12. Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Viola
I have one change of clothes left in my old house: a gray shirt, black leather shorts, extra socks, underwear, and chest wraps. I would've given them to Tulip or Plume, but our body shapes vary so drastically, with Tulip's slight figure and Plume's alluring curves, that there is no way these clothes would fit the women. I dress quickly, uncaring if my travel companions catch a glimpse of my skin. Morrow and Mace left to give me a modicum of privacy.
Mace.
After our conversation outside, I wandered away, taking a familiar pathway to the well. This was not a feeling I could bury in sex, so manual labor would have to do to clear my mind. It took a few trips, but I was able to collect enough water to bathe with rags and drink. This was especially fortuitous since we still needed to butcher the stag. Normally, I would handle that, but with the way my bloodlust has been acting lately, I'm reticent to be around that much blood. Mace and Morrow are taking care of that now as I change my clothes and wash my body with Plume and Tulip.
I never thought much about how abnormal my childhood was. When you've spent your whole life in a difficult situation, it just becomes your situation. Mace identified the gaps in normalcy in my life and threw them in my face. Now that's all I can see. I look at my table and don't see the place I laughed at with Max. Now, I see the cracks in the wood, the uneven legs of the chairs, and the water stains on the surface.
His words took a life that was already not looked upon fondly and made it irredeemable.
Tulip notices my mood, and while I can tell she knows she needs to give me space to process my feelings, it is not in her nature. She hops over and stands directly in front of me. "Use your words, Lola. Something is going on with you, and I can't let you retreat into yourself."
Grimacing, I look up at her newly cleaned face. In weeks, she's aged years, but she is still as beautiful as ever. The gap in the front of her teeth, the smile that takes up most of her face, and the wild, straw-colored hair work together seamlessly. "Let me braid your hair, and I'll tell you."
At one point, Max kept her hair long. She was absolutely terrible at braiding it, so it ended up all over the place and tangled. One year, I surprised her by learning how to braid. My father taught me the skill that he learned to restrain his own hair in between shavings. Much to my mother's chagrin, I've kept my hair long my entire life. She thought it would slow me down in the Race. My father would sit on the chair with uneven legs, put me on the floor between his knees, and braid my hair for me. I begged him to teach me, and while it was difficult, I learned to manage a halfway decent braid. I must have been fourteen because Link was still around, and Max hadn't yet reached Ascension.
She came over to laugh and train with me, and I asked her to sit on the floor. I told her I had a surprise for her, and she was bouncing with excitement. I sat down in the rickety chair and slid her between my knees. I slowly, methodically pulled the strands over and under until a braid ran from the top of her head down past her neck. It was then I learned just how calming the repetition of the process was. When she turned to look at me, reaching back to touch the braid, she squealed with excitement.
It wasn't much, of course. But we didn't have the luxury of affording gifts. At least I could make my friend more comfortable.
Sitting in that rickety chair, whose uneven legs hold so many memories, I pull Tulip down to sit between my knees. I rake my fingers through her hair as she leans back, practically purring from the contact. "I love having my head scratched. My mom used to do it," she says, eyes falling closed. "But don't think you can lure me into forgetting what's bothering you."
"What was your mother like?" I ask, continuing to scratch her scalp.
"Kind. She was warm and soft and an excellent baker. Her bread was sought after all over town, so we could trade it for anything we needed. She would feed the stray animals the stale pieces, and so we always had some sort of creature wandering around our home." She sighs, and I can see the tension leave her shoulders. "Momma was like sunlight, warm and gentle, her embrace wrapping you in safety."
I grin, my fingers gently playing with her long hair. "It sounds like you take after your mother."
"That's kind of you to say. She was something special. Her death killed Papa, I just know it. When your sunlight goes out, how can you continue?" Her voice is quiet and sad, pulling my aches to the surface even more. I glance at Plume and see her watery eyes watching us.
Tulip cranes her head as far back as possible to look at me through upside-down eyes. "Hey, you're supposed to be telling me what's wrong with you," she chastises.
