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Vulpes’ body had been a battlefield, countless wars waged across his skin ever since the Legion had saved him as a boy. Scars sprawled across the pale body, witnesses of his trials and victories. Scars of his training, bore with pride. Memories of his failure, tucked away in quiet shame. Each of them had stung, setting his body ablaze as it tore his skin apart. The pain torching any words crawling to escape his throat. Tears blurring his vision as he vowed to never shed another. Vulpes knew of scars, of the pain and shame they brought, of the man that demanded a reason for each.
He had grown accustomed to them.
But nothing had trained him for the scars she would leave.
For the scolding fire that emanated from her. For the heat that spat from her fingertips, tirelessly reaching for others. The burned trail of sand she left across the Wastes as she walked, painting her travel for all to witness. The warmth that simmered under her clothes, lazily reaching for him as they stood together under the night. Vulpes could not understand why none recoiled from her but him. Why all seemed oblivious to this all consuming fire. Why her touch remained gentle as she burned him. Why it remained on its skin even as her hands left, a scar etched under his skin.
He had brought each of those scars to the paper, jotting every detail of them to lessen his burden. Some pages had been ripped, tossed to the bottom of the fire - leaving only the rough edges of the paper for witnesses. But those had been written in haste, scratches barely legible laid across the paper, wide eyes unable to tear themself from it as the small light flickered over him. Others were kept with great care, steady hands smoothing the ageing pages - content read as the world slept. Tired eyes tucked away in a corner of the camp, meticulously reading each words. Etching each of the fleeting moments to memory. The ghost of her touch warming him under the night sky.
-
One paper bore wrinkles where droplets had fallen before, twisting the pages with soft waves. It’s writing near the edges had already started to fade after hands had cradled the paper time and time again – rereading each word carefully. The short text stood out among his rapports, its content neither useful not important. Still it had been written. The sole memory of a moment shared between them. When the weakened ground gave under them, sending them both tumbling down a hill. Speck of sand clinging to the paper as it clung to his skin. Neither had been injured from the fall. Some lines dipped, drifting downwards across the page as the sentence ended. Pen lingering on the final dot, doubt creeping in. Perhaps, it had merely been a habit of hers – sticking even as they travelled together. An insignificant action between them two. Still he wrote. Of the tentative hand that reached him. How her fingers had carefully brushed the sand from his hair – forgetting to brush her own. Even as he wrote, Vulpes could still feel the ghost of her touch. Her fingers dancing across his scalp. Expression sheltered by the night. The pen stopped. It had meant something.
-
Pages speckled with dried blood trembled under his shaking hand, the position adding little support to the paper. The book, folded on itself rested against his leg, careful hands tending to the injured one. A single moment of negligence giving an opportunity to raiders, weapons raised against him as they reached for his leg. Victory short-lived as death met them both second later, a quick bullet nestled in each of their skull. Fingers steady against the trigger. The other, steady against him. Protests were left unheard as she helped him down, hands quickly tending to his wound. Vulpes wrote as she looked and cleaned, pages laid against his thighs. The handwriting wavered across the page, hands trembling from the pain. That is what Vulpes told himself as another stroke suddenly rose. Careful hands, cleaning the shallow wound. Tender hands, applying the healing powder. Warm hands, slowly warping bandages across his injured thigh. The ink pooled as the another sentence ended, the final dot seeping through the page – staining each pages forever. Rapport long forgotten as the grip strengthened around the pen, pain and fatigue fading into the background. A hand rested atop the bandaged leg, warmth seeping through the skin.
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The page fluttered as he wrote, a remnant of the recent sandstorm – the last gust of wind laying sand across the pages. Vulpes swiped them off, only to find the fresh ink smudged on the page, sentence now blurring together. The last breath of the storm, rumbling in the distance. Vulpes wrote his rapport, careful to not cause more damage to the text, as the Courier watched the horizons. A peaceful moment standing against the boiling tension in the wasteland. The handwriting grew wearier as the winds picked up once more, sands obfuscating its path – the clean strokes now wavering. The sentence abruptly stopped when another gust of wind came, sand finding its ways to his eyes. A few mindless strokes rested on the paper as Vulpes’ eyes fluttered, an uncomfortable pain settling in. His fingers found no way to alleviate it, his attempt only rendering the pain worse. He watched, through blurred vision, as she grew closer – a hand laying against his jaw. Watched as her lips neared his eye, a gentle breath laid against his eyelid. Her thumb gently grazing his eyelashes as the pain subdued.Lines on the rapport, forever blurred. A reminder of the distant storm.
-
A paper stood atop the bedsheet, moving as it sought what little light the windows could offer. Letters written with a heavier hand when the mattress dipped, lines drifting on the page as it followed the light. A note written furtively in the middle of the night, as the rain slammed against the glass. The text had been written carefully, yet a certain haste laid under the pen. Eyes darting to her sleeping figure, her soft snore and blissful expression. Unaware of the turmoil she caused. The pen stopped with each of her movement, the slightest shift pulling his body along. Her fingers lazily wrapped his wrist. The gentle pressure had awoken him long ago – body conflicted between threat and comfort. Weary eyes had watched as the fingers flexed around his wrist before relaxing. He had already written before of the closeness she unknowingly sought when she rested. How her brows furrowed when she laid alone in the desert. Vulpes grew drowsy as he watched her chest rise and fall, writing drifting across the page. The note never found its last dot as the Frumentarii laid asleep once more, the soothing warmth lulling him back to sleep. Paper long forgotten.
-
A charred piece of paper stood atop the sleeping fire. Flames turned to smoke as the night air embraced it. The last witness of the sin etched onto that sheet of paper. Edges uneven and curled, like dried petals. Brittle to the touch. The remaining lines of ink clung to the page. Merely a few words had survived, those lucky enough to be written last. The handwriting was erratic, pressure applied on certain letters while others were barely inked. Some words were nearly woven together, any reader unable to find either beginning or end. While an imposing distance settled between two others. The few remaining sentences danced across the paper, none caring to anchor themselves to the line drawn below. But even this poor state, the paper and its writing had been cherished. The corners, half-scorched, were softened by the touch. Lines read again and again under a pale light, until its author could not bear it any more. The few legible words spoke of a single moment, too intimate to let others see. Too intimate to keep to himself. Ofanighthecouldneverforget.Shaken lipslaidagainstsleepingbrow. A hand twitching, aching to reach her.
Perhaps her heat would consume him whole soon.
Perhaps he wouldn’t stop her.
stop her.