A canon-divergence fic that began when Heather awoke on her first night at Cloud Mountain to see a stranger roaming the halls. No update schedule.
Heather paused at the top of the stairs, letting the serenity of Lighthall wash over her. She sighed, tilting her face up to the warm sunlight.
Yes. Her head still felt fuzzy, but this place was a relief. She took in a deep breath, then stepped forward again. The garden wasn’t empty today—rabbits rested on the benches or walked the gardens, talking quietly.
Lighthall—the structure itself—was still a mystery, draped in cloth. As she approached it, she could hear the clinking of tools and a rabbit’s humming. Was it still under construction?
Heather paused, reaching out to touch the covering cloth. What was underneath? The small pieces of glass visible glinted like precious jewels. She gently tugged the cloth aside, catching a glimpse of a buck working, another standing behind him—
“Hey!”
Heather flinched, dropping the cloth and turning. The speaker was a matronly doe. “That’s forbidden!” She gripped Heather’s arm, tugging her away from the structure.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Heather tried to explain, “I was just curious—”
The doe’s frown only grew. “Trying to find all our secrets, are you?” She snorted. “I don’t know why the lord is allowing your kind here, but you’re not snooping around on my watch.”
“I—” Heather gave up. The doe was leading her down the path she’d intended to follow anyway, and protesting further would likely only make her more determined.
Heather walked quickly to keep up with her escort’s brisk stride. She smiled apologetically at an old couple as they stepped off the path, making room for Heather and her leader. They didn’t smile back.
The light in King’s Garden was golden through the skylights, not as colorful as Lighthall’s stained glass, but beautiful all the same. The grip on Heather’s wrist didn’t allow her to pause before Seddle’s statue as she would have liked to.
Was that Picket, sitting before Blackstar’s statue? Heather craned her head, but the glimpse she’d seen wasn’t enough to be sure, and now they were walking down the long tunnel to Hallway Round.
“Where are we going?” she asked. The doe glanced over, expression sour.
“I’m returning to my work in the Great Hall. You’re going to find something productive to do, where someone can keep an eye on you.”
“I’m sorry about touching Lighthall earlier. I’m still new—I didn’t know it wasn’t allowed—”
The doe sniffed, eyes fixed ahead, where the tunnel opened into Hallway Round. “Well, now you know.” Her eyes brightened. “Ah, Barnaby!”
Heather tilted her head at the sudden shift in tone. As they emerged from the tunnel, the matron waved with her free hand at a guard in green. He grinned, saluting her with a hand on his heart.
“Good day again, Ma’am Alwyn.”
“Your shirt is untucked,” she informed him, still in the same friendly tone. Without slowing, the doe—Alwyn, Heather supposed—strode directly across the room to a set of doors Heather had never entered. The guard scrambled to open the door for them, trying to tuck his shirt in one-handed.
Heather winced. The sounds of chattering rabbits, rhythmic banging, and unidentifiable sound swept through the open doorway, combing into a wave of noise that felt almost solid.
Alwyn’s grip dragged her through, and then she was submerged in the chaos.
The room was an enormous cavern—the light came from skylights far above, and though the floor and walls had been smoothed, it seemed to have originally formed naturally. The cave itself wasn’t what Heather was most amazed by, though.
She’d never seen so many rabbits in her life. There were weavers focused on their cloth, their looms clacking rhythmically with each repetition. A gaggle of young rabbits ringed their instructor, a buck messily shaping clay on a wheel.
It was too much to take in—the rabbits called to each other, crossed the cavern bearing supplies, worked diligently on tasks everywhere she looked. There must have even been a blacksmith somewhere, from the loud banging that echoed off the stone walls.
It was overwhelming. Heather rubbed her aching head with her free hand.
She was almost grateful for Alwyn’s grip to keep her upright and making progress, even if she wasn’t clear on what that progress was toward. The doe seemed in her element here, exchanging greetings and giving instructions to everyone who crossed her path.
Heather took an extra step before she realized that Alwyn had stopped, stumbling into the older doe’s back. “What?” she asked.
The doe pointed to a work station set up close by. A brown-furred buck stood behind the tables, directing several young workers bearing boxes. “That’s Master Penn. I have to get back to work, but he’ll be sure to keep you out of trouble.” She nudged Heather, voice sharpening again. “Go on.”
Heather nodded wordlessly, struggling to concentrate through the din as Alwyn left, leaving her alone in the crowd. What should she do? What would a rabbit who knew what they were doing, someone like, say, Seddle, do?
