Thomas gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, sure, gang up on me. Kick me while I’m down. Go for it, hey; I’m an easy target.”
Edwin could feel a headache coming on. “What in the world are you blithering on about…?”
He watched, agog, as the wretched wizard sagged into the chair Edwin had just vacated. There was something rather aesthetically compelling about it, something of the master oil painter’s muse; the lamenting beauty and his riotous chestlock locks, surrounded by warm fiery tones and inexplicable baskets of half-peeled potatoes. Nude but for the look of anguish on his elegantly devastated face.
“Why do I bother?” he mourned, tragically woebegone, sagging further and further in Edwin’s chair. Hands in hair, back bowed, bare backside all but ready to slide off the edge of the cushion if he slumped any further. “I mean, why even try, right? Why go to the hassle? Not like any of you even care.”
“About your beauty regime? No, not especially,” said Edwin, dry as an old twig.
Thomas groaned, wounded. “Guess I’ll just report to the king tomorrow, then, huh? They can shave it off in a fucking soldier’s buzz and I can go die on a battlefield someplace, ugly and alone. Sound good?”
“Master!” Niko cried in anguish.
“Bloody drama queen…” Charles muttered.
“Or, you can take a little trip up the stairs and dye your bloody hair back again if you hate it so much.” Edwin put his hands on his hips, unimpressed. “Your choice; it’s no skin off my nose either way.”
Thomas threw an arm over his eyes dramatically. “You don’t care!” he moaned. “I’m ugly and indentured and you don’t care!”
“Simply untrue on all counts,” said Edwin through gritted teeth. “You’ve certainly managed to dodge all responsibilities thus far. And I sincerely doubt you —” He stopped himself, before he could say something horribly flattering like ‘I sincerely doubt you’ve ever been a mite less than beautiful a day in your blasted life’ and stoke Thomas’ ego to truly impossible heights. But it was, sadly, true. Even now, the supposedly ‘botched’ colour of Thomas’ hair was mutating further, away from the reddish hues and into something ink-black that on Edwin would have made him look pale and washed out, but on Thomas looked deep and expensive like crushed velvet or polished jet. Honestly, the nerve of the man! “Hmph. Oh, just — just pack it in.”
