Silvermask Gets A Sweater: A Short Story

Silvermask Gets a Sweater
It had been sixteen years since Prince Hermes experienced a Parsian autumn, and it was quite evident that he’d forgotten how chilly they could be. The man shivered slightly as he traversed through one of the many corridors in the Parsian palace in an attempt to find some source of warmth. Every other room he’d entered prior to now was equally as cold as the open courtyard. The only rooms that had adequate heating had fireplaces, and Hermes was by no means going to enter a closed space with fire.
Goosebumps formed on his arms under his long thin sleeves, and he cursed the palace for being so poorly insulated. If this was how the autumns were, he could hardly imagine how brutal the winters were going to be. The brunette shivered again, though not necessarily because of the

low temperature.
Hermes peeked through a curtain and into another empty room. His shoes scuffed against the stone floor below as he stumbled backwards into a wall at the sight of yet another fireplace. Hyperventilation induced dizziness, and he pressed one hand against the wall for support. With his other hand he covered the right side of his face, as if to conceal the scar hidden beneath his silver mask. He stood in that spot for a moment, trembling and forcing his breathing to slow.
Once his heart rate returned to normal, the now-composed man turned his heel and walked back down the corridor to return to his room. An exceptionally cool breeze flowed in through one of the many windows in the hallway, and Hermes found himself wrapping his cold hands around his equally cold arms in an attempt to retain some body heat. Teeth chattering as gust after gust of cool air attacked his skin, he sluggishly waddled down the hall.
He heard a hearty laugh echo through the corridor and he stopped in his tracks, turning his head back to see none other than Guiscard. Once his laughing ceased, he spoke, “Well, Lord Silver Mask, are you cold?”
The prince had no idea why the word cold was in italics but he didn’t care enough to ask. Rather, he removed his hands from his arms and straightened his posture. “I–I am not.” His response came as an unintentional stutter, and he cursed the incessant chatter of his teeth once again.
“How could you blatantly lie to my face like that, Masky?” The dirty blond pressed, attempting to provoke the masked man into losing some of his composure. Noting the latter’s lack of reaction, he half-dully continued, “Then, go put on a coat.” Guiscard was not cold. He currently donned a thick red winter jacket with white fur around the collar.
Petulant, Hermes replied, “Okay. Give me a coat.” He shot a mildly menacing glare at the man across the hall, annoyed that he was wasting his time on this exchange when he could be in his quarters, nested under his thick blanket. “And stop referring to me as ‘Masky.’”
Guiscard chuckled again, mockingly almost. “You want one of my coats?”
Fighting the urge to shiver, he answered, “I don’t care.”
The Lusitanian raised an amused eyebrow at the brunette, watching him tremble slightly in the frigid air. This was the type of behavior he’d expected a rookie soldier to exhibit, but Lord Silvermask of all people? This was beyond humorous.
Guiscard turned his back towards the man and gestured for him to follow. “Then, follow me.”
Scowling, Hermes hurriedly waddled to catch up with the Grand Vizier. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t own a single coat. Granted, he owned a handful when he was an adolescent, but surely they, too, perished in the fire—
Hermes suddenly tripped over an unevenly laid stone on the ground. Fortunately he managed to properly regain his footing before stumbling into Guiscard. That was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.
Guiscard witnessed the scandalous display unfold out of his peripheral vision, and he struggled to hold back a snicker.

Eventually, the pair reached a large room at the edge of the hallway. It wasn’t Guiscard’s room, as Hermes suspected; but rather a large den full of coats, all of which varied in style, color, and thickness. The future prince’s eyes widened momentarily.
Guiscard noticed his guest’s fascination at his coat collection. “Feel free to grab one if it catches your eye.”
He hardly paid attention to the blond’s words, however, because he was too busy clenching and unclenching his fists. His fingers were numb and this was the only way he could regain feeling in them. “So long as it has pockets, I don’t care what it looks like.” By the time he looked up from his fists, Guiscard had already picked out a sweater for Hermes, peeled it off of its hanger, and thrown it at him.
“Keep it as long as necessary,” he spoke, his tone vaguely endearing.
“Mm.” Hermes examined the garment long enough to note its grey color and large buttons before quickly dressing himself in it. Sure, he was still somewhat cold, but he certainly wasn’t shivering anymore. He was cozy. “Thank…

you.”
Upon acknowledging his praise, Guiscard promptly left the room. Knowing that Silvermask, he’d probably return the sweater later in the week, cleaned and neatly folded. But for the time being, the blond knew he would wear it—probably every day until he acquired one of his own. Until then, the blond would willingly let Silvermask borrow his sweaters with no qualms whatsoever.