There and Back Again Ch. 178

Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Eight: *Pain and More Pain

I met with Ena the next afternoon; she didn't have any information for me, so I paid her the fifty silvers she was owed and headed back to the inn. I dodged Fergus in the common room, instead sending down for supper, determined to enjoy it with my husband -- and perhaps tell him what I'd done. He'd been sleeping when I left, and I had no desire to wake him, but I was pretty sure he wasn't going to like my idea -- or that I hadn't talked to him about it first.

I was worried about more than that, though. Alistair had been acting weird...distant and cranky, and I worried it was more than pain and cabin fever. He'd barely spoken since we'd disembarked the ship, and I still had no explanation for the bandages he refused to remove. Larus had recommended he oil and massage the scar several times a day to help soften the scar tissue that caused him so much pain, but I knew he wasn't doing it since the bandages never came off.

It was time for what would probably be a very difficult conversation.

Alistair was awake when I entered, curled up in the bed listlessly. He sat up to eat, silently, and I waited until we'd both finished before trying to broach the subjects we needed to talk about.

"Alistair? Love?"

He didn't meet my eyes, but nodded to indicate he was listening.

"I...met someone at the market yesterday." I'd decided not to tell him about the attempted theft; not only would he be irritated I'd given the thief money, but I was worried he'd feel guilty he hadn't been there to protect me. "Her name is Ena -- she's from the Alienage. I hired her to try to find Arathea for Larus."

The outburst I expected never came. "Okay," he muttered, looking away as though distracted.

I stared. "Alistair?" I got up and moved into his line of sight, settling myself on the edge of the bed at his side. He tried to shift away, but I reached out and touched his shoulder softly. "You haven't massaged that scar today -- what if I help you?" I reached for the edge of the tunic he wore over the bandages wrapped around his torso.

He pushed my hands away roughly, crossing his arms over his stomach. "No!" He immediately looked sheepish and dropped his voice. "It's fine. You don't need to worry about it."

"I need to at least take a look," I argued softly. "Larus asked me to check for redness or bleeding. He'll ask tonight when we talk to Aedan."

"There isn't any," he insisted.

I tutted. "You haven't even looked, love. Come on, let me see." I tried again, and though he sighed heavily, this time he let me. Sitting up so I could pull off his shirt and unwind the bandages was uncomfortable for him, and he fell back onto the pillows when I was done, sweating slightly and clenching his hands.

I inspected the scar carefully; the poor thing was raised and firm, pulling on the surrounding skin tightly, but there was no redness, scabbing, or bleeding. It really didn't need bandaging, and I wondered yet again why he'd been so insistent upon using them. When I was done I reached for the bandage on his head, and he shied away until I persisted, gently pulling it up and off. This scar was less irritated, laying flat along his temple, though it pulled at the skin enough to tug the corner of his mouth into a sneer I hadn't realised was involuntary. I only got a quick look at it before he turned away, pretending to be fascinated by something across the room -- but I caught the glances he snuck in my direction, and I wondered what that was all about.

"They look fine," I murmured.

"I told you." His tone was gruff, and I was hurt, until I saw the panic in his eyes. He kept his head turned away, and wrapped his arms around his midsection again. "Will you please hand me new bandages?"

"Alistair..." I wished I knew what was going on with him. "They don't need to be bandaged. Larus said they were best left open. What's going on?"

His lips thinned, his jaw tensing. "It feels better when they're covered."

He was lying. I couldn't have been more certain if he'd crossed his fingers before saying it. But what the hell was he lying about? Why would he lie about such a silly thing? I watched him leaning back on the pillows, fussing with the blankets that were crumpled beside him, then picking at a loose thread on his trousers. When I took his hands and held them still, he sighed and looked at the same spot again; I followed his line of sight and found nothing but blank wall.

I wasn't sure how I caught on, but it suddenly occurred to me that he was constantly positioning himself -- almost posing, really -- so that I wouldn't see the scars. He kept his arms crossed over his torso, and while that could have been to brace against the pain, I was sure there was more to it; he kept turning his head off to his right so I could only see the undamaged side of his face, or using a free hand to cover the scar running down his temple.

