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There was a bit of snoring to be heard across the farm as it went late.
The animals—even Boxer—had already gone to bed, tired from the day of collecting and plucking wheat, barley, apples too.
Every comrade rested, having done his fill.
Everyone of them slept—everyone except Napoleon, who had been teaching his class of dogs very late into the night.
The needy little black mutts who looked at him with big, curious eyes; their little pudgy bodies hopping about as they wagged their tails as he entered the loft—only to droop as he left.
He needed them.
They had a blind faith in him already—he’d only been feeding them the cow’s milk for a week or two and was now giving them dog biscuits to eat, but he could see how deeply they seemed to revere him already.
He wasn’t quite sure when he should introduce them to the farm—they’d be very useful to him once he did—but he was still deciding just when and how.
He needed to bide his time, they were not even close to fully grown yet.
He shuffled around the barn, sneering as his trotter brushed an unpleasant material onto his knuckle, casting a sidelong glance at the ground before huffing in disgust.
He really didn’t need to live here; it was humiliating and constantly reeked of dung. The horses huffed loudly, the chickens clucked consistently, and the rats would scurry across the floor and nibble at his legs as he slept.
Napoleon deserved better—the pigs deserved better. They held a greater intelligence over all the other animals, so it only made sense that they were annoyed by these things.
Still, and with a sense of finality, Napoleon stepped into his personal stall, feeling just a little at home despite the unpleasantness of it all—lumbering his heavy body onto the familiar resting place.
He turned once—turned in a circle again before lying down onto the pile of straw, snuffing his head along the old stale grass.
It had been a long, tiresome day of work: controlling the workflow of the farm, watching over the stupider animals and making sure they kept their pace, encouraging his lower comrades to keep at it.
Not to forget the meeting that had taken place in the earliest hours of the day; going over the weekly proceedings—handing out this order or that, and of course there had been the tiresome debates with Snowball.
He frowned in thought, his busy eyebrows wrinkling just faintly at the thought of the smaller, paler pig.
What an irksome little thing (Napoleon had discovered that word last week while flipping through one of Jones's old dictionaries, and he found himself quite liking it).
There the pig would go, constantly causing a ruckus here or there through the meetings.
Anytime Napoleon introduced a good idea, like placing down a bigger acreage of oats—which they needed—Snowball would start babbling about how indispensable (Napoleon had not learned what this word meant yet but he was intent on learning it soon) it was that they planted more barley—which was entirely-!
Napoleon frowned, searching his head for a moment.
…imbecilic!
Yes, the whole thing was imbecilic, the barley idea, the back and forth that never seemed to cease between the comrades—the annoying idea of the windmill that Snowball seemed to be conjuring in time.
Napoleon was tempted to go look at the windmill plans—he hadn’t yet, but so far had not let himself be caught up by it, he wouldn’t.
He had better things to worry about and focus on—the demand for food, the growing of the dogs, the upcoming harvest; surely the windmill could not warrant so much attention.
After a moment though, he privately decided he would go investigate Snowball’s scribbles and plannings soon—just to ensure that they weren’t all that the other animals had talked them up to be.
As his eyes began to shut closed, he heard a slight shuffling and annoying as it was—it startled him.
He stilled for a moment, tall ears turning back and forth to listen, eyes darting around to this corner or that.
Whoever it was, they had a lantern, and they were carrying it through the barn; shadows large and hard to recognize through the movement and distortion of their surroundings.
As the trudging got closer, Napoleon crept away from the entrance of his stall—just to have the advantage of distance in case of an attack—until he found that it was only Snowball.
The white pig watched him for a moment, eyes tired and bleary, knuckles covered in chalk dust—clearly having just finished more of his extravagant wind mill plans for the night.
He held an old light in his mouth, the flame of it flickering as the fire burned away at the wick. He set it down, the metal clattering as the chain fell from his small tusks.
“Comrade.” Snowball spoke quietly so as to not disturb the others, muttering in a curious voice. Not cold or warm, just considering.
Napoleon gained some confidence in his stance after a moment, puffing his chest out a bit and stepping out of the protective space he’d been in, stamping his hoof on the ground as he stood.
“Comrade.” He replied curtly, nodding to the other pig.
They didn’t talk as easily as they used to, it was rare they saw each other privately in recent times—usually they only had discussions through debates or in odd little moments of agreement as they commanded the other animals in their duties—and yet, here they were now, together and alone in the quiet of the night.
Napoleon felt himself grow a little uneasy at the notion, having grown somewhat unfamiliar with the easy chatter that the two had once shared months ago.
