Chapter 52: Repair

Elsie arrived with her sewing basket before the silence between Amor and Valdor had entirely settled. She entered the family sitting room with the solemn concentration of a surgeon responding to an emergency, though the object awaiting her attention was nothing more than a narrow strip of torn lavender silk resting across Amor’s palm. Her gaze moved first to the damaged ribbon, then to Valdor’s bare wrist, and finally toward the closed door through which Vervath had departed with none of his usual laughter following him. The entire story appeared to arrange itself in her mind without anyone needing to explain more than the essential facts.

"The High Cheftian pulled it..."

Amor said. Elsie’s mouth tightened.

"Accidentally..."

He added, because honesty required the distinction even if it did nothing to improve her opinion of Vervath’s hands.

"And he had already apologized for it."

"Did he apologize before or after nearly losing the use of his own arm?"

Valdor remained silent. That silence answered enough. Elsie set her sewing basket upon the table and took the ribbon from Amor with extraordinary care, handling the torn silk far more gently than the high chieftain had managed. She examined the frayed edges beneath the window light, then selected a needle so thin that Amor could barely see its point and a spool of lavender thread matched so precisely to the original dye that the repair might disappear entirely unless someone searched for it.

"This can be mended easily for someone like me. I will have it done in no time."

She said. Valdor’s gaze remained fixed upon the ribbon.

"Will it be weaker?"

He asked.

"Hmph! Only if treated carelessly..."

His jaw tightened. Elsie threaded the needle.

"Which it will not be again, I should hope."

The certainty carried enough menace to suggest Vervath should consider himself fortunate she had not been present when the ribbon tore. Amor knew Elsie had neither the height nor physical strength to challenge a Blackstone chieftain directly, but she possessed other weapons:

Household inconvenience, strategic silence, and an unmatched ability to make a grown man feel like a disappointing child through one prolonged look. Vervath’s continued stay at House Moons might become mysteriously less comfortable.

Elsie aligned the edges. Her needle passed through the silk in tiny, nearly invisible stitches, gathering the damaged fibers without puckering the ribbon. She worked from the reverse side first, reinforcing the tear with thread thin enough to preserve the flexibility of the cloth. Every few stitches, she smoothed the silk across her knee and checked that the seam would not create a rough ridge against skin.

Valdor watched as though she were restoring a wounded heirloom. Amor watched him. The warrior’s earlier anger had cooled, but disappointment still rested in the stiffness of his shoulders and the unusual quiet around him. Valdor was normally silent because he saw no reason to fill space unnecessarily. This silence felt different, containing words deliberately restrained because speaking them might wound someone he loved.

Elsie tied the final knot. She trimmed the excess thread and held up the repaired ribbon. The seam remained visible if one knew where to look, a slightly darker line crossing the lavender silk near one end. It did not ruin the ribbon. If anything, the repair gave it an intimacy the untouched fabric had lacked, proof that someone considered the token worth preserving after damage. Amor accepted it.

Valdor looked toward his wrist. Amor did too.

The original placement no longer felt secure. A ribbon tied around the warrior’s wrist would remain vulnerable during hunting, training, washing, cooking, carving, and every other activity Valdor performed with his hands. Even without Vervath’s interference, the silk might eventually catch upon leather or a weapon hilt.

Amor’s gaze lifted toward Valdor’s hair.

The warrior’s black braids rested over his shoulders, several decorated with carved pieces of bone, leather ties, and spaces where old beads had once been secured. Near the front, one braid remained plainer than the others, its binding changed after Valdor removed Sarka’s purple mountain-glass bead and gave it to Amor. The place looked almost expectant now. An idea formed.

"May I touch your hair?"

Valdor’s expression changed immediately. His ears warmed before he answered.

"Yes."

Amor gestured toward the floor beside the chaise.

"Come closer."