I swear under my breath, unable to avoid her questioning now. Splitting a thin top layer of her hair into three strands, I take a deep breath before I speak. "Being back here is hard. Memories of my parents and Max are everywhere." I close my eyes and inhale deeply, trying to push off the feeling of the remembrance of the dead on my skin. "Even Link still lingers here. It's like now that I know for sure he's gone, his ghost has decided to join me on my journey."
One strand over, gather more hair, next strand over. The pattern soothes that part of my brain that constantly yells about all the things that can go wrong.
I chew on my cheek. "Mace told me he stole my childhood. And I'm starting to think he's right." I become distinctly aware that Plume has moved to sit at the table, but she remains silent and only listens. I don't mind her listening. She's kind and doesn't judge .
"What do you mean, stole your childhood?" Tulip asks, twisting her neck to look at me.
I put a hand on her head and wrench it back forward. "Look forward!"
One strand over, gather more hair, next strand over.
"Together with Stone, he kept the Race going and boosted it to be as competitive as it is today. My family only ever cared about winning the Race. I didn't go to the teaching groups, I didn't play, I didn't have any fun at all." The words threaten the stability of my voice.
One strand over, gather more hair, next strand over.
Plume sucks in a deep inhale but stays blessedly silent. My mind swirls with what-ifs. If the Race wasn't hanging over me, would my mother have been like Tulip's? Would I describe her as sunshine instead of coal?
One strand over, gather more hair, next strand over.
"He looked the other way while my parents were slaughtered. He watched Link bleed out." I pull the hair a little bit rougher than I intend to, and Tulip winces but stays silent. "Did I tell you that Link told Mace I would kill him? And what did I do? I slept with him." I shake my head, breathing deeply to steady myself. At this point, I've reached the base of Tulip's scalp with the braid, and all that is left is a much simpler pattern.
One over, one under, one over, one under.
"What would my life have been without the Race?" I muse aloud. The braid is finished and tied off with a piece of twine, and I tap my hands on Tulip's shoulders so she can rise. She doesn't. Instead, she leans further back into my lap and looks up at me from the floor as I speak. "My parents loved me. Or. My father loved me, I think. My mother tolerated me. But if my father loved me so much, why did he leave me? How could you leave someone you love?" My voice cracks on the words. "Without the Race, would I have had parents who held me when I fell apart when Link didn't return from the Race? Would they have nurtured me when injured instead of having me shake it off and teaching me how to make salves to soothe it?"
Without the braid to busy my hands, I tap my fingers on each other.
"We can't possibly know that Viola," Plume's voice is soft. I know she wasn't aware of the lies spun by the Patricians, and it hit her deeply to know her Gods were gone. There's no way she could have known it was so bad down here. "But it wasn't solely Mace that put you through this. The Race was created long before he came about."
I turned my head to look at her and say incredulously, "You say that, but it was him for my entire lifetime and a chunk of time before that. It was him that stood there at the opening ceremonies and lied to all my people about how the Gods so appreciated our sacrifice, and we'd earn favor, and this would protect our land."
"She's not wrong, Plume," Tulip says softly from between my knees. "Everyone in the Lowlands knows Mace Nightroot is the figurehead of the Race. Even for me, it's hard to look at him and see a good man. I cannot imagine how it is for Viola when her family's deaths are on his hands."
I dropped my hands to Tulip's shoulders, squeezing gently as a thank you for the backup. "Being here just brings up a lot of feelings," I sigh, running my hand on the back of my neck. "It's like we were in a little Ytopie bubble until we crossed into that meadow, and then it burst, and I'm not looking through the warped surface anymore." I swing my leg over Tulip to stand and cross to the tiny kitchen. "I meant everything I told Mace before the ritual." They both give me confused looks, and I realize I hadn't shared that moment with them.
"Essentially, I told him I saw who he was, not him as a Patrician or the person who sat by while my family died, and that I was glad to know him. And that is still true." I snag the nearly empty bottle of mead from the counter and tilt it into my mouth, draining the remaining dandelion wine in one gulp.
"I just don't know if it's enough."