sorrowandsorrow | Closed Post: Ink

Entry tags:

Closed Post: Ink

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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?"

"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?"

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

"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.

"Okay."

Janet grabs her Telfa and carefully covers the tattoo with clear, lightly adhesive dressing. She's not the most practiced at it, so it doesn't lay perfectly flat, and she fumbles to get it open for a second, but she plays it off okay. "All right. I think just leave it covered for maybe a day? If it gets fucked up, you and I will both be less than thrilled."

"Thank you, your majesty."

Galahad wants nothing more than to look at his tattoo -- to stand in front of a mirror and stare at it for as long as he can, this symbol of his joining with Claudius marked permanently on his skin. He wants to touch it, to run his fingers over it. He wants to know how it feels. He wants Claudius to feel it. He wants Claudius to draw his manicured nails along the coils of the dragon; the thought makes his mouth flood with saliva, and he can't even find it in him to be embarrassed by that, even as he has to swallow it down.

"You're welcome. You can sit up," she adds. "Want me to go find some mirrors, so you can see it?"

So he pushes himself up, with the new muscles in his arms. "Yes, please."

"Okay. Hold tight." Janet flexes her stiff fingers and rolls her neck. She stows the tattoo gun, puts the lid back on her Tupperware, and stands up -- shit, she really is almost thirty. This mansion needs a massage therapist. With that sobering thought, she goes off to look for the promised mirrors.

Galahad cranes around while she's gone, trying to see the mark above his backside, which is, of course, not possible. He feels exposed -- he never takes off his clothes like this except in his room, around Claudius -- but Janet didn't say it was all right to put his sweater back on. He waits.

Janet's only gone long enough to find a pair of mirrors and to fill up a bottle with ice water from the closest kitchen. She comes back in with the water under her arm and one mirror in each hand, and she grins a little to herself when she sees Galahad sitting there with the fresh ink spreading out from the small of his back. Is this her destiny? Mansion tattoo artist? She's gonna need to nap for a week after this, but she could do it again. "Looking good," she calls.

He looks up, and while he doesn't smile, his pleasure radiates off him in ways experienced Galahad-knowers would certainly appreciate. "Thank you," he says politely, even though he hasn't done anything.

If she were a more experienced Galahad-knower, Janet might appreciate it more. But even though she and Galahad aren't exactly close, they've known each other for a long time now, by tiny pocket world standards. She's always felt weirdly protective of him, like he's a chipmunk who occasionally eats out of her hand and she has to shoo away predators for him. The serious, calm, somehow warm look on his face makes her smile.

"Let's see if we can make this work." Angling mirrors to get light to bounce a certain way isn't too rare for spells. Janet sets down the water. "You hold this one." She passes Galahad mirror numero uno so she can focus on getting the second one behind him positioned the right way for him to see the tattoo. It'll look better once her slightly uneven Telfa job comes off, but it's bright enough for a good visual anyway.

Galahad obeys, and his eyes widen very slightly when the mirrors align and let him see the tattoo. It covers the small of his back and the very top of his backside, right where Claudius might put his hands if he were going to grasp Galahad's hips from behind. It makes Galahad feel like a church intended for desecration.

When she catches the way Galahad's eyes go round, Janet's smile widens. "You like it?"

"It's perfect. Thank you."

Well, now she's fully grinning. "Don't sweat it." She pauses. "Actually, that was really hard. I'm amazing."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject