Tangled Visions, Part One
Chapter Five
"I think that, if you own something for long enough, part of you bleeds into that object until it becomes part of you as well."
-Brigit Stoneheart
"Well," said Shale casually, "These are the Bathhouses." He gestured to the white marble buildings in front of them.
Brigit and Shale were standing on the grounds of the Healer's Hall again, squinting in the bright light of the afternoon sun. It was quite sunny now, which was a great contrast to the rainy weather of yesterday. Obviously Obad-Hai was in a tricky mood this week if he was playing such games. Brigit turned to look at her lanky companion. "You will tell Moue where I am?"
Shale nodded to her and smiled. "Of course. If he's not resting." He continued to walk along the paved road in front of them. "This is the door to the women's section of the baths. You can find your way around inside, I'm sure?"
Brigit shrugged. "As long it's not a maze I'm sure I'll be all right, Master Healer. And though I don't look it, I do know how to use a bath." Her face crinkled up into a smirk, and her black scar scrunched up a little under her eye. Shale ran his fingers through his hair and smiled.
"Then I take my leave of you, Swords Lady. When you are finished here, head up to the main door of the building you came in by. I'll have one of the healers keep an eye open for you." And Shale turned again, white robes rustling softly around his ankles as he walked.
"Shale?" Brigit said suddenly, her face smoothing out into its more usual frown.
He stopped, and turned his head a little, looking back over his shoulder at her. "Yes?" he said reluctantly.
"…Thank you." Her voice was hesitant, as if unused to such words. In truth, Brigit's tongue was simply out of practice at using them.
Shale inclined his head slightly, his lips quirking up at the corners. "It was nothing. I shall wait with Mouse, Should you need me, Brigit." And he turned and disappeared around a corner.
Brigit sighed and opened the door to the Bathhouse. Immediately her nose was hit with the tang of soap and hot water. The marble corridor was steamy, and the warm mist clung to her bare, muddy skin. Brigit did really need a bath. It had been a while since she had taken a real one, after all. One did not get much chance at hot water and soap on the road.
The corridor continued on for a little, before breaking off into different rooms. Brigit chose a bathroom empty of people. She locked the door behind her. It wasn't that she was embarrassed by her own nudity, or anyone else's, for that mater. It as more that she liked her privacy. Enjoyed it. This was going to be the first real bath she had taken in weeks. Brigit planned to enjoy herself.
There were faucets over the white marble tub, and when Brigit turned them, water poured forth. The human woman was surprised really- running water meant pipes. Pipes meant a network of underground waterworks. That meant Farley was a rich town- probably a lot richer than it looked. The room was steamy and hot, though not unpleasantly so. Brigit's boos left visible stains on the polished floor, and she felt somewhat bad for it.
Somebody was going to have to clean up after her, after all this was done. She felt somewhat sorry that someone would have to deal with her mess later. She frowned a little. Well, is she wasn't there, it wouldn't matter. One could only lay blame on a present subject, after all. She would make note to leave the Bathhouses quickly afterwards.
Steam curled out of the now filled bathtub, rising up into the air in swirling, mystical patterns. The water below the steam was hot and glassy, everything below the surface hazy and shifting. For a second, Brigit stood still, staring into the rippling water, unsure. Then she frowned, snapped out of her thoughts, and reached forward to turn off the faucets. The water stilled somewhat, but the human woman still couldn't see beneath the surface. She began to undress.
It was hard to get off the armor. Brigit realized this quickly. The straps on it were tightened, the leather stiff from disuse. Brigit rarely removed her armor, rarely opened herself up like that. Leave herself open to attack and hurt like that. The buckles were the worst of it though, because the layers of dirt and grime had accumulated on them, building up to the point that they couldn't be unfastened properly. Brigit fought with the chainmail shirt for a while, muttering curses under her breath as she did so. The room was almost unbearably hot and misty now, all because of the water in the tub. Finally, the armor gave, and the leather and metal came loose around her shoulders. There was a sharp sucking sound as she pulled the armor off her body, and the noise was akin to the sound a jar makes when its tightly fastened top comes off quickly.
Brigit dropped the armor to the ground, fingers tired and numb from the work of undoing the impossible buckles. She stared down at the covering, and felt a strange desire to put it back on. It was an ugly piece of armor, there was no doubt about that. It was covered in mud and dirt, and the patches of hide Brigit had sewn onto it where the leather or mail had worn thin did look quite mismatched and crude. But despite its unattractiveness, Brigit was fond of the metal. It served her well, and she owed her every breath to it for the number of times it had saved her life. She looked at the missing sleeve on it once more, then sighed and began to unfasten the rest of her coverings.
