(A/N: Yay! Torin gets a baff, a shave, and a haircut! This is a sort of intermission chapter where Torin starts to drag himself out of the dark place he's been locked in, physically and mentally, by refreshing his body. That sounds...weird. But yeah lots of descriptions of wet shaving as I warned yesterday.
It's not the most well received idea, but I'm solid on that Torin's new haircut is the same Late Season 3!Sokka from Avatar: The Last Airbender. I promise I'm not giving him a man bun. Just a fresh new look and feeling. Anyway, cheers!)
The tight quarters of the bathroom didn't leave much room to maneuver. Twice Torin nearly fell face first into the frosted glass of the tiny shower stall as he peeled off his grimy prison greys, tripping on the hem of the pants before he caught himself on the sink's counter. Once fully undressed he opened the door and adjusted the shower's temperature before gingerly stepping inside and clicking the stall shut behind him.
The sensation of warm water flowing over his skin felt almost foreign. Torin tilted his face upwards to catch the spray, relishing in the tendrils of heat that drained back from his forehead and over his scalp.
The Ward Captain had either left in a hurry, or the bathroom had been stocked before he was brought to his new room. A bottle each of shampoo and conditioner sat on the shower caddy, with a bar of the standard issue strong soap that everyone received in their hygiene kits nestled on a folded washcloth on the shelf beneath.
The runoff from the shampoo stung as Torin splashed another handful of water on his hair to lather it more deeply. The sores scattered across his body protested, the cracked and gashed surfaces of his knuckles screaming as the soap infiltrated every crevice that the injuries created. Instead of avoiding the wounds, Torin took his time with them, ferreting out the embedded grit and scrubbing out damaged and dying tissue to give them a fresh chance to heal in this new, clean environment. Months of dirt, sweat, and blood washed away, leaving his body feeling almost raw in its refreshed state.
A new start, vulnerable as it was.
Wrapped in a towel, Torin stepped out with a billow of steam. The collection of clothes in the dresser was indeed quite varied, from jeans and clean prisoner uniforms to cargo pants, T-shirts, and sport shorts. Feeling overheated from the shower, the young man dressed in only a pair of clean underclothes and shorts before returning to the bathroom.
Tendrils of steam still curled lazily from the open shower door, caressing the ceiling before trickling out into the bedroom. The currents they created bloomed small patches of fog on the mirror, the gentle ebb and flow having drawn Torin's attention. Curious, yet almost fearful of what he would see, the young man reached out with a dry cloth and wiped down the mirror.
Dark eyes stared back at him, ringed and sunken. His damp hair was still wild and jumbled, matching the rough two inches of snarled beard that covered his lower face. Torin ran his fingers through the scraggled mess of facial hair, tugging on it as if to ensure it was real.
He had never grown a beard outside of prison, and even inside it was managed for minimal hygiene's sake. Every three months the guards would take him out to shower, then strap him to a chair in the back of the base's barbershop. A gruff, mute master sergeant would then shave his face and trim his hair till it was just at regulation length before shoving Torin out into the waiting hands of his guards and slamming the door behind him. The whole process was reminiscent of the first two hours of his arrival at Gil'ead as a forced recruit, a whirlwind of activity and movement where he had no choice of where he was going nor when he went there.
The guards hadn't done any of that the last two cycles though, only gave him a large bucket of cold, mildly soapy water and a rag to wash up in his cell. Too much to deal with concerning the war than to worry about prisoners facing the possibility of lice.
Torin scratched at the tangled bristles that obscured his face, frowning. He could barely feel his cheek through it. It looked awful, like an angry mess of thick, curly boar bristles slapped onto his skin.
The beard would have to go.
A little rummaging in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror produced more than what he needed. He found a half-full tin of medicated ointment, which he gently dabbed on his knuckles before bandaging them with the plasters tucked beside it. On a lower shelf was a standard shaving kit, complete with spare blades, scissors and a comb for trimming hair to regimented lengths, and what Torin assumed had been the Captain's rather fine badger hair brush. A puck of dimly scented shaving soap rested in a mug on the counter, a piece of tape boldly reminding the former owner that it was for 'SHAVING ONLY.'
As the soap and brush soaked in the filling sink, Torin busied himself swapping out the old blade in the kit's safety razor before the young man turned back to the mirror with scissors in hand. With a wince of pulled skin, he seized a clump of beard, pulled it away from his face as best he could, and slid the scissors in.