Does he think I'm bothered by his scars? It would seem strange; he was covered in scars from his training as a templar, never mind the various wounds he'd received during the Blight -- and so was I. We didn't always have a healer with us, and sometimes even when we did their mana had been spent on more serious injuries while we left the superficial ones to heal on their own or with potions. None of our old scars were as big as these, or as raised, but it wasn't as though the concept was new to me, and they didn't change anything about how I felt, of course. Alistair was mine -- regardless of what he looked like. And a couple of scars -- which he'd gotten while protecting me, no less -- hardly left him looking disgusting.

If that was his concern, though, just telling him that wasn't going to ease his mind. I quickly thought through my options; trying to argue him out of his funk didn't appeal, ignoring it was hurting us both...

Oh. Well, there was a rather obvious option...I smiled as I considered it. Show, don't tell. I'd had teachers tell me that for years in school, and I would finally put their advice to good use.

I let go of one of his hands to rest mine on his thigh, squeezing gently. He winced slightly, and the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. "Love?" His eyes flickered to me in acknowledgement before he looked away again. "You're still sore, aren't you?" Larus had mentioned that his muscles would be tender; he'd also said that massage would help. Two birds with one stone. "Here, roll over."

He tried to demur, but I wasn't having it, and I chivvied him until he rolled carefully onto his stomach, a pillow underneath him so he wouldn't have to arch his back. I persisted until he let me slip his trousers down and off -- my experience with him unconscious came in rather useful -- and shortly had exactly what I wanted: my husband, naked, draped across the bed in front of me.

I discarded my own clothes as quickly as I could manage, the fumbled through my bag of toiletries until I found the small bottle of oil I used as a moisturizer when needed. I set it on the bed beside Alistair, and then climbed up beside it so that I was kneeling by his lower legs. He jumped when my hands first found his skin, but relaxed when I started cautiously massaging his calves. I rubbed gently, digging my fingertips into his skin very lightly, enjoying the firm definition of his muscles under my hands. I started low, near his ankles, and slowly, carefully worked my way up towards his knees.

It didn't take long before I came across the first scar. It was clearly old -- just a narrow slash of silver against his skin -- and so well-healed I would have missed it if not for the lack of the blond, coarse hair the rest of his legs were covered in. It was just below the curve of his left calf, and looked like the sort of thing a young kid would get while fooling around -- climbing fences or jumping from haylofts. I caressed it gently before leaning down to press a soft, reverent kiss to the damaged skin.

He spoke shakily. "I was trying to play a prank on Ser Amos," he chuckled, "but his greaves were too heavy to lift. I got my foot into one, and then fell and sliced my other leg when I tried to put the second one on."

I drew my lips the length of the scar, flicking my tongue out to tease the spot where scar met normal skin, before reaching for the bottle of moisturizer and gently rubbing a small amount around the area. Finished, I moved on, massaging further up his legs -- accompanied by a chorus of groans, both from pain and pleasure -- until I found the next scar on the back of one knee. I repeated the process, laving kisses and caresses on the injury, followed by some of the soothing moisturizer. And then I did it again for the next scar, and the next, and every scar after that.

And there were dozens. It wasn't like I'd never seen them before, but I'd never paid specific attention to the scars given how many we all had after the Blight. Small and large, raised and flat, new and old. He had scars on his legs, his back, his shoulders -- even one on the delectable curve of his ass, which made him squirm when I kissed it. Each scar had a story, though there were a few he couldn't even remember, and I delighted in learning them. Some were hilarious -- shenanigans he got up to with fellow templar initiates, or as a child in Redcliffe before Isolde made his life miserable -- and some gave evidence of his dedication as a Warden; some were sad and made me mourn for the childhood he should have had if his guardian had had even a shred of decency. The two, almost invisible lines across his back from a lashing had tears running from my eyes even as I lavished them with kisses. He wouldn't tell me where they'd come from, not that I couldn't guess. I clenched my hands in impotent rage before forcing myself to relax. This isn't the time -- but one day, Isolde will pay.

