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Cor had accumulated many scars over his many years of life, each had a story, some more boring that others.
Contrary to popular belief, not every mark marring Cor's skin was a battle wound, just because he was the marshal of the Crownsguard didn't mean he was immune from his share of everyday scars, for instance; the scar on his knuckle from where he'd got distracted while cutting up some bread, or the scar on his stomach that everyone wanted to think was from a blade (which, to be fair, it technically was) when it was in fact from an emergency appendix removal he'd had when he was 19
-
"I can't believe you didn't go to the hospital"
"It wasn't that bad this morning! Anyway, I was needed in the throne room."
"You're allowed to miss a shift if you have appendicitis Cor"
"I was fine!"
"Your appendix ruptured and you collapsed midway through court."
"... I was fine till then"
-
These scars, most of his scars (even the battle ones), he was happy to talk about. Well, willing to talk about in the right circumstances. He had never really been one for sharing personal details, especially to people suffering from a bad case of morbid curiosity.
But, if Titus ever managed to convince (drag) him along to one of the ‘glaives post mission drink sessions where the glaives all seemed to drink with the mentally of ‘we’re still alive, so let’s drink till we’re not’, and the glaives started telling scar stories, he was usually happy to tell a story of his own, he wasn’t in short supply of stories after all. He had many scars that had stories interesting enough to tell, while not becoming a gossiping point for the glaives (“worse than the fucking council” Titus had complained one night while they finished up some paperwork, “they’re not even subtle about it, if I overhear one more hookup story about Furia, I’m going to resign”).
Cor’s go to story at these drunken sessions which the glaives seemed to use as a form of group therapy, was usually the first scar he got protecting Regis. A bullet wound in his shoulder from where a 15 year old Cor had jumped between the then Prince Regis and an Imperial sniper. Regis had been insufferable, repetitively apologising over Cor as Weskham took care of the sniper while Clarus administered an elixir, once the shock wore off Cor had simply bitched at a still fussing Regis that ‘if Regis bothered to move quicker rather than staring at Clarus’ ass, Cor wouldn’t have to do this’. He usually left that last part out unless he was very, very drunk.
Still. There were scars he wouldn’t talk about. Scars that though physically had healed, still hurt like open gaping wounds. Scars that, if mentioned, if asked about, would impart such a feeling of fear, such a feeling of terror as the memories associated rose to the front of Cors consciousness, that he would be internally screaming at himself to run, even if in the situation he couldn’t.
-
Maybe giving watered down battle stories to his godson wasn’t what Clarus had meant when he said ‘put him to bed with a story’, but Gladio didn’t seem to mind.
Which is why Cor was currently sat shirtless on Gladio’s bed while Gladio poked and prodded, listening enraptured as Cor told the story behind each scar he picked.
“Uncle Cor, where’s his one from?”
The six year olds pudgy finger jabbed at the deep gnarled scar that lived on Cor’s waist. A wave of cold fear washed over him, Cor could feel the tightness rising in his throat, he wanted to shove the boy away from him, he wanted to run and hide somewhere safe, but he couldn’t, because Gladio wouldn’t understand, so he swallowed round the tightness and choked out;
“Not that one Gladio.”
The boys amber eyes darted up to his, pulling his little hand away.
“Not that one.”
Gladio sat quietly, and Cor begged he wouldn’t ask his favourite question of ‘why?’.
Instead, Gladio nodded and poked a scar on Cor’s left bicep.
“Okay, what about this one!”
Cor breathed out and began to tell the story of that time he fell off a cliff while trying to retrieve some herbs for Weskham, staunchly avoiding looking at the glowing eyes that where now staring at him from the corner of Gladio’s room.
And if Cor moved slightly, shifting Gladio closer to him, in an action that could be read as protective, no-one was around to comment on it.
-
A few people had heard the stories of some of these scars. Regis and Cid knew the now faded burn scars up his forearm, they had learnt after an anxiety attack Cor had had back when they were fighting the war in Galahd, when Cid had accidently put his cigarette too close to an unaware Cor’s arm, the familiar feel of heat that so often came before a sharp burn had set Cor off. All of the men from that roadtrip knew the scars that he had gained through arrogance at the Tempering Grounds, they had been the ones to make sure he lived long enough that those wounds would turn into scars.
Cor was sure that both Clarus and Regis knew more than Cor had told them of the dark parts of his life. Looks that passed between the two of them at things Cor said or did had told him that. Regis had probably found some evidence of the thing that Cor would never talk about to Regis after he began living in the King’s rooms, though he had never attempted to bring it up to Cor at least, never mentioned it.
Titus knew the most.
Cor had found himself on the floor of Titus’ apartment one night after it had all just become too much. Titus was the one who found him drunk out of his mind in some backwater bar, who had pulled him out of the bar and back too his house, who had held him murmuring comforting words as Cor broke apart in his arms. He had let Cor cry out all the things he hated to think about, the beatings, the cigarette butts put out on his arms, the man who had said he was ‘pretty’ (Cor had never said a name, but he must have said enough for Titus to guess, he never said anything but Cor saw the glares that Titus levelled at portraits of the man), the rope that had cut into his neck and wrists, the wounds that were gained through arrogance (he should have died then but he didn’t), the burn marks on the soles of his feet, the wound that has forced him to lie and watch as his best friend ( brother ) died. Titus had listened to all of it, and then stayed up all through the night watching Cor to make sure he didn't kill himself with his drunkenness.
Cor found himself eternally grateful for the bizarre kinship and support he had with Titus. Titus, who knew the details better than anyone else, never spoke a word of it, never changed how he treated Cor, never looked at him with pity.
Regis and Clarus wanted him to go to therapy (Regis had threatened making it an order before), Cid tried to get him to talk over beers, Astrals knew Cor hadn’t had any proper contact with Weskham since he stayed in Altissia, but he knew that like Regis and Clarus, Wesk would want him to get therapy. But Titus, Titus understood, Cor assumed due to similar experiences.
There were just scars you didn’t talk about.