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The eleventh bell rings and rings and rings, and Father still doesn’t come. He throws down the practice sword. His arms hurt—he thought, he thought Father might be proud, if he came in and Haurchefant was training—
But he’s not here. Haurchefant looks at where his sword landed: oh, on his desk. Laying across yesterday’s sums, which he’d left out so Father could see how hard he’d been studying—
Plap. His training dummy’s scaled tail, made of an old belt and colored paper, lands on the floor.
Father has never missed his nameday before. He’d always come in sometime after Blale brought Haurchefant’s breakfast to his room. Usually, Father even brought him a small gift. Last year, he’d given Haurchefant a silver necklace in the shape of a shield, a tiny family crest inscribed upon it—
He pulls it out from under his shirt. Wraps his hand around the warmed metal. Father can’t have forgotten. Not now that Haurcefant is ten summers—old enough to be a page—
He sits on his bed. Father must be running late. Business or dragons or something, anything.
The Manor is quiet like always—except for the banging in the kitchen against his south wall. The Family would’ve finished breakfast bells ago—Father should be here—
Or. Is he too old, now, for Father to visit on his nameday?
And then—a knock, so faint he can barely hear it. He wipes his eyes, stuffing the necklace back under his shirt. It can’t be Father—Father knocks loudly once, and then comes in. Haurchefant puts on his smile as he crosses the room. He opens the door and Emmanellain grins up at him, shy and gap toothed.
A prickle, behind his eyes: when had Emmanellain started losing teeth? How long has it been, since Haurchefant got more than a glimpse of him? His brother tugs on a green thread dangling from his sleeve. “Can I come in?” he whispers, not quietly.
He shouldn’t be here. If the Countess finds out—
But Haurchefant smiles as brightly as he knows how, stepping aside to let his little brother in. And if he shuts the door near fast enough to clip Emmanellain’s heels (Halone, please, let it be alright—) well, of course his brother doesn’t notice, instead, shouting without a care in the world, “Happy Nameday, brother!” as he flings himself into Haurchefant’s arms.
He laughs, catching the smaller boy easily, and he spins them around as Emmanellain giggles, clinging to him with warm little hands. “Thank you, Emem!” Haurchefant says, as he sets his brother down.
Fury, but the Countess will be furious—
“I made you something!” Emmanellain says, tugging at the thread of his sleeve again. Worrying at it. They’d be livid if he cut it for Emmanellain—accuse him of trying to damage the young lord’s clothes or something—and so he settles for smiling down at him.
“Made me something?” A card, probably? Verlius says Emmanellain’s penmanship is good for his age, though his spelling is terrible. And since he’s the one who serves tea during Emmanellain’s tutoring sessions, Haurchefant sees no reason to doubt him. “You didn’t have to—“
His brother gives another gap-toothed smile. “Here, here! Tell me you like it, brother!”
“I like it,” Haurchefant laughs, as he waits for Emmanellain to show him what, exactly, he’s supposed to be liking.
Emmanellain beams at him and pulls a folded piece of cloth out of his pocket. It’s a rich shade of red, like the wine Father prefers, and is folded so neatly. “It’s a handkerchief!” Emmanellain announces, even as Haurchefant takes the cloth in his hands.
It’s soft—and feels absorbent—and he guesses it’s likely Thavnairian cotton, though he can’t be sure. Haurchefant unfolds it and embroidered on the red cloth is—he thinks it’s probably supposed to be a unicorn? He counts four or five legs, something like a muzzle, and… maybe one of the legs is a horn? But the stitches themselves are tight and tiny, if unorganized in design. And below the probably-a-unicorn are the letters: HF.
The initials are beautiful, simple but surprisingly elegant for an eight year old lad to have stitched. And—Emmanellain’s put HF, not HG. His throat works as he stares down at the cloth. “You… did this? All by yourself?”
“Yes! Well, I bought the cloth. But I did the stitches! Do you like it?”
“I—“ Haurchefant smiles smiles smiles—his hands tremble—“I love it.”
And Emmanellain claps, half-jumping, his dear little cheeks flushed with pleasure. “I knew you would! Promise you’ll wear it when you’re a Knight? Next to your heart, like in the books!”
Haurchefant laughs. He presses the handkerchief to his chest. “I’ll never part from it, little brother. Of that, you have my word!” And he offers a little bow, smiling down at his brother, and he almost forgets about Father and the Countess and that he’ll be sent away to be a page soon, and instead, instead, he sweeps his brother back up into a hug, pressing his face into the soft citrusy scent of Emmanellain’s hair.
And when his brother asks, so sweetly, “Can we play Knights and Dragons?” all Haurchefant can do is laugh, and wrap the dragon tail belt around his own waist, and chase Emmanellain about the room with tickling fingers and roars while the boy shrieks with joy—
It’ll be worth the cold hours on his knees, elbows deep in lye. Halone will watch him, as she ever does, as he scrubs the flagstones of the family chapel.