Storm dark eyes glanced away from the manuscript he was working on, out the tiny window next to his work booth. Ai’dan was growing to hate the monastery. Abandoned by his parents, he had lived at Hisshai for as long as he could remember. Next month, at the Festival of the Sun God, Lus’aagh, he would have to state his intention of either becoming a full monk of the order, or leaving permanently.

He did not want to be a monk, but he also did not know where he would go, what he would do if he left Hisshai. He had no family and no friends outside of the monastery. Ai’dan could read, write, do figures, and was an excellent illuminator; he knew that he ought to be able to get a position in a noble’s household. Again, his inexperience in the world gave him pause. He did not know where any of the noble houses lay, or how to survive until he found one with a place for him.

Truly, the path of least resistance was to simply choose the life of an ascetic, and remain here until the end of his days.

The thought made the itching of his skin start up again. It was that, more than anything else, which decided him. He had to get out of the monastery. No matter what.

“Thank you, Wise Father.” Ri’chor bowed slightly to the old man hunched over his desk. “My father will be most relieved that you are willing to spare this boy and save our fragile family Mythos the rough journey here.”

“Do not mention it, child. Books are sacred objects. It is only fitting that we send the copyist to it, rather than summoning it to the copyist. The point is, after all, to preserve the book and its contents.”

Ri’chor turned toward the door of the Wise Father’s office as two new people entered. One was an older monk, probably he who kept charge of the novices, and his hand rested on the shoulder of the shorter, younger novice accompanying him.

He nearly stopped breathing. The boy the Wise Father had spoken of was no boy. He was the most beautiful young man Ri’chor had ever laid eyes on. The pale of his scribe’s skin contrasted sharply with the rich dark brown of his silken hair.

Impure thoughts filtered through his mind, and Ri’chor squelched them unmercifully. His father had not been amused when he’d caught him kissing the crofter’s son when he was fifteen. The old lord would be even less amused to find that his son had ignored the lecture he’d given him on doing his duty and avoiding behaviour the household priest told them was sinful.

While Ri’chor’s thoughts were wandering, the Wise Father had explained the situation to the novice, who was looking excited at the prospect, though he was trying to hide it.

“Ai’dan, this is Lord Mor’chor’s son, Ri’chor. Ri’chor, your copyist, Ai’dan.”

Ai’dan couldn’t take his eyes from the lord’s son. The man was close to his age. Perhaps slightly older. His skin held the golden hue of someone who spent a great deal time out of doors, and his golden hair had sun-bleached highlights to it. He was incredible to look upon, and Ai’dan feared becoming lost in his eyes, which were the bright blue of a summer sky. Ai’dan was suddenly very glad for the heavy weight of the cassock material, as his body stirred in appreciation of the young lordling.

Two sentiments warred in Ai’dan. The chance to go out into the world, to make just the sort of contacts in it that he had lamented not having, was incredibly exciting to him. Yet, he feared what might happen, especially if he spent much time with the lovely Ri’chor.

Ai’dan recalled, from when he was quite young, two novices who had been deeply involved with one another. When they had reached their majority they had chosen to leave the monastery together. That had been under the old Father Educator, Ma’rain, a kindly old man with nothing but love for his young charges. When he had been replaced by the man now standing next to him, Nar’chol, things had changed.

When Ai’dan was fifteen and just coming to terms with his own body’s desires, there had been another pair of novices, slightly older than himself, who had become lovers and intended to make a life together once they left the monastery. Nar’chol had found out their love and had punished them severely.

The Wise Father did not intervene, and even allowed the zealous Father Educator to give a sermon that Fasting Day on the sinfulness of loving one’s own sex. Something fundamental had changed in the order, and it had left Ai’dan feeling uneasy and conflicted.

All thoughts he had been entertaining of making overtures to one of the boys in his own rank had stopped then and there. He came into contact with no girls, so did not even know if he would like them. As a result, Ai’dan was as celibate as if he were a full monk, afraid of being caught touching even himself.