After her armor, Brigit's boots were the worse for wear. The once pristine hide was now covered in mud, dirt, blood, and Gods knew what else. You couldn't even tell what color the boots had originally been. Brigit ran her fingers over them, wiping away some of the blood. She paused for a second, studying the side of one. The hide under the dirt was showing through, and the human woman could just make out the strange, geometric patterns that had been burned into them as decoration. She brushed more of the much away, and her fingers traced down the symmetry, the sharp angles, the perfectly straight lines. The patterns were beautiful, true, but foreign. Certainly not made by humans. Brigit smiled a little, full lips quirking up oddly at the corners. It was best that the dirt that covered hid the decorations as well. Such strange patterns were bound to attract attention, and that was something Brigit did not want in excess. Then again, a strong, tanned woman walking around in men's breeches and carrying a giant sword attracted much more attention than one article of clothing in itself would. But Brigit would never wear a dress on the road- it was impractical for traveling in. Men's clothes were much more suitable.
The woman stripped off her boots, then sat down at the edge of the tub and stripped off the rest of what she was wearing as well. She left it all in a messy, dirty pile on the floor. Perhaps, when her bath was done, she would clean those as well.
They certainly needed it.
Then, with one long, last look at her discarded armor, Brigit slid herself into the tub.
The water was much hotter than she had expected it to be. It sloshed around her wildly, burning her now bared skin, and Brigit clench her jaws against the heat. It was unpleasant, this first step, but the woman had convinced herself long ago that there was nothing in the world, no type of pain, no type of loss, which you couldn't adjust yourself to. There was nothing that you couldn't overcome if you set yourself to it.
For a second, Brigit sat there, in the tub, strong jaws clenched together and her calloused fingers raking against the polished porcelain on the tub's sides. Then she took a deep breath and sank into the water, dunking her entire body below the surface. For a second, her braided, tangled hair floated on the surface, and then was dragged down with the rest of her.
Brigit found that was the way to do things- just jump right in, and worry about the consequences later. The water was hot, but she knew she would adjust best to it if she threw herself in. Maybe the water was hotter than she had expected it to be, and she would end up burning herself. That remained to be seen, of course. There was no way to know until she tried.
Brigit lay under the foggy surface for a couple of seconds, holding her nose. Then she sat up, breaking the smooth surface of the water with a large splash that sent droplets of sparkling water everywhere. The woman took a couple of deep breaths, blinking water out of her stormy eyes. Her braided hair straggled into her face, and she tried to brush the tangles out of her eyes. They fell back quickly, obscuring her vision again.
Brigit sat that way for a minute or two, tanned chest rising and falling heavily, her lips slightly parted as she breathed. She wasn't sure what she was thinking about then, or if she was even thinking at all.
It had been a long time since Brigit had taken a bath. She wasn't used to the steam, the heat, or even the freshness of the water. She wasn't even used to soap. And that reminded her. Brigit straightened in the tub, her thoughts collected. She turned; hand over her breasts and her hair falling down past her shoulders. She hadn't bothered unbraiding it all, because in truth she wasn't prepared to deal with it. The snarls. The knots. The tangles. Unbraiding it meant work. Brigit needed time to straighten that kind of thing out. Time she didn't have, or didn't want to waste. She could clean it though, make it look nice, at least.
Brigit picked up the soap in her left hand, letting the lather run down her wrist and forearm. The foggy water was actually hot enough to make the soap melt in her fist. She wondered about that suddenly, wondered at how some substances remained unharmed . Brigit smirked slightly. Obviously, she was made of tougher stuff than she had thought. She could stand up to the heat.
The water was darkening now, turning a deep brown color from the dirt and blood that was slowly slipping off her body. Brigit lifted one leg out of the water and began to soap it up. She winced a little as the lather rushed over the small cuts that ran up and down her body, not liking the stinging sensation it bought as she cleaned them out. Brigit splashed water on herself, letting it drip down her legs. She inspected the numerous small scars that covered her body, pink white scratch marks till shiny like new scars always were. Brigit sighed a little. Not all scars healed so nicely though. No. Brigit had found out the hard way that some scars could never heal over.
Some would remain forever.
Brigit splashed some water over her face, closing her eyes against the spray. She could almost feel the grime peel off her face. She hunched for a second, shoulders slumping and her head falling forwards onto her chest. She sighed. Her hair fell forward over her face and her dark eyes closed as droplets of water slid into them. She lifted her hands to her face and ran her calloused fingertips over the soft skin.
