It's hard to tell what time it is in high summer. The sun stays up so long and rises so early. But it is dark right now. Bullfrogs are singing by the stream outside the window. I know I should be asleep but I'm not ready for sleep.
I want to keep looking at Tairy. The candle that lights my diary is lighting him, too. I have the beautiful inkwell that he gave me. I like the way these letters look in the dark blue ink. Mayhap one day I'll ask someone who knows to teach me how to make prettier letters.
There goes my brain, wandering again!
The candle's light is on Tairy's shoulder. A little on his face. He's hugging the pillow as if it was something he loved. Or someone. Don't worry, arms. I'll take that pillow's place soon enough.
When I look at him I don't only see his scars. Those faded lines that go across his back, this way and that way. But I do see them. They're there. There's no use pretending they aren't. My eyes want to drink him in all the time as it is. So I'm always looking at them anytime his shirt is away. I put off asking how he got them for a long, long while. I first saw them the winter before last, when he were just another boarder and needed his shirt mended. He never seemed to be amba embear ashamed of them. But sometimes when I touch them I feel the tiniest bit of stiffness in his body.
Were I wrong to do that? Nay. I won't think such a thing. He is mine as much as I am his. And just as much as I don't mind him inspecting the poor place in my leg, I know he wouldn't get angry with me for looking at his scars. Or for asking about them. So I finally did.
The tale he told me were a long one. Funny... it were a beautiful story, even with all the hard, sad things about it. Every story Tairy tells is beautiful because his tongue can only speak beautiful words. Somehow I had thought that the people who hurt him was his own people. I'm not sure why I thought so. Maybe because I know he's left his family and home behind. Maybe I thought it were all the same people who'd done all the sorrowful things to him. But now I know a bit more about that, too. Not everything. Not yet. He told me so much I didn't have the mind to pick out this or that and ask him more questions.
The candlelight makes tiny shadows on his skin. The scars shine a little more than the rest. Most of his chin and mouth are in shadow. But the light flashes over his brow and eyes and nose. I didn't ask why he keeps his hair short. There are other days for other questions.
It's tempting to think about the men who whipped him and to feel hate in my heart. I don't think I'm a person who hates easily. I don't want to become angry and full of bitter things, thinking about those men. It's hard to know what to feel as I look at his back and the story that is written on it. I feel sad, of course. So sad for my beautiful, wonderful, darling Tairy. That anyone should hurt him... I can't think on it or I'll start weeping.
He's lost so much. His family. His home. His honor. He lost his freedom for a long time.
I won't let him lose anything else.