“She’s very gentle. You could ride behind me, but Chorlan here is a bit high-spirited… I really think you’d feel safer on Mora.”

“If you say so. I’ve never ridden at all before, so I guess I’ll have to trust your judgement.” Ai’dan ventured a tentative smile, and was rewarded with the broadening of Ri’chor’s own.

“Well, mount up. If we leave now, we should get back to the manor just in time for dinner.”

“He is almost at his majority, Nar’chol, and has never been anywhere else,” said the Wise Father patiently. “He needs to have some experience in the world if he is to make an informed decision.”

“Informed decision?! We need him in the copy rooms. We need his skill as an illuminator to bring in money. He cannot be allowed to leave.”

“It is his choice, Father Educator, not yours.”

“And what happens if that noble brat seduces him into some sin or another? Hm? I’ve heard stories about that boy … experimenting with one of his peasant’s boys. Even if it’s not that, he could lead Ai’dan into drunkenness or a more … traditional lechery. What then? He could be putting his soul in danger!”

“Ai’dan is hardly the sort of frivolous personality that would take to those vices, nor is Ri’chor himself prone to them, from what I’ve heard of the boy. As for the other … I become less certain that love between men could be so objectionable to the gods as the Houses would have it these days. It is, after all, still love, which is dear to them.”

“Wise you may be called, but I am inclined to think you a fool. What if the High Priests heard you speak so? You’d be disgraced.”

“Nar’chol, I am old. I have long since given up trying to mould my thoughts and opinions to another’s desires. If that makes me a fool, so be it. I cannot be but what I am.”

“You’ve been inside all day. It’s not healthy. Your skin’s so pale you can almost see through it, Ai’dan. Come outside with me.” Ri’chor frowned in frustration. “You have to eat lunch anyway; why not do it outside?”

Ai’dan scrunched his forehead in confusion. “You have a table outside?”

“No,” Ri’chor sighed, “we’ll sit on a blanket on the ground. It’s called a picnic.” Ai’dan just gave him a dubious look. “You’ll like it. Trust me.”

“Alright, but only while we eat. I need to work on the Mythos for your father. I don’t think he’d be pleased to find me shirking.”

Ri’chor swept the young copyist up from his work table and out of doors before he could change his mind, stopping only to retrieve their lunch and a blanket on the way. Determined that Ai’dan needed exercise, as well as seeking a spot away from the view of the manor house, he lead him to a spot by the stream in the orchard.

He watched in delight as Ai’dan settled down in the dappled shade of one of the trees. The man became more relaxed, more open, when away from the weight of responsibility. It was as if he shed a skin to become, not Ai’dan the scribe and copyist, but simply Ai’dan.

“It is lovely out here. Thank you for talking me into this, Ri’chor.”

Silence descended on them for a while as they sorted out lunch and began to eat. After a while, Ri’chor broke the quiet.

“The Wise Father told me that you will be choosing whether to remain in the monastery or not soon.”

“Yes, next month at the festival.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do?”

Ai’dan sighed and looked up at Ri’chor. “No, not really. I begin to hate the ascetic life, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m just a foundling, I have no connections in the world.”

“You have a connection here now. I’m sure my father would be willing to hire you for as long as you wished to remain.” Ri’chor smiled. “The old man’s been grumbling for a while now that Blu’raman, our neighbour to the south, has a household scribe, and so should he. You illuminate, too, which Father would see as a major coup in the little game of one-up-manship those two play.”

“Really?” Ai’dan had perked up, cheeks pinking at the excitement of the new possibility.

“Really. I can talk to him tonight, suggest to him that you might be interested in staying on, if you like.”

“Yes, very much. It will take me nearly to the festival to finish the Mythos… I’d hardly have to be back at Hisshai before I left again.”

Ai’dan was exceptionally beautiful in that moment, hair ruffled by the light breeze, happiness and excitement shining from his dark blue eyes, lighting his alabaster skin. Caught up in the spell cast by such beauty, Ri’chor reached out to cup the side of Ai’dan’s face.

