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THE GREAT HALL
INTAS 1ST, 2719 . LATE AT NIGHT
THE GREAT HALL
INTAS 1ST, 2719 . LATE AT NIGHT
Mood music yallShow
Lars had never been the biggest fan of Clock's Eve. While it was true that it was a blessing for them all to be continuing into the new year, that time continued to pass and allow the world to keep spinning, it was hardly a day of celebration for the passive in the dirty apron. It was another day of work, one of pushed and exhausting labors both in the kitchens as well as the laundries. The morning had been spent in the latter; the blonde had worked tirelessly beside his fellow passives to ensure that everyone's outfits were ready for the celebrations.
Clean them, remove every stain and every spec of dirt - press them, make sure not a wrinkle remained - hang them carefully and take them back to their owners - what is that, you see a wrinkle? A stain we couldn't remove? Back to the laundries it was, and on and on and on.
Afterwards the kitchens called for calloused hands and delicate, tidy presentation. It was to be a feast to outdo all other feasts, to bring glory to the great goddess of time, to fill their stomachs but nourish their minds and souls.
It was all a load of shit, that's what it was, and Lars gagged at the thought of doing it again at the start of next year. How many of these glorious feasts had he done? It was his seventeenth, and he'd seen enough lavish meals and wine to last him a lifetime. He would be perfectly content never to see a fancy dinner plate again, or never to fill one's glass with wine - never to trip and spill the liquid across shirts and jackets he'd surely have to clean later, never to apologize despite knowing that punishment would ensue regardless.
He never wanted to see any of their arrogant galdori faces again. He didn't want to feel a single field come close.
It was late, so very late. Far later than his curfew allowed, but by Alioe's grace (if that was a godsdamned thing) the great hall was quiet, and Lars was relatively alone for the first time in days. He could still hear his fellow servants clattering about in the kitchens if he listened; could hear idle chatter all about the university as it echoed throughout red stone walls. The tables had been cleared and the festivities moved to the Church of the Moon or the Stacks, he didn't care which, all he knew was that the hall was finally devoid of dancing and drinking and celebration for the first time in hours.
Lars had seen his brother during dinner, served him with the expected smile, stared through a pale and distant gaze at blonde waves upon the boy's head in their smoothed back, tamed state. It was an interesting and horribly confusing sight - the Savatier heir dressed in red, sitting beside his Bastian companion, all laughs and smiles with that air of composure and grace that Lars knew he'd once held himself.
He wondered what it was like to sit there in red.
He had offered little more than a nod in greeting, opting not to bother the boy when he could instead speak with his peers. Donatien wouldn't care for idle chatter with a passive, not on Clock's Eve. Lars had continued on, filling glasses and taking empty plates where he could.
Now Donatien and Morgan were likely off in the Stacks, the two didn't seem the types to stick to the rules - in any case, they weren't here, and Lars was free to roam among the other servants as they finished cleaning the hall. The hall itself was strangely devoid of conversation as they swept and tidied the clutter, but the passive didn't mind a bit, his mind as faraway as his eyes appeared. Instruments left behind by the senior band members were left untouched in their places, not a single servant willing to risk the chance of breaking something. When it was all over and done, the Hessean stayed behind, clinging to what moments of privacy he could obtain while the university was distracted with festivities.
His job, for the night, was done - but his fingers still itched to move, to do something, as if his poor hands didn't go through enough every day.
For a moment his mind wandered; his fingers recalled their ascension to his former roommate's throat and regretted not having stayed there longer. It brought the blonde to bite the inside of his cheek, stuffing his restless hands into his pockets, eyes flicking over to gaze upon the windows.
Dreadfully dark outside, considering how late it had to have been, but the light of the moons reflected still off the layer of snow on the ground. Now that all the lights had been dimmed or put out in the hall, and the passive was alone in the darkness, it felt serene. This place was not his guardian, nor was it his salvation, but for a moment it felt like home.
He wondered what home was like these days - if it would feel like home to him if he could return. He had his doubts; if Donatien existed then he supposed other children likely did as well, other siblings, other faces he'd never seen but that reflected his own so clearly. Were the walls still so pearly white? Were the banisters still polished and golden? Was his room still his or had it been altered beyond repair in some effort to remove his memory?
There had been a big bed - bigger than three of the mattresses in the passive ward put together, with more golden blankets than he could've counted. The pillows, though soft and fluffy, had always been tossed to the floor for Aldiron to pick up later. His closet had been the size of two passive rooms, he knew, with a wardrobe with pieces from all across Vita. Reds, golds, greens, blues, purples - every color to adorn his form, with frills or buttons or lace or scales. Corsets of various sizes to go through as he aged. His curtains had been sewn with thread the color of sunrise clouds, with intricate designs for him to admire as he sat in bed. The very ceiling was a wonder; Bastian artists commissioned to paint the ceilings all throughout the mansion, but he had always liked his room's best. Images of golden drakes in a morning sky greeted him each morning as he woke, as pale blue eyes flickered open to stare upwards until his servant had to pull him from the sheets.
The piano beneath the open window had been covered in gold leaves and mosaics, and young fingers had danced across the keys every morning for his daily lessons. Aldiron had been a wonderful teacher aside from his servant duties; he wondered how the old galdor was doing now.
Lars knocked into something solid as he walked, his mind far too distracted to notice the instruments as he had neared them, and only barely managed to keep himself from falling to the floor. Hands grabbed onto the surface, steadying himself, eyes sweeping over the keys of the piano left behind for the night, illuminated by the moonlight that filtered through the windows - and his fingers itched, scratched, burned in their restlessness.
He slid onto the seat silently, his back as straight as a board, his fingers resting curled upon the keys. One note pressed, as if in cautious testing, and Lars took a deep breath.
It wasn't home - he didn't have one anymore. Not Dorhaven, not Muffey, and certainly not Brunnhold, but for a few minutes, the passive allowed his hands to stretch across the surface and his fingers to press delicately against ivory keys as if in a dance, and he almost felt an old man's hand atop his shoulder.
