Lyra sits perched atop a stump out in the forest listening to the soothing rush of wind through trees, the babbling of the nearby creek, the chirping of tiny birds. It isn’t home, but it sure is a damn spot closer than where she spends most of her time nowadays. Not that she can go home, not yet. Lyra reaches down to dip the thread-wrapped needle in the small jar of dark liquid balanced in her lap then delicately jabs it into her shoulder. She wipes away the excess and repeats the motion, over and over, an image of two interlocked diamonds, each bisected laterally, taking shape on her skin: the mark of the four elements, balanced and in harmony. Her and...
She blinks away the rough tears as soon as they begin, trying to regain her composure. It takes a minute, but soon she’s back into the steady rhythm. Dip, stab, wipe. Making this body truly hers, not some shell she suffers out of necessity. Dip, stab, wipe. Marks that she chooses to bear, not those forced upon her by another. Dip, stab, wipe. Returning to, or perhaps preserving, her former self and all that it stands for. Dip, stab, wipe. Ensuring that the memories of old live on in this world, if only for a few years more. Dip, stab, wipe. One tattoo down, several more to go.
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