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Winston and Edmond had devised quite a clever system to communicate — Edmond wrote down words on pieces of parchment and Winston touched a hoof to the word he most wanted to convey.
“Food,” “tired,” and “bothered” were frequently tapped by Winston.
However, he was having a difficult time indicating what he wanted at that moment. None of the pieces of parchment had the correct word.
So, all he could do was again stomp his foot on the word “need.” His hoof left a light crescent-shaped smearing of dirt and dust.
Edmond exhaled slowly, likely trying to suppress his frustration.
“Need what ? It isn’t sleep, it isn’t food, it isn’t bedding. Then what?”
Winston stamped his hoof again, this time on the straw, and hurried up to Edmond. He nudged at the man’s cloak. He wanted his things, his clothing. He needed a way to feel at least partially himself again.
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand. Do you need me to get the stick?”
Winston would still write in the dirt with his stick if their current communication method failed. He did his best to jerk his head in a nod and punctuated the movement with a snort. Edmond ran the tips of his fingers through his hair, sighing.
“Very well.”
He exited the stall that was Winston’s temporary home and rummaged around the old, abandoned stable. It was certainly a significant downgrade from his old quarters, but they had both agreed that this was the best place for him for now. The new stables had been completed last year and he hadn’t yet bothered to have the old ones destroyed — thank the gods for that. Winston’s stall, unfortunately, had some wear and tear now that it was no longer looked after – small holes and gaps in the wood that let cold drafts in. But at least he had straw bedding and the old servant’s blankets Edmond had delivered to him. Winston hadn’t asked for the blankets. Edmond had simply brought them.
The man always had been thoughtful in that way.
Eventually, Edmond returned to the stall and extended the stick to Winston. He grabbed it in his mouth, the rough bark scraping his tongue. He walked to the front of the stall which was clear of straw and stabbed the tip of the stick into the ground. Edmond watched him, hand on his chin, as he wrote the word “clothes” in the dirt.
A soft exhale. Winston looked up.
Edmond ran a finger back and forth across his chin. His jaw was tight but his expression was otherwise difficult to read. “I see. I’m not certain what purpose retrieving some of your clothing would serve.”
Winston’s jaws tightened on the stick, but he managed to have enough self-control not to snap it. He couldn’t possibly articulate the complex reasoning behind his need with one or two words. Instead, he returned to the pieces of parchment and placed his hoof on the word “need” again, tapping it three times, hoping to indicate how much he wanted this.
Edmond lifted his hand to his mouth, brushing his fingers across it. “Why?”
Winston groaned in frustration. Why did it matter that he needed them? Edmond hadn’t always been this stubborn when it came to obeying his whims. Winston looked down at the selection of words. His eyes landed on the word “feel.” He moved to it and tapped his hoof on it.
“Feel … “ Edmond read aloud. He nodded.
Winston walked back to the patch of dirt and wrote “like me.”
“ … Feel … like … me … “ Edmond slowly said. He closed his eyes and exhaled. His shoulders lowered. Perhaps now he understood why Winston needed this.
“All right, Your Majesty,” he said, voice tight. “I’ll see what I can do.”
When Winston awoke from a nap, he was alone, but he saw a red cloak folded neatly on the ground with a crown resting on top of it. The cloak had gold embroidery stitched along the edges in the shape of vines, clearly carefully created. He recognized it as a red cloak of his that had been torn some months ago that had not yet been mended. And the crown, of course, was his own. It was a burnished circlet of gold with two points at the front and two at the side. He was uncertain how Edmond managed to secret it away without anyone noticing.
Winston rose to his feet, shaking off pieces of straw that clung to his bristling fur, and walked up to the cloak. He snuffled at it, inhaling the faint scent of his true form. The smell pierced his heart like an arrow — he detected the scent of cloves, which he favored as cologne, the aroma of smoke from candles from many hours spent in meetings, and finally, a musty smell that was not his own. Perhaps the last smell came from a closet the cloak had been stored in.
Winston pushed his head beneath the cloak and laid down on the ground, scooting himself forward on his hind legs to drape the cloak over his body. It felt nothing like wearing the article of clothing when he was human, when he was truly himself. It only felt like curling up beneath one of the old blankets Edmond had provided.
Shaking his head, he backed up and looked down at the crumpled piece of material. The crown had slid off of it, and suddenly he felt terribly foolish — what had he wanted these things for? Their presence would accomplish nothing, and even if he had succeeded in putting them on, he would’ve looked ridiculous; a pig with a red and gold embroidered cloak over his shoulders and a shining crown atop his head?
That sounded like something from a children’s storybook. A morality tale against pretending something you were not.
Winston’s lower lip trembled as if tears would come. But they never did. Not in this body. No, he was denied even the most basic expressions of human emotion.
He turned from the cloak and crown and returned to the pile of straw he’d been sleeping in, even ignoring the plate of food Edmond had left nearby. He closed his eyes and hoped to dream — to dream of once again having two legs and two hands and fingers with which he could touch and hold and caress, and most of all, a voice that would allow him to say all the unspoken things that crowded his brain.
But as sleep came, he dreamt of none of these things. He only dreamt of a forest with no end.
The sensation of something being draped over him made him awaken. It was now dark. He startled, head moving back and forth wildly, mouth opening to bite in case someone or something had discovered him.
A two-legged shape moved back a step in the gloomy stall. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I didn’t intend to wake you. I only saw that you seemed cold and the cloak was on the ground. I thought that you might want … “ he trailed off.
Winston grunted in realization. Edmond had draped the cloak over him like a blanket. Warmth washed through his chest. Perhaps Edmond felt that this was his duty, but it was still a kindness.
He expected Edmond to now leave, but instead, he knelt in front of Winston and placed something cool, hard, and circular on his head that he had to hold steady with his hand. Winston’s ears raised. He recognized it as the shape of his crown. What did Edmond mean by this?
“You are a king,” he said, softly, “no matter your shape.”
At that moment, it wasn’t the crown that particularly mattered to him. It was Edmond’s words. He silently laid his head on Edmond’s knee. His friend’s free hand stroked slowly down his neck and spine and back again.
He only wished he could say “thank you.”
But he thought Edmond understood how he felt all the same.