Sorry that it's been like... half a decade. Shit happens I guess.
Act 2, Chapter 5
The ink of the vallaslin took more than a day to prepare.
Sarel and Zathrian had worked long into the early morning hours – sometimes glancing up to catch what glimpses of the sunrise through the trees that they could – combining Ghedan's blood with ancient roots, powdered elfroot and spindleweed, and no small amount of soot and ash from the camps fires following his funeral rites and their attempt at laying him beneath the earth. More than just a few of the Clan doubted that his soul would ever find peace in the afterlife. The work of the two men drew curious glances throughout the night – the fact that so few of the Clan were able to sleep did not surprise Zathrian. He doubted that they would ever have another peaceful night… not until he had rid the Clan of its latest threat.
No matter how much the decision pained him.
Once the sacred ink had been mixed, it was then necessary to craft for it the implement that would delicately strip away layers of Yneavir's flesh. For this, they made use of the rock that Ynaevir had utilized once he had cracked his knuckles against Ghedan's skull. It was not a traditional method for forming the tool – but Zathrian felt that there was some justice within it. Perhaps, if he was lucky, his Clan might feel the same way.
The camp had been quiet ever since the tragic incident – Ynaevir was still kept bound within Zathrian's aravel; only allowed outside under the supervision of two hunters so that he might relieve himself in the bushes a few times per day – some days he refused to be ushered out and instead soiled his leathers. Despite the eerie sort of silence that permeated from between their landships, however, it seemed as though the news of their craft had spread throughout the camp – and with it, rumors of its intent. Depending on what stories the listeners had been told, some looked on with scowls and angry leers; others that heard what Zathrian hoped was closer to the truth seemed to be more curious of his course of action rather than enraged. For that much, he was grateful.
Ynaevir, through the entire process, had been silent.
Not a word left his lips – save for the rare moments he spent sleeping – and his pale green eyes continued to stare into some far off and nonexistent plane no matter how hard Zathrian tried to draw his attention back. The boy was only a few shades shy of comatose; even Danyla was beginning to see it. When the time came to brand the boy, no one among the Clan offered any protests.
Unbeknownst to his Clan, Ynaevir had spent all of his time deep within prayer.
His lips barely twitched along to ancient words that he did not know; a mere breath announcing their utterance. His skin – already pale compared to that of his Clan mates – had drained itself of what little pigment it had carried before. He did not eat or sleep; he did not drink – instead sputtering on whatever large spoon of stream water or broth that his caretakers tried to feed him. His silent mutterings and the fluttering of ashen lips never ceased… not until, quite suddenly, Ynaevir went silent and fell still. He remained this way, unresponsive and utterly devoid of interest in the world around him, until the morning that Zathrian approached him.
Pale green eyes flicked up to his Clan's leader, glimmering with a secret he couldn't recall how to voice but knew all the same.
"Ynaevir," Zathrian stated his name in a way that should have seemed paternal, but the young elf before him knew too much already. The boy offered no reply – instead choosing to stare into Zathrian. "Come, it is time for your vallaslin," there was something in his voice that Ynaevir did not like, but he pushed it aside. This was to be his path – he had seen it in those endless eyes; the gaze that peered back at him from the darkest shadows in the nighttime. He heard it inside of all of the whispers in his skull; every voice that tried to plead one course of action or another.
He would do anything for the voices to let him alone… the eyes knew this.
Zathrian did not.
Ynaevir was sat upon a stool carved from the bones of harts and halla; it was a sacred seat used only for the purpose of bringing one of the blood to adulthood. As though it might have sensed the oddity in its occupant and the nature of the ceremony, it seemed to Ynaevir as though the stool made itself as uncomfortable as it possibly could. Edges of carefully carved bone dug into his hips and thighs; it seemed that even if he resisted the urge to shift his ankles about that his calves would still find themselves scraped by the sheer will of the stool itself.
Nevertheless, the young elf lad sat in silence and stared ahead.
He could hear the bubbling of his vallaslin – something he knew that he should not be receiving – but try as he might, he couldn't make out any of the whispered conversations, save for the utterances inside of his own head.
