Vincent helped Sheeva sit on the yellow, corduroy footrest, then sat behind her in his green chair and reached for the brush he placed on the side table. He fought the tangles as gently as he could, relieved that she was comfortable enough to allow him to do such a thing. The whole fact that she was alright with sponge-baths amazed him, let alone washing, drying, and brushing her hair. Though, as he mused on it, she was his patient, and until the wounds healed and her strength returned fully, she would be almost entirely dependent on him.

Sheeva agreed for Vincent to cut her hair, even though he had never cut anyone’s hair. She would have preferred to do it herself but could barely lift her arms, let alone sit up. The green rug in the center of the circle of furniture received her cold stare.

“You sure you’re alright with this?” Vincent asked, holding the scissors in his hand and the damp, long locks of hair in his other. She curtly nodded and closed her eyes in anguish at the snip of the scissors as they sheared her hair. She rubbed Rose’s ribbon between her fingers to calm herself.

Tazaro had been watching but looked away at the emotionally pained look on her face. Vincent sifted his fingers through the next section as he measured it, hoping he could at least make an even cut. He supposed that if he were holding a scalpel, he would do better.

Hair that was to the middle of her back now stopped just above her shoulders. Vincent fought to ignore her tremble and hiss as the snip of the scissors sounded out again.

“How long has it been since you’ve cut your hair?” Vincent asked. Hopefully, getting her to talk about something would ease her nerves.

“Aside from trimming and grooming...or needed kindling in a pinch, not since I was thirteen.” She answered, tensing at the next sift of fingers through hair and snip.

“I’ll do my best to make it even.” He promised, draping the newly cut locks over his knee.

Tazaro looked back.

“You have not cut it since then?” He asked, the drabness of the situation further driving itself. She fought the dismayed drop of her head.

“Rose had long hair. After a few years of living at the temple, she encouraged me to grow it out. I enjoyed having it brushed and braided. Previously, I kept it short so that no one could grab it and use it against me. One less...degree of vulnerability.” She answered honestly. She fiercely scowled as she recalled Zakaraia’s handling of her by her hair and seethed.

“Keeping it short is something I was a fool to throw away.”

Tazaro stared at her for a moment, a sympathetic look on his face at her dreary confession, and watched as Vincent continued to transform her hair into something foreign.

“Zakaraia was much faster than I am, and his control with a blade is terrifying. He just barely sliced my neck when he cut my hair–like it was deliberate. He threw me around like I was a doll. Laughed the whole–” She stopped and cringed at the following snip. “Time.” She finished.

“I tried to knock the wind out of him. He unleashed a flurry of kicks and punches in such rapid succession, I...” Sheeva paused, unable to find an explanation for it. “He grabbed me by my hair and forced me to look him in the face. Threatened people I knew. I only got out of his hold because I stabbed him in the leg. I stabbed him in the side and again in the chest. He should have died, but he simply healed himself,” She sighed. “And then laughed some more.”

“He healed himself?” Vincent asked, amazed. Slowly, she nodded.

“I can heal wounds, too. Not as well as that, but I can still do it. Currently, though? Likely not. Zakaraia healed my broken nose. Suppose I impressed him. I bared my wings, hoping it would give me an edge. It didn’t. He used my force against me.” She continued, recalling the cold of the cobblestone she’d rolled over.

“When he bore his wings, it was…it was over. He could move so fast I couldn’t see him. Disappeared in the blink of an eye. He grabbed my wing and arm, busted them, and threw me to the ground. Bastard threatened to kill you and your mother after he was done with me.” She tipped her head toward Tazaro as she stared at her arm in its sling.

“In a final effort, I rushed him again. He said something. Tysyacha Lezviy? I am not sure. Whatever it was, it damn near killed me.” Her cheeks burned with shame at her delusions. “I was certain I’d died. I barely remember…" She paused, refraining from admitting her foolish delusions. "I remember telling myself that I didn’t want to die, despite my reckless charge."

“You mentioned that you charged, anyway, knowing it was a losing battle. What were you hoping to do?”

Sheeva’s face fell, and she dropped her head.

“I was going to try to trap him with roots and drive my blade through his heart, if need be. I modified my roots with thorns to better hold him in place, and struck. All I did was graze his chest as he broke out of my hold. Whatever he did…whatever spell he cast, the weight of the air was so heavy, I could barely move–as if trying to swim through mud.” She mused. “I don’t know how I got the wounds on my thigh and chest, because I didn’t see him grab for a blade at all,” She added.

Vincent thought for a moment. The oddly clean, almost surgical incisions on her thigh and chest were so pristine, he had originally taken them to have been inflicted as means of torture, but the new information of Zakaraia’s spell, he began to wonder otherwise.

“I, uh, know nothing about how spells work, but is it possible he reflected his wounds onto you? The locations seem, uh, too coincidental,” Vincent offered, trying to help Sheeva–and himself–make sense of the damages done.

The concern on Sheeva’s face was telling, and Vincent sat back as his stomach sank.

"If that’s so, then…I wonder if he took the time to heal me. He must have, for Tazaro to have woken me up the following day.” She admitted with a frightened face, still grappling with the near-death experience. It had barely been five days.

“He had to have,” Tazaro admitted as he sat back and let go of his tense breath, feeling a chill of the room as his hair stood on end. The affirmation that Zakaraia had been the one to pose her so remorsefully made his stomach churn, and with what he just heard her tell him, it soured even more. It was far more terrifying than he imagined, and as Tazaro traded looks with Vincent, he found the experienced doctor to hold a similar look of fear.

“If he did heal you, it’s…a manipulative power-play, Sheeva–typical of a sociopath.” Vincent pointed out in the hopes that it would help as he continued to even out her hair. "Their control of things gives them a false sense of power."

"False control? I beg to differ. It seems he had complete control to me," Sheeva grunted, clearing her throat and rubbing it gently with her fingers. Tazaro looked away and swallowed the lump in his throat, recalling how he'd been held by the throat as he struggled to land a hit.

"No, Sheeva. False," Vincent insisted, tenderly trucking a lock of hair back as a sign of reassurance. "You still got back up and tried again, didn't you?"

While Vincent couldn't see it, Tazaro could, and he witnessed the darkened glower of her self-disgust, and he wondered what else had happened that she wasn't telling them.

“You know,” Vincent paused and lowered his hands. The scissors dangled from his fingers as he thought of something to say. “The body’s defense to exhaustion or blood-loss is to shut itself down to prevent further damage. I would like to think that you’re alive because of that, not simply because of a choice to heal you.” Vincent murmured, focusing on cutting her hair.

He fought to ignore Tazaro’s skeptical look, hoping that he wouldn’t see through the bullshit. He prayed even more that Sheeva wouldn’t see through the bullshit.

“That’s impossible. I felt my blood draining from my body. I watched it cover my skin, cover the ground. Felt the warmth of it. Smelled the stench of it. Felt my brain succumb to delusion and retire itself to the embrace of death. I find it highly doubtful I would have survived otherwise, Berkovitz.” She shivered.

Vincent shook his head sadly and bit his lip at the failed attempt.

“I was only trying to help.” He muttered, reaching for the last strand of hair. He measured it, snipped it, and draped the last lock over his knee.

“If you want to help, speak only the truth. We do not make progress on a foundation of lies.” She stated fiercely, turning to look him in the eye.

At Vincent's surprised, apologetic expression, Sheeva took a deep breath and sighed. “Look, I didn't mean–she began, then stopped, wishing to phrase it better. "My apologies, but you weren’t…there."

Vincent pressed his lips together in a straight-lipped frown, then relented with a nod.

"That being said, I understand your efforts. It is...appreciated. Perhaps, I ought to…think better of myself," She mumbled, moreso to herself than to the other two in the room.

Pleased, Vincent cleared his throat, wrapped all the hair he cut away into a bunch in his hand, and held it out.

“What shall we do with this?” He asked. She turned to look at it and scowled. She took it from him, stood shakily, and chucked it in the fireplace. Sheeva knelt, traced her sigils in the air, and blew out a weak breath of flame. The hair caught fire and shriveled, emitting the scent of burnt hair into the living room.

After gathering her will to stand, Sheeva limped toward the kitchen to grab herself a glass of water, carrying it with her to Tazaro’s bedroom.

