Closed Post: Ink

[sorrowandsorrow]

Janet's been doing a lot of research. No, seriously -- a lot. She's a good magician, but she's not the best magician she knows. She was a good student at Brakebills, but she wasn't the best student at Brakebills. She was a stellar queen, but a lot of that was bluffing and expecting other people to follow her orders. She's certainly never been a fucking tattoo artist before.

What she's come up with is an abomination that would make half her professors faint dead away. She's cobbled together a modified Cavaleri Animation, about two and three-quarters of the principles that go into making a Reed's Mark, and a whole lot of bullshit that she sincerely hopes is going to hang together.

With a significantly bizarre assortment of items assembled in a tote bag, she goes on the hunt for Galahad, hoping he's somewhere that Claudius isn't.

Comments

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad gives her a long, probably mildly unsettling look, and heads off for a parlor. When they arrive he takes off his sweater and lies down on his stomach on the couch. The scratches Dro gave him are almost healed, but there are still long silvery scars on his pale skin.

[sorrowandsorrow]

Janet follows him, shaking off the unsettling vibe of that look. He's just a guy, practically a kid. And he asked her to do this, apparently cognizant of all the risks.

In the parlor, she pulls up an ottoman and sets her bag on it, perching on the edge of the coffee table. It's as she's stretching out her hands, flexing her fingers, that she spots the scars on Galahad's back and frowns. "You okay?"

[onthewillowsthere]

"Drosera climbed on my back," he says, as he folds his sweater. "Claudius says she has bad claw manners."

[sorrowandsorrow]

"Bad claw manners is right. That looks like it was nasty." She frowns at his back, not that he'll see it. "Drosera's your griffin, right?"

[onthewillowsthere]

"Magnus's and mine," he agrees.

[sorrowandsorrow]

Janet likes Magnus, pretty much, even though he does not seem like he's as old as he claims to be. It's fine either way; she had her first margarita as a teenager. From her bag, she starts drawing some supplies: a tattoo gun, but notably one with no cord, a few tattoo needles, the sketch Galahad originally gave her, some Telfa pads, a Tupperware of sheep's blood. You know, normal tattooing supplies. "She's pretty ugly," Janet says, "but I bet she'll look badass when she's done growing."

[onthewillowsthere]

"She looks better now. She has all her flight feathers." He's perfectly still while she sets up.

[sorrowandsorrow]

"Can she actually fly yet?" Despite herself, Janet's genuinely interested. The flying magical creatures were always some of her favorites. She unfolds Galahad's drawing and sets it to the side where she'll be able to reference it easily.

[onthewillowsthere]

"I don't know. She's with Magnus most of the time." And he and Magnus haven't been spending much time together lately. When Galahad thinks about that he feels a sort of queasy feeling in his stomach.

[sorrowandsorrow]

If Janet did pick up on any subtext there, she wouldn't mention it. Or maybe she doesn't even notice. "Well, you better find out and report back." She slides a needle into the gun and tightens it, then takes the lid off her blood Tupperware. (You know. Normal tattooing supplies.) "Okay, last chance to back out."

[onthewillowsthere]

"No, thank you," Galahad says politely.

[sorrowandsorrow]

His funeral. That's probably about as good as a signed consent form, right? Well -- oh well. Janet takes a deep breath, glancing out the window to take note of the weather and then at the clock to take note of the time for the Circumstances. "I don't think this'll hurt like a real tattoo, but it won't not hurt," she warns him.

[onthewillowsthere]

"I have been hurt before." He flutters the fingers of his burned hand against the couch.

[sorrowandsorrow]

Janet's gaze catches on those fluttering fingers. Maybe Galahad could have made a magician if Brakebills had gotten ahold of him. "Right," she says. "Okay. Hold still," she adds, and for that, she puts on a firmer tone, something a little closer to the imperiousness she used to use around Castle Whitespire. She takes a deep breath and dips the end of the needle in the blood, like into -- well, into a large, bloody inkwell. Then she lets go, and the tattoo gun hovers between her two hands as her fingers crook, their own kind of hyper-precise fluttering. The blood disappears, pulled up as if inside the needle, as if it's a hollow quill. Another careful breath, and the gun touches the point of the needle to Galahad's lower back. There's no cord; it's not vibrating like a real tattoo gun. But it's warm with her magical intent, and it does prick the skin.

