With Dream and Smoke and the Only Flame in the Universe (смешанная)

Bloodied like the scarlet juice of the pomegranate he once tasted in his fever dream, the slashes on his back possess a lot of stories of their own. Taking a step back and seeing them in their whole is another painful tale to tell. Though, bound to be hidden, they’re just one array of large reddish strokes left abandoned beneath the heavy dark fabric of his grey robe, prisoners in the arms of silence.
 
They were his damn Scars, recalling him how much remembering is the worst curse.