Battle Scars
"…when I finally wash ashore
I'm coming back to kiss the girl I kissed before
of all the shooting stars I knew
I never fell for anyone but you
There's battle scars on all my guitars but I still come out here and play
There's battle scars on my face and my arms but you still kiss me everyday…"
—Ozma, Battle Scars
Intro
His hands wrung out the damp cloth. Absently, he began to run it across his body. He was too disciplined to wince at the pain as the warm water flooded into his wounds. From across the room, Tia winced for him.
"I wish you'd let me do that." She said.
"I can do it better on my own."
She did not reply. Had he been able, he would have thanked her for not asking questions. His wounds were not common for those received by members of the Kingsguard. For one thing, he actually had wounds. Kingsguardmen were involved only in minor scuffles. For another, he had been gone for longer than Kingsguardmen were required.
Stopping wars had always appealed to him. Or it had until he'd been called upon to do it.
"I should… go out to the smithy," he rumbled. "Best not to wake Marco."
"What ails you?"
"After-battle tremblings, my love. Naught to be of concern."
1
The hammer felt solid and real in his hands. It brought a feeling of calm to his turbulent mind. It felt good to craft something again. It felt good to use his hands for something besides killing.
His attention sharpened on his creation. It had taken him months of research, design and work to make. He was fiercely proud of it. It had taken him weeks just to get the "strings" right.
Tiny, delicate chains connected hollow metal pieces together. Perfectly crafted joints lent the object the illusion of life. It was a marionette— a puppet which moved through the efforts of strings and joints.
He clapped the puppets metal hands together. A tinkling note filled the air. He noted with delight that it had been the note he'd intended.
Marco would love it.
And now it was done.
Slowly, regretfully, Ashley went about putting his tools away. He stoked the fire; despite his unwillingness to repair or even touch his blades that night, he knew he would have to repair them in the morning.
His body seemed to wilt and become useless as he dropped into bed beside his sleeping wife.
2
Ashley rubbed his blades with a rag dipped in oil to make them shine. They shone like stars already. They didn't need it. He merely enjoyed giving them the extra attention.
He felt two imaginary fingers slide over the long, thin scar on his back.
"Which battle?" His Lady asked.
"I forget," Ashley lied.
"Were there truly so many?"
"Aye."
"How many scars?"
"Never have I tried to count them. I never had the time."
"I shall count them."
He continued the polish the swords, the lamplight reflecting off the metal blades, hilts and sheaths. His hands slipped on a blade and he cut himself when she touched a scar on his thigh. She only smiled wickedly through her gauzy veils.
"Eighteen," she said.
"That cannot be all of them."
"'Tis."
They fell silent.
3
He raked his hands down the sides of his face.
Images of blood and battle refused to leave his mind. Battles, wars, the faces of the criminals he'd killed refuse to leave him in peace.
He could not longer sleep. Every time he slipped into slumber, he saw himself running his fingers over his battle scars in his dreams. He'd name the battles and relive how he'd gotten the scar.
He dreamed always of Tia, of Marco. Tia's face shifted into the faces and bodies of countless others. They cried for aid, for forgiveness, damned him for causing their deaths. They then melted together to form a prone body lying on the grass. Always he woke gasping for breath, always crying silent tears.
He wanted to cry, to laugh, to moan in pleasure— so many memories, so many truths, so many lies flooded over him as he slept within the Grey.
He thrust his head beneath the water in the basin, surfaced, and padded off to bed.
Some demons, though never defeated, must be fought. And the truth of a scar is to remember, and to never fade.
~ Canta finite