Butterfly Reign - SilentTeyz

37

The regrets begin with a pile of clothes shoved into his arms. Scrunching up his nose, Tommy pinches the top of the dingy fabric and lifts it up as he realizes with soaring horror that this is what his brother is expecting him to wear.

"Absolutely not," he declares. "What if it has fleas?"

Jared rolls his eyes, and ruffles Tommy's hair with a smothered half-laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, the clothes are new. I'm almost certain of it."

"Almost?!"

Jared only smiles at him, eyes twinkling, and vanishes into the trees. Tommy is left alone to fume in his wake.

He rakes his hand through his hair to smooth it down, rather fruitlessly. The edges have been growing out a little, enough that the curls wind around his fingers and tickle the back of his neck, but not enough that he could flatten them without the help of a good comb and oils, both of which he had to surrender in pursuit of appearing more commoner-like. Cursing and damning whatever force had possessed him to give in to Jared's coaxing, Tommy hastily begins to change.

He joins the rest of the traveling party seething with frustration. The new attire proves to be as comfortable as he had expected, which is not at all. The undershirt drapes down all the way to his knees, over the ratty-gray breeches patched and unpatched countless times, and a woolen tunic is so long that it has to be tucked into his belt like a goose's tail, which is not even a belt but a fraying strip of fabric. The absence of fleas upon closer inspection is a small comfort; the coarse texture of the fabric causes him to itch all the same.

"Not a word," he threatens the grinning Purpled as soon as their eyes meet across the clearing where Wisp and his chosen subordinates are loading supplies into a beaten-down wagon. Somehow, Purpled's smile grows even wider.

"As you wish," he says with faux esteem and a little mocking bow. "I will not tell His Imperial Highness that he looks like a glorified potato bag."

Tommy rolls up his fists, and it takes every single thread of self-control in him not to clock him in the face, and only because it is undignified of a crown prince to go around punching people. It took him three years to erupt on Jared – one insolent servant will not be breaking his streak anytime soon.

He scowls just as his eyes fall on Jared helping his son into the back of the wagon. Fundy is picked up by the armpits, and kicks his feet back and forth in the air, prompting a sputtering laugh out of Jared. Tommy isn't sure what causes the sharp twinge between his ribs: looking at them, or looking away.

"I'll ride in the saddle," he tells Wisp, approaching to inform him to say that they're ready to depart.

He comes to lament that choice after two days of continuous riding plows his rear side into one giant bruise. With a decade's worth of experience under his belt, Tommy likes to think himself an excellent rider, but there is a difference between trekking meadows astride a purebred gelding and clambering up the foothills on a farm mare that cared as much for his comfort as the Emperor cared for his general well-being. Which, on its own, is an impressive feat.

The only reason he's able to climb into the saddle in the morning is Purpled watching him with keen eyes. The smug bastard doesn't even twitch a brow before he's mounted again and taking off in swift stride, and if he's not complaining, Tommy refuses to, either.

The roads were empty those days save for an occasional hunter dragging their game home, so the tents growing across the foothills causes turbulence through the travelers that is equal parts cautiousness as it is excitement. The guard Wisp sends ahead to investigate comes back carrying two messages: it's a merchant campside, and they're invited to share their fires.