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By some chance, Faust and Bradley are the last few to arrive at the hot springs some of the wizards are visiting tonight. Faust tries to pay Bradley no mind as they enter the changing room outside the springs, and Bradley seems fine with this arrangement. He's got a bottle of alcohol tucked under one arm, and his shirt is half over his head before the door shuts behind them. A moment later she’s shucked the entire shirt off (and tossed it to the ground — honestly, someone will have to pick that up) and started on her pants.
Faust tries not to stare, but it’s a little difficult. Not that Bradley is that attractive (he’s not unattractive, but — that’s beside the point); Bradley’s body is... heavily scarred. Some scars were clearly once deep gashes, now knit together with thin pink skin; other sections look burned or torn away, and the skin is rough and puckered, colored with mottled purples and reds. There are imprints of lightning strikes, painted tree branches of soft red scar tissue; there are nicks and scratches and even chunks missing in odd places, where it looks like Bradley’s skin is barely holding itself together, even as he stretches and his muscles shift beneath his skin, proving that his skin stays intact. There's even a healed bite mark on Bradley’s upper arm; Faust can’t tell what kind of teeth made it. It looks too big for a wizard or human.
The knowledge that Bradley hasn’t healed any of these scars with magic settles with Faust without surprise. They’re no expert on whatever the hell goes on in the Northern wizards’ heads, but they’ve heard Nero allude to Bradley’s particular brand of insanity enough times to guess as to Bradley’s motives. They've also heard enough to guess how Nero feels about that, and regardless of how Faust feels about not healing one’s scars, it’s hard not to echo Nero’s worry, looking at such extensive scar tissue...
But if Bradley’s proud of her scars, unphased enough to remove her shirt with Faust right there, it’s unlikely Bradley will bristle at Faust having looked a little too long — but Faust turns away just in case, because... Well, they don’t want to talk about it. They’re an Easterner, after all.
They've wasted a few seconds watching Bradley; his pants are almost off, and Faust still has yet to remove any clothing. They don’t like to undress in front of others, but the prospect of a hot spring is enough to sway them; their body aches, and floating in hot water sounds heavenly. With that in mind, they compose themself for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then start to undress themself. Their many layers are fairly easy to remove, and the fabric between their fingers grounds them from the fluttering of their thoughts. Unlike Bradley, they fold each garment they take off and set it aside.
“So it's true,” Bradley says from behind them.
Faust looks up from removing their clothes, more startled than they’d like to admit; they remembered Bradley was there, of course, but they didn’t realize he was watching them. With most of their clothes already removed, they try not to shrink in on themself or reflexively cover up. “What's true?”
Bradley’s eyes aren’t on Faust’s face; she’s looking down Faust’s body. Of course. “You haven’t healed any of your old scars.”
The worst of the scarring is on Faust’s feet, they know, and they have to fight the urge to put their socks back on. They don’t really have a response for Bradley, either. Several questions vie for priority, but what comes out of their mouth instead is, “Well, you haven’t either.”
“Ha! So you were looking,” Bradley says. There's no accusation to her words that Faust can tell, just an observation. “Thought I felt your eyes on me. ‘S fine; I keep ‘em around to be looked at, after all.”
Northerners are really weird, Faust thinks. “There’s... Quite a lot to look at,” they offer, and then immediately wish they hadn’t said anything. They don’t have their hat to pull down over their eyes, but their hand flies to face height instinctively anyway. What were they trying to do, compliment Bradley’s scarring? As if her body is a museum showcasing all the times she’s nearly died, and Faust is supposed to appreciate that?
... They do, a little. Appreciate isn’t the right word, but Faust isn’t sure what is. In their own case, their scars are a reminder for them of what happened in their past, a warning not to make the same mistakes again, and the weight of those same mistakes. In Bradley’s case…
“Much more than you, yeah,” Bradley says.
Faust doesn’t want to continue this conversation. But they find themself opening their mouth again. “Do you remember how you got all of them?”
Bradley hums, taking a swig from the bottle he brought with him. “Ya know what, I do remember most of ‘em. Some of ‘em, it’s been so long, hundreds of years, that the details’re fuzzy.” He meets Faust’s gaze, narrows his eyes. “I'm sure someone out there remembers ‘em better than me.” The reference to Nero isn’t lost on Faust; they think Nero would appreciate Bradley’s discretion, though, if he were here to hear it. “Some of ‘em, of course, are hard to mistake. Like Oz’s lightning, obviously. The wolf bite on my arm. These gashes, I remember the fights they’re from. Actually, some’re pretty recent.” She twists around so she can indicate a scar on the side of her torso. “This one’s from Mithra, sometime since we all moved into the manor. Only reason it’s healed up so nice is ‘cause of Figaro, which I fuckin’ hate, but hey. That’s how life is these days, I guess.”
