Footsteps walk down the quite hallway.
No, it is not dark- light flares.
No, not alone, quite footsteps trail behind. Anxious.
"You may leave."
"Sire-"
"I know the way."
He did not turn, but could imagine the look. Nevertheless, hell may lose its charm but they shall remain wordless.
He kept walking. Alone.
He remembered everything; he could hear the laughter, the fights that began from a sweet innocence and ignited to burning rage. Transitions.
He climbed the stairs, his steps were excessively loud, flinching he stopped.
Some deep breathes; he looked at the stairs. Polished until they were gleaming.
He looked at his own shoes, similar shine; he knelt and heard a gasp from behind.
He turned around, knowing what he will expect. Some of the handmaids stood at attention. Five. He signed, "What is it?"
"Apologies sire."
"The reason."
"You were kneeling sire; I am here."
Of course. He knelt again and took out his shoes, kept them on the floor and padded on the stairs. Quietly.
The first landing. Second landing.
He stopped at the last step of the second landing. He stood looking ahead, arrested.
She has not changed, welcoming him. Her long hair flowing in a waterfall braid, eyes quite yet shone with a smile. Her dress glittered, so green it resembled the hue of emeralds. He felt his own lips quirk up. It has been a long day. Days.
Yet, he did not take the last step to the landing. He stood there, waiting. Waiting for her to take the first step. She never did, and he can never again. He lifted his hand, intending to reach her, but the gap was wide and even his long fingers could not brush her. He gave a small bow and then showed himself back.
He returned to the first landing. They stood as he had left them, as if frozen by the Ice Witch. He smiled to himself, Ice Witch.
"Sire, should I lay the table?"
"It's a long table."
He gave me a placid look, which can pass for a sceptical look. To give him the edge, I waited for a response.
Realizing he is expected to speak, "it's a long table, Sire."
Lousy.
"I want it outside, on the gardens."
The manager looked as if he would choke, "Sire."
"Yes?"
"The table is small- not big for the dishes to be laid-"
"I see, so limit the dishes that would fit the small table."
The manager bowed deeply and fluttered away with the rest on heels.
Maybe he will kill me.
He left the manor, his feet reaching the dew soaked grass. He looked down realizing, another gasp, he turned. Another bunch of housemaids. Three.
"Yes?"
They shook their heads.
"There has to be something."
"Your socks got wet Sire."
He nodded, "I realized that."
"I should bring you another pair. Or the shoes Sire?"
"Wait." He knelt, but he kept his eyes on them, that kept their instinct gasps on check. He took off his socks and deposed them where he stood.
He felt the cool air, the landscape stretching all green, tall trees bordering, with the grey wall beyond. He had a good eyesight;
He had to gaze far off. It gave the chills of a prison.
Not that he has been in one.
He walked and reached the lounge chairs and the supposedly small tables. He nestled himself, stretching his long legs. The sky was struck midway, the sun was dimming, and the clouds were aggressive. It would probably rain. It's a shame; he will not be able to gaze at the stars today.
They were so quiet, and precise they could probably become spies, as they laid the table beside him as he looked at the sky. Maybe they are spies. He twisted; the Manager was directing the set up.
"Turdley."
"Sire." He said as he rushed to mine side.
"Are you a spy?"
I think I killed him.