Between Wolves & Doves

Chapter 38 Errands

Paperwork. Reams upon reams of paperwork. Stacks of it tower tall. Layered everywhere upon his desk. Oh, how Kylo detested it mightily.

Had he known a Lord's seat took quite as much bureaucracy and pencil pushing as the hours he had to spend in servitude of it, he would've turned down the title when it was offered to him.

He admits defeat to the bloody nuisance of a thing. After breakfast he trudged along the brightly lit hallway to his study. Looking in envy upon the housemaids he passed with their trugs of rags and polish and feather dusters. He'd give anything to swap places. Right there he'd gladly put on an apron and dust a parlour or plump up some velvet cushions on a settee. Beat a rug. Groom and muck out the horses.

Anything but this arduous agony-

Jomar would tell him he was simply being childish. Kylo grumbles at the thought of allowing his impertinent Butler to be right, as he stands in his study doorway. Mood deflating already to see the stacks that waited him. The fire is lit. The large apple green velvet curtains, trimmed with rich gold tassels, have been shaken free of dust. His scarlet leather and walnut desk chair sits awaiting his singular form to fill it. He growls and grumps.

So it is he manoeuvred himself into the room and took his seat. Sun slanted spilling onto his back from the window. He feels it leeching gold through his white cotton shirt. Hitting on the sapphire satin waistcoat his valet forced upon him today. He loosens the strangling knot of his black cravat. His collar brushing his cheeks. He may be a Lord but he wasn't going to suffer choking civility of dress in his own damn castle.

He reaches for the first paper that lay in wait for him. He can't remember ever having been ambushed more horribly in his life than with bloody sheets of infernal paper. Definitely the most horrific ambush he'd had to suffer.

"I hate you with every fibre of my earthly being." He grunts at the stack of correspondence. Dipping his quill in the inkwell and perched ready to read and write.

He detests it doubly because it was a pleasant day. He'd far rather be out of doors.

The days are starting to draw out from the dark heavy and not to mention bitter, winters. Like someone unfurling a roll of sweet light blue gossamer. The sun shines earlier. Lifting the dawn. Spring is well and truly arriving. The days grow clearer and bright. Powder blue skies over the forest that once looked so familiar cloaked in thick snow. Golden sunshine beams its restorative glow over the landscape. Things start to bloom here, in the gardens. Shaking off the sluggish dead of winter. Warm dewy mornings waken him.

Soon pollen shall start drifting on the air. He'll be able to smell the honey powder sweet of it. Able to throw open his doors and windows and let the light and sun spill in. Sunshine bleaching whites pegged out by the laundry. Soap, sun and green twining into their fibres. Searing summer light kissing on his eyelids like holy fire. He could picture it already. The flowers in the gardens, thorny white roses shivering in the hot dry wind. That wonderful slanted amber of a late summer afternoon light as the swallows dash and dip across the cloudless sky. Endless churning old sun.

He huffs as he begins to make his way through the letters. Ink smeared on his fingers as he dribbled melted blood red wax on the paper and mushed it under the silver stamp of his house crest. Wolves dance in the sticky blood. He sets it aside and sighs bitterly seeing how small his completed task pile is.

Climbing out the window like he usually does is looking rather tempting as of now.

He brings over the next tax letter with little enthusiasm. Drags it onto his reach. Sits and reads its contents. Tried not to yawn as he devoured its information. His mind had little tolerance for this today. There seems to be a million other things he'd rather be doing. A trip to hell and back. Pluck out his leg hairs one by one. Go and let that stud throw him into a tree again.  Anything, anything, but this-