The Onyx Tattoo

To Be Marked

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"This is not legal in the least, remember," the woman warned him for the last time, holding the needle inches from his skin with her left hand. Her fingers were icy against his palm, and he shivered when she irritably flicked a stray blond hair behind her ear with her right hand, fearing not her old, wrinkled features but her cold, hard eyes. "Once I am finished, there is no going back."

He looked at his right hand, noticing it was shaking, and it told the Dark Artist wordlessly just how afraid he was under his impassive expression. "I have no choice," he told her in a low tone, forcing his voice to be strong, normal, but he wasn't able to hide the tremor of fear underneath. He ran his free hand through his wavy brown hair and mumbled, mostly to himself, as if it were a chant that would save his life, "If I don't, my family will not survive."

Her eyes, a sharp azure, narrowed in something that could possibly be described as remote pity, and her right hand settled on his shoulder. Her fingers were rough and cold and goosebumps rose on his bare arm. "To think one so young is taking the mark of Cerise - you are a fool, child." He flinched visibly when she added harshly, "You will not survive the first week."

He looked at the Artist's gnarled right hand; stamped firmly onto it, the skin ebbing and flowing over the bones and veins, was a baby blue circle. It was the mark of Cobalt. "I trust your observation, Servant of Cobalt," he replied quietly, flicking his eyes to his almost nonexistent shoes, "But I am afraid that dying is simply not allowed."

Her eyes, if it were possible, narrowed further, and the crow's feet at the corner of her eyes deepened. "You are strong, despite the tragedies Fate has thrown at you. But you are still a fool." Her hand lifted from his shoulder and picked up the needle besides her, flowing with a sort of red, inky thread. The point lowered to the back of his hand and he bit his lip, looking away. "If you are ready, I will begin."

"I - " he swallowed, coughs, and starts again. "I am ready."

The old woman paused, hearing the hesitation in his tone, and searched his face for fear. "It is not too late," she pointed out, though the needle in her fingers remained steady and did not move not even a fraction of an inch from his skin. "You can leave now. I will speak of your arrival here to no one."

"Please do it." His tone was begging, though he was looking away and his lips are set in a determined scowl. "I cannot lose my nerve, and I will if you wait any longer."

He did not dare mention that perhaps that is what exactly she was doing. She was trying to save his life from a downward spiral, in her own roundabout way, but if he did not do this... if he failed in his task...

"As long as you are sure," she said, and that was all the warning he received before the needle flashed once in the light and plunged into his skin. He clamped down on a agonized scream, his teeth biting into his cheek and drawing coppery blood. In the end it escaped in short gasps, his eyes squeezed shut, tears threatening to leak from his eyelids. 

It was done in moments, but it felt like hours, and even when she lifted her needle and leaned back, hissing under her breath, "I warned you this was not a good idea, child," he was moaning, his hand feeling like it was on fire. The pain was undescribable, so deep and profound and harsh and pulsing that he wondered if he could die, or if it could fall off, anything to save him from the pain -

He finally summoned the courage to open his eyes, and the first thing he saw through his tears was the image inked on the skin of his hand. The sharp picture was the perfect imitation of a cherry; a blood red cherry with no stem, one that was peculiarly shiny, but most of all, one that marked him. He was, until the last breath of his life, forever a Servant.

The Dark Artist was wiping off her needle, the liquid on it either dye or blood; he was not eager to know which it was. She was shaking her head slowly as she did so, and as soon as he was looking she whispered, "You are a fool, child. This spells your doom."

"I had to do this," he shot back, wiping his face with the wrist of his unmarked hand and rubbing his eyes with his dirty sleeve. He was silent for a moment until his face was cleaned up, streaked with dirt but free from liquids, and then he snarled through bared teeth, "If I didn't do it, it would be worse than death. You wouldn't understand - "

"Child, I am a Dark Artist." The words made him wince, for they were as forbidden and taboo as saying one was against their own Master - and my Master is Cerise now, he thought with a sickening feeling as she murmured, "I understand perfectly well." 

The two locked eyes, one brown, the other azure. Then he bobbed his head and murmured, "I thank you."

"Save your thanks," she snapped back, ushering him forward and towards the door. "You'll not be thanking me once you discover what it is you will be doing for the rest of your life." He was shoved out of the room, and as she turned he heard her last, whispered statement:

"We will be needing all the luck we can get."