Scars
What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars.
– Bertolt Brecht

Prologue

Some tales are worth revelling in; others destined to be left untold.

Propping up the clubhouse bar, surrounded by the select few who'd somehow become an intrinsic part of his life, Filip 'Chibs' Telford knew that better than most. Story-telling was in his blood, always had been. But, should he be spared to see a hundred, he'd never quite figure out what it was that made him open up that particular night. Why, after so many years of light-hearted yet loud-mouthed dismissals, simple stubborn silence, or even angry flat-out refusals, the whole dark truth of the one tale he thought he'd never confess would finally fall - unbidden and unexpected - from his lips.

Those who knew him best had learned not to ask. Some, like the eager prospects, learned the hard way. But they'd all still call out for him on the nights when tall tales filled the clubhouse whose walls surely had plenty of stories of their own to tell.

"Come on, Chibs," they'd shout, sprawled out on couches that had seen better days. "Spin us a story ..."

Old Celtic legends, woven over centuries and passed down from generation to generation, were his usual fare. Sons and daughters of his homelands, both native and adopted, were brought to life over manys a drink on the rare occasions the clubhouse fell relatively peaceful. They were tales full of everything the club he'd come to love stood for. Pride and brotherhood, family and feuds, and bloody, bloody battles. Stories of pure anarchy.

And there'd be a spark in his hazel eyes, a knowing little grin on his scarred face, as he'd get every bit as caught up as his captive audiences. The accent, a twisted hybrid that reflected his childhood in Scotland and his years in Ireland, thickened to the point where it went largely undeciphered at times. But it didn't matter. Every drop of the emotion was real and as tangible as the whiskey he favoured.

Maybe it was the whiskey that had loosened his treacherous tongue. He'd been drunker in his time though, much drunker. Maybe it was the joints passed companionably from brother to brother, though he'd been higher. Or maybe, just maybe, some deeper power was at work to align everything just so.

Only his closest of brothers were there, plus a couple of others - just old ladies and the visiting nomad president, Rane Quinn, who was relishing the opportunity to hold court.

"Please tell me you at least had someone clean that properly," Tara, from her place by Jax's side, was shaking her head - obviously trying not to fall into doctor mode when it appeared no one felt the need for it as the latest war wound was shown off.

"You're serious?" Juice repeated, for at least the third time, as he stared wide-eyed at the small but deep hole in the mountain of a man's shoulder. "A stripper's stiletto?"

"What can I say?" Quinn shrugged, with a smirk on his face. "That was one flexible broad ..."

Amid the laughter, more beers were served and the radio tuned to some classic rock station. Pool was played, money won and lost at poker, and evening slipped towards night. The shadows of the dimly lit clubhouse deepened and Chibs still kept largely to himself by the bar. Sometimes he could be the life and soul of the party, but sometimes it was harder to keep himself from brooding. He'd already shaken his head in response to various requests – whether it was to pick up a pool cue, or join a card game.

"Come on then, Chibsy," came the eventual, almost inevitable call. "Story time, bro."

He'd almost shaken his head again. But, for whatever damn reason, he just sighed and turned to pour himself another drink, for once keeping his back to them all and his head bowed as he began.

For this was no yarn recounted for the amusement of those gathered. This, as he swirled the liquid fire in his glass and touched a hand to the heavy silver cross he wore on a long chain around his neck, was catharsis.

The truth behind the scars he bore, and the life he'd left behind.

to be continued ...