For a heartbeat, neither breathed. In another heartbeat, their lips were joined.

“It’s hopeless. I’ve too heavy a hand to write nicely. Illuminating would be impossible!”

Ai’dan looked upon his would-be handwriting student fondly. “You have very nimble fingers, Ri’chor. You’re simply working at it too hard. Here, let me guide your hand and just relax. Try to remember what it feels like for when you do it on your own.”

Ri’chor assented with a nod, trying not to look too pleased that Ai’dan would be touching him. Their kiss three days ago had been deemed a mistake. Ai’dan had quoted the Father Educator’s assertions that such things were sinful, making Ri’chor admit, albeit grudgingly, that his household priest said much the same. Arguments that the Gods themselves advocated love were sadly set aside, and Ai’dan decreed that they would not kiss again.

It did not, however, keep Ri’chor from savouring moments of legitimate contact. Nor, it seemed, did it keep Ai’dan from seeking such excuses.

The young scribe’s gentleness and sweet temper were a marked contrast to Ri’chor’s own generally rough nature, but it was a complimentary sort of contrast, and Ri’chor found himself rapidly falling in love with him. He didn’t know what to do about it. It seemed too precious a thing to simply let slip by.

It still made Ri’chor laugh a bit to recall the look on Ai’dan’s face when his father had shooed them out the manor door.

“Young men oughtn’t be stuck indoors all the time! Go! Pick fruit! Get some sun and fresh air; your work will be the better for it.”

Ri’chor liked getting Ai’dan out in the sun. The natural light made his skin glow, and the contraction of his pupils made his blue eyes look like perfect sapphires. It was a combination made all the more intoxicating by the obvious delight the young man took in being able to roam outdoors.

For a long while, they simply wandered about the orchard, chatting about inconsequentials and plucking ripe fruit from the trees. When their baskets were mostly full, Ri’chor coaxed Ai’dan into sitting in their picnicking spot for a rest.

Ai’dan took a bite of one purple fruit, and Ri’chor laughed as juice poured down his chin. Caught by an impulse, the blonde scooted closer to his companion and, reaching out to hold his head steady, licked Ai’dan’s chin clean.

Two pair of blue eyes bore into one another for a moment, and then Ai’dan was pulling Ri’chor to him, kissing him fiercely. They sank down onto the grass, hands roaming the other’s body.

“Make love to me,” Ai’dan whispered when they separated slightly for air.

“But…”

“I don’t care,” he said ardently. “I love you. I want you, Ri’chor, no one … nothing else. Please.”

“Alright, but we do this slow. I don’t want to hurt you, and well … I’m assuming that you’re a, well … a virgin.” Ai’dan’s blush was all the answer he needed, and he laid a gentle kiss on the scribe’s lips. “That’s okay. I like the idea of being your first … and maybe your last.”

“Oh, yes, Ri’chor. You’re my one and only. We have to stay together. Somehow, we’ll stay together.”

Ai’dan pulled his cassock off, tossing it to the side, and let Ri’chor finish stripping him of his shoes and breech-clout. In return, he helped Ri’chor loosen the points of his breeches and slip out of his own clothing. When they were both naked in the grass, they began the slow exploration of one another’s flesh.

Deft fingers walked their way down Ai’dan’s side, and he gasped, opening up his mouth to Ri’chor’s questing tongue. He slid one hand down to caress the blonde’s firm, shapely buttocks, letting the other rake through his silky, gold hair. Arching his back and bucking his hips, Ai’dan ground his erection into Ri’chor’s stomach. He closed his eyes against the pleasure when his love began to trail kisses down his body. It was almost more than he could bear when those kisses were transferred to his aching shaft.

He convulsed as Ri’chor’s saliva-slicked fingers worked their way past the tight ring of muscle guarding his entrance, stretching and playing with him. Ai’dan had never felt anything like it before, and was completely unprepared for the sensation that swept over him when one of those probing digits rubbed across the little nub inside him.