The slow snick as the strands were severed, followed by the chunk of damp hair releasing its hold, was oddly satisfying. Torin settled into a rhythm, slipping his fingers under the tangled mess to move it away from his skin before clipping it. As the pieces came away, scattering across the counter before being swept into the tiny wastebin, something almost recognizable began to take shape. As the final clump fell, Torin raised his gaze to meet that of the man in the mirror.
He had lost weight. His cheeks, still mostly covered by the now close cropped beard, reflected the years of meager meals served in his cell, so different from the slight softness of his teen years. He reached up and gently felt along the ridge of his cheekbone, feeling for the wire-like scar there. As he did, the changes to his body became more apparent. His muscles had been lean before, but were now almost etched under his skin. His collarbones and shoulders bore the brunt of the sores from his dirty uniform, the rough patches raw from where sweat collected and irritated the tiny scratches left from the sand and grime embedded in the coarse cloth. More scattered across his chest and back, where he rested between fits of tossing and turning in restless sleep on that cold steel cot and concrete floor.
Torin swallowed. Maybe recognizing the man in the mirror wasn't a wholly good thing in his current state. He closed his eyes and breathed deep of the humid air, trying to calm the tremors in his hands.
As the shaking eased, Torin retrieved the wet brush, warmed razor and slick soap from the sink. A shave would help him, he was sure of it. It was an unexpectedly skilled task, one that required concentration to be done correctly and safely, never mind done well. The act had always served as a calming start to his day before it all happened, a ritual carried out by men across the whole of Alagaësia that he shared.
With a practiced flick of his wrist, Torin flung the excess water from the brush and began to swirl it over the puck of soap. Each turn loaded the fine hairs with light froth, building up as the moisture was absorbed. He stopped twice to drizzle the puck with droplets of water, and continued the smooth turning of his wrist until, by feel of the resistance and the sound of the brush alone, Torin knew the foam was instead a thickened paste of froth.
A sprinkle of water into the mug and he began the long art of building a proper lather. The act brought a tiny smile to his face, the slap of the brush as it circled the mug in quick succession reminding him of long past mornings watching his father shave. Once the lather formed peaks, Torin began working the rich foam into the cropped bristles across his face. Light strokes painted everything white, soft and airy on his damp skin.
Outside the room, Torin heard Naela speaking to someone. There was movement and a clattering jangle of objects being settled on the desk, but he paid it no mind as he picked up the razor. This was not a time to be distracted. A steady hand was needed now, and for once his did not tremble.
Tilting his head slightly, Torin set one of the edges of the safety razor against his cheek, right above the gentle ridge the foam created over the start of his trimmed beard. The angle was muscle memory, as was the feather light pressure he applied as he guided the blade with short strokes downwards. After so long, a second pass going against the grain would probably be in order, but for now Torin followed his father's advice to follow the grain first. It wouldn't do to have a sloppy shave if the Queen of the Elves were to visit again, no sir.
Every few strokes saw him flip the razor to utilize both sides before swishing the whole thing in the warm water of the sink. It was not long before the first pass was complete, and with a quick reapplication of the still-activated brush, white foam covered his face and neck again.
Moving more carefully now, Torin began the second pass, going against the grain and removing any stray hairs that remained. He could feel the familiar smooth, almost slick texture of the skin that was revealed with each stroke under his fingers as he pulled the awkward sections taut. It felt...good. Felt like normalcy.
With one last stroke, the final patch of soap was removed. Torin set the blade aside and drained the sudsy water from the sink, wiping the stray flecks of foam away with a hand towel as he watched the dregs slide down the drain. Two cupped handfuls of cool water splashed across his face saw the ritual completed in its entirety, soothing the minor irritation that always came with a close shave. He checked the mirror one last time as he ran his hand over his now smooth chin, feeling for any missed spots.
If it weren't for the haunted look of his eyes and the wild length of his hair, Torin could have sworn the scrawny young man looking back was him on the first day of bootcamp. His face had matured somewhat since then, but the skinny frame and baby smooth cheeks called him back to those first few days of his forced service.
He picked up the scissors and rinsed them in the sink before awkwardly pulling a strip of his hair down. This would be a tad more difficult than a shave.
"You look much younger without your beard. Would you like help with your hair?"
Torin jerked, whirling to face Naela where she stood at the doorway to the bathroom. She tilted her head slightly, hands clasped behind her back. "My apologies. I did not mean to startle you."
"I-it's fine." The young man looked back to his reflection, contemplating his still-damp locks. "...A bit of help would be appreciated. Thank you."
