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With a small sigh of defeat, Seteth sets the comb down and reaches for the sewing scissors. “I fear the rest will have to go. There is simply too much.”
Byleth draws her knees to her chest. The tiny white scars that she’d noticed earlier now shine in the firelight, and she does not think about what creature’s teeth made them, nor how long it had taken them to give up on their meal. All things considered, she should have seen this coming, but knowing that doesn’t stop her heart from sinking. “Just do it.”
Seteth apologizes when the first chunk of hair falls. “ I’m sorry. ” The weight of it is heavy with five years’ worth of growth and river water and, more recently, her bath. And it’s an ugly thing, her hair, as it dirties his floor one snip at a time; more grey than green, and matted beyond belief. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Falling away, behind her head and out of sight.
She doesn’t realize she’s crying until he tilts her chin up to do her bangs and freezes for a brief moment. His hand makes for a cool contrast to the warmth of the fire, brushing her tears away and taking a section of her hair between his pointer and middle fingers; pulling it straight. Another cut. The newly shorn bits stick to her cheeks and make her skin tingle.
He pauses even before she speaks, anticipating. It comes out in a rough exhale. “Everyone is changing” — and he waits for her to finish before making another move, not eager to slip up and remove any more than is necessary. “Even me.”
“Change need not be a cause for sorrow,” he says after a pause. “Your students, for example, have grown and changed for the better, have they not?”
Her counter comes sharp. “Because there’s a war on, Seteth. And I missed it.”
One last, equally sharp, snip and he sets the scissors down again and hands her a tiny compact — Rhea’s, once upon a time.
“Yes, and we all mourned you. But here you are.”
Gently, he places a hand over hers and guides the compact open, revealing the tiny mirror in the lid. Her new hair is cut into an attractively rough bob just above her shoulders, leaving some long strands in front to frame her face while her bangs are trimmed just above her eyes. It is decidedly different, but not the disaster she had been expecting.
“Satisfactory?”
Clicking the compact shut once more, she wipes at her eyes and nods. “You’re a miracle worker, Seteth.”
“I beg to differ,” he says softly. Over her shoulder, she can hear him packing up his supplies, and she turns to watch as he methodically places each object in its designated spot. “Picturing you alone at the bottom of that ravine — it killed me.” A pause. “It did all of us, I think.” The lid of the sewing kit closes with a soft thunk . “So never say that change is a bad thing.”
“I’m sorry.”
At last, Seteth catches her eye. “Don’t be.”
He is worn, as is she, but happy; a soft glow, like the hearth before her.
While he busies himself returning the kit to the shelf and the comb to the bathroom, Byleth stands and runs her fingers through her new hair, getting a feel for the lightness of it. Different, but not bad.
By the time he returns, she has already claimed her side of the bed.