Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE - A LOVE'S DISSECTION
“You know nothing about loss.” - Haitham
Kaveh brushed over the sleeping Collei’s hair. She was lying in the bed right next to Tighnari’s, who had yet to wake up. Cyno sat on the ground between the beds, back against the wall, eyes wide open as he watched over them both and Kaveh’s hand trailed over his shoulder too. Cyno inclined his head to a barely-there nod, determined to remain something to lean against rather than accept his weakness but Kaveh knew better than to push him.
He looked at Tighnari instead; the doctors had put him on his stomach. His back was coated in a green, thick salve, providing the burned skin with fluid and protecting it. They had stripped him of his clothes. A hospital gown covered his front and a thin sheet was draped over his back to respect his privacy but Kaveh knew the lightning strike raked over his whole backside. Tighnari’s tail was put up by a sling to keep it from touching the salve.
Kaveh held onto the metal bedframe and choked the wave of tears rising in his throat. It was the middle of the night, he didn’t want to make a scene. But looking at him, seeing all these wounds he could have prevented, almost split him in two, one part so full of self-loathing the other of directionless anger.
But then he looked at Collei and Cyno, Collei’s hand hanging off the bed and Cyno holding onto it even though she had fallen asleep hours ago and something tender in his chest brushed the mangled red and black away.
Kaveh walked back to Alhaitham’s bed, his eyes roaming over the many sleeping patients. People they had saved after they had been wounded by their blade - a cause so dangerous, Kaveh wondered if Scaramouche had even considered the collateral as he had charged into the arena.
Alhaitham was awake when Kaveh sat on his bed and pushed his blanket back enough for him to slip under it. The knot in his throat softened against Alhaitham’s strong chest and he slung his arms around him, greedily inhaling his scent and the never-fading glimpse of home.
Alhaitham turned onto his side to look at him, his hand attached to a new drip brushing Kaveh’s hair behind his ear. Fingertips traced Kaveh’s cheekbone, the underside of his jaw, the soft arch of his ear as if he needed to confirm Kaveh was still the one he remembered.
Kaveh wondered the same, putting his hand on top of Alhaitham’s, guiding his wrist like a paintbrush. His face had gotten sharper, if hormones or determination, he didn’t know. If it was the vow to hurt their enemies or to love himself, Kaveh couldn’t tell anymore.
“Don’t,” Alhaitham murmured softly and leaned his forehead against his.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t doubt yourself.”
“You don’t know what I did, I—”
“I know,” Alhaitham insisted, his breath brushing against Kaveh’s lips, featherlight. “I know all of you, nafasam.”
Kaveh was quick to object but the words died on his lips as Alhaitham’s tongue was there to chase them away. His palm curled against Kaveh’s flushed cheek as he kept him close, tongue sliding into his mouth. His lashes fluttered shut and Kaveh fell forward into their kiss; he wondered if Alhaitham tasted the blood on his teeth, earned behind a gameboard and a Harbinger mask. Wondered if he tasted copper but didn’t care.
But he was kissing him like he always had, green devotion drawing petals on his lips. Shouldn’t it feel different? After all they had done, after all they had been through? But this kiss - it felt like coming home. Familiar yet enough to conjure a heat in his lower abdomen, tender yet burning his lips.
“I love you,” Kaveh whispered against his mouth, the words swallowed by a gasp when under the blanket, Alhaitham’s hand slid under his shirt, feeling out his waist. His fingers continued mapping him out, searching for every little change he might have missed and drawing him from memory at the same time. “Haitham…”
“This was the last time,” Alhaitham said, voice like a blade being drawn. “The last time I let them take you from me. The last reunion, the last homecoming for I will never leave your side again.”
“You simply could say I love you back sometimes, you know?” Kaveh shook his head in disbelief, though his heart felt airy and light in his chest.
“Loving you is easy, explaining it is not,” Alhaitham shot back and though there was familiar banter in his tone, he also seemed serious. His hand grabbed Kaveh’s hip, pulling him closer as he pressed his lips to Kaveh’s rosy cheek. “I could study a thousand books and still not find the words that match the feeling in my chest.”
“Shut up,” Kaveh gasped, arching his body against him. He didn’t want to believe him. How could loving Kaveh be easy when it had put Alhaitham through waves of blood and grief for almost a year? But then, it was so enticing to believe him because Kaveh, too, had this emotion in his chest he couldn’t define and didn’t even want to. He only wanted to be swept away by it.