"Of course." Naela took the scissors from his hand and led him to the desk chair, which she dragged to the rough center of the room. "Is there any particular way you would like it?"
Torin paused. Part of him simply wished for a return to his previous style, to be able to look in the mirror and forget that anything had happened. To believe that the last years were simply a dream.
But no. To cast aside the time spent in Gil'ead's cells would be to cast aside the changes he had gone through, changes that were integral to his sense of self. It would also feel like...a disrespect to the elf woman who set in motion Torin's new path in life those years ago.
A thought occurred to him. "One of the Queen's guards...I think his name was...Macil? D-do you think you could cut my hair like his?"
The smile that graced Naela's face could be heard in her words. "I think that is going to suit you very well. I will do my best, Aldsson."
"Thank you." Torin smiled as well. The elf's warmth was infectious. "And Naela? You can just call me Torin."
The room fell to comfortable silence but for the rasping sound of the scissors through Torin's hair. The feeling of the comb gently running over his scalp was surprisingly calming. It was nice to just sit for a moment, free from fear.
As the minutes passed, a question drifted into Torin's mind. "Naela?"
"Yes, Torin?" The elf returned from retrieving a small hairband from her pack, where it leaned against the outer door frame.
The young man chose his words carefully. "When...when I was a guard, there was an elf woman here." Naela's hands, gathering up sections of his hair, paused for the briefest of moments, a stop so short that it was little more than a twitch. "Did you know her?"
Naela gently snapped the elastic around the small ponytail she had made and began trimming down the back of his head. "I cannot say. I heard about her, but do not know much." She checked the length of her cut and used the comb to even it out.
"Oh." Torin hadn't considered that. It occurred to him that he had no idea just how many elves there were left after the Rider's Fall. Were there hundreds? Thousands? It was foolish to think that a single elf out of their entire species would be, just by chance, known by his new guard. "...I never even got her name." Even if Naela hadn't taken that moment to tilt his head forward for a better angle, Torin would have hung it in shame. "It's strange, but...I've always wanted to know what happened to her. It's like her face is burned into my memory."
Naela didn't respond, engrossed in her work. Torin left it at that, but the questions still swirled in his mind.
It was only a handful of minutes more before Naela gave a soft hum and used a hand towel to brush the stray hairs from Torin's back and shoulders. "Finished. Let me know if you would like me to try something else."
Torin moved to the bathroom to see the elf's work, peering into the mirror.
He couldn't help but smile as he ran his hand over the soft three quarters of an inch left at the sides and back of his head. The remainder of his hair, gathered in a tufted ponytail, would hang at the edge of his jaw when released.
It felt clean. New. A true fresh start.
"Thank you, Naela." He turned back to the summer-eyed woman, beaming with a long forgotten smile. "It's perfect."
Not long after, Torin found himself seated at the former Captain's desk with a bowl of warmed stew and a slab of bread. He did his best to not look like a feral beast as he ate, forcing himself to take a single spoonful at a time and a bite of the thick bread after. It was the first real, filling food the young man had eaten in years, and he would savor it.
Torin finished off the final dregs of the stew and rinsed the dishes in the tiny bathroom's sink. Once done he wandered back out to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling drained.
Out of habit the young man looked up to the wall to judge the time by the glimmer of the moon and stars. It took him a moment to remember that the Captain's room was more central than the wards and had no window.
"It is nearly midnight." Naela commented from the door. "Would you like the light off?"
Moments after Torin confirmed that he did, his head hit the pillow. He sank into sleep, mind abuzz with the turns his life had taken.
The morning brought a breakfast of overnight oats and fruit, a delicacy Torin had nearly forgotten existed. As he slowly peeled each segment from the last orange at his disposal, the young man mulled over what to do in the coming hours till the Queen came to him again.
There were no books in the room. Naela was reading a novel, but when she offered Torin one of the two others she had in her pack he was dismayed to find that they were in a script that he did not understand. Most of the drawers of the desk were empty besides a few pieces of the thick, cotton-based stationary the Captain used for official correspondence. No pencils or pens rattled about, and beyond a dusty chewing tobacco tin filled with paper clips that had fallen between the desk and the wall, nothing else of note could be found.
The last segment disappearing between his lips, Torin quietly got up and rinsed the oats bowl in the bathroom sink and disposed of the strawberry tops and orange peel in the small wastebasket.
Naela looked up as he moved. "Would you like anything else, Torin?" She smiled, sliding a thin wooden tab into the book on her lap. "There is plenty more food if you are still hungry."
