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There is a certain composure you can only find in the noises of a big city. The cold gusts of sea air making their way throughout the crowd. The soft cracking of the fire torches lighting up the streets. The clinking of metal and leather, crunching under every steps on the cobblestone pavements. Singers, musicians, dancers, performing their arts with the ringing of a few sovereigns, resonating on their metallic plates as their audience cheers in unison. The crows hoarse croaking as they take flight, scared by a Crow making their way on the rooftops.
“Sorry, friends.”, they whisper, trying to be more discreet on their way home.
Alba de Riva is wearing their usual bright red and yellow outfit, even if Viago always told them it was a bad idea. Flamboyant colours makes it harder to hide in the shadows and gather more attention, but from what they’ve understood since they joined the Antivan Crows: getting attention isn’t a bad thing when getting the job done.
Although this time, Alba wasn’t the only one attracting attention. They were almost home, just a few windows away from their bedroom, but they’ve heard a glass shattering. Now was not the time for discretion, they needed to act, quickly.
Jumping over the fences of the last remaining roofs, they notice this sound come from a familiar room in their House.
Ambroise.
Without thinking further, they jump down in the alley that lead to the quarters and open his door, scared he might have been attacked. Instead, they find an empty room. No lights on. But they hear the young man, hiding from sight behind his broken dressing table, eyes soaked with tears. His body shaking with angst, staring at the ground. And not far, a pair of scissors stabbed in the center, surrounded by shattered fragments of what was a mirror. Scared Ambroise might get hurt, they gently sit behind them and embrace their shoulders, to calm his sobs. Sensing all the tension and frustration in his muscles, they continue to massage them in comforting circles.
Noticing the tiny cuts on his feet, Alba moves closer to his side, pushing away some of the debris of the looking glass. The dark haired man still refuses to meet their eyes, gazing at something beyond what could be seen.
He hates what he saw. He hides in the darkness of his own bedroom, from the lights of his city and his own reflection. Because if he cannot see, he can escape his father. For a moment, not be reminded of his lineage. He despises seeing the King’s face in his traits. After everything he went through to become the man that he is, it is just— too much. He has tried to cut his hair, but the older he gets, the more he found ressemblance with the original bastard to whom he was one of many children. Despite loving his life as a man, it comes with side effects he abhor and struggles with. He hates the way he looks, he wanted to change it, but to look in the mirror again was to be reminded of the emotionless face of a man who never gave a damn about his children. When he looks at himself, he sometimes think back to those days when, even as a man, his body has been seen as that of a woman. He hates that body. He hates himself.
He has cried, comforting himself in his own arms because it was all he had. Until now. When he heard the door open, he pursed his lips, thinking it was probably Viago who was going to reprimand him and give him something to do to take his mind off things. But no. The person who entered had silent footsteps. Taking their time to look at the pitiful spectacle he displayed. When he finally dared open his eyes, Ambroise instantly recognized that red leather and yellow ruffles since only one Crow he knows wears them.
Alba know their friend was in a constant battle against himself, they understand it well, having gone through a similar battle, once. But they hate not being able to find the words they would have needed to hear back then. Maybe Ambroise didn’t need words after all. They do what they know best: acting, not talking. Sitting now right in front of Ambroise, they raise their hesitant arm, reaching for the rebellious lock of hair that was covering his face. They slowly tuck it behind his ear, tracing his cheek on the way back, taking the opportunity to pull his face up softly by the chin and look at him straight in the eye. His makeup was running down his cheeks, leaving a faint black ink under Alba’s thumb, but they do not mind.
“Not bad, that new look. I’m sure it’s trendy in Denerim, I approve.” they say, smiling warmly at their friend.
A small, wry grin draws on Ambroise’s face, taking over the anxiety that was swallowing him whole. Ambroise snuggles against Alba, feeling safer with their mere presence. Remembering the time they told him “It’s a lie to believe that we are only defined by our gender, or your parents. You’re so much more than that.”. The blond elf lowers their head and brings Ambroise closer, an arm on his shoulders, the other gently stroking his back with their fingertips. They can feel his heartbeat pulsing in a more steady rhythm, his panic attack ending, at last.
“Can you help me cut the rest?” the young human finally says, after a few minutes.
As the only answer, Alba removes the scissors from the wooden frame that used to hold the mirror, and shows him a chair near the window.
“If you trust me enough, of course.”
Ambroise wants to reply “There’s probably no one I trust more than you.” but no word escapes his mouth, he just nods instead, sitting on that chair.
By the moonlight, Alba cuts locks after locks carefully. They’ve been taking care of their own hair for a while, and it shows. Alba tries to capture the soul of Ambroise in that hairstyle, something that fits him but also matches his style and personality. Something short, functional and practical to fit his lifestyle and that won’t get in the way of his vision for his contracts; slightly shorter on the sides for his swiftness; a bit messy on the top for his rebellion.
Ambroise’s silver eyes are glistening, from the last tears — of joy, now — leaving their sockets, to the moon reflecting its light, like a mirror to his soul.
He’s gorgeous in this lighting.
“Really though, do you trust me, Roi?” they ask, dropping the scissors on the table and getting a liquid from one of their hidden pockets.
“Back with that nickname, huh?”
“I know you like it.”
They both chuckle, and Ambroise finally replies that he does trust him, closing his eyes as proof.
“It might itch a little, but I promise you it will be worth it.”
Alba take a brush from their travelling performer kit and quickly mix clear water with that odd, strong scented liquid.
“Smells like ass.”
“Not mine~”
“Pfft shut up. Are you done?”
“Just one more minute and—”
They try to find a big mirror shard to show him his new hairstyle.
“Ta—da!”, Alba bows, as if it was the curtain call of a show, their hand holding the shard in front of Ambroise.
His hair glows in a silver shade, but it isn’t the moon’s doing. The same colour as his eyes.
“H-How did you do that?”
“With that “ass”~”
They shake the tiny — now empty — vial.
“It’s a strong mix of alcohol and plants we use on stage sometimes. I thought it could… help? Do you like it?”
Ambroise takes the shard and looks at his reflection in disbelief.
“I’ve never liked a hairstyle as much before.”
“Then I should probably get another contract in Orlais and get more vials.”
They both grin. Alba is happy to see his dear friend feel better. They’ve never seen him smile so… wholeheartedly. It was cute.
“Leaving so soon? Didn’t you just came back from a mission abroad?”
“Well, you know how much Vi hates unfinished contracts…”
“I do.”, the silver haired man sighs, thinking about his half-brother.
Alba nods, and prepare themselves to leave the room, when Ambroise thanks them, for everything they’ve done.
“That was nothing, Roi. Wait until that grows back and we try something else.”
Alba walks off to him one last time and shuffles his hair, chuckling.
“See ya.”
They walk to their own room, arms crossed in the air behind their head, humming bard tunes and walking in the same same rhythm as their music.
Ambroise, now alone, looks at the other fragments on the floor and a warm feeling ignites in his heart.
That man in the mirror…That is him. That is truly him.