Zasha's Capture (manxman)

Chapter 11

Inside the Queen's private dressing room, Cora and her handmaidens scurried to and fro all around Zasha. He had been scrubbed clean of all the dirt and blood from yesterday and they were preparing him for the coming marriage ceremony. 

He watched them as if through a thick pane of glass, distorted and surreal. All around him the world was moving; it seemed he was the only one trapped inside a bubble of nothingness.

The memory of yesterday rolled through his mind.

The Garkian forces had somehow ported themselves past the warding stones and into the middle of the encampment. With surprise on their side, they had easily gained the upper hand over the ranks. The atrocious balls of flame had helped them quite a bit, too. It was still unknown how they had conjured such a massive force in such a short time. 

Zasha suspected it was one of their cursed goddess's gifts. Truly, how they did it was of no importance, the thing that mattered was what they had accomplished. Most of the more powerful healers were taken. Aside from Zasha, only five had escaped the assault. The enemy had left as soon as they arrived; only they departed with something very precious.

Zasha did not wish to think of what the captives might be enduring.

The loss of the healers was the loss of the lifeblood of the Faer army. The precarious balance no longer existed and without help, Faer would fall. Cora had revealed that they had a way of securing allies; allies she assured him would seal the victory for their people.

Of course, there had been a price.

Yesterday, it seemed that he had been faced with an impossible choice, when actually, there really had been no choice for him at all. It was a sacrifice of either his people for himself, or himself for his people. He chose the latter.

Aside from the moment of pure anguish he felt as he thought of his beloved, once the decision was made he had felt nothing. It was opposite of his twin, Cora, who had cried for hours last night. For him, there was no overwhelming despair or anger, no weeping or cursing his fate. 

He was numb. Instead of the despair he should be swimming in, it was as if he were moving in a fog so thick it blocked out his senses. He was devoid of emotion. Empty. He felt as if he were merely observing the happenings around him, not a part of them.

Today was his wedding day. It had been arranged in all haste as soon as Zasha had made the inevitable choice. Instructions had been given by his sister because he did not wish to deal with it. All the arrangements had been placed in her hands.

Zasha sat silently as the finishing touches were put on him for the ceremony. He didn't recognize the person that was looking back at him from the surface of the polished silver. He hadn't been this clean in a very long time. He studied himself for a moment. 

While all the dirt and blood from the battlefield was gone, he still looked startlingly different from what he remembered. His eyes had a sunken appearance, and while his face retained its softness, he looked older, a result of the stress of being near the battlefield. His hair, the one item of vanity he had refused to rid himself of, was a bit longer.

On Cora's instruction, his head was bare, if one could call it that. For the ceremony, his head would be unadorned. His sister had insisted his hair would be more beautiful than any crown or circlet. Sensing the need she had to prepare him, he had allowed her to do what she wished.

His head was indeed lacking a crown of any sort, but his locks had been painstakingly arranged with a network of tiny braids. They started individually, evenly spaced on his forehead. From there, they connected and divided over and over, thanks to the nimble fingers of Cora's handmaidens. They formed a net that kept his hair away from his face, the braids weaving together and separating again to create a delicate tapestry.