“I am going to sleep some more. I am still exhausted.” She announced before disappearing.

Vincent stood and walked to the sliding glass door and opened it to air out the room, fanning his face and wrinkling his nose at the scent of burnt hair. He stared out at the sprinkling rain, a typically sunny day clouded over by grey, puffy clouds.

“I’ve seen some stuff in my days, but I had no idea someone could be capable of such...ruthlessness. This isn’t your ordinary criminal, Tazaro. Disturbing as this is, I wonder how many other people have fallen victim to this man.” He mused aloud. He ruffled his black hair and shed his glasses as they fogged up from the heat emanating from his eyes. He squinted at the world outside as he wiped them off with his shirt and slipped them back on his nose.

“I suppose I also have to remind myself that this man is not fully Sferran. Wings? Magic?”

Tazaro shivered as the sound of flapping wings echoed in his head.

“Definitely not. You didn’t see the look on Zakaraia’s face. He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t blink.”

Vincent blinked and turned back to look at Tazaro, who had wrapped a blanket around himself and was having a stare-down with the floor. He still appeared sleepless; dark bags rested under his eyes, and his hair was tousled and greasy.

“Hey. Take a bath. Hot as you can stand. Wash your hair. Take care of yourself. I’ll make you some tea.”

Vincent slipped into the kitchen and filled a kettle with water. He struck a match and lit the wick to the oil drum below, watching the flame burn a bright, pacifying orange. He positioned the kettle, overheard the faucet for the tub, and nodded. Good, Tazaro was at least making an attempt.

He filled a metal steeper with whatever tea he happened to have, unable to remember the full name of it, only that it smelled really aromatic. He looked at the label: Cherry-blossom Avil...blah-dee-blah, unable to tell due to water damage on the last bit of the title. Either way, it was something warm and hopefully would put the tired, battle-sick man to sleep.

When the kettle began to whistle, he grabbed it and pulled it aside. He clasped a small string to the steeper, dropped the steeper into the kettle, and hooked it to the end of a fishing pole held by a ceramic toad wearing a straw hat and purple shorts that stooped on the ledge of the kettle’s handle. The thing had been a gift from the office for his birthday, and while he feigned sheepishness about the whole ordeal, the fishing toad was adorable and always brought a smile to his face.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

He dug around the cabinets for the old frying pan with the loose handle and set it over the flame, grabbed the stick of butter and a scalpel, and began to work on some grilled cheese sandwiches for the three of them–complete with a thin slice of cured meat. If Sheeva was truly asleep by now, he would simply split the third one between the both of them.

In the spare time he had, Vincent considered crushing up a pellet of a sleep-aid and slipping it into the two cups he set aside for Tazaro and Sheeva but decided against it as Sheeva’s begging voice to not be induced into sleep echoed in his head. Determined to block it out, he returned to making their food. Vincent had just finished plating up the last sandwich when Tazaro walked out, looking much more presentable than he had.

"Good, you washed your hair. You feel better?" He asked, using the scalpel to cut the sandwich for Sheeva into fourths so that she could hold it easily in one hand.

"Yeah, actually." He saw the sandwiches and pointed at one. "For me?" He asked. Vincent nodded and filled a cup with some tea, and set it on the medical tray.

"Mm-hmm. The other one is for Sheeva." He ordered, biting into his own sandwich, enjoying the bread’s crisp, melted cheese and salty, spicy meat. He made a mental note to write to his dad and thank him for the idea, assuming he remembered in the morning.

“Oh. Um…” Tazaro began, blinking rapidly and glancing frantically as he seemed to struggle with something.

“Look, this isn’t me forcing you to apologize. I told you, and I told Sheeva to give it time, and to apologize when you both are ready. This is just me, trying to take care of you guys. I noticed she didn't eat much at lunch. I am not surprised, but a little bit here and there is better than little to nothing.” Vincent insisted.

Tazaro took a deep breath, nodded in agreement, picked up the tray, balanced his own things on it, and carried it to his room. He knocked, heard her give permission for entry, and stepped in. The room was chilly; she had thrown open the window and sat at the desk, petting the red and yellow-spotted ragora.

