Nathan had two problems: his homework, and the man who'd barged in, cleaned his entire room, then hauled him off like a sack of potatoes to do said homework.
Technically not homework — these were his detention scriptures. But since that had gone up in flames (thanks, Caleb), they'd sentenced him to finish the lot at home. So yeah. Homework
So, technically, yes. Homework.
"I've been gone three weeks," the man said, looking at Nathan as if he had failed all his classes and his ancestors. "How'vetha' found thyself trouble already, eh?"
He looked old, long , greying hair tied into a ponytail. And he held himself with the kind of grace only found in those who had worked a thousand hours of customer service. Knightly, almost.
"It's...not like I actively look for it," Nathan said.
The man raised one elegant eyebrow. "Oh aye? Skippin' thy classes weren't a choice, then?"
"I'm glad you understand."
The man shook his head in disappointment, greyed ponytail swishing along to the motion. "When'll tha' stop makin' me life into a right pain?"
Nathan didn't even know who this guy was supposed to be! A servant, maybe? Butler? Valet? Definitely in the working class, judging from his attire. How long had he been working here for? If his age lines were any indicator, not a short time. Long enough to be familiar with Nathan's host.
Nathan was glad he hadn't asked 'Who are you?' like his first instinct had suggested. That probably wouldn't have been taken well.
"...Can I at least have a pen?" Nathan asked hopefully.
The man shut him down immediately. "Nah. Jena told me t' let tha' know they spe-ci-fi-ca-lly said tha've got t' write with a quill. Said they'll take thy Library Assistant pass off tha' else."
"You know Jena?" Nathan asked before he could stop himself.
"Met them at the market, I did." The man waved it off. "Real question's how tha' know Jena. Tha' wouldn't set foot in that library all last year! And now I hear tha's some sorta Library Assistant? What in blazes happened while I were on me hols?"
Of course. Because why would any action Nathan took not complicate things? Was he supposed to worry about coming off as out-of-character now, too?
A knock on the door interrupted both of them. A moment later, Kathryn poked her head in.
"I heard Sir Benedict was—" Kathryn spotted the man and her face lit up. "Sir Benedict! You're back!"
"Well if it ain't little Kathryn!" The man (or, well, Sir Benedict) said, walking over. "Glad t' see tha' ain't changed much— not like the rest of this madhouse."
Even from all the way across the room, Nathan could feel Kathryn's judgemental stare. "What did Damien do this time?"
"Got himself detention, he did!" Benedict said, leading Kathryn over to Nathan's desk. "Naught new there— But then he bloody well got out of it!"
Kathryn raised an eyebrow. "He did?"
"By scrappin' with a classmate, no less!"
"Oh, that." Kathryn took a seat to Nathan's left, watching him struggle to write with his damned feather. Nathan was tempted to stab the thing into his own eye.
"Eh? Tha' knew about that already?" Benedict asked, sitting across from her to Nathan's right.
"I was the first to know," Kathryn said from his left.
"Course tha' was," Sir Benedict said from his right. "And I s'pose tha' won't tell me how if I ask?"
"Damien's just really bad at hiding things."
"Aye, he is that, lass. He is that."
"I'm sitting right here, by the way," Nathan said from the middle of it all.
"Irrelevant." Kathryn patted his back. "Finish copying the scriptures."
Benedict peered over his shoulder. "Tha' used t' write like a dream. How's it become so bloody awful in such a short time?"
"Quills," Nathan muttered.
"I'd suggest taking your time," Kathryn said, not unkindly. "The quill will end up snapping otherwise."
"Tha' canna just forget all me calligraphy lessons just 'cause I were gone a few days!" Benedict frowned.
"I'm trying!"
"Not hard enough. S'alright, lad, tha'll get there in the end."
Nathan decided he was going to shut up. Not another word.
For a few moments, the scratching of Nathan's quill was the only sound in the room. The rays of the sun filtering in through the window dimmed, presumably concealed by the clouds.
At last, Kathryn asked, "Have you finished unpacking yet?"
"...No." Benedict sounded tired. "Unless somewhat mad's happened and me chambers have frozen in time, there'll be dust upto me eyeballs. I'm not lookin' forward t' steppin' foot in there."
"I can imagine," Kathryn said solemnly. "Perhaps you ought not to put it off any longer."
Benedict ran a hand through his hair in exasperation, grey lifting up to reveal streaks of pink. "S'pose I've got no choice, have I?"
Nathan's quill continued to scratch against the paper. The rays of sunshine grew unbearably bright. The clouds had passed, apparently.
Benedict stood up. "Right then, I'll keep goin'. See thee about, Kathryn. Damien."
Kathryn smiled. "See you around, Sir Benedict."
"See you around, Benedict," Nathan said without looking up. A second later, a hand was pulling his cheek into the depths of agony.
"Ow ow ow ow—"
"That's Sir Benedict, cheeky sod!" Benedict released Nathan's cheek. "I didn't hang up me sword just for thee t' go skippin' my title like that."
And without waiting for a reply, Benedict (Sir Benedict) strutted out of the room.
Nathan tentatively touched his cheek. "Ow."
"I sure did miss him," Kathryn said fondly. "The servants quarters have been complaining about his lack ever since he left! At the very least they'll be satiated now."
Nathan made a non-comittal noise and went back to copying.
Kathryn watched him for a while, then said, "Your handwriting really has changed, hasn't it? Did you hurt your hands while fighting?"
"I wasn't the one who started that," Nathan said, frowning. "Stop needling me about that."
Kathryn's voice softened. "It wasn't an accusation."
"...Sorry."
