"Set in Stone"
Disclaimer: *snorts* Heh, that's a laugh.
"And this, your Majesties," Yellion gestured towards a row of dark tents with a bob of his head, "is where the Calormene people go for skin inking."
"Skin inking?' Peter Pevensie echoed, what little of his face still visible from beneath his smoke-blue cloak appearing slightly apprehensive, "You mean a tattoo?"
"A tattoo, sire?" guide Yellion flicked his ears, and Peter reached up to gently scratch them.
"A tattoo is a permanent inking of the body, using needles inserted beneath the skin, to make pictures or designs, usually to represent something important to the ink-ee," Edmund Pevensie, the younger boy, rattled off easily, his own face covered with the hood of his pitch riding cape, "In Spare-Oom, only people of questionable backgrounds were known to have them done."
"Ah," their guide said at last, his brow disappearing into his forelock, which was quite an admirable feat, for a Horse, "I think I must correct your Majesties in this knowledge, then. When one receives an ink, it is typically the deepest form of an oath that one can make."
'Skin deep," quipped Edmund, with Peter's elbow in his ribs serving as his only reward.
"Ahem, yes, Majesties. An ink is a very important marking in Calormen. If a knight serves and truly loves his master, for example, he typically has a full-back ink, with the name of his master, perhaps a family tree. It is an art-- one that is highly looked upon in these lands. Any man wearing an ink is immediately respected-- no matter what the ink is about," here he paused in hesitation, then admitted, "It's excruciatingly painful, they say."
"I'd say so, too!" Edmund shuddered at the thought.
"Seems an odd custom," Peter murmured, reaching out his hand to finger the design examples littering the stall entrance, a few of mighty birds, others mere symbols, and a scant group of markings that looked remarkably like lions..."Yet these drawings are remarkably intrinsic. Very captivating..."
"Forget about it, Peter," Edmund said loudly, pulling up beside him and slapping his hand away from the display, "The last thing you need is a picture of your favorite food scrawled over your shoulder. Or whatever. The point is that you'll heavily regret such a rash decision once you find that you no longer care."
"I was only looking, Ed."
"Ha! 'Only looking'... What would Mum say? Set an example for us young ones, would you Peter? Aslan's mane," he hissed, pulling the hood so that it came down farther over his eyes, "You'll try and get one, then Lucy will want one, because you have one, then Susan will be convinced its stylish and she'll want one, too--"
"-- And you?" wondered Peter, patting the neck of his mount as he trotted alongside his brother, "You'd get one if the rest of us did?"
"I most certainly will not, because you, most certainly, will not. I tell you, you'll regret having an egg needled into your skin not five minutes after you've finished."
Peter stuck out his tongue. 'Egg, indeed.'
"It's my skin, Ed.'
"And, once more, it seems that I shall have to save it," the Just King muttered grouchily, not noticing the amused looks that his own mount, Philip, seemed to be sending him, "Have you any idea how much it hurts to have hot ink drilled into your very flesh?" and then, before Peter could actually reply, went on, "It's settled, then. You are out to kill yourself. Come along, Peter, we have meetings to attend."
"Don't call me that. Please? It's disgustingly cutesy for someone going to debate a peace treaty."
Peter snorted in laughter at his brother's scandalized tone and allowed himself to be guided away from the colorful pictures of body art, but cast another glance back as they left, his mind awhirl with ideas...
"What do you think, Ed? What's something that would represent you?"
"If you're still on that inking tangent..." came the dark warning, without a single effort to turn and face him.
"I'm not!" Peter said quickly, sitting up on the bed to stare innocently at his little brother's back while it hunched over a paper- quilted desk, "It only got me to thinking; What sort of image would you use to represent yourself? Not only for an ink, but for a standard or a seal or something."
"How about a head?" Edmund signed off at the end of one sheet and deftly flipped another over for scanning, "Bashing against a wall?"
Peter rolled his eyes.
"I mean, really, Ed."
"No, really, Peter. That's what I feel portrays me to the "T" at this moment, especially taking into account the past few weeks. You haven't let up on that dratted subject since we got back to the Cair."
"I'm only curious..."
"Curiosity killed the-- Ah, um. Lady Grimk!" Edmund arose suddenly from his seat as his eye caught sight of our newest arrival, the Lady Grimk who was, fitted in irony, a Cat. Ed's ears warmed a lovely scarlet as he fumbled a slight bow and shot his brother a very dirty look for not giving him an earlier notice, "How may we help you, madam?"
