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It hadn’t hurt nearly as much as he’d been afraid it would.
Then again, there was a lot more blood than he thought there’d be, for such a small hole poked through the lobe of his right ear.
Angelo blotted at the stubborn stream again with a small wad of old cotton shirt that had already gone from white to mostly-red in the last few minutes. Earlobes didn’t have veins in them, did they? He hadn’t nicked something important, had he? From what Lucia had told him, he hadn’t expected much more than what you’d get from pricking your finger…. He took a closer look at his handiwork in his small mirror, didn’t actually see anything gushing, and simply pinched the lobe between thumb and forefinger while he counted to one hundred.
And since that did it—no more bleeding—he mopped away what had dried on his skin with a bit of warm water, and grinned to himself.
Now, what to put in his freshly-pierced ear? He pulled a small blue velvet pouch from the very back of the drawer in his nightstand, where he kept it carefully hidden behind his holy books and between the folds of an embroidered linen prayer cloth, and dumped its sparkling contents into a small plate that should have held the incense he also should have been burning that moment during the Abbey’s hour of silent twilight prayers.
He sorted with stained fingers through his collection of odd earrings, wheedled from the girls he’d kissed—or in some cases, just groped in hope of a kiss, or more—as a little memento, a barest token of their stolen moments. Yes!—he found the perfect one, the small pink spinel with the image of a rose carved into its top facet, the trinket from Valeria. She’d giggled and kissed him again—with a bit of tongue that time, too—when he’d begged it off her that moonlit night two months before.
“Whatever will you do with it?”
A wink. “Give it to me, and I promise I’ll show you.”
“Don’t let it be too long.” And she’d kissed him yet again and he’d floated away, the earring safely in an inner pocket.
The post hurt, being wiggled through his ear, but he gritted his teeth and poked until it had slipped through and he’d secured it. And now to see how it looked…. The grin went to a full-blown smile as he both tilted the mirror and tipped his head to see himself at every possible angle.
Yes, he liked it, and was betting that Rebecca—who’d let slip her fondness for gems in certain places on handsome men—would like it as well when he showed it to her.
Very well. He’d admired his reflection for long enough; now time for the other ear. He again picked up the triangular leather-needle that he’d borrowed from the sister who was in charge of mending and laundering the Templars’ uniforms, and held it for a moment in a candle flame. Then he took up the slice of cork, placed it behind his left earlobe, took a deep breath, and stabbed it through, dead center.
This one hurt more as the needle pierced through, but didn’t bleed nearly as much afterward. A good thing, as he doubted he had but ten minutes left before their Time of Prayer was over. Which earring now?—ahhh. Rebecca’s small platinum hoop with its tiny teardrop sapphire, the one she’d given to him specifically because she felt it matched his hair, and his eyes.
And in its new place, yes, it certainly did.
The gems certainly helped him look older—truly not thirteen (well, almost halfway to fourteen)—more… mature. Perhaps his new look would earn him fewer pats on the head from the lovely ladies of Simpleton, and more of the kind of … personal attention he currently preferred.
The pealing of the Abbey’s bells heralded the end of private prayer time, and called all men—monks, Templars, visitors—to the evening meal. When he stole one last look at himself in the mirror, the earrings suddenly seemed more obvious than he’d expected. Quickly he tugged at his hair, pulling it down just a bit, and forward; it was almost, but not quite long enough on the sides to fully hide the earrings’ sparkle.
Well, nothing he could do about it right now. For tonight, he’d just keep his head down, and then he’d just have to grow his hair a bit longer for the future. Besides, no one in the Abbey would notice anything about him anyway. After all, no one ever did.
He stood, smoothed his new blue uniform in place, fastened his equally-new Templar’s sword at his right hip, and left his tiny room.
***
Meals at Maella Abbey were never silent, even when they were supposed to be. Conversations buzzed around him, about piety and sacrifice, about the courage of those, be they pilgrims or mere travelers, who daily faced such terrible dangers on the roads from Peregrine Quay and onward to Simpleton and how vital the protection of the Abbey and its Templars were to such wanderers… about the poor quality of both wine and ale at Simpleton’s pub, and whether the Abbey should plant vineyards and produce their own vintage. There seemed to be a great many more men who would volunteer to work with the grapes in any new distillery than would to continue to guard any weary travelers.
