KB 2013: 4

[josephine_marrs]

summary/preview: Merlin spends some quality time with his razor.

     Merlin ran a hand over his chin, and tilted the bronze mirror to look at himself. There was no getting around it; he needed a shave. Fortunately, Arthur would be sleeping in, as he always did after a tourney, and that would give him plenty of time to take care of it.
            At first, having to shave had bothered him. It made him look younger, and what red-blooded young man wants to look even more like a boy? But, he’d found, if he let himself go too long, Arthur would start making comments to the effect of how could one rely on servants that couldn’t be bothered to make themselves presentable, and so on…and it had just been easier to do it, and shut him up. Goodness knew Arthur could come up with plenty of other things to complain about, besides.
            Fortunately, Merlin had found that he enjoyed the process of shaving – the fiddling about, for one thing, getting to make sure everything was ready and just right. It was a sort of ritual that was even more pleasurable than silencing one of Arthur’s complaints.
            His razor was a thin, slightly-curved blade, made of iron; it looked much like a knife with a very long tang, only in this case, the tang served as its handle. It was a plain, no-nonsense sort of tool that was elegant in its simplicity; just the sort of aesthetic that Merlin liked. It had truly been nothing special to look at, when he had bought it at the marketplace; the merchant had even cut him a deal on it, as it had been lying around in his stock for quite a while. But Merlin would not now part with it for any other blade. If objects could have personalities, he fancied that this one had a soul that was dark and a little twisted, like its handle. He could not put his finger on why that appealed to him. Perhaps he actually enjoyed dealing with things that were difficult. That would explain Arthur, after all.
            He settled down with the razor and whetstone at a clear spot at a worktable, the long stone lying flat on the smooth wooden surface. He dripped several drops of oil from a glass vial onto the stone, and rubbed it all along its length with the tip of one slender finger. Already, the thirsty stone was drinking it all up, its rough surface nibbling at his skin as he made sure that every last bit of the surface was lubricated. He rubbed thumb and forefinger together in an almost absent-minded way, to account for the last of the oil, and brought the blade to the stone at a long-practiced angle, the edge pointing away from him. With firm, steady pressure, he dragged the razor’s edge against the stone, the metal sidling sideways to ensure that every last bit of it received attention. There was a pleasant, low hiss as the elements worked against each other. This was the reason that he didn’t use magic to take care of it for him; there was just something about the sound, and the sensation of the grinding vibrating through the length of that single piece of metal in his palm, that gave him a feeling of satisfaction and pleasure, every bit as great as the magic that flowed, hot and constant, through his veins.
            After that, it was time for the strop. The length of canvas and leather lay nearby, and he fastened one end to a hook underneath the table, leather side up. His left arm pulled the strap taut, and he dragged the metal down the length of hide, the spine leading this time as he moved it back and forth. The strokes were quick, yet every bit as sensual; he loved the low, sussurous sound of the sharp blade gliding against the hide. Mostly because he knew that his own, far thinner skin would be the next thing beneath the sharpened, glinting metal.
            But, not quite yet. He had to prepare his own hide, before it was suitable for the blade. A basin of water, brought to a boil over the fire, had been set aside to cool to a tolerable temperature. He soaked a cloth in it, the veins in his hands standing out a bit as he wrung it out, and settled the hot towel against his face. He always rather enjoyed times where he could take a moment and just let things soak in, even if it were not as literally as he was doing now. He could practically feel himself opening up and growing tender and relaxed, and he gave a soft, satisfied sigh through his nose.
            After that, he dragged a pair of fingers through the bowl of soft tallow soap, gathering up a healthy dollop. Carefully, he massaged it all over his cheeks and neck and chin, until he felt the bristly hair growing softer and more pliable. He glanced in the mirror to satisfy himself that every last little whisker had gotten its due lathering. Now for the fun part.
