Amukelo stepped into the modest tailor shop, its interior dimly lit by a few lanterns casting a soft glow across shelves lined with fabrics in various shades and textures. The air was thick with the scent of cloth and faintly musty, as though the shop had witnessed countless years of repairs and creations. Behind the counter stood an older man, his hands gnarled and calloused from years of precise work. He looked up as Amukelo approached, a welcoming smile on his face.
"Good evening," the tailor greeted him with a slight bow of his head. "What can I do for you today?"
Amukelo set his bag on the counter, his movements uncharacteristically hesitant. These clothes had survived countless journeys, and each tear, each scratch, seemed to carry a memory. He looked at the tailor, his gaze steady. "Do you repair clothes here?"
The tailor nodded, his gaze softening as he reached for the bag. "Yes, of course. Let me take a look."
Amukelo pushed the bag toward him, his expression guarded. The tailor unfolded the fabric with care, but as his eyes fell upon the clothes inside, his demeanor shifted. His brows knitted together, and he examined the garments with a frown, his fingers tracing along the torn edges and shredded seams. He handled them carefully, almost respectfully, as if aware of their importance to their owner.
After a long moment of silence, he looked up at Amukelo, his face tinged with regret. He placed the clothes back on the counter with a sigh. "I'm afraid these clothes aren't in a condition to be repaired," he said, his tone gentle yet firm.
Amukelo's eyes narrowed, a spark of frustration igniting within him. "What?" he demanded. "You can't repair them?"
The tailor shook his head slowly, his gaze sympathetic. "It's not that I don't want to repair them, but these fabrics are beyond what a simple patch-up can fix. The tears are too large, and the scratches are deep. I'd need to completely reconstruct portions of it, and even then, the integrity of the material wouldn't hold. I'm afraid no tailor in Gathe could bring these clothes back to their original form."
Amukelo felt a pang in his chest as he looked down at the clothes on the counter. He was about to reach for them, to leave and try his luck with another tailor in the town. But as he glanced toward the window, he noticed that dusk had fallen, casting the town in shadows. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to visit all the tailors in Gathe before nightfall.
He let out a heavy sigh.A deep sadness flickered across his face, though he quickly masked it. After a moment, he looked at the tailor with resignation. "In that case… can we choose something similar?"
The older man's expression softened. "Certainly," he replied, nodding kindly. "I'll prepare some options for you. Let's see what we have in the back. It may take a few minutes."
Amukelo nodded, stepping back as the tailor disappeared into the rear of the shop. Amukelo looked around, taking in the small details of the shop—the faded rugs, the bundles of thread in various colors, the rolls of fabric stacked haphazardly in every corner. This place felt almost timeless, as though it had existed untouched by the changing world outside.
After a short while, the tailor returned, his arms laden with neatly folded clothes in a variety of colors. He set them on the counter and gestured for Amukelo to take a closer look. "Here are a few options," he said with a warm smile. "They aren't exactly the same as what you brought in, but perhaps one of these will suit your taste."
Amukelo eyed the clothes skeptically, his gaze drifting over the different colors and textures. He picked up a deep green tunic, holding it up to the light. The material was sturdy, but the color didn't sit right with him. Next, he tried on a dark brown set, and while the fit was decent, it didn't have the same feeling as his old clothes.
The tailor gestured toward the small changing room in the back. "Feel free to try them on. Sometimes a garment can surprise you once you see yourself in it."
With a nod of reluctant agreement, Amukelo gathered a few sets and disappeared into the changing room. The small space was dimly lit, the mirror slightly cracked, but he didn't need much light to see that none of these clothes felt like his own.
Frustrated, he changed into the first set. It looked dignified enough, but it lacked the weight of familiarity that his old clothes had carried. One by one, he cycled through the options, each set feeling less and less like something he could see himself wearing. Eventually, he opened the changing room door, still dressed in a plain gray set that felt passable but uninspiring.
"Do you have anything closer to the original?" Amukelo asked, his voice edged with frustration as he looked at the tailor. "Something that matches what I showed you earlier?"
The tailor scratched his head, his face thoughtful as he took in Amukelo's expression. "Let me have another look in the back," he replied, nodding with a reassuring smile. "I'll see if I can find something a bit closer, though I won't make any promises."
