Page 44 of Mistletoe

“It’d be quicker to shave it all off,” he grumbled.

She hummed in agreement. “We could do that if you wish, but I think it’s worth saving all this lovely hair. I’ll be mindful to be gentle.”

Hal went still. The splashing stopped. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never lovely.”

“If you get tired of me yanking out your hair, I can get the sheep shears,” Emma said, trying to bring the mood back to something with less tension.

She failed.

“Shaving it off would be easier,” Hal said.

“How about a braid? It’ll keep the hair out of your way.”

He agreed.

Emma worked a lather of shampoo into his hair, putting all her strength into her fingers as she massaged his scalp. He melted against the back of the tub. Satisfied that the shampoo had done all it could, she rinsed carefully with lukewarm water. Once clean, she ran the comb through again to separate into sections.

His hair was thick but not as coarse or rough as she expected. Braiding was a pleasure. Hal scrubbed himself as she worked. Much like before, they worked together in silence, anticipating the other’s moves.

She had seen this orc naked twice now. Had him pressed against her with nothing but a blanket separating them. Kissed him. All that paled in comparison to the intimacy of this moment as Emma braided his hair.

“You really do have lovely hair. It’s very silky,” she said. “There. All done.”

Hal ran a hand over his hair and the length of the braid. “Do you have a mirror?”

Hal

“Yes. Give me a moment,” Emma said.

Hal heard the scrape of the chair against the floor and felt the loss of her presence as she left the room.

He climbed out of the tub, dried off with the towel, and pulled on the too-short provided trousers. Not to sound ungrateful. They were clean, and society generally discouraged one from going about without pants.

The kitchen was warm and smelled of fresh bread, apples, and the bar soap from the bath. It was cozy and comfortable. For the first time in ages—years, decades, a literal century—he relaxed.

He sat down in front of the fireplace, content to soak up the heat. His belly was full. His skin did not itch or pull. His mind felt mostly like himself.

Emma sat down on the floor next to him and laid a handheld mirror on his chest.

The silver handle tingled in his grip as he angled the glass to catch the firelight.

A thick scar crossed his face from ear to ear and over the bridge of his nose, but that was not what seized his attention. His face was not his own.

He was green. He knew that. It should not have shocked him, but it hadn’t been real. Abstract. This stranger’s face was very real.

His features were heavier, like someone smooshed the clay of his being, trying to sculpt his face from a poor description. His hair was too dark and too coarse, but he already knew that. His brows were thick, adding menace to his face without trying.

His hands trembled, dropping the mirror into his lap. Emma snatched it back before it could fall to the floor.

She sat patiently, not judging his reaction or offering empty flattery.

He didn’t know how to explain. His memory belonged to a version of himself that no longer existed. Now, his face was gone, too. He was gone. There was only a monster left.

“I don’t understand how you can look at me,” he managed to say. She should sob in fear and turn away in disgust, not sit patiently at his side. “I’m hideous.”

Emma held the mirror up, angling it to catch his eyes. Dark and sunken, they were the worst part. They were sharp, remote, and cold.

They were his brother’s eyes.

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