Valdor lowered himself without hesitation, kneeling beside him so Amor could reach the front braids without straining his wrist. Even on his knees, the warrior’s head remained high enough that Amor barely needed to sit forward slightly. Valdor noticed and shifted closer, careful not to disturb the carved support beneath Amor’s ankle.

Elsie handed Amor a small comb. Amor selected the braid nearest Valdor’s temple, the one beside the empty place that had once carried Sarka’s bead. He ran the comb gently through a loose section near its base, working out two small tangles with slow strokes. The black hair felt heavier and coarser than his own lavender strands, but it softened beneath patient fingers.

Valdor became very still. No one except family had handled his hair this way in years. Sarka had braided it during childhood, securing beads after hunts and retying loose sections while delivering practical advice he often pretended not to need. After her death, his sisters occasionally helped before ceremonies, while Vervath tended to grab any loosened braid with hands far too rough for precision, though the braid always came out looking good; it wasn’t gentle. Allowing Amor into that private ritual felt more exposing than baring his chest before an entire ballroom.

Amor sensed the significance without understanding all of it. His touch remained careful. He folded the repaired ribbon lengthwise, then threaded it through the braid near the front. Rather than tying it around the outside where it might catch, he wove the silk directly between the dark sections of hair, allowing flashes of lavender to appear with every crossing. The repaired seam disappeared safely inside the braid, protected by the hair surrounding it. Valdor’s eyes lowered.

Amor finished near the end, tying the remaining silk in a small, secure knot. He left only a short tail visible, enough for the lavender color to be recognized without hanging loose where careless hands could reach. The braid now rested beside the place that had once held Sarka’s mountain-glass bead.

The image struck him. One token had moved from Valdor’s hair to Amor’s chest. Another had moved from Amor’s hair to Valdor’s. The exchange formed a quiet bridge between them.

"There..."

Amor said. Valdor turned toward the nearest mirror. Lavender silk threaded through black hair, delicate without appearing fragile, the repaired ribbon now incorporated into something stronger than itself. He lifted one hand as though intending to touch it, then stopped before his fingers reached the braid. Amor smiled.

"You may touch your own hair."

Valdor’s fingertips brushed the ribbon. The air around him brightened. His expression barely changed by ordinary standards, yet Amor saw it. His obsidian eyes softened, the tips of his ears darkened with shy color, and the smallest smile curved his mouth. The warmth surrounding him became so visible that Amor could almost imagine sunlight gathering beneath the warrior’s skin.

"You like it that much?"

Amor observed.

"Yes."

"Good. It will be safer there."

"Yes."

"And no one may touch it without permission."

Valdor looked toward the door Vervath had used.

"No one."

Elsie packed away her needle with satisfaction.

"It suits you."

Valdor inclined his head toward her.

"Thank you for repairing it."

"Yes, thank you, Elsie. Your skills are truly amazing as always."

She paused. The gratitude appeared to affect her more than she expected. Elsie had heard of maids serving nobles who treated skilled labor as air—necessary, invisible, and unworthy of acknowledgment. Valdor thanked servants directly, remembered names, and looked at her stitches with the same respect he gave carvings made by his own hands. Amor, born with no need to be kind or generous, still treated everyone under their care as people, offering genuine thanks and gratitude for the simplest actions expected of a servant.

"You are welcome, my lords."

She said. The sitting-room door reopened. Lanslet returned carrying a written list of books he intended to retrieve from the estates library, along with notes for a messenger who would visit the royal academy. He stopped upon seeing Valdor kneeling beside Amor with the lavender ribbon braided prominently into his hair. His gaze moved between them.

"What happened to tying it on the wrist?"

"I thought it over and figured it is safer there."

Amor explained. Lanslet examined the placement. The ribbon could be seen but not easily seized, its lavender color visible beside Valdor’s dark temple like a public acknowledgment softened by personal care. His expression became complicated, caught somewhere between concern that the courtship token had grown more intimate and relief that Vervath could no longer tear it by grabbing the warrior’s arm.