The grey feline blinked lazily with her bright golden eyes, tail swishing majestically behind her.
"Your Royal sisters wish for an audience with your Majesties. It appears they had a late tea break arranged, and wondered if you would join them."
"Well, I-- that's very kind of them, make no mistake, but I-- We-- have quite a bit of paperwork, you see, and--"
"Shall I tell the Queens that the Kings are otherwise engaged?"
Edmund rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, pressing into his face rather violently, his lips a thin, strained line, and his movements only proved to Peter that Edmund's head was, in fact, bothering him again. Most likely from those silly papers.
"King Edmund would lovea break from his work," Peter piped up with a a very un-regal grin, before King Edmund could dare to draw a wearily responsive breath "He's positively famished, as a matter of fact."
"Peter..." Edmund growled, but it held no real threat, and sounded more like an exhausted whine.
"Queen Lucy wished for your Majesties to know that there is freshly buttered toast and salted eggs with the tea," blinked Lady Grimk, and Peter and Edmund absentmindedly licked their lips.
What King, after all, isn't a hungry boy first and foremost?
"...Tell them, we're coming," Edmund assented at long last, a small, grudging grin aimed at Peter, "We just have to finish up this one, last-- "
"-- We're coming right now," the older boy cut in, jumping up from the bed and wrapping an arm around his brother's thin middle, his fingers purposefully tickling Edmund's side, "Family comes before work, after all.'
"Bother family, you great oaf," Edmund wheezed out, slightly breathless as he restrained his giggles and yanked Peter's hands off his stomach, "You're just hungry."
"And you as well, little hypocrite," Peter retorted teasingly, his grin growing evilly as Edmund's stomach started up a rather loud round of borborygmi. Edmund embarrassedly folded his arms over his middle, pink tinting his cheeks.
"Oh, shut up."
"That could be the colour of your standard," Peter said suddenly, like he had chanced upon a great epiphany, and Edmund looked up at him in wary wonder.
A step was put between the two, as a precaution.
At Edmund's enraged howl, many servants stepped sharply back to the walls of the hallway, watching in amazement as two, twin blurs of red and blue shot by, the red laughing merrily all the way down to the gardens...
"I've said it once, and I'll say it again, Edmund; Narnia isn't going to run out of toast."
"Gurmfk" was Lucy's only slightly intelligible response.
"Oh, leave him be," Peter said contentedly, having gotten his hands on the salt shaker again while Susan wasn't looking and blessed his eggs with another unhealthy measure of sodium, "He's probably going to be two feet taller by the time he wakes up tomorrow."
Edmund couldn't help but grin around a mouthful of soggy toast.
"Pmfkng!" he exclaimed elatedly, saluting his brother with his chalice of hot chamolile.
Susan's face was the picture of disgust, fine nose wrinkled and mouth set to a very firm frown, which served to turn on Lucy as she giggled at her brothers' antics, "Honestly, is it too difficult to eat with some manners? Or, at least, a fork?"
"I'm eating with a fork, Susan," Peter pointed out.
"You, Peter, are eating with a forklift."
Edmund snorted tea through his nose and gagged, leaning heavily on his little sister while she slammed a hand in the center of his back to clear his toast-blocked air passage.
"'M fine," he gasped out, eyes still watering with glee, "Forklift...ha..."
Peter pouted down at his eggs, stabbing once, though without much feeling, into the center of his snack, "...So, I've been thinking lately--"
"Oh, no you don't!" Edmund said sharply, slamming his chalice back down on the low table, positioning his legs so that they rested beneath him on the pillow seat, "You've only now shut up about that subject, so don't you dare bring it back up!"
"You make it sound like I've been discussing it day and night!"
"That's because you have, you great lummox! You even talk about it in your sleep!"
"What subject?" asked Lucy, "What are you two on about?"
"Peter wants a tattoo," Edmund said bluntly, causing Susan to drop her cup sideways into the grass.
"Peter wants WHAT?"
"A tattoo. He saw the ink stands back in Calormen, and he hasn't stopped thinking about it since then."
"Just a small one," Peter mumbled under his breath, "Something symbolic. Nothing too flashy..."
"Oh, Peter, what would mother say?" lamented Susan, tears gathering in her eyes, "Do you know what sort of men get those? Vandals! Thieves! Pirates!"
"It means something different in Calormen," Peter tried to assure her, "For them, it's a thing of honour--"
"Of COURSE a Calormene would think it's honourable!" Susan was practically shrieking now, quite beside herself, "This is Calormen we're talking about! The nation who murders our people in their sleep!"
