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He lives in a house covered and dressed like the faded decrepit disgraced nobility he is, made this way by the aunt and grandmother that simply can't let go; clutching tighter and tighter to a reality decades past. Blind to their faults, the faults that landed them here in the first place. Landed them amongst filth, amongst ruin, amongst the truly despicable. Their crime was simply hating a little girl. A crime they have repeated of course, on every single girl that has since followed. Too caught up in their bitterness to realize that such actions only seal their fate. Apathy would have saved them, too bad they chose hate.
His hands were born to work. In a bakery however, not a salon. Yet he takes to his work like a bird takes to the air. It's his responsibility after all. His Duty.
Duty. Such a fickle word in this place. What does it even mean in a place determined to rot? Is it to save? To protect? To nurture?
Protect. That's what he chooses. But not them. Not the ones who sentenced them here. Not the blood that hates those who serve them. No. He protects the younger. The cousins whose hands bleed and crack from bleach and whose arms and legs bear welts and bruising from canes. The girl with no irises in sight, just black barely seeing eyes and tangled curly hair. The girl, no woman, no siren whose knuckles are bleeding and bruised, whose breath reeks of alcohol. The children who reek of salt and fish that run and hide on decaying docks. That's what he protects.
His hands are also cracked from bleach. His legs and arms bear the scars of canes. His foot bears the scar, the chip taken out of it. But there was no one to save him. His mother was fragile, too frightened, too weak to save him from this fate. He must continue to bear it. That's what protection means. It means to either take it or be able to scare the harm away. And no one says no or scares away his grandmother. So he becomes perfect.
Perfection lessens the hurt. The more perfect he becomes the less they take stock in the others. He will carry the name afterall. They are just pawns to be used to elevate. Nothing more, nothing less. His clothes must be perfect. His hair must be perfect. His manners and etiquette must be perfect. Most of all, his company must be perfect. This is where he fails. Every step towards perfection is a step up the social ladder. A social ladder that pushed them off because they got caught, nothing else really. People forget that politics and courts are rarely clean.
Plenty know his weaknesses, or at least see parts of them, not truly understanding how deep they go. His disdain hides most of that. A weakness always dressed in red whether it's ruby, wine, or on occasion blood red. A weakness that clutches the jewels he wants to deck them in so tightly. Or a weakness whose pleading he will always give into. A weakness who promises that they will be on time for once or that says they had nothing to do with it. A weakness that he adores even while they laugh and giggle at his misfortunes with the other weaknesses.
Red. Such an interesting color in this place. It always pairs so nicely with mulberry and sangria tinged clothing. With rosewood and rouge. With castleton and grass. It's no wonder that he sticks so close to them. Purple may be the ruling color, but it's red that makes things happen. Especially in a place like this. Fancy words and illusions of morality mean nothing here. Only violence and subterfuge do. That's why he pairs as nicely with them as they compliment him. He's the soothing touch that makes emotions simmer down. The harsh honest words that twist around your head to make you bow before him. He is just as cruel as they are. Just as crazy. It's just a different kind. It mimics wine more often than not.
He has survived this long after all. In a place that strives to kill all that live there, one must have some skills to stay afloat. It's with these skills that he builds a raft with. That he sails away the youngest with. Away goes the girl with glasses and the twins cloaked in blue, neither of which belonged trapped here. Trapped in this hell. They were too good. Never had their fire completely extinguished yet. One might have been brighter but the others were better protected, better hidden away.
He has no hope for redemption. That was shattered years ago, if it ever existed in the first place. For now he focuses on those who could be. The girl whose mind had been twisted and drenched in fire her whole life, filled with stories that had been smothered in lies and whose meanings had been mistook. The girl whose words may fail her and tears that come too easily to her eyes, yet her hands remain steady and her heart remains good. The twins who followed orders a little too easily, rarely able to make their own decisions yet provided strength to those who needed it. The girl whose voice could fill a room or whose feet will never falter, balancing perfectly on a tightrope. The boy whose intelligence and words mean nothing here but will mean everything there. The cousins who saw too much yet were unable to help, bound by the confines of status and family ties, helpless to save the one they were bound to.
They could be saved. Many already were trying to be saved. He had tried to stop them at one point. Before it was known that there could be others. Before the traitors came back. One cannot live and let go here in this place. That's how people get killed. He certainly won't forget how they abandoned their blood. The only connection being taken away from this place being of mentor and student, of found sisterhood. Not the other three of course. They scorn those who helped them. The blood that uplifted them and protected them. The blood that kept their secrets safe for years, secrets that they would take to the grave. No. They shall never be forgiven. That's a right they will never earn. He and the other elders, the other protectors shall never forget.
They are the ones who forgot the cardinal rule of survival: Don't turn your back on those you scorn. It's them who shall pay the price. They became the oppressors afterall. Publicly declaring so even. He won't take direct action. That's not his style. But they won't find any welcome amongst them and those who do take action. Well they have his full support.
In the end, he is what he was born to be. What he was made to be. A baker's son. A disgraced lord. The only male. The eldest. The quartermaster. A hand in the darkness. The scissors amongst a sea of braiders. A decision maker. A word of wisdom. The angel or perhaps the devil on a shoulder.
He is layers on top of layers. Draped in lies and deceit. Shades of royalty and jealousy and love. Hands brushing and tinted with red.
It's all he's ever known.