The ragora no longer hissed at him when he approached; instead, it would snarl, then relax after a while. Pacified by Sheeva’s petting, it seemed to ignore him today.

"I think he has become more trusting of you," Sheeva muttered, looking at the food on the tray as Tazaro set it down on his desk and sat on his bed. Hesitant, she chewed her lip and warred with her thoughts.

"Yeah, I noticed it, too." Tazaro muttered, sending a sheepish look towards the kitchen where he assumed Vincent still stood. "I don't think he knew that you don’t like grilled cheese sandwiches. But, if it helps, I trust him; I've known him for years, though I suppose I understand if you don’t…" He trailed off, then shook his head at himself.

"Here," He insisted before Sheeva could protest, reaching for the one cut into triangles. He took a section and took a bite, then hummed in delight.

"Wow, I might need to eat all of that–it's damn good!"

"You…didn't need to do that," She commented.

"Hm, maybe," Tazaro attempted to dismiss, eager to play it off like it was nothing, although the action to taste-test her food had almost been immediate.

"No. No 'maybe," She countered, seeming adamant about something. "You trust him, don't you?"

"With my life," He answered. "Why?" He asked, grabbing his own sandwich and blowing on it before taking a bite.

"Hmph," Sheeva huffed. "He's certainly shown he's capable of holding a life in his hands," Sheeva muttered. Still, she found herself determined and yearning to trust like she had before knowing the cruelty of man. "Ah, but, I…I trust you."

Tazaro paused mid-bite.

"Therefore, I will–want to–trust him, as well."

"You would still trust me after all the things I said the other day? I was really rude,” He mumbled, ashamed. “I wouldn’t trust me.”

Sheeva slowly nodded, with an out-of-place chuckle.

"You know…I was easily vehement and lashed out at my friends, too, following Rose’s death. They called me out on it, and forgave me when I sought forgiveness, so…when you are ready, I’ll accept an apology, too.” She admitted with a soft smile.

Even though it was a light tease, it didn’t make Tazaro feel much better.

“Besides, I would like to believe you have not entirely forsaken me. You could have left me in the clearing to die. You could have left me in the forest. You could have turned me in to authorities. But you didn't, nor have you."

Sheeva paused, and turned to him, oddly complacent.

“Unless you plan to, eventually?” She asked, too lightly to have been serious. “Suppose it would be easy; in this state, I cannot run. So…I suppose you could carry me, if you feel so inclined.”

Tazaro found it strange that she would continue to joke about such a thing, then felt guilty about the brief belief that she had abandoned them in their time of need, and forced another bite to alleviate his self-disgust.

"Yeah, well–couldn't. Wasn't the…isn’t the right thing to do,” He answered, playing with the small bite of food between his teeth as he contemplated things. Recalling how she had been so…comfortable in his arms while he carried her in the forest, he forced the bite down with a sip of tea.

“Hey, Sheeva, do you remember–uh…” He started boldly, then stopped. If he embarrassed her by calling her out, she might choose to say nothing at all.

“Hm?” She hummed, trying to ignore the twist of her stomach. She’d thought it to be a fever dream, but perhaps she really had planted a kiss on his lips and run her fingers through his hair.

“Do you remember anything you said when I was carrying you back? You were running a pretty serious fever.” Tazaro forced.

Sheeva chuckled to hide the knots of sheepishness.

“Mm. I…guess I did say some pretty strange things, didn’t I?” She volunteered, hoping he would take the bait, and that they could sweep the rest under the rug. “I don’t remember,” She dismissed. “I thought I was imagining it.”

“Oh. I see,” He muttered, a mix of disappointment and suspicion swirling in his gut.

She definitely remembers, but doesn’t want to talk about it, though…neither do I, at this moment.

“That's...a relief." He replied, sitting back.

The silence was uncomfortable and the space between them was full of stagnant tension, broken only by the hungry growls of their stomach. To avoid more awkward conversations, they found themselves hastily chowing down on their food. Sheeva bit off a small bite for the ragora and dropped it into its mouth, jerking her hand back sharply as it almost nipped at her fingers.

"Ach, you little bastard! See if I feed you again!” She snapped at it.

