Chapter Text
It is a deeply pathetic display of incompetence that greets Lae’zel in the early hours of the morning when she emerges from her tent.
Shadowheart’s struggle with tying her hair in that manner she is so fond of is akin to that of child’s, fingers fumbling and unsteady. She looks tired too, as though she has not slept much.
Lae’zel has not patience for incompetence; she needs Shadowheart ready for battle at a moment’s notice. And so, Lae’zel does was she does best: she fixes the problem.
She slaps Shadowheart’s hands away and starts the braid properly, hopes to finish fast before Shadowheart can protest too much.
Strangely enough, however, Shadowheart does not such thing. Instead, she goes impossibly still. Like one those—what did Karlach call them—‘kitties’ that cross their path on their journey through Faerûn from time to time. Small, fluffy creatures that freeze when they spot you.
Lae’zel pays it no mind. It only makes everything easier.
She makes quick work of Shadowheart’s hair, the dark strands of soft, thick locks smooth against her skin, running through her fingers with the ease of water through a stream. Her fingers are, after all, skilled in the art of braiding.
Like every other githyanki undoubtedly would, Lae’zel finds Shadowheart’s kind of vanity superfluous and shallow. As a warrior, one must keep oneself clean and presentable—Lae’zel takes pride in her grooming and braids, takes pride in being put together, in putting up a formidable front.
But Shadowheart takes a different kind of pride in her looks, not as a warrior but as a worshipper; trinkets and jewelry that must weigh on her nearly as heavily as any armor would adorn both body and hair. Lae’zel supposes she can at least admire the dedication to her goddess.
When finished, she steps back and crosses her arms in front of her. The braid is exactly as it should be.
“There. An easy task I thought you too skilled to have trouble with.”
Shadowheart turns her head and she looks… strange. There is a flush in her cheeks, a light sort of pink that accentuate her barely-there cheekbones. She is so different from anyone Lae’zel has ever known.
“Your face.” Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “It looks weird.”
As if burned, Shadowheart stands. It’s a sudden thing and was Lae’zel not as steely and steadfast as she’s been raised to be, she would have flinched.
“Thank you, Lae’zel, for your enlightenment.” Shadowheart’s tongue is sharp, the poison dripping from every syllable. It does nothing to hide the way she turns an even brighter shade of pink. “Next time, please keep your hands to yourself.”
“Like you have kept your hands to yourself?” Lae’zel bites back. The color in Shadowheart’s face becomes deeper, more pronounced. Darker. Much like the wine she so loves to indulge in. “If you would rather I press a knife to your throat than arrange your hair in that manner you seem so fond of, you need only speak the words and I will have it be done.”
Shadowheart’s fists clench and unclench at her sides. “I think the majority of our companions would prefer not to be met with a carnage when returning to camp. Next time, you will not give me help unless I ask for it.”
With that, Shadowheart turns on a haughty heal and walks back to her tent. Her braid swings behind her with every step, thick and heavy like a pendulum.
Lae’zel pretends she does not hope Shadowheart will ask for help again sooner rather than later.