From The Ashes

Chapter Twelve - An Unpleasant Reunion

Arvayn Bryvaris

Arvayn frowned, looking at himself, dressed in a new robe of fine red silk with gold embroidery in the likeness of regal ivy vines. His hair had been brushed through until sleek and seamless, and now rested upon his shoulders with the light touch of a gossamer shroud. His face had been washed clean, and his skin scrubbed pristine.

He tugged impatiently at the hems of the robe that hung about his ankles, and at the long, hanging sleeves. It was not that he disliked the robe that prompted his behavior. Rather, it was because he found the whole ordeal confusing and strange, yet also so familiar. It had been years since he'd donned anything as sumptuous as this noble mantle, so many that he'd all but forgotten the feeling of silk on his skin, the smell of fine perfumes and soaps and what it felt like to have someone dote and fuss over him.

He vaguely remembered the figure of a portly old woman, roughly in her mid sixties, bustling around his father's castle in an apron and a plain dress lined in wool. She'd smelled of dried herbs and wood smoke, and Arvayn could not see beyond her waist unless he craned his neck. She'd had big, thick-fingered hands and a firm grip, and had often made him whine and fidget by pulling a comb too vigorously through his hair, or tying it back so tight that it gave him headaches and swimming vision. It was rare that she had ever yelled at him though and, whenever he did look into her face, her smile waited to greet him and her eyes had always been bright and sparkling with good-will. It was a time he hadn't thought about in so long, nor did he ever even dream of being somewhat possible to return to.

As of now, he was sat on a stool in front of the dressing mirror in his new room, as he had been for at least half an hour now. Locke and Blythe had joined him in the room, and had presented him with the finished robe, he having been fitted for one by the tailor in town earlier that day.

Locke had been the lesser of the two when it came to tending to Arvayn's apparel, and had mostly fluctuated between sitting on the bed and watching, giving the occasional word of advice or criticism, and simply just meandering around the room, dusting off shelves with his fingers.

Blythe, on the other hand, practically pulled Arvayn into the robe the moment she walked into the room. She kept fussing over small details in the robe, constantly smoothing out apparent creases, and slapping his hands away in irritation every time he lifted them and began to fiddle and undo her smoothing.

Currently, Locke was lying on the bed, watching with an appraising eyebrow raised as Blythe began to toy with Arvayn's hair.

"That's a braid." Locke sneered, disapprovingly. "Don't tell me you're going to send him to the Lady's dinner wearing a braid."

An embarrassed heat crept it's way up Arvayn's cheeks. Blythe, however, showed no signs of even being a pinch flustered and spun on Locke, glaring at him from over Arvayn's shoulder.

"Indeed it is, and indeed I am. Why not?"

Locke scrunched up his nose in disgust, "What do you mean; 'why not?' The poor boy will get eaten alive, Blythe, that's why not! Her soldiers and guards will be in attendance and likely in armor. Then next to them, you'll have dainty little Arvayn in his flowing scarlet robes, with his hair tied back in a flowery braid!"

Blythe rolled her eyes and shook her head, applying her attention again upon continuing the braid.

"Well, who cares? I like it, so who says that they won't? You never know until you try, after all."

Locke sighed and threw himself backwards onto the bed.

"Sure. If you say so, Blythe. You have the benefit of the doubt as of now, but I assure you, the tables will turn come the conclusion of the feast. Then who'll be laughing?"