Ai’dan came with a rush, screaming out Ri’chor’s name. When he finished pumping his seed into the young nobleman’s willing mouth, Ri’chor exchanged his fingers for his cock, slowly pushing the stand inward. Ai’dan’s body was deliciously tight, and Ri’chor moaned at the sensation. When he was fully seated, he began rock slowly inside his lover, increasing the length of the stroke bit by bit as he felt the other man relax around him.

Ri’chor hit his climax with a drawn out moan and sunk down onto the ground next to Ai’dan when his body finished pumping its seed into the other’s bowels.

“Love you, Ai’dan.”

“And I you, Ri’chor. And I you.”

Oh, thank the gods, the ceremony was beginning. The Wise Father gave a little speech to the assembled crowd, while Father Educator stood by, looking stern. The invitation was then made to the novices making the Choice to either step up and receive the cowl, or to join the crowd and become part of the outside world.

Not one glance did Ai’dan spare for the other three novices or the cowl. His eyes swung like a lodestone to Ri’chor, and he moved directly to the blue-eyed blonde. Upon reaching him, Ai’dan wrapped Ri’chor in a warm embrace.

That was when all hell broke loose.

No sooner had Ri’chor’s arms snaked around Ai’dan, returning the hug, than did Lord Mor’chor explode into a torrent of abuse levelled at his son and son’s lover. The villagers moved away in startlement, some gracing the two young men with disgusted looks, some the lord.

“How could you?! You’ve betrayed your duty, Ri’chor. You’ve betrayed the gods and me! And you..!” He rounded on Ai’dan. “A guest in my house! Tell me, did he seduce you, or were you already well versed in this depravity!?!”

Ri’chor imposed himself between his father and his lover. “Leave him be, Father! Can’t you understand that I love him? Really love him, Father? Can’t you just be happy for me? If all you’re worried about is that I won’t produce an heir … let my little brother inherit the title. I don’t care about it that much. I do love Ai’dan that much.”

“Love?!” cracked another voice. “This is not love. This is sin!” It was Nar’chol, Father Educator. “I knew this would happen. I knew that you would seduce him away from his calling, from his place as a Holy Illuminator. Now, he will only attain such grace through years of penance!”

Nar’chol reached out to take hold of Ai’dan and pull him to himself, but he was stopped by Ri’chor. Except that Ri’chor was no longer Ri’chor.

The monk shrieked in pain as his hand was knocked aside by the radiant figure wearing Ri’chor’s face. He looked up in horror, clutching the burned appendage to him.

“Leave my children alone, sinner!” The voice that emanated from the being’s mouth was deep and powerful. It made the very ground tremble. “Ai’dan has made his Choice, you have no right to remake it for him. You have no right to part him from his love. You who claims to teach the ways of me and mine and instead teaches fear and hatred; you have no place among Our Chosen.” A flick of the creature’s wrist and Nar’chol’s cassock and cowl turned to soot, staining him as it dropped to the ground.

“Go into the woods. Be alone with your sin. Come not into contact with your fellows until you are prepared to tolerate difference. And you,” it turned to Lord Mor’chor, “do not treat your son so based on the words of fools. Love him as you always have.” One shining hand reached out to cup Ai’dan’s face. “Let his beloved into your heart as well. You will be the richer for it.

“Hear this, too: Ri’chor will inherit your title and lands. It is he who is best suited to the task of leadership, of all your children. His sister’s second son will inherit from him, and the land will prosper.”

“W-who are you? What are you?” Mor’chor stuttered.

“I am he whom this Festival Day is for. I am Lus’aagh.”

The light surrounding him brightened and vanished, leaving behind Ri’chor once more. A gasp went up in the crowd of villagers, spreading amongst them as people began to see the change in the young lordling.

