Page 9 of The Scouts

Chapter 3

JEALOUSY

Gwhwÿn

ERVYN

The day dragged, even though we both did whatever possible to pack it full of activities. Heinnés had meant well, but relieving us of duty freed more opportunity for rumination over what the evening would bring. And that did us little favour.

Our conversation lagged since I’d been too anxious and unfocused to fuel it. Lochan’s dark mood seemed to consume him more as time slipped by.

In the early afternoon, I recklessly joined what he considered a light jog. An hour and a half later, I’d developed what felt like a bad case of shin splints and a collapsed lung. However, for what it was worth, limping and wheezing did help take my mind off things for a time.

Afterwards, we passed a couple of hours—the most bearable of the day—in the city’s heiku. Despite its small size, the establishment delighted with gorgeous gardens that weaved around the hot spring area. Just taking in the peaceful surroundings inspired a feeling of tranquillity and well-being. Soaking our bones in thermal baths did us no harm, either.

Not without reason, an ancient Elven proverb declared: The path of a true warrior begins at a heiku. There must've been something to our ancestors' belief that a clean body generated pure thoughts, soothed the spirit and, in turn, led to more balanced actions.

Filled with a sense of calm resignation, I strolled at Lochan’s side back to the garrison.

Street eateries had begun setting up their stalls. Tavern workers went about preparing for the night’s business, lighting lanterns and sweeping sitting decks. They joked about, teasing each other and laughing. It seemed odd how others anticipated the approach of the very evening I dreaded.

We got changed in the tiny room we shared. I refused to analyse Lochan’s choice of outfit too deeply.

He disentangled the top knot he’d pulled his hair into after his bath. Freed from the constraints of the leather tie, it fell down his back like a length of black, luxurious fabric. He gave it a rough comb with his fingers and, probably out of force of habit, started braiding it.

Halfway through, he stilled. His face fell, his eyes flitting to mine. He looked as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t or didn’t want me to see.

Don’t braid your hair. She wants it loose.

My heart wrenched at the reminder. I strangled the emotion, forcing myself to show no reaction. A compulsion to care for him befell me. It was self-indulgent, perhaps, but I wanted us to spend the moments before he had to leave in a meaningful way that would bring us both comfort.

I drew up a chair. “Come and sit here, mu’hrōnye. I’ll do your hair for you,” I said on impulse, shocking myself and him, too, if his wide gaze served as an indication.

I scrutinised his expression to judge whether I overstepped.

“You’d really like to do it?” He kept his voice so low, I barely heard him.

“Yes. Will you let me?”

After a long pause—extended to the point that had me certain he would refuse—he ambled over to the chair. He settled into it backwards, placing his elbows on the rail.

I could see his vague reflection in the window. It was fuzzy around the edges, but clear enough for me to notice the tension he carried in his upper body.

We still had time, so I had no reason to rush. Having located a fancy hairbrush Lochan owned but seldom used, I dug out a small bottle of light natamo nut extract I’d purchased for nourishing my yaanöŭr arrows. The light, high-quality oil could, without much difficulty, double as a luxurious hair serum. I pulled out the cork, poured a small amount into my hand and rubbed it into my palms to warm it.

Likely alerted by the pleasant fragrance, Lochan glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyes a lustre of blue.

“Go on. Rest your head on your forearms,” I said in a rough voice and grunted my satisfaction when he did.

First, I smoothed his hair with my fingers, working the extract into the length of his strands all the way through to their ends. Going in slow, circular motions, I then proceeded to massage his scalp, starting at his temples. As I applied light but steady pressure—paying special attention to his acupoints—I observed the tightness leaving his body.

By the time I reached his nape, Lochan’s shoulders had dropped and his posture mellowed out. He heaved a deep sigh.

Only then did I reach for the brush. Its bristles crunched, slipping down the mass of his hair. I combed it through from the top of his head to his waist in a fluid manner. Unhurried, I devoted myself to taming his soft waves, ridding them of tangles. With every stroke, I made them all the shinier.

Truth be told, it had stunned me that he allowed me to minister to what the Elven culture regarded as a very private thing. Touching another Elf’s hair—the symbol of his freedom and status—outside the bedroom suggested way more intimacy than fucking. Some clans even branded it as rigid taboo, an activity reserved exclusively for oathed partners.

Pulling your lover’s hair at the height of arousal or winding it around your fingers during pillow talk was one thing. But tending to it in a non-sexual context, in the daytime, no less—quite another.