“If I am to be honest,” I murmured, “I am worried about myself as well.”
Her posture stiffened, and I was sure she was going to refuse my request with a gentle chiding that I was only seeking to temporarily numb my discontent. To my surprise, however, she lifted the bag she clutched in her hand and said, “We should probably do this in a bathroom. It’ll be easier to clean up, and I’ll need access to water.”
Had I kissed her before when we had shared a meal together, I would have swept across the room and taken her in my arms and closed my mouth on hers with the vehemence of a starving peon at a feast. The ideal first kiss with this incredible human, though, was not in the throes of my misery, so I simply gestured toward the closed bedroom door and told her to follow me.
It was only when I was seated in the restroom on a decorative chair we brought in from the corridor and staring at her through the mirror that I faced the reality of why she was here with me. If my only goal had been to chop off my hair, I could have easily accomplished that task myself. As impulsive and reckless as I was feeling at the moment, it would have been a thoughtless act to take the sharpest object I could find and hack away until the anger had left my body without a care for aesthetics. I had asked her to the palace not because I needed her there, but because I wanted her there. I wanted to see her, to feel the compassion rolling from her being and absorb it into my aching heart. Her eyes were the eyes of someone without judgment, without hatred, without accusation. Her smile was genuine and seamless, and she offered it without coaxing. She was the only thing I could think of capable of anchoring me when I felt as if I was floating away into the ether, never to return.
Perhaps I needed her there, after all.
“I’m actually a little sad to do this,” she mused ruefully, scrolling her fingers over the flat of my strands.
I peered at her reflection as my scalp prickled in response to her touch. “You do not enjoy your work?” I asked.
“Oh, God, I love my work!” she exclaimed. Her hand paused, and she looked back at me, our eyes meeting through our twins in the looking glass. “It’s just a shame to get rid of all this. Your hair is amazing. The color is gorgeous, and the texture is heavenly. Humans would pay a lot of money for this.”
“Humans buy hair?” I dubiously inquired, squinting my eyes.
She laughed. The melodious sound rippled to the walls and back again, dousing me in layers of her glee. I could have listened to her laugh forever. “Absolutely. You can buy synthetic hair, too, but human hair is better.”
“I do not have human hair,” I pointed out.
“I know. Yours is even better than human hair,” she said, smiling brightly over my head. Unable to help myself, I smiled back, and I saw her face relax a bit. I had not realized how perturbed she was by my mood or how truly concerned she genuinely was until I watched her jaw unclench and her cheeks round with mild relief. “Well, it’s time. Do or die. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? Once I cut, I can’t go back.”
For a split second, I felt a flicker of doubt. An image flashed through my mind of the Council’s expressions upon seeing me, and that image was immediately followed by another of my mother’s hysterical reaction. There would be an outcry from the Ka-lik’et citizens, if not all of Dhal’at, thus far unmatched. Even Zuran would likely have words of disapproval despite his long-time label as a Rogue. I would be named a heretic, a rebel, a miscreant incapable of something as important as leading a kingdom.
I would rather be a heretic than a murderer.
Looking myself dead in the eyes, I growled, “Do it.”
Octavia’s hands gathered my tresses into two pearly bunches. She draped one over my shoulder, separated the other into three smaller bunches, and began weaving them together. When she reached the ends, she dropped the plait and repeated the motions with the second bunch. I stared at my reflection unblinkingly, determined to watch my history being stripped away thread-by-thread.
When she reached for her shears, I could sense her hesitation. Her hand lingered a second too long in midair, the tip of the scissors hanging an inch from the head of the first braid, and I heard her breath pause. Then, she separated the blades, slid them forward, and joined them again. I felt the tugging pressure at the nape of my neck but kept myself still as the mechanical sound of the blades opening and closing repeatedly accompanied the minute lightening of weight on my skull.
All the pressure was suddenly released, and my head jerked forward a bit in response. Righting myself, I returned my eyes to the mirror. Octavia looked back at me with a woven plait of a century past held aloft in her hand.
Chapter Twenty
Octavia
I felt strange standing there holding half of Venan’s hair after he’d told me how important the symbolism of long hair was to the A’li-uud. It was like he was committing a crime, and I was aiding and abetting him. Part of me wanted to duck down a little just in case anyone happened to be peeking in through the second-story window.
Looking at Venan’s reflection, though, I saw an expression of such peace and satisfaction that my anxiety was instantly washed away. I set the braid down in front of him and watched as he studied it while I took the other braid in my hand and pulled it tight. He was staring at his lost locks with interest, and I realized this process of cutting his hair was a lot more than a simple cosmetic change to him. Obviously, when he’d given his speech about severing the past from his future and all that, I’d known it was important to him, but I had no idea it would move him so much. The hunch in his shoulders seemed to ease, and his eyes were no longer as gaunt and haunted as they had been only minutes before. Maybe he’d get backlash for this, maybe he wouldn’t, but I felt good knowing I was helping him release the demons that plagued him.
