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Scars
By : nicholassanders
Category: +S to Z > Trigun
Views: 1948 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: Trigun is not owned or sold by me, it belongs to Yashiro Nightow. I make no money nor profit. - Chapter List
- 1
The fingers flowed over smooth skin, finding hair thin scars in the flesh of his arms.
Eyes closed, those fingers ghosted the scars as if he’d always known them, each one
crossed another and flowed into older, deeper scars of his shoulders. Then to the
screws and grate of his chest which rose and fell evenly with deep sleep. It had been so
long since he’d seen this man sleep so deeply; who usually tossed and turned in
nightmares he couldn’t even begin to understand. He felt his heart twist at the thought of
those scars and the shit he had to go through to get them. Each scar told his questing
fingers it’s story, something this scarred soul couldn’t have ever told him.
These were caused by razor wire, these by gunshots, this by falling debris, this one...
His fingers stopped and his closed eyes burned, this one was his fault. It was soft and
smooth like most newly healed scars are. He regretted it now, sure, but when he’d first
met this man he couldn’t have realized that he’d regret it.
His fingers continued across the marred flesh, looking once more for the physical scars.
He was no saint, for sure, but he still didn’t understand the real pain this man could
have been through; the mental turmoil caused by his brother, and by all the people he’s
tried to save and failed. He’s probably seen people he cared for grow old and die,
yet never told anyone of this pain.
He opened his eyes to stare down at the sleeping face. So beautiful this face was, so
full of peace. Without the knowledge of those scars he was angelic. He used that
unmarred face as a mask to hide behind, but he could always see through it. Now he
knew why this man had such a hollow smile, knew why all the people called him a
disaster.
Poor guy, he thought, though he shook his head, that just isn’t enough to describe the
pain and tragedy he endured. His fingers slid along the scars back the way they’d come.
His angelic face was turned into the moonlight, his human arm cradling it just so that he
looked breath taking even with the knowledge of those scars and that pain.
He found his fingers returning to the new scars, the ones he caused, touching them
gently; giving them his full intense stare, as if he could unmake what he’d made. But the
scars only blurred in his vision as his concentration wavered. The scarred form moved
and he jerked his hand back as if he’d been stung. The man settled on his side, his
back to him, and his metal arm stretched across the bed beside his pillow.
Those scars, he shook his head again, are just too damned much for one person. The
scars stretching the expanse of his back--unbelievable. Even compared to the nasty
ones on his chest, his back was horrid. There was more scar tissue than flesh by far,
and it amazed him--made his heart twist again.
That was the legacy of baring the burden of one hundred years of torment by a man
who called him brother, a man wanting to utterly annihilate the human race. A breath
escaped him as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. A man like that, and he was leading
him right into that spider’s clutches.
He sat up completely then, a hand over his face, cutting off all visions those scars
created. He’d seen what that appalling man was capable of when his brother was
concerned. Only now, the real shock and horror of it all struck his senses hard.
He was leading this gentle man into certain death. He rose his head to look at the
ceiling. And he found himself doing something he didn’t do often. Nicholas D. Wolfwood
prayed to God. He prayed that the path to the right thing would open to him; prayed to
God that the man sleeping beside him didn’t fall into those terrible hands.
He never realized how much the world was corrupted; never realized this man was not
truly Vash “the Stampede”.- 1
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