[onthewillowsthere]

The pain is greater than Galahad imagined.

He slips down into a field of wheat, the heads bobbing in an in invisible wind. There is no pain here, only shared breath between him and the wheat and the fish. He imagines Claudius running his fingers over the smooth colors of the tattoo and murmuring something wry and hushed. He imagines turning to see the flush on the back of Claudius' neck. It will be worth the pain.

[sorrowandsorrow]

Even if Galahad's response to the pain weren't so subtle, Janet wouldn't be in a place to notice it. Magic can be like its own form of meditation -- or maybe it's the opposite of meditation. It's thinking a million things at once, keeping perfect control of those million things, juggling them all, moving her fingers with the ebb and flow of those thoughts. The tattoo starts to fill in. This is where anyone watching would really notice this isn't like getting a real tattoo. She doesn't have to draw each line or change out ink colors. The heraldry just starts to fill in, a crisp copy of Galahad's drawing, in the wake of the warm sting of that hovering tattoo gun.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad is still. Inside his field, the fish move with every breath in and out in a steady stream, and he lets himself be borne along by their current. This is another new sin to try, another way to offend God, a ripe fruit to taste and share the story of tasting with his beloved serpent.

Claudius is so proud of him for choosing what he wants. It's a strange thing, after having all his choices made for him, to have a lover who cares less about what he chooses than that it's his decision -- to know that Claudius would be equally delighted to find him in almost any state. He believes Claudius will like the heraldry because it's theirs, but he's equally sure that he could return home with anything inscribed on his skin and Claudius would smile at him, indulgent and pleased, and ask for the story behind it-- and if Galahad said there were no story, and he just wanted to be beautiful, Claudius would tell him that he was. He's always beautiful to Claudius' eye.

He breathes in and breathes out. Wheat and fish. Soon it will be finished.

[sorrowandsorrow]

It's quicker than a tattoo given the usual way, too. Not fast. Janet has to concentrate. There's a little sweat prickling at her hairline and the back of her neck. Every now and then, she pauses -- to reassess the Circumstances, to change out the needle, to dip it in the blood afresh. But over the next hour, it fills in. Galahad's skin doesn't bleed. It only takes on color, myrtle and shield and dragon shaping themselves on his back.

[onthewillowsthere]

He wouldn't speak even if he weren't within himself, because he wouldn't want to distract her, but as it is he's completely silent until the end, so deep he doesn't wholly notice when she's finished.

[sorrowandsorrow]

Janet does finish, and snatches the gun out of the air before it can fall on Galahad's back and his fresh tattoo. It probably wouldn't fuck it up the same way that might fuck up a real one. Probably. She heaves a sigh. "Okay. Keep holding still. But you're all finished."

[onthewillowsthere]

From the depths of his field, Galahad registers speech. He feels for the pain that has become so familiar over the last hour and discovers that the texture of it has changed, from something active to something passive, something being inflicted to something indwelling.

It is unbearable, and yet he's bearing it. It is a thousand small discomforts, little pricklings beneath the surface of his skin, lights that are too bright for his eyes, sounds that he can't block out. His body is a sensation.

Carefully, unwillingly, he climbs up out of his field.

"Is it done?"

[sorrowandsorrow]

"Yep." Shit, she should have brought herself a water bottle. And one for Galahad, too. She tucks an awkwardly too-short-too-long lock of slightly sweaty hair out of her face. "You okay there?"

[onthewillowsthere]

He nods carefully. "It hurts," he says, because he's truthful. "Thank you."

[sorrowandsorrow]

"Tattoos hurt," Janet says. She did warn him. "I'm gonna cover it, okay? I don't know if it's totally necessary, to be honest, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. Baby's first tattoo." Baby could be either one of them. Her first time giving a tattoo or his first time getting one.

[onthewillowsthere]

"Okay."