My Heart on My Skin by oshun

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Fingon Wants a Graphic Symbol of his Love

Leviticus 19:28: “You shall not etch a tattoo onto yourselves.”

In the aftermath of a downpour, the pavements of the lower city glittered with a dark, oily sheen. The pungent miasma of the crowded warren of the streets and alleys, filled with markets, shops, and working people’s housing, had been considerably diluted by the rain. Findekáno’s sensitive nose was grateful. He was accustomed to staying higher up in Tirion in the elite residential neighborhood adjacent to the palace complex and the city center.

This was one reason that he had brought his cousin Ingo with him instead of his brother, who would have been more likely to complain and ask a lot of judgmental questions about what kind of business could only be accomplished in this unsavory part of town. And, worse yet, when Turvo discovered the reason, he would have been adamantly opposed and tried to talk him out of it. He could hardly have asked Tyelkormo, who would have made fun of him and who would be a highly inappropriate candidate on so many levels. So, Ingo was the only choice available.

“Spill it! I can tell you are about to burst. What’s the errand?” Ingo asked, with a conspiratorial grin. “It has to be good to bring us here of all places.”

“Well,” drawled Findekáno, allowing himself a brief moment to tease Ingo’s curiosity. “This is the only area in Tirion where one can find practitioners of the ancient art of decorating the body using paint and a needle. Many adepts of this, as you may know, are actually of the Teleri, but I have an appointment to meet a Noldorin artist today, highly recommended by a groom from the equestrian school.”

“You’re going to get a permanent mark etched on your body? That is intense. You realize it is taboo, right?”

“Taboo for who?” Findekáno asked, feeling a surge of incipient belligerence building up in his chest. He ought not to blame the messenger. It was not as though Ingo was a moralist. But if he found it shocking, it must be a fairly major proscription.

“For whom. Taboo for you! For the Vanyar. And a lot of the Noldor agree. I’ve heard even grandfather Finwë disapproves, although, I’ve never heard him make a fuss about it. But grandmother Indis will shit a brick if she finds out that . . .”

“Wait one moment, please. Doesn’t your father have a tattoo of a large elaborate dolphin on his arm?”

After screaming with laughter, sounding more like an insane peacock than anything remotely human, Ingo at last responded. “Oh, he most certainly does. The heathen Teleri do love their tattoos and my father loves the Teleri with a passion! He got it when he was courting my mother in Alqualondë. Apparently, Indis nearly killed him. That is how I know that she would croak if her oldest and arguably favorite full grandson got one!”

“Get out of here! You know you are her favorite! Can you prove that getting a tattoo is forbidden? A lot of things bother Indis, like where the spoons go in a place setting for a dinner party and what style of frocks are permissible for ladies before or after the mingling of the lights. How do I know you aren’t just making this up? I would not put it past you to do so.”

“If we were at my house, I could show you the text.”

“Are you telling me you don’t have it committed to memory, Little Lord of the Dusty Library Stacks?”

“You’re just jealous because Nelyo and I like to talk about philosophy and history and you don’t.”

“One would think I did not read. He and I talk about everything.” He pouted a little before noticing a  small shop of rare and used books on the next corner across the narrow lane. “Hey! I know that bookstore. He has all kinds of moldy old Vanyarin tomes. Very reputable collector. He has everything. What book is it in?”

“I’ll show you.” Ingo took off across the street, narrowly avoiding knocking into a burly grocer carrying a bushel of turnips on one shoulder. “The citation is hardly obscure or hard to find. It’s in the first section of The Book of the Vanyar.”

With the gracious assistance of perhaps the most garrulous bookseller in lower Tirion, they finally were presented with a copy of the very text of which Ingo had spoken.

“Aha!” Ingo crowed. “Allow me to enlighten you, dearest cousin.” He squinted at the faded archaic lettering—of course it wasn’t just any copy, but a venerable one, with illuminated capitals. He began to read aloud in the weighty tones of a scholar, after a series of ridiculous snorts and clearing his throat pretentiously. He should have been an actor, Findekáno thought.

“Eru himself designed the form of the hröa given to house the fëa of the Firstborn. It is unbefitting and forbidden to mutilate the handwork of the One. The greatest artisan of all formed the outward appearance of our brethren in the most fitting way; it is an abomination to deface or desecrate that hröa, among the most wondrous of his creations.”

“Whew!” whistled Findekáno. “That does sound serious. Well, that makes it all the more romantic, doesn’t it? And it is not as though I believe the Vanyar are in direct contact with Eru himself in any case.”

“Hmm. Romantic, huh? What exactly were you thinking of having inked and upon which part of your magnificent hröa?”

“Ah, I was thinking of a small—nothing gaudy, refined and elegant in style, of course—star of the House of Fëanáro in blue and red with the tengwar for Nelyafinwë curved above it.”

Ingo pretended to gag and spasm until Findekáno bonked him on the head with the dusty book.

“I will relieve you of the volume, if you are finished, my Prince,” begged the bookseller.

“Oops. Sorry, sorry!” Findekáno said. “Did I damage it, master?”

Watching his cousin’s abashment and the shopkeeper’s mollification with delight, Ingo finally managed to choke out, “So, where is this marvel of the tattooist art going to be positioned?”

“Centered just above my coccyx. That would be the tailbone, thick skull, in case you do not know as much about anatomy as you know about religious screeds.”

“That is so hot and totally transgressive! You perverted, incestuous, sexual deviant! I know I cannot talk you out of doing something once you have made up your mind. I don’t suppose you would like to discuss the questionable taste involved in your choice of location?”

Findekáno scowled and shook his head. “He’ll love it. And that is all that matters.” Ingo looked skeptical, but then he would; that was part of his nature—strange mixture of Vanyar, Noldor, and Teleri that he was.

“Do I at least get to see it?”

“Oh, yes. I brought you along so that you could hold my hand and feed me alcohol while the artist works. He claims it is going to be painful.”

“I am honored,” Ingo said, with an infuriating smirk, looking for a moment not entirely unlike Tyelkormo. “I would not miss it for all the treasures of Arda! You are so going to regret this!”

Chapter End Notes

Quenya/Sindarin names of characters referred to in the story known by multiple names
Findekáno - Fingon
Maitimo/Nelyafinwë/Nelyo - Maedhros
Ingo/Findaráto - Finrod Felagund
Turvo/Turukáno - Turgon
Tyelkormo – Celegorm

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