[Fang released that burr. Her welling guilt gorged itself on Chariot's grief—what brought that on?—as it began flowing through Fang. Her hand never stopped moving—did she do something else wrong?—along her leg, feeling every inch of the injury, imprinting it in her mind. If that horrible memory was going to haunt her, its graphic sound always waiting beyond the edge of her hearing at the smallest prompt, then Fang was going to damn well know the rest of it, too. The wound's sight, the wound's touch. It's a gruesome embrace of sorts, not permitting herself to turn away from Chariot's scarring in any way, determined to know and face it wholly.]
[It's suffocating, that guilt and regret. But that was always the point, wasn't it? Allowing it to course through her without succumbing or struggling was one of the most difficult things Fang's ever done. To endure it, like standing chest deep in an frigid river, challenging the current without panic. Fang's exhales began to rumble under their shared pain and whatever Chariot was mourning, a dirge to the ugliness of healing.]
[Fang felt like buckling under that torrent, unprepared for her lover's own surge of heartache—Fang should've brushed this off—but also felt strangely emboldened by it. She couldn't fold to this. Not to the guilt, not to the nightmares. That tragedy might have scarred her—scarred both of them—but it was irreversibly, irrevocably, part of her now. A simple and blunt truth, survival written on her skin.]
[She opened her eyes, turning her head enough to stare into the water, idly watching her hand trace repeatedly over Chariot's scars. Her own gruesome brand stood out in compliment on her wrist, like a mismatched set.]
Scars, [Fang murmured after a moment, eyes still tracing the movements of her own hand. She still hurt, and the guilt was still running its course, but those determined embers in her heart stoked a little higher.] It's just another scar. It's proof we lived.
[Chariot's mangled foot was just another scar, if one infinitely more severe than any of Fang's own. Fang accepted each and every one of her own marks as part of herself. She wore them without shame.]
[She could come to accept Chariot's scar into herself, too.]
no subject
[It's suffocating, that guilt and regret. But that was always the point, wasn't it? Allowing it to course through her without succumbing or struggling was one of the most difficult things Fang's ever done. To endure it, like standing chest deep in an frigid river, challenging the current without panic. Fang's exhales began to rumble under their shared pain and whatever Chariot was mourning, a dirge to the ugliness of healing.]
[Fang felt like buckling under that torrent, unprepared for her lover's own surge of heartache—Fang should've brushed this off—but also felt strangely emboldened by it. She couldn't fold to this. Not to the guilt, not to the nightmares. That tragedy might have scarred her—scarred both of them—but it was irreversibly, irrevocably, part of her now. A simple and blunt truth, survival written on her skin.]
[She opened her eyes, turning her head enough to stare into the water, idly watching her hand trace repeatedly over Chariot's scars. Her own gruesome brand stood out in compliment on her wrist, like a mismatched set.]
Scars, [Fang murmured after a moment, eyes still tracing the movements of her own hand. She still hurt, and the guilt was still running its course, but those determined embers in her heart stoked a little higher.] It's just another scar. It's proof we lived.
[Chariot's mangled foot was just another scar, if one infinitely more severe than any of Fang's own. Fang accepted each and every one of her own marks as part of herself. She wore them without shame.]
[She could come to accept Chariot's scar into herself, too.]