Ri’chor’s clothing was as white as sun-bleached bones. Even the gold embroidery on his velvet tunic no longer shone yellow, but a bright white. His hair was lightened to a pale flax colour, but his eyes remained the bright blue of a summer’s sky.

Ai’dan flung his arms around Ri’chor’s neck, and this time, no one said a word.

It was terribly distracting and terribly awkward. He didn’t know how to act around Malcolm any more. They carried the memories of Ri’chor and Ai’dan’s love affair. They had been incredibly intimate with one another … and yet they hadn’t.

He knew he was in love with Malcolm. Trip had been aware of the bent his feelings for the reclusive lieutenant were beginning to take before they had ever set foot on R’a’lora. If only he knew what to do about them…

That wasn’t entirely true. He knew what he ought to do. He ought to talk to Malcolm about them.

Trouble was, he was afraid.

He let his head hang down, clasping one hand behind his neck to shield his face from the rest of the mess hall. No one needed to see how close to tears he was.

Trip was his best friend. In his lonelier hours Malcolm had been known to fantasise about the blonde engineer becoming more than simply his friend. Now, both the reality of his friend and the fantasy of his lover had been torn from him. The moments Ai’dan and Ri’chor shared together were not enough to cajole him from a foul mood, or to simply make him laugh. He needed Trip for those things. The memories from the Nikal’arach only served to taunt him with what he could not have.

The door to the captain’s mess opened before him, and Trip stepped out into the main mess hall. The hall was fairly well packed, but as his eyes swept over the crowd they picked out the form of Malcolm Reed sitting by himself at a corner table. Nearly full plates of food were shoved to the side and, head hanging in misery, he stared at the empty table in front of him.

A surge of anger swept through Trip. Why did no one go over to talk to the Englishman? His despair was almost palpable, even from across the room, and by the look of things, he’d been sitting like that for some time.

That decided Trip. He would go talk to Malcolm right now. The man obviously needed a friend, and it looked as though no one else was willing to take on the role.

“Hey, Malcolm.” Trip came to a halt next to Malcolm’s table and waited for him to look up before continuing. “You look like you j’st lost your best friend.”

Malcolm drew in a deep breath, obviously trying to steady himself. “Haven’t I?”

Trip stared at Malcolm in horror for a long moment. He was the one who, in his skittishness, was hurting the Englishman. He opened his mouth to reassure his friend, and the floodgates opened.

“Aw, shit, Mal…” He plopped down in the chair opposite. “I never meant for you to feel that you’d lost me. I j’st… It’s weird, you know. I didn’t know how to act ‘round you. I … I close my eyes at night an’ I see you, all young an’ sweet an’ innocent… In that image you’re lookin’ at me like I mean all the world to you, and’ it’s j’st hard t’ git up in the mornin’ knowin’ that ain’t the way it really is. So, I guess I pulled back t’ keep from reachin’ out an’ gitt’n pushed away.”

There, he’d said it. Now he simply had to wait and see how Malcolm would react.

“Trip… What are you saying? Are you saying that you want me?”

“No, I…” he grabbed the seat of his chair and skooched closer to the Armoury Officer, “I’m sayin’ that I love you, Malcolm. An’ before you say it: no, I’m not confused by the Niker… Nark… the memories of Ri’chor. I’ve known this for a while.”

“Pinch me, please.”

“What?”

“I think I must be dreaming.”

Trip smiled broadly. “Ain’t no dream.”

“In that case, please kiss me.”

“What, here?”

“How about in my quarters? Kisses can lead to other things in there.” Malcolm returned Trip’s smile, lowering his thick black lashes to gaze at the blonde with a look that tried to be demure, but ended up smouldering.

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

They stood together, and Trip reached out to take Malcolm’s hand. The contact felt good. Trip grinned like an idiot when Malcolm shifted the grip to twine their fingers together. They were barely half way to the door when he decided to throw propriety to the wind and pulled Malcolm in for a searing kiss.

The crowd in the mess hall turned to stare, but no one tried to stop them.