Conor’s initiation to the Battering Rams
Back on the Little Saltee, Conor fell into the habit of practically attaching himself to any sort of warmth or comfort he could find. Huddling up to the little hole in the wall to savor the tiny amount of sun that occasionally break through, sometimes he would even stick a small diamond in there to collect a tiny amount of heat so he could press it to his face. Conversing with the friendliest guards he could find. Using bits of hair and string he found to patch up his clothing and blankets. Sleeping on top of his clothing so it would be warm in the morning. Even asking for some guards to tap the ends of their cigars into his hands so he could cradle the hot ashes for a moment. Filing a seashell into a comb to brush the snarls out of his hair. Once he even gave a guard one of his diamonds to heat his slop before it was delivered, unfortunately it was only slightly warm by the time it arrived in the lunatic wing, but it had still been a lovely birthday present.
But the day that had been the warmest during his entire stay on the Little Saltee, was the day he took the ink.
The Rams had a small area dedicated to their meetings and initiations in a hollowed out part of the mine that required swimming under a stone passage to access, Conor nearly inquired about the amount of oxygen in the space, but he was answered by the sight of several cracks in the rock that a slight breeze wormed through.
As he sat in a circle of a dozen of the burly men that made up the Battering Rams, Conor gently held his folded shirt, looking wearily at Otto Malarkey for any sort of reassurance The tattoo artist was an older man, but wether he was 40 or 60, Conor could not tell. The man moved with slow and intentional grace, prepping the homemade ink and sharpening the needles on a coarse stone. Conor watched this process with great interest, completely fascinated by each step. After the tattooist finished cleaning the needles with the flame of a small candle he pushed the back end into to a smoothed and polished stick. “Stay still boy.” The artist grunted around his freshly lit cigar, thick, fragrant smoke filling the little cave as he loaded the needle with ink.
Poor Conor, he really did make an excellent effort, but as the first tap against the stick forced the needle under his skin, Conor tensed his arm and flinched further into the needle. A short cry came from the boy as the sharp object jammed into the delicate muscles just beneath his skin. An uproarious, deafening laughter ripped through the cave. Malarkey slapped his knee, lighting his neighbors cigarette with his own as they watched the tattooist scold Finn. The boy wiped away the few tears that had managed to escape from his eyes, and bit his lip as he listened to the surly old man berate him, for a moment Otto was worried that Conor would back out, or worse, start crying. But he was pleasantly surprised when Connor threw back his head and barked out a laugh that undoubtedly hurt like hell when the old man yanked the needle out of his arm where it had embedded itself quite firmly. The old man prodded at the purple bruise that had quickly formed on Conor’s arm. “I thought Otto said you were a smart one” the tattooist criticized through his thick Irish accent. “Funny,” Conor said through gritted teeth as he readied his arm again. “He told me the same thing about you.”
The next several ‘taps’ of the needle went straight through to his bone.
Nearly 2 hours filled with loud conversation, crass jokes, and painful jabs from the tattooing needle went by. Despite the searing pain and near constant jokes at his expense, Conor felt relief, and an odd sense of comfort. He had found unexpected safety and kindness in the most vicious corner of the miserable place called Little Saltee. That’s not to say these sheep were in any way docile, the moment the artist was done he slapped the tattoo so hard that Conor thought he would pass out, he almost yelped, but the punch that came from the next Ram knocked the wind out of him before he could make any sound. The pain became worse as each man tried to show up the one before in the brutal final step of the initiation. for a brief moment Conor thought the Rams were trying to kill him, but when he looked to Malarkey the big man winked and slapped a handful of sand into the fresh tattoo. “Fair enough” Conor thought miserably.
 After each man had had their turn tormenting the boy, someone shoved a lit, half smoked, cigar in his hand and poured the rest of the bottle of whatever mystery alcohol they had been sharing between them onto Conor’s bloody pulp of a shoulder. He let out a sharp hiss as the liquid sterilized the wound. Malarkey threw his hand over Connor’s shoulder, getting in one last slap with the motion before he pulled the young man into his armpit “WELCOME TO THE BATTERING RAMS BROTHER!!!” he roared, causing a ground shaking chorus of hoots hollers, and cheers to sound through the cave. Conor’s blood boiled with excitement within his veins, as he raised his fist and joined in on the chaos. But in the back of his mind, he had found comfort in the presence of his brothers.