It must have taken over an hour just to get through the scars on the back of his body, but I wasn't in any hurry. This was about proving my love to him in a way he'd never forget or lose sight of, not about accomplishing a specific physical goal. By the time I reached his nape, I was straddling his hips, stretched over him like a living blanket, both of us enjoying the contact as my body molded itself to his.

"I've missed you," he murmured.

I hummed agreement. "So then roll over, and let me finish this."

"Sierra, you don't have to—"

"I sort of do, though. I need to, Alistair -- and so do you. C'mon, roll over."

"You're awfully pushy sometimes, dearest wife," he teased.

"And you like it." I grinned. "Mostly."

I pushed myself up so that I was kneeling beside him again, and he reluctantly -- with much moaning and grousing -- rolled onto his back. I propped pillows up behind him so he was sitting up a little and not putting any strain on the new, tight scar on his belly.

Once I was satisfied that he was as comfortable as I could make him, I started the process again at his ankles, massaging the muscles and giving love to the scars I found on my journey. He seemed more tense, as though seeing me worshipping his body and the scars that were scattered across it made it somehow more real -- though it could have just been watching my naked body leaning over his as I pressed my lips to his skin. I worked hard not to stare, but it was pretty clear at least some part of his anatomy appreciated my efforts.

Ignoring it, I kissed a jagged scar on his thigh -- left there by a darkspawn from before his joining, he admitted -- rubbing it with the sweet smelling oil, before skipping past it to the skin at his waist.

He groaned in disappointment, and I smirked at him. "I hardly think that part has a scar that needs treatment, my love."

"How will you know unless you check?" he muttered, but he didn't stop me from moving along, my hands digging into the muscles around his prominent hip bones.

He's lost weight. It wasn't the first time I'd noticed, and it was hardly a surprise, but I made a mental note to bring him even more to eat than the average Grey Warden meal -- and to push him to train as soon as he was a little more mobile.

I couldn't get too far massaging his abdominal muscles, as ticklish as he was, but I spent a few minutes carefully smoothing over his skin with my hands, looking for other scars. I kissed a couple of faint lines that could have been scars or just stretch marks, before turning to the obvious scar -- the one he'd been trying to hide from me for days.

It hadn't changed in the time since I'd inspected it; the skin was still raised and puckered in a dramatic line from below and beside his belly button to his ribs. It was dry and flaky in spots, and clearly tethering the surrounding skin into awkward folds. I spent a few minutes kissing the entire stripe, my tongue flickering out to tease the surrounding skin, my attention laser-focused. He was tense -- and not the aroused sort, but rather the 'one second from running away screaming' kind -- but I took one of his hands in mine and squeezed it reassuringly without stopping my kisses, and he settled enough that I wasn't concerned he'd bolt, at least.

Once I was satisfied that every millimeter of skin had been shown the love it deserved, I pulled out the bottle of moisturizer and drenched my fingers with it. It had a very mild, floral scent, with a bit of a medicinal after-bite; it was something Wynne had recommended to me during the Blight, and Leliana had acquired in that odd, slightly unnerving way she had of getting us what we needed before we knew we needed it. It was outrageously expensive -- but worth every penny if it would help Alistair's scar heal.

I spent ages massaging that scar and stretching the skin around it; it was clearly uncomfortable at times, but Alistair bit his lip and tolerated it when I pinned him with my least amused look. I couldn't be sure that one time would help, but I was as thorough as I could be, and at the least when I was finished the skin glistened slightly, any dryness completely gone, and Alistair looked less pained at the slightest touch. Whether it was just desensitization or actual improvement didn't matter, when some of the furrows in his brow disappeared.

I imagined my expression must have looked quite tender; even as I carefully -- so carefully -- swung my leg over to straddle his thighs, he held my gaze, his hands holding my hips rather than crossed over the scar he wanted to hide from me. I could feel his interest prodding at my thigh, but ignored it. I massaged his arms, one at a time, kissing the multitude of scars that marked his forearms -- training injuries, he informed me -- and then moved onto his mouth-watering shoulders and pecs. He didn't have a lot of scars there, but I couldn't help myself; I pressed my lips to his bulging muscles and flicked my tongue out to taste him as though pulled by magic. His length throbbed against my leg.

