Revamped!

[There will be daily updates on this story (sometimes two a day) because I am on my Christmas Break and have already finished writing this story, and I plan to have it completed by the time I get back to school]. [2019: And I'm revamping this during my reading week].

[Copyright - Mulan (Honor to Us All)]

Chapter Three: The Appearance

After about half of my morning routine, I walk back to my bedroom to take my cold shower. I open my door and wipe my perspiring forehead with the back of my hand. As I enter my room, it surprises me to see my mother pacing back and forth in there. The moment she sees me, she puts her hands on her hips and her brows sharpen downwards.

"Iqadi N'Yami T'Challa…" Mother mutters.

"What have I done?" I ask, closing my door behind me.

"You have to meet your suitors in less than an hour," she scolds, putting a hand to her temple in frustration. "And look at you, you're a mess."

I choose not to say anything for the best. To be honest, it's not that I forgot. I thought it was going to be later. I have no argument that can help me win or convince my mother otherwise. I step around her and enter my bathroom to clean myself up. Mother stands behind me. Usually, my attendants would assist me but since this is such an important occasion, Mother's here.

She hands me several bath products to use. After I step out of the shower, she takes full control. First, she slathers me in various lotions and perfumes, combining a multitude of scents from flowers to spices which end up smelling beautifully altogether. She does my makeup so subtle, yet elegant as my hair dries.

"Look at you," Mother says, forcing me to look at my reflection in the mirror. She's very proud of her work in both creating a daughter and making her look beautiful. "You're glowing."

I don't respond. Instead, I look up at my mother. Her hair was always so white despite her youthful look. It's a genetic feature of hers and I always loved it because it made her look wise without the added years. She was always a natural beauty, a goddess - the perfect woman. No wonder my father was so infatuated with her the moment they met.

For my hair, my mother does several tight braids with many strands of my thick black hair. Thankfully, her intricate and fluent hand motions distract me from the possibility of balding because she does them as tight as she can. Once all the braids are done, she bunches them up and wraps them into a bun that sits on top of my head. The bun is secured in place with many ties and pins. I could be in the centre of the biggest tornado and the bun wouldn't budge.

I put on the outfit she picked. It's a traditional dark pink and sleeveless dress with silver accents on the bodice. The skirt is form fitting and up to my knee with silver trim along the edge. And I have black heels to match.

"This is the perfect dress," Mother comments, pulling at the little wrinkles to smoothen them out. I bet this dress is new because I have never seen it before. "You look beautiful, my dear."

"Thank you," I reply.

Mother continues to some and moves on to fixing baby hairs that stick out. I doubt there is any thereafter the procedure my hair suffered through and she only needs something to do in the silence as we wait for something I don't know. She lowers her hand and takes a deep breath.

"I know you feel a little overwhelmed by all this, but I believe this will be good for you," she tells me.

To be honest, I never considered myself to be overwhelmed. Nervous, maybe, but overwhelmed?

"You're alone a lot and I know you prefer to be," Mother continues. "This is good for you and something that was bound to come eventually."

"Solidarity is good, Mother," I respond, defending my point and personal preference. "It gives one the time to reflect which we all believe is good for the soul."

"Sometimes you need to open up and allow your soul to connect with others. Disobey the regime you put yourself on and try new things. You and your father are alike in that way."

I try not to frown at her to avoid being scolded. She probably already knows how I'm currently feeling. I grew up being told what to do, how to do it, and when to do it. I still am. And now she's telling me to oppose her orders but still follow them. This makes no sense. Mother is like that a lot. She often speaks in riddles and expects me to solve them on my own to understand what she tries to tell me.

"And what good did that do for him?" I ask.

My father is a man of order. I can't see him benefiting from whatever my mother is trying to tell me.

"He found his queen," she replies proudly.

I nod because that's true. Father did marry someone who wasn't chosen by someone else and he's extremely joyous. I still don't get the point of what my mother is trying to tell me.

"Don't worry, Iqadi." Mother puts my face gently in her hands. "You will find someone truly worthy of your heart."

Mother leaves the room and I close the door behind her. I force myself to take a breath to calm my sudden nerves. I'm not used to my heart racing so fast from anxiety. I'm more accustomed to being fatigued from training, not fear. How can I find someone truly worthy of my heart if I don't even know what characteristics fall under that category?