two rabbits who were once a warrior and a sage meet again in the mending.

(also posted on my ao3 account, a_Saga_in_progress. greetings new seddleton!)

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Picket had not been trying to find her. In fact, his last several hours have been spent trying to get himself lost in the countryside of First Warren. It is successful, in that he has not had to talk to any rabbits (he is quite good at ducking into bushes. this skill, at least, is still useful).

It is also unsuccessful, in that he has not been able to lose the part of himself that expects to see black-hooded figures behind every tree. The anxious weight in his gut is still there, even in these green spaces.

It’s still better than the city, he thinks as he walks a winding road. Rabbits are flooding there these days, reuniting from their hiding places all over Natalia. All of them trying to catch a glimpse of their king of legend.

They expect Picket to be a rabbit of legend, too. And he is not. 

See, the war is over. Picket is alive, and so, miraculously, is his family. And the loss of his arm still catches him off guard, when he tries to hug his sister or to draw a sword that is not there with an arm that is not there anymore either, but he has healed well. So well in fact that not only is he no longer on bed rest, but this walk is Emma-prescribed.

’Get outside, Shuffler,’ her instructions had gone. ‘Go remember what it’s like to have sun on your fur. Say hello to some of the rabbits who’re trying to get a glimpse of Picket Packslayer—I can’t imagine why, but perhaps a Shuffler will do too.’

The war is over, and Picket is taking a walk through a mending world. He’s incredibly blessed, and to be honest, he feels awful.

Emma would be disappointed in him, he thinks, because when he sees a doe sitting by the side of the road ahead, his first thought is how best to avoid walking by her.

But—he recognizes this doe. And so he takes the advice of the Emma frowning in his head, and doesn’t take a detour through the trees.

It feels a little out of place to see Mrs. Weaver here—in his mind, she lives perpetually on her bench on Cloud Mountain where he’d first met her, always sewing and giving wise words to someone. She‘s still sewing now—mending in the Mending, he thinks to himself, smiling a little.  

“Good day, Mrs. Weaver,” he greets (see, imaginary Emma, Picket knows how to talk to rabbits). 

She nearly drops the fabric she’s working on, looking up and shading her eyes. “Picket? It’s good to see you up and well!”

“It’s good to see you too,” he says. “I didn‘t know that you were out here—didn’t Smalls invite you to stay in the palace?”

Mrs. Weaver smooths out her project in her lap. “Mr. Weaver and I were willed this place by a nephew of mine—it was very kind of him, especially as before the final weeks he hadn’t seen me for years. It’s a lovely place, isn’t it?”

The house itself is old—it looks once well-loved, left to fade, and it’s surrounded by trees that are beautiful but overgrown. Picket can imagine that the inhabitants of the house hadn’t wanted to catch attention from those in power at First Warren. It reminds him strongly of Helmer’s family’s farm.

There’s life here now, though. Bright quilts are airing on lines strung between the trees, and the curtains in the windows are new. 

Mrs. Weaver herself is here, mending on a rocking chair in sun-dappled shade, and beside her is a second chair with a half-finished quilt draped over its back—for Mr. Weaver, Picket guesses. 

“It is,” Picket says honestly. 

“There’s a lot to fix up, but we’re figuring it out. Perhaps it’s foolish of us, two old rabbits out here, but—“ Picket moves a step along the path, restless, and she cuts herself off, waving him along. “Forgive me, Picket—go on and enjoy the day. This old doe does not want her ramblings to keep you from your walk.”

“Thank you,” Picket says. He nods at her, tapping his hand over his heart in respect—or, he tries. He does not have that arm, he realizes again.

He stands in the path a moment too long—his consternation must be reflected on his face, because Mrs. Weaver, ever perceptive, asks, “Are you alright, Picket?”

Picket is not alright. Picket wishes he were—isn’t that what the Mended Wood is for? He’s still weighed-down and broken, and he doesn’t know where the path goes.

”May I sit with you a moment?” Picket asks. “If that’s alright.”

”Certainly,” Mrs. Weaver says, motioning to the rocking chair beside her. “It’s a privilege to share this moment of the Mending with you.”

