Chapter 124: Home
Stagnancy was to be expected in a northern winter as heavy snow fell and life outside ceased to exist.
Sir Arthur began to realize that it was perhaps best that he lost his hand at the end of autumn. Then he could slowly get used to the life he was handed rather than forcing himself to get back to normalcy so aggressively.
After all, he tried that approach by wearing a prosthetic hand for the monster culling and ended up with a bloody stump by the end of it. Since he felt awful at having failed to regain use of his sword in any meaningful way, he paid Stanley handsomely for all of his trouble.
He wouldn’t be sword fighting in the winter, but it seemed to have slipped his mind that winter was the letter-writing season. While the nobles were bored and couldn’t socialize, they still found ways to reach each other through either magic or messenger hawk. The flowerbeds were dormant, but gossip bloomed.
At least they were finding ways to keep themselves entertained.
The knight sighed as he sat in his study, practicing writing as if he were still a small child. The iron hand was set to hold a quill and he wrote sentences line by line, dissatisfied each time he punctuated and resisting his very real urge to crumble up the paper and throw that along with his prosthetic across the study.
He wondered how he was supposed to slowly confess to the duchy that he would be relieved of his duties by the end of winter. Perhaps his handwriting would give him away.
Arthur decided to call it a day and go upstairs where he could at least read a book and sit in a comfortable chair. There was no use in wasting more candles for such terrible writing.
He blew out the candelabra on his desk and didn’t bother with the slowly dying fire in his fireplace.