As always, her kindness made the edges of Torin's lips tilt up in a returned grin. "No, thank you."
A jolt suddenly shot through his mind. The conversation the night before. Naela's uncertainty surrounding the elf he had met those years ago. His shame at never even learning the woman's name.
"Actually, Naela. Do you happen to have a pencil?"
He didn't know her name. But he would never forget her face.
Torin shifted his grip on the pencil, feeling the gentle rasp of the graphite against the paper's texture as he defined the edge of the scar that interrupted the woman's right eyebrow. That one had been old, he was sure. He refused to add any of the scars she had gained in Gil'ead, trying to capture the person she was away from the prison's influence.
It had been hours since Naela handed off the pencil to him. She occasionally peered over his shoulder and praised his unusually steady hands but otherwise let him work in comfortable silence. Torin let the world melt around him, everything else a blur.
A sudden shuffle alerted him to a change outside his cone of focus, but he paid it no mind. He was almost finished, added the last flecks to the eyes, and sat back with a crackling pop as his hunched spine straightened.
The elf he had met before stared back at him. As always, there was fire in her eyes.
"It is customary to rise when a guest enters."
Torin strangled a yelp. Queen Islanzadí stood in the doorway, Naela at an eased attention just outside.
"M-ma'am!" Torin put the pencil down and scrambled from the desk, nearly knocking over the chair in his hurry. A long buried instinct told him to snap to attention and salute, but at the last moment he stifled the urge and hastily bowed. "I-I'm s-sorry, I didn't hear you c-come in. I beg your f-forgiveness." Torin kept his head low, unsure if he should rise from the kowtowed position.
He could feel Islanzadí's golden eyes roving over him. "That is quite enough." Torin straightened, somewhat relieved. The Queen turned to Naela with a short, "Thank you. You are dismissed. Return in three hours." before returning her attention to the young man before her.
Torin felt his fingers digging into his skin where his hands hung at his sides. Naela was a balm to his anxiety, and part of him wanted to ask if she could stay. The departing elf gave him a warm smile over Islanzadí's shoulder and subtly nodded towards the hall door as she left.
The knot of tension in Torin's stomach eased slightly. Naela would not be far.
"Tell me. What had you so absorbed that you forgot the world, Aldsson?" Torin snapped his gaze back to the Queen just as her own gaze fell on the desk.
A bolt of lightning seemed to shock through Islanzadí's expression. It was there for the barest measure of a second before it was gone, replaced with a sudden tightness in her voice. "What is this?"
Torin felt himself shrink at the sharpness in her tone, but something inside him held firm. He drew himself up, and lifted the sketch from the desk with steady hands. "Ma'am. I don't know the woman's name, but I can remember her face clearly." He offered the drawing to the Queen, a nagging urge to please flitting in the back of his mind as she accepted it. "I...I wanted to know if she made it. Naela did not know but–"
Islanzadí held up a hand, halting the rush of words in Torin's throat. She studied the drawing intently, eyes gliding over the details Torin had included. The young man swore he saw a hint of warm softness color the chill of the Elven Queen's countenance.
What felt like an eternity ticked by. Cautious, curious, Torin risked a quiet question that had been burning in him since waking that morning.
"Did...did Your Majesty know her?"
Islanzadí did not look up. Instead she breezed by him to the desk and picked up the discarded pencil. Torin felt a jolt of protectiveness over the drawing, surged forward to stop her from destroying it, before Islanzadí's sharp glare stopped him in his tracks.
Torin could only watch, first in dread and then in relief as the Queen wrote out four human runes at the base of the picture.
She turned back and held the sketch out to him. "Arya."
The former guard's mouth went dry, heart pounding in his chest at the single uttered word as he carefully took the offered page. "A-Arya?" He dropped his gaze to the drawing.
"Yes. Her name." When Torin did not move, frozen in place, the Queen pointed to the bed. "Sit."
Body numb with the new information, emotions roiling through his skull, Torin obeyed. He sat on the edge of the simple bed and finally managed to tear his eyes away from the name elegantly scrawled below the face that had haunted him all these years. One question answered, another took its place. "What ha–"
"Now is not the time." Islanzadí's statement snapped his mouth shut again. Regal even now, the Elven Queen turned the desk chair and sat to face him. She had taken on the cool demeanor once again, the deadly hawk still debating on whether to end this little field mouse or let him live.
"Tell me more of your story, Aldsson."
Sakura Blossom: Renewal