“Mmh. Toff-toff, Perforce! Where are you?”
The voice clatters upon the cobbled walls, seemingly unending.
“Per-force?”
Again bouncing waves, mischievous and light, spill out; unanswered. The halls bear weakly forth a scurry, and a grunt, inaudible to their demander.
“Eh you, Perforce? Hear me? Your head! I swear.”
Trilling lightly, the halls return: “Coming! I am, I am!”
“And about time.” A sort of relief bolsters this, an outburst less tenacious than before, and the walls echo it soft. Were Perforce of a mind to think such things, he’d hear a grumbling. But some pleasures can be kept only where the mind has left them ample room; “a man per force” is, after all, the cook’s term for a fool. So Perforce, meek but brave, gives no altercation to the tone, replying:
“Yes, and only half-a-turn past the sun. You are early risen today, ser. You have dressed already, ser?”
“Yes…” Gruff, nearly tremulous words, woven behind a brown-red dappled carpet of any woodsman’s envy, slowly work into the air. “There is much to to-day, Perforce. You know that?”
Perforce’s mind gives his legs pause. Forgetful shadows draw down around his brow.
“Know, ser?”
A thick laugh. “Yes, Perforce. To-day. You do know it?”
Relieved, Perforce quickly sighs: “Ah— Why, to-day is any other day, but it is bathing day. And also riding day. Shall I have your crop, suh?”
“No, Perforce…” Another slight chuckle. A measured, beard-dampened speech rings lightly off worn teeth. “I shan’t be needing a crop for such a day. Think, Perforce — Or does it hurt you so?
"Then know, now — Are you hearing me?
"Know, as I do, this:
"This day is a moment, Perforce. A moment you, your kin, every sort otherwise, shall always know; the meek and the damned alike shall know. Momentous is a word dedicated to moments, Perforce.”
Perforce had seized his master’s gaze, and had begun to welter.
“Mind now, Perforce, all is well. All is well as hens and eggs, you see.” Perforce trembles, lightly, softly – he hopes in agony for reprieve from such heavy speech. His fingers itch with the burn of idleness. His tongue is swelling, escaping his mouth.
“Please do not… Do not say such things, sire… I shall get your riding crop, suh. Your crop. You shall need it, ser—“
“Damnable fool, Perforce! Stop yammering.” Ruddy bristles alight on a knobbed fist, and Perforce’s eyes, wide and unseeing eyes, meet the eyes perched upon that aquiline nose. Perforce squirms and squeaks quite meekly once, settling agitated upon his heels.
The knowing eyes sink deep, aware how ignorant their keeper, how much there is to see. Perforce, whose ignorance is boundless; his eyes are shallow, empty.
“I shan’t be riding today, Perforce. That is all. I just shan’t be riding. I —“
Perforce’s weltering, sullen face halts the thought.
“Perforce…”
The cobbles and wooden beams that make up the walls breathe down on them, the two: master and his fool. The fractures in the stone soak in the silence, holding it, protracting this shallow, stupid moment.
“Bring me my staves, Perforce. I must select a proper staff for this day. We shall simply give the horses a break; that is all. I awoke to poor aspect this day, Perforce. I am not aligned.”
Perforce lingers momentarily.
“My staves, Perforce; I am misaligned today.”
Perforce is relieved of his thoughts, and his paralysis. His feet scurry with relief, tapering off down the hall.
The silence he leaves behind stretches long. But the deep eyes do not fade, nor feet shuffle, nor head droop. At once a horrible growling stirs deep in the room; it makes the empty air burn around the wise face, framing parted lips and cupping ringing ears in flame, driving the slightest silence from the estate as it swells.
The silence returns twofold. Burnt ears capture whispers on the air:
"Misaligned, he says?"
"Bother, check the damn dogs again! I swear I heard them; look in the fields."
"Staves, staves... Staves..."
A rapping comes on the door, and Perforce enters, intrepid.
“Sire? Your staves, sire… Your staves are ready.”
A timid voice braves to interject.
“Is Lord Rohncroft—The commotion, is he— I-I say… Is he hale?”
Perforce rounds forcibly, slamming tight the hefty door. “Silence! Insolence! Staves do not speak!” Looking up at the rest, he whispers angrily: “The staff - does not - speak! Make like the staff!”
At once, a woman catches Perforce’s glance. Entering the hall, she walks purposely forward, her thin ankles revealed with every stride, looking stiffly up, determined, long hair flowing recklessly behind her.
Perforce and the staff make way instinctively, straightening against cold walls. Staves clang lightly.
“Mada —”
The men stifle greetings as she brusquely pushes forth the door. Leaping stiffly over the threshold, her mouth already forming words, she seethes:
“Rohncroft.”
The ruddy beard shakes wearily; Rohncroft’s stiff neck begins to loosen from its roaring pose. His mouth closes and opens. His fists unclench and fall to his sides.
“What compels you?” She asks.
“Dearest…”
Her glance meets his deep eyes, and channels forth her unkempt spirit, her vengeful soul. Rohncroft waits.
“You are a man, Rohncroft. And what of a man?”
“A man is as he does.”
This, uncertain. The wit of Rohncroft’s wife is sharp; he is not used to its blow.
“Your son, Rohncroft —“
“I have no son.”
“Would you subject your son to outbursts, to rage and fury? Would he not cringe, would he not be enraged? Would he not join your roar, and bring down upon our heads all stone and mortar? Do you shake the earth with men, Rohncroft, and let it fall around them?”
“I have no son.”
Rohncroft pauses.
The flowing, silky gown lies still and listens, intent.
Goading, almost, the silence beckons forth his forced, confused reply. “But no. I would not take such anger with my son. I could not, my dear… I could not.”
“And what of woman, Rohncroft?” Her body lowers to its heels. Her eyes well.
“What of your wife?”
Rohncroft chokes, “Serenity…?”
Serenity turns abruptly, trailing agony and passion as it falls from her eyes, making forthright to the door.
Rohncroft moves and sits upon his armchair. His eyes lower. His head droops. His lips mutter; he tries to sigh.
“Sire?” Perforce enters again.
“Perforce… Oh, Perforce… My Serenity has left me; there is no peace in this man’s heart. No staff can uplift my soul, Perforce. No body can I bear; no feet may I remove myself upon. I am dead, Perforce. There is no more.”
Singed papers crackle lightly. Perforce’s eyes lower. “I have neglected your feet of late, sire. I am sorry.”
Rohncroft’s eyes lighten weakly, though his aspect stays. “Perforce, it was nothing of your doing. It is not you, my boy. It is not you.”
“But sire?”
“All is well, Perforce… All is well.
"This day followed as the stars have gestured; it has danced with the madness of the world, and it has collapsed upon its ass. And here it is, Perforce. Here is this day, sitting before you. Here it waits for redemption, for life. Here it lays, it lays…” Rohncroft trails off.
“But Perforce.”
Perforce looks up again, and his face is placid. His uncertainty betrays itself in his shifting legs, his weakly stamping foot.
“Perforce… Dearest Perforce. All shall forever be well, Perforce. All is ever well…
But you must leave me now.”
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