2022-06-17 - Pompeii's Last Survivors

It's later in the afternoon. Una has been hanging out near the door on and off, watching, with an increasingly sickened expression, the devastation raining down (quite literally) upon the quiet little alley in the backstreets of Pompeii. She's abandoned her post for now (there's only so much time one can spend, really), and headed out the back door for some fresh air-- that's why she's not the first to hear the sound.

"... mew?" says a tiny voice, by the front door, plaintive and unhappy.

She's abandoned her post; Della, showered and changed -- she hadn't at first, but the destruction kept going and going -- has taken up her chair so there's always, almost always, someone there. No laptop; no phone (though she's pocketed it); she has her embroidery instead, blackwork on cream, though she's been adding stitches in red. Her hair is loose aside from that one clipped-back side. The amphora leans against the wall nearby.

But this is the first sound that Della's heard that doesn't have to do with things falling and breaking. Her heart's still, somehow, intact. It takes her a moment to realize, but then she stations her needle and, head cocked, moves towards that door. "Hello?"

She should have been able to see it, shouldn't she?

Jules has made herself scarce. She doesn’t want to witness mass destruction, though she’s murmured words of fortitude and sympathy to Una and Della when she does pop her head into the kitchen.

This time, it’s via text: how’s it going?

"Mew," says the tiny voice on the other side of the doorway-- or is it a different tiny voice? The courtyard looks quiet enough: ash and rock and broken tiles still falling, of course, but the worst of it is still to come (and isn't that a trip). There's no one in sight, though people did pass by, earlier, running in frantic movements, their cries foreign and also deeply, deeply relatable.

Out in the yard, Una's not looking at her phone: she's too busy taking in deep lungfuls of fresh air and not crying don't be silly of course she's not crying.

Della knows that voice! Or that kind of voice. "Mew?" She's crouching, now, looking... and then reaching for the doorway, trying not to wince at every tile and worse that falls. Perhaps it was the memory of people, earlier, that spikes her instinct to call to the kitten now, to wiggle her fingers encouragingly. Surely the past wouldn't miss just one of them?

(Or two, or three, though she doesn't seem to have realized yet. Maybe all of them.)

No one’s responding to her texts, at least not in the prompt timeframe that Jules expects when they’re monitoring a volcano and the death of a city. It draws her out of her room, footsteps heavy on the stairs, and around to the kitchen.

Her phone’s still in hand when she asks Della sharply, “What are you doing?”

"MEW," says one voice.

"mew?" says the second.

There: it's hard to know where they came from, the two little tabby fluffballs, one orange and one brown. It's the girl cat, the brown one, who is the more vocal and curious of the two, leading the way across fallen tiles with delicate steps, while her brother(?) trails behind, noticeably less certain.

Fiery death awaits them.

Except: a wiggle of fingers.

"Mew," says the girl cat, approaching cautiously.

"Mew," says the girl Della, murmured encouragingly.

Wiggle wiggle.

She doesn't look back. "Shh, Jules. Don't scare the kittens." Her tone isn't sharp; it's just as quiet and encouraging as before.

Jules tucks her phone in her back pocket now and crosses her arms, leaning against the door frame.

“You sure this is wise?” she asks quietly,

"There's wise and there's necessary." It would have been fair to wonder if Della were possessed if she'd immediately said yes. "They're reaching out to us. They want to live."

"Could you get some bits of salami from the fridge?"

The girl cat climbs up onto the rough stone step on her side of the door, and hesitates: Della is encouraging her in, but perhaps she's aware of something, of the line she'd cross passing from her side of the door to Della's. She tests it with one tiny paw, her fearlessness not quite turned to recklessness. She's young; she's not stupid. "Mew," she repeats, as her brother-- far more shy-- hesitates behind her.

They're both getting grimy, covered in ash and soot and falling debris. The little boy cat coughs; the air is getting worse and worse.

“Everyone wants to live,” says Jules, whose mouth has been pressed into a concerned and not altogether approving line. “We don’t know what the consequences are.”

That said, she abandons her post to go hunt for the salami Della requests.

“Shit,” Jules mutters to herself, coming to Della’s side and stooping to offer the salami. “Here.”

It's a wonder they weren't so grimy before, that the ginger kitten's only now coughing, at least that she's heard --

Immediately Della starts squishing the salami into narrow bits. "I love you." It's not to the kittens. (Not yet.) She stays low, fingertips grazing past the barrier as she offers a bit up, even if an errant gust could drift ash onto her too. She's had cats; she says, holding it out to sniff, drawing it back just a little towards herself, "Come here, sweet one." That's both of them. "Come over the line."

Ash falls. On Della, too, as well as the kittens. Boy cat holds back; girl cat, though, sniffs the air, catching the scent of the salami through the myriad of other, less palatable, smells. She puts one paw forward, and then the other. She sniffs.

And she hesitates.

The world may be (almost literally) on fire, but...

Who says it's any better over there?!

Jules doesn’t immediately fall back. She sinks onto her heels, instead, one less tall scary thing.

