Nightsworn | The Whispering Wall #2

Twenty Five: Exhaustion

Arlen had never expected to feel so bad over a tattoo.

It wasn't that he had never expected Jordan to get one, or even that he would be happy about it, but he had had something more ceremonial in mind, something that felt a little bit less like a branding. Marick had ordered it to keep Jordan in line, to stake a kind of ownership, and Arlen couldn't help but feel that a little more of his chance at a decent relationship with his apprentice had just slipped through his fingers.

"Head down," Kur, Marick's pet tattooist, placed a big hand on the back of Jordan's head and forced it to the table. The boy straddled the workbench, his head still covered by the multitude of scarves he wore to stay hidden, even though he'd removed his cloak and jerkin. His knuckles were white on the sides of the table, breath heaving in and out. All over his back were marks, a few shades darker than his skin, that stretched from his shoulders down his spine and ended just above his hips. Some were little more than jagged lines, and others looked more like images of something, though of what exactly Arlen couldn't put a finger on.

Jordan stifled an involuntary noise as the needles touched his skin. Arlen fidgeted and focused on readjusting his leg. All this time standing had caused a dull pounding ache that he could feel in his teeth, and he fervently wished Marick wasn't there so he could excuse himself a brief sit.

"Was this really necessary?" he muttered, bracing himself as his employer came over. Marick's eyes were fixed on the Unspoken boy on the table with an unreadable look in his eye, but at this he turned and offered Arlen a sharp smile.

"You object?"

"No," Arlen said carefully, "I'm just questioning the timing."

"Right before he leaves his tutor's vicinity for several weeks seems like a perfect time to make the point," Marick replied. "Especially since other forms of bonding don't appear to be happening." Something must have shown on Arlen's face, because his voice sharpened. "Am I wrong? He seems no fonder of you than he was at the start. Education holds this guild together, Arlen, we need that kind of loyalty. If you can't instil it then perhaps another could. You know you wouldn't be left without an apprentice."

"I am doing what I can with what I have," Arlen said through gritted teeth. It was a threat, so thinly veiled as to be almost transparent. "Circumstances preceded me. And the boy has a very unusual background. He's taking more time."

"And in taking that time, he sometimes needs some firmer reminders." Marick gestured. "Don't get too soft on him, Arlen. He'll start taking advantage of you."

He walked away, leaving Arlen battling his own frustration. He knew all of that, but knowing it didn't make his leg heal any faster, didn't make the boy any less otherworld. It didn't make the world something other than what it was – a scrap heap of pain, bad luck and missed opportunities. Arlen had zero intention of letting the boy go, and Marick knew it.

He moved over to the table as Kur wiped ink and smeared blood from the boy's skin. The Devils' horned mask grinned from between the tops of Jordan's shoulder blades, almost garishly dark compared to his other markings. Whenever Arlen had pictured this moment, he had thought he would feel some sort of pride, but he only felt faintly nauseated. The Devils weren't a noble cause by any means, but there was some dignity in it; they influenced the way the world worked and did the jobs no one else would do. It set them above petty thieves and bandits. Branding apprentices like livestock for the sake of enforcing an unnecessary point felt very petty indeed. The boy would always come back, whether he had the mark or not, because his sister's safety was reason enough. Arlen didn't understand it, but he knew enough about choosing marks to identify an unbreakable incentive when he saw one.