Their bodies entwined under the blanket, legs slung around each other, arms sliding over a shivering spine. Alhaitham’s hands slipped under his shirt, down his lower back and Kaveh felt out his chest, his breath coming fast. The overwhelming urge to taste and devour him almost consumed him; he knew they couldn’t, not here - but he was one breathless kiss away from suggesting they snuck away together.
The door of the infirmary opened and the head physician of the Resistance, Baizhu, entered quietly. His steps were barely audible, a gentle aura surrounding him; normally, he made his rounds to check on each of his patients but now he approached Alhaitham’s bed. Kaveh almost expected to be scolded for not lying in his own when he saw Baizhu’s serious expression.
“Wanderer wishes to speak with you.”
“Now?” Kaveh slowly sat up, shivering against Alhaitham’s hand possessively curling around his side.
“Yes, he says it’s urgent,” Baizhu gave him an apologetic look and went to check on Alhaitham’s drip. “How are you feeling, Alhaitham?”
“I’ll come with you,” Alhaitham ignored Baizhu’s question and made moves to get up. Baizhu put a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.
“You need rest, Alhaitham.”
“I need to—”
“It’s fine,” Kaveh said as he put his shoes on. “He and I are friends. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in no time.”
They had yet to talk about what had happened in the four months of their forced separation and during the games but it would have to wait. Alhaitham shot him a look of disbelief at the thought of Scaramouche being a friend to anyone but Kaveh had to brush it aside for now. He gave Alhaitham a kiss on the cheek and left him in Baizhu’s care.
The Fortress of Meropide was fascinating. Whenever Kaveh walked its halls, he threatened to bump into someone because he couldn’t help but marvel at the architecture. He was desperate to find out how it all worked together, the pipes and the gear wheels, the metal walls defying the pressure of the sea. Down here, the Tsaritsa hopefully wouldn’t be able to reach them.
Steps echoing against the metal bridge caused him to turn around. A startled sound came over his lips, hitching into a soft laugh. Alhaitham had gotten rid of his drip and Baizhu’s advice and was walking after him. Kaveh waited for him to catch up, twining their fingers.
“You are the worst.”
“I told you, I’m not letting them separate us again.”
“Does that mean you are gonna follow me into the bathroom now too, then?” Kaveh shot back, his eyebrow arching up as if to underline the almost forgotten snark in his voice. Alhaitham rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Uh-huh, sure, I am the one being ridiculous,” Kaveh tugged on Alhaitham’s hospital gown. “I thought I’d be the only one allowed to see you like this.”
Alhaitham’s mouth twitched, sharp like his hollowed cheeks as he turned on the spot with a smirk and revealed that while his gown was open in the back, he was wearing a black tank top and shorts underneath. Kaveh gave a mock sigh, voicing his disappointment and Alhaitham pulled him in by the hand. It was banter which could have taken place in their apricot-coloured kitchen, holding onto mugs of steaming, black tea.
But the moment Kaveh thought of their home, the bombers invaded his mind and he had to steer his thoughts elsewhere or he would break. He couldn’t face it. Not yet.
Scaramouche awaited them in the administrative area, an office in the core of the fortress, overseeing every inch of the circular structure; when he spotted Alhaitham at Kaveh’s side, his pinched lips became even more pronounced but he refrained from making a comment. He wasn’t alone either.
Wriothesley and Clorinde leaned against the wall next to Scaramouche’s desk and Lyney and Lynette, accompanied by their younger brother Freminet, a shy teenager with freckles on his nose, whose demeanour often reminded Kaveh of Collei, were waiting for them.
“What’s wrong? Why are you calling a meeting at 2 AM?” Kaveh closed the door behind him and cast Freminet a reassuring smile before he looked at Scaramouche; since their escape, they hadn’t talked to each other. The past two days Kaveh had barely left the infirmary.
Scaramouche’s mouth twitched into a familiar frown. “I wanted you to see this before everyone else.”
“What?” Kaveh asked, a sense of foreboding tiptoeing across his neck like an icy spider.
Scaramouche gave Alhaitham another wary look which was answered equally untrusting. Then he gestured to Lyney and Lynette, who turned on the screen mounted on the wall behind the desk and Kaveh escaped a gasp; the footage of their escape was broadcast, the hovercrafts rushing into the arena, the wounded tributes and soldiers on the ground but most of all - Kaveh.
