Scars
This one was the first one
This one had a vice
This one, here, I like to rub on dark and stormy nights
This one was the last one
I don't remember how
But I remember blood and rain
And I never saw it coming again
-Stone Sour, Made of Scars-
Curious fingers trail over scarred skin, counting the cuts, feather-light touches that leave him breathless. The look on her face is one of wonder and fascination, courtesies and propriety forgotten for once. Hesitantly her hands wander, over his ribs – broken so often he has lost count long ago – over his collarbone adorned by a long jagged scar left behind by a foolish youngster who thought he could cut his throat while he slept. She reaches higher still, stroking along his neck, following his pulse and cupping the destroyed side of his face with one of her little white hands. Her thumbs brush over gnarled flesh, skin hard as leather and he can barely feel it, not the smooth softness of her fingers, the coolness of her touch. Just a light pressure, where his face used to be.
(She traces the scars and cuts marring his skin. There are so many of them, crossing and entwining each other all over his body like an unruly handwriting, telling stories she has never heard.)
A/N: Not much of a story, more like another side product of Wolfshound...
BTW:
ASoIaF and all its characters belong to George R.R. Martin.
See ya, Mag~