Dawn and Feline Betrayals
It is true that in Anemo's house there is a dedicated room—an office equipped with everything a writer might need—but that room is rarely used. This particular writer writes in the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room, the yard, or even the bathroom. His house (at least before his mother’s intervention) was usually scattered with sketches, notes, strange maps, and scribbles. When the "writing fever" hits, it isn't an easy burden to bear; it comes like a possession, like a dagger thrust into the ribcage from the inside, and when it leaves, it leaves total exhaustion in its wake.
This time, after a whole night of uninterrupted writing, Anemo was fast asleep, his head resting on the round kitchen table that had served as his desk. Beside him lay a little coil of orange fur and a laptop adorned with a heart sticker. At last, he had the story!
Aeolus, like a true bookworm, had saved everything and closed the laptop. Now, perched on the green velvet pillow next to Mistral, he watched the sunrise through the glass door leading to the yard, whispering softly.
"What colors! Look, Mistral, it’s as if the heavens are tearing away from the earth, bleeding..."
"I think you’re going soft from lack of sleep, little mouse! Now you find time for poetry? We’d better get some sleep too; you never know what new disaster awaits us... whether her name is Aura, Remi, Daisy, or that tufted Fleur. Whenever one of these ‘untamable’ women shows up at the House of Winds, peace is gone! Even that scatterbrain Sirocco has fallen at his post, as if he were the one writing all night. Tell me honestly, have you been raiding Anemo's poems? Let’s hope he doesn't stumble upon a volume of poetry himself, because knowing him, he’ll turn into a poet again, sighing around here as if he’s struck by consumption or love!"
"You haven’t a grain of romance in you, you Parisian! You’re all airs and no soul!" the little mouse replied, annoyed.
"Yesterday, when Mother-Durga was doing her 'vocal exercises' in the kitchen... you didn’t seem to mind my lack of romance. Come on, close your eyes and count some sheep!"
A few hours later, the porcelain silence of the house was shattered by metallic knocks on the door.
Bang! Bang! Anemo jolted in his chair, saving the laptop at the last second, but feeling his vertebrae crack like dry kindling. He stood up with difficulty, stretching his stiff bones in a series of completely unrefined movements, making sounds reminiscent of a rusty grandfather clock. As he shuffled toward the hallway, squinting and rubbing his fists into his eyes like a child punished by sleep, Anemo grumbled under his breath. His face was "wrinkled" from the edge of the table: an indigo ink stain streaked his cheek like a literary war scar, while on the other, the imprint of the heart from the laptop glowed in the morning light like a seal of ownership. He yanked the door open, ready to dismiss the "intruder" without a hint of courtesy.
"We don’t need anything!" he muttered, without looking at who was outside. "The cleaning crew was here yesterday! The pest control is done, the museum is ready... please, come back another time!"
But the "wind" that answered him didn't smell of detergent, but of fresh grass and athletic effort. Anemo blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the figure before him. Standing on the threshold was Remi Storm. But she wasn'tthe "Emerald Queen" from the tea party. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail that danced with every movement; she wore a youthful, casual tracksuit and hadn't a drop of makeup on her face. She was glowing, fresh, and looked like a completely different person—one who had just finished her morning run through the neighborhood.
"I’ve come to invite you personally to Wednesday’s event! I won’t take no for an answer, okay?"
"I know you’re very 'busy' these days," she added, measuring her old childhood friend from head to toe, pausing for a second longer on the indigo scratch-like stain.
Anemo froze, one hand in the air, about to fix his hair which looked like a haystack after a storm. From behind, appearing as if out of thin air, Sirocco slipped to the doorway, his ginger fur rumpled from sleep, seeking attention. Anemo wanted to appear normal and polite, but it wasn't working at all; he just stood there, instinctively stretching his bones in a totally unrefined manner. Remi smiled—a smile that hit Anemo harder than any of Stone’s criticisms—and without hesitation, she scooped "Ginger" into her arms. The kitten began to purr instantly, betraying his bohemian master for a scratch under the chin. Anemo felt a lump in his throat. "Now she’s stealing the furballs' attention too," he grumbled only in his mind, watching with silent jealousy as his rival "abducted" his most loyal pirate.
"By the way, Anemo... I spoke with Archibald Peter Stone. He told me that if your 'Chronicles' turn out the way he hopes, he has a huge surprise for you. I hope you don't miss it because of sleep... or that map on your cheek."
She waved and jogged away, leaving behind only the scent of fresh air and a completely dazed Anemo. He closed the door and crawled to the hallway mirror, where he finally discovered the "work of art" on his face.
Sirocco rubbed against his legs, meowing for the attention that had just left toward number 42. Anemo looked at him reproachfully and couldn't help giving him a piece of his mind.
"Traitor... I should have given you to my mother! That way you’d have the chance to meet Miss 'Women Can’t Be Tamed' more often."
Mistral greeted the two of them with his characteristic slowness.
"Now you're cozying up to the Great Writer too, mon petit? Weren't the tufted one, Aura-Gale, and Mother-Durga-the-Chaos-Tamer enough for you?"
"But I didn't do anything... I just wanted to be polite," Sirocco wheedled, becoming Anemo's shadow.
"Oh, you didn't do anything?" Aeolus intervened. "I need to teach you about loyalty! You can’t just fall all over yourself whenever you see a woman. Think a little from Anemo's perspective! Look, now he’s putting four eggs on to boil. Four, little one! He considers us his family and didn't give you away to Aura the Durga even though we’ve been eating his liver...even though you scratch everything you catch and Mistral took his nap on his best shirt last week."
"Leave him alone, Eol, he doesn't understand terms; he just fawns and melts every time a 'she' thinks he's cute."
Forgetting the betrayal, Anemo was "cheffing around," whistling.
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