Scars.
Old wounds, too harsh to ever fully fade. Or... maybe just unlucky. One she'd gotten on her pinky from a stray cat when she was seven. Another, from falling off her bike at twelve. Dozens from sparring partners.
Exactly forty-three from training with Crescent Rose. Arcing, brilliantly pink scars - even if some are over a decade old. Some accidents hadn't scarred, of course, but she'd counted the ones that had hundreds of times. The worst were on her back, marking where she'd fumbled a twirl or lost her grip with a shot. Only five marked her arms, mostly from the early days of training where the weapon was heavier than expected after training for too long. Nobody ever really warned her how quickly she would fatigue at the beginning. Eight forming an uncomfortable criss-cross along the backs of her thighs.
Nothing could ever make her regret her choice in Crescent Rose. Not five hundred more scars, not losing a limb, not even death itself. She had more than grown accustomed to its weight, and being without it felt inherently wrong somehow.
Still, as she carefully raised the shower temperature so as not to aggravate her back, she couldn't help but wonder how life may have been different had she chosen something... less chaotic. Would she be able to bend over without wincing? Twist around in her chair without being careful not to scrape the rough wood against a particularly sore spot? Turn her back to a fire without feeling an angry heat for hours after?
Maybe even wear more revealing clothing without feeling self conscious?
With a sigh, she slammed the water off. Nothing was going to change the way she looked now. A head shake. She should feel no shame in her scars. She lived in a school of warriors-in-training for fucking years, everyone had scars. Even seemingly perfect people.
She allowed herself a sigh of frustration as she dried off, knowing she should've been more careful not to let her mind wander to dark places like that. The places filled with "What if?"s and "Could-have-been."s.
To err is to be human, though. A dull thud as the towel hit the ground cut off her saddened thoughts.
She looked into the mirror and forced a healthy, happy smile. It helped some, for a time. Eventually, though, a creeping thought snuck its way in.
Looks almost like my scars.
Frustrated, she allowed a momentary outburst - slamming her fist into the marble countertop of the facade. A deep breath later, and she had calmed herself again.
Carefully listening to see if she had disturbed anyone, she finished her dressing routine. Underclothes, clothes, brush hair, brush teeth.
It wasn't long before she got caught up in thinking again. A stray scrape against the scar on her right bicep, the shirt roughly pulling against skin still raw from the heat of the shower.
She spent longer than she would readily admit to anyone looking in the mirror to see how well she had hidden them. Experimenting to find some position of comfort and cover.
When she finished, turning to the door revealed that she hadn't been listening as carefully as she thought.
One. Dull, faded. The only imperfection on a face steeled with concern. She must've heard the slam from earlier and come to check.
A simple conversation.
How long?
Enough.
A few strides from the intruder bring them together. Gently, a hand placed upon a scarred shoulder. Slowly caressing the red-angry mark - the youngest of the bunch, another exchanging of words.
You shouldn't think so hard.
...
I know how hard it can be to feel... marred. Like you've been ruined somehow.
How many times have we had this conversation?
Seventeen, since we started living together.
Rhetorical question.
I know.
Carefully shifting a hand under the short arm of the sleeping shirt, tenderly dragging fingers across the web of scars across her back.
They're proof of your determination, you know. The willingness to keep trying with a weapon most consider almost impossibly impractical.
Hmm...
Badges of honor, like a tattoo of each time you didn't make the same mistake again.
A brilliant flash of sensation as the fingers splay flatly across her back.
Beautiful.
Maybe in a twisted way.
And what's wrong with that? Are rose bushes not a twist of violence in themselves?
Tears, falling flatly onto the tile in an almost-silent room.
I still wish they were gone. That I could feel normal.
What on earth is normal about you?
A wry smile, dry laughter.
You know what I meant.
Please, enlighten me.
An embrace, damp from the still-humid room, and tears from each party.
I love you.
A shuddering sob, followed by a pained swallow.
I love you too.