"Actually, I think Peter might look fairly dashing with one," Lucy said slowly, considering.
"You see?!"Edmund sprang to his feet, pointing dramatically at the youngest of the four, "I TOLD you she'd be next in line! I said, didn't I, that if you started up on your ridiculous campaign for one then she'd follow suit! Well, let me tell you, little sister, that the man who brings a needle within a mile of you will be severely punished!"
"That's very sweet, Edmund," Lucy beamed up at him, picking up the napkin from her lap, "Now come here: you have jam all over your face."
Edmund sat back down in a huff, permitting his younger sister's ministrations.
"Oh, Peter," Susan said again.
"Now listen to me. All of you," Peter began, his tone reflecting his High King self, "I've told Ed that this skin is my own. If I'm going to mark it, then that's that. I won't get something that is blatantly obvious, if that's what upsets you so much, but seeing as they're used to represent loyalty and are practically a free pass through any Calormen checkpoint, I don't see why I shouldn't."
"Because it's not your skin," Edmund argued, gently pushing away Lucy's hands, though his tone was sharpening, "Not really. It's Aslan's. It's Narnia's. But it's never going to fully be yours again. None of us have that luxury."
Peter looked at Edmund for a moment, the offered a wry smile.
"Well, if it's not mine, I should probably signify that, shouldn't I?"
"Then let your actionsshow that!" Edmund yelled, on his feet again before any of them could so much as blink, "For the love of Aslan, if it's a free pass in Calormen that you want so badly I will be the one to be marked, but do not think so lightly of the decision! It isn't something you can take back! Did you know that the reason so few of the Calormenes possess those inkings is because so very few survive the process at all? What part of 'excruciatingly painful' didn't penetrate your thick skull?" he glared down at his brother, chest heaving, eyes flashing in anger, "It hurts. It hurts more than any human being should have to endure!"
"I can handle it," Peter said, firmly, "We've been through worse, you know."
Lucy opened her mouth to say something, but was violently steamrolled by another launched attack from Edmund.
"I know, but you don't, it seems! 'We've been through worse?!' Just what makes you want to try and top that? You arrogant prat!"
"Edmund!" Lucy interjected sternly, grasping his wrist and jerking it roughly to capture his attention, "That's enough! Can't you see that Peter is going to try to get one regardless of what we tell him? Name-calling won't help."
Edmund let a sharp breath through his nostrils, flaring them alarmingly, but he did not speak again, and Lucy took the opportunity to continue with a wide-eyed Peter while the younger brother collapsed back down at her side, his hand still in hers.
"Peter," Lucy said softly, "do you really want this so badly? Is it really something that, like Edmund said, actions alone cannot prove?"
"Lucy-!" Susan tried to cut in, alarmed at the direction of the conversation, but Edmund shot her a look, and she uneasily settled back into her cushion, watching the exchange with sharp eyes.
Peter shifted on his legs, cold eggs long forgotten, and played with the slightly frayed fabric around the cuff of his leggings.
"To the Calormenes...An ink is the ultimate length one can go to, in order to prove their devotion. And I... I'd like to hope, that my faith, in Aslan, is so ultimate a thing, that I could show it to our neighbors in a way that they understood and respected..."
He looked up at his little brother from the hands he had folded in his lap, and desperately sought out his eyes.
"Ed, I'm not saying that I'd give up on doing as Aslan wants me to-- I'm only saying that I'm trying to prove it in as many ways as I can. I'll wear the ink. AndI'll be Aslan's servant-- Narnia's servant-- till the end of my days."
He tried to reach out and take Edmund's other hand, but the dark-haired boy pulled away and got to his feet for a third time, slowly now, squeezing Lucy's hold on him before releasing it. From the four feet or so difference in height, the younger boy towered ominously above them, eyes turned black as he bore his gaze into his older brother's.
"Your days are in short supply, then."
And he stormed from the garden, not bothering to answer when they called after him.
It was only a year later that the High King returned from his second delegation in Calormen.
Slamming the courtyard gates open, the assembly of Rabbits, Cats, Horses, and the rest of Peter's personal Guard, hustled through the entrance, their burden hefted with a mother's care between two Centaurs. Gryphons wheeled overhead with anxious shrieks, Hawks and Crows cawed and shrilled with agitation, and, in the midst of all the ruckus, the Faun Tumnus stomped one angry hoof.
