The room was stifling; thick with the scent of lilies, air heavy with swirling tendrils of steam. A low fire smouldered in the far corner, illuminating a large wooden tub, still half-filled with perfumed water. A trail of flower petals and glistening wet footprints followed in the wake of a slender figure, his pale skin glowing by the soft light of the candles that had been placed in front of the mirror on his dressing table. Avari looked at his reflection and, taking a deep breath, pulled away the cloth wrapped around his still damp hair, allowing the long auburn locks to flow over his exposed shoulders. His body was mostly bare, with only a strip of white cloth tied about his waist, but the warmth from the hearth was more than enough to combat the chill of the water droplets that slid from the ends of his hair and traced their way down his spine.
His eyes wandered over the precious items that had been left for him. Neatly folded on a stool beside him was a tunic of the finest linen he had ever seen, and a white so pure it seemed to emit a light of its own. Long, delicate fingers traced over the scarlet embroidery that adorned the neckline, expertly feeling out the glossy texture of the silk threads he had stitched himself. Intricate swirling patterns that hinted at the spiralling forms of mythical beasts, but never quite resolved into an image, instead drawing the eye into a whirling dance of coiled shapes. It was quite possibly his best work and, his chest tightened painfully at the realisation, most certainly his last.
Shaking his head lightly, he lifted his fingers away from the soft fabric, and picked up a small crystal pot, his eyes glancing over the unfamiliar object. The pale green stone was smooth and cool to the touch, but warmed quickly beneath the skin of his fingertips. The lid had been intricately carved with an image of the sun, and inlaid with swirling gold filigree; a precious treasure that had been kept safe by countless generations of village elders. It was normally hidden away in the shrine on the outskirts of the village, but just for tonight, it belonged only to him. Its sacred contents, a symbol of the great task ahead of him.
Placing it carefully back on the dresser, with a soft clink, he picked up a fine toothed wooden comb, perhaps one of the only objects before him that he recognised as truly his own. It had once belonged to his mother, and was now one of the few things he had left to remember her by. He wondered whether she would have been proud of him, had she lived long enough to see this day, as his fingers traced gently against the narrow teeth of the comb, a sad smile pulling at the sides of his mouth. Shaking his head softly to break his reverie before his mind could wander any further, he lifted the comb up and gently raked it through the length of his hair, untangling any knots, and flicking little droplets of water from the tips.
Were this any other day, he would have pulled his hair over one shoulder, and twisted it into a loose braid to keep it out of the way. When let down it reached past his waist, and though too soft to tangle much, it could be a bit of a nuisance. Today though, he wasn’t required to work out in the fields, or scour the surrounding woodlands for useful herbs. Today, his only job was to stand still, silent, and beautiful. He finished brushing through his hair, now almost completely dried by the heat from the fire, and draped it, silk like, down the naked skin of his back.
He reached out once again, his long slender fingers stretching delicately towards the ornate little pot on the dresser, then removed the lid and placed it carefully, with a degree of reverence, to one side. Taking a slow, deep breath, he plucked a fine tipped brush from a selection that had been left for him, and dipped it into the pot, coating the fibres with a vibrant red paint. It wasn’t the first time he had seen his face in a mirror, but he had never owned one himself, so he was a little startled to see his own reflection staring back at him, skin near glowing in the flickering candle light. Like a ghost, his mind supplied, but he quickly pushed the thought aside so he could focus on what he was doing. He did his best to still his hands, as he lifted them to his face, his right palm resting lightly on his cheek, as his left slowly traced the outline of one of his warm brown eyes with the paintbrush. Forcing himself to remain steady, he finished off with a subtle flick on the outer corner of his eye, before moving on to the other one.
Admiring his handiwork, he nodded, turning his face slightly from side to side to make sure everything looked perfect. It looked well enough, and he knew it wouldn’t matter all that much anyway as his eyes wouldn’t remain uncovered for long. Thinking about it now, it seemed like such a silly little detail, but today was not a day to be arguing with tradition. Next he dabbed his finger lightly at the paint that remained on the brush, picking up just a slight trace of pigment, which he rubbed gently into his cheeks to try to bring out a little more colour than his nervous state would naturally allow. He didn’t want to look as terrified as he felt. It would make things so much harder on everyone.
His lips were next to be brought to life with a sheer swipe of the paint. It was just the tiniest bit greasy, and gave them a moist and plump look that he had never seen on his own face. It wasn’t unattractive, he admitted to himself, but made it look a little like he’d been nibbling on them. Dipping the brush once more, he held it up to the centre of his forehead, while checking to make sure that his hair was well out of the way. His hand moved automatically, deftly tracing out the tiny outline of a sun, taking great care to keep it as delicate and symmetrical as possible. Beautiful, he reminded himself. I must be beautiful.
After considering his painted features in the mirror for some time, and finally deciding that he was satisfied, he stood gracefully and stepped over to the neatly folded clothing he had been admiring earlier. He untied the cloth from around his waist and let it fall to the floor without ceremony, and reached down to pick up his undershirt, made of the same white linen as the rest of the garments. It was simply constructed, with very little shaping, and not too different from what he would usually wear, but the fabric was far finer than anything he’d ever owned before. It ghosted over his bare flesh as if it was made of nothing but air, leaving behind a light tickling sensation and a trail of goosebumps as it flowed down his torso.
It was loose to the point of decadence, despite its simple cut; the gathered folds swirling around his body with even the most subtle of his movements. It cut off well above his knees, leaving his thighs still exposed as he tiptoed softly back to the pile to retrieve the matching breeches. After pulling them on and tightening the string encased in the waistband, he lifted a pointed foot up onto the chair, and wrapped a strip of white cloth around his ankles to fasten the bottom of the breeches in place and prevent them from dragging on the ground. Once both legs had been firmly secured, and the gathers that pooled at his ankles were artfully arranged, he carefully picked up the intricately embroidered tunic with both hands. He brought it close to his chest as if to embrace it, and gazed down at the thousands of tiny stitches that had taken his own hands months to produce.
It had been made to reach almost to the floor when worn, but the side seams were split up to the thigh, so it slid on over his head and body with almost no effort. The heavily embroidered opening at the neck was shaped like a keyhole, with a vertical slash down the centre that fell open slightly, so that the skin of his chest remained visible.
Only one more item remained, and it was the only thing he hadn’t had a hand in making. A long sash of the finest berry red silk he had ever seen, a soft silken fringe flowing from each end. It slipped through his fingers like water when he tried to lift it, and cascaded over his hands, surprisingly cool against his skin. The flickering candles cast a soft light that danced across its folds and deepened the rippling shadows that formed as he wrapped its length around his willowy frame. He secured it with a knot just above his hip, and allowed the loose ends to tumble freely over his left thigh.
Avari stepped back, and took a long appraising look at his reflection. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, perhaps possessing just a little more height than the average man living in his village, but it was enough to make it difficult to see himself fully without contorting a little in front of the small mirror. He had never thought too deeply about his looks before now, he rarely travelled beyond the borders of his village, so it never seemed to matter all that much. In that moment though, his eyes widened slightly as they trailed over his gracile form. The layers of fine fabric dripped over him, swaying gently with each tiny movement and accentuating the curves of his body. Where his usual garments were coarse and sturdy, these seemed to melt into him and cling in a way that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
The stark contrast of the scarlet embroidery made his pale skin appear almost luminous, and picked out the copper tones in his hair. His lips parted briefly, as if the sight of his own image would compel him to speak, but he only mouthed wordlessly at his reflection before clearing his throat and sweeping towards the entrance of the room. The loose tail of his tunic floated behind him, suspended in the air and dancing in circles as he walked.
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