A/N: This ficlet was inspired by an amazing piece of artwork of a scarred Fenris done and posted on Tumblr by gunwieldingspacebitch, who has been kind enough to allow me to post this with her drawing as a muse. You can find this piece (along with many others) on her blog, which I would provide a link for if FF would allow them in a post. :/
Scarred
A single glance is all that is needed to know Fenris' body is that of a damaged man. There is no hiding his brands from the eyes of passersby, no sanctuary to be found from fools too tangled in their webs of morbid fascination to grant him the decency of indifference. Whispers of "The Scarred Elf" trail behind him like a ship's wake through placid waters whenever he dares venture from the confines of his stolen mansion, their sound an ever present buzzing in his ears. The murmurs and blatant stares should anger him, should stoke his ire and provoke him into a feral rage worthy of his namesake, but he feels nothing of the sort in their presence. Rather he cannot help but smirk in grim amusement, humor fed by his certainty that these highborn louts are incapable of fathoming the accuracy of the title they have bestowed upon him.
He knows that it is the cruel elegance of the lyrium embedded in his skin which has earned him the designation, though these mars do not even begin to scratch the surface of what sits below layers of leather and steel or lies out in the open, only to be overlooked in favor of what is most prominent. There is a small notch missing from the flat of one ear, cut away by a knife intended for his master's throat. Puckers and silver-white lines nearly invisible with age pepper his limbs and torso, they the last remnants of countless arrows and blades taken in the name of the man who held his leash. A mound of raised flesh the size of a closed fist rests in the center of his sternum, the mark of a rival magister too bound by political standing to take out her anger on the true source of her discontent.
Similar gnarls of varying sizes spread across his back like the roots of an upturned tree, reaching from the curve of his hips to the tops of his shoulders. Matching gouges encircle both his wrists and ankles, carved into them by the pull and jerk of his own body against the shackles which left him exposed to the full brunt of a slaver's whip. Broken bones received from more enthusiastic beatings curve his spine forward in an unnatural angle, their healing process hindered by the weight of a sword Danarius would have sooner seen him fall upon than put down.
No, there is no denying that Fenris is a damaged man, ripped and torn to shreds like the countless paintings left to rot in the halls of his derelict home. And yet when he looks upon himself, catches glimpses of the scars and brands in the shattered remains of a mirror or the surface of his wash basin, he greets them not with disdain, but a thrum of pride. For these marks are a testament to trials endured and survived, to strength both physical and metaphorical he knows not all are so lucky to possess.
Yes, he is damaged. Damaged, but not broken. And that is a distinction he will wear as a badge of honor until the end of his days.