"King Edmund! Queen Lucy! Tell them to bring the Cordial at once to his bed chamber! At once, sir!"
The poor Cheetah Lieutenant to whom this was addressed cowered in light of the Faun's anger and raced from the cobble stoned area, his tail flicking as he sprinted away into the weaving halls of the Cair.
Tumnus exhaled, scratched one horn with a shaking hand, and turned on the Centaurs.
"To his rooms! Take him to his rooms! The King and Queens will meet you there! Go!"
Their litter's passenger groaned as they set to motion, but the Squirrel perched on its edge hushed the occupant and swabbed their sweat-beaded brow with twitchy concern;
"There, there, Your Majesty. You're all right. Your royal siblings will see to you. Don't you worry..."
If Peter was, at all, aware of his surroundings, he no doubt felt worse, rather than better, at this statement.
"King Edmund is coming, your Majesty."
"'S not an egg...Ed..."
The Squirrel met the confused eyes of the Centaurs.
"'Egg-head?' Is that not an insult the Just King taught to us?"
"Perhaps His Majesty dreams of those Aslan-Forsaken Calormenes," the Bay Centaur thought aloud, easing the litter up a small flight of stairs.
'Yes, they did look like egg-heads, with those ridiculous head wrappings," the Palomino reminisced, and the surrounding company could not hold back a snort or two, even in their current situation. They were in a sort of hysteria, if you would.
Nor were they the only ones.
King Edmund ran full pelt up to their side, the Queens barely visible specks farther down the hall, slowed considerably by their long trains, and his hand shot out to feel the forehead of his older brother: hot, sticky, pale, though his cheeks were flushed a bloody red.
"How long as he been like this?"
"His Majesty complained of some pain in his back not two nights ago. When he awoke he was overcome with fever. We set back to Narnia as soon as we realized it would become serious."
"... Pain in his back?" King Edmund sounded oddly dangerous, for such a softly voiced question.
"Did you bother to investigate this 'pain in his back'?" Again, the Guard felt as though they were treading on unfamiliar, unfriendly ground, though not one of them could begin to guess why.
"Well, he cried out whenever we attempted to move him, Sire... We feared we were injuring him..."
"So you didn't investigate it?" Were they being interrogated? Surely not...
"Well, no. No, your Majesty. We did not."
By now the Queens had pulled up next to the group and the strangely dark aura that had been swimming threateningly around them seemed to diminish. Somewhat.
"Lucy. You have your cordial?"
"Yes," Queen Lucy panted, holding up the glistening bottle in her small, pale hand.
"Good. Let's get him in his bed first- there's something I need to see."
Together, the Centaurs, the Faun Tumnus, and the entire Royal Family squeezed into the High King's private chambers, halting just beside the enormous, fluffy bed in the center of the back wall. The sheets had recently been made, though everyone present could tell, by the fresh wrinkles stretched across the silken sheets, that it had been slept in for the past few weeks, while the High King had been away in Calormen.
King Edmund cleared his throat.
"Thank you, good Centaurs, if you would aid me in flipping His Royal Stupidity onto his stomach? Something tells me he'll be far more comfortable that way..."
With the utmost care, the High King of Narnia was rolled off of the litter and onto his face with a muffled, "Mmf!" His light, baby-blue cotton shirt stuck peculiarly to the skin of his shoulder blades.
"Again, many thanks to you, my good Centaurs. And to you, Master Tumnus. If you will excuse us now, there is something my sisters and I need to resolve."
There was no arguing with the deadly quiet that draped over his "request" and the guards backed hastily from the chamber, knowing when it was best to retreat, rather than question their King's motives for wanting to face his weakened brother alone.
Lucy couldn't help but think it was beautiful.
True, the skin around it was inflamed in protest, the bright red making it look like the mark itself was bleeding, but the design itself was rather lovely.
Shocked, they had watched as Edmund simply pulled out his large hunting knife from his left boot and approached the bed with it poised in the air, then simply gripped the tail end of Peter's shirt and ripped the blade smoothly through the thin fabric until all of their eldest brother's back was laid bare for the three to fully view.
There was absolutely no color in the design, save for the flush of his puffed, infected flesh, the pigments inserted were entirely black, with blank spaces left in some outlines to represent a contrasting white.
They were wings-- one as dark as night on his right shoulder, the other only made visible by a slight shadowing of black around its edges on his left. Betwixt the two was a simplistic, three-point crown, and the traced image of a lion head rising above it. Below the head and the crown, a pattern of three, thin lines, followed the path of his spine, trailing off to a point just before it could vanish into the waist of his breeches: A picture of Rhindon.