Snowball (without asking) stepped into the stall, sitting just beside of the tidy grass pile to avoid disturbing it. Napoleon opened his mouth, left it hanging there for a moment—then closed it. With a gruff, he went to sit across from Snowball, looking at him speculatively.
He took him in for a moment—he hadn’t done that in some time—and found himself remembering just how strong Snowball was.
Despite his inferior size, Snowball was a little muscular for a pig (certainly more than the porkers), having a firm sense of air about him.
He looked quite regal in the light, his form resting confidently and pleasantly across from Napoleon, growing tusks visible—the flickering of the shadows surrounding his white, crème colored skin.
With a note of surprise, Napoleon couldn’t help but notice the new, somewhat jagged mark on the pig’s back, likely from The Battle of Cowshed. It was hard to see from the angle Napoleon was at, though he could still clearly see the disturbed mark on the otherwise unblemished flesh.
“I assume you’re well?” Snowball asked, always the one to start their conversations.
Napoleon used to find the little quirk somewhat charming, but now it only bothered him.
He nodded his head, replying after a moment. “Certainly. And you, how have you been?” He asked—a slight sarcasm hidden in his voice, though he couldn’t deny the vague interest buried in the question.
Snowball perked up a little bit, smiling to himself. “Good, quite good actually. The windmill plans are going well, a growing number of our comrades are growing interested in it; I think it’s making them work harder too.”
Napoleon felt something unpleasant begin to prickle across his chest, unpleased with the prospect of Snowball’s continuing increase of popularity in followers as of late.
Something about this must have shown on his face as Snowball frowned as well, his brows crinkling in thought. “What? Why does this not please you comrade? What is it exactly that is wrong with my ideas? The other animals follow my plans, what is it that troubles you?” The paler pig asked somewhat demandingly, clearly wanting and needing an answer.
Napoleon huffed in irritation, shaking his head. “It won’t work.” He spoke simply, his ears pinned back as the words trailed past his tusks.
Snowball shuffled in growing irritation, tail moving back and forth in concentration—a trait that he and Napoleon shared.
Napoleon couldn’t deny himself the humor of watching it swish this way and that.
“That’s not an answer and you know it you—you unmoving nitwit. If you’d just come and see it once-“
“Don’t call me a bloody nitwit.” Napoleon spoke, a slight growl creeping its way into his voice.
Snowball paused, observing the other animal for a moment before his eyes twinkled slyly.
“What, would you rather me call you a sow? You’re acting like one with your-“
Napoleon stepped forward with a start, crowding to Snowball and snarling his teeth—huffing breaths of hot air in a rage.
Snowball pulled away, not looking horribly frightened but certainly on guard. In his sitting position, he raised a calming trotter up, signaling for peace.
He pushed against Napoleon’s snout just slightly, pushing it away with his knuckle. The Berkshire reared back at the touch, alarmed at the sensation on his face.
“My apologies comrade, my apologies. Perhaps that was a little untoward.” He didn’t speak for a moment, some other plan appearing to take form in his head.
“Forgive me, I’ll disappear and return with a small gift to show my sincerity if you just give me a moment…” He spoke and trailed off as he turned into the dark past the stall, not waiting for a reply.
Napoleon wondered at the oddity of the other pig, touching his own hoof to his nose where Snowball had touched it, squinting at the tip of his own snout in his vision.
As he inspected the ridges of his own trotter—looking at the bothersome lumps of mud stuck between his soles—Snowball returned, holding a strange bottle in between his teeth. It appeared to be open, half empty, and he was holding it very carefully so as to avoid spilling the contents.
The dark, murky liquid sloshed around inside the large green bottle, the contents honoring the vague smell of corn along with something else as Napoleon snuffed the odd scent that came with the supposed ‘gift’.
Snowball set the glass container down upright, watching it for a moment to avoid knocking it over before nodding in satisfaction once it inevitably stood still.
“This is a strange little thing left behind from Jones's time. Though I’m not entirely sure what it is, it very well could be a bottle of apple juice; unfortunately the bottle does not seem to have a label but I’m aware of the…affects it has.” Snowball spoke with a mystic tone, though it was clear he was still playing for some casualness.
Napoleon poked the bottle inspectingly, not enough to tip the glass over—but enough to make it stir within the grass protecting it.
“It certainly has a queer smell.” Napoleon murmured, something about the liquid intriguing him.
It made his head feel just a bit funny, reminding him of when he’d bite into nearly rotten, overripe fruits that he'd eaten without the other’s notice—left on the farm grounds by mistake.
