The Sword of Honour

20 May 2086
Mordaunt Manor, Fencing Salle
Cambridgeshire, England


The training salle was filled with a miasma of summer air, the big fenestrations covered with gossamer cloth were kept open, causing the feather light curtain to flutter and glide with the gentle wind. The polished wooden floor gleamed against the afternoon sun, and was tainted with a long shadow of an aged man. Clothed in his white fencing jacket and ashen breeches, Alfonzo stood in front of an open window, hands tucked behind with one of his epees, tapping its tip against the rich floor lost in his thoughts.

Adonis, Cuthbert, Ethan…Mordred.

Alfonzo’s visage was of signature calm as his mind drifted from one face to another. His thoughts however, coiled around Mordred like a graceful serpent ensnaring its prey. The old man had ignored one of his grandsons for far too long, though surprised with his decision to marry a half-blood, he had nothing to hold him back from doing so. He is a Mordaunt after all. He is, but one of the last few who carried the reputation of a true pureblood. One that is faithful to traditions and absurd practices. Alfonzo’s eyes narrowed as his mind flicked through the members of the Macmillans. Within the very short circuit of purebloods, he knew that the family was somewhat…mundane for his liking. Nothing extraordinary, albeit them being non-interventionists, and lovers of the expressive art.

Alfonzo stepped back from the window, and paced the expansive training salle, mulling over his thoughts. If he had opted for an arranged marriage, he would have chosen either the Quinns, or the Morganzos. Sadly, but luckily for his grandson, both of its family’s daughters already have children of their own. Alfonzo slowly stopped in his tracks, and watched his forlorn reflection on the floor. His wife, Sofia, had painfully reminded him through tongues of dagger that he himself had failed. It was an inevitable result of a forced marriage between two families, a preordained upshot that Sofia wishes for Mordred not to have in the future. But alas, a pureblood family from the past wanted to make its presence known: the Madines, the pureblood family who belligerently told his grandson to stay away from them, simply because of the blood that coursed through his veins. Alfonzo had sworn not to tolerate anything from that family as soon as he learned of what happened. Mordred had no idea, but it was his grandfather, who was responsible for the Madine’s migration to America. The old man may or may not have an underground army of sorts that threatened the family to flee. His voice is command, his presence, the law.

All thoughts were expertly thrown out of the window, as the doorman to the vast chamber opened the door, and let Alfonzo’s grandson enter the salle. Mordred, dressed in his own white fencing jacket and breeches, he strode the room with grace, his eyes never leaving his grandfather’s stare. The thin line that was Alfonzo’s grin was mirrored by the young man, though his, was weaker…it was as if it does not exist. Mordred had a rough morning, but it was no excuse to turn down his grandfather’s invitation to spar. “Good morning, grandfather.” A slight nod of his head was given, a custom that he never grew out of. “Good morning, grandson. I trust…your morning is good so far?” Mordred kept a straight face, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. He knew that his grandfather knew of his whereabouts…or what exactly transpired over the last couple of hours. “Not exactly my cup of tea. I will survive, however.” The grandson gave the old man a smirk. “I always have.” It was then Alfonzo’s turn to give his grandson a wry smile. “Of course. It’s not an ideal day to die, is it? Not on your wedding day, correct?”

There was no need to respond, for they both knew the answer to that. “Let’s see if you can beat your grandfather at his game. Gear up.” Mordred fastened his jacket in one swift motion, clasped his glove on, and donned his mask entirely covering his face, masking every single emotion from his grandfather. As soon as he was covered, the apprehension, worry, fear, and confusion came out. He knew that he will have to endure the sparring session to fully understand his grandfather’s intention as to why he was called. Mordred knew that upon masking his fears, he was more vulnerable to show it. Alfonzo liked to play with irony…and the young man was playing against a master of travesty.

En garde.