Chapter 18 Under The Light #2
A sigh escapes her. “I’m sorry, truly. And not just because Talon deserves a woman who knows how to love him, but because from what I hear…
you didn’t ask for any of this.” She releases me to go to the bed and scoop up the fabric that moves through her fingers like water before laying it back down, smoothing out the long skirt until it’s wrinkle free.
“Can you imagine someone who would ask for this? Who’d want to be bound to a man who murders anyone that stands in his way?
Who’s burned whole villages to ash? You speak of love, but I don’t imagine that’s something he’s capable of—giving or receiving.
He’s so—” I struggle for the word, reaching for every interaction I’ve had with the pirate.
“So cold.” My voice is shaky and incredulous, but a wave of heat finds my cheeks when I think of the quiet moments I’ve glimpsed bits and pieces beneath.
How he saved me from the kepra. The way sunlight burned so beautifully off his skin.
How his touch woke a feeling in me after it all when he grazed those fingers along my spine. How I didn’t want him to stop.
I blink and realize Sora is scowling. I must’ve said something wrong.
Through the open window, I wearily eye a fruit tree whose branches look like they could be getting longer, creeping toward us.
As a dryad, Sora could summon it straight through to strangle me to death if she wanted.
At least, the ones back in Aurorae could.
“Talon is a good man. Better than most. You should count yourself lucky. He's had everything taken from him. He’s not cold…he’s just…he’s empty.” She pauses, a faraway look in her eye. Without warning, she starts stripping me down to my underclothes. Then points to the tub. “In.”
I hesitate until she takes a step toward me.
“Fine. Fine.” I pull my underthings off, cheeks red as flame under her scrutiny.
She’s easily one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, which says a lot as Aurorae is full of ethereal creatures, as glorious as the nature around them.
It doesn’t help that she very obviously has a fondness for the man I’m about to marry.
Maybe more than a fondness. It feels as though there’s history there.
Everything taken from him. A curiosity blooms within me. What happened in Skoyr? What caused Ireus to cast him out? The songs do not sing of it, only the destruction that came after.
A shiver slips through me. The water is just cool enough that it doesn’t scald the skin off my bones when I sink down into it.
Sora wastes no time pouring streams over my head and scrubbing me with vigor.
The oils she uses smell fantastic. I begrudgingly let her massage them into my skin and hair, breathing in hints of wild strawberry and jasmine.
She rinses me twice and then pats me dry.
“You could use some filling out, but these should fit you well enough.” She pulls a fresh set of underclothes on me, as though I can’t do it myself, and goes to the dress, stroking it one more time.
“Mòr insisted I lend you a gown. This one is my favorite. The one I would choose if—” Her words shrink in the air between us and she sucks in a deep breath before scooping it off the bed.
She drapes the gown over me, woven from moonlight and the softest whisper of the sea.
It’s a vibrant cerulean blue, the color of a deep lagoon at twilight, shimmering with an otherworldly sheen.
Delicate, seaweed-like embroidery traces the bodice, each stitch sparkling with the luminescence of captured starlight.
The skirt flows with all the grace of an evening tide, its hem adorned with tiny, iridescent seashells that wink with every step I take around the room.
Sora insists we go to the dining hall, and as I walk the fabric shimmers and shifts, catching the light from the windows and reflecting the colors of the ocean depths.
It’s a dress woven with magick, a testament to the power of the sea, and I hate it.
It feels like a claim. Like the pirate captain branding me as his already.
“Let’s get your hair dry.”
Sora works a towel over my damp, wild curls and follows it with a comb. She doesn’t take care to be gentle as she rips it through the tangles, but I don’t make a peep to let her know it hurts, won’t give her the satisfaction. After a moment she makes a small sound of annoyance.
“It’s too thick. This is going to take forever to dry.
” She pauses before un-straddling the bench behind me, leaping to her feet.
“Hm, I doubt Mòr will mind if I use a potion to hurry this along.” She whisks from the room and returns a few moments later with a corked bottle, filled with glowing liquid the color of lilac petals.
