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BobbyJones314While the King’s summons had only just began for the travelers in the dining hall, for Mytchel it had been running since the darkness of the morning that day. He, among the other servants, had spent all day preparing, from food to accommodations and everything in between. However, Mytchel’s own nervousness hadn’t subsided since the Sounding first took place. If anything, it had only grown, twisting his gut and shaking his fingers if ever he sat idle long enough to think about it. Luckily, there was little time for that; even in times of monotony, a servant’s work was nothing if not occupying.
Now, however, the anxiety was creeping up on him. Soon, he would go out into the dining hall himself and serve the newcomers. Of course it wasn’t this that bothered him, he’d served more feasts than he could even try to remember. No, it was the prospect of who sat out there, what their gathering meant.
Breathing deeply, he straightened his uniform with trembling fingers, willing them to still. For a moment, he simply stared at the cuffs on his wrists, his tired mind entranced by the contrast between the gold of the bracelets and the bronze of his skin. Other, identically dressed servants already made their rounds in the dining hall, but the main course would be going out soon, and they would need more help. He had to pull himself together, damn it all, and quickly.
Drawing most of his strength, Mytchel emerged from the small room he’d changed in, from his regular, plain clothing to his more impressive uniform, and out into the kitchens. It was chaos, to be generous. Cooks and serving girls dashed to and fro, bringing out wine and fruit preparing the main course. The sound was an incredible cacophony of sizzling, banging, scraping, and about ten different languages. If the palace walls weren’t made of two-foot-thick stone (to support the massive structure) it would be easily heard in the dining hall.
A few other servants dashed past him, elegantly dodging him without faltering or spilling a drop of the pitchers they toted. Everything behind the walls of a palace was akin to a well-oiled machine, where everyone knew their job and their place. In the middle of it all, Mytchel would be proud to say that he thrived.
As one girl passed him, her uniform similar to his in every way save for the fact that it was a dress, she stopped a moment and looked him over. He did the same to her, somewhat of a ritual.
After a second, she smiled. “Good?” She spoke in Mytchel’s native tongue.
Mytchel returned the smile, replying with the same diction. “Not a hair out of place. And I?” He extended his hands in presentation.
The girl laughed, brown eyes shining, framed by similar skin to his. “There’s flour on your face, Mytchel.”
She only laughed louder as his eyes flew wide and he rushed to the nearest reflective surface, turning back to scowl good-naturedly at her for her joke as she brushed past him and out the door with her large platter of fruit. A few of the many other kitchen occupants also giggled, and he just laughed along. One girl was distracted by the spectacle, tripped and dropped her (thankfully empty) pitcher. The kitchen, of course, erupted in applause, and Mytchel and another unoccupied servant helped her to her feet. The girl, known to be a good sport, got up, dusted herself off and curtsied to her audience. With that, the hustle and bustle resumed and all was normal again.
Mytchel sighed, but smiled, a bit calmer now. Falling into routine, he took two pitchers from a shelf and crossed the room to where several enormous casks lay, filling the pitchers with fine Western wine that he’d only ever have the privilege of smelling. He took a deep breath as he approached the door, steeling himself before he pushed it open. You’ve done this a thousand times, he told himself, this feast is no different.
Silently, he slipped out, walking with his head slightly dipped, mirroring the posture of every other servant in the steadily-filling room. He crossed to an area of the hall with fewer servants and arrived at a table where several very different-looking people sat. Then again, the entire hall was a similar mixture of people from all walks of life, many of them gawking at the castle.
“Wine, my lords?” He offered, referring to the ladies as well as the men. Normally he wouldn’t have to say a word - the highborns he was used to serving knew what a servant with a pitcher meant, and expected the servants to be seen and not heard - but he knew that many of the guests present weren’t familiar with court customs. He’d also been instructed to treat each guest with the respect of a noble, regardless of their status.
Now, however, the anxiety was creeping up on him. Soon, he would go out into the dining hall himself and serve the newcomers. Of course it wasn’t this that bothered him, he’d served more feasts than he could even try to remember. No, it was the prospect of who sat out there, what their gathering meant.
Breathing deeply, he straightened his uniform with trembling fingers, willing them to still. For a moment, he simply stared at the cuffs on his wrists, his tired mind entranced by the contrast between the gold of the bracelets and the bronze of his skin. Other, identically dressed servants already made their rounds in the dining hall, but the main course would be going out soon, and they would need more help. He had to pull himself together, damn it all, and quickly.
Drawing most of his strength, Mytchel emerged from the small room he’d changed in, from his regular, plain clothing to his more impressive uniform, and out into the kitchens. It was chaos, to be generous. Cooks and serving girls dashed to and fro, bringing out wine and fruit preparing the main course. The sound was an incredible cacophony of sizzling, banging, scraping, and about ten different languages. If the palace walls weren’t made of two-foot-thick stone (to support the massive structure) it would be easily heard in the dining hall.
A few other servants dashed past him, elegantly dodging him without faltering or spilling a drop of the pitchers they toted. Everything behind the walls of a palace was akin to a well-oiled machine, where everyone knew their job and their place. In the middle of it all, Mytchel would be proud to say that he thrived.
As one girl passed him, her uniform similar to his in every way save for the fact that it was a dress, she stopped a moment and looked him over. He did the same to her, somewhat of a ritual.
After a second, she smiled. “Good?” She spoke in Mytchel’s native tongue.
Mytchel returned the smile, replying with the same diction. “Not a hair out of place. And I?” He extended his hands in presentation.
The girl laughed, brown eyes shining, framed by similar skin to his. “There’s flour on your face, Mytchel.”
She only laughed louder as his eyes flew wide and he rushed to the nearest reflective surface, turning back to scowl good-naturedly at her for her joke as she brushed past him and out the door with her large platter of fruit. A few of the many other kitchen occupants also giggled, and he just laughed along. One girl was distracted by the spectacle, tripped and dropped her (thankfully empty) pitcher. The kitchen, of course, erupted in applause, and Mytchel and another unoccupied servant helped her to her feet. The girl, known to be a good sport, got up, dusted herself off and curtsied to her audience. With that, the hustle and bustle resumed and all was normal again.
Mytchel sighed, but smiled, a bit calmer now. Falling into routine, he took two pitchers from a shelf and crossed the room to where several enormous casks lay, filling the pitchers with fine Western wine that he’d only ever have the privilege of smelling. He took a deep breath as he approached the door, steeling himself before he pushed it open. You’ve done this a thousand times, he told himself, this feast is no different.
Silently, he slipped out, walking with his head slightly dipped, mirroring the posture of every other servant in the steadily-filling room. He crossed to an area of the hall with fewer servants and arrived at a table where several very different-looking people sat. Then again, the entire hall was a similar mixture of people from all walks of life, many of them gawking at the castle.
“Wine, my lords?” He offered, referring to the ladies as well as the men. Normally he wouldn’t have to say a word - the highborns he was used to serving knew what a servant with a pitcher meant, and expected the servants to be seen and not heard - but he knew that many of the guests present weren’t familiar with court customs. He’d also been instructed to treat each guest with the respect of a noble, regardless of their status.