Lyney and Lynette had captured him from every angle but the editing made Kaveh look much braver than he had felt in the moment. Kaveh watched in a mixture of shock and fascination how he commanded the Dendro barrier with the help of Mehrak to protect his loved ones.
But then the gnosis landed in his palms and the green energy encased him, turned golden hair and red eyes aglow with a mere ounce of divinity - and yet it was enough to make him look like an angel, vengeance and love in scream and body as he tried to control the Dendro element.
Next to him, Alhaitham escaped an almost strangled noise, his fingers knotting against Kaveh’s.
This was what Scaramouche had wanted. Their deal coming to fruition, turning Kaveh into a symbol of peace, a glimpse of paradise and an angel of justice. Heavily edited, bending the truth by cutting Xiao’s skills short in the footage to put Kaveh on a pedestal instead and not even including Scaramouche himself although he had been the reason they had escaped in the first place.
“What the hell is this?” Kaveh pressed out, unable to look away from the screen. On there, Alhaitham was pulled into the hovercraft, passing his floating body and Kaveh, though grappling with the gnosis, looked at him with an emotion too big for the screen. His cheeks flushed as Alhaitham’s hand around his tightened even more. It was the only moment not heavily edited and yet radiating more emotion than anything else.
“Our declaration of war,” Scaramouche explained, watching the footage with a calm expression. “We are airing this tomorrow morning. In about five hours, once Snezhnaya awakes.”
“Great trailer,” Wriothesley complimented Lyney and Lynette with his charming smile.
“It’s war propaganda,” Alhaitham corrected him, voice neutral but body wired.
“It is what we discussed,” Scaramouche took in Alhaitham’s face with an annoyed expression before his eyes drilled into Kaveh’s. He was right. In exchange for his friends’ lives, Kaveh had agreed to become the poster child of Scaramouche’s war. Back then, before the 100th Hunger Games, the thought had sounded like it would be carried out by someone else. But Kaveh was here. And somehow, he was still himself.
“I know,” he hurried to say. “I just didn’t expect it to be so sensational.”
“We need to speak the Fatui language if we want to sway them. Sensational, over the top and morbid is what they are known for,” Lyney explained their motivation.
“It is necessary to make an impact,” Clorinde nodded. “Even though I despise the means, you executed it well.”
“Good,” Scaramouche sounded almost bored at their exchange; he reached for his tablet, fingers dancing over the screen. Kaveh noticed that the Electro Gnosis was no longer dangling from his neck. “Well then, go to bed, we launch the campaign in five hours. Wriothesley, Clorinde, sort our new soldiers into the planned squads and give me a list.”
The soldiers stepped out after a brief salute and Lyney, Lynette and Freminet followed them quietly. Kaveh and Alhaitham stared after them until the door fell shut. “New soldiers?”
“Even without a promotional trailer, our mission has already caused some waves. After people heard the arena had been destroyed, they flocked to several Resistance bases. We will be flying them in. It’s not safe for any of us on the surface for now.”
“District 12,” Kaveh flinched as if Alhaitham had fired a gun next to him while in reality, his voice was strained, almost scared as he spoke of their home. “The Resistance wanted to get the people out before the Tsaritsa destroyed it, where—?”
“There have been some complications,” Scaramouche couldn’t meet their eyes. Kaveh’s stomach churned with anxiety. While he could make peace with losing the architecture of District 12, losing the people was unacceptable. “The destruction was so devastating that Navia and her team had to comb the debris for survivors all the while fighting off the Tsaritsa’s forces. But they are on their way back, the situation has calmed down.”
“Calmed down? Do you expect the Tsaritsa to simply leave District 12 alone?” Kaveh asked, his body shaking until Alhaitham’s hand trailed from his tensed knuckles to his waist, pulling him against his chest. Scaramouche finally lifted his gaze away from the tablet, taking them in, something akin to frustration hanging in his lashes. No - it wasn’t rooted in anger. It was regret.
“There is nothing left in District 12 that would be of use to her.”
Nothing left. Kaveh’s cry came out fractured yet loud enough for the other two to flinch. Alhaitham buried a hand in his hair as he hid his face against his chest, muffling the sound. Scaramouche folded his hands in front of his chin, staring at his desk, tight-lipped.