I stiffen and then move away from her as fast as the dress will allow. Monsters, I can do. Monsters and pirates and strange islands, but iridescent glowy potions is where I draw the line. I’ve had enough of them from Rhyland.
“Maybe let’s not put potions in my hair.”
My hands come up, defensive when she lurches toward me and uncorks the bottle with her teeth.
She spits it onto the floor and it rolls under the table.
As a nymph, she should know how sacred our hair is—a tether, our roots, to the world around us.
It's why I didn't cut mine while pretending to be a boy on the streets, though it would have been much easier than keeping the thick, mane-like tresses knotted and tucked into a hat. I couldn't bring myself to do it.
“Be reasonable. It's a temporary spell, and it’s not going to hurt. But it’s certainly going to help much more than anything I can do for you.”
My frown deepens. I can feel it mushing the spot between my eyebrows. “I don’t care about that. You could send me to Rhyland in a potato sack for all it matters.”
She laughs but there’s not much humor in the sound. “That’s pitiful. I’m in charge of making you look presentable. I’m not sending you out like this.”
The stubborn look on her face screams that this is a battle I won’t win.
And though I’m tempted to stall, in the end I don’t think there’s any getting out of the arrangement.
It’s best to marry him and get on with life, ‘help’ him win the crown piece from the mad queen, and ultimately find a way to swipe both that one and his just before he drops Rowan and I back in Ethirya.
Easy enough…if everything goes right. Which has never happened to me before, but there's a first time for everything.
I’m thinking too far ahead. One step at a time is all I can handle right now.
I move forward, teeth gritted together, and take my place on the bench.
Sora settles back behind me with a willful smirk but it quickly melts away when she pulls back the layers of my hair.
Quick, low breath skates from her lips, and that graceful brow furrows in the mirror.
“What is it?” I ask, a quake of anxiety lacing the words.
She frowns, a look that transforms her whole entire face, and brings a shaking finger up to graze along the tip of my jagged ear.
Suddenly I’m burning. Humiliation runs rampant through me. Of course, she’s noticed my scars. It’s harder to hide them now without my flat cap.
The haughty air about her—the harsh judgment—it all vanishes in an instant, though I find myself wishing I could call it back. I don’t want her pity. Her sorrow.
“Who did this?” she asks in a voice so soft it’s near unrecognizable coming from her.
“Religious fanatics. Thought they could make me into one of them.” I try to push a joking lilt into my tone but she just keeps staring, horrified, at the ruined, puckered skin.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore and tug the hair back down over my ear. “Could you just do it already? I don’t want to be late to my own wedding.”
She blinks twice, coming back to herself. Her hand stops shaking as she nods.
I hold my breath when she pours the liquid over my head, expecting, I don’t know…cold or pain, maybe both. Instead, a warmth spreads along my damp scalp and a soft tingling that tickles down my neck, across my cheeks.
“Blessed Trine, it worked,” she breathes, and pulls me up to my feet.
Down the hall, we go back into my borrowed room and she places me in front of the mirror.
Worked is an understatement. I hardly recognize myself.
Not only did the potion smooth my wild curls into perfectly sleek waves that brush the small of my back, threaded with more shimmering shells that match the ones on my dress, but it’s restored the natural chestnut shade and done something to my face.
Made my skin fresh, erased scars, added a near permanent soft blush.
My lips are smooth and shiny, my lashes long and dark around my faded green eyes.
My cheekbones don’t appear as sharp now, leaving me with a fuller, healthy look.
“I-I don’t even look like me.”
Her haughty air returns in full force. “Exactly what we were going for. I’ll say I’ve done well. Now, let's get you a nip for courage and something to eat so you don't pass out.”
Where I should feel insulted, a pang of nerves pulse sharply.
I’ve faced monsters. Darkness. Creatures I didn’t even have a name for with nothing but a scream of rage and my bare hands. I’ve lived in a sewer, been beaten bloody by religious fanatics, and chained within the belly of a sinking ship. Why is it now that I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been before?
My knees shake as the answer comes, something I want to deny with every fiber of my being.
None of it was him.