Title: Cicatrices
Author: Lycanus
Fandom: King Arthur
Character(s): Tristan; Dagonet
Rating: M
Type: angst; romance
Summary: What hurts the most, isn't always visible ...
Comments & Reviews: positive comments welcomed
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, the lads are still owned by Jerry Bruckheimer & Touchstone Pictures - although I do get to mess around with their minds ...
A/N: Cicatrice, Cicatrix - the scar of a healed wound
Warning: contains strong language and mild slash.
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Cicatrices
Tristan's pov:
They cloak him ... marring the perfection of his smooth skin. And each and every one of them tell a tale. A vital chapter of the story of his life ...
Dagonet's lithe, powerful body - which I yearn for and constantly crave - is a living canvas ... Tangible proof of the suffering that every Sarmatian man, no matter which tribe or clan, has had to endure over the years under Rome's oppressive tyrany. He is literally and figuratively branded with them. And they serve as a constant reminder that his life, like mine, is no longer his own. That we are not free men. That we are unable to come and go and do as we please. That we are slaves ... and our lives are subject to the will of our masters. Or to be more specific, Rome's will ...
We all possess them. Our scars.
Some of us, like Dagonet's kinsman and cousin, Bors, carry them with pride. As the mark of a true warrior. A fighter. A Sarmatian knight. To him, his battle scars convey the courage, strength and power of his tribe, the Roxolani. And to Bors, being a Roxolani is everything. He's proud of their traditions, their customs ...
Others, like the Pup, view them as the shackles of slavery. Something to be despised and ashamed of. Galahad is young, idealistic and rebellious and loathes being in servitude to Rome with a passion that's overwhelming. He hates the fact that the Sarmatians were, as he sees it, "sold into slavery" by our forefathers and believes that we should fight for our freedom rather than fight and die for Rome. For a country and a people that mean nothing to him.
Then, there is Lancelot ... Our "dark knight." He carries the least amount of scars out of all of the Sarmatian knights. Not because he is a coward, or that he fears combat. No, the proud, arrogant Iazyges is one of the deadliest men I've encountered in battle. He's a ruthless killer, skilled with a blade and fears no one. Except Bors. It is pure vanity and for the sake of his appearance alone, that he has become so gifted in the art of self-preservation and defence. Nothing more ... nothing less.
Each of us view our scars differently. They mean something different to us all. I am indifferent to mine. All they mean to me is a mark of survival. No more.
But as I lie with my beloved Dagonet and watch him as he sleeps peacefully at my side, I feel overwhelming sorrow and pain. My Healer is not meant for war. For fighting. He is a good man. One of honour and is loyal to a fault. Dag possesses a kind heart and a gentle nature and although brave, fearless and a skilled warrior, he does not belong on a battlefield. And I would do anything in my power to keep him safe and free from harm.
Yet, despite his aptitude for fighting, Dag possesses the most scars. Some are old. Some new. Some slight, others near fatal. And all of them break my heart.
Since he accepted me as his lover, I've come to know each and every cicatrice on his body as well as my own. I know the story behind them all. Of his suffering over the years. What he's been forced to endure. And he has suffered ... and endured.
As Dag sleeps soundly, his right arm curled beneath the side of his head, I can't help noting the scars which shroud him and the intense sorrow and regret I feel when I see them. I reach out my hand to lightly trace the blemish left by an arrowhead upon his left pectoral muscle. It is an old scar. Pink. Faded. And slightly puckered. It is one of the first of many injuries which disfigure his powerful frame and unfortunately, it will not be the last ... My hand idly drifts down his torso towards his right flank. To the most recent addition to his collection. It is a large, jagged, deep wound, the sort left by the blade of sword when it cleaves into soft flesh and tough sinew. What Bors crudely refers to as a "hack 'n' slash" rather than a swift stab to the gut.
Then there's the mark which graces his upper left thigh. It is another old one, yet to this day I can clearly recall the Woad lance piercing Dag. Cold, deadly steel cutting into toned, muscled flesh, almost crippling him. The fear I felt on my brother's behalf, before I cleanly took the blue demon down with a single arrow. And I will never forget the gratitude and love in Dag's clear, silver eyes when he realized that I had his back when none of our brethren were close enough to defend him.
I see the early morning sunlight filter into our chamber. Its rays fall upon Dagonet, emphasizing the vicious brand which graces his handsome profile. It's the one scar which is the most visible. The one which he cannot conceal and is most conscious of. It's the one that almost stole him away from us. From me. The broadsword's kiss ... I'm unable to stop myself from skimming my trembling fingers down its length. The thin, livid scar falls from his left temple, barely missing his eye and down his cheek and makes him appear intimidating and unapproachable. It is why he is often and wrongly shunned and avoided by others, when in reality, my shy Roxolani is the gentlest, kindest, most loving person that I have the honour to know ... and the privilege to love. And I'm angered by the whispers and cruel, hurtful comments about his appearance, when he's so self-conscious of it and lacking in confidence. For when I look at Dagonet, I no longer see the scar, I see the one who means everything to me. I see and value his inner beauty, which shines as bright as the summer sun at noon. I see the ruggedly attractive, peace-loving, gentle soul who is my shieldmate, my brother, my confidante, my rock. I see the man that I love ... That I'm in love with.
But not all of my love's wounds came by the heat of battle. I only have to look at the myriad of scars that criss-cross his sinewy forearms for proof of that. Those are the ones which came closest to claiming Dagonet's life and the ones which pierce my heart like a dagger. They were made by his own hand, when he was at his nadir. And I ... I am the cause of them.
And not all scars are visible to the naked eye. For I'm also to blame for his gravest wound. The injury to his heart. I'm the one entirely at fault for causing him so much pain. Anguish which led him to try to take his own life. And the guilt I feel continues to gnaw at me to this very day, even though my brave, handsome wolf has found it in his heart to forgive me for my stupid actions ... for one drunken, meaningless indiscretion. Something which I can never forgive myself for, or allow myself to forget. Nor do I want to, despite Dag proving himself to be the better man and desiring that memory to be left in the past. I do not deserve his forgiveness, nor his love, yet I cherish them - I cherish him - more than the air I breathe ... more than life itself.
I feel Dag move closer, the heat of his lithe, strapping frame blankets my naked body, its warmth bathing me. It soothes. Comforts, yet excites me. His body drapes across mine. A strong, muscular thigh nudges between my legs; an arm wraps around my waist, drawing me close, sheltering me from the cool early morning air. Dag nestles close to me and drowsily nuzzles my throat before resting his cropped head upon my shoulder.
" Love you, my Scout ... " he mumbles sleepily.
I close my eyes and inhale shakily. How the fuck I came to have such a perfect man as a lover, I'll never know ... or such a forgiving, big hearted one. I'm increasingly aware that I don't deserve him. That he deserves far better ... All I know is that I will do anything in my power to make things up to him. To prove to him that he's my soulmate ... and that my Healer's love, is the only balm, the cicatrice, to the festering, guilt-filled wound that I continue to suffer ...
Finis