aveline in the morning, rising before the sun. donnic reaches over, connecting her freckles one to the other, when in the night, he kissed her scars.
fenris, naked in the glow of hearthlight. ‘i am nothing but scars,’ he says. but a voice that sounds a little like hawke’s insists, no. not nothing.
leliana, undressing for bed, touching the scars given to her by marjolaine. it’s a song she sings without a melody, without words. all songs are scars, memories in the blood.
isabela letting her scars show, the ones on her thighs, the ones on her arms, the little nick below her throat—each one an attempt on her life, each one an affirmation of the life that laughed back.
oghren, beard undone in the night. he has a scar. a scar named branka. a scar named felsi. a scar named regret. you raise those scars better than your own sodding children. you sleep with them. you can’t leave them behind.
zevran, learning to hide them, even from himself. until a warden’s fingertips land against one in the shadows between his ribs, a touch so gentle on that unfeeling skin. the skin around it is more sensitive. there’s a lesson to be learned in that.
merrill, who supposes scars are words carved into the bark of trees with a rusty blade; scars are vallaslin, worn for a purpose; scars are histories, the best stories, the paw print of a great wolf prowling through the distant trees.
alistair, who doesn’t think much about scars. unless people themselves can be scars, in which case… well, he never stops thinking about duncan, really.
sebastian, with too many scars to count on his fingers. you could name them, one after another, fletched in arrows released, arrows relentless. one for a mother. a father. a brother. one for family. duty. honor.
varric, polishing bianca. ‘there’s a scratch on you,’ he says gently. ‘ah, well. gives you character.’
anders, giver of scars and mender of flesh.
morrigan, a scar herself, left in a crack on a mirror’s glass.