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“The wound from mama lion healed nicely,” said the Attolian, suddenly breaking the silence over the fire.
Our mules had been tied up close by, and it was our first night outside of Traba. Dinner, for once, wasn’t caggi and I had been enjoying the meat and provisions we bought from the city. My thoughts had been wandering back to our earlier conversation, about my mother and birthplace, about being captured and sold, and about the Attolian and how comfortable he was with asking more personal questions.
It had been rude, but I couldn’t deny that the Attolian’s insight about the temple somehow gave me a sense of closure. It also unnerved me, although I was less sure as to why.
He had stared at me patiently when I grew silent and sorted through my own thoughts, then the Attolan offered a single line in...what? Camaraderie? Comfort?
You know, back home I have a reputation for being closedmouth.
I had thought back to the Attolian’s impressive figure in the bathhouse. Even if it was a little blurry, it was hard to miss the many scars on his broad back, strong arms, and muscular thighs. The only scars I had were all on my back, from flogging, but the Attolian’s scars decorated his skin like strokes from a brush - each seemed purposeful in its own way and, no doubt, each contained its own story.
Sitting next to me, I had been staring at the Attolian’s arm from the corner of my eye, weighing if I had the same right as the Attolian - the right to ask uncomfortable questions, that’s when the Attolian causally commented about the wound from the lioness.
“Pardon?” I asked, feigning ignorance that I wasn’t just caught staring. I had to force myself not to duck my head, to keep it straight forward - like a free man would, but I did shift my eyes to the ground, for just a second.
The Attolian breathed out a small chuckle, “See.” He shuffled a little closer to me, as if to give a better view. “Two lines cleanly healed and scarred nicely.” He ran his fingers across it. He looked at me with a reassuring smile on his lips, and it only then occurred to me that perhaps he thought I was staring out of concern. I met his eyes and nodded slightly. Then the Attolian straightened but held his arm out a little, as though he expected me to inspect it.
Well, the Attolian was allowed to be rude, but I certainly wasn’t going to be. Indulging in the silent hint, I looked at the new scar. The skin had certainly healed but it still looked angry, not yet fully fading to what will eventually be a dull white. Gingerly, I touched the arm and could feel the muscles convulse under the pads of my fingers at what must’ve been an initial surprise. His arm soon relaxed and I ran my finger across it - smooth. Carefully, I pressed a little harder in an area near the scar, but not on it.
“Does it…” hurt, I was going to ask, but the Attolian interrupted me.
“Nah, it’s fine.”
I ran my fingers across the scar again, finding that the Attolian’s arms were indeed every bit as muscular as I had envisioned but finding the touch to be a little different than what I had expected. I had always imagined it would be hard, like a rock, and in some aspects it was, like that brief moment when it flexed under my fingertips, but there was a certain give to the skin, and a warmth that reminded me that it wasn’t a rock, but a person.
Distracted, I let my fingers wander a little lower, past his forearms, and stopped at a small white line on his elbow. Squinting with the bad light of the fire, I peered a little closer. What could leave a scar so small on a man as large as the Attolian?
“It was a dog,” the Attolian said, once again as though he could hear my thoughts.
I looked up quickly, wanting to give the Attolian a look of disbelief, but the Attolian’s face was so close, and my curiosity got the better of me, so I quickly returned back to the small scar, tracing it with my finger. I waited a moment, and leaned back this time as I looked up at the Attolian.
“How?”
It must’ve been a trick of the fire, because the Attolian smiled, as if delighted to tell the tale of being attacked.
“I was eight or so and my cousins worked one of our dogs into a frenzy. They tossed a small cut of meat back and forth with the dog in between them. She would jump, and yelp, and practically barrel into them running, but they would toss it to the other just before she could reach them.”
I nodded, it seemed cruel to the poor dog, but I had seen worse.
“Well, unfortunately, I didn’t know all of that,” the Attolian grimaced and shook his head as if in pity for his younger self. “I just saw that Sweetheart, err, the dog, was upset and I wanted to help.”
The edge of my mouth curled up, “Quite the hero.” I could easily picture it.
The Attolian scratched the back of his neck and ducked his head a little. Then he looked at me and good-naturedly elbowed my side. “At that age, I definitely aspired to be,” he grinned. “So I screwed up my courage, and approached my cousins.” He paused.
“And?”
“They tossed me the cut of meat, aiming at my head. Instinctively, I caught it above my head and, fool that I was, just stood there for a moment in wonder. Before I even had a chance to lower my hands and look at the odd texture, Sweatheart eagerly jumped on me. It was a little bit of a blur after that. I was trying not to fall so I pushed forward instead. She had sharp nails, and was trying to climb my small body to the meat. Her nails were already digging into me when I regained enough sense to realize what I was holding and dropped it. As soon as I did she tried to untangle herself from my limbs. At some point, during that whole ordeal, one of her nails dug into my elbow and cut me deeply.” The Attolian shook his head, a breath of a laugh escaping, “I ran to my father crying, bleeding, and feeling completely betrayed by my dog.”