She’d already worked, but what if she did something wrong again? Heather stood on her tiptoes, searching the crowd for someone she knew. Where was Picket, or Kyle, or Emma? A flash of red fur caught her eye, but it was a stranger, a buck staring suspiciously back at her.
There were more of them, now that she was looking. Staring rabbits, expressions varying from curiosity to anger.
The rabbits with their hard expressions, the din, the pounding in her head—she couldn’t take this. Seddle wouldn’t have retreated. But Heather did. She turned, retracing their path as quickly as she could.
Ducking her head, she muttered an apology to every rabbit she bumped into.
Letting the heavy door close behind her, muffling the noise, was like taking a breath of fresh air. Heather sagged, rubbing at her prickling eyes.
The guards were staring, the one called Barnaby opening his mouth and stepping forward as if to speak to her. Behind her, the doors swung open again, a tide of rabbits and noise pushing her aside.
She had to get out of here. Covering her face, Heather turned blindly into a door.
She knew it was the wrong one immediately. She wasn’t met with the sunlight of the village green, or the torchlight of the passage to King’s Garden, just a flight of dimly lit stairs. There was no one else there, and the dim, misty light was comforting. Heather sat on the steps and sighed, resting her aching head against the cool stone of the wall.
Tears threatened, and she let them fall, the fur of her face becoming damp as she wiped at it. It was going to be all right.
Heather took a deep, deliberate breath, centering herself in the calm of the passage. What had really happened?
Her mind was already off center with the lack of sleep, Alwyn’s rebuke throwing her off kilter. The sudden assault on her senses had been the last blow, overloading her already frayed emotions.
She always got weepy after staying up too late, something Picket loved to tease her for. Embarrassing, but not serious. Heather took another deep breath, tasting the mist. It really was going to be alright.
She was alive, here and now.
Where was here?
Her curiosity outweighing the dissipating emotions, Heather stood, wiping the tears from her face. The misty feeling wasn’t just a trick of the lighting—the stairs seemed to lead straight into a cloud.
Condensation dripped from the ceiling and dampened the moss on the walls. Heather waved a hand through the thick mist, watching it swirl. It felt cool and soothing on her face.
“There once was a cave in the clouds,” she said softly, watching the swirling of the tiny beads disturbed by her breath.
A careful step down—she expected the stone to be mossy and slick, but it wasn’t bad. “And in the cave, a rabbit lived. She couldn’t see the sun,” Heather continued, feeling her way down.
These steps were much less steep than the ones that had led down to the sea of stars, but they were rougher.
“She couldn’t see the sun,” Heather repeated, “But from the way it illuminated the mist every day, she knew it existed. And from the gifts the wind brought her, she knew that there was more behind the clouds.”
Heather paused. What gifts would wind bring? Leaves, perhaps. Flower petals. “And so she set off on a journey, to find the place these things came from.”
She stepped onto a flat stone surface, the mist an almost blinding white. “She could only see what was underfoot, but that didn’t stop her. The journey was difficult, but one day—”
Heather gasped. It was a sudden change, a gust of wind that cleared a layer of mist. She was bathed in warm sunlight, gazing off a stone porch onto a sea of clouds.
She held out her hands and tilted her head to the clear blue sky. The wind blew again, ruffling her fur, and she closed her eyes, letting the last of her headache fade as the sunlight soaked into her fur.
There was a gentle cough from behind her. Heather startled and turned, dropping her arms and smiling apologetically at an old doe who sat sewing industriously. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Is coming here forbidden? I can go—”
The doe laughed. “No, please stay. Come, sit here with me.” She paused her sewing to motion to a seat next to her.
Heather was doubtful, but as she met the doe’s warm smile, laughter lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes, she found herself smiling back.
She made her way to the bench, stepping carefully around an enormous basket of clothing. The doe’s hands flew, needle flashing at an incredible speed even as she turned her gaze to the mist that cut off the mountain from the outside world.
“Who are you?” Heather asked.
“I am an old doe who spends her life staring into the mist,” the doe said mildly. “I do not get gifts from the wind as often as I’d wish.”
Heather blushed, looking down, and the doe nudged her. Her eyes were warm. “I didn’t mean to listen in on your story, dear.
If it helps, I enjoyed it very much. Maybe someday you can tell me if the doe ever found a way past the mist.” Her eyes returned to the clouds. “My name is Maggie Weaver. Please, call me Mrs. Weaver.”
Heather smiled. “I’m Heather. Uh, Heather O’Nick.” She stumbled a bit over the still-unfamiliar last name.
