The table was ready.
Sheet as white as snow veiled the wooden table, extravagant mahogany imported from the far lands of the East. Candles lit in golden holsters, every single utensil has been polished clean as an untouched mirror, not an inch of it stained should they not be run back to the sculleries. A household that prides itself of its utmost elegance, a sense of luxury only few could possibly dream to afford, royal jewels encrusted almost every corner of the room. Finest of china, finest of dining, only bestowed upon the finest of guests.
The heroes of our land. Ones who risk their lives, fought courageously within the front-lines of justice. The modern times angels, wielding weapons in one hand, prayers in the other. When all cowered behind closed doors, they destroyed barricades that no man had touched before. When all had preached, yet stayed silent, for they all had strayed so far they have forgotten:
โFor as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.
Madam Magrath scrunched up her already crooked nose, her hands hastily reached over to her tiny metallic rimmed round spectacles. She huffed, then puffed, tapping the sides of her cane with her finely gloved hands. Truly, she would have been very old if it were not her behavior that appeared to spell out otherwise. Her back was straight, eye still very much clear, thank you (it was her left eye that had problems, not her right, though the lady refused with all her might to wear a monocle, as it would make her look much older than she was supposed to).
She bears the posture any good lady in the United Kingdom should, mannerism that lacks in not a single place- and she believes everyone should! Perfectionism would have been her middle name if only her birth certificate has not dictated it for her already, as she demands it in everyone and everything. As she scowled, her wrinkles only enhanced. Despite this fact, and her hair that has whitened significantly that not a single lock of brown remains- even in a house of knights, no one dares speak up to her. The head housemaid of their family, and she
adores her work.
โ
Bernadette!โ she snapped, clapping her hands together. Another maid, much younger and pretty in look, flinched, plates nearly slipping off her thin fingers.
โ
Yes Madam Magrath!โ
โ
What is this?โ The older woman narrowed her eyes, sliding her index finger over the surface of the table. She squinted real hard, so much that young Bernetta feared that the latter had already fallen asleep. Then she snapped her eyes back open, glaring in the young girl's direction. "
Who was in charge of plates?"
"
That would be Little Piper, Madam," said Bernadette, to which it triggers the yelp of another young girl, hiding herself behind her friend. The lady had simply locked her gaze at her, and soon enough a small sigh was heard, followed by reluctant steps. She bent over.
Spank!
Murmurs flooded the room, slight of giggles and averted eye contact. Poor Little Piper could only hold her head down, tears welling the sides of her eye not from pain, but
shame. Her short hair did not help at all to hide her tattered expression. Madam Magrath let the other girl go, tapping her cane in her hands.
"
Go back to the pantry and fetch us a new set, will you?"
"
Yes, Madam Magrath."
She bowed, scurrying herself out the doorways almost immediately as it opened. A pair of men made their way in, followed by a mass behind them. Arthur and Merlin. Then the knights followed. Immediately the rest of the maids fell into a scurry of panic, their heads snapping back and forth to eye that everything must be perfect. Everything must be
aligned: the plate, the bread plate, the butter knife, large knife, salad fork, regular fork, soup spoon, desert spoon. The napkins, doved peach in colour, were folded neatly at the sides, in the shape of an opened fan.
โ
Did we come to early, Madam?โ asked the redheaded male, to which she shook her head upon.
โ
Not at all, Anselm. My girls are all simply much too slow.โ
In that exact moment, all the maids had flinched at the same time. Their movements only quickened, the clinking of china became frantic before they all stood up, marching out one by one after a solemn bow. Passing them was Little Piper, who returned with a single plate. She then ran out once more, forgetting the bow in the heat of the moment. Madam Magrath nodded her head, giving Arthurโs shoulder a slight pat, then excused herself out, too.
โ
Are we all here?โ asked Anselm, though it sounded more a whisper than anything, as he pulled a seat at the head of the table. Mr. Wainwright, or rather, Merlin, seemed content enough to occupy the seat right next to him, instead of the foot of the table. He watched as everyone had begun to take their seats, including the two new-comers. The man gave them a subtle nod and a smile of greeting.
Clinking of the glass.
Everyoneโs attention shifted to the man, who had stood up with a glass in hand. It was not a common etiquette, though it was much better than to shout. Merlin set it down, then among the rest, he stood up. A smile, a professional one as any could tell, as he slowly glazed his sight to the rest of the group.
