He arrived home later than usual that night. His horse's footsteps signaling his return to the estate. Though waiting before him stood that familiar figure. A figure symbolizing stability and authority, unyielding to whim or complaint, ever demanding.
He rode into the stables, dismounted, and returned to the pathway leading to the door, where the figure stood.
"You are late this evening. I would not expect the likes of you to be tardy in curfew."
"Apologies Your Grace. It shan't happen again."
"See to it that it will remain as such, now get washed up. Supper is still out for you, though by now it's lost it's warmth. When your done, see me in my study; I want to know the reason for your late arrival."
"Understood."
. . .
There he stood, in front of the study. The one place he wished he didn't have to enter, but he had to do it. Hiding from judgement was not something that came to his mind. Only recognition of fault, and a subsequent reprimand.
He knocked on the door, where a familiar yet still somewhat gentle voice responded.
"Enter."
And so he did.
. . .
It was over. Though the encounter had concluded, the consequences of it were still present on his reddened face. He considered himself fortunate to receive such mercy. Glove marks would be gone by the morning, and all he would have to do is deal with the pain one night. Just one night.
Though even then, the damage was done. He could not wallow in self guilt; that would be cowardly. He acknowledged his faults, and now had to learn to prevent such faults from coming to fruition in the future.
So he prayed. He prayed until he could pray no more.
And then he collapsed, relieving himself from the punishments of the night. He would not wake up until the morning, a subtle gift from the Spirit to those who can judge themselves more than others.
He rode into the stables, dismounted, and returned to the pathway leading to the door, where the figure stood.
"You are late this evening. I would not expect the likes of you to be tardy in curfew."
"Apologies Your Grace. It shan't happen again."
"See to it that it will remain as such, now get washed up. Supper is still out for you, though by now it's lost it's warmth. When your done, see me in my study; I want to know the reason for your late arrival."
"Understood."
. . .
There he stood, in front of the study. The one place he wished he didn't have to enter, but he had to do it. Hiding from judgement was not something that came to his mind. Only recognition of fault, and a subsequent reprimand.
He knocked on the door, where a familiar yet still somewhat gentle voice responded.
"Enter."
And so he did.
. . .
It was over. Though the encounter had concluded, the consequences of it were still present on his reddened face. He considered himself fortunate to receive such mercy. Glove marks would be gone by the morning, and all he would have to do is deal with the pain one night. Just one night.
Though even then, the damage was done. He could not wallow in self guilt; that would be cowardly. He acknowledged his faults, and now had to learn to prevent such faults from coming to fruition in the future.
So he prayed. He prayed until he could pray no more.
And then he collapsed, relieving himself from the punishments of the night. He would not wake up until the morning, a subtle gift from the Spirit to those who can judge themselves more than others.