"But what are the wings for?" Susan asked, once she had found her voice again. Lucy and Edmund looked blankly at her. She blushed and attempted to pull herself together.
"Well, I mean, I know why he would have his sword and a crown- It's his loyalty to Aslan and to Narnia, right? But why the wings?"
"Who knows what Peter was thinking? He's the one mad enough to get an ink in the first place," Edmund groused, but Lucy thought his eyes might have been a bit too bright to simply be angry with their older brother.
Shaking her head, she uncorked the Cordial and made to lift it up to Peter's slack mouth, but Edmund reached out and patted her hand away.
"Ed?" she asked.
He cleared his throat for a second time.
"The idiot's come this far... might as well see if he can pull out of it by tomorrow morning. If he doesn't, we'll give him a drop. But seeing as he's already been through so much for it..."
Lucy re-corked the glass container without further protest and smiled knowingly up at her brother.
"He'll be happy to know you gave him that chance," she said, hugging his side.
Edmund gave a watery cough.
"I still don't like this," Susan announced, staring at the ink with no small amount of trepidation, "It's barbaric-- It's like-- Like war paint or something..."
"Well, lucky that you won't ever have to see it again. Unless Peter starts bucking up and feels more comfortable with going shirtless in practice," Edmund kissed the top of Lucy's head and released her, "You two go ahead and go back to bed. I'll stay here tonight and keep watch on him."
"I'll have someone bring you some cold water. For his back," Lucy kissed his cheek, then hovered next to his ear, "Thank you. For understanding."
"I don't understand," Edmund whispered back, canine gleaming in his lopsided grin, "But I don't suppose I ever will. I'll just have to put up with him, won't I?"
With a small laugh, and a second kiss pressed to his pinking cheek, Lucy and Susan left their brothers to get some much-deserved rest.
His wings fluttered madly in the hot sun as he swung Rhindon around in the air, and was blocked just in time as Edmund circled his own blades around to redirect the broad sword's aim off to the side of their skirmish. With a wide grin, Peter corrected his step to go around fully with his blade and reconnected with Edmund's twin swords on the other side of his rotation with a ringing clang!
"Any more of this and you'll not be the White Barbarian King anymore!" Edmund teased, zipping easily around him on lighter, slimmer legs and smacking his ink with the flat of one of his blades in passing, "You'll blend right in on the streets of Calormen!"
"And you, Fair One, will forever remain a pasty contrast!" Peter came after him, sword cutting the air beween them with rapid, powerful strokes.
"Pasty? HA! I'll have you know that this year I've managed light tan!"
"So, what? You've gone from translucent to white? Is that really considered an improvement?"
"Jealous! You're so, insanely jealous of my perfect complexion!"
"Now you sound like a girl!"
For a while they circled one another, calling out taunts and jeers that only managed to make the other's smile grow until both nigh split their faces in glee.
"Halt! Halt, Majesties," Orieus, their General called at long last, "It is well for one day. Though, perhaps next time, you could focus less on your childish bickering and more on actual swordplay."
Which meant that "next time," they'd be hauling water barrels up and down the castle steps to lend them incentive to do as they were intended during their teacher's precious practice time.
The Kings sighed heavily, "Yes, General."
The mighty Centaur nodded his head, tail flicking behind him as though to swat an aggravating fly, "Dismissed then, Majesties."
The three bowed to one another, and the brothers left the grounds side by side into the cool shade of the pavillon.
"Ah! That's better. The sun was hot today," Peter breathed a sigh of relief and sank down on a stone bench, letting his back rest against the cold surface of the smooth granite behind him.
"If I've told you once, I've told you a million times to wear a shirt during practice. Really, Peter," Edmund plopped down at his right, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the castle wall, "It is done healing by now, I trust?"
"Yes, Ed," Peter assured wearily, in a tone of voice that said he'd already answered this question about a million times, "It's been healed for about a month now, remember?"
Edmund grunted, settling more into his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.
Peter smirked and reached over, tugging the lobe of Edmund's left ear, making his brother howl and jerk to life again, his hands swatting his brother's away and clutching his ear protectively.
"And you? How're you healing up?" Peter asked innocently.
"It won't heal at all, if you keep tugging on it!" Edmund hissed, tenderly rubbing the loose flesh between a thumb and forefinger, "Aslan, Peter!"
"I still can't believe you had that done."
