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Final Fantasy Dissidia, Warrior of Light/Squall, 'tell me, brother, where'd you get those scars?'
He who is nameless has many scars. They run over his hands an arms, pale lacing of flesh hidden under strong armor. Some have made their way to his shoulders, his back, his legs, but most are etch themselves across his arms for he swings a sword and there is where he holds his violence, in blade and spell.
When he takes off his armor he has more scars than his companions, the young children and quicksilver healing SOLDIER. He has a earned the aches in his knuckles and shins.
Squall does not carry his violence, he is violence. His face bisected by a dark line, his hands more patchwork than smooth, the skin of his wrists and ankles melted like wax in perfect rings. His back and chest, from shoulder to thigh he bears a mark for every weapon and beast in Cosmos creation. They overlap each other, testament to many years of impractical leather armor in war zones. Still, there are patches of virgin skin, pale as snow, that peek from cages of scars.
He could never trace them all, can not map more than the edges in some places with lips and teeth and tongue. Squall does not remember where half of them came from, a careless ease at his own injury that tears at the heartstrings. Squall recounts, when asked, tales of leaving wounds to fester, letting bones grind broken at times when healing spells and potions were plentiful, simply to let the power of Limit come faster. Squall refers to the use of a single Curaga as a 'waste' when describing the electric torture that seared his nerves.
The world threw Squall away, a cast-off tool, easily disregarded in the grand scheme. He who is nameless can understand the pain of that betrayal, but the acceptance of pain, the welcoming of it as proof of existence... That hurts more than their enemies blades through the joints of his armor. It makes him pull the boy close in the cold, a murmur of old wounds aching in the chill. If all his magic in the dark of night could erase the horrors writ so plain by light of day... If he dared ask a reward from Cosmos this miracle would be his choosing.
Surely there can be no evil in love.
He who is nameless has many scars. They run over his hands an arms, pale lacing of flesh hidden under strong armor. Some have made their way to his shoulders, his back, his legs, but most are etch themselves across his arms for he swings a sword and there is where he holds his violence, in blade and spell.
When he takes off his armor he has more scars than his companions, the young children and quicksilver healing SOLDIER. He has a earned the aches in his knuckles and shins.
Squall does not carry his violence, he is violence. His face bisected by a dark line, his hands more patchwork than smooth, the skin of his wrists and ankles melted like wax in perfect rings. His back and chest, from shoulder to thigh he bears a mark for every weapon and beast in Cosmos creation. They overlap each other, testament to many years of impractical leather armor in war zones. Still, there are patches of virgin skin, pale as snow, that peek from cages of scars.
He could never trace them all, can not map more than the edges in some places with lips and teeth and tongue. Squall does not remember where half of them came from, a careless ease at his own injury that tears at the heartstrings. Squall recounts, when asked, tales of leaving wounds to fester, letting bones grind broken at times when healing spells and potions were plentiful, simply to let the power of Limit come faster. Squall refers to the use of a single Curaga as a 'waste' when describing the electric torture that seared his nerves.
The world threw Squall away, a cast-off tool, easily disregarded in the grand scheme. He who is nameless can understand the pain of that betrayal, but the acceptance of pain, the welcoming of it as proof of existence... That hurts more than their enemies blades through the joints of his armor. It makes him pull the boy close in the cold, a murmur of old wounds aching in the chill. If all his magic in the dark of night could erase the horrors writ so plain by light of day... If he dared ask a reward from Cosmos this miracle would be his choosing.
Surely there can be no evil in love.