With that, he turned and made his way back to the storage area, leaving Amukelo alone with the unchosen clothes draped over his arm.
After a longer wait, the tailor finally returned, carrying a garment with a slightly apologetic expression. He held it out to Amukelo, looking at it with a mix of uncertainty and faint embarrassment.
"I only have this," the tailor said, his voice hesitant. "It was a learning project made by one of my apprentices, so the quality isn't quite… up to par. The stitching, the fit—it's rough. But it's in the same color you're looking for."
Amukelo took the clothes, eyeing the deep, familiar blue. The fabric was plain, lacking the intricate patterns and fine details that his previous clothes had, and even at first glance, he could see the inconsistencies in the stitching, the slight irregularities in the seams. Still, he felt a strange pull toward it—a sense that, despite its imperfections, it was the closest he'd find to the attire he had before.
"Let me try it on," he said simply, stepping back into the changing room.
Once inside, he pulled off his current clothes and slipped into the new set, adjusting the sleeves and trying to make the fabric settle in a way that felt comfortable. The tunic was too tight across his shoulders, restricting his movements with an uncomfortable stiffness. The waist of the tunic, however, hung loosely, almost baggy, making him feel as though he were wearing a garment meant for someone else entirely. The pants were no better—they were too long, bunching awkwardly around his ankles, yet too tight in the thighs, and loose in the calves, giving them a strange, ill-fitting shape.
Amukelo looked at himself in the mirror, taking in the sight with a mixture of amusement and resignation. The garment was clumsily made, lacking the elegance and fit of his original clothes, but it held a certain rugged charm, its deep blue hue bringing back memories of a time when he'd felt more whole.
He stepped out of the changing room, standing in front of the tailor, who looked at him with an uncertain frown. The tailor scratched his chin, his gaze drifting over the ill-fitting clothes, the uneven hems, the bunching fabric around Amukelo's ankles.
"You're sure you want this one?" the tailor asked, his voice filled with a hint of concern. "There are many better options than this."
Amukelo nodded, his expression resolute. "No, I like it," he replied. "I'll take this one."
The tailor sighed, looking between Amukelo and the poorly fitted clothing. "At the very least," he offered, "let me tailor it to fit you better. It won't be perfect, but I can make some adjustments so it's not quite so… loose in some places and tight in others."
Amukelo gave a slight shrug. "Fine. But I need it ready by tomorrow morning. Can you have it done in time?"
The tailor eyed the ill-fitting garment, a small frown creasing his brow as he considered the amount of work required to make it wearable. After a moment, he nodded. "I'll do my best. It'll be ready as soon as the shop opens in the morning."
Amukelo nodded, a small note of gratitude in his tone as he replied, "Thank you. Should I pay now or when I collect it?"
The tailor smiled faintly. "Pay when you pick it up. It'll be waiting for you in the morning."
Amukelo gave a quick nod, then turned and left the shop, stepping out into the cool evening air. The streets were quieter now, the sounds of merchants and travelers replaced by the soft murmur of distant conversations and the occasional clinking of glass from nearby inns.
He made his way through the dimly lit streets as he navigated toward Berthold's mansion.
As he approached, two guards stepped forward, blocking his path with crossed spears. They regarded him with a wary look, their expressions stern and unyielding.
"What's your business here, stranger?" one of the guards demanded, his voice sharp and authoritative.
Amukelo met the guard's gaze, his expression calm but firm. "I'd like to speak to Lord Berthold."
The guard's face remained impassive, his grip tightening on his spear. "Lord Berthold is busy. He doesn't have time for unexpected visitors," he replied coolly. "What's your business?"
Amukelo held back a sigh, recognizing that these were men accustomed to protecting their lord's privacy, and he wouldn't get through without at least some explanation. He paused, then said, "Can you at least deliver a message to him? Or to someone who represents him?"
The guards exchanged a glance, considering his request. After a moment, one of them nodded. "What's the message?" he asked, his tone still cautious.
"Tell him Amukelo has fulfilled his revenge. And he'd like to speak with him." Amukelo replied.
One of the guards raised an eyebrow, studying Amukelo for a moment longer, as though assessing his sincerity. He gave a curt nod, turning and disappearing through the mansion's large double doors, leaving Amukelo standing at the gate with the remaining guard.