My heart skipped a beat upon hearing the word ‘betrayed’.
“What did you do with the dog?” I asked, looking at the small scar again.
He was silent, and when I returned to his face his head was tilted slightly in bewilderment. He silently searched my expression a moment longer before continuing with a shrug of one of his shoulders. “Nothing. Forgave her, I suppose. It wasn’t her fault my cousins teased her with food, of course she would be so eager.”
I exhaled quietly, thankful to hear the dog wasn’t put down for attacking the child of its owner.
“I was mad at her at first, but my father helped. He treated and wrapped the wound. Held and soothed me until I was calm. Then he talked it over with me, had me imagine that I was Sweetheart in that situation, and ultimately told me that he was keeping her but it was my choice if I forgave her. When she came in for the night with her big brown eyes and wagging tail, nosing my hand to ask for a pet, it was hard to stay mad.”
He raised his arm to get a better look at the small scar. “I’m oddly grateful for it now. Y’know a scar doesn’t grow bigger as you age, it doesn’t stretch out, the new skin just seems to grow around it. As a kid, I could’ve sworn this scar used to take up half my elbow, now it’s nothing in comparison to…” he gestured to the rest of his arm, the meaning clear. “She was a good dog, y’know, and even though she’s long gone I will always carry her with me.” He tapped the scar lightly then looked up, our heads nearly knocking together.
“Sorry!” His hands fluttered around, but never touched my head. “I didn’t feel...I don’t think we…”
It wasn’t his fault. I leaned in to get a better look. Of course he would be lost in memories, I should have guessed. “No, no.” My hands waved back trying to assure him. “We didn’t hit heads. It’s fine.”
The Attolian’s body relaxed and he nodded. “Good.”
My hands wandered to where my stitches were just under a month ago. The stitches had long been removed and the Attolian checked on it before we entered Traba, saying that it was healing nicely. Now, I wondered if it left a scar, if I had a scar from something other than flogging. Perhaps, I thought, if I survive this, then maybe one day, when I leave the Attolian and I’m free from the empire, I will look in a mirror, find the scar, and think of him - always carrying him with me.
“Is it bothering you?” the Attolian’s voice penetrated my thoughts, bringing me back to our small fire.
“Oh, no.” I gave a weak smile and looked towards the ground. “Just wondering if it will leave a scar.”
“Hmm, it might.” He elbowed me again and I obliged by turning to look at him, “Then you’ll have another great story to tell. Something in addition to Immakuk and Ennikar. Maybe something like Kamet and the Lion’s Den!” He was trying to make me smile and, I’m embarrassed to admit, it was working. It was hard not to when his eyes were so bright with...something. Joy?
“So, so, so,” I said, averting my eyes briefly. “And you? You have many epics written on your body, no doubt.” That wasn’t the phrasing I wanted. I ducked my head, feeling the heat in my cheeks, happy the night sky and my complexion would hide the embarrassment.
After a pause he broke the silence, “I do have many scars, and I suppose each of them do have a story.” He bumped my shoulder. “You can ask about any of them, anytime. I’m not a good storyteller, like you, but I’m happy to tell you.”
“So,” I replied. I still couldn’t face him, but nodded.
We sat in companionable silence, each with our own thoughts, before I started to wonder...Did he realize my internal debate regarding if I was allowed to ask the Attolian uncomfortable personal questions and somehow orchestrated this whole interaction?
I looked at the Attolian, who was looking up at the stars above, trying once again to figure him out. He was not a fool... ...but he was not a manipulator either. Perhaps he was sharing because he was a genuinely goodhearted man who wanted to have a regular conversation as comrades.
My heart sank a little. He was too trusting, but that worked in my favor for now. What would he do if he learned of my deceit? What would he think of me?
“Kamet?” he asked, catching me again.
“A-any stars you know?” I asked, forcing myself to hold my head steady and not duck away.
He raised his eyebrows then glanced between the stars and me. “Oh, I didn’t realize. You cannot see them clearly can you?”
“No,” I said, glad the excuse held water.
“Ah! Well, do you want me to describe the constellations I see? Although, I’m sure they’re not the same in Mede. Maybe just describe the star clusters and shapes?”
I gave a small smile, “That would be great.”
I had never heard the Attolian say so many words until he was pretending to be friends with those men he diced with in Traba. Now, I feel like he spoke just as many with me as he did them, and certainly more meaningful.
I couldn’t explain it, but as I listened to him describe the constellations above, I found that I liked the sound of the Attolian’s voice. Maybe, I thought, I will take him up on that offer to ask more personal questions, just to hear him talk.
Maybe.