Further Up & Further In

Scratches for Lashes

Inspired by ReadingForTheFandom

I hope you appreciate my take on your eye-opening tumblr post. It literally changed my whole perspective, and I immediately had to write about it. It was illuminating.

* * * * *

Cor ran his fingers in gentle circles over her back, taking in the raised skin and the smooth as Aravis rested with her head on his chest. The scars weren't a surprise to him, and never had been. He'd known of them all along, of course. Aravis had never tried to hide them, nor the reason they were there. She held a sort of quiet reverence for them; they humbled her with their messages of justice and mercy.

As they'd heard long ago, justice could be mixed with mercy.

Cor traced the scars tenderly. There were nearly 10; the shallowest of them had healed enough that they could hardly be felt under his fingers, though they still showed faintly white against her dark skin. Ten scratches, he thought. Ten scratches for ten lashes.

His fingers dallied over one of the longest scars, and then paused. "What do you suppose happened to her?" He asked quite suddenly, startling Aravis and causing her to raise her head to look at him.

She didn't have to ask who he meant. Scratches for lashes, she remembered well. She studied him carefully, and then sighed, lying her head back down and attempting to get comfortable. "Don't let's talk about that now."

"Don't you wonder?"

"I stopped wondering that a long time ago, Cor." Aravis watched him turn his head to peer at her curiously, and she found herself lowering her eyes. "I couldn't... I can't think about that. It was a long time ago. And don't you remember what Aslan said to me?"

"'No one is told any story but their own,'" he answered.

"And perhaps it's best we leave it that way." Aravis's voice was sharp.

They fell silent for a moment, and Cor resumed his steady circles, but each time Aravis felt him touch a scar, she knew he wouldn't let it rest. He stared up at the ceiling, clearly lost in thought, and each second she watched him made her want to run away; away from his gentle fingers, and quiet judgement, to somewhere her past could be truly forgotten.

But Cor wouldn't forget. He'd never let go. "We could find out," he stated, after a few moments. "By the Lion, Aravis, we could even help her!" Now he turned to her with excitement, and she did her best not to shrink away. "No doubt she has scars, just like yours. No doubt she longs for freedom as well. We have the means, and don't you think-"

Aravis sat up, cutting him short. "It's not that simple. I can't go back there... surely you understand. Could you go back to the fisherman? Could you bear to look him in the eyes? When I saw my father at the wedding... no. I will not go back there. And it's not as if it has anything to do with me now. I made my mistakes, and I was punished for them." Her arms reached around herself, covering her chest, and letting her fingers find the edges of the scars closest to them. Finally she whispered, "What's done is done."

Cor looked up at her thoughtfully. Her dark hair glistened with gold, reflecting the evening light pouring through their window, and Cor reached his hand out to touch it. Fingering the waves, he smirked. "Why, my darling, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were scared."

Familiarity struck her; visions from another time and another place, but instead of answering, she sighed deeply. "Cor..."

He sat up too, now, and placed a kiss on her left shoulder while she sat with her back to him. "Aravis, if your stepmother's slave is still out there, then we could be her one chance at freedom. You were redeemed; why not she?"

Aravis shifted, turning to face him at last. "You said it yourself, Cor. At the beginning, you saw it, even when I didn't. It wasn't fair. I was awful to her, spy of my stepmother's or not. The scars I bear are my own fault, and I am grateful for their reminder, but I hate that I am equally responsible for hers. She hates me, too, Cor. Surely she hates me. Not everyone forgives. Not every deed can be forgiven."

Repositioning himself, Cor lifted his hands to Aravis's head, and this time placed a kiss on her forehead. "My love, everyone should be forgiven, whether they're worthy or not. It does not matter if she hates you. She paid for your freedom, it's time we paid for hers."

* * * * *

It was Corin who made the journey to Calormen. Aravis tried not to think about his journey; the familiar, aching stretch of desert; the great city of Tashbaan; the door of her father's house. She especially tried not to think about the last. She'd run away from that life, and she hated the thought of going back there, and all the same, she felt terrified that if she did, she'd have to admit that she missed it. Just a little, of course, but a little was enough to make her feel terrible.

And though he hadn't wanted to admit it, Cor was just as wary of returning to the country in which he had been a slave as Aravis had been, and so he was relieved his brother had so readily agreed. He was thankful he could count on him, after so many years of being unable to count on anybody. Indeed, Corin himself had been thrilled at the proposition; the chance for an adventure, a great quest, and the opportunity to rescue a damsel in distress. It worked out well for the both of them.

And then, at last, the day came when they received word that the Prince and his charge had returned, and Cor and Aravis met near-frantically.

Cor took his wife's hands and kissed her temple, whispering, "Courage," into her ear as he did so. "It wasn't you who commanded the lashes, and perhaps she will understand better than you think."

Aravis wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face into the crook. She was thankful for his encouragement; his hopeful, optimistic attitude which she'd once mistaken for naivety, but she still worried. "You can't know that. I'm not sure even this can make up for what I did."

"My love," Cor chastised her, "you have given her her freedom. A hand that will wound does not need much cause to do so; your part in this is only incidental."

The door at the other end of the throne room began to open, and a voice announced the entry of Corin and Rahadeen, the former slave girl.

Cor took Aravis's hand and squeezed it, but as Corin and Rahadeen entered, she immediately let go and descended the steps of the dais. She did not stop until she reached them.

When they met in the middle, the rescued girl made a motion to bow, but just as fast, Aravis dropped to her knees. Corin stepped back as she did so, sensing a need for privacy, while at the same moment Cor began to come forward to support his wife.

Rahadeen just stared in shock at Aravis's bowed head.

Even from his distance, Cor knew that the highest of her scars peeked over the edge of her dress, and Aravis made no attempt to hide them. Her hair was set aside to provide an even better view.

"Forgive me," she said. "Take your freedom and bear it well. I owe it to you, and it is all that I can give."

Rahadeen continued to stare for a moment, taking in the humble posture, the desperate words, and - most of all - the scars on Aravis' back. 10 scars for each of them. 10 scratches of a lion, and 10 cuts of a whip. Cut for cut, blow for blow; scratches for lashes.

Then, slowly, she lowered herself to the ground as well.