Translator's Note: I have labored now for many months rendering the original manuscript into our modern tongue for the benefit of all, but I feel some disclaimers and warnings are necessary. Markis writes with complete and often graphic honesty, depicting mature themes and vividly describing adult situations between himself and others. While these encounters are always integrally related to the overall arc of his journey, those wishing to avoid such content or too young to deal responsibily with it are therefore forewarned. The work of the translation is mine alone, and I will object strenuously to any reproduction of it in its whole or in any part without my express permission.
THE EXILE A Gay Fantasy Experiment
Chapter Ten
Who are you, mysterious reader?
I have labored long - many months and counting - to write down this account of my life and my travels. I have mined the furthest reaches of my memories for details long forgotten and discarded. I have written with often graphic frankness of events and acts that I would blush to speak of openly with even my most trusted friends.
All of this I have done at least in part for my own benefit, regardless of what I might have told myself when first I decided to set my life onto paper. I sought, I believe, to exorcise my demons and bring some sense of perspective to the chaotic path that has led me to the extraordinary place I now am. But ultimately I do not write this account simply to please myself -- this I must not forget. It is my hope to create a work that will be profitable for those who come after me. I must think of you, whoever you are, and wonder how best to reach out to you if I am to succeed.
From what walk of life do you come, reader? Are you a contemporary? Will you have heard of Markis the Great, Markis the Unyielding, Markis the King - heard of my exploits and my victories? Or do you read these words now in some distant age, when my legacy has vanished into legend, and where perhaps my language will seem as distant and outdated as the Anatherian Tongue (called the Sacred Tongue by my people) seems to us? I wonder about you, and what you have taken from this account as it exists thus far.
If you know anything of me from other sources, then perhaps you have heard some of the rumors and accusations that have been leveled against me by my detractors. These supposed scandals are based on hearsay and speculation, drawing from half-truths and from the word of witnesses all too eager to gain notoriety by speaking out against me. Perhaps another purpose to this long account (a selfish purpose, I'm afraid) is to set some facts straight and to clear up these half-truths once and for all.
For instance, I never have been able to fully dispel the rumored connection between myself and the Tharonites, who call themselves Disciples of Purity. In the time of the Council, they were called a cult by the people of Carmathen - and even now I cannot say that they were very far off from the truth. That I have known many of them, I have never denied. That I spent time amongst them during my first visit to Carmathen and later on the great march towards Broxbourne, I admit freely. But the accusation that I was ever one of them, or that I ever accepted or embraced their precepts is entirely false. Indeed, the opposite is quite the case. There were times that I argued so much against their philosophies that I felt sure they would do some violence against me. And yet I have at other times defended them, and I have certainly used them for my own ends when the greater good demanded it. This does not make me a cultist or a hypocrite, as some have suggested, and it is certainly clear to you, who have read my secrets, that I am not a proponent of asceticism or self-flagellation.
But what I must make you understand is how very intriguing and somehow admirable I found the Tharonites to be at first. Their precepts of strong willpower and restraint rang true to the moral severity and discipline that had been instilled in me from my childhood, and their goal to combat corruption and greed to create a more perfect society soothed my idealistic frustration at the injustices I had witnessed in the world. I did not consider myself one of them, at any time, but on that first meeting I listened to their point of view with a kind of fascination and deep curiosity, asking questions and raising objections as my instincts guided me. Since then I have had occasion to debate with their members, usually Gavril himself, and I have come to understand a great deal about their philosophy - but I will state again plainly what the rest of my account will show: I never accepted their ways as my own.
"Corruption is weakness," Gavril would often say, by way of lecturing me. "The divine nature of mankind is diluted by lack of discipline and focus. Immediate gratification distracts us from more eternal joys that await those whose will is strong. This is why we reject the desires of the flesh and subject the mind to suffering. The light shines through us more clearly through adversity."
"All earthly pleasures are to be avoided?" I asked, incredulous. Even my people enjoyed the occasional feast or cup of wine, and I told him so.
"Food and drink give pleasure to the body, and are therefore perilous to the soul." He said, frowning with disapproval, "Merrymaking and mirth encourage a frivolity that is a distraction from our noble purposes. Such are the sacrifices required to find true strength and joy. I admire much about your people, but these weaknesses seem beneath them."
"You do not approve of celebrations of any kind?" I questioned, "Even for births or marriages?"
Gavril smiled weakly. "There are neither in our sect," he explained, "Often unwanted children appear at our doorstep, or are handed to us on the streets above, and these we raise as our own according to our precepts - but we never enter marriage vows. Nothing weakens the spirit of man more than the physical pleasure of carnal embraces."
I wonder if I blushed, for surely I thought of my many nights of pleasure with Damon, and how drained and weakened I had felt after he had drawn his sustenance from my body. But then I thought of my brief, beautiful moments with Alek and grew more sure that Gavril was wrong.
"What about physical union that is the expression of love?" I challenged, impulsively.
"What about it?" replied Gavril, shaking his head at me sadly, "What is love, Markis? So much of what the world calls love is not love at all. It is lust, it is corruption, it is a driving, blinding impulse for immediate physical and emotional gratification. It is selfish and self-serving. That is not love."
