#kadra

“Your hair is white...”

Gamall stopped what he was doing, as Kadra’s voice caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder to look at the knight commander, who stood at the entrance of his tent. She, once again, held papers in her hands she planned to discuss with him and he scoffed, of course.

“What?” He asked confused at her words.

“Your hair, it’s white? Did you bleach it?” She walked in carrying papers.

Work, always work, long lost were the nights where she held him in comfort, she and Tudor. He was silly to hope for a second that she was here for anything else. Those days, those nights, were long gone.

He ran his fingers through his long hair, holding a lock of silky ghost white hair between his fingers and scoffed as he tried to realized what could have caused it.

“Oh... the purification spell,” he mumbled. “It washed off my hair dying spell... I’ll have to dye it again.”

He shook his head and walked past her to look for a potion of tar to temporarily fix that. The Imperial healer had promise him they’d look for some medecine to help restore pigmentation to his hair. Not that he desliked white hair. Not at all. No, he hated the reason associated with his hair growing white.

“Again? I thought you were naturally black haired! Since when your hair been white?”

Gamall stopped once more turning to face her with disbelief. Had she truly not noticed? It was the first thing everyone did. Yet again, when his mind returned to that fateful day, she was barely paying him any mind.

“You’re kidding, right?” He asked. “When I returned, after Jullian and his merry party kept me their prisoner for almost a year of torture and... and...”

“Really?” She looked honestly surprise.

“You didn’t notice?!”

“No, when you returned your hair was a matted mess of dirt, blood and gore! How did you expect me to notice?” She tried to defend herself.

“I don’t know! Maybe if you had spared a glance at me when I was finally washed and stitched up you would have noticed!” Gamall yelled throwing the potion at the wall.

As the potion pooled, the tent’s fabric was slowly tainted black.

“Sorry, I didn’t! I had more pressing things on my mind.”

“You didn’t! Joseph fucking Hughes noticed! The dwarf who say’s your place is in the kitchen, not the battlefied, and calls his son and inferior being due to his skin colour noticed, but you, my friend, my lover, my ally, didn’t even spare a glance!”

“No! I didn’t!” She yelled. “We are in a war! I have more pressing things to worry about than the hair color of one of my soldiers.”

Gamall stopped, straightening his back.

“That’s all I am to you? Your soldier,” he shook his head. “You’re right. So my hair is white. It’s not like it’s going to kill me, right? Isn’t that what you said when I cried why didn’t you send anyone to save me? Why did you abandon me to be tortured, humiliated, violated, by Jullian and his men?”

Kadra fell quiet, looking away as she felt her heart in her throat. He was alive, he was safe, he was with them. She had to worry about people who would actually come out of that harmed, he’d live, he’d heal through anything, and he did. She had made the right choice.

Have you?

At her silence Gamall sat down, he didn’t look at her, only keeping his hands over his mouth and nose as he looked into space.

“Can you get me Tar?”

She looked at him confused.

“Tar?”

“Yes, so I can dye my hair...”

She blinked, looking at the papers in her hands. She had come there to discuss work, she had hoped to come to a course of action where they could use his unique skills. She realized her intent to send him in a suicide mission, how dehumanizing it was, how she was specifically sending him, because he could not die. His only value, had suddenly, in her mind become, the fact he was a powerful warlock, who could not die. 

“I... I think we have more important matters to discuss, Mal, we’re in the middle of a war-” she started, looking away.

Gamall looked at her in utter disbelief.

“Either get me tar so I can dye my hair, or get the fuck out before I strangle you with the 15 or so feet of intestine I still have left!”

With that threat, she left, crumbling the papers in her hands. Alright, if he did not wish to discuss it, he’d have no choice but to do what she ordered, she was still his commander and she was still more skilled than him. With so many skilled soilders and warlocks willing to give their lives for the crown, she placed them all first before him, because he could not die and he’d return. Broken, tortured, but he’d return, they would not. And she would not sacrifice her soldiers when she had him.

Watching her leave, Gamall laid back down, twirling a lock of white hair around his finger. Long gone were the days where she’d shield him, where she’d comfort, where she’d love him. To her, he was nothing but a weapon with legs. No one could destroy its casing, but his insides? They were mangled. He closed his eyes and rolled to the side in fetal position, starting to cry.

“Hey... You pissed of Kadra... “

In answer, hearing his cries, Tudor came in. When he saw Gamall he stopped.

“Hey... your hair. I’ll go get tar.”

"She didn’t notice...”

“That your hair was white?” Tudor asked, sitting by his side.

“No, back then... she didn’t notice. I’m nothing to her.”

“Hey, come on, Gamall,” Tudor pulled the man to his lap. “She’s just preocupied, this war is taking it’s toll on her. She loves us, once this is over, she’ll remember how important you are to her, how much she loves you-”

“I’m growing to resent her greatly... with every word she utters... I’m afraid when this war is over, it won’t be her who sees me as nothing, it’s me.”

“Hey, come on, Gamall, we love you, right?” And Tudor gently brushed his hair. “I love you, white hair, scars, extra eyes, five feet less of intestine and all!”

“Seven feet.”

“You counted?”

“No. Seven sounds important...” he laughed.

“I love your white hair and your scars.”