Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(8)

As the blades glided over his scalp, clumps of curling blond strands hitting the dirt behind him, Valon felt like he was losing another piece of his mother. But he didn’t shed a tear, and though wetness pooled in his eyes at another loss, he didn’t dare let them fall. Not yet.

Not even when the clippers snagged from the knots did the man take any sympathy on him, still pulling and tugging, even to the point where Valon felt the sharp pain of the razors cutting his skin. The time it took for it to be over was vast, but he had managed to get through it without making a sound.

When it was done, and Valon could feel the cool breeze, only then did they let him go. One chuckled, another smirked, but only Gjarper actually commented on Valon’s new look.

“Better, but you still look like shite. Come.”

He had very little choice to do anything but get up and follow Gjarper back to the house into one of the empty rooms. He couldn’t help but touch his head, feeling for where his hair had been, and now it was cut so short he was nearly bald.

Alone again, Gjarper pulled out a rusted old toolbox from the closet, setting it on the desk at his side. He flipped the top open and pulled out the contents inside.

There were several small bottles filled with black liquid, and a small machine of sorts that Gjarper fitted a needle to. Valon had an idea what it was, or at least could guess. There was no one that worked under Bastian that didn’t bear his mark. It was a sigil of sorts, one of the Virgin Mary, that while pure in some faiths, was the only thing that was meant to protect them in this life.

Gjarper gestured for him to take a seat, his expression unwavering. There was a moment when Valon hesitated, believing if he could just leave this place—try running again—then he would get away. Gjarper might have seen it in his eyes, the panic that was there, but he didn’t make a move to try and stop him—he didn’t tense in a way that made it look like he would chase after Valon should he try to get away.

No, he just waited, letting Valon make the choice.

After all, he would be the only one affected by the decision.

But he had heard of those who ran from Bastian when he offered a helping hand. He wouldn’t get far if he left now, especially when there was nowhere else for him to go.

Swallowing, he traveled the short distance to the chair and dropped down into it, folding his hands in his lap. He didn’t know what to expect as Gjarper’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder for a brief second, but it wasn’t until he heard the soft whirring of whatever Gjarper had pulled from his toolbox did his imagination run free.

Again, Gjarper dropped a restraining hand on his shoulder, but this time he kept it there as he brought the clippers to Valon’s scalp. The vibrating blades made him jump, but the hand holding him steady didn’t let him get far.

Carefully, his hair fell in rings on the dirt floor beneath his feet, and as the clumps fell in abandon, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Not when he felt the cool breeze on his now bare head or when the vibrations stopped and Gjarper took a step back.

The urge to feel where his hair had once been rode him hard, but he resisted the urge, balling his hands into fists to keep from doing it. Despite his fear of the unknown, he didn’t want to show weakness in this.

It will grow back. At least, that was what he hoped. Not once had his mother ever taken off any more than an inch during any of the times she’d sheared his hair.

Blinking away the sudden wetness in his eyes, Valon looked at Gjarper, waiting to see what was next.

“Lay there,” he commanded, pointing to a table of sorts built into the wall.

Valon was just light enough to climb onto it and stretch out, watching Gjarper from his position. While he had never seen one in person, he could guess what machine he was holding. He couldn’t bring himself to watch him prepare it, nor could he look away from the hole in the roof.

Flinching when the cold, wet wipe swiped across his skin, Valon heard the click of the machine, his jaw clenching as Gjarper brought the machine closer to him. And as he lay there, under the grueling agony that was getting a tattoo at his young age, Valon kept quiet, knowing that this was just one more thing he needed to get past.

He would survive. He always did.





-





4





He had been just a boy when he’d ventured into the world that Bastian commanded, merely an outsider permitted to an unrestricted view of the horrors that took place there. Valon had managed to go unnoticed for some time, being the perfect little slave boy that Bastian wanted. Truthfully, he’d performed far better than he’d hoped in fear that he might be one of the few unfortunate souls who were tossed in the Pit and made to fight for their life.

For months, in fact, he had gone unscathed, just another bastard child who had come to Bastian for help, at least until he made one fatal mistake.

It was another cold night, one that Valon hadn’t anticipated. He’d snuck back into the house in search of another blanket as the other he had did very little to combat the harsh winds. He had always been quick on his feet, and he was almost back out of the house when he heard the grunting, then the sound of furniture being moved across the room, inch by inch.

He’d always had an inquisitive nature, and though he knew better, he crossed the hall, walking closer until he could just peek through the crack in the door, and what he saw there made his stomach turn over.