#enough trauma to push aside uselessness for death and efficacity

[hel-phoenyx]

Feminity was a weird thing, now that Lycarn thought about it.

She didn't have much time to really know what that was. Little, she didn't have many dresses, her parents choosing clothes that were practical and comfortable for werewolves. She didn't have a single memory of her wearing something nice.

After the rags came the armor. At the Blood Mood, there were no dresses. Dresses were impractical. Dresses were not suited to kill. Dresses were for mothers so nothing could block them from giving birth, or allowing the children to hide under the cloth. Dresses were not for women if the women didn't give birth.

So Lycarn wore armor, and didn't look twice towards the mothers. She didn't want children, so she wouldn't be wearing dresses. They were not for her.

Still, there was that feeling back when Savannah used to cut her hair. Aside having a light head, seeing her locks on the ground while she only kept two or three inches on her scalp sometimes made her chest tighten.

But what good could hair do ? It was only protective when she wolfed out, and otherwise only decorative or downright bothersome. She had no use for hair. So she didn't keep it.

No one was cutting her hair back in the prison.

No one was cutting her hair when she ran away.

No one was cutting her hair before she stood in front of the Silent Princess, a woman with long hair and dresses and no children that she bore.

The people in Silent Moon were weird, wearing dresses or pants or armor or even more extravagant pieces of clothing for the only reason they wanted to. Keeping their hair long or short or styling it in every way possible just because they could. Lycarn couldn't understand why they would do useless things, wear useless outfits. she herself didn't feel safe if she wasn't protected by leather or metal.

Better kill than be killed.

She did stop cutting her hair.

On travels, no occasion to lose yourself in the useless. Her armor was necessary, when she crossed paths with other travellers, armies, thieves, she needed the protection.

She kept her hair long.

They said hair holds memories. Lycarn didn't need it to remember.

She still kept it.

They said it was beautiful. Lycarn didn't know what beautiful is. Beautiful was useless. Beautiful was deadly.

She still maintained it.

And then there was that boat. Where she stood before a dark elf, in armor and long hair, and was called special. Where she felt the look of the blind angel on her and her hands on her skin, and was called soft.

Special she knew. Soft she yearned for.

Today she stands in front of the women she gave her whole life to. An angel that found beauty in the low world, the doctor that healed hearts and wills alike, and the empress she pledged to protect. Her body wrapped in that uselessness she found so pathetic and is now so comforting.

One step. Two steps. A hand picking up the corners of the dress, showing the cloth embroidered with moonlight. A move of the head, for her hair now so long maintained in a tight hairdo to move around her.

"Do you like it?"

Her question was only met by smiles.

"You look beautiful."

Beautiful never was the word she was looking for.

But now that she heard it, heard it in their mouths, those mouths of those people she admired, she couldn't leave dresses behind.