Charles Foster Ofdensen doesn't want to be perceived as weak. It's almost hard to believe that he could ever been seen as such, but it never stopped him from thinking it in the back of his mind.
Weak. It was and is a four-letter word, dripping with consequences. If he lets himself prove that he has his weak moments, if he lets himself be caught with his guard down for once in his life...well weakness was a step in the wrong direction, it was a step towards the end, and an even further step towards the darkness that still lived within him.
The scars are a constant reminder that he has gone to Hell and back, that he is still flesh and blood, and that proves he can be broken. He can be weak. He can be destroyed.
So he has to appear as strong, as strong as his body will let him before it gives out, as strong as his mind can before it decays. There are people counting on him. They count on him, even if they don't always realize it. Lately, he's started to feel as though one of them has come to his senses, and knows the manager is far more than he seems, but if that thought is really there, the frontman doesn't say it.
His disappearance isn't one that he talks about, and it's not one the guys ask about often. That first night back, after the show and after he changed into the dark gray suit and red tie they were far more used to than his street clothes, he explained what he could. He explained that there was more to the story, but then he turned their focus on what was important. The next album. He wasn't important, and he didn't need to be viewed as such.
There wasn't much heard from the band, as they traveled back to Mordhaus, only the idle playing of Skwisgaar's guitar. Of course, had they been able to hear the thoughts in their manager's mind, they would have realized that it wasn't as quiet as it seemed.
Eventually they arrived home, and the boys all retreated into the house, with Charles following behind them. He didn't bother to check in with them to see what their plans were for the night, he was too concerned with what he had to do, what he had to get started. So as the boys gathered in the main room, no doubt to drink away what had happened that night, he made his way past them, nodding a gesture that could have been read as 'goodnight' and headed down the hall.
Once inside his quarters, Charles stopped to look around his office. The renovations were mostly completely, but there were a few things out of place. His good lamps, for instance, were still broken. The Ikea ones though, were in perfect condition. There had to be some sort of a metaphor for this, but Charles was too exhausted to truly explore it - there was much to do, but it would have to wait for another day. With the office door shut behind him, he look one final look around the office before heading through the door in the far side of the room to his bedroom.
It was the look of his bedroom that actually shocked him a bit. It almost seemed strange, but his bed was how he had left it that morning, nine months ago. Sheets pulled back slightly, pillows moved, a water glass now collecting dust on the bedside table. It seemed as though no one had come in here once he died - or faked his death, as it were. Nothing was changed. Everything was the same. Tomorrow, he'd find out from his assistant why nothing had changed, and tomorrow he'd make sure the Klokateers were back, cleaning as they were supposed to. But now, his body ached.
As he turned on the bathroom light, he was happy to see that at least the bathroom had been cleaned, it had just been his office and bedroom that had not been touched. It would make showering easier, cleaner, or at least give him one less thing to worry about. The light bulb above blinked a few times before shining bright, as he finally looked at the mirror. The scar on his left cheek was still there, and he took his glasses off, resting them on the counter, as he ran his pointer finger down the scar. This wasn't the only scar he had though. Not by a long shot.
Slowly, he started to undress. His suit jacket was first, and as he winced slightly, the tie was next. Instead of carefully placing them on a nearby chair, he let them fall to the ground, as he slowly unbuttoned his white button down shirt, revealing his many scars. The first time he was beaten and broke a rib in his teens. The first time he was stabbed accidentally while fencing in college - though he ended up teaching his opponent a lesson after. The scars that hurt though, were the wounds that were fresh. The scar on his cheek was the one everyone saw, but no one saw where the arrow went through his chest completely, no one saw the cuts on his back when he was fighting for his life, no one saw the scrap of a bullet flying past him, a complete oversight of war. Sure, Salacia couldn't see him, but others could. He spent the past nine months fighting for the second change he had, and he was determined to get back to his boys, to get back to the life he had before with new purpose.
The newer wounds were from a few days ago, a slash to his side by someone who he apparently looked at wrong - and the other person didn't live to tell the tale. A bruse from a fist being thrown into his ribs. He was a broken man. Covered in scars and bruises, his side wound only starting to scab over now. He had given all for his boys, and would continue to do so. He had to. This was all he had, and as he looked at himself in the mirror, he allowed himself to trace each scar, each cut, each wound, even if it hurt him slightly to do so. This was who he was now.
With the remainder of his clothes discarded, he stepped into the shower, and the water never seemed to be hot enough to wash away all his sins, his regrets, his worries and his doubts. With no one around to watch him, he allowed himself to lean his back against the shower wall and slide down to the bottom, leaning forward with his knees bent, his fingers running through his hair and then moving to the back of his neck, where his gear brand rested. He wanted to feel the stress leave his shoulders, he wanted to feel the release of finally feeling safe, but he didn't feel that. He wasn't safe. He knew no one was.
When he could get the strength to stand again, the shower was turned off, and his clothes were forgotten as he dried off with a towel and headed towards the bed.
A few things were moved: the dusty glass was moved to a different table. The books he had been reading nine months ago were placed in the bedside table drawer, where he hoped he'd forget about them. A few things were placed: his glasses were placed where the dusty glass once sat, and from his bag (which he had a Klokateer bring in while he was showering), a semi-automatic pistol was pulled out. He checked the safety, and checked if it was loaded, and pulled the magazine out, reviewing it, counting the bullets, making sure it was fully loaded before he placed it back, and placed the gun under his pillow.
There were things to do, and there were secrets he had to keep, but for now, he would have to rest. So his head hit the pillow and he closed his eyes.
Only, that sleep wouldn't come. Instead, he lay in bed, staring out the window at the moon.