"It's fine." Kathryn waved it off. "And it's...well. I understand why you'd get violent with him. I...did the same, after all."
Nathan stopped writing. "What?"
"I..." For the first time since Nathan had seen her, Kathryn looked uncomfortable in her skin, discreetly trying to hide her fidgeting hands. "I may have slapped him."
"Wait. Wait a minute." Nathan met her eyes. "You slapped Caleb?"
"...Perhaps."
"..."
"..."
Nathan snorted. "He's annoying, isn't he?"
Kathryn let out a breath, almost relieved. "Tremendously. I can no longer blame you for doing what you did."
"Finally someone sees that I'm completely innocent."
"Not innocent, but perhaps more blameless than we initially gave you credit for."
"...I'll take it."
Kathryn laughed. "You're not angry, are you? I didn't know if you wanted me to meddle, but I went ahead and did so anyway..."
"A little angry you didn't call me to watch, yes." Nathan picked up his quill again. "I'd love to see that asshole get slapped."
"Such pettiness," Kathryn grinned. "Were you always like this?"
Shit, was he going out-of-character again? Had she noticed? "Definitely. Always been like this."
Kathryn shook her head, seemingly not paying much attention to it. "I must warn you, though. Not a word about this may escape this room."
"I'll take it to my grave," Nathan said, miming zipping his mouth shut. "Won't Caleb snitch, though?"
Kathryn considered this. "I think not. He seemed embarrassed, if anything."
"Obviously." Nathan couldn't imagine the humiliation of losing to a 5-foot-tall kid.
"Well," Kathryn stood up. "I'll leave you to your...copying."
"Yeah." Nathan sighed. "Copying."
He was only done with ten copies; forty more to go. He really needed to pick up his pace. At this rate he'd grow old copying scriptures of a religion he didn't even believe in.
Gods, he missed pens.
* * *
Caleb had ten copies left to make. He'd be finished with this ordeal by the morrow.
An utter waste of his time. He could have spent this time revising for the next test, or preparing for his next class in advance. His schedule had been set back by days. But he'd brought it upon himself, so he bore it as gracefully as was feasible.
A knock sounded on the door.
"Do not enter," Caleb said. Every second spent humouring some servant sent by his mother was a second wasted.
A long moment passed, in which Caleb finished copying another page. Then a voice called out softly.
"Caleb?"
Caleb's hand dragged for a second too long, ruining the spotless pace of sentences he had maintained so far.
"Do not enter," Caleb said as his brother entered his chambers. Too late.
"Caleb," Abel started.
Caleb forced his jaw to unclench. "I'm busy. This can wait."
"...You don't even know why I'm here," Abel said. "I may have brought good news. Such as, congratulations! Mother is dead and you're the new Head of the Beirne Estate!"
Caleb narrowed his eyes. "Am I?"
"Well, no—"
"Then leave." Caleb turned back towards the scripture. "I don't have time to entertain you."
Taking that as an invitation for some unfathomable reason, Abel took a seat beside him. "I heard you had a fight with Stefan's younger brother."
Caleb's quill scraped against the paper again. He would have to redo this entire page. What a nuisance.
"Ah yes, the bastard prince."
"Caleb." A warning. "You, of all people, know that those are merely rumours. Damien is legitimate. We have talked about this."
Caleb remained silent.
"You can't keep doing this," Abel said, sounding every bit the morally righteous saint everyone believed him to be. "They're our friends."
"Your friends, perhaps." Another seven lines to add to this page and he could move to the next. "They've never welcomed me, never will, and I do not require them to. Much like you aren't welcome in this room. Leave."
Abel huffed. "These were once my chambers, little brother. I have every bit of a claim to the space here as you, perhaps even more. Do not test my patience."
"Wrong. You shouldn't be testing my patience. It is bad enough that the ruffian landed us both in detention."
"The ruffian...Damien?" Abel placed a hand on his desk. "I was under the impression that you began the fight."
Caleb gripped the quill tighter. "Falsity. I only retaliated."
This time.
But Abel hadn't asked about past events, so Caleb wasn't obligated to take them into consideration.
"...I see."
For a long time after that, Abel was quiet, and as Caleb dutifully continued his work, he wondered if Abel would just leave him now.
But no such luck, of course, for Abel had to open his mouth right as he had that thought.
"You shouldn't have engaged him, then."
Caleb set his quill down and stood up. "You would have me stand idle while your beloved friend's brother hurls insults at me?"
Abel's eyes drifted to Caleb's hand on the desk. "Caleb—"
"Your life may be an effortless sanctuary but we lesser beings need to fight to earn our keep!"
"Caleb, your—"
"And some of us put in actual effort—"
"Caleb!"
Caleb startled. Abel seemed equally surprised.
"I...didn't mean to raise my voice." Apologetic. "But it's— well. Your writing."
Caleb looked down at the table to find that sometime during this whole ordeal, he had tipped over the inkpot and it now laid sideways, its contents spilling out onto his work.
"...Ha. I knew you didn't like my handwriting, but that's going a bit too far, don't you think?"
"Haven't you ruined enough?" Caleb asked.
Who that question was directed at, he didn't know.
"I...I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Abel. Leave."
And he had the audacity to look hurt.
Abel's footsteps receded as Caleb focused on salvaging what he could. By some stroke of luck, he had transferred the other copies to a different location, but this one was utterly ruined.
He cleaned his table as best as he could, but the ink would take a while to dry enough to not hamper him. So he carried his tools to his bed, instead.
Caleb had eleven copies left to make. He wouldn't be able to finish this ordeal by the morrow.