"And I still can't believe you tried to sneak thatinto the Cair," Edmund spat back, referring to the gleaming tattoo resting comfortably on Peter's shoulders, "When I said 'pain,' Peter, I had thought you at least had a mild idea of what that would mean."
"Hey, I didn't pass out until after I'd gone to bed that night. Unlike some."
"I didn't pass out!"
"You fell over in a dead faint the moment the needle touched your ear."
"I did not, and I'll prove it when I have the other one done. If I do have the other one done..."
"Please don't. I can't handle a third sister."
"It's not feminine, Peter."
"Many past Judges of Narnia have had them done. It's a symbol of my position as Narnia's Chief Justice."
"I think you like the fact that you can put jewelry in your ear.'
The scowl sank so deeply into his lips that Peter began to fear it would not be removed with anything but brute force.
"It's not jewelery either. It's--"
"-- It's a piece of silver. Lodged for decoration in your ear."
Edmund threw up his hands in despair, "I'm beginning to regret my decision to put it in my left."
"Why did you put it in your left? Why not your right?" It was a question that had only now seemed to pop into the High King's head, and he couldn't help but wonder, truly wonder, what Edmund's point had been in getting it.
"The same reason you put the black wing on your right instead of your left-- My left is typically where I get the best advice. My right is empty."
Peter smiled a little, thinking of their thrones, 'And my left has Susan."
"Exactly, Peter. Which is why your left wing is about as empty as her head is at times."
"Hey!" That seemed a little unfair, and Peter voiced his indignance directly.
"Don't deny it," his brother said, rolling his eyes exasperatedly, "You've seen how she's been eyeing that Calormene Prince lately... Prince Tabalash... Grab-A-Rash... Oh, bother."
"Yes. Him. She's been practically throwing herself at his feet most of the time."
It was Peter's turn to roll his eyes, but he did so with a grin.
"I think you've been feeling a little overprotective of her, is all."
"Me? Watch Lucywhen the Prince goes to kiss Su's hand. You'll notice her grip never leaves her dagger."
Peter laughed aloud, throwing back his head so sharply it nearly crashed into the stone wall, "Aslan, but I love you, Edmund."
Edmund stared at him for a long while, then quietly sat back at his side, fingering the silver loop threaded through one, pale ear, dark eyes lost in the expanse of the sunlit courtyard just beyond the shade, and he smiled softly in his thoughts.
"Your actions alone were enough to tell me that," he brought an arm up to wrap around Peter's shoulders, and rested his forehead against the blackened surface of his skin, "But I suppose a reminder once in a while... works just as well."
Peter kissed his ear-- his left-- once, and tightened his hold.
"Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore, honour God with your body,"
I Corinthians 6: 19-20
I know this isn't the P.E chapter I promised (though that is about half-way through by now) but this one-shot just started pouring onto the page, and I had to move it before it slowed down the plot of my multi-chapter fic. I think you all have had quite enough of back-story in that, and are quite ready for some action. Aren't you?
The title is a play on the meaning of Peter's name ("Petrus"= "Rock"). I couldn't resist. ;D
This isn't a "don't get a tattoo" fic or a "tattoos are O.K' fic. This is simply a story about Peter's urge to show his love for Aslan, for Narnia, and for his steadfast brother. There are many opinions out there about whether or not tattoos are morally correct, as there are opinions on piercings. I'd say it depends, like everything else, on the true motives. Who is it for? Does He agree with it? Does it honour Him? Does it direct attention to Him and not to the one who had it done? Is it a whimsical fad or a proclamation?
Oh, and by the by, the fact that inking can kill you in Calormen is because they don't have modern technology for that sort of thing. The story isn't saying that tattoos can actually kill you in real life.
Tell me what you think! Are tattoos good or bad? Should Edmund have given Peter the Cordial anyway, to get rid of the ink, and to stop Peter's pain? Was Edmund's ear piercing due to personal whim, or was it actually to draw honour to his brother and to Aslan? The ending was fairly weak, so feel free to knock on that...
!! Reviews don't have to be long! One worded ones are fine. In fact, they're more than fine. I realize you're pressed for time, so type as little as you wish. ^__^ !!
Thanks for taking the time to read. I hope you all have a great week!
"Borborygmi"- the plural of "borborymus" or the sound that your stomach makes when it's hungry. You know... that burbling sound? Turn's out it actually has a scientific name after all...
Pronounced "bore buh rig m'eye'" or singular as "bore buh rig mus"