Mrs. Weaver regarded her with sympathy. “It is lovely to meet you, dear. I always enjoy company. So, Heather, are you planning to join the storyguild?”
“I don’t know. My stories aren’t really important, just simple things to make myself happy.”
“You have a real gift, Heather.”
“I really don’t know about joining.” Heather looked down, picking at a spot on her sleeve.
The conversation faded out. Heather returned to staring into the mist, bathing in the sunlight as Mrs. Weaver knit holes and tears together with her thread. In other company, the silence might have been awkward. She should really go to the village green like she’d planned. Picket must be worried—
“So, Heather,” Mrs. Weaver spoke up again, “I know that you’re new. Are you finding your way around Cloud Mountain alright?”
Heather startled and almost laughed, remembering stone corridors and a sea of stars. She probably shouldn’t tell Mrs. Weaver about that—it might be forbidden. “Oh—I’m doing fairly well. It’s a lot to get used to. I found my way here by accident.”
Mrs. Weaver hummed in amusement, and Heather laughed ruefully. “I was escaping the Great Hall I didn’t sleep much last night, and it was a bit—overwhelming.”
“I’m sorry, dear. Are the rabbits here treating you well?”
Heather sighed. “Until today, it’s been wonderful.” She waved a hand dismissively as Mrs. Weaver tilted her head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just—a lot. Emma—do you know Emma? She’s red with white patches, training to be a healer—”
“I know Emma very well. She’s very kind, and often finds time out of her very busy schedule to come talk to this dull old doe.”
Heather smiled. “She’s been a great friend. I only met her a few days ago, but she’s made us feel right at home. There’s Kyle, too—he’s,” she paused, “exciting.”
“That one does have quite the reputation,” Mrs. Weaver agreed, and Heather laughed.
“That sounds right. But today, I haven’t seen them, and it may just be my imagination, but it feels like all the rabbits know who I am and they don’t like me.”
Mrs. Weaver sighs. “I was concerned about this,” she muttered.
“What do you mean?” Were the stares and the whispers not just in her imagination?
“Oh, Heather dear, I’m sorry. Rumors spread quickly in a community like this. One might hope that we who claim to be united wouldn’t fall into judgement and dissent so quickly.” She sighed, holding up a shirt to examine. “May it not be so in the Mended Wood.”
There it was—that phrase again. Heather recalled hearing it when they’d first arrived. “What is the Mended Wood?” Heather asked.
Mrs. Weaver smiled, gazing again into the mist.
“It’s out there, Heather.”
“I don’t understand. Isn’t the Great Wood behind the clouds? Wasn’t it destroyed?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Weaver looked down, and Heather thought there might be tears in her eyes. “We’ve lost so much, Heather. But we can’t look to the past.” She looked up again, and it was as if her shining eyes could see something beyond the mist.
“One day, we will rebuild it all. We will find a way to make our vision a reality. And until then, we will strive to live as we will in the Mended Wood.”
“That sounds amazing,” Heather whispered, chest filled with a strange ache.
“Heather, I’m so sorry that you’ve been treated poorly. I’m afraid that it may continue. But as you live with loyalty, love, and truth, you are a true herald of the Mended Wood, and their words cannot define you.”
Loyalty, love, and truth. Heather repeated the words in her head. There was still so much she didn’t know about their past—how did the glory of Jupiter pass? How had rabbitkind fallen and fractured so quickly? She wished someone would tell her the whole story. She was just a little doe from Nick Hollow, but she wanted to be part of it with all her heart.
“Thank you,” Heather said. “I’ll try.”
Mrs. Weaver smiled. “I’m glad you came to talk to me, Heather. Please, come whenever you need. I assume that you got some lunch before this?”
What? Heather looked up at the sky, realizing that the sun was directly overhead. Had that been why all the rabbits had suddenly begun streaming out of the great hall? How long had she been talking with Mrs. Weaver?
“Oh—I did eat fairly recently. I should probably go, though—my friends and my brother don’t know where I am.”
“Good day, Heather. It was lovely to meet you.” Mrs. Weaver patted Heather’s shoulder, smiling at her with those impossibly warm eyes.
Heather ducked her head, smiling back. “It was wonderful to meet you too.”
As she hurried up the stairs, the warmth of the noon sun stayed with her.
A/N:
Hi! It's been a while! Schedules are not good for my motivation, so this fic is no longer on a schedule. Here's another sort of interlude chapter, but I'm excited to begin some plot.
And Mrs. Weaver, she's always great. I hope I captured some of her character here, still sorting out this whole writing thing. Hope you're doing well :)