Wielding the scissors again, I gave the braid still attached to his head a slight tug to ensure it was taut and placed the thickest part between the blades. “I have to admit, I’m surprised you felt a need to do this at all,” I told him, bringing the shears together as much as possible and feeling the release of the first snipped strands.
“Why does this surprise you?” he asked, still staring at the detached plait.
“You just don’t seem very driven by emotions,” I said. I continued to cut slowly, separating the braid bit by bit from his skull. “I wouldn’t expect you to be bothered by what others think about you because you seem so confident and in control of yourself.”
His expression darkened, and I wondered if I’d stepped into a territory of conversation he wouldn’t want to address, like when I’d asked about his sister last time. “My entire life, I have known what I wanted to be and where I wanted to go,” he storied. “I had no doubts because I approached each new step with honesty, integrity, and a determination to be all that is good. I refused to step over others more deserving than me, but I did not linger behind to appease lesser desires of comradery or popularity. Because of this, I made few friends, which was a sacrifice I was willing to make.”
I listened carefully to him. The second braid was over halfway severed; it would only be a few more seconds before he had officially shed the past he so desperately seemed to want to lose.
“Becoming an Elder had been my life dream. Certainly, I did not wish it at Elder Kharid’s expense, but my world revolved around my kingdom. When it happened, when I was crowned, I was still in a rather dark place. Nevertheless, I made the poor assumption that the public, as well as the rest of the Council, had accepted me. In my prior life, I would have been able to handle their criticism and judgment without flaw. After what I have been through, however, it seems I have lost that strength.”
He spoke with such vulnerability that I was stunned into pausing. I looked over his head at his reflection, watching the way his eyes saddened and tilted downward into his lap. He was as brooding as ever, but for the first time, I truly saw the pliable soul within. No matter how much he wanted to have a tough exterior, and it was evident he wanted it very much, he had fe
elings that had been gravely hurt by those he put his life on the line for every day. It would be a bitter pill to swallow for anyone, but I understood that it was maybe harder for him because of the level of his dedication.
I resumed cutting and opted to change the topic slightly. “Why did you desire to enter the Dhal’atian military?” I asked. It wasn't such a drastic topic change that it would be obvious I was trying to distract him from his sadness, at least I hoped it wasn't, but it also offered me the opportunity to learn a little more about the Venan who existed before our meeting.
“I used to watch the warriors as a boy,” he said, and his eyes lifted from sad to nostalgic. “They were so respected, so revered, yet they possessed a level of reverence themselves that I wished to experience. They honored their role as guards and protectors. They accepted the weight of the well-being of everyone within Ka-lik’et gladly, and I wanted to do that too.”
“You wanted to protect people?”
“I wanted to make people happy,” he clarified. “And, in order to be happy, one must feel safe. The happiness of everyone around me started and ended with me.”
It was an eye-opening perspective. In a way, I had entered my career for the same reason. I wanted to be able to give people confidence where they had none, excitement when they felt things were too dull, and even an ear to listen when they needed someone unbiased to hear their troubles. On the other hand, I had also wanted to go into cosmetology for the fame. The idea of my name tied to the world's top designers at exclusive VIP fashion shows and in glamorous magazine spreads was appealing.
Venan’s reasons were wholly selfless. I suddenly felt like I was cutting the Pope’s hair—though since he was an Elder, I kind of was.
A final snip of the shears was all I had left. As I pressed my fingers back together again, the blades sliced through the strands. I raised the braid for him to see, and then laid it beside the first.
“There’s your past,” I said quietly. My respect for the hair-cutting process had never been so intense. I was feeling a severe case of reverence much like that he had just described in regard to the warriors. “All those nights dreaming of being the one who keeps everyone safe are gone.”
He didn’t look at the hair. He, instead, stared up at me through the mirror, and, again, I saw the blazing fire in his eyes. “So are the demons,” he replied.
Chapter Twenty-One
Venan
I had no regrets about asking Octavia to cut off my hair, but I did not leave the palace for days afterward. Once she had removed the bulk of it, she proceeded to trim the rest to eliminate the haphazard choppiness until what remained was a naturally tousled style.
“You look great,” she said, her lips turned upward with pleasure upon looking at me.
It was difficult not to glow with her praise, but my less-than-pleasant mood prevented me from doing little more than smiling tightly and saying a curt, “Thank you.”
When she left, I stayed in front of the mirror for hours. The braids were still lying there, taunting me about the decision I had made and the consequences I would surely reap from it. The more I saw them, the more I loathed them. They were riddled with derision and contempt, mocking me and every decision I had ever made that led me to this point. Spiraling through the innards of each and every thread were the ghosts of the sacrifices I had made and the bitter repayment I had received for my trials. Since my birth, my hair had been an homage to the years I committed to Dhal’at, something I and every other A’li-uud treasured beyond measure for its symbolism. In the course of a conversation, I had cleaved myself of those years to start anew, and for once I was able to comprehend not only the weight I had piled upon myself but the rapidly slimming seconds that had remained before I was crushed completely.
