A grey dining jacket was put on him, over the top of a brilliant white shirt, with a ruffled cravat, of the sort that Lombard had been wearing earlier. The maid had cut his hair that very afternoon, and combed it, all the while tutting at the unfairness of it all, for someone of Beam's – or Oliver's – station, to have spent so long living in the woods.
"It was for training," he told her, carefully, unsure of what Lombard himself had said.
"Oh, I heard all about your training, and I see it on your skin, more easily read than a book. A boy your age shouldn't be covered in so many scars," she said. "It makes me wonder just what your father was thinking."
Oliver had looked at her dangerously then, for his reaction was more of this 'Oliver's' than Beam's. He had merely needed to look at her to display his dissatisfaction. She gasped, when she saw the gold light up his eyes, and quickly apologized, continuing to do his hair in silence.
Even in silence, what she had produced was something of a marvellous transformation. If Nila had seen him then, she would have burst out laughing, as would the other villagers. He'd never been so clean in his life, it was an uncomfortable thing.
He found himself stepping out into the garden as unsure as a newly shoed horse – even these well-fitting shoes felt heavy and foreign to him. He wanted nothing more than to be rid of it all, and return to what he was used to wearing in the village.
With thoughts of them, that hollowness in his heart that had come with the loss of Dominus, it vibrated once again, and he realized he hadn't had Lombard tell of what happened to them. In truth, he hadn't thought to ask. It was taking him hours to get his thoughts in order, and even then, they weren't as they should have been. There was an extreme fragility to it all now.
Beam had to marvel at the garden. He had to marvel at the wealth of a family that could afford to cultivate such an amount of grass, merely for the purposes of pleasure and appearance.
"Oliver, this is Lord Blackwell," Lombard said, his tone betraying no indication of what he expected from him.
Oliver – he was making sure to think of himself as Oliver now, lest he slip up mid-conversation with this man – did the only thing he could think to do, and bowed slightly at the waist to make his introduction.
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"Hoh..." Was all Lord Blackwell said, as he looked him up and down, radiating interest, allowing his pressure to bear down on Oliver, without even thinking of holding it back.
Beam guessed that he was at least of the Fourth Boundary, but he wasn't sure entirely if it was his strength that gave him such a daunting presence, or whether it was his position, for as Lombard said earlier, there was an entirely different dimension of strength there.
Oliver wasn't sure if he approved of what he saw. When the silence stretched on, he merely waited, glancing occasionally at Blackwell's sword, and then squinting at Lombard, to see if he could glean anything from him.
"As you see, he is missing the training one would expect of a noble," Lombard pointed out.
"Hm. Indeed. Indeed. The way he carries himself... You can see Dominus in him. A firm stamp, that one left, a firm stamp. Well then, boy, pleased to make your acquaintance.
I was an associate of your father – we fought side by side on more than one occasion. I don't suppose he's mentioned me?" The man spoke in the sort of booming voice that one would expect from his appearance, but there was a civilized edge to his words that spoke of suffocation. It made for an interesting combination.