'You're not worthy,' they would hiss, 'This is a means to an end,' another would add.
His eyes stared through the drawn and creased faces of his Clan mates; he looked past them and searched beyond the tree-line. His ears merely rang with a drowning intensity; he didn't hear Zathrian announcing the ancient rites, nor pay him any mind as the most ancient of their people came before him and cupped his chin in a single palm. It was only when his face was lifted so that his eyes might meet Zathrian's that Ynaevir flicked his gaze to the bald elf, green eyes boring individual holes through the olden man.
He barely felt the cuts and slices to his flesh; focusing instead at the miniscule, shriveled tear duct of Zathrian's left eye. He felt the wash of warm red blood slowly flowing over his cheek bones as rivets and – as the case was for one side of his face, chunks – were cut clean of their sinew and bindings to his face. His bare chest and belly were soaked with blood long before his vallaslin was finished; by the time the intricate and deep markings reached his cheek bones, Ynaevir's lithe frame was coated with a sheen of sweat that smelled purely of animalistic instinct. When mixed with his blood, the smell itself could almost spark something feral in the air between his clanmates.
Now and then, seated with his fists resting on each knee, Ynaevir would feel the too-light plats and pluts of still wet pieces of flesh as they fell about his lap and wrists. Blood pooled inside of his navel and lingered before traveling lower and soaking into the waistband of his short clothes. He remained still; he was silent – something that Zathrian would never say that he regretted… Instead, hours passed, and the low mutters of the Clan died off long before Ynaevir's markings were completed. Zathrian kept carving; kept painting – continuing the ancient markings down the boy's form until he reached the small of his ribs. By the time he was finished, Ynaevir was blue in the lips for loss of blood… but his vallaslin was completed.
From just beyond the root of his dark hair, Ynaevir's new and still bloodied markings extended down and wrapped around his cheekbones and down over his collarbones and single pectoral; extending beyond and reaching in determined, strong roots to the very ends of the small of his ribs. The markings of spared flesh and that gouged from the other side competed for relevancy; Ynaevir found himself too tired to contend with such feelings.
Instead, he merely stared ahead… with a conviction that unnerved Zathrian.
Ynaevir's markings took up most of the day.
Some of the Clan would come and go – adhering to their daily duties and stopping by to 'offer their support' as often as such duties might allow. Danyla knew what they were doing; they were gawking. This had never been done before; not within the Clan's memories. Part of her had difficulty accepting that it should have been done at all, but how else was she to hope to save him – if not for this course of action? She had a painful, icy and spreading sort of knowing inside of her… and she resented the knowledge that it brought with it.
Ynaevir could not live here any longer. He would have to go with another Clan.
Her hopes began to crumble like a stack of bread crumbs left to the wind – scattering themselves and burrowing down somewhere deep in the foliage, unseen and forgotten. Hours passed, and yet Danyla still stood – watching on as Zathrian carved up her boy's face and fit him with markings that should never have graced his flesh. He was a gentle boy; she would insist as much until the day that she died… why did he have to be marked with vengeance?
Tears streamed freely down her cheeks as she looked on. More than once, she found herself begging and wishing deep within her soul that Ynaevir might cry out and put an end to their torment – that he might prove himself unworthy, somehow, of a mark that all knew was merely a placeholder for his demise.
She liked to fancy that she caught his eye at least once or twice during his ceremony… she liked to think that perhaps he might have been able to draw comfort from the minute nods she offered; the bare twitchings of her lips. Instead, he seemed to peer through her – to some distant place that none but the damned might ever see. As Zathrian continued the vallaslin, Danyla crumpled to her knees and prostrated herself before her Clan and the Gods – lips wrapping reverently around ancient words she knew not the meanings of; only that they felt right within her heart.
By the time the last of Ynaevir's flesh had been etched away, Danyla couldn't see any longer for the tears that filled her eyes. He was gone; even if he sat before her – she knew that she would never again hold him as a mother holds her child.
She knew that he had some dreadful purpose.