“How do you know it’s a male?” Tazaro asked, taking a sip of his tea. He swirled it around in his cup to dissolve the settled sugar Vincent had added to it. Sheeva sniffed her tea, enjoying the warmth of the cup in her hands. She did not care for the floral fragrance of whatever tea it was, but perhaps it would taste better than it smelled. She sipped and mulled it around. It was sweet but still nose-scrunching bitter.

“Their spots and color palette, mostly. This one is too young to have its second row of teeth.” She explained. Tazaro froze and raised an eyebrow. He covered his mouth with his hand and shoveled the bite of food he’d taken into his cheek to speak.

“Sorry–its second row of teeth?” He asked. Sheeva looked at him, surprised.

“Did you really not know?”

Slowly, Tazaro shook his head, feeling on-the-spot.

“I bought a book after Mom gifted it to me. It said only to water once a week. Didn’t say anything about a second row of teeth,” He admitted.

“Once a week? No, that is certainly incorrect. Ragoras are wet-terrain plants. They require water daily. Do you still have it? I will read it.” She stated. He nodded and went to his shelf, searching. He grabbed it, blew the dust off, and handed it to her. She flipped through the book, searching for the section on Bulbosus ragora. There were only a couple pages on the subject. She snorted and looked up at him, holding it up by its few pages.

“This is all?” She tsked, shook her head in disapproval, and began to read it.

The ragora is a dry-terrain plant that requires little water. Its leaves are dark green, with a purple center. It is a carnivorous plant, meaning that it eats meat, preferably insects and small mice. Because it is a dry-terrain plant, it only requires water every month, though, for best results, owners should water once a week.

Ragoras like to be pet and scratched in places they cannot reach, typically on the side of its mouth or the underside of the bud. They are–

Sheeva shut the book so quickly it made a snapping sound and tossed it aside. It landed on the bed with a soft “flump.” She pointed at it as she haughtily began to tell Tazaro what she thought of it.

“Whoever wrote this book is a fool. Scratching it on the underside of its bud will prove futile; it has no sensors there. Its sensors are on its leaves, where it absorbs the sun's rays to make its energy. They don’t even mention the differences between males and females or culinary use. They barely even got the carnivorous bit right! Ragora will eat anything.” She squinted at it.

Tazaro looked at her curiously, somewhat thrilled with her emotional state. He opened his mouth to ask what she’d meant about culinary use but shut it when she began to speak again.

“Pfft. No wonder your plant wants to die.” She growled, crossing her arms. “You should rewrite that book. Correct knowledge begets proper conduct.” She strongly suggested. The ragora seemed to look at her sadly, reaching for her with its leaves. She nodded and began to pet it once more.

“Hmph. That’ll go over nicely. How to Care for Your Bastard Plant, by Tazaro Lindus Chorea,” He grunted sarcastically.

“Rubbing the cuticle takes some of it off. It is a good thing; the cuticle can often build up and suffocate the plant.” Sheeva pointed out.

“What’s… the cuticle?” He asked. She tutted, shook her head, then sighed as she told herself that because there wasn’t adequate information for him to research, she’d have to inform him herself.

“The waxy part of the plant. It helps to prevent water loss, sun damage, and overhydration.” She explained, then scoffed.

“That book was the worst waste of paper and ink I’ve ever seen. I think I would rather suffer through a gossip girl’s journal.” She grunted. “Males have brighter, striking colors; they are generally bigger, and when they get to be about three years old, have a second row of teeth to protect females from predators. Females have a softer palette, leaning more towards blues and purples; it helps them hide in the fall when they’re sporing. But, their leaves are bigger, and their roots stretch further to make up for the overcrowding protective presence of males.” She took another bite of the sandwich and washed it down with tea. She dipped her finger in the tea and dripped some into the ragora’s mouth.

“You really like plants, huh?” Tazaro asked.

Sheeva chuckled softly.

“Oh, no. My secret is out.”

Tazaro huffed, pacified by her calm.

