Granny Thayer, Demon Slayer || Collab with SophieKestrel

Chapter 3: Nightcaps and Dentures

Granny Thayer's ever-knitting hands fell still; her ever-sure mouth dropped open; her recently-charged hearing aids malfunctioned. A single word repeated through her mind, drowning out the buzz of conversation around her as surely as a triple-dose nightcap.

(Not that she would know.)

Arthur. Arthur.

ARTHUR!

"Where is he?" She inhaled sharply, as if sucking in a breath after a near-drown. She could still smell the scent Arthur always left behind–roses sauteed in brown sugar.

The messenger harrumphed and shrugged. "The Dark Lord clearly knows you are the Chosen One, and he has taken the boy to send a message."

"A message? What message?"

"A message to stay back," Myrna suggested in trembling tones. Her bulging biceps quivered.

"A message that danger lies ahead." Samarth's gloved finger jabbed the air. "And that only a properly-equipped team will defeat the Dark Lord."

'A message to feed the cat,' Jiggles suggested with a hopeful purr, pupils expanding to that irresistible ratio of pupil-to-iris only cats could accomplish.

But Granny Thayer barely noticed the eruption of advice over her collision of desires. 'Obliterate evil' slammed into 'family first' with a spray of invisible sparks.

She shook her head and clucked her tongue before finally finding her voice.

"No," she whispered. "This message means only one thing."

Behind her, Myrna and Samarth exchanged silent glances. Granny Thayer ignored them. She continued to stare at the obsidian sword, blood rushing in her ears, her eyes narrowed, her hands balling up into fists.

"This..." Violet growled. "This means war."

*~*

Granny Thayer prepared for war, packing first a few secret doses of nightcap (it was alway nighttime somewhere) and then a suitcase full of items no one else could quite understand the need for.

Knitting needles.

"Do you really think you will have time to knit?"

"Would you really submit this mitten to months of living as a half-formed blob?"

Dentures.

"But you still have teeth!"

"For now. Better not to push your luck."

Cat food.

"You can't bring a cat!"

Granny patted the head of the tortoiseshell cat stretched over her neck like a scarf (with too many yarn colors and a few missed stitches–not that she would tell the proud feline). "Jiggles doesn't do well without me."

"I know you are elderly and all, but surely you can handle a few weeks without–"

"Excuse me." She folded her arms over her chest. "As a silly, incompetent elderly person, I'm experiencing a moment of confusion. Perhaps you can help me with one small question...

"Are you the Chosen One, or am I?"

She was perhaps (she willingly admitted) accepting the perks of her unexpected fame a bit too quickly. Still, if all of these ridiculous city folk expected her to operate on their terms, they needed to make some concessions.

So, with knitting needles, dentures, and cat in tow, Granny Thayer set out on her very first grand adventure.

Thatch-roofed shanties faded into an endless green prairie that met the rising sun like a freshly-sharpened blade. They made an odd procession, the King's messenger in the lead, trailed on horseback by Granny Thayer and a small company of imperial soldiers. Samarth had given her a horse: a sturdy steed, city-bred and generally good natured, aside from a certain skepticism of cats. He had the perkiness of one who has never had to work for their own food; his fur blazed too-clean orange, and his strut boasted the certainty of one who never lost a husband, a child, an in-law...