"Mm. That’s sensible considering what just happened. Speaking of, will you come in already? I didn’t lecture you just so you can hide behind me."

He admitted as he spoke. Valdor rose; the slight smile remained even as Vervath appeared behind Lanslet. He appeared considerably less confident than before but apparently incapable of remaining away, mainly due to already getting an earful from Lanslet. He noticed the ribbon immediately. Relief entered his expression when he saw it repaired and safely woven into Valdor’s hair.

"That looks better..."

Valdor turned toward him. Vervath’s voice faltered.

"A-and safer."

"Yes."

"I will not touch it again. I vow this. Really, never ever from now on."

"No."

The answer was blunt enough to confirm the boundary remained intact. Vervath accepted it. Lanslet looked toward Amor.

"I will collect the rest of the language books now. Elsie can assist with carrying them, and I have sent a request for newer Blackstone materials from the diplomatic library."

Amor smiled.

"Thank you, Father."

"I will also include common-language histories written for foreign students..."

Valdor’s eyes shifted toward him. Lanslet continued before the warrior could interpret the offer as correction rather than exchange.

"Amor intends for both of you to study."

"Yes."

"And no one will insult my son’s suitor beneath my roof because of an accent."

Valdor became still. The words were spoken almost casually, but their protection was unmistakable.

"Thank you."

He said. Lanslet adjusted the papers in his hand, slightly uncomfortable with receiving gratitude for a standard he considered obvious.

"It is basic hospitality and the least I can do for my son’s suitor and a foreign envoy."

Vervath looked toward the windows right as Valdor set his sights on him.

"Before lessons, Dad and I will spar..."

Everyone turned toward him. The chieftain attempted a smile.

"It is how Blackstone resolve issues."

Vervath’s expression became unreadable.

"You wish to spar?"

He asked, his confidence weakened.

"Lightly..."

Valdor looked toward Amor.

"I will return for language study after."

Amor saw the lingering hurt beneath his calm and understood what the spar likely meant. Blackstone men apparently resolved emotions through controlled violence more readily than extended conversation. He could object, but the matter belonged between father and son unless either endangered the estate.

"Do not break anything expensive, okay Valdor?"

Amor said. Valdor looked toward Vervath.

"I will try."

The chieftain swallowed. Lanslet gathered the book list and headed toward the door.

"The training yard is behind the western gardens."

Valdor followed. Vervath trailed several steps behind him, his earlier apologetic expression was increasingly replaced by caution. He looked back toward Amor as though hoping the injured noble might intervene. Amor waved his fan.

"Enjoy yourselves."

Vervath’s mouth tightened. Valdor’s expression softened again at the farewell.

As the three men began leaving, Amor’s attention shifted toward the final pastry disappearing beneath a servant’s silver cover. The young man carrying the tray moved with excessive speed, undoubtedly hoping to escape before the young master noticed what had been removed. Amor noticed.

He waited. Lanslet passed into the corridor. Valdor followed. Vervath crossed the threshold last, glancing once more toward the lavender braid and wisely keeping his hands close to his own body. The moment all three men disappeared, Amor pointed his fan toward the servant.

"You there."

The servant froze.

"My lord?"

"That pastry. Hand it over."

He looked toward the covered tray.

"The-the meal has concluded, Lord Amor."

"The pastry has not."

"I-I believed you had finished. Master Moons asked we clean up—"

"I was distracted by emotional disaster. However, now I am famished because of said disaster passing. Now hand it over, please."

The servant looked toward Elsie for rescue. She lifted one brow. He returned the tray. Amor held out his hand. With visible resignation, the servant uncovered the last honey-glazed pastry and placed it upon a small plate. Amor accepted it with the serene dignity of someone reclaiming stolen property rather than undermining Doctor Haverin’s nutrition plan.

"This never happened."

"Y-yes, my lord."

"You saw nothing."

"No, my lord."

Elsie looked toward the pastry.

