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It was a tattoo There was no swelling, no sense that this represented so applied by the usual methods within the last few hours It was there, complete, healed, indelible

It showed a boy, tied to a stake, with fla around him

“WhatWhat is this? What is this? What have you done to me?”

I spun around, dropped the knife froers, held my sleeve up so that he could see it, pushed it toward hie and a sadness at what felt like defilement

I looked again at the tattoo It was vivid, not quite real but still so detailed that it would never bewhiht have chosen and even then coret

“What have you done to er won out over sadness

“It is not er said There was sympathy there but not much, and no surprise at all

“How did itWhenWhy? Why?”

“All Messengers of Fear are marked in that way,” he said

“It’s sickening!” I cried

“It is meant to be”

“But why? What is the purpose?”

He took a deep breath and a slow sip of coffee He stood up and I thought at first hecoat and laid it over the back of his stool Then carefully, taking his tiray shirt When he had unfastened them all, he slid the shirt off

He had a stronger chest than I expected His stoy, were nevertheless respectably powerful But those were all observations I would make at a later time, for at this moment, when he stood naked from the waist up, I saw my own terrible fate

He was covered in tattoos of pain and horror