#metareferences

They were camping in the forest around the mansion. It was supposed to be a leisure activity, though Hamish knew, as Merlin’s apprentice, that something was supposed to attack them in the next 24 hours, and this brats were thinking about swimming and bullying him instead of keeping alert.

“Nah, thanks. I’m perfectly fine here”.

“Come on”, said little Lord Wilkinson, swim trunks dripping on the book Hamish was reading, yanking him up by the arm. “You are ruining the fun for us”.

Oh, Hamish knew so well where this was going. He resigned to his destiny and calmly took off his glasses and store them in the zipped pocket of his chest. The blurry figures by the lake were encouraging them, and the sun was beginning to set. Four against one with visual disadvantage wasn’t a good prospect. And at least two of them wanted revenge on him for their shameful defeats on the judo matt —young Lord Willoughby— and the fencing court —Sir Harold Louis Everett's son. Now, despite his good training in close combat, Merlin was unarmed and clearly overpowered. The best strategy was observe and wait for his chance to flee. Except it never came. 

The three little Lords and pompous young Mr Everett, grabbed him each by one limb and threw him into the lake like a dead body, at about ten feet from the shore. Hamish tried to reign his body in and fall as painlessly as possible. He planned on holding his breath to his own 2 minutes, 57 seconds record and swim to the opposite shore, but halas, they had other plans for him. Willoughby lifted him out of the water and over his head like a prize, one hand in the small of his back and the other grabbing the back of the collar of his jumper.

“I’ve got a fish! I’ve got a fish with my own bare hands!”

“It’s the ugliest and skinniest fish I’ve ever seen, Willoughby!”, yelled young Lord Bartholomew from the shore. Everett and Wilkinson laughed out loud and Willoughby started to walk them out of the lake. Then Hamish saw his chance. Willoughby’s arms started to tremble with the effort and his walk through the greenish lake water affected negatively his balance. Hamish kicked Willoughby’s shoulder, making his captor drop him on top of his own head, thus losing grip of his other subjection point and sending them both underwater as his knees yielded to the sudden change of weight distribution. Hamish set off towards the opposite shore but the noblemen teamed up to grab his legs and drag him to the camp, his head hitting all the rocks they could find on the way. 

“Look at this fucking peasant”, said Bartholomew as he kicked Hamish’s ribbs. Except with all the excitement of a hunt, his childhood speech problems came back momentarily, making him pronounce instead “pucking pheasant”, to which Hamish laughed feebly.

“A packing pheasant? Why would it be packing? They’re not a migratory species”, he said falteringly.

At the insult of their self-appointed leader by virtue of his net worth, the others started kicking his sides too.

“What a terrible accident, Blackwood! You decided to climb a tree and fell down into the lake, didn’t you? That’s a great explanation for your wounds”, provided Everett, eager to be accepted by the lords 

“Nobody has to know the truth”, added Wilkinson. “It would be disgraceful if they knew a senior trainee was beaten up by his juniors. It will be our secret”.

“A secret? I love secrets”

Hamish did not recognise the man’s voice, but he did not have much time to wonder if he was friend or foe because he unleashed hell in the blink of an eye. Not surrounded anymore, Hamish rose and limped to sit on the log he’d been occupying before his abduction. He reached for his glasses, but the lenses were wet and his clothes were of no use to wipe them off. Across him there was obviously a fight going on, but he could only make out a swirl the color of the candidate’s jumpsuit, and three pale forms being thoroughly beaten, shaken and dragged across the floor by it.

“Now, gentlemen”, said the swirl after a second or two of none of the noblemen trying to go for him. “I believe it was the founder of the famous Eton School in which you lot undoubtedly met and birthed this beautiful camaraderie, who said ‘Manners maketh man’. As proud Eton alumni, I am sure you want to honor that saying. But I also know that human nature is fickle and pride might be a hindrance more than an aide in this instance. That is why I give you two options: either apologise to Mister Blackwood here, or fuck off this grounds before I get sick of your disgusting entitled faces”.

The water on the glasses was clearing off, giving Hamish the chance to watch four wet and humiliated candidates to enter the service scramble up and run away to the mansion, thus extinguishing their chances to become a Kingsman agent. 

His savior —come on, Hamish, you are no damsel in distress—, his benefactor, turned to face him. He looked much younger than his prowess had suggested. He offered Hamish his hand, although Hamish’s was wet and muddy. 

“Sergeant Harold Hart”

“Pleasure”, said Hamish, shaking his hand. “I am Hamish Blackwood, Merlin’s trainee”.

“I know. Merlin sent me, I’m his candidate. He suspected you’d be in trouble”.

Hamish huffed, not sure if he wanted to laugh or curse, and shook his head. He looked at Hart, who was looking at him with an amiable, non-comitant smile.

“Thank you for your service, Sergeant Hart”, Hart nodded, and turned his head to look at the three miserable figures half running in the distance, probably starting to feel the cold of the dusk. His smile widened. Hamish shook himself out of watching his rescuer — again? Control yourself, Hamish, for fuck’s sake—, adjusted his glasses and picked up his book. The cover sleeve read “Basic guide to programming”. 

“It wasn’t the founder of Eton”.

“Pardon?”, said Hart looking back at him.

“Manners maketh man. It was one of Eton Headmaster’s who wrote it in a book of proverbs and sayings. He took it from Winchester’s School motto”, explained Hamish, making a point to not look at Hart for the whole evening, least his chest would explode. 

Hart’s expression was completely neutral, and Hamish had already failed in his resolution. He tried not to skirm under Hart’s scrutiny, and then Hart smiled widely, this time, somehow, more sincerely, and said:

“Well, thank you for that bit of trivia, Blackwood. Let me repay you with an advise. I fou are going to hide what you are reading, choose a plausible cover. Nobody would believe someone with your level in computer science would be reading a basic programming guide. What is it, actually?”

“Pride and Prejudice”, mumbled Hamish.

“Lovely book. I always identified with Darcy when I was younger, now I guess it was pretentious of me”

“Not at all”, said Hamish before he could catch himself. 

They both shared a look. It was the kind of look that films used to tell you those two characters were sharing a moment of mutual understanding and admiration, which could later evolve in a much more closer connection and intimate feeling. They both independently realised it was that kind of look, and they both self-indulged in it a few more seconds. Then Hamish huffed a small laugh again. 

“I lost count on how many times I read it. It’s my comfort book for when I’m sick or feeling down”

Hamish smiled and nodded.

“I lost my third copy some months ago, in the burning of my barracks. I wanted to get a new one before coming here, but Merlin didn’t give me the time”. Hamish’s heart swelled.

“I could lend you mine”.

“No, then you wouldn’t be able to read it”.

“We could read it together. I was just starting when they pulled me to the lake”, that was a big fat lie, and he knew it, and he was pretty sure Hart knew it. But Hart’s face lit up, He got up and brought a blanket. He wrapped it around Hamish wordlessly, and then set a fire. He sat back next to him and, after a while, he said. 

“Well, go on. There’s not much light left, and they’re coming to pick us up anytime soon, after the boys get to the mansion complaining”.

Hamish smiled, showing his crooked teeth and began to read.