This one act of consecration is what I ask of you. [NSFW: bloody business]
These are not a surgeon's hands. They are neither soft nor smooth, nor delicate.
These hands are a callused craquelure of scars, the marks of countless thorns and fangs, from the tiniest pearlescent pock-marks of spider bites to the line marking where my thumb once dangled by a mere strip of skin.
These are not a surgeon's hands but they are steady, strong, and sure. They do not move with the depth of expression a painter might use but they are precise and sensitive to the life beneath them.
Mine are a botanist's hands and they must suffice for this sacred task.
The idea was his. My heart leapt when he asked me to do this, to carve my mark into his flesh that he might wear it as proudly as I bear my tattoos. It sank over the past months as I tried and tried and failed to make it look right. I'm no artist; my "drawings" are simply illustrations. Technically precise. There's no heart in them.
Thank the Light for the Silvergrins. Without Havoc's help I'd be cutting a diagramme into Khaavren's chest right now.
The scalpel slides through his skin with unnerving ease. My lover's flesh offers so little resistance to the movement of the blade. He was so excited for this, my falcon, my heart. Still is: the gasps and groans and sibilant inhalations he makes are as much pleasure as they are pain.
There's so much blood.
It wells up around the blade and pours across his bare torso, pools at his sternum, drenches my hands. We've gone through cloth after cloth already to soak it up as I slice away one strip of skin after another. So much blood. I can't help but worry when he laughs- worry that he's lightheaded from exsanguination rather than from pain, worry that we should stop and let him call trickles of healing Light to staunch its flow. But he trusts me, and I trust him; so I keep cutting and he keeps bleeding. When he convulses, I stop, and cool his face with damp, clean linen until he's caught his breath and the excision begins anew.
I won't wear his ring. Instead I wear his symbol - the honeybee and the sun-in-splendour - carved into and through my body. No one can take that from me. Even death will not sever that vow.
I won't let him wear my ring. Instead he'll wear my symbol - the white rose in bloom - carved into and through his body. No one can take that from him. Even death will not sever that vow.
Actions are more important than words, my love. We know each others' hearts, ambitions; we've seen five years together already and have so many more to come. Someday I will wake you with song amid linden sprigs and red campion. For now, when strangers ask what they have lately been wont to ask, I'll simply not bother to correct them.
Our blood anoints our love. No priest-blessed water or perfumed oil could be more sacred than the warm red of your life on my hands.