“That's how life is,” Faust echoes. The last revelation doesn’t surprise them; Figaro was the one who taught Faust healing magic, after all, so Faust knows Figaro’s abilities. They don’t know what Figaro would think if she could see Faust’s scars.
Bradley takes another drink and sets the bottle down. He seems to have forgotten to finish undressing, as he watches Faust with an expression Faust can’t decipher. She raises an eyebrow. “What about your scars, curseworker?”
Faust’s instinct is to dodge the question, maybe with a retort, or by simply walking out of the room. Instead, they take a slow breath, steadying themself once again. “What about them?” they answer, trying to keep their tone neutral. They’re not sure why.
“Well, they’re definitely not as badass as mine.” Bradley winks, a gesture Faust isn’t sure what to make of. Faust’s life hasn’t had nearly as much combat as Bradley’s has, and at any rate, their scars are... “But I bet the reasonin’ ‘s the same, right. Ya don’t wanna forget.”
They don’t want to forget. Even if they don’t think they ever could, not in a million years — not when their dreams come alive at night and parade Faust’s life story for anyone who happens upon them; not when their face is plastered all over the damn capital and history books of Central Country; not when they’ve carved it into their being, their magic, their philosophy, everything they can reach. They don’t want to forget. They can’t forget. “... Well, yeah.”
Bradley lifts her chin, eyes still fixed on Faust. “Yeah. That’s one of the things that’s real damn depressing about you, y’know, but I’m into it. ‘Cause I can understand ya.” Faust wishes, again, that they had a hat they could pull over their face. “It’d be better if you held your head high while you say somethin’ like that, though. Bein’ proud of that reminder. Ya can only carry a weight for so long before your muscles grow strong enough t’ shoulder it with ease. And then it’s not a burden anymore, but a trophy. That ya made it through.”
It’s such a Northern way of thinking, Faust almost wants to laugh. It’s so far from how they feel — but they can’t dismiss everything Bradley says, because... He’s right, about getting used to the weight. Even decades after Faust’s scars healed to the point where touching them wasn’t painful, where even the nerves had begun to grow back, they were painful to look at. Not because of the extent of the scar tissue (Faust saw too many grave injuries in the revolution to be phased by the horrors of their own body) but because they remembered the circumstances that caused it.
And they don’t know exactly when it changed; they can’t pinpoint an exact date, or even an exact century. But sometime in the past few hundred years, the scars became just a part of Faust’s body. Skin with a different texture, that their gaze passed over whenever they bathed or changed clothes. Even when they think about it on purpose, the pain comes, but doesn’t last the way it used to. They became accustomed to that weight.
“I don't know about being proud,” they say. Bradley grins; Faust imagines she didn’t expect them to agree with that part anyway. “Or a trophy. But I have been carrying the weight for a long time.”
That’s really all Faust wants to say about it, and maybe Bradley gets the message, because she just nods. Her smile, when he looks at Faust, communicates something Faust can’t put their finger on. It makes them feel a little too warm, so they look away, busying themself instead with taking off the rest of their clothing. A moment passes, and then Bradley follows suit, stepping out of his underwear and leaving it, too, on the floor, how irritating.
... There is something that’s bothering them a little, though.
“When you said, so it’s true,” Faust starts, and Bradley starts laughing.
“Knew ya wouldn’t let that one lie. No one told me anything, so don’t get mad.” What does Bradley take Faust for, Nero? ... Well, that’s probably not far off. “That shepherd caught me changing once, ‘n left with a real tense look on her face. Wasn’t hard to put two ‘n two together about who she might be thinkin’ of.”
Faust doesn’t like that. They don’t like that Leno is so transparent, always (that’s not entirely true; they like Leno, and by necessity that includes all of his traits), and they don’t like that Bradley is so shrewd, and they don’t like that Bradley could guess Faust had scarring on their body, even though Bradley was alive and active at the time of Central’s revolution, and even if she wasn’t, even if she had no idea about Faust’s history, nearly all of the wizards have been injured seriously enough to scar at some point or another, so it’s not a huge leap. What Faust doesn’t like, they think, is the sting of vulnerability. Longing wells up within them for the days when they lived in the Valley of Storms, interacting with barely a handful of people per decade, with no one’s eyes on them but the Eastern spirits. They don’t know if they could go back to that solitude now, even if they had the chance. Like Bradley said... That’s how life is these days.
“I suppose,” they say. It’s not a response, barely an acknowledgement. They want to scold Leno for his hand in this, but he didn’t really do anything wrong. Mostly Faust wants to go bury themself in some sand. The hot spring will have to do instead. With a sudden rush, they strip off the last of their clothes and place them atop their pile. “Let’s go out to the hot spring.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Bradley agrees. She folds her arms behind her head, bottle swinging precariously from one hand. Faust gives him extra space to avoid being hit in the head. Bradley leads the way out of the changing room, and Faust takes a moment to straighten their posture — it’d be better if you held your head high, they think, and then shake their head in irritation — before following Bradley out the door.