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When Lyney looks into the sprawling mirrors of Chiori’s fitting room, he sees the most exquisite outfit he has ever laid eyes on.
He did not think something as mundane as clothing had the ability to render him speechless — having donned many extravagant outfits in his career as a magician — and yet, there is a moment he scarcely recognizes the image staring back at him: a black puffy-sleeved dress shirt made from fine silk that felt like the caress of gently flowing water on his skin, a double breasted waistcoat of silk brocade, patterned thread shimmering in all the brilliant colors of flame on a backdrop of pure black, and the coat — the most extravagant thing he had ever seen: made of the softest black velvet he had ever touched, lined in the same fine silk as his shirt. On it sat a giant bird, flowing across the fabric from his right shoulder to the hem: a phoenix, every stitch embroidered and beaded meticulously, its plumage shimmering brilliantly as it caught the light. He suspected that the embroidery alone had cost more than his entire wardrobe combined.
“You look quite the picture,” Father says, lounging in the armchair behind him. She had been watching him with all the intensity of a hawk. “No one could deny that you truly look like a ‘prince’ among men, now.”
His words fail him, at first. “F-Father, I couldn't… I couldn't possibly accept this.”
“Oh?” She rises from her chair in one swift, elegant motion, making her way toward him. The sharp metal click of her heels seems to echo. “That is a shame, seeing as it is already made. You are the only person in this world who can wear it so well, after all.”
“It must have cost a small fortune…”
“No more than a formal outfit I might own myself. Besides, it is bad manners to discuss cost when it comes to gifts.”
She's right behind him, now, close enough for him to feel her presence. She pins him with her stare in the mirror, those two diagonal crosses within her eyes — eyes that seem to see right through him, through every insecurity, every doubt, every facade.
“I’m sorry, Father. I… Thank you. It's truly beautiful… I don't know what to say.”
“Then do not say anything at all. I have no need for superfluous words — ‘thank you’ is perfectly sufficient. You should need a formal outfit such as this, as the heir to the House of the Hearth.”
The statement seems to hang in the air between them: heir to the House of the Hearth, her heir — her chosen ‘prince’. She has no foolish notions that Lyney's insecurities and tendency for self-doubt have somehow magically disappeared with his newfound title; she could see it all now, written on his face, between the furrowed brows and the downward quirk of his mouth.
“Do you know what bird that is?” Arlecchino questions.
“The phoenix,” Lyney answers. “An immortal bird, said to combust into flames spontaneously and be born again from its own ashes.”
“There is yet another immortal bird, in Liyuean legend,” she starts. “The King of Birds, unrivaled in both the sweetness of its voice and the brilliance of its plumage — a symbol of virtue, duty, benevolence, and mercy. It is said their appearance is a portent of world peace… or heralds the ascent of a great leader of men, who will preside over an era of peace.”
“...”
Somehow, she is struck by the rawness of his expression, like some dissonant chord has been struck within her also. To touch another willingly is a gesture alien to her but she places her hands on his shoulders anyway — and it feels wrong, somehow, clumsy and awkward and unfamiliar; a shiver of discomfort runs down her spine, yet the solid slope of his shoulders beneath her hands keeps her grounded. Arlecchino looks at them both in the mirror — in this light, she looks like a shadow towering over Lyney, like the shadows cast by the light of flame.
“It is a fitting symbol, for you will surely be a great King. Far surpassing the likes of myself.”
“...I could never surpass you, Father.” The earnest, quiet tone of Lyney’s voice — worlds away from the bravado and confidence he reserves for his show and his siblings and friends and strangers — disarms something within her, and she feels it falling away like petals on a withering flower.
Arlecchino can’t help but smile — sharp, like the edge of a razor. She doesn’t know how to smile any other way. “I believe you already have, in certain aspects,” Arlecchino says, finding herself with a sudden compulsion to brush away the hair falling into his face. She does just that, hyper-aware of every single motion and touch, taking care to not scratch the soft skin of his face with her claws.
“You should have more faith in yourself, my prince.”