โ
First things, before we start our fine evening, I would like to address our two guests of honour,โ he extended his arm towards them, then bowed his head. โ
Lady Galahad and Sir Gareth.โ
Briefly the room filled with joyful applause, cheering perhaps. It was until Mr. Wainwright had raised his hand when they stopped. The door has reopened again, to start off their ten-course meal with amuse-bouche (as hors d'oeuvres are often served prior to entering the main dining hall). Another few made their way between their shoulders, popping fresh bottles of champagne before pouring them in each guestsโ respective glasses.
โ
A quick toast. To our new knights. And to our new beginning.โ
Filled glasses were raised towards everyone. Anselm did the same, though the empty chair that has rested two spots from him could not have been more starking. After a while, he turned back to Merlin, lowering his voice. โ
Othello. Where is he?โ
โโโ ๏ฝฅ ๏ฝก๏พโ: *.โฝ .* :โ๏พ. โโโ
Darkness has shrouded London, a blanket for the weary souls. It was not uncalm, it was simply quiet, as the twilight fell to welcome the silence. The glare of daylight has passed, we allow ourselves to soften in the night. The stage has emptied, the curtain falls. All the actors have made their way home, clothes pressing against painted faces. It shall reopen in a matter of hours, but for now they will rest.
The porch laid cleanly swept, the slightest dust would not dare to venture. A thin line laid upon the comfort of their premises, an entrance to autumn paradise. Leaves that browned, snapping off the branches, crunching underneath the soles of shoes. The air has chilled, cold as the blight of dew as it opens its gates to greet the rush of winter. Gardens laid bare once more, as the seasons changed so shall they. As the final petals brush against the firm cobblestones, he could not help but admire the beauty of it. The beauty of the ephemeral.
It was a Monday, he had recalled, a day despised by all besides the insane. Except that today, as the final spark of light perished in the consumption of shadows, every man laid on their beds, knowing they were two steps safer than the day before. Truly a fine time to rejoice after all- the noise of celebration rang loudly in his ears. As though the church bells had not tolled enough through the day, the merry of trumpets and the drumming of march.
Haymitch Donnelly. Replaced in just a matter of days, after all, to them they were just names. Code names, even, one that belonged to fairy tale heroes, legends of an old wife's tale. An empty seat to the table, a small pawn to a grand game of chess. This was what they have signed up for, for blinded faith and baseless loyalty. A coin has simply been tossed. One soul, in exchange of many. Would that be fair?
A cold surge of wind had suddenly blown through, carrying leaves that dance and dreams that passed. As the clock strikes twelve, the ghosts of London come alive- the dead
and the undead. It would be unwise to be alone at night in such an era. Vaguely he recalled when things were different- where vampires could live alongside humans. How long ago has it been? It was only a year, though never had something felt so far. The world has changed as so, and he was part of it.
Light poured out from the doorway, where it had been laid ajar. A small face peeked through, a young girl no more the age of fifteen. Her fingers fumbled nervously upon her frilled skirts, gaze distracted and unfocused. A new one, he had thought, so young at that. He paid her no more regards than a subtle nod, his back leaning against the railings.
"
Sir Lancelot?"
"
Hm."
"
The dinner is ready."
"
That," he tilted his head back, allowing his sight to wander. Then he closed his eyes, indulging himself in the grace of witching-hour. The stars would dance above him, twinkling and blinking. How he had loved the stars. And he would remember the scene of a ballroom, crystal chandeliers and towering champagnes. Golden dressed, amber hair. "
I am aware of."
A silence break, and somehow he could tell the young maiden's thumps of anxiety. She spun her fingers against the rims of her apron as she searched for words. "
Master Cavendish expects you. Also, he thinks you are cold."
"
Hm."
"
It means he wants you there."
At this he reopened his eyes, letting his brow furrow as he narrowed his eyes towards her. "
I am educated, young lady. I have heard you loud and clear, there is no need to reiterate what you say. Now, is that all or will you continue to bother me?"
The poor young maid yelped, her hands clutched to her chest tightly. Her body trembled, eyes glued to the floor. It had almost made him pity her. Before he could speak, the girl had made her way towards him. In her hands, she shoved something, before bowing awkwardly. "
From the Master," she said. "
Excuse me."
With that he saw her rush back in, in small steps the heels of her shoes clicking swiftly over the panelled floor. The male gazed down at the stack of folded cloth- a thick fluffy blanket, he observed. An amused smirk curled up his lips, then a mild scoff. He wrapped the cloth around him regardless.
"
Idiot," he sighed, resting his elbows against the banisters, once again gazing upon the sky. And as always, the sky gazes back.