“She did this to send a message, not to deprive us of resources. So we didn’t lose anything of worth either—”
“Watch your mouth, Harbinger,” Alhaitham snarled, the tone a vicious growl rooted in his chest, roaring against Kaveh’s ear. “You know nothing about loss.”
“I know nothing about loss?!” Scaramouche rose to his feet with a bristling stare, his eyes a coiling darkness about to lash out but it was no match for the fiery expression carved into Alhaitham’s features. “We almost lost everything due to our escape being improvised, one third of my best soldiers, dead!”
“Do those bother you more than the children you sacrificed last year when you decided to change your mind about who would be the propaganda tool of your choice?”
“Haitham!” Kaveh gasped, peeling himself out of his grip. “Don’t—”
“Big words coming from someone who sacrificed those same children for Kaveh to live,” Scaramouche hissed, his doll-like face a mask of anger, matching Alhaitham’s glare without any fear.
“Stop it! Both of you!” Kaveh wrenched out, hands stretched out toward either of them as if preventing them from lunging at each other. But the heated argument dissipated within seconds, leaving nothing behind but ash on their tongues. Scaramouche fell back into his chair, rubbing his face with both palms. Alhaitham pressed one hand against the front of his throat, mouth twisted.
“We lost home,” Alhaitham’s voice was an open wound, nothing left of the numbness he would have displayed a year ago.
“We lost District 12,” Kaveh whispered and speaking it out loud was like seeing the dark whipping post on the district market square all over again. Tears met at his chin, dripping onto cold metal flooring. “But you made an effort to get our people out. And we’re grateful for that.”
“Okay,” Scaramouche’s fingers drummed awkwardly, anxiously against the table. “There’s more we need to talk about but we should wait until after the funerals.”
The situation was surreal to Kaveh, after all they had been through. In the final moments of their plan, Scaramouche and he had been equals but he didn’t need to look at the large metal desk the other hid behind to realize how different their perceptions of their lives were - deprived of the gameboard between them, there still was something blocking what they had so carefully crafted together. Something more than a tabletop full of war propaganda.
Alhaitham’s hand reached for Kaveh, now asking for support instead of offering it and Kaveh immediately wrapped his arms around him. He mumbled goodnight to Scaramouche and tugged Alhaitham along.
Childe anxiously paced the corridor of Winter’s Palace. Daggers sheathed, his nails were enough to draw blood against his palms. His throat was stricken, air making it out in loud, grating noises.
“How can she be hurt? How could they harm her, she’s Her Majesty!”
His indignation went ignored, his only audience left Arlecchino, who leaned against the wall across from the Her chambers, arms crossed in front of her chest, locked in a brooding silence ever since she had joined Childe in the hallway. They had cleared the arena, seized the tributes that had survived and given them over to Harbinger Capitano for further questioning.
Childe had wanted to chase after the terrorists but the moment he had arrived in the destroyed arena, he had noticed the state Her Majesty had been in. He had rushed to her side, forgetting all about Kaveh and his wicked plan and carried her through the debris, the chaos, calling for Dottore.
“She should not have trusted him. I know, we shouldn’t question her but he did betray her on purpose, he never was one of us—”
“Tartaglia,” Arlecchino cut through his ramblings, her voice hoarse from how long she had kept quiet. Her unnatural eyes pinned Childe down, the gaze enough for him to stop his restless pacing. “Can you not be a fool?”
“Wh-What?”
“Kaveh was not the one who harmed the Tsaritsa. It was Scaramouche.”
“No, he wouldn’t—wouldn’t do that—” The internal evidence was suffocating but Childe refused to believe it. Scaramouche and he were friends, always had been, ever since he had joined the Harbinger ranks. He had been entrusted with a glorious Hunger Games jubilee and doubting his loyalty meant doubting Her Majesty’s year-long judgment.
And then there was the video the terrorists had leaked onto all channels, showing off their attack. There had been no sign of Scaramouche in there, just Kaveh stealing the Dendro Gnosis and using it as a weapon to destroy what they had built.
But he also couldn’t deny that Scaramouche was gone, like so many of the tributes. Childe had combed the arena the moment he had given Her Majesty into Dottore’s care. But he hadn’t found him, no matter how many shattered limbs he kicked aside.
“Don’t embarrass us,” Arlecchino said, canting her chin into a proud angle. “We have been outsmarted and must accept it. The public can’t know but we have to admit defeat, only then can we adapt and strike back triumphantly.”
