The punishment for trespassing in Golgotha is one hundred lashes, and Sabrina can count every one of them on Caliban's skin.
There is precisely one hundred. From that, and the angle of the scars, she can tell that the whip used only had a single tail. They're woven across his back like some kind of macabre tapestry, and looking at them makes her heart ache because he did it all for her.
She'd just about cried over them the first time they fell into bed together. The thought that she had put him, and so many others through so much pain was too much to bear. It should've broken her, but Caliban hadn't let her shed a single tear. He banished her thoughts of worthlessness and failure with gentle kisses and wrapped her up in a world of bliss.
She hadn't forgotten, though. She was just too enraptured by the world of sensuous and sinful pleasures he had helped her open the door to, to do anything other than fall apart. That first night, and morning, and, well, evening... That first day, (his stamina was something unholy, and she was certain that no one had ever been as hungry for someone as she was for him), as spectacular as it was, didn't change the fact that he had taken one hundred lashes for her.
You're too cute for scars, he'd said as that beastly guard dragged him from their prison to his place at the whipping post. She rolled her eyes and huffed out a laugh at the memory. Even in the face of danger, he managed to flirt with her, shamelessly, a habit that he hadn't dropped since they became lovers. If she was being honest, she was glad he didn't. She liked shameless.
"Something funny, Princess?"
She smiled, "You."
"Me? I'm quite certain I did nothing to deserve your amusement."
A giggle escaped her lips, "You haven't done anything, not right now, at least."
Her hands drifted back onto the skin of his back. He never talked about that day in Golgotha. He never talked about all that time he waited just to waltz back into the throne room and declare that she hadn't won. Sometimes, she wondered if he hated her during that time. Two thousand years was a long time to wait.
"Did it hurt?" she ran her fingers gently over, what appeared to be, the worst of the now-faded wounds.
"Princess..." He turned over onto his back, obscuring his scars from her view. A view that was was replaced by the view of his bare chest and their silk sheets slung low across his hips.
"Please?"
He sighed, "Aye, Princess, it did."
She was glad he didn't try to cushion the blow. She wouldn't have appreciated that, but it opened the door to another endless stream of questions. Did he keep track of each time the whip met his skin? If he did, did he lose count somewhere along the way because the pain became unbearable? Did he scream? Did he... cry?
One of his, strong, gentle hands came up to cup her face, "I would do it again, a thousand times over if it meant sparing you the pain. You were more than worthy of being saved, Sabrina."
Her heart soared. Where she comes from, there are no saviors. That was reserved for people like Roz: People who walk the Path of Light. That was never an option for her, not really, which irks her just a little bit because she likes having options even if she isn't going to choose them. But here he was, her savior. She had vowed to be his if he ever needed one.
One of her hands found its way to his arm and caressed a different set of marks, "What about these?"
He looked down at his arm and grinned, "Those aren't scars, Princess, you made those."
His smile was infectious and it caused one to light up on her own face. At least until she thought of his scars again. She reached up to touch one that curved around his shoulder and plaintively whispered, "I don't have any."
"I do not mind."
Her smile returned, "I love you."
"Not nearly as much as I love you."