            His left arm reached upward and curled over his head, fingers settling just below his right temple. They pulled his skin taut, and the glinting blade lowered to his cheek to begin peeling the hair away in slow, steady strokes. There was always a…tense sort of feeling, of that edge against his skin, skating delicately over a thin membrane of soap, cutting a swathe through everything in its path. He rarely cut himself any more, but in the beginning…that had been another story. It had taken a great deal of practice to moderate the correct amount of pressure, the correct length of stroke; he’d been very tempted to use too much of the first, and not enough of the latter. And then, there had been discerning all the various contours of the growth of his own hair. Fortunately, both his hair and his technique had grown far more dependable, over the years, and he no longer felt the sharp, sudden burn of the blade’s bite. But the threat of it was always there, in the soft rasp of the razor’s progress as it delicately nibbled its path down his cheek and his jaw.
            It was very quiet in the laboratory. Merlin could hear those soft, hungry sounds very well, as if the razor was some sentient thing that knew what a taste of blood awaited it if he allowed himself to slip, get distracted, or somehow lose his nerve. The fingers of his left hand walked slowly downward as he cleared a path through the scruffy growth; the skin was soft and smooth under his fingertips. That was another nice thing about shaving: progress was so tangible.
            Within just a few moments, his right cheek and jawline were pale and smooth once more. By the time he had started to work on his left cheek, he had fallen into a steady rhythm where his very breath and heartbeat seemed to slow, and time became irrelevant. All he became aware of was the strong, hungry licking of the steel against his taut skin, and his fingertips following respectfully after, across his smooth, damp face.
            Even with the sense of meditative peace that came over him by this point, he could always feel his palms growing a bit sweaty as he came to the underside of his jaw, and his throat. His nostrils flared to take a deep breath before he tilted his head up and set the blade just under his jawline. Sometimes, he fancied that he could feel his pulse throbbing against the metal and up the handle, into his palm. By this time, his eyes were sliding closed; it wasn’t as if he could easily see himself in the mirror, anyway. The sensation of the edge slipping along his skin, unseen, guided only by his innate sense of touch, always made a strange, twisting sort of anticipation well up inside of him. Dangerous as it was, this was his favorite part of the process. The sharp metal caressed over and downward, over the column of his throat, teasing along and over his adam’s apple. A palpable sense of wickedness and hunger seemed to emanate from the metal and warm it in his fingers; but he had dealt with far more malevolent and ravenous things in his short lifetime, and, he reminded himself, at least this one was completely under his control.
            By the time he went to shave his lip and his chin, it was as if he had to get reacquainted with his own reflection. It was hard not to smile at the faces that it made back at him, as he sucked in his lips and jutted his chin out in turn, guiding the sharp-edged plane over edges and around corners. And then…then there was no more hair, just the clean pale skin of a lad who suddenly looked ten years younger.
            He made three circuits in total with the razor, shaving across the grain where his scruff had been growing, and finally against it on the final pass, eliminating every last trace of shadow from his pale skin. It was on these latter passes that he was usually going cut himself, if it was going to happen, as if the blade knew that its chances to bite him were quickly drawing to a close. There was a point when he felt the tip of the razor catch for a moment against his left cheek, and he went stock-still, his grip slowly growing lighter and looser…but somehow, it had just been a fluke of sensation, and as he peered at his reflection, he saw that he remained unmarred.
            Then, at last, he was done. He splashed on a tincture of witch hazel, hissing softly as he felt his skin drinking it in and growing tight and taut and clean, his palms making wet little slapping sounds against his cheeks.
            Even if he could never quite decide if he liked the way it looked, there was, he’d realized, no mistaking that he loved the way it felt. He spent almost as much time as he had shaving, just running his fingertips over the shorn skin, feeling how soft and supple it was. He didn’t consider himself the vain sort, but when it came to tactile pleasures…he could never get enough.
            At last, he grinned, shaking his head at his strange quirks, and turned his attention to his blade. He turned the razor over and over in his hands, admiring how sharp and brilliant it still looked, the perfection of the edge that he’d put on it – an edge that would remain sharp and hungry for several more sessions before it needed to visit the whetstone again. Carefully, he wiped it clean with a soft cloth, and set it almost reverently inside its little wooden box. As he tucked it back into its resting place, he wondered if it anticipated, as he did, the time it would get to caress his clean, soft skin again.