#god im sick of them haunting my brain 24/7 i think abt them all the timeeeee i hate these losers

[ferrocyan]

reflection

crescenza told him to take walks.

it'll help him get used to his new body, he said. so tart did, and he didn't make it to the pub before having to return home and keel over from chest pains. he lays crumpled on the lounge sofa. watching the birds of falcon's nest fly under the cover of clouds. behind, father prepares dinner and crescenza brews tea.

the viera man walks over to place a cup before tart. "i didn't mean to say that you should go out today," he says with a soft laugh. "my apologies, young master."

"he should have known better," father says helpfully. tart opens his mouth to reply with a scathing yet witty remark, but all that comes out is a long, drawn out groan.

he opts for the tea instead. crescenza put it just out of reach--when tart extends his arm for it, the pain returns. it travels down the scar on his right shoulder to his chest and into his heart. right where odin had cut him down years ago. he curses, grips the table, and he could swear he hears crescenza laugh again. the bastard.

it was by his magic that tart has gotten a new body. a new face, or rather, his new old face. this is what the boy named orhtus would have grown up to become, had he not chosen to be... tart. or so crescenza assured him. tart wouldn't know the difference, anyhow.

the difference that stuck out, however, was the lack of scars. the magically altered body was pristine. free of the wounds earned from years of adventuring, of hard battles, grave injuries and deaths. it was... unrecognizable. even as he looked at it in the mirror, the body didn't feel like his own.

"i could impose your memories of the scars onto your body, if you'd like," crescenza offered then, "but that means reliving those memories until they take shape. are you certain you want that?"

tart said yes, and he doesn't regret it. but fuck if reopening his scars doesn't hurt like the seventh hell. the tea helps, though. crescenza tends to the herbs himself, enhancing their medicinal effects. tart feels the throbbing in his chest subside.

"thought to visit the see today. wanted to call jandelaine," he said, sulking as he couldn't manage it.

"the hairstylist? do you want a trim?"

"a shave." he'd been thinking of growing his hair out, but the idea suddenly feels insufferable. he wants nothing more than to take a razor and cut it himself, if that wasn't liable to end in more injuries. "'s a real bother now."

"in that case, the master can do it for you," crescenza suggests. "surely you know of his aptitude with the razor!"

tart and father turn to glare at him at the same time, which earns them an innocent beaming smile. father sighs and returns to his cooking. "i don't see why not," he says, and tart is too tired to argue. he says nothing, curling up in the seat until dinner is called.

they eat without much conversation. after the meal tart waits in the washroom while father grabs his tools. he comes with a set of scissors and many razor blades of different sizes.

a question occurs to tart. "do you ever go to a barber?"

"it isn't possible for me to visit one as much as i'd prefer," answers father. "i can manage on my own, there is no need to concern yourself."

tart stops feeling bad for him. "am not."

"how would you have me cut it?"

"short."

"this much?"

"shorter. shorter. yes, that."

tart set himself up across from the mirror in the washroom, and now he watches father's hands on the reflection as he works. starting from the sides, then the back. tart feels him trim the hair thinner towards the nape. he closes his eyes, waits in silence, until the scissors stop.

tart opens his eyes. the job is done, his hair has been mostly shaved off. quite well, at that. but father says nothing. he just stares at his handiwork with an unreadable expression on his face.

"what, something wrong?" tart tilts his head to look up at him.

father says in a low voice, "you look just like he did on the day we met." he says a name, which tart cannot remember long enough to hear. he doesn't need to.

tart inhales shakily, as if the air has been punched out of him. he looks at his own face. if he focuses on one feature at a time, he can see it--but all he sees is father. they have the same eyes, sharp with bright green irises; the same lips, bowed and thin. they look so similar, tart thinks. it's impossible to recall, does he look like dad at all? maybe he would be able to tell if he could see the forest instead of the trees. tart wrenches his eyes closed. how do you see a forest for more than the color green?

father places a hand on the dome of his head, softly petting his hair. "you have his nose," small, upturned, "his jaw," square, "your ears are longer, however. ah, but that reminds me." tart exhales and opens his eyes, just as father procures a bottle of dye from his bag of tools. "it's miqo'te custom to dye the tips of the ears black."

"dad tell you why?"

he snorts. "sure--in his words: 'cause it looks cool, duh!" tart does remember dad's voice, and he does a creepy yet accurate impression of it. he bursts out laughing.

after father applies the dye onto the outer sides of his ears, tart examines his reflection, flicking his ears back and forth. "this does look cool," he concludes, satisfied.

father hands the bottle to him. "keep it. i take it norvrandt doesn't have goods like these?"

"not... really," tart says. "right, i'm going back there."

"you should ask crescenza for his tinctures before you leave, in case anything happens. it wouldn't hurt to be safe."

"yes," tart says, thinking of looking for crescenza right then. he must have pulled a muscle, the pain in his heart is back. "tomorrow, then."

"of course." father has finished putting back his razors, and starts to clean the floor of hair. tart grabs a broom and helps, the two of them working together in silence.

tart curses himself. obviously things wouldn't change in a day. he's never offered to stay, and father would never ask him to do so. he puts away the tools and sighs. has to be you, he thinks. before father leaves the room, tart calls out to him, "papa, tha.. thank you. it's, um. it's great," he says, turning his eyes to the mirror. he doesn't see father's face then, but sees him bow and take his leave.

tart groans as he plants his face to the wall. maybe when he says he doesn't feel well enough to leave tomorrow, it won't have to be a lie.