A Speck of that Autumn

Chapter 4

The early autumn weather had kept the sky a consistent grey. A remote hill, separated from lively towns and communities by an adequately sized forest, stood persistently under the clouds. A mansion that stood up on the hill glared through the morning mist, showing an unclear silhouette that confuses passersby and obstructs curiosities. No one really saw anything up on the hill, and no one minded to care. The mansion remained ignored, as well as the residents, who prefered to be ignored.

These residents were as persistent as the hill. The sky would turn blue once again and they would not follow the grey as it went. The folk might've moved or changed generations and they would not change. In time, the forest would be hacked down completely, and the mansion would still prop up the sky. They are constant, unfailing, and frozen.

When much of the world had settled, they too, would not yet settle.

A stark white ceiling stared back at Wellesley, glaring, not giving him any peace of mind. He woke up from no dreams. His room was still dark with only a streak of dim sunlight coming from the window. If he didn't bother to check his small bedside clock, he would've thought that he hadn't fallen asleep at all.

Something was irritating his throat. Like he had swallowed a clump of hair. He tried to cough it out and his chest struggled against the bed. He sat up to cough properly. The cold rain he had suffered through might be to blame, but he noticed a bottle of red still sitting idly on his table. He had skipped on drinking. That would explain the dryness better.

He sighed and counted the days. Another blanc should suffice. He'll hold off on the pungent stuff still. Despite said conviction, he did his best to face away from the table since his body was operating entirely on different terms. He massaged the bridge of his nose, clearing himself of drowsiness. He got up, grabbed any article of clothing he could get his hands on to layer his shirt with and dragged himself out of the drab room.

The filled up kettle landed with a clunk. He turned on the gas stove as he has been taught before.

"No." He sighed, perhaps already the umpteenth time this morning. "There's no duel. We were already settled."

Wellesley had found out that, despite having taken place at the utmost western part of the mansion, across a vast garden, through walls and battering rainstorm right above their heads, nearly everyone had heard of their quarrel. He prepared his drink while waiting for water to boil. Tea, despite his belief that it was now nothing more than an act of meaningless sentiment, were still his occasion. Blanc is less bland with the warmth of a perfectly heated cup of tea. The kitchen, rather to his unluck, just happened to be occupied by other early-risers.

"God, be that a single relief," Isaac Newton muttered, sounding like he genuinely believed they would inflict certain death or injury over something benign. Wellesley ignored his other mutterings, which were something about soldiers and stupid men, and although he hadn't heard it fully he was inclined to agree.

"Still, Atty," said A. C. Doyle, or Arthur, as he insisted despite the possible confusion, "if you happen to trip yourself into any more squabbles, don't hesitate to call me as your second." He leaned on the counter to peer at him.

"I assure you I don't intend on causing any more."

"Well 'Leon might think otherwise."

"That would be his initiative."

"Ah." He snapped his fingers and jabbed one at him. "Reckoned it. You two are not yet made up after all."

Wellesley simply glared at him, thinking that he wasn't worth any serious mind. Arthur was just the kind to gain a sort of gratification from irking those around him. Unfortunate that he had to share his name.