"But surely there is love that is pure and uplifting," I insiste, "Love that is selfless."
"Give me an example," he said, smiling sadly, "Such love does not exist in this world, at least not where there is physical desire of any kind. When a man loves, does he truly want what is best for his beloved? No - we both know he simply wants her, is unable to control his desire for her, and so he believes that this pain of not possessing the thing he craves is love. Most of what is called love is merely weakness."
"The Omnipotence - who we should seek to emulate - loves us, the Created, selflessly and purely." I ventured, hoping a theological argument would appeal to him.
"It is so, indeed," he replied, "But distantly, Markis. Very distantly, and without the slightest need for our love in return."
And so forth. It is infuriating, really, to argue with him - both of us are firmly set in our beliefs, and both are certain that we have seen sure confirmation of our own point of view. Gavril is not a cruel or evil man, and I think that he means well. But when he lectures he speaks with a kind of bemused condescension, as though laughing to himself that principles so obvious could give any man of sense such trouble as they give me. He never gets upset or raises his voice. I am afraid that on occasion, I have -- but he merely took my outbursts as further proof that my willpower and self-control were in need of development through dedication to Tharon's principles. It was maddening. He is much older now, as am I. Both of us are less fiery and stubborn than we were in our youth. When we have occasion to meet now, it is with respect and cordiality. We have not bothered to argue in many years.
Stepan, on the other hand, was Gavril's counterpart, and in many ways his opposite. While certainly a devout Tharonite (I remember clearly spying the marks of his own self-mutilation once as he bent down to pick up some fallen object), Stepan never spoke of his convictions nor attempted to press them upon me. His enthusiasm for the study of the ancient times gave him so much pleasure that it surely came close to violating the principles of his sect, as I could tell from the sometimes disapproving faces of his brethren when he grew excited about some historical artifact.
Indeed, when at our first meeting I agreed to let him hold my silver sword, the sigh of pleasure that escaped his lips as he grasped it made Gavril's eyebrows raise with surprise and disgust. The old man did not notice, and his face - what could be seen of it behind the massive grey beard he wore - seemed radiant with joy. For all his wisdom and knowledge, he was often naïve in his enthusiasm, which for my part only made him all the more likeable.
"I never thought in all my years that I would ever see this," he muttered to himself. "The Prince's Blade! Think of the great men who have wielded this weapon - Alander himself!"
I nodded, "So I have been told."
He swung it in the air, attacking invisible enemies. "It is finely crafted. Exquisite."
"It has been an invaluable companion more than once since it came into my hands," I said.
"Where did you find it?" Stepan asked, returning the sword. Gavril leaned forward from where he sat, clearly interested himself in hearing my reply.
I took a deep breath. "That man you see there, babbling in the corner," I said, pointing to Errold, who seemed agitated but unaware of our presence, "The night I left my village, he stumbled upon me while I was sleeping and, with the aid of a giant, took me captive. He sought to plunder some old Anatherian tombs in the area, and wanted me to help. He had been sent to find this sword, apparently, by the Broxbourneans, and in return he had been told he could keep whatever other treasures he found."
Stepan regarded Errold thoughtfully. "I have read of curses placed upon such things in the old tombs."
"Precisely," I said, "He has paid the price for his greed."
"What do the Broxbourneans want with this sword?" Gavril asked.
"I don't know," I replied, "But the Archbishop has gone to great lengths to get it."
"You know how they feel about the lost empire," Stepan said, "Such a relic - particularly one of such political importance - could only help to consolidate power and popularity for the Archbishop amongst his people." I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. It seemed a plausible enough explanation.
"So," Gavril said, "This man Errold was looking for the sword and fell prey to a curse. But somehow you managed to succeed where he failed?"
"I was able to escape from him and the giant and hide myself in the tombs, though I was forced to slay a companion of his to do so."
With a flash I was carried back in my memories to the rotting tomb with its cool, moist stone walls and its ancient smell of decay and death. I remembered the heart-pounding chase through the darkness and the scalding warmth of Bert's blood as it had sprayed from his throat and forever stained my hands. I shivered and pushed this memory away.
"After that," I continued, my voice faltering only slightly, "I stumbled into what I believe was the tomb of Alander himself. The sword was there."
Gavril shook his head. "That is impossible. It is long been said that Alander was buried in the mountains near Broxbourne."
Stepan waved his hands to silence him. "It is more than possible, my friend," he said, "The location of Alander's tomb has always been merely a rumor. Nobody's ever found evidence of it in the mountains. I should know - when I was younger I looked for it there myself. Really, in all my studies of the histories, there is no reason to suppose he even had a tomb, or that he only had one. The Anatherians were very secretive about their rites for the dead. The crypt that Markis entered could have very well been Alander's. Consider, Markis found this sword there, which belonged to whoever was heir to the Empire - and Alander, as we know, had no heirs. He never married, and had no offspring - he was the last of his line, the last Prince of Anatheria. This was the very cause of the times of grief that followed his death."
"Stepan, you old fool, you're lecturing again," Gavril said, smiling only slightly.
"I was merely explaining the case," Stepan said, stroking his beard in annoyance. "But what I'm really interested in knowing is how Markis was able to take this sword from the tomb without being affected