As she promised to do after every meal, Sheeva grabbed a pinch of the antibiotics that Vincent had left on the bedside table as well as a pinch of pain meds for use “as needed,” stuck them in her mouth, and swallowed them down with more of the bitter, sweet tea. She shuddered at the assault on her taste buds, then sat back and lowered her gaze to the red ribbon she usually used to tie her hair back with.

“I do not know what I will do with that. I fear losing it.” She admitted, staring at it sleepily. Tazaro followed her eyes, wondering what she was looking at, and upon seeing the ribbon crumpled on the desk, he nodded slowly to himself.

“Do you think your hair is long enough that you can still wear it?” He asked. She blinked and sighed, feeling her body sink into the chair. Either the pain meds she’d just taken were kicking in, or she was feeling the after-effects of not eating well for a week, at least. She chalked it up to both.

“Eventually, it will. The ribbon means more to me...” Sheeva paused to give a sleepy yawn. “Than the hair. Though it will be a while until I can figure it out.” She mumbled, motioning to the arm in its sling.

“I could tie it for you.” Tazaro blurted, amazed with himself.

Sheeva shot him a skeptical look, her eyes narrowed and piercing. It softened as she felt a pang of longing, and she hesitantly nodded.

“Do you know–

–Honestly, no. I don’t. I just...wanted to help.”

Sheeva reached for the ribbon and handed it to him. The long, tattered thing appeared to be on its last strand, and he considered replacing it out of generosity but shook his head at himself as he remembered he really couldn’t leave the apartment. After helping her to sit in the chair, he sat up on the bed, then pulled her towards him.

“The last people that played with my hair were Sophia and Yelena.” She tried not to think about how he tenderly tucked her hair behind her ear. “I hope they are alright.”

“You could probably ask Vincent to check on them,” Tazaro suggested, weaving his hands through the strands.

“You think he would do that?” She asked.

“I think so. Vincent offered to contact Tyler for me and bring him here, though I’ve been...putting that off.” He reached and gently bunched up the strands of hair into a manageable ponytail and attempted to tie the ribbon around it. It simply fell out of its bind and back down around her face.

“You will need to tie it much tighter than that,” Sheeva muttered with a soft scoff.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Tazaro replied, fighting the look of worry threatening to break on his face. He tried again, tying the frayed ribbon a little tighter than he had. The ponytail was lopsided but held together for a little longer before falling out. Sheeva directed her attention to the Ragora on the desk as her hair fell back around her face.

“You should just face Tyler, Tazaro. He deserves to know you are alive.”

Tazaro stopped and let go of the bunch of hair he pulled back.

“But, what about you?”

Sheeva hid her small smile, appreciative of his worry.

“Me? Forget about me. Tell him I am dead if you want. Be thankful you have a parent to mourn your death. Appreciate it. No better way to do that than to tell him you’re still alive, I think.” She began. He dropped his hands and rested them on the back of the chair. “If you’re still worried about what he would think of me, don’t.”

Tazaro thought for a moment, feeling the well of unease in his gut. He took a deep breath and accepted Sheeva’s words.

“I’ll make you a deal: If I do that, you reach out to those kids.” He bargained.

Sheeva nodded in agreement.

“Alright.” Tazaro felt the smile break on his face and the sigh of relief flow through his chest. A calm silence fell over them, save for the chittering snore of the plant on the desk. It appeared to be asleep, a drool of shiny, silvery nectar oozing from the corner of its mouth.

With nothing else to say and both of them equally lax, now would be a good time for apologies as any.

“Hey, about the other day–

–I should get some sleep.” She interrupted insistently, pushing herself out of the chair, unwilling to confess to pecking him on the lips in the forest.

Tazaro stammered at her for a moment, then reluctantly stood from his spot and moved aside, while she climbed up into the bed with the aid of the stepping stool they had brought to her from the utility closet. With a heavy sigh, he headed for the door, opened his mouth with second thoughts, then closed it, fighting to accept that perhaps, she was not ready.

“Sleep well, Sheeva.” He offered instead, stepping out of the room and shutting the door lightly behind himself. He plodded towards his space on the couch, lay down, and kept his back to the room while pulling the blanket tight around himself to self-soothe.

Ruminating on his frustrations gave him such a headache that he buried his head into a pillow and decided sleeping it off would be a better way to deal–at least, for now.