Guardian (Sequel to Fearless)

Chapter Fifty Four

Warning --slightly mature content

*not quite mature enough to fall under Mature, BUT if you are uncomfortable with sensuality, you can message me and request a cleaner version of this chapter, and I will be happy to oblige! (Though it may be a hair shorter).

THE SONG, THE SONG!

"You shouldn't feel so guilty," Azabela chided with a click of her tongue as she moved the cutters over Hench's hair, trimming it back into its usual shape. "What a toxic thing to feel. In a world so full of hatred, what a cruel joke it is that we have the capacity to hate ourselves more than any other person ever could." Small hands wandered over Rhalla's head and neck, massaging it lightly as she cut. Small tufts of hair fell to the floor of the woman's living quarters.

"My sister is half purple and all swollen because of me," Hench whispered. "Of course I should feel guilty."

"Did she say that you should?" Azabela already knew the answer. The archer pulled her fingers through the tumble of black hair on the top of Rhalla's head.

Hench sighed. "She didn't."

"Then you're wrong. You don't have to feel bad about the things out of your control. Be gentle with yourself," Azabela said with a smile. "You've always been good."

"Bah, I've always been stubborn," Hench corrected her. "Stubborn enough to take another breath on nights that probably didn't call for them. Stubborn enough to open my eyes and pretend my nightmares weren't actually real."

Azabela chuckled. "And I say embrace that. Not so many are lucky enough to be so persistent."

It was quiet for a long moment. The only sound that could be heard was the clipping of the cutters. After a few minutes, the huntress spoke again. "Do you remember the first time I ever cut your hair?" She ran her hand down the side of the woman's muscular neck.

Hench smiled. "I'll never forget it."

"Neither will I," Azabela reminisced. "It was long after you became a guardian. It was that three day weekend when my grandmother was selling herbs in whatever village that it was. You left the sanctuary and came to stay those nights with me --even if you were only ever allowed to visit your son." The archer's voice was reverent, not holding any of her usual cheekiness. "That very first night, I made dinner. You told me about your job, and I told you about Dane. For that night, you pretended that you were finally past the horrible things that happened to you. You had your dinner, and then you had me. You sang your songs to the evening, and I sang your name into the night."

Azabela finished up cutting her beloved's hair and laid the shears on the desk. "And all I ever wanted was for you to be healed enough inside that I might do the same for you. I wanted to disrobe your body just as your heart. I wanted to do for you what you'd already done so many times for me at that time. I wanted to drown you in nothing but my bare skin and heart," She paused. "But how could I ask to love you like that? To do that to you? How could I ask to take from you what had already been forced away --for love? How could I ever ask to be so close to you?"

The archer knelt and started cleaning the small mess from the floor as she continued her tale. "It was around midnight I believe when I heard the ruckus from the guest room." Pause. "You'd had a nightmare by the sounds I was hearing --the yells I was hearing. I got up and checked on you three times. The third, you weren't sleeping... you were kneeling on the floor with a knife. Your hair was cut unevenly. You were just slashing off hunk after hunk of it, with no rhyme or reason. It was scattered in a mess all around the floor.