The smallest of frowns formed on Brigit's lips as her finger passed over the scar that marred her face. She traced its path, followed the indentation it made. Her eyes fluttered open, and a short sigh escaped her lips. Brigit shifted a little, displacing the water in the tub. And then she squeezed her eyes shut, and a shudder went down her spine. She pressed her strong fingers against her cheekbones, against her old wound.
Perhaps the worst part was she couldn't remember the knife that did it to her, nor the person holding it. Maybe they were dead. Maybe she had killed them. She had killed so many that first night, in that first rage. Brigit swallowed, brow furrowing as she tried to remember. She drew herself farther out of the water.
It had been dark then, the sky cloudy and the new moon just risen. There had been fires. She remembered the orange glow that had been cast on her legs. And then the voices. The talk. Brigit clenched her fists suddenly, and the water swirled around her dangerously. Her eye shot open, blazing with fury. The rage rose in her throat, blocking her breath and making her chest tight against her ribs. It was the beginnings of a rage that she had tried to force down, along with the memory that had stirred it.
Once it had been brought to the surface though, the memory would not rest.
Brigit thrashed a little in the water, hate running down her spine that the droplets of water and sweat that glistened on her skin.
It was so unclear, that memory. It was bitter, like a red wine that had gone acidic with age. The images were dark, splashed with orange here and there. Colored with hate.
Black robes. Flashes of metal glistening in the firelight. Shouting. The sharp clang of steel. The roar of the fires.
And then there was a salty smell, like sweat almost, but sweeter. Brigit could feel it tingle in her nostrils even now, sharp and tangy and all of it running in streams along the ground, dark, splashed, like the same wine from a broken bottle all lit up in the orange glow of the fires.
Brigit liked the smell. She liked it a lot. A small part of her, half drowned and tangled in the darkness of her subconscious was sickened by the woman's pleasure.
Brigit inhaled deeply, her hand causing a small explosion on the calm surface of the water where she had dropped it from her face, away from her scar. Her eyes were squeezed shut.
The rest was gone. She couldn't remember any of the night after that last little scrap. She remembered the hate that had boiled in her blood and erupted from her in a chorus of snarls and growls. She remembered pain, vaguely. But pain wasn't the sharp sensation for Brigit that it was for most. It wasn't that she had trained herself not to feel it. It was more that the sensation of pain was too small, too weak, for her to fully comprehend it anymore. Brigit had too much experience with pain to notice or care when she subjected to a little more of it. Things had to be intense with Brigit. They had to be sharp, all consuming, to make her stop and feel them correctly.
Like that smell. Or that hate.
And the next thing Brigit could remember was the sun rising, bright and red in a pink sky. She had awoken slowly, her sword pressed against her naked body and her hair, now tangled, mussed with dirt and grime and blood, all of it falling into her eyes. And then her blindness. She remembered that clearly. She remembered the initial panic that had risen in her throat when she had realized that her right eye was not functioning. And she could remember the relief when she opened it finally, wiping away the hardened blood and flinching a little at the sharp pain that stung her face when her dirt caked fingers had brushed over the blood clots forming in the open gash along her face.
A new scar.
An old memory.
And then the crimson sun that rose in a red sky, rising on a new day. A new day that marked a second beginning for Brigit, a second birth.
And then the sweet, salty blood that had run down her sword to her wrists, her forearms, down her bare chest and her legs, once orange in the firelight, now brown with the blood that had dried there.
Not her blood.
Their blood.
Raider's blood.
…And she had liked that.
The voice inside her had been buried then, in contrast to the rising sun. It had drowned it the sweet blood.
Brigit ran her finger through her hair. Revenge was sweet.
But messy.
She stepped out of the water then, splashing a lot as she did so. The water, once glassy and fogged over with heat, was now darkened with the grime of Brigit's endeavors. She shook herself, spraying water everywhere.
Well, someone would just have to clean up after her.
Brigit opened her eyes and pushed her hair out of her face with one hand. It was still a mess, still braided, but clean now, and Brigit herself looked presentable. Now all she needed was some clean clothes.
Brigit wrapped herself up in some thick and fluffy cloths, then headed towards the door. As she walked up to it, she passed a large mirror that had been propped p by it. She stared at her reflection, eyes caught on her face.
She was clean. She was presentable.
But some scars didn't heal.
And some couldn't be washed away.
