My other hand gripped my hair, forcing the curtain of blackness away from my back as I turned, uncovering my shoulder blades, my ribs and my past to the fae male standing behind me.
I did not need to ask if he spotted them, his sharp inhale letting me know that he had revealed the most hideous part of me. He took a long moment to analyse me, not bothered by the sharp breaths I forced to prevent the sobs that planned to escape without permission.
“How?” One word. It was all I needed to break down, to allow the tears I hadn’t shed in years to resurface, to bring me back to those months of pain and punishment. I didn’t need him to ask more, to detail the question. I already knew what every person who saw my back must have thought, what they must have questioned. How did I get those scars?
“In the refugee camp, when I was seven,” I swallowed a dry lump stuck in my throat like cement, even though the hot steam of the bathroom made vapours of water dance around Galenor and I.
“What did you do?”
Bold of him to assume it was my fault. Though, after spending these few days with me, he must have had a rough idea.
“I snuck food to the faerie children.” The confession slammed across my back, bringing the memories of the fifty lashes I had to endure while watching the bodies of my friends burn.
“Tell me,” he urged, the fingers that once travelled up my arm starting to slide across my back, covering the scars of the lashes I had yet to heal. The ones I would never forgive myself for getting. Stepping down into the memory, I leaned into Galenor’s touch, into calloused fingers that scraped along my back in an attempt to soothe my tears.
“We’d arrived the day before, mom, dad and my sisters. We’d barely escaped the faerie kingdom and received accommodation in a nearby refugee camp. It was the first time I had solid food in weeks.”
I pressed my lips together, aware of what I had uttered. That my story from back then resounded so similar to his present situation. But his fingers did not stop tracing my scars, observing and caressing each and every one, so I felt compelled to continue.
“I remember a table, filled with goodies. Bread, fruit, buns and pastries, sandwiches, everything you can think of. And I thought it was plenty. That no one would mind if I took some to share with the kids behind the fence. I knew they were faeries, but I didn’t know the situation, the animosity…”
“I took them a platter of sandwiches and when they finished eating, I went in and grabbed some more.” My throat coiled on itself, stopping oxygen from flowing freely. I forced myself to continue, leaning more into Galenor’s caress.
“I was followed and punished. My family protested, my mother and father both cried and begged for mercy. We were immigrants. Foreigners. We did not know the rules.”
“It didn’t matter…” Galenor continued in my stead, his voice strained, as if he too was feeling my pain.
“It didn’t matter,” I confirmed. “They sentenced me to a public lashing. I took about fifty until I lost consciousness. By the time I woke up, arrangements had already been made for me to get a place in the military.”
“At least you showed kindness that day, it’s not an entirely bad memory,” the fae tried to improve the situation without knowing the full version of the events, and part of me wanted to keep quiet, to let him see me as a good person, just for a while longer.
Guilt ravaged my stomach, seeping dread and agony in my chest. Urging me to confess.
“They caught the children that night,” I forced my mouth to expel the venom of the memory. To confess my betrayal. “They burnt them at the same time my lashing was scheduled. I had to watch,” I exhaled between panting sobs, shame and remorse braiding a bouquet of tears on my face.
I braced myself for the condemning look I would find in his eyes, fully prepared for the blow his hatred would pound on my chest. Instead, Galenor took one step back, distancing himself enough from me to be able to stretch his arms around his hips. And pull his t-shirt up, giving me an eyeful of his sculpted physique.
I wanted to protest, and my arms instantly moved to cover my breasts, my legs shifting to close the gap between my thighs. Only Galenor did not pay attention to me, at least not in the way I thought he would.
As soon as his shirt was up, he turned to give me a view of his muscled back, displaying the deep and taut tissue proudly glistening from the steam.
To allow me to see…
I blinked, my heart suddenly thumping like manic.
The fae must have guessed the question, because he started speaking before I had a chance to react.
“It’s an iron lined whip, so the scars never go away, even after rounds of Cloutie. It’s how we mark traitors.”
His muscles trembled, contracting involuntarily under the weight of those scars. Scars that deepened on his skin, that branded that perfect softness I had admired on many occasions. I had never seen them before, never given myself enough time to observe them.
Unlike mine, his scars were soft, dug into the pores of his skin as if a sharp blade had sown them into his muscles to help them erupt with the passing of time. To help them sprout every time his skin was remade, as if whoever gave these to him knew he would have to regenerate many times throughout his life. I wondered how many times he thought he escaped this curse, how many times he hoped they wouldn't come back to haunt him and had woken up with the heavy memories of whatever those events were.
Copying his gesture, I raised my hand to his back, allowing the pads of my fingers to caress along the many lines, to feel the traces of his regret and the heaviness he had to carry around.
“I’m…sorry,” I muttered, the shock preventing me from finding the proper words. I must have said the wrong thing, because the fae’s stance hardened, eyes gaping at me with sudden rage.
“You’re not special for having those, muffin,” he growled, then turned on his heels and headed to the bathroom door. Before making an exit, he turned his focus on me, this time pinning his eyes to my thighs.
