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[I HAPPEN TO KNOW THAT SOMEBODY WANTED SEBRIS.]
Sebastian hisses as the cool paint touches his skin, fingers jerking and tapping against the equally chill floor of the mansion beneath his back. He regrets stripping to the waist in that moment. The stone has warmed some from his skin, but with the addition of the brush along the line of his collarbone, he can feel every point where the heat has not yet penetrated.
“Do not move,” Fenris says, kneeling beside him and staring with furrowed brow at the path of the brow. His touch is light, slow, determined.
Sebastian reminds himself firmly that this was his suggestion, even if the form it is taking was unintended. Fenris needs to practice his letters; what better way than to write out the Chant?
And what better canvas than one of the few tangible things that Fenris focuses on? His blade was too small, wine bottles too round as well. Freedom cannot be painted on, nor can vengeance. His shackles, though Sebastian knows he still carries them in spirit if not in fact, are out of reach of curious fingers.
So instead, Sebastian allows his body to be used as a canvas.
Fenris’s lips move and for a moment, Sebastian is uncertain as to what he is breathing. But the breaths turn to whispers and he makes out,
“Those who had sought to claim
Heaven by violence destroyed it. What was
Golden and pure turned black.
Thsoe who had once been mage-lords,
The brightest of their age,
Were no longer men, but monsters.”
Threnodies, Sebastian thinks with a barely restrained laugh. It is an appropriate choice for the task, at least; it was only after returning from the Vimmarks that Fenris asked Sebastian for lessons in the Chant as well as in his letters, and he had asked, specifically, to start with the tale of the magisters and their transgressions. And now it had led to this - offering up his skin as paper.
A part of him wishes that Fenris was not inscribing him with words about magisters, but the rest just shivers and relaxes as the brush glides on.