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Solana's fingers in her hair do not tug or pull--she gives soft pets against Alara's scalp as they kiss, pale pink fingernails twirling through dark locks in praise.
Alara is reminded briefly of Solana's touch long ago--her mother never braided her hair, never bothered to - never saw the point in it - but Solana took delight in touching her, braiding her up, making her beautiful. Solana was always dedicated to making her beautiful, worthy, palatable to the masses.
She doesn't understand it even now, but it doesn't matter; Alara still kisses her, Alara still loves. At least Alara understands.