"I saw it, my lord."

Amor took a bite.

"Your loyalty is being evaluated then. Humph!"

Elsie bowed; her smile remained professional, and though she wanted to discourage Amor’s need to devour anything covered in cream and powdered sugar, she felt he deserved this one treat for today. She turned and walked out, intending to follow Lanslet and help him retrieve those books her young master requested.

---

Outside the bedroom, Valdor stopped in the corridor. Vervath nearly walked into his back. Lanslet turned.

"What is it?"

Valdor looked toward Elsie, who had followed them to the doorway after ensuring Amor possessed his secretly recovered pastry.

"Open that window."

She glanced toward the tall window across from Amor’s bedroom door.

"Why?"

"The spar begins now."

Vervath stepped backward.

"Perhaps the training yard would be—"

Elsie, confused but accustomed to unusual Blackstone requests, unlatched the window. Cool air entered the corridor, carrying the scent of gardens and distant trees. The opening was broad enough to provide a clear view of the estate grounds three floors below. Valdor turned toward his father. Vervath raised both hands.

"W-wait! Wait! We should discuss rules!"

Valdor moved. The entire exchange happened too quickly for Lanslet to react.

Valdor ducked beneath one of Vervath’s arms, wrapped both hands around his father’s waist, and lifted the high chieftain clear off the floor. Vervath’s legs rose as his son hoisted him across one shoulder in a movement resembling the wrestling exhibitions occasionally performed during kingdom festivals, though no entertainer had ever looked so grimly serious.

"Valdor!"

The warrior stepped toward the window.

"[Son!]"

Another step.

"[Your father has apologized!!]"

Valdor adjusted his grip. Vervath’s eyes widened.

"[I said I was sorry!!]"

Valdor threw him through the window. Lanslet made a strangled sound. Vervath disappeared beyond the sill. For one impossible moment, the corridor remained silent except for the faint rustle of curtains moving in the open air. Then Lanslet found his voice.

"We are on the third floor!!"

Valdor looked out the window.

"Yes..."

His tone carried disappointment.

"Only the third floor..."

He added.

"Tsk. He will survive..."

Lanslet stared at him. Valdor turned from the window and continued calmly toward the staircase, his lavender-threaded braid resting safely near his face. He walked with the controlled pace of someone proceeding to an arranged appointment rather than pursuing the father he had just thrown from a noble manor.

"I will meet him outside."

Lanslet’s mouth opened. No coherent words emerged. Valdor disappeared down the corridor. The marquess rushed toward the window.

He leaned over the sill, pale lavender hair falling forward as he searched the ground below. The estate lawn spread beneath them, softened by flower beds and a thick hedge near the wall. Vervath lay flat upon his back several feet from the hedge, arms spread, wolf pelt twisted beneath one shoulder.

"Vervath!!"

The chieftain did not move. Lanslet’s heart stopped.

"Are you alive?"

A cough rose from below. Vervath groaned. Then one arm lifted. His thumb extended upward. Lanslet gripped the windowsill.

"Does this count as murder? Will the treaty remain valid if the next chieftain kills the current one upon my property?"

Vervath began laughing. The sound turned into another cough.

"[Cheap shot, son!]"

He called.

"You were thrown from a third-floor window!"

"Mm. I noticed. Did you see how far he tossed me? I can’t tell if his aim got worse or better! Hohohahaha!"

"Do not sound amused!"

Vervath pushed himself onto one elbow, wincing as he tested his back.

"He is truly angry!"

"That was already apparent!"

"He has not attacked me like that since he was small!"

"He threw you out of a manor!"

"A strong throw!"

Lanslet stared down at him in disbelief. Vervath climbed slowly to his feet, rolling one shoulder and checking his ribs. Whatever bruises formed would be impressive, but no bone appeared broken. Blackstone bodies, Lanslet decided, had been constructed according to different principles from ordinary men.

"I am not as young as I was..."

