The Peak of Desperation Feb 9, 2013 18:24:37 GMT -5
Post by Lucy Halacre on Feb 9, 2013 18:24:37 GMT -5
The great city of Camelot was in mourning. It wasn’t quite official mourning, after all, there wasn’t a dead body in the royal chambers of Camelot castle… yet. But King Uther Pendragon had been fatally stabbed and according to everyone who was anyone, the wound was sufficient to carry out its purpose. The whole city had been affected by the tragedy, naturally. The streets seemed darker now, an occurrence that wasn’t unfounded in Lucy’s mind, as most passers-by had chosen to display their grief by wearing black clothing of some kind.
She herself had abandoned her usual inconspicuous green cloak for one charcoal-coloured, but this too made her blend into the crowd. Grief was a surprisingly easy atmosphere in which to remain hidden. Grief and jubilance… times during a King’s reign when almost anybody could pass unnoticed. Times also which were surprisingly good for business. Selling had picked up that week, as though stab wounds were infectious. Tension in the city was fraught of course and inevitably tavern brawls had broken out, over support to Arthur or Uther, over bets on how long the old king would last and even the new king’s longevity too.
Lucy had just departed the home of one such brawler, who had sunrise in his eye as shiny as the Crown Jewels. She’d put a spread of comfrey on the black eye, charged a few coppers and been on her way; she was used to being in the company of known rogues due to the amount of time she spent healing them, but she would never get used to their blatant disrespect towards the monarchy.
She was just going home to organise her stock – it was considered unlucky to leave the city, even to gather herbs, during waiting tension like this, one might miss the King dying and that would never do – when very suddenly somebody addressed her. “Lucy.” Deep. Masculine. Out of place.
Lucy looked up towards the face of the person who was blocking her path. Prince Arthur Pendragon. Heir to the throne and could be inheriting it within the day. Not the kind of person she could invite back to her humble abode for tea rather than making conversation in the middle of a crowded street. Especially not with his father dying. Unsure of what he wanted from her, Lucy executed an odd little curtsy, caught out by both the routine familiarity of her surroundings and the strangeness of meeting the Prince there.
“Sire,” she murmured quietly, bowing her head deferentially and sorrowfully, as was only respectful.