He kept to himself—as always—while he ate, and instead thought about how long he’d have to wait tonight before he could slip out his window and pay a few visits to his lady-friends in town…. Planning his evening was much more fun than all that boring talk anyway, wasn’t it?
Marcello, halfway down the communal dining table, was watching him with narrowed eyes. Angelo took back what he’d thought earlier about no one at the Abbey ever noticing anything about him.
His brother always did.
Best he finish his meal, and quickly, and be on his way before Marcello had a chance to say or do anything. Between his hasty bites—a shame, as the lamb shank, a rare treat in the Abbey, was delicious and he wished he could have enjoyed it, with seconds—he reached up to absently swipe back a lock of not-really-long-enough hair that might, just might have been keeping Marcello from knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt what his younger brother had done.
Too late he realized his stupid mistake. He saw the change of expression flow over Marcello’s face, and gave up his attempt at finishing his meal, however tasty it might have been. With a hasty murmur, he excused himself of the knights flanking him, rose, and retreated for the door. But Marcello was there before him, blocking his way, his mouth compressed with distaste.
“A word with you, Angelo?” his brother forced out, through lips pressed so tight Angelo was amazed that the phrase had managed to escape them
He tried to push past, muttering, “I’m busy—”
Strong fingers closed around his elbow and jerked him to a halt. Marcello, years older, had several inches and quite a few pounds on him, and he’d learned early on the futility of any physical struggle against him. It never paid to fight against him in public anyway, as it only and invariably led to even deeper humiliation than what he was going through already. No one was even pretending not to watch the embarrassing tableau as it played out before them like theater; some, by the flush to their faces and slightly-averted eyes, seemed sorry for him, but the vast majority did not seem displeased that his latest infraction was being dealt with.
Marcello escorted him out, marching him through the hallways of the Abbey—at least the sisters he encountered had sympathy, not disdain, in their eyes for him—and finally down the stairs that led to the Abbey’s dungeon. “Stop right here.” Marcello finally released his hold on him at the center of the dank and dimly-lit room, to himself pace forward a few steps more, dark head bowed as if in contemplation. Angelo wondered what punishment Marcello was going to threaten him with this time, that he hadn’t threatened him with before, but as he sensed that feigning a bored yawn would not serve his best interests, he kept silent and at keen attention while he waited.
A long pause. At last Marcello spun about to face him, face peculiarly impassive, and addressed his younger brother in a tone that seemed deceptively normal, as if they were addressing the fine weather. Save, Angelo thought darkly, they never addressed the weather, fine or otherwise; or, in fact, much of anything at all but Angelo’s flaws. “Would you care to tell me what you have done?”
The words were out of his mouth before he even thought about what he was saying. “What do you think?”
A sudden flash of anger—an expression Angelo recognized far too easily—and his words were tight again. “I’ve warned you before—you are not to talk back to me.”
He didn’t care and stood his ground. “There’s really no rule against this.” He grazed fingers over one tender reddened lobe, feeling the gem securely fastened there. “I checked.”
“You are an idiot.” Marcello began to pace, slowly circling him; Angelo pivoted carefully to keep his brother in his line of sight. “Something doesn’t have to be stated overtly for you to know it’s wrong. It’s just not done.”
“A lot of things,” he muttered, shifting under his brother’s unsettling glower, “that just aren’t ‘done’ here, are.”
Marcello’s nostrils flared with the depth of the breath he took for control. At last he managed, “That’s not what we’re discussing. We are discussing you. And you—” He stepped forward, chastising finger directly in Angelo’s face—“are to remove those ridiculous earrings immediately, then go to the chapel to enter into a time of prayer for forgiveness for your flagrant disobedience.”
He threw back his shoulders and stared his defiance. “No.”
A half-step forward, his raised hand starting to curl into a fist, then Marcello found his equilibrium again. “Angelo.” His words were measured precisely, as if rehearsed, and for all the times Angelo had heard a similar lecture, they very well might have been. “I’ve been tasked to keep you in line. How am I to do that when you flagrantly violate everything a Templar is supposed to stand for? As long as you continue to bring shame and embarrassment to the Abbey, I’ll never be considered for Captain of the Guard.”