Vervath called.

"But I remain sturdy!"

"You are deranged! Absolutely insane!"

"Hohohahaha! I will live!"

The chieftain looked up. Then his grin returned.

"Oh? Why do you look so frightened?!"

"I thought you were dead, you fool!"

"Aww. Were you so worried?! You will get ugly if you worry too much, Lans! Hahahahoho!"

Lanslet’s concern evaporated. He narrowed his eyes. For one satisfying instant, he wished he had been the person who threw Vervath through the window. The man had broken his son’s ribbon, disrupted every meal, discussed grandchildren before courtship reached its second day, and now found humor in another person’s perfectly reasonable fear of diplomatic homicide.

"Fool! I was worried about the treaty!"

Vervath placed one hand dramatically over his heart.

"How cruel!"

"You are standing beneath my window after being thrown three floors and choosing flirtation with death!"

"It was not flirt-tation! If I were flirting I would have done a much better job resisting my son’s attack!"

Lanslet closed his eyes. Footsteps approached the lawn behind Vervath. Heavy, measured and obviously unhurried. The chieftain’s smile weakened. He looked toward the manor entrance.

Valdor emerged from the western doors. The younger warrior had removed nothing, tied back nothing, and made no preparation beyond keeping the lavender braid safely positioned near his temple. His expression carried such cold determination that the garden servants stopped working and quietly moved farther away. Vervath looked up toward Lanslet.

"I-uh should go now!"

"You accepted the spar!"

"Y-yes well... a Blackstone warrior never backs down from a fight!"

"Then remain! I am curious to see the outcome of such a spar!"

"The... the opening field reveals unfair conditions!"

"You broke the ribbon, you brought this on yourself!"

"Accident! It was an accident!"

Valdor continued approaching. Vervath stepped backward.

"This is not running!"

He announced. No one had accused him yet. He backed toward the forest edge. Valdor increased his pace. Vervath turned.

He ran.

"I am not prey!!"

He shouted over one shoulder.

"This is merely how Blackstone spar!!"

His retreating figure provided no support for the claim. Valdor followed at a steady pursuit, neither sprinting nor shouting, which made the chase far more ominous. The lavender ribbon remained bright in his hair as both men disappeared beyond the first line of trees.

Lanslet remained at the window. A distant crash sounded. Then Vervath shouted something unintelligible. Another impact followed.

"[Mercy!! Ack!!]"

Valdor’s reply was too low to hear.

"[I apologized!! Oof!!]"

A flock of birds erupted from the forest canopy. Lanslet slowly stepped back from the sill.

"I have endured enough Blackstone worry for one afternoon..."

He paused.

"One lifetime..."

Elsie stood beside the open window, expression composed despite having witnessed a foreign chieftain launched into the garden. Lanslet turned toward her and pointed firmly toward the latch.

"Close it."

"Yes, my lord."

"And help me retrieve Amor’s books."

"Of course."

"You will not speak of this to my son."

Elsie looked through the window one final time. At the forest edge, Valdor’s dark figure crossed briefly between the trees. A moment later came another crash, a pained howl, and Vervath loudly promising never to touch another ribbon for as long as he lived. Elsie felt no great urgency to summon help.

"Hmph. He broke one of the young master’s favorite ribbons."

She said. Lanslet looked toward her.

"It was an accident."

"Yes..."

A scream echoed from the trees. Elsie shut the window.

"The consequences appear appropriate."

Lanslet stared at her for several breaths before deciding he did not possess enough strength to argue with another member of his own household even if he did somewhat agree. He gathered his book list and walked toward the library with the exhausted dignity of a man pretending foreign envoys were not conducting a violent family reconciliation in his forest. Elsie followed.

Behind Amor’s closed door, the young master ate his reclaimed pastry in complete ignorance.

Outside, Vervath discovered that apologies might open the path toward forgiveness, but they did not always eliminate the spar required before reaching it.