The first cut is the most
important. It is always difficult to choose a place to start
and he considered the matter carefully as he watched the
quivering muscles of the Elf beneath him. As evenly as
Legolas tried to breath, as serene as he might seem to any
who might have seen his face, his eagerness was revealed in
his trembling.
Aragorn made no mention of it, knowing shame would bring a
blush of color to the ivory skin and it would ruin this
before it began. These matters were suited to one of a
meticulous nature and he touched the tip of his knife
against his lip as he considered. The sharp blade pricked
him and he licked the salty droplet away, amused that the
first blood spilled was his own. Yet he had thought on the
matter enough and so he began.
Always it started with the shallowest of cuts, only to draw
sweet color to the surface. The skin split easily beneath
the pressure of his blade and crimson swelled to the
surface, filling the fracture he had created. It did not
spill over, only gleamed wetly, that first line. The Elf did
not so much as inhale as the blade kissed his skin a second
time, drawing scarlet across his flesh to meet the first.
He had never done this with a Man, preferring to gift this
temporary beauty on the ageless skin of the Elven kind.
Neither freckle nor blemish stained the blank stretch of
skin beneath him, no beads of sweat to dilute any strands to
murky pink; only pure, clean lines of crimson.
Scarlet slowly filled his vision as he lovingly added more
shimmering lines, choosing the placement of each one with
the same thought and care as he had placed the first. Always
clever and delicate with his blade, though he knew could
have carved his name deeply into that canvas of flesh and
never raised a sound. Once, he might have done so, in his
eager youth, and afterward he might have tossed the knife
aside and taken the other in a vicious blurt of hot lust,
smearing both their bodies with gore as he spread the Elf
and took him, brutally, and the clear purity of the blood
would have been tainted, polluted with his seed.
Never had there been protest or distain at his actions, but
he had learned temperance nonetheless. Years it had taken
him to understand the delicacy and skill in this, the
creation of this beauty that would vanish by the morning
without so much as a scar to treasure. Such fleeting
loveliness had to be appreciated in this moment alone.
Another line, bisecting the others, a sweet contrast of
color on pale skin, and while Legolas would neither cry out
nor speak, wearing his tears like one might wear jewels, the
one who watched them raptly made a soft sound. Widened eyes
made the Man look youthful despite the lines worn into his
face and Aragorn nodded to him, gesturing for him to come
closer to them.
Gently, his own hand curved around another and he taught
nerveless fingers how to create art.
-Finis-
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