“I don’t like the idea of abandoning everyone to death any more than you do,” she says quietly. “It’s just— we don’t know.”

"No, we don't know. We never can know. Which doesn't mean we won't try..." Della keeps her voice soft, beckoning, all for the cats even while the words are for Jules; her mouth may twist at the cat's hesitation, but they can't know either, and she doesn't show her teeth.

She sets down the bit of salami, carefully, carefully, and moves another piece to her fingertips as she draws her hand back just a fraction, giving just a little space for the girl kitten to move. It's tasty, her voice says. It's safer across the line. And, We mean well by you. It's not ordering, controlling, just as she's not (yet) snaking an arm to the side to try to grab one cat; even if she succeeded, she'd startle the other. It's inviting; sharing; welcoming.

Cross the threshold, come here, do. It's safe. It's good.

"Ravn," she tells the kittens along the way, quite as though they could understand her, "thought it would risk too much to save a human. I can imagine he's right; he has much more experience with these things, and I appreciate, I really enjoy the way he thinks. That this all matters. At the same time, when he asked why nobody's stolen the Koh-i-Noor diamond, I wondered... well, in addition to wondering if someone had and it just hasn't been noticed, or it'd been noticed and covered up... if that was because it was too large. Something that the Veil would have to notice, and deal with. I wouldn't bring back Queen Elizabeth's crowns -- thank you, Wikipedia -- but something or someone just small enough to slip past, why not try? Why leave them to destruction?"

Safe? The girl kitten is young, but even she has worked out that where she is is not safe: one can justifiably wonder where mama cat is (and, indeed, any other siblings there may or may not have been). Still, she hesitates. The food-giver is probably not lying. The food-giver says all the right things.

But.

She hesitates anyway, quivering there in the doorway, just barely on her side. Her brother paws his way closer, hesitating alongside her. It might almost-- almost!-- seem as if they are conversing, then, both heads turning to look at each other in a way that speaks to singular intelligence.

Finally, the little girl kitten draws herself up and puts one careful paw over the threshold... and then the second. "Mew," she declares, looking up at Della triumphantly... and with a note of imperial determination.

That salami belongs to her now, thank you very much.

“You little fuckers,” Jules addresses the kittens fondly. She doesn’t try to change Della’s mind again. “You’re gonna get spoiled rotten, aren’t you.”

That piece of salami belongs to her, yes it does. "Mew," Della agrees, fond in her own right (and pleased that Jules is), and gives it over from her fingertips. "Yes, yes you will be. Though I hope not rotten-rotten." She's heard the stories.

She's also been keeping an eye on brother-kitten, too, but doesn't look straight on except for that one, dreadful cough; she gives him room. (Though there's salami here for him, also.)

Tasty, mm? It must not be the kind with peppercorns. It's easier to breathe over here, too.

Curiosity washes back towards Della, distinctly non-human but vital and determined. Girl cat is a warrior queen at heart, ready to battle her salami to the death (if required); Della's fingers, too, if it comes to that. Having tasted triumph (in the form of salami), she lets out a contented mew that may indeed be invitation to her brother in turn.

One paw in front of the other, in reply, from the little marmalade-coloured boy kitten. Finally, he scampers up alongside his sister and drops into a curl upon the Oak Avenue side of the door, nudging his way past his sister towards the salami.

It's just in time: outside, the world shudders and rocks, and a flurry of roof tiles scatter themselves down upon the courtyard, shattering and smashing. The little carved dick in the ground? It's hidden now. Pompeii is disappearing, piece by piece.

"Is it--?" That's Una, approaching now, a little whey-faced and with the hint of unshed tears about the eyes. She frowns, stopping short.

"What the?"

A tiny smile comes to Jules’ face, unbidden, as the kittens test the waters of their kitchen. She starts as the Pompeiian side rocks with catastrophe; no telling how it will frighten the kittens.

“We‘ve got company, Una,” Jules says quietly, twisting at the hips to look up at the other woman.

Just in time: Della reacts, protectiveness flaring perceptibly to anyone in the room, arms out as though to shelter the kittens (no telling if that might frighten them, too) from any debris that might fly over from the other side. It hasn't so far; it shouldn't; but instinct does what instinct wills.

Safe. Stay here. Away from those noises. And then, reminded, a bit of salami for boy kitten too. "Una." Refuge.

They could have put up a shower curtain, could have avoided the Door; they haven't. And now look at it all.

The debris stays on its side of the Door, but the noise? The noise carries, and that sends both kittens fleeing closer to Della: Della, who has now apparently been nominated as 'person who will protect us'.

"... Oh," says Una, faintly.

Look. It's been a big, emotional day. What's one more thing to add to the pile? Too much, maybe.

And Jules? Jules just closes her eyes.

Della will accept her party's nomination -- which is to say, she's whispering words, feelings of welcome and encouragement as she makes room for them. Good job. And, You made it. (And also salami, though there can't be lots and lots and lots left.) We're here, they're all here. Together.

"Refuge." Part description, part explanation, part... wish.