Shaving

The blade was cold as it scraped across his skin in a long, careful stroke. Not even the warmth of the water or the lather could help that feel of cold steel touching his neck. His movements were slow and careful, methodically working over the contours of his chin. The blade pressing up under his throat, digging in as blood wells up, sliding down underneath his armor.

The razor fell from his hands, clattering in the basin as his hand shot up to clap over the wound. “Son of a bitch,” he cursed to himself, his free hand reaching for a towel to clean up the mess. He felt shaky, not himself. He hadn’t cut himself like that in ages. So much had been going on, he was distracted, losing his focus.

He could feel his hand shaking. He hadn’t lost himself like that in a while. His humors were off, but who could he talk to? How could he talk to anyone about it? Ariel… Couldn’t. His friend had too much going on, he couldn’t bother him. Cellan… Maybe, but again, she had too much to do, how could she trust him to lead if she knew? How could she trust him if he didn’t? Brynieve… It would shatter her if she saw me weak like this. She has taken on so much responsibility, it was easy to forget just how young she was.

His eyes closed and leaned forward, his forehead resting against the mirror. Quietly a knock came at the door; Morgan, checking on him. He could barely summon up a grunt to send her on her way again. He would do it on his own, he had to. He couldn’t stand another person holding a blade to his neck.

Carefully, he peeled away the towel; bloody sticky as it clung to the cotton surface. The bleeding had stopped, it would hardly be noticeable, so long as he didn’t make too many more mistakes like that. After taking a few deep breaths, he took up the razor once more. It shook quietly, but he steeled himself, his eyes focusing upon the image before himself.

“Be strong, for Ariel… for Cellan, for the Queen,” he told himself, nodding with determination before lifting the razor once more. Soon the straight edge was scraping over the skin once more, clearing the last of the hair from his jawline. He wet the towel, clearing off the rest of the lather from his face. When had he gotten so old? Was he good enough? Was he ready?

He didn’t know the answer.

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