[ And where Capable had missed her other wives, Furiosa found a sense of freedom in it. Still trapped, but different. She wears her name and her scars, but no expectations but the ones she creates herself.
Including some expectations about basic grooming that Furiosa seemingly stubbornly refuses to adopt. She's used to sand and dirt and blood tangling it all up. At the suggestion Furiosa balks a little. It's not insult she's feeling. Or at least that's not all of it. But her nostrils flare, and she's not sure it's something she wants. When she cleaned herself, she was quick and furtive. Efficient. The wives had cared for her, done something similar in the days Furiosa tries not to remember. And before that, Dementus had kept her shockingly well-groomed, taking a vain pride in his "daughter," clean and pale, protected from the elements.
But before that, her mother had helped her lean back into the river water, squeezed a gel from a red fruit, and combed her hands through Furiosa's short hair. Maybe that's the memory Furiosa can bookend this with. ]
Okay. [ A quiet assent. ] Give me a moment.
[ She has to take the arm off properly before laying down in the water. An adept hand makes quick work of the cinches, her skin red and new callouses still forming at all the places the belts and pauldron hang on her. She places it gently on the edge of the pool before she returns, sitting on the cool bottom of the pool and then leaning her head back to float it in front of Capable.
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[ And where Capable had missed her other wives, Furiosa found a sense of freedom in it. Still trapped, but different. She wears her name and her scars, but no expectations but the ones she creates herself.
Including some expectations about basic grooming that Furiosa seemingly stubbornly refuses to adopt. She's used to sand and dirt and blood tangling it all up. At the suggestion Furiosa balks a little. It's not insult she's feeling. Or at least that's not all of it. But her nostrils flare, and she's not sure it's something she wants. When she cleaned herself, she was quick and furtive. Efficient. The wives had cared for her, done something similar in the days Furiosa tries not to remember. And before that, Dementus had kept her shockingly well-groomed, taking a vain pride in his "daughter," clean and pale, protected from the elements.
But before that, her mother had helped her lean back into the river water, squeezed a gel from a red fruit, and combed her hands through Furiosa's short hair. Maybe that's the memory Furiosa can bookend this with. ]
Okay. [ A quiet assent. ] Give me a moment.
[ She has to take the arm off properly before laying down in the water. An adept hand makes quick work of the cinches, her skin red and new callouses still forming at all the places the belts and pauldron hang on her. She places it gently on the edge of the pool before she returns, sitting on the cool bottom of the pool and then leaning her head back to float it in front of Capable.
Softly, as if she's assuring herself: ] Okay.