Sir Cyrius the Serious Makes Pancakes
Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort woke with a singular mission rattling in his knight’s helmet. He told himself he would make pancakes. He went through his usual routine and put on his heirloom of polished steel, which sat atop a crisply tailored suit and tie and went down into the kitchen to begin his batter.
Elara, an artist and occasional poet, slept in as he began to cook breakfast. She barely stirred, but her subconscious, sleeping mind still registered that her knightly boyfriend was no longer in bed. Sir Cyrius and Elara had only begun dating in the past two months, but they already felt like they knew each other for a lifetime.
He stood at the stove, helmet glinting in the morning light, moving with the precision of a knight before a holy relic. Flour, eggs, and milk transformed under his hands, the ingredients coming together like the components of an ancient spell.
Elara, wrapped in a robe of soft indigo, awakened and came down to watch him from the kitchen island. Her laughter, a melody of affection, danced through the air. She adored this man of contradictions, his solemn demeanor paired with his anachronistic armor.
“Sir Cyrius, you know you can take off the helmet,” she teased gently, her voice like a warm breeze. But she knew what his response would be. In the two months that they had been together, Sir Cyrius had never removed his helmet in front of her.
“Duty does not permit such liberties,” he replied, his voice resonating within the helmet. “Even in the making of pancakes.”
Her laughter was like a gentle chime, filling the loft with lightness. She stepped closer, her bare feet whispering against the concrete, and stood beside him. He measured flour with the precision of a scholar, cracked eggs with the deliberation of a surgeon, and whisked the batter with the rhythm of a maestro.
The batter sizzled on the griddle, releasing the aroma of vanilla and promise. Sir Cyrius flipped each pancake with a flourish, the golden discs stacking up like small victories.
Elara, with her artist’s touch, set the table with a flourish. A vase of fresh wildflowers—daisies and lavender—stood at the center, flanked by glasses of orange juice that glowed like captured sunlight. Berries, whipped cream, and syrup waited in anticipation.
When the last pancake was placed on the stack, Sir Cyrius removed his apron and saluted Elara with the spatula still clad in his hand, a knight’s gesture of completion of his noble task. He carried the plate to the table with a reverence that turned the mundane into the sacred.
They sat across from each other, the armored knight and the artist in her robe, a portrait of harmonious contrasts. As they began to eat, Elara reached out, her fingers brushing the cold steel of his gauntlet, a touch that bridged their worlds.
“Thank you, Cyrius. For the pancakes.”
He nodded, the helmet inclining slightly. “It is my honor, Elara.”
She caught a glimpse of Sir Cyrius’ five-o-clock shadow, despite the early hours.
The two shared a quiet moment as they masticated on Sir Cyrius the Serious of the Serious Sort’s pancakes. Sir Cyrius ate his stacks without any syrup, while Elara poured a generous serving of blueberry flavored syrup on hers.
Fred Aiken Writing 