Childe opened his mouth to protest when the door across from them suddenly swung open. Dottore appeared on the threshold, looking shaken and wide-eyed, his normally neatly combed hair tousled.
The terrorist’s leader Kaveh had killed Pantalone and one of Dottore’s segments before he had blown up the arena. Childe assumed dying, even if it merely was a part of someone, was a disturbing endeavour. But he couldn’t extend his compassion toward Dottore, not when his heart was so full of worry for Her Majesty.
“Zandik, will she be okay?” Dottore slanted him an annoyed glance and didn’t respond until Childe made an attempt to grab onto his sleeve like a little boy.
“Of course, she will be. She is an Archon.”
“How could they harm her in the first place?”
“The puppet was wielding the Electro Gnosis,” Dottore spat out, rage so cold it rivalled Her Majesty's magic. Childe’s hand fell back to his side, nails crusted in his own blood. The puppet.
“No, he wouldn’t—”
“Her Majesty wants to see you,” Dottore interrupted him and whatever turmoil had taken hold of Childe’s mind came to a grating halt. He quickly adjusted his cloak and nodded, knocking on the door of her chamber before stepping inside.
She was sitting upright in her bed, partially hidden by the gossamer-white curtains of the canopy. Childe’s heart cramped in his chest as he approached - a feeling never fading, no matter how often he was allowed to stand in her presence.
She looked at him with a soft smile, woven even softer behind the see-through curtain. A familiar dimple appeared on her round, freckled cheek. Her ginger hair was tied into a beautiful braid, glossing over her delicate shoulder.
Hidden behind the curtains, Childe could even pretend her eyes were brown instead of red.
“Your Majesty, you wanted to speak to me?” Childe knelt in front of the bed.
The Archon of Love, wearing the face of his late mother, brushed the curtain aside and cupped his cheek.
Childe resisted the urge to lean into the touch and focused on the sting in his kneecaps instead, keeping his back straight and gaze lowered. Her Majesty cradled his cheek, her palm icy as usual but so tender to the touch. Her thumb drew over Childe’s jawline, creating goosebumps in its wake.
“I have a gift for you, Ajax,” she whispered. “Look at me.”
He did. As always, his heart was this dying bird in his chest, plucked wings, broken bones, desperate to take flight when he looked at his mother’s face. Forever young, forever beautiful. Preserved by a love as eternal as ice.
But today, something was wrong. His mother’s face was bruised, her body covered in bandages. Her veins shimmered through pale skin, almost purple in nature. There was a burn on her chest - Childe didn’t question why it was on such display if everything else was covered by gauze for the sight created a fiery devotion inside of him, the thirst for revenge, the need to make Kaveh pay.
“You’re hurt,” he pressed out, trying to hold back the feeling ravaging his chest. Her Majesty might be the Archon of Love but she disliked uncontrolled displays of emotion. Still, seeing her so fragile when she had always been this beacon in his life ever since she had taken him in as a young boy, was hard to bear.
“I’m healing,” she corrected him and gestured to her nightstand where a red box was sitting.
He grabbed it, feeling out the satin wrapped around it and kept it between shaky fingers, waiting for further instructions. Her Majesty leaned down, once more touching his face.
“I am so grateful, little Ajax. You saved me, in the arena.”
Childe froze under her touch, not with fear but reverence. His throat became tight and he was barely able to keep their gaze upright. His mother’s gaze, drenched in blood. Too red, too cold and yet - he would lick her love off a knife if she presented it to him.
Her Majesty rarely praised him and had never thanked him before. A doubtful voice wanted to question it but his eagerness to prove himself pushed it away.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“But I cannot have your love grow soft, not in the time of war,” she silently commanded him to open the box, revealing an odd device Childe had never seen before. It looked similar to the Vision of that District 12 girl that had gotten away, only it was wearing the Electro symbol. “This is a Delusion.”
When she spotted Childe’s confused expression, she lifted the device out of the box, holding it up between them.
“Elemental energy I harvested from the Archon of Eternity herself, given unwillingly, bristling with eternal defiance. For you to wield exactly like it was taken.”
Her Majesty pushed the Delusion into his hands and closed his fingers around it. Immediately, there was a distant pain flaring from the contact. Something gnawing into him, soaring across his veins - electricity but also Her Majesty’s love. Always taking, giving so rarely - Childe felt his heart rate spike, his muscles lock.
