[fic] Berserk: The Language of the Flesh [Farnese]
I haven't written in a while and since nothing FMA is inspiring me, I offer Berserk:
The Language of the Flesh
She has many scars. This surprised Farnese at first. She hadn’t expected it, not on someone with eyes as guileless as hers or a nature so whimsical and helpless. But she has many scars along her arms and legs, varied and faded, blemishes that stand out starkly on her dark, exotic skin, all of them eclipsed by the curiously prominent imperfections on her hip and ribs and leg. They tell stories, Farnese knows, stories about this fairy, childlike woman who is but was not. Secrets, really, engraved in a language so plain that it is indecipherable.
Farnese has many scars too.
Most paint her back like broad, bold brushstrokes applied by a brash, angry, but unwavering hand. They cluster puckered and resentful on her otherwise smooth, pale, untouched flesh, legacies of shallow wounds. Ones not meant to injure, but to chastise. To sting. To hurt. To bleed, wrapping her in the wet warmth of her freed blood. To sing, exploding in her mind like small flames bursting into life with every lash and raking blow. To shine, bathing her in an afterglow filled with the gentle love of a comforting mother, a sensation so alien it took her breath away.
Like Caska, Farnese wore the secrets of her nature hidden in her flesh. Her secrets, written in a language of such exquisite pain that Farnese had never found the words to describe them or the desire to understand. Instead Farnese looks around at all of them and thinks:
They all have many scars.
The Language of the Flesh
She has many scars. This surprised Farnese at first. She hadn’t expected it, not on someone with eyes as guileless as hers or a nature so whimsical and helpless. But she has many scars along her arms and legs, varied and faded, blemishes that stand out starkly on her dark, exotic skin, all of them eclipsed by the curiously prominent imperfections on her hip and ribs and leg. They tell stories, Farnese knows, stories about this fairy, childlike woman who is but was not. Secrets, really, engraved in a language so plain that it is indecipherable.
Farnese has many scars too.
Most paint her back like broad, bold brushstrokes applied by a brash, angry, but unwavering hand. They cluster puckered and resentful on her otherwise smooth, pale, untouched flesh, legacies of shallow wounds. Ones not meant to injure, but to chastise. To sting. To hurt. To bleed, wrapping her in the wet warmth of her freed blood. To sing, exploding in her mind like small flames bursting into life with every lash and raking blow. To shine, bathing her in an afterglow filled with the gentle love of a comforting mother, a sensation so alien it took her breath away.
Like Caska, Farnese wore the secrets of her nature hidden in her flesh. Her secrets, written in a language of such exquisite pain that Farnese had never found the words to describe them or the desire to understand. Instead Farnese looks around at all of them and thinks:
They all have many scars.