The Pretender's Crown

TOMAS DEL'ABBATE

“I'll see to him.” It's the silver prince's voice, gentled by what a half-conscious mind hears as resignation. Tomas forces his eyes open to see Marius leaving his side; to watch the youth join Rodrigo and the pair of them move away abandoning Tomas where he lies. He tries to push up and finds pain: something is wrong with his arm, his shoulder unable to support him. He hears a whimper, and realises, with shame, that it's his own. Surely God might expect him to show more bravery in the face of injury, even when that injury has been given in such a peculiar way.

For he remembers, and wishes he didn't. There's silence as Javier kneels at his side, and Tomas is terribly aware that whatever has transpired here, he's the only witness not bound by blood or lifelong friendship, and that Marius and Rodrigo have chosen to turn their backs on what is about to happen. There's a great deal about the world he doesn't know, but only a fool wouldn't see the danger, and Tomas is an innocent, not a fool.

“Highness,” he whispers, then remembers himself: “Majesty.” A strange taste fills the back of his throat, uncomfortably familiar for all that he's sure he's never tasted it before. He swallows convulsively, learning it for what it is: blood. A wave of relief washes through him on that red flavour. It means he's broken inside, and that he will not much longer be witness to the terrible, wonderful events that he's been privy to. Since that's so, he swallows again and dares to ask, “Will you tell my father I died well, my lord?”

Silver rises in Javier's eyes again. They are grey to begin with, Tomas thinks, and the silver is brought on by his passion. That such passion should be turned to God's work, oh! There would be a wonder indeed. The young Gallic king's expression deepens into an uncomfortable mix of rage and compassion.

“I will not,” Javier says. Tomas thinks to correct him in several ways: first, that with Sandalia dead, Javier should be we, not I, but then the priest thinks, no, I am dying, I will enjoy a moment of equality with a king. That might bring a smile to his lips if it were not for the other way in which he wishes to correct Javier. The new king has just refused a dying man his final wish, an unforgiveable offence. “I will not,” Javier says again, “because no one is going to die here today. Your shoulder is out of joint, and I think you've half bitten off your tongue, but these are not harbingers of death.”

“They must be,” Tomas responds with a regretful clarity. “They must, my lord. I've seen what you can do, and you cannot trust a man of the church to hold a secret of witchcraft.”

“No, not any man,” Javier agrees. “Not any man, but I can trust you, can I not, Tomas?” Suddenly his voice seems both much farther away and much more intimate, as though he speaks into an echoing cave, but whispers promises of desire. His gaze is locked on Tomas's, and there is an expectation in his eyes.

Tomas has never seen anything like it, is not sure he wishes to now see it, but it brings a pulse up in his throat, high and fast as a butterfly's wings. He is damaged, his body a thing of betrayals, but those betrayals die beneath an exposure of new failings: it seems that every fibre of his being responds to Javier's eyes. There is blood in Tomas's mouth; with that taste so clear, it is wrong that his cock should jolt to erection, that a sting of want should turn his belly molten and his knees weak, for all that there's no weight on them. Hot silver in Javier's gaze demands everything and promises nothing, but for that promise, Tomas fears he would do anything.

Inexorable will is in the weight of that look. The command is all but spoken in Tomas's mind: you will not speak of this. My secret is yours to keep and you shall not betray me. It is as though God has offered a single searing touch, and Tomas trembles with it.

Then protest whispers in the back of his mind: God is a kind God, and has given unto Man free will. It is not God's intention that one man should seize another's mind with his heated and hungry gaze and charge him hold his tongue on secrets of deviltry. Tomas catches his breath, tastes blood, pleads for God's strength, and rallies against the Gallic king's call.

Confidence fills him, soft and warm, soothing all the aches of his body. The taste of blood fades, and the jutting desire in his loins lessens. Such is the power of faith; such is the power of God. Javier falters, astonishment replacing expectation in his face. For a heady moment Tomas understands that he and this young king are equals, in God's eyes if not in man's, and that understanding fills him with joy.

Then new things come into Javier's expression, and with the first of those things, with the devastating hope that lights Javier's eyes, Tomas's heart catches. God is good and God is kind, but God is not kneeling at his side in all-too-mortal glory looking at him as though he might be a saviour himself. He tries to sit up, but his arm fails him, denying an urge to capture the king in his arms and make a promise of his own, that somehow all will yet be well.

Before he rallies, hope sluices from Javier's face, and after it washes anger, fear, desperation, all the sentiments of a man who has been deluded by hope in the past. Tomas, lying so close, can feel the change in Javier's body, the staunch clenching of muscle that precedes an onslaught of will, as though domination of his physical aspect can lend strength to his desires.

And perhaps it can, for though Tomas whispers “Don't” it's too late. The gentle assurance of God's love fails beneath mortal demand. He reaches for it, scrabbles in the confines of his own mind and arches his body to remain close, but Javier's determination cascades into its place. Under that princely power, the arch of his body becomes something else entirely, a sensual act, and now, only now, does Javier catch Tomas in his arms after all. He is hot, his heart crashing through his shirt as his chest presses against Tomas's, and there is fire where they touch, wanton liquid flame.

Nothing should soften in Tomas, nothing should acquiesce, and yet his will bends beneath Javier's. He feels Javier's breath on his lips as the king whispers a benediction that is also a damnation: “I will not see you come to harm, priest, but I cannot let your tongue run loose, for my own sake, for my people's sake, for the sake of my sweet murdered mother. You must be mine, and may God have mercy on us both.”

God, for the first time in Tomas's life, is very far away.