Legacy Lost

silence chases behind it, Grom looks up. The ship is gone. Obliterated. As if it never existed. He squeezes Nalia’s hand. “Are you alright?”
    She eases up, shaking off the silt like an octopus coming out of hiding. Her lip quivers and she points to the back of her head. Grom tries to swallow his heart. “You’re hurt.”
    She shakes her head and reaches around to pull a tangle of hair forward. “My hair,” she says, her eyes bigger than he’s ever seen them. “It’s singed.”
    Grom cocks his head, flirting with the idea of strangling her. “Seriously?”
    She shrugs, dejected. “I know it sounds petty. It’s just that…well, I really loved my hair.” She dangles it in front of her as if it’s a crispy dead eel.
    They both remember Freya’s existence when she groans—apparently something else did the job of knocking her out without Grom’s assistance.
    Nalia snaps out of it first and helps her friend, who gasps at the sight of her. “Oh, your hair! What will your father say?”
    Grom pinches the bridge of his nose. Has the entire world gone mad? “It’s just hair,” he grits out. “It’ll grow back.”
    Freya scolds him with a look. “It’s never just hair, Highness.”
    “No,” Nalia says quietly. “He’s right. It’s time I let it go.” Throwing Freya’s arm over her shoulder and hoisting her up, she looks at Grom. “My father always said my hair was the exact same color as Mother’s. It felt like keeping a part of her with me, I guess.”
    Grom stares at her, stunned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
    “Freya, you simply have to cut it for me,” Nalia says, setting her jaw.
    Her friend pulls back, eyes wide. “Oh no. Not me. I’m not doing it. Your father will have me arrested.”
    Nalia settles her gaze on Grom. “Will you do it?”
    He tries to look away, but the pleading in her eyes softens him. He nods.
    She scans the floor, picking up pieces of debris and inspecting them, presumably looking for something with a sharp-enough edge. Grom and Freya can’t bring themselves to help. At least Freya can claim an injury, he thinks to himself. But how can I cut off her hair if it means that much to her?
    Finally, Nalia finds what she’s looking for. She swims over to Grom and hands him a thin piece of metal, disfigured and burnt, but sharp enough on one side to accomplish the task at hand.
    He palms it, inspecting its capacity for cutting hair, and doubting his own. “You’re sure?” he says, unable to look at her just yet. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
    “Someone’s coming,” Freya says, stiffening into the classic Tracker pose. “Better get on with this.”
    Nalia nods. “Do it,” she tells him. “Before anyone sees me like this.” She turns her back to him and offers up her burnt locks.
    He turns the metal shard in his hand. “You’re sure?”
    “Poseidon’s beard, just do it already!”
    Before she’s done yelling, he’s holding her severed hair in his hands. She gasps and whirls around. He hands it to her. “I’m sorry.”
    She cradles it in her hands like one of his mother’s human relics. Then, of all things, she laughs. “Can you believe that just happened? And we lived through it?”
    When he doesn’t immediately respond, she shakes the mangled locks in his face. “Admit it, Triton prince. That’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to you. And you’re welcome.”
    Grom bites back a smile and swats her hand away, but she persists until he’s forced to grab her wrist and restrain it behind her back. By now, he too senses Yudor, the Tracker trainer, approaching with others he doesn’t recognize. “I saved your life, then cut your hair,” he says, letting her go. “ You’re welcome.”
    The smile fades from her face. She looks back, obviously sensing the party coming to investigate the explosion. She turns back to Grom, hesitant. “About that,” she says, inching closer. The water between them seems to heat up, but that can’t be right, can it? When her nose almost touches his, she says, “Thank you for not leaving us.” Then she presses her lips against his, soft and slow, and he feels an explosion, just like the one from the death ship, only this one is coming from inside, and it feels like a hundred electric eels slithering over him, every part of him, shocking him to life.
    There’s no reason to think about pulling her closer; his hands do that all on their own. There’s no reason to worry about