After a moment, he moved with a start—head jutting up to stare at Snowball head on. “This wouldn’t happen to be a certain kind of alcoholic beverage, would it? It quite looks like the countless bottles that Jones would always slobber away at through the night. Are you sure this does not go against the very foundations of our law that is animalism?” He spoke, tone sharp and intimidating.
Snowball stiffened, looking a bit put off now. “I…would not say it is alcohol. Alcohol caused Jones to abandon and mistreat us along with our comrades on the farm; to leave us to hunger and famine. This—of which I believe is simply apple juice—does no such thing. I’ve drunk a bottle or two of it on my own in the past after finding them abandoned and half empty around the bar, it simply leaves me a bit giddy.”
Napoleon considered the drink a little more carefully now, stepping up onto fours from his sitting and trotting over to investigate more carefully.
Snuffing the lip of the bottle, he carefully picked it up by the neck and lifted it towards his mouth with his knuckles—a small amount of the liquid just managing to hit his tongue before he quickly pulled away.
Bitter, definitely did not taste like apple. But…strangely good. It left him feeling just a bit heady—the odd bubbliness of the drink slipping down his throat.
With a bit more confidence, he took a deeper gulp from the bottle—greedily drinking in whatever it was and-
“Now, hold on a moment—don’t take all of it for yourself comrade.” Snowball chastised, grabbing the bottle at its base and carefully pulling it from Napoleon’s grip.
Napoleon snorted irritably, annoyed and already hungry at the loss—but for the time allowed it.
Whatever the drink was, he wanted more of it for himself.
Snowball, in contrast from Napoleon’s near chugging, took a somewhat delicate sip—no, not quite a sip, but a less vigorous drink than that of Napoleon’s.
He seemed to savor it more than Napoleon, not swallowing it as quickly. He simply let it sit in his mouth for a time and then replaced the glass—ready for the taking.
Napoleon moved to take his turn but paused, interrupted, “So, comrade, I remember you are teaching the puppies of Jessie and Bluebell, how do they do?” Snowball asked curiously, head tilting in question.
Napoleon stilled for a moment then resumed, moving to take a drink from the liquid before replying.
Snowball watched it, ear flitting quickly to swat away a fly.
“They do well.” Napoleon replied simply before deciding to honor Snowball with slightly more than that. “They learn quickly.”
Snowball, seeing that was all he was going to get, nodded. He didn’t say anything and simply took his turn from the bottle, eyes drooping just a tad at the edge.
It was quiet for a moment, not quite peaceful but not charged either—just an unsteady pause.
“And the windmill plans?” Napoleon broke, surprising both Snowball and himself.
He typically didn’t ask the questions, merely answered them.
Still, Snowball brightened at the inquiry, looking off a little wistfully. “Well, it requires a lot of math and calculations on my part. Deciding how long this or that wall needs to be—how big the fan of it should be made. Really the trickiest part is figuring out where the turbines and mechanics will come from; but I believe that they can be procured by our comrades when the time is necessary.”
Napoleon frowned at the bottle on the ground, watching the steadily shrinking contents in it glisten with the lamp light.
He wondered—would the dogs be necessary?
He’d only been considering the most…unpleasant method of introducing them as a last resort, but he now felt it would likely be unavoidable.
He didn’t exactly shudder at the thought, but it didn’t quite make him smile with glee either; it just felt unfortunately essential to the good of the pigs and his growth as their leader.
Not wanting to ponder on it too long, he swiped the bottle again and took a greedier gulp than the last, placing it back down into the grass with a rough grunt.
“We will see, comrade.” Napoleon said simply, not nearly as cold as earlier—though not very friendly.
Still, Snowball seemed pleased—for the first time not being outright ignored or shut down by Napoleon for the Windmill’s production.
They drank a small while longer before Snowball decided that it was time to turn in to rest, quietly muttering, “Goodnight, Napoleon.” As he turned to leave.
Napoleon watched him go, noting that he took the lantern but left the not so empty bottle behind—whether this was an accident or not was hard to tell. Napoleon very briefly debated on going to return it to Snowball before casting the idea away entirely to finish off the drink himself; greedily licking his lips once he’d consumed the last drop.
With that, Napoleon curled up into his pile of hay once more—oddly enough feeling just a bit better than he had earlier.
That hadn’t been so bad; he supposed it was nice to talk with Snowball a bit more peacefully for once—they were comrades after all.
He scrunched his brows slightly, remembering his goals—what would need to be done once the pups had grown fully.
They would come in time.
For now, he rested—deciding that he could worry about the dogs, the plans, the animal farm tomorrow.
And if Napoleon did go to see the Windmill plans the next day—what would it matter?