It’s a reflection of the time they spent together at Cloud Mountain—Mrs. Weaver working away, Picket beside her, right down to the sun on Picket’s fur and the storm swirling in his chest. 

The details are wrong, though—instead of a view obscured by mist, they can see fields and forests, a path that leads into the distance. 

It’s the same. It’s different. Picket wishes he could enjoy it.

Mrs. Weaver folds the shirt in her lap and reaches down for another piece. 

“What are you sewing?” he asks her, so that there won’t be silence. 

She shakes out a large buck’s shirt, badly ripped at the hem. “Mr. Weaver caught it on the briars yesterday,” she explains. 

“Odd that there’re still things to repair,” Picket says, picking a blade of grass from where it grows beside his feet. He spins it by the stalk. “Isn’t everything supposed to be whole now?”

Mrs. Weaver hums. “Do you know, I've always appreciated that we chose the word 'Mending' to express our hope. It's a process."

She holds up the shirt, tracing along the gaping tears. “I can repair these rips, but the shirt’s never going to be the way it was before.”

”Then what’s the point?” Picket asks.

"Well, perhaps it'll always be clear that it was torn, but it will be stronger, held together by thread. And I expect that when my Edward is back this afternoon, he will add flowers in thread atop my simple stitching, and then it will be more lovely than it was to begin with."

She smiles, smoothing the tattered edges. "And I hope that he will remember me when he wears it."

Picket doesn’t know what to say next, but Mrs. Weaver seems content to sit and rock and sew her husband’s shirt one stitch at a time. If the Mending is a process, he wishes it would work on him a little faster.

"Why did you choose to live out here?" he asks. “Surely there are many rabbits who want to talk to you—I know that Heather appreciates all the advice you’ve given her.”

She sighs, pausing to gaze over the green fields. "It is a bit foolish, isn't it? Two old rabbits, fixing up an old place like this, and all the rabbits who wish to talk to me back in the city. I appreciate the king’s generosity in inviting us to live with him, but... sometimes it feels like they forget that I'm only an old, tired doe. I want to rest and grow old here in peace, just a kind neighbor and a loving wife, with my Edward at my side, and that will be my Mending."

"I understand," Picket says.

She nods. "I'd expect you would."

Picket pauses. It seems like such a small life, for a rabbit as beloved as Mrs. Weaver, but he does understand.

"I've also been invited to live in the palace, even now that I'm healed. It would be nice to live near Heather and Smalls, but I think—I don't know. When other rabbits call me a hero, or look at me with the kind of admiration that means they're not just seeing me, I feel pinned down. I don’t want to be stuck in the old days forever, but I don’t know what to do now."

"You have a lot of growing still to do, Picket."

Oh. "I am young, aren't I?"

Mrs. Weaver makes an unexpected noise. Picket's positive it's a half-suppressed laugh, but when he looks over she's only smiling serenely into her stitching.

He scowls at her without heat. "We can't all be as wizened and wise as you, oh great Maggie O'Sage."

She waves her needle playfully at him. "Don't call me that, young Picket Longtreader, or I'll sew your sleeves to your trousers."

Picket feels lighter. Still not alright, but he does have time now, doesn't he? All the time the Mending will provide. He supposes he'll get there eventually.

"I think I'm going to live here," he says, leaning back in the rocking chair.

Mrs. Weaver raises her eyebrows. "As welcome of a guest as you are, Edward and I only have the one bed, and I don’t think you want to sleep on our rug."

Picket laughs, and realizes that it's genuine. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Weaver—but I do think that we will be neighbors, if Weezie and I can live in the place I'm thinking of."

"That would be lovely," she says, smiling at him. “Please, visit often.”

Picket smiles back. “I will,” he promises.

He can feel the restlessness still, a pull to see what’s further along his road, but now is good too. The sun is warm on his face, and a light breeze ruffles the fur of his ears.

He wants a rocking chair, he decides. And he wants, someday, to be able to sit on it in the dappled shade and feel entirely at peace. And he thinks that when that happens, the Mending really will have come.

But perhaps this moment, too, is Mending.