So that was it. “Well,” he snapped back, “your position here is not really my problem, is it—”
Lightning flashed in Marcello’s eyes and something in his face changed, to an expression Angelo had never seen before. He backstepped, but not quickly enough to avoid the coming blow. He was used to being backhanded and feinted toward the left; but this time, both of Marcello’s hands came up, to catch him on either side of his head. He struggled for a moment, wondering if his brother was actually going to box his ears like a little baby… and then there was a sudden flash of silver pain tearing through his flesh, and Marcello was stepping back, one fist closed but not as if to strike him…
Angelo yelped; his head swam for a moment and he was suddenly on his knees, looking up at how his brother towered over him from that angle, at the smug expression on his face, a conqueror’s glee that left Angelo feeling both helpless and furious in the same instant.
Wet heat streamed down the side of his neck; he reached up, touching at the source of the pain, and stared at fingers that came away bloody. He quickly groped upward again, closing his fingers over the ragged separation of flesh that was his earlobe torn in two. There was a lot more blood now than there had been before, streaming over his hand and down his wrist to soak his smartly-turned cuff.
Marcello, smiling, opened his fist to show him the pink spinel; for a moment Angelo wondered dumbly just how it had come into his brother’s possession. “Shall I remove the other for you now?” Marcello was asking, too softly.
His dazed suspension vanished, and anger flowed into the hollow places it had vacated. “Give it back.”
“Take it back.” Marcello tossed the spinel to the floor as his hand went to the hilt of his sword, in his eyes more than just a simple dare.
He surged to his feet, drawing his own sword, and lunged forward in answer. Marcello’s longer reach and more than a decade of practice spared him not the slightest chance of success. Scarcely more than one thrust and a few sad parries, and Marcello not only had him disarmed, Angelo’s sword flying across the dungeon to land with a metallic clatter yards away in a far corner, but his brother had him down, on his back, that sharp and polished blade a warning at his throat. He stilled completely, refusing to voice his capitulation, but knowing that he must give in.
“I suppose this method of discipline isn’t really in the ‘rules’ either—” Marcello’s mouth twitched, just slightly—“but as you know, one does what one must.” A deft move sheathed his sword, and he pretended to smooth a tunic not in the least disarranged by the brief fracas.
He spoke into the air, as if Angelo, at his feet, were literally beneath his notice. “I’ll ask the Captain to schedule you for more sword practice--obviously, you need a great deal of instruction. And your time in penitential contemplation will be increased. I’m sure I can find a priest who’ll be happy to supervise, to ensure adequate humility. For now, to your room—I’ll trust you know the way. And….” He shifted, sharply bringing down one heel on the little spinel he’d tossed away. The crystal shattered beneath his boot. “I trust you’ve learned your lesson.”
Angelo rolled to his knees, head bowed for only a moment, before he regained his feet. Marcello was already out the door, a swagger in his gait; even so, low-voiced, Angelo answered him. “Yes, I have. I surely have.”
***
He wasn’t the best at using his healing magic on himself, but as he cleaned himself up, he deliberately calmed his anger, detaching himself from the pain and humiliation. When his thoughts were stilled and he was ready, he sat on the edge of his bed, looked at his damaged reflection in his small mirror, and touched the tip of one finger to his torn flesh. A whispered prayer, and he was calling forth healing, letting it flow from that miraculous and incomprehensible well deep inside him; if asked, he might say it came from somewhere near his heart.
An odd pulse that came not from the fingertip focused on the damage but instead welled along sensory paths inside his skin, the dual sensations of stitching and heat, and he was done. But, damn, when he checked the mirror he saw he’d closed not only the rip Marcello had made in his ear, but the carefully placed piercing as well.
But no matter. He had a feeling that he would have the chance to do this again, probably more than once, and as they said, practice makes perfect. And there were ten more earrings to replace the spinel anyway--in fact, there was a fine bright topaz that Amanda had given him, that would probably spark in even greater contrast against his skin and hair than the small pink spinel had.
Angelo picked up leather-needle and cork, took a deep breath, and pierced his ear again.