#after this at least three old cats ask natori about getting the CK to sing in the village choir

[catsafarithewriter]

Day 4: Musical

A/N: This is, unusually, a Natori & Cat King ficlet, exploring the chaos of double retirement, inspired (and referencing) the song: “If I Were A Jolly Blacksmith” from the musical TV show: Galavant. (Hence posting it on Musical day) I’ve really enjoyed this, so maybe I’ll write more on the retired concept. Who knows?

Also, a big shout out to @linchxpin for very kindly allowing me to play with their headcanons for Natori’s past! 

x

Natori took to retirement like a landlocked duck took to the sea. That is to say, once he figured he wasn’t in any major danger of drowning, he wondered why he hadn’t retired years ago. 

Of course, the core reason was the cat who had retired alongside him. 

Regardless, the switch from working cat to retiree was aided by two factors. The first was simply that he was tired. If the Cat Kingdom had possessed a functioning economy, the thought: “I don’t get paid enough for this” would have passed through his head multiple times a day. Since it hadn’t, his brain had substituted the thought for a swan-like state - graceful and smooth on the surface, and incoherent confused babbling beneath. 

And the second reason was that not much had fundamentally changed. He still had an irresponsible, power-crazed old cat to kittensit, only now when the irresponsible, power-crazed old cat decreed that Tuesdays would now be known as Second Mondays, Natori could pat the ex-king’s paw and go, “Maybe not, Sire,” instead of having to change all the palace calendars and politely ask the servants to play along for the next month. 

(Early into his tenure as a royal advisor, he had taken to bribing the servants into backing up the ruse. Later in his career, he had realised that the King’s attention span didn’t stretch far enough for him to realise that Tuesdays still existed outside the palace.) 

But while Natori was like a duck in the ocean of retirement, the ex-king was more akin to a stone. 

Natori wasn’t sure what had possessed him to agree to the ex-king crashing in on his retirement plans, except that old habits die hard and he had felt that Lune would benefit from his father being out of meddling range, but agree he had. 

Anyway, Natori had managed for... too many years to count. He could manage a little longer. At least until the ex-king found some direction. 

And so the two palace cats had found themselves in Natori’s kittenhood home, out in the edges of the Cat Kingdom and squarely in the mouse belt. (That stretch of scrub land dominated by villages which had risen out of mouse husbandry, and whose yearly highlight was the annual scarecrow contest.) 

In such a village, there wasn’t much use for an ex-king, not unless he could harvest catnip, or sheer a rabbit, or wrangle a mouse, and the ex-king definitely wasn’t one of such persuasion. 

(He had watched, with some horrified fascination, as a butcher skinned one such mouse in the shop window, and had briefly sworn himself to vegetarianism until Natori had politely reminded him that cats were obligate carnivores, and then repeated the explanation with smaller words.) 

As such, lately the ex-king had turned to contemplation - a markedly foreign concept to the cat for whom “reconsideration” was a survey of side courses. Natori had even found him once in the library. A scary enough situation even before one considered that the ex-king hadn’t known where the palace library was located in all his years living there. 

He had asked Natori’s advice on words such as “self actualisation” and “inner peace,” at which point Natori had confiscated the book and distracted him with the golf club their neighbour had made for him. 

It wasn’t that Natori was against cats reaching self actualisation or inner peace. In theory, it sounded all very nice and relaxing. But after a lifetime trying to gently steer his monarch away from stupid ideas and sometimes even succeeding, Natori had learnt to trust his gut. And he knew that the ex-king would take such ideas and run completely in the wrong direction with them and probably start a few fires in the process - not all figurative ones, either.  

And the point of all this was that when “Young Gizmo Junior” came running over bellowing “Mr Natori! Mr Natori!” Natori knew exactly who was at the centre of whatever chaos he was about to be dragged into. 

Young Gizmo Junior, a runt of a tabby who had yet to grow into his paws, fumbled up to the cottage’s porch with the kind of frenzied energy that comes from being torn away from interesting happenings. “Come quick, Mr Natori,” the kitten gasped. “It’s your friend!”

Natori lowered the cross-stitch he had finally been making progress on, and felt his heart dip along with it. “Oh no. What has he done now? Is it the mice? The rabbits? Please tell me he hasn’t fallen into the salmon river again--”

“No, Mr Natori, it’s worse. He’s singing!” 

Natori blinked. "But he doesn’t sing,” Natori said. “At least,” he amended, “not while sober.” 

‘Please don’t let it be catnip wine again, please don’t let it be catnip wine again, please don’t let it be catnip wine again,’ his mind chanted, ever hopeful that he had developed magic wishing powers since the last time he had fervently wished for a saner life. (Last Second Monday.) 

x

It was not catnip wine. 

