Temperate Penumbras - Part 8

Cele carefully sat in the chair beside him, the warmth of the fire far more welcoming than the icy man beside him. Regardless, he found his gaze continuously flickering to the prince as he read in silence. There was a tradition in the north – Fressia, Vion, Burke, and Simo - of tattoos. The general remembered hearing about them when he was still young. Sure, Ilysian soldiers often had one or two, oftentimes concealed with clothes, and oftentimes to indicate allegiance to a battalion or a fleet. But his father would tell tales of the painted northmen, how their irreversible body-art would creep from beyond their armor in battle, in places that no proper Ilysian would dare to mark themselves - ears, temples, hands, foreheads.

For a long time, Cele thought it to be an archaic and almost barbaric practice, especially when trying to imagine the northmen dressed in court-clothes, but during the 91st - when he first laid eyes on the indisputably regal King Gotthard, painted just like his men - the general had an arguably cathartic change of heart. He was certainly a sight to behold - distinguished, poised, overawing. When he pulled the wolf-faced helmet from his head, the dark blue triskelle, centered on his forehead, could be seen even from across the field. If Cele had seen a painted rendition of the man, perhaps he would’ve thought him to be a barbarian like the rest but witnessing with his own eyes the resplendence and resolve that King Gotthard exuded, he couldn’t dare come to such a conclusion. There was a certain amount of power in those blotches of ink, in the abstract designs, in their ancient origins.

It should’ve come as no surprise to the general that the young prince would be no exception to this practice. Intricate designs were painted all across his fair skin – his arms, his shoulders, his calves, his thighs - ancient and mystical symbols that dared to litter his body. Their blue color was hazy through the night gown, the outlines undefined but clearly present. There were a few that crept quite close to the most sensitive part of a man’s body, and he couldn’t help but wonder who the prince would’ve trusted with a job such as that - or more so, who he would’ve trusted to see him so intimately.

Cele averted his gaze before he grew too curious, his focus falling upon one that sat out almost indignantly.

“Why is that one black?” He asked, eyes on the crescent moon shape poked into his right wrist.

Heiko looked up in surprise, before following the general’s eyes.

“I should’ve known your eyes would be wandering,” he sighed.

Despite the vexingly accurate comment, Cele managed to remain stone faced.

“I thought Simonese ink art was blue.”

The prince turned back to his book, answering in a bored fashion.

“All Muses have black marks.”

Cele asked, “A crescent moon?”

“It’s not a crescent moon.” Heiko lifted his gaze once again to the general, brow cocked. “What sort of crescent moon has its negative space below it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t assume the Temple of Muses is beyond artistic liberties,” Cele countered.

“Your ignorance is appalling, general,” Heiko replied. “This is the symbol of Ozik.”

And then he sighed and stood, closing his book and setting it on a side table.

“I’m going to retire. Take the couch or don’t, but do not dare to enter the warmth of my bed.”

Cele forced himself to keep his eyes on the fire as the prince folded into the blankets of his bed. He listened to his breathing for a while, becoming more and more relaxed, until eventually, he knew the young man was asleep.

And even then, he remained in his chair, watching the flames consume the time, allowing his thoughts to drift away.