Barbriel - Scar #1 - the throat
Bar had been walking for days now through the cold desolation of 16th century Russia. The Guide was clothed in a simple black tunic that hung to the tops of black boots, tied around a skinny waist with a green sash, black pants and undershirt, and a long forest green and black patterned hooded coat, buttoned up around the shivering form. It had been a week since the incident, and Bar’s pale skin was still littered with bruises from the man with whom the Guide had thought to find acceptance.
Apparently that had been wrong…very, very wrong. He had gone completely over the edge at finding out what Bar really was, or rather, wasn’t, and had taken out his frustrations on the slim pale body. Bar hadn’t been able to attack him, love over-ruling any survival instinct, so had just silently taken it.
The tears were flowing freely down cold cheeks as Bar’s mind re-played the incident again.
Having never strayed far from Freyr, Bar had made telepathic contact with him just after the incident to find out where he was. The pain of the loss was more than Bar could take, and Bar needed Freyr. It felt as though something was eating away at the very soul that rested within the wingless angel’s delicate frame. Bar’s vision was blurry from the salty tears and the cold wind licking beneath the hood.
A foot caught on a snow hidden rock, and the Guide fell, crying out sharply at the pain that shot up through the entire battered frame. On all fours on the ground, elbow and thigh deep in snow, Bar sobbed.
It was too much…Bar’s chest hurt, and the bandages that circled the thin neck were rubbing harshly against the shallow cut that Alexander had threatened to end Bar’s life with. He had said that Bar deserved it…deserved whatever punishment God rained down because of the deception.
God’s punishment…Bar’s continued existence was punishment enough for anything the Guide could ever conceive of doing. Tears splattered against the top of the snow as they fell from between black lashes.
Pulling out the journal from the small pack situated beneath the coat, Bar set it atop the snow, pulled out the charcoal pencil and wrote, My dearest Freyr ~ I’m sorry that I could not see you once more. With love, Barbriel
Closing the journal over the pencil to mark the page, Bar pulled the hunting knife from the pack and sat back on the heels of the boots burried in snow. Unbuttoning the top of the coat, Bar reached up and roughly pulled the bloodied bandages from the slender throat and tossed them to the side. Raising the knife, Bar set the blade against the partially scabbed over cut and closed those large hazel eyes. The wind caught the hood, pushing it back, and letting loose the shoulder length black hair that had been tucked within. Without another moment’s hesitation, Bar pressed in, feeling the sharp bite of the blade into the tender healing skin and pulled it the rest of the way around the pre-made cut.
Pain seared for a moment before lids began to close. The hot blood pouring down from the deepened cut was oddly comforting against the cold wind that scratched and clawed at the Guide. Bar slumped over sideways in the snow, eyes falling closed. The pristine white of the snow glistened now with the crimson of Bar’s blood and stuck to the cheek pressed against it, random snowflakes sticking to the moist tear trails and settling against the entwined black lashes.