Her hair was a bird’s nest, sticking this way and that. It was a good three inches shorter with all the knots. Her face was streaked with blood, soot, and caked makeup. Her eyes looked tired and worn, and her cheeks a more hollow than she remembered them being. Vhalla ran a finger down the gash that ran between a black eye and a split lip, beginning to laugh.
“Vhalla?” Larel asked gently, her concern evident.
“I’m a mess. No wonder the senators had little difficulty seeing me as a crazed killer,” Vhalla continued to laugh. It echoed through the empty hopelessness she found within her. She shook her head.
“I need to see your wounds, Vhalla.” Larel pressed her fingertips together. “I’ll go get whatever salves are necessary once I know their status.”
Vhalla paused a moment as the other woman waited expectantly. Larel was telling her to undress, she realized.
With a breath, Vhalla pulled the sack over her head. Her hands trembled as the air hit her skin, and Vhalla forced herself to be brave. With an angry grunt she threw the burlap ball and underclothes into a corner.
“Burn it, Larel,” she barked, a dark tone in her voice that tasted heady and almost sweet in its rough tang.
Larel nodded, and with a glance it was consumed in an orange flame until nothing was left but a small black spot on the tile.
The Western woman rounded her and seemed to be making a mental list. She looked closely at Vhalla’s shoulder, pulling away the remaining bandage that Vhalla hadn’t fussed with. She moved to her head next, taking off the soiled gauze.
Normally Vhalla would not feel very comfortable being naked in the presence of another woman. Larel had a clinical manner to her, which made it all the easier. But Vhalla saw the remnants of Rat and Mole’s abuse, the purpling of her abdomen, arms, and legs. Larel spared her any unhelpful coddling or pointless anger, saying nothing of abuse.
“All right, they don’t look too bad, physically at least,” she said thoughtfully, after another turn. “I’ll go get a few things and be back. Go ahead and start washing up. I asked the other girls to stay away for a bit, so you should have privacy.”
Vhalla sat in a stall and turned on the hot water. She doused herself the second the bucket was full. The water was scalding, and Vhalla took a breath, repeating the process. It couldn’t be hot enough, and after the fourth bucket her skin was bright pink and slightly steaming.
Working a bar of soap to a lather, Vhalla found a small pumice stone and used it liberally. She applied all the pressure she could. At first, it was for the thick layer of grime but each time she stopped, the thought of Rat and Mole’s assault raining down on her consumed her. Eventually her skin was splotchy with raw—almost bleeding—spots where bruises once were. Vhalla threw the stone away before she could harm herself further.
She poured water over herself again and turned to her hair. She lathered in soap with delicate fingers, working on the tangles and scabbing at her scalp. The water ran red with dried blood, so Vhalla washed it again. After the third washing she found a small brush and attempted to comb through the hopeless mess.
It was slow going; each time she put the brush in her hair, it hit a snag. Vhalla started with the crown of her head and began working downward. Around halfway, all the knots began to stack on each other and she couldn’t work the comb through. Vhalla attempted to brush from the bottom, but to no avail. She tried the left side, then the right side, but found no luck.
Vhalla threw the brush against the wall and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to cry anymore; she was tired of feeling weak and sad. She was tired of feeling hopeless, tired of fighting, and tired of feeling like the world was against her. Standing, she walked back over to the mirror, looking at the mass of knots halfway through her hair.
A glint of silver caught her eye, and Vhalla picked up a razor. Grabbing a hunk of hair she took a breath. The wet clump that fell to the floor was one of the most psychologically beneficial things she’d done in some time. Vhalla grabbed the next fist of hair and the razor glided through it effortlessly, then the next, and the next.
She would cut it away. She would cut away the anger, the pain, and the frustration. She’d cut and cut until she was sculpted into something better, something stronger. They wanted to kill her, so this Vhalla would die, she resolved, and a new Vhalla would be born from her ashes.
“Vhalla?” Larel’s faint voice broke the silence. Vhalla wondered why her shoulders wouldn’t stop shaking.
“It was a hopeless mess; I didn’t really like it anyways.” Vhalla shrugged at the pile of hair on the floor, as though she were indifferent to the length she had always carried on her head. Her fingers went easily though the remaining hair now, short enough that the nape of her neck showed.
“Sit,” Larel instructed, motioning to the stool in the stall while retrieving the straight razor. Larel proceeded to apply a more masterful hand to her hack job. “Do you want bangs?” Larel motioned across her own forehead at the hair that landed right before her eyes.
Vhalla shrugged. “Anything is fine.” She didn’t care much now; the healing part of her haircut was over.
Larel hummed a moment and then worked with the hair around her face. Vhalla thought she should feel nervous with someone holding a knife so close to her eyes, but she felt completely calm near Larel. The dark-skinned woman cut a low swoop that left the hair almost falling over her right eye, and began to touch up her work.
“There.” Larel stepped back. “Come here, look.”
Larel held her hand, gently leading her to the mirror. Vhalla did not recognize the person staring back at her. Dull skin and listless eyes had a dangerously piercing quality about them. She brought her fingers up to her hair. Vhalla had never worn it this short before, and she wasn’t sure who she was with it cut so severe.
“Thank you.” Vhalla didn’t know what else to say.
“You’re welcome.” Larel smiled kindly and placed a large towel around her shoulders. It felt like silk after the burlap.
Larel instructed her to sit again on the small bath stool and began to apply salves to her wounds. Larel handed her a bottle of liquid to drink that created a momentary fire in her veins. Her shoulder required closer inspection.
“Who stitched this?” Larel asked, reaching for a small tub of white paste.
“Prince Baldair,” Vhalla answered.
“Prince Baldair?” Larel repeated, raising her eyebrows. “That sounds like a story.”
“He said his brother called in a favor,” Vhalla repeated his words, but left out the remark of him wanting to do it for his own reasons as well.
“Those two... One of them is always claiming a debt of the other.” Larel clicked her tongue and shook her head.
Vhalla decided to let her questions slide.
She pondered her own relationship with the crown prince. Was she indebted to him? Could he be indebted to her? Either notion made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t like feeling like there was a score being kept. She would do almost anything for Aldrik, it didn’t matter if she owed him or not.
Larel finished putting clean bandages and salve on her wounds. After inspecting Vhalla’s head, she left the wound bare. Vhalla dressed slowly, savoring her clean clothing.
The dark-haired woman held out a piece of black fabric to her. Vhalla looked the dangling garment for a long moment. This was who she was now. Taking it, she studied the short black jacket. It had slightly longer sleeves than Larel’s, reaching to right before her elbows, but it had the same short upward collar and stopped at her waist.
Vhalla swung it on one arm and then the next, adjusting it with both hands. She looked in the mirror at the new person staring back at her.