I was free, and the cost of my freedom was certain pariahdom for my actions, but it was a price I was willing to pay.
The fear of backlash from my kingdom was no longer one I possessed, but I opted to remain in the palace rather than venturing out-of-doors each morning when I awoke. The winding, rocky path to my Elderhood had been far from easy, and I had lost myself along the way. In my newfound clarity, I needed to rediscover who I was and what I wanted. To do that amongst ever-watching critical eyes would only serve to infect me once more with the self-deprecating misery I had finally managed to abandon. Not even the warriors occupying palace stations caught a vision of me; Octavia had been and would remain the sole witness to my rebirth.
On the third day, my introspection was interrupted. Not for the first time since my public withdrawal, a knock sounded on my bedroom door and split through my thoughts like an axe. I had been receiving my meals by insisting the staff leave trays of food in the hall for me to fetch when I was confident no one was present. Only the tilt of the sun’s rays puddling onto my bedspread told me we were between mealtimes and it was not a Ka-lik’et delicacy waiting at my door.
“I am not seeing anyone,” I called out dismissively, speaking A’li-uud.
Rather than responding to me vocally, the visitor knocked again, this time with greater insistence and rapidity. I growled under my breath.
“Leave!” I ordered with a deeper, more commanding boom in my tones. “You will not be seen today!”
My directive was met with silence, and I exhaled in annoyance as I sank onto my bed in a huff. I had instructed Katil (through the door) to forbid the warriors from disturbing me and turn away anyone who ventured to the palace to meet with me. Therefore I could not imagine the caller had been anyone but a thoughtless member of my staff, which I considered an immense irritation given my meditative state.
Then, louder than the two times before and without a beat between them, another series of knocks exploded into the quiet. Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang! All sense of peaceful soul-searching gone, I leaped to my feet without a care for my concealment and threw the door open. It slammed against the wall in a crash of fury as I bellowed, “What?!”
The face looking back at me was my own mirror image, but the identically thin lips were curled up into an arrogant grin of amusement. “I am pleased to see you too, brother.”
“Zuran, I am not interested in one of our ritualistic banters,” I told him stalely, twisting on my heel and turning my back to him. I knew any effort I made to expel him from the room would be met with more smug resistance than I could handle at the moment and thus did not deign to force him to depart.
“I have not come for that,” he replied. His footsteps thudded behind me, and I heard him close the door with a click exactly as I had expected. “Though, it has been quite some time since our last.”
“Why have you come?” I bluntly asked.
He continued to follow me deeper into the room, and I turned to face him again. He leaned his shoulders against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, which was bare as always and deepened in its blue hue by excessive exposure to the desert sunlight. The cocky smile still shadowed his mouth, and his uncolored eyes scoured my cropped hair before flicking back toward the window.
“You need more light in here,” he commented. His index fingers sprang free from his fisted hands and tapped the bends in his elbows rhythmically. “Such a dim atmosphere will no doubt bring you to new depths of rumination.”
I sighed and rolled my neck, hearing the telltale crick of stiffness. “Have you nothing to say of my hair?” I did not intend to draw attention to it myself, but it was impossible that he should not have noticed it the moment he saw me. I felt no reason to pretend everything was as it had always been.
“Have you an expectation for something I ought to say?” he returned.
“There is always an expectation for what you ought to say, brother. Most oftentimes, that expectation is hardly met.”
Zuran chuckled, and then canted his head and studied my hair properly. “I like it,” he said mildly. “It suits you.”
“It does not offend you?” I questioned.
He raised a brow and lowered his chin to look at me disc
erningly as he replied, “I am unoffended by it for the sheer fact that the intent is to offend. You have long been restrained beneath the bounds of strict lawfulness and inflexibility, Venan, and in return, you have received extreme prejudice and ingratitude. I am far from offended. On the contrary, I approve.”
“If we were having this conversation a month ago, I would be horrified to know I have done something of which you approve,” I said. I sounded exhausted, as if I had been traveling endlessly or training from dawn until dusk rather than merely pacing my room for days. “At this particular moment, however, I feel your approval is an indication I have finally done something right.”
“How the tides have turned,” Zuran remarked with his characteristic grin.
I did not feel much like grinning back, nor did I possess a proper appreciation for his humored sarcasm, so I just looked at him and asked, “Have you come to ensure I have not wasted away up here?”
“No. I knew you were alive and well because the streets of Ka-lik’et are as routine as ever rather than engulfed in an uproarious celebration,” he quipped. I knew he was attempting to make light of an otherwise unpleasant situation, but there was too much truth to his words, and I scowled.
“Then, why?”
“There has been a summons.” Zuran jerked his chin toward my window, indicating some semblance of progressing life outside my four walls of self-captivity. “The other warriors were reluctant to fetch and notify you thanks to your orders of isolation, but I have never feared your wrath before and do not intend to begin now.” His grin expanded to a broad leer of amusement.
Venan: A Paranormal Sci-Fi Alien Romance: Albaterra Mates Book 7 (The End) Page 10
