears. Rain.

Pa!

Ah, it’s raining.

Papa!

Turning towards the source of the voice revealed Davout’s corvid companion—now a man—shouting and running towards him with an umbrella in hand. The boy didn’t even bother to remove his apron before coming to Davout’s rescue. Was he cooking something?

The marshal got up abruptly. Most of his partridges had already made their mad dash towards their huts while some remained by his side, staring. He rubbed his eyes furiously, trying to get rid of any evidence of his grief and took his remaining companions into his arms as he stood. He stared at the boy for a moment as he approached, seemingly disconnected. Or maybe just thinking. Really thinking—

[“ᆿ̸̨̛̳͙͚͙̞̭͓̣̤̝̜͆̆̃͋̔̿́͆̄̚͘͜Ọ̵̢̪̳͙̯̰͇̙̪̰͐͑̂̂͒̓̒͛͛̅̀̊̀ͅЯ̵̤̯͓͙̤͚̫̘̟̠̝̲͌̆̎̅͒̄̆̈́̾̕̚͝Ә̶̢̡̧̥͚̟̱̩̩̘̥͕̳̉̈́̿̀̀̋̾́̄̄̀͝Ǝ̴̢̛̩̮̜͈͍͙͉̭͖͙̤̣̉̐͒̽̀̈́̈͘͘͝͝T̷̡̡̡̻̟͕̖͇͓͎͎̜͖̄̀̈́̔̌͛̌̽̿̓͌̐͌.̷̢̛̛͈̩͔̼̠̺͈̼̼̱̲́̐̐̌̆͒̄̓̉̂̚”]

A sharp pang was felt in the back of his head. Lenoir was saying something but he couldn't quite hear. He was saying something but he couldn't quite hear it either. Scolding the boy about running in wet grass, probably.

...

The roses were redder than this.