“It’s going to drain your energy upon activation but I know you can withstand it. For it only draws from your devotion to Your Majesty,” Her Majesty believed in him, looking at him with a fond smile on his mother’s lips. “As long as your heart beats for Snezhnaya, it shall keep beating.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
He awoke to flowers around his bed. Lotus and lilies, jasmine and poppies, easy on his eyes despite their brightness because they were so familiar, always a part of the canvas he called home.
Arms wrapped around a pillow soaked in secret tears, Tighnari stayed on his stomach and looked at them put up on his nightstand. He had been awake for quite some time now but had feared to open his eyes, scared of having to face the consequences of the pain still lodged in his spine. But instead of fear, he was greeted by bright petals and—
“Collei golam,” Tighnari whispered, voice barely there, raspy and not him - but not to Collei. She immediately scooted closer on her chair put up between the flowers, right by his head. Tighnari’s pillow caught another wave of tears, though this time, they were created by relief instead of pain.
“Bābā,” Collei cried and then repeated the word, causing it to take root in Tighnari’s ashen heart and set it abloom again. She reached for him and even though every pore of his body hurt, Tighnari found his strength in her love and sat up to pull her into his arms. Collei’s hands wrapped around his neck, steering clear of the bandages on his back.
Tighnari escaped a sob loud enough to gain the attention of the whole infirmary but he couldn’t care less. He squeezed her with all the strength he could muster and kissed her hair.
“Shh, it’s okay, I’m fine,” he whispered while unable to stifle his own cries. Collei laughed, overwhelmed, snot on her lip, and refused to let go. The pain that had seared his back for days on end while he had flickered in and out of consciousness was cleansed by her closeness; like a bath under their waterfall at home, Collei, his flower, his light, his daughter, in his arms healed him like no herbal salve or Fatui medicine could.
He spotted Cyno sitting on Collei’s bed next to him and Tighnari’s heart skipped a beat as their gazes met and he realized, after all they had been through, even when he had thought it impossible, Cyno had kept his promise: He had brought Tighnari back to her. Then he saw the tears hanging in Cyno’s lashes, almost helpless, as they fought to hold on.
“Come here,” Tighnari wrenched out with another sob and a smile that caused his face to ache.
Cyno slowly approached and Collei moved to the side, not letting go of Tighnari but creating enough room for Cyno to hold onto him. Tighnari wrapped his arms around them both. His heart might burst out of his chest, emotions flooding him like morning sun.
“Thank you, thank you,” Collei mumbled, her lower lip wobbling, as she looked at Cyno and Tighnari bit back even more tears at the sight; to see them both interact like this, to see her so familiar with Cyno, leaning onto him, trusting him, - Collei, his little flower, whose petals opened to the fewest of people - filled him with pride and love.
“Anything for you, Collei-flower,” Cyno said, face serious, and Tighnari snorted.
“Oi! Not funny! Make him stop, bābā!” Collei whined and pulled out of their hug to cast them both a bristling look, though it lacked heat.
“He calls you his flower all the time,” Cyno pointed out. “I thought you would appreciate it if I did it too.”
“Well, not cauli-flower, though!”
“Why not? It’s a versatile vegetable. Very nutritious.”
“That is true,” Tighnari nodded and Collei blew up her cheeks in exasperation before she slumped onto her chair, defeated. Her pursed lips pulled back into a giggle all too soon and Tighnari laughed, their euphoria spreading in the infirmary and causing some other patients to smile as well.
Collei got off her chair again and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her small hand brushed over his hair and Tighnari froze as he remembered his body must look so different to her.
“I guess it was time for a new haircut,” he tried to gloss over the sudden feeling of loss expanding in his chest to put her at ease. Collei pulled back enough to look at him, her fingertips describing the clean cut Alhaitham’s sword had left on his hair.
“It’s not new,” she whispered, voice trembling with emotion. “It’s how you looked when we first met.”
Tighnari’s eyes widened. She was right. Back then, after his Hunger Games, he had worn his hair like this, unsure how to manage what had been left of his body after losing his human ears and earning animal instincts. He had wanted to grow out his hair but the stylists had forced him to the same look during his Victory Tour.
He realized then, what reminded Tighnari of a time of loss and death, had an entirely different meaning for Collei. Suddenly, the lack of hair wasn’t as severe. He might even be able to meet himself in the mirror if Collei’s reflection would be in there too.
“You’re right,” he said, voice soaked in something tender, and kissed her forehead.