As Larel elaborated, her confidence became infectious. It seemed less impossible and marginally probable that Vhalla might learn enough to keep herself alive. That is, until the memories of the Northerners in all their ruthless resolve came back to her. Vhalla, bit her lip, it was hopeless to think she would be able to do anything.
“Come, we’ll speak on this later.” Larel stood as if sensing her shifting determination. “Let me show you the baths. I’m sure you’d like a wash.”
Vhalla nodded; there was little that appealed more in the world than bathing. Perhaps she could scrub her skin away and find a new person beneath it.
Just like everything else in the Tower, the baths were a significant upgrade from the servants’ baths. It was communal, unlike the lavish private room she had used to bathe in before the Gala. But here too, there were spigots with hot and cold water; two in each of the ten stalls that sat ready for people to wash with before soaking in a steaming pool that covered the back third of the floor.
Vhalla hadn’t even wanted to touch her clean clothes, she felt so filthy. Larel had been kind enough to carry them for her, and the other woman placed them in a small changing area before a large mirror. Vhalla stopped and looked at herself for the first time in almost four days.
Her hair was a bird’s nest, sticking this way and that. It was a good three inches shorter with all the knots. Her face was streaked with blood, soot, and caked makeup. Her eyes looked tired and worn, and her cheeks a more hollow than she remembered them being. Vhalla ran a finger down the gash that ran between a black eye and a split lip, beginning to laugh.
“Vhalla?” Larel asked gently, her concern evident.
“I’m a mess. No wonder the senators had little difficulty seeing me as a crazed killer,” Vhalla continued to laugh. It echoed through the empty hopelessness she found within her. She shook her head.
“I need to see your wounds, Vhalla.” Larel pressed her fingertips together. “I’ll go get whatever salves are necessary once I know their status.”
Vhalla paused a moment as the other woman waited expectantly. Larel was telling her to undress, she realized.
With a breath, Vhalla pulled the sack over her head. Her hands trembled as the air hit her skin, and Vhalla forced herself to be brave. With an angry grunt she threw the burlap ball and underclothes into a corner.
“Burn it, Larel,” she barked, a dark tone in her voice that tasted heady and almost sweet in its rough tang.
Larel nodded, and with a glance it was consumed in an orange flame until nothing was left but a small black spot on the tile.
The Western woman rounded her and seemed to be making a mental list. She looked closely at Vhalla’s shoulder, pulling away the remaining bandage that Vhalla hadn’t fussed with. She moved to her head next, taking off the soiled gauze.
Normally Vhalla would not feel very comfortable being naked in the presence of another woman. Larel had a clinical manner to her, which made it all the easier. But Vhalla saw the remnants of Rat and Mole’s abuse, the purpling of her abdomen, arms, and legs. Larel spared her any unhelpful coddling or pointless anger, saying nothing of abuse.
“All right, they don’t look too bad, physically at least,” she said thoughtfully, after another turn. “I’ll go get a few things and be back. Go ahead and start washing up. I asked the other girls to stay away for a bit, so you should have privacy.”
Vhalla sat in a stall and turned on the hot water. She doused herself the second the bucket was full. The water was scalding, and Vhalla took a breath, repeating the process. It couldn’t be hot enough, and after the fourth bucket her skin was bright pink and slightly steaming.
Working a bar of soap to a lather, Vhalla found a small pumice stone and used it liberally. She applied all the pressure she could. At first, it was for the thick layer of grime but each time she stopped, the thought of Rat and Mole’s assault raining down on her consumed her. Eventually her skin was splotchy with raw—almost bleeding—spots where bruises once were. Vhalla threw the stone away before she could harm herself further.
She poured water over herself again and turned to her hair. She lathered in soap with delicate fingers, working on the tangles and scabbing at her scalp. The water ran red with dried blood, so Vhalla washed it again. After the third washing she found a small brush and attempted to comb through the hopeless mess.
It was slow going; each time she put the brush in her hair, it hit a snag. Vhalla started with the crown of her head and began working downward. Around halfway, all the knots began to stack on each other and she couldn’t work the comb through. Vhalla attempted to brush from the bottom, but to no avail. She tried the left side, then the right side, but found no luck.
Vhalla threw the brush against the wall and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to cry anymore; she was tired of feeling weak and sad. She was tired of feeling hopeless, tired of fighting, and tired of feeling like the world was against her. Standing, she walked back over to the mirror, looking at the mass of knots halfway through her hair.
A glint of silver caught her eye, and Vhalla picked up a razor. Grabbing a hunk of hair she took a breath. The wet clump that fell to the floor was one of the most psychologically beneficial things she’d done in some time. Vhalla grabbed the next fist of hair and the razor glided through it effortlessly, then the next, and the next.
She would cut it away. She would cut away the anger, the pain, and the frustration. She’d cut and cut until she was sculpted into something better, something stronger. They wanted to kill her, so this Vhalla would die, she resolved, and a new Vhalla would be born from her ashes.