Worth it | F.O.

XXVII

Nivea didn't remember ever feeling so alone as she did dragging his corpse with careful care to the cool air beyond their once-haven, dripping in his blood all the way. Nor watching giant metal claws lift him into the air. And especially not as alone as she was when a drop of his blood from above splashed on her cheek, still so painfully warm. 

She didn't regret it. And when she woke the next morning in a cavern gone so cold, she reminded herself that it had been for the best. She only missed his warmth; the warmth of someone else who could have cared. 

That was okay though. Nivea figured she was allowed to at least miss that sweet, naive boy who's throat she had slit the night before. As long as she didn't allow it to get in the way. As long as whatever emotions running rampant beyond her or Coin's permission didn't betray the greater purpose she sought. 

She left what had been their haven behind by midday. With her coat clutched to her chest in the aftermath of the fire still emanating from the ashes covering what had been the forest floor, she took her first step out and under the clouds with a nervous glance to above. The idea of what they hid still sent a shiver down her arms, though dulled by the horrors of what she had done the night before and the crimson that painted her as a result. 

However, there was a problem with that. For some reason, just catching sight of the maroon brown that now weighed down and caked into the fabric of her meager clothes sent a jolt through her stomach. It tightened at her chest and… scratched. 

It clawed and it clawed and though she didn't know what "it" even was nor what it was tearing to shreds, every glance only made it that much worse. She didn't know what to do with herself. So instead of attempting anything definite, she figured she was left with the option to only wash herself of what plagued her. Literally. 

Nivea stared out at the gentle stream seeping past (though she did notice how the level had shrunk) and let her coat land in the cracked mud. A shaky breath left her lungs. Why was it shaky? She honestly had no idea save for the sensation of a final cool brush of breath on her arm. 

There was the welt on her shaking hand held before her too, feeling much too small surrounded by such blood staining the smallest lines in her palm. The lines that the resident fortune teller back at 11 used to say would predict how her life would pan out and now only seemed to scream the opposite… for him. Her hands felt dirty instead of powerful. 

And remembering the fire that raged the day before only made her want to burn it all away. 

Nivea dropped her hands and shook her head, usually sharp mind dulled under the force of those claws as she allowed herself to step into the water, feeling it gently rush over her ankles and calves, carrying with it wisps and whispers of what had been crimson. Dipping a hand into the pleasantly warm water with half a mind to just ignore the existence of a man-eating mutt, she ran it over her head and braid, praying and pleading there, at least, the urge to burn where blood had fallen wouldn't rise to the surface. Yet it had the instant her fingers faltered upon a sticky clump meddling with her once-meticulous braid intertwined in yellow and red. 

“Dammit,” she cursed, muttering with a voice so low it didn't even break past the gentle, near-silent current surrounding her. 

Her fingers plucked at the loose end of the ribbon, sliding it out with a calming ease and simultaneously allowing her sheet of brunette hair matted and dirty from the events of the past few days to fall to her shoulders. She wasn't surprised, though certainly not pleased, with the smells that enveloped her. But there was just something about unraveling something previously so pristine and held together that sent her stepping further into the water.