Page 123 of Upon Buried Embers
I try to get up and check, but I can’t stop staring down at the braid.
The ribbon is tied wonky, but she was right, it’s the best braid she’s done.
My finger inches closer, and my pointer finger touches one single strand.
Another roar.
Another strand, and another, and another until the braid lies in my hand.
I hold it gently. It looks off against my roughened skin, like I have no right to touch it anymore because it isn’thersnow.
I go to the fire and lift my hand. I hover there, willing my palm to open and drop it, wanting to burn away what she did because it doesn’t matter anymore, it isn’t the same after she changed it.
But my fingers won’t open, and there’s a subtle shake to my hands that makes me tense with the weakness of it.
It’s not the same, Rohan. Drop it.
I drop to the floor instead, squeezing the hair in one hand and run the other down my face.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The windows rattle in the cabin and I eye them, and the storm raging outside.
It’s a good thing I made sure Nora was getting the extra furs she requested. Melle will be warm tonight.
I look to my own bed through the curtain, and then the pole, the rope still attached there. I rub the hair between my fingers.
It has been washed and re-braided, it isn’t the last thing she touched anymore.
My gaze drifts back to the pole.
That is where she’ll sleep from now on. She isn’t getting into my bed after what she did.
But there should be one more.
Dropping the braid back on the table, I rush out of the cabin, and I’m instantly hit with the snowstorm. I pause, barely able to see in front of me, but I could make my way around camp with my eyes closed.
I enter the stables, not bothering to brush off the snow, the cold unable to penetrate me as I make my way to the back room.
The horses neigh when I enter, and Serah tries to get my attention, but I have one single focus right now.
Entering the room, the smell of leather invading my senses, I make my way over to Drogonah’s saddle, then grab the reins above.
Staring at where she untied the braid that she left on the table makes the rage come closer to the surface.
I take a breath, trying to gain control.
I quickly move my hand along, reaching the other end and find the hair there, intact and braided as it was. I drop my head to my chest, eyes closing and breathing out a sigh of relief.
I still have this.
But I nearly didn’t.
I stay there for a long time, wrestling with relief and fury. Grief and sadness.
The longer I stay, gripping the hair that’s left, the more anger wins out.
