Work Text:
Billiam kneels in front of the egg, hands gently brushing over the rough surface. He looks up with wide eyes, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"What's wrong? How can you still be hungry?"
A low hum sounds through the room, and it settles uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. He presses his forehead against the egg. He doesn't get it. He doesn't get it.
The vines around the egg are pulsing, agitated, hungry, and Billiam wrecks his mind how to get it to calm down. Someone getting lost in these parts isn't uncommon, but not common enough to happen conveniently at this moment. Inviting someone could take too much time. His last resort--he thinks about the butler, tall, and skittish, and Billiam does not think that it's so dire to go to such drastic measures.
The egg hums once again, the sound reverberating painfully in his ears. The lights flicker once.
"You've just eaten!" a family of three, getting lost on the way to meet old friends. Billiam kindly offered them to stay the night before going back on the road.
He scratches the surface of the egg, just slightly. "Come on. Hold on for a while--I'll send out the invites."
The lights flicker once again. The humming won't stop. Billiam hears quiet footsteps behind him.
"Sir." the lights are off, yet he can see a faint light coming from the other end of the room. "It's time, sir."
Billiam presses his back against the egg. A blade gleams in the emitting light.
His voice breaks. "We have other options."
"I'm sorry sir." his butler towers over him, tall as ever. "This was inevitable. You know that."
Billiam looks up at his butler with wide eyes. "Why do you do this. Why do we do this?"
He tilts his head. "We've been doing this for years. Why stop now?"
"Because-" his ponytail is loose, hair covering his eyes. "Because I don't want to-"
"To die?" the butler's hand brushes the strands behind his ear, before putting his palm flat on top of his head. His fingers tap a slow rhythm into his mind. "We're all scared to die, sir. Just take it in stride."
Billiam closes his eyes. The butler kneels to his level.
He doesn't even make a noise when the sword hits. The butler's hand on his head is steady, going down to the hair piece that's keeping the ponytail in place, and carefully taking it out.
"That's more comfortable, isn't it?"
Billiam nods weakly. His hair fans out behind him.
"Sir." The butler pushes him forward, and Billiam's forehead leans against his shoulder. At this point, if the Butler's hands were shaking, he'd be too out of it to notice. "I'm very sorry, sir. I hope we'll meet again, somewhere."
He gently pats Billiams back, careful not to further aggregate the wound.
The man's eyelids are heavy when he opens them, but he moves his head to meet the Butler's eyes. "Be good," he croaks out. "I'll make sure we meet again. Count on that. Count on it."
The butler nods, fingers still drumming a lulling rhythm onto his head. A minute passes--and Billiam slumps against him.
He doesn't move for a long time, sitting there with the man he worked for. Worked with. The only heartbeat in the room is his own.
The egg hums once again, red vines curling around Billiam's leg. The butler let's go. He doesn't need to see that--it's better if he doesn't.
Cradling the hairpiece close to his chest, he only looks back once before disappearing through the painting. Sir Billiam's pink hair is dotted red as he gets dragged away by the egg's vines. The butler shakes his head and leaves.
His blade is gone--but the blood splatter on his white button up remains, agonizingly contrasting against the tidy remainder of himself. He takes it off, left with the black blazer and white undershirt, and throws it into the kitchen trash, slightly covering it with thrown-away leftovers. His feet carry him to Sir Billiam's bed chamber. Big, and empty, and he sits down on the soft bed. Not too soft. Just right.
The hair piece lays listlessly in his palm.
He looks around the room. A stack of letters on the table. They're still unsigned--Sir Billiam asked him to send them off after they're signed. Eighty-four guests this time--it would be a personal record for them, it could keep the egg nourished for ages.
But now without Sir Billiam, that plan seems to be shut down. No one would go to the party that a butler invited them to.
He'll have to do with lost travelers and curious teenagers.
With a sigh, he stands up to go to his own room but he stops dead at the door. Maybe… maybe for a single day-
It's strange. He'd do anything for the egg, so why… why? His legs are weak as he walks back to the bed. He kicks off his shoes, and climbs under the covers, breathing in the kind warmth it provides. He shivers despite it. The hair piece is still in his hand, already warm from being held for so long.
He sinks into the soft mattress and lets exhaustion wash over him.
His clothes are horribly wrinkled--barefooted, he walks over to the closet, rubbing the sleepiness out of his eyes. The morning sun is pleasant, casting long shadows into the room.
He reaches into the closet, but instead of finding his usual button up and vest, he feels luxurious texture, soft furs, golden decorations. He takes a blue coat--it doesn't seem to end. It's comfortable on the inside, yet beautiful on the outside--adorned with accessories and silver patterns, so heavy, he doesn't really know if he could carry it on his shoulders. He bites his lips, the image of Sir Billiam's red dotted hair coming to mind. The coat seems somehow even warmer. Inviting.
He looks left and right, as if someone could come in, and slips his arms through the big sleeves. He pops the collar, buttons up the big decorational buttons, and ties the stash. Twirling a little, he watches the coat circle around him.
With trembling fingers he traces the patterns in the fabric. Sir Billiam rarely wore this one. His favorite was the one he wore when he-
He walks back to the bed and lifts the blanket, shaking it out. The hair piece falls out and he grabs it, going over to the vanity.
Now his hair is nowhere long enough to be as pretty as the ponytail Sir Billiam always wore, but it isn't exactly short--he braids the golden piece into his hair, and he examines his exposed ears, reels a bit about how free his neck feels. It looks…
Decent. Nice, even.
He spends a lot of time looking at his reflection, picking at his hair. He only snaps out of it once he hears a knock on the door--he's quick to his feet and his coat spreads on the floor, flying slightly at the speed he's descending the stairs.
He has opened this door time and time again, yet now it feels different--he smooths out his clothes, and presses his hair down. The door opens without a creak.
A young man stands outside, using his thin jacket to warm him from the morning cold. His hair is as white as snow.
"I'm--I'm a, uh. So sorry for the trouble, I'm a traveler and I got lost--I wanted to ask if you know where the nearest town might be."
He looks at the traveler. Young. As old as him, or slightly older. He lightly touches his hair piece. "What's your name?"
"Hubert. Once again, so sorry for disturbing your peace, just-"
"Hubert, huh?" he smiles, kindly. It's good to have a back-up. A last resort plan. That's what Sir Billion always said. And after all--he has a party to plan. Eighty-four guests aren't easily entertained, if you have no help by your side. "My name is Sir Billiam the fourth. Would you care to spend a night here?"