It was somehow worse. 

Natori slowly leaned over to Young Gizmo Junior and whispered, “And how long has he been at this?”

“He was on the...” Young Gizmo Junior counted on his claws and scrunched up his face when he surpassed his last easily countable claw, “eleventeenth verse when Grandpa told me to fetch you.” 

Natori raised both eyebrows and nearly unsettled his spectacles in the process. “This is bad.”

“What’s he doing?” Young Gizmo Junior asked. 

“I’ve heard of this before. He’s on the third stage of Searching For Himself.” 

“Why does he need to search for himself? He’s right there.”

“You know that and I know that,” Natori said, “but cats who go searching for themselves don’t. The first stage is talking to oneself, the second is staring into the nearest water source--” 

“Grandpa said he was staring at the well funny--”

“--and the third is bursting into song,” Natori continued. He couldn’t remember the next step, but that was mostly because the ex-king had begun another verse, and Natori’s mind had tapped out. 

“If I were a jolly blacksmith,

What a happy cat I’d be,” the ex-king crooned, rounding towards Old McGregor’s workshop.

“I would do all kinds of blacksmith stuff in my blacksmithery...

“I’d hit the thing... with the other thing. 

“Till I made a different thing!

“If I were a jolly blacksmith...” 

The ex-king trailed off, and if Natori hadn’t been assured that this was the eleventeenth verse, he might well have believed that that would be the end of it. But the ex-king didn’t know the meaning of defeat - mostly because the Cat Kingdom didn’t have dictionaries - and so, after a little bit of muttering (that Natori caught the tail end of “No, I’m not feeling it. Besides, I’d get filthy. There must be something better”) he perked up and made a beeline for Maggie’s meat pie stand. 

“If I were a friendly farmer, 

“Wouldn’t that be oh so sweet? 

“I’d be planting greens and lots of beans,

“And other things to eat.

“Then I’d plant some eggs, and a couple mice,

“Then a yummy salmon cake!” 

The ex-king paused, vaguely aware somewhere in the recesses of his kittenhood education that it didn’t quite work that way. 

(”No,” he muttered, “that’s not right,” and Natori briefly thought there was hope yet. Then the ex-king continued with, “Any moron can plant a cake,” and the farmer upbringing in Natori cringed.)

Natori leaned over to Young Gizmo Junior. “Why can I hear a pipe playing?”

“That’s Uncle Saburo,” the kitten replied cheerfully. “He’s really good!”

“He’s also encouraging someone who needs no encouragement. Trust me.”

“I want to be special,” the ex-king continued, undeterred from the whispered conversations. “Needed. Liked. I’ve got it!” he cried, and made a dash for Rosie’s valerian wine shop front. 

(Part of Natori knew he should stop this. The other part really wanted to see how this worked out. Historically, the latter was a bad idea, but Natori put it down to shock.)

“If I were a merry brewer,

“That would be a grand career,

“I would pick the grapes and peel the grapes

“And stomp them into catnip beer-- dammit!”

The ex-king slumped down onto a convenient crate, which Rosie suddenly decided she didn’t need right now. “I don’t know how to do anything but be a king,” he lamented. “And no one wants me to be a king.” 

“Mr Natori,” Young Gizmo Junior piped up, “shouldn’t you go help your friend?”

“Not yet,” Natori said. “Let him finish first.”

“Why?”

“Because one does not interrupt a cat when he’s singing an existential crisis song,” Natori replied firmly. 

“If I’m just a jolly... nothing,

“What am I supposed to do?

“I don’t have a skill, no niche to fill,

“No one to come home to.”

Natori had a sink full of dirty dishes that argued otherwise.

“Don’t know where to go,

“Don’t know how to fit,

“Don’t know who to even be.

“If I were a jolly tailor... juggler... barber... wet nurse... cesspool worker...”

The ex-king sighed and shook his head. “What difference does it make? I would still be me...”

Natori waited a moment longer. When the last echoes of Uncle Saburo’s pipe playing had died away, he sighed and approached the aged cat. “Sire?”

“Go away Natori,” the ex-king grumbled. “I’m brooding.”

Natori didn’t go away. He waited a moment longer, just until the other cat’s ears began to twitch. He could read his old monarch’s tempers better than he could read his father’s book on Mouse Husbandry. 

“Brooding’s rather boring, isn’t it, sire?”

The ex-king scowled. “Yeah.”

“Do you want go down to the Mouse’s Tale pub and see if we can convince Chaucer to let you try darts again? Maybe you’ll even hit the wall this time.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.” 

Stage four of Searching For Yourself, Natori decided, was getting yourself uproariously drunk. 

If the rest of the evening was anything to go by, the ex-king agreed.