Tattooed

She grits her teeth as the tiny needle pierces her skin, again and again. Blood wells up at each sharp prick, blood that is stained dark with black ink. She must not cry out. She must not show her pain, or her horror. She is an adept, and as such, able to control herself.
The girl throws her head back, her teeth clenched. It meets the rock behind her with a sharp crack, but she barely acknowledges the pain. She must not let go. If the strength of her jaw fails now, it feels as if all the horror and hurt she is keeping inside herself will jump out in a horrible, pain-wrenched scream, shaming her, shaming her mentor and her family. So she tightens her fists, bites her tongue until she can taste the metallic tang of blood in her mouth, and endures. The young woman feels each drop of crimson blood well on her tender skin, feels each prick of the needle as it embeds the ink deep within her flesh. Her arms tremble in their cuffs, making her silver and gold bracelets jingle in a cheerful sound. She closes her eyes in shame, breathing sharply, in short pants, so as not to disturb the ones who mark her. Every time she takes a breath, the slight distending of her abdomen's skin is pure torture. The needle digs deeper, the blood swells thicker, and her teeth are this much closer to unlocking and letting out her scream. The girl wants to cry out in shame, in revulsion of what they are doing, in fear and anger and rage.
They mark her. On the soft, tender flesh of her stomach, they draw mysterious arabesques and curves. They have cuffed her to a wall. They have set bracelets and bangles on her arms and feet. They mark her, as slaves are marked. They restrain her, they attire her, as a slave. The shame of it is almost as painful as the needle piercing her skin. It brings tears to her eyes, tears that are not allowed to fall.
For she knows that this is the way. She knew as soon as she saw her mentor's exposed flesh, the entrelacs of black lines on his forearm. But before the horror, the shame and revulsion had time to sink in, the young woman had been tied to the wall. How could anyone accept this? her pain-hazed mind screams.Surely she has lost her mind. Only the constant pain of needle piercing skin reminds her that this scene is set in reality. Even she would never have beleived the rite to be so barbarian, so inhumane as this.
A hiccup of pain, cut off by her tightly clenched jaws, rises as she feels a rough cloth against her stomach, wiping away the blood. Is the ordeal finished? Somehow it seems almost impossible, as if no one could survive such shame. But there is no more blood welling up, no more trickles of the warm liquid down her stomach. Her arms are unbound, and they slide bonelessly to the stone tiles she sits on. She lowers her head, unclenches her teeth. Finally allows a sob to break free, as she sees she is alone. Tears start to fall as she quietly wails, as one sob follows the other, her lament interrupted by hiccups that shake her body. She spends her remaining strength crying, crying for the loss of something she does not fully understand.
As her sobs diminish in intensity, she calms, little by little, until only the force of her labored breath wracks her body. She allows her body out of the foetal position she had assumed, and carefully lowers her eyes to the blood stained cloth she holds against her left side. Her staccato breaths fill the tiny room she is in. Slowly the young woman takes her hand away, carefully clutching the rough cloth to take it with her, but not so hard as to scrape it against the tender flesh. As she sees the mysterious design on her skin, she almost begins to cry again, tears gathering in her warm brown eyes.
She tries to rip her eyes away, but cannot. The black entrelacs fascinates her as much as it repels her. She touches the alien design, lightly with her finger, and almost howls at the pain. A few labored pants later, satisfied that the strange thing is indeed part of her flesh, she berates herself for her foolishness, but she is still carefully examining the foreign, barbaric drawing, as if it is something she is not permitted to do. Slowly she allows her eyes to follow a stark line, that melts into another, that reforms, defining a curve, surrounding and losing itself again in the minute arabesques. Slowly she allows herself to admire the shape, the form, the beauty. The girl cannot allow herself to think, else she would run howling down to the cliffs and throw herself in to the sea. So she looks, and admires this repulsive, beautiful art that brands her.
It is not like the slave markings, she reflects. Gods know she has seen enough to know what they resemble. If this was not a tattoo upon her own skin but a carving, or a design painted on a wall, she would weep at the beauty of it. It seems to move upon her reddened skin, twisting and curving with a life of its own. Again, as if hypnotized, she tried to caress the slippery shape, seeking to appease the energy that seems to course through it. She bites back a sharp cry of pain. The skin is too tender, the tattoo too fresh.
The girl concentrates, reaches deep inside of her. Searches for the power she knows she will find. Grasps it. Wields it. Applies it to the reddened skin, murmuring soothingly as she changes the flow of her combat magic to healing. But the magic is absorbed by the design, and additional drops of blood well up. She inspires sharply. The door of the room opens.
"Sindalear." Her mentor seems an otherwordly figure in her confusion. She lifts her eyes to his. "Welcome to the Guild of Slaves."