I moaned in delight when finally, too impatient to wait any longer, Alistair grasped my chin with one hand and tangled the other in my hair, pulling me to him and mashing our lips together. His tongue teased my lips and I opened immediately, desperate for more. Just as I could feel his erection dripping against me, I had no doubt he could feel my wetness on his thighs as I writhed, trying my best not to jostle or bump his sore muscles or his scar.

As pleasurable as it was to lose myself in him, his kisses and his callused hands, and as much as I'd missed him, I wasn't finished. I pulled against his hold until I was free, moving my hands to his face and then sliding my fingers up over his scalp, massaging softly. The moan he let out was entirely sinful, and I snickered.

My amusement faded as my massage gave way to a firmer grip, and I turned his head to expose his scarred temple to my eyes. He closed his eyes, expression pained, but didn't resist. The skin was alternately puckered and flat -- I felt a flash of guilt, knowing that we'd entirely ignored this laceration when pouring potions into him, and hadn't even tried to approximate the edges -- and a firm, angry-looking scar trailed from just above his right eyebrow, down his temple to his cheek, and then turned to end back near his earlobe. It wasn't a nice scar, like the one Zevran got during the Blight; it was red and hard, pulling the corner of his mouth up, distorting his usual sunny smile and turning it into something a bit more menacing. For all that, though, it didn't really detract from his looks -- just gave him a dangerous edge that was somehow even more darkly attractive than his previous wholesomeness.

He resisted when I tried to press my lips to the end of the scar near his ear, but I followed him until his head was pinned by the pillow and then just brushed it, watching his expression for signs of pain. He looked pale, but it was clear to me it was fear, not pain. I pressed a little bit harder, and then continued, kissing along the entire length of the scar until he relaxed underneath me.

He gasped when I shuffled my knees foreward, lifting up and angling my hips until I captured his length and slid down on it, connecting us in a way that nothing else could. I was nearly dizzy with arousal and the relief that only being with him could provide; his eyes rolled back as his hands urged my hips down. But I still held his head, kissing and nuzzling against the scar he clearly hated.

When my ass met his thighs again with him sheathed inside me, I paused, refusing to lift and provide us both the friction we wanted. He tried to thrust up from underneath me, but he was still weak, his muscles still sore, and he collapsed back down to the bed with a frustrated sigh.

"Alistair," I whispered, murmuring against his skin. "I love you." I pressed one finger to his lips when he tried to reply. "I love your heart, your compassion, your kindness. I love your humour, your cleverness, your bravery. I love who you are here," I touched his forehead, "and here." I put one hand over his heart.

And then I grinned impishly. "I'm not saying these gorgeous shoulders, bulging muscles, beautiful smile, and nice, big cock," I punctuated this by lifting my hips just a fraction and dropping down again with a groan, "aren't a lovely bonus." I giggled, and he blushed self-consciously though he couldn't hide the satisfaction flashing in his eyes. "But they're not why I love you."

I pressed our foreheads together and gazed into his eyes, my smile diminishing. "I don't love you in spite of your scars." I traced my fingers over the mark on his face. "I love your scars. They're a reminder of what you've survived so you can be here with me. They're a reminder of how close I've come to losing you, and that I can never, ever take you for granted. They're evidence of your bravery, dedication, and love. They're the proof that you would walk through fire for someone you love, that you nearly sacrificed yourself to save me. I love your scars, and I love you."

I kissed his nose and he chuckled. "I'd love you if you looked like a genlock. Well, without the whole peeling skin thing...and the contagious taint thing...okay, maybe not a genlock. Bad example. But I think you get my drift." His chuckle turned into a guffaw, and I beamed, unrepentant, even as he groaned and rubbed his chest. "But this scar doesn't make me love you less, or find you less attractive." I leaned back and looked at him critically, ignoring the delicious feeling the position created where we were joined. "In fact, it just gives you a bit of a bad boy vibe. Just as gorgeous, but now dangerous, too. Honestly, I'm going to have to start carrying a stick to beat off all the women who throw themselves at you."

He laughed again and pulled me close to him, pressing our chests together and holding tight even as he winced in pain. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he buried his face in my hair. "Okay."