Scars

By Falls-44

"Ahh… the Child of Bhaal has awoken. It is time for more… experiments."

The scars that he had suffered at the hands of Irenicus had still not healed. Even a year after escaping that hellish dungeon, the lacerations and marks that covered his body bore silent testament to the torture and pain that he had suffered at the mage's hands. As he looked over the jagged, half-healed scars left on his chest, he doubted that they would ever vanish. The foul magic that Irenicus had used on him would leave its mark until he died.

Sighing, the Child of Bhaal fell back into bed, watching as moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating his arms and legs, just as heavily scarred as his chest. On his right arm, a vicious circle of bite marks still had not faded, a parting gift from a kobold that had gotten the jump on him during his travels in Faerun. On his left, a series of cruel lines had been gouged permanently down the entire length of his arm, courtesy of a troll that he had slain long ago in some nameless, forgotten dungeon.

He smiled involuntarily, tracing the outlines of the scars left on his arm, remembering past adventures, recalling the names of comrades whom he hadn't thought about in months. The names of his closest companions came readily to his lips: Aerie, Minsc, Anomen, Mazzy, and Imoen. He repeated each of their names softly like a soothing mantra as he felt the old, faded outlines of the battle-wounds that were engraved in his flesh.

His eyes traveled over the rest of his body, taking in the scars, cuts, marks, and scratches that were souvenirs of his great adventure. There were so many of them, reminders of past battles, badges of courage, symbolizing the danger that he and his companions had constantly found themselves in. Although he had obviously not enjoyed receiving such grievous wounds, he found himself oddly pleased with the large number of scars he had managed to collect over the past year. They told the stories, reminded him of everything he had fought for: they were his memories.

His memories…

The physical scars were not so bad, he knew: they had healed with time, and even if they were still visibly etched onto his skin, they caused him no more pain. The mental scars were different, battle-wounds that he could never truly heal nor escape. They waited for him every time he fell asleep: mounds of corpses, the rotten scent of death, the feeling of hot blood on his face…

Sometimes, the things he dreamed about made him wonder if he had really given up his Bhaalspawn essence. Had he truly given up the taint? Was it, unknowingly, still lurking somewhere within the darkest pits of his soul, waiting for a moment of weakness? The very thought that he shared the same essence of the God of Murder made him feel sick with rage, hate, disgust, and fear. He had become accustomed to the title "Child of Bhaal," but only now did he realize how literally that namesake described him. He was the son of a dead god, the offspring of an evil deity that had been devoted to murder. What did that make him?

"I'm a good man," he told himself firmly. A force of righteousness, as Minsc would say. He had done great things, noble things, and never once had he acted against his moral compass. Never once had he given into the taint and embraced the personage of the Slayer. His brother Sarevok had desired power, but he? No… he wanted nothing to do with their dead father. He wanted to live his life as a mortal, far from the scheming machinations of the gods, a life where he could choose his own destiny and be his own man.

Sighing and still restless, he turned on his side, his eyes falling onto the form of his sleeping wife, illuminated by the midnight moon. Aerie, too, bore the scars of their travels. Ragged scratches, maybe not as deep as the ones that adorned his arms, but not any less painful, blemished her otherwise fair skin. His eyes traced the curve of her body, noting a deep groove in her left thigh where vicious claws had bitten deep into her flesh, and he involuntarily reached out with his hand, feeling the puckered, leather-like scar with his calloused fingers.

She stirred at his touch, and he drew away, hoping he hadn't interrupted her slumber. A small smile crossed her lips and she let out a low murmur before she turned on her side, evidently still asleep. Smiling to himself now, he contented himself with gazing at her, simply taking pleasure in watching her sleep, until his eyes fell onto her back, where two bulges of scarred and disfigured flesh were all that remained of her wings.

Her wings. His wife was… had been… of the Avariel, a race of elves that took fierce pride in their wings and mastery of the sky. To have her wings torn out, sawn off, created not only a physical impairment… it had severed Aerie from the only life she had known, and had taken away the freedom that all Avariel took for granted.

She never talked about it much, not even to him. When they had first met, she brooded constantly over the loss of her wings, remaining painfully distant from everything around her. Even now, he knew that she missed her wings terribly, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. He saw her, sometimes, watching the birds that flew over their home, a sad smile fixed on her lips, imagining what it would feel like to fly again.

It hurt him to see her so unhappy, even in just brief moments, and he frowned, his mind once more going back to his final confrontation with Melissan. He had chosen to give up his Bhaalspawn essence, to remain a mortal – but what if he had become a god? What if he had taken up his father's mantle, not as a force of destruction but as a deity of good? He could have done so many things – including giving his beloved her wings back – if only he had become an immortal.

And yet – she had not wanted her wings back when he had offered this possibility. He remembered her words clearly: "You could do almost anything, couldn't you? Except keep us together." For all the pain of losing her wings, her love – their love – had kept them together. He smiled softly, reaching over and draping his arm over her in a protective manner. She reacted unconsciously, drawing closer to his warmth, shrinking in his embrace, and in that instant the Child of Bhaal suddenly felt at peace with the world.

Smiling in contentment, he finally allowed his head to fall onto his pillow, releasing a deep sigh. Before he closed his tired eyes, he looked over to the corner of the room, where a small crib containing their sleeping son lay nestled beneath the window. He took a moment to gaze in wonder at their child, amused by its tiny hands and feet, amazed at the incredible level of innocence – and fragility – that emanated from the sleeping babe.

And, most of all, he was astonished by the smooth, flawless skin of their son. No lines of jagged scars, no vicious battle marks, no half-healed wounds to blemish their child's features. Their son was as pure and innocent as he was scarred and world-weary.

Hopefully it will stay that way, the Child of Bhaal thought, finally closing his eyes as sleep overcame him. He had spent so much of his life simply fighting to stay alive, and it had drained him. He had fought and bled over a thousand battlefields, each fight leaving its own painful mark on him.

But he would consider it all a worthy sacrifice so long as his son didn't inherit his scars.

Just a little tribute to one of my favorite games of all time. About a month ago I got the urge to dig out Baldur's Gate II, a game that I hadn't played in years. It's still as fun as I remember, and I had a blast playing it once again (in fact, I've started on a second run-through. This game is addicting!) The characters and storyline of Baldur's Gate are just so epic… I truly believe the series is Bioware's finest work. Baldur's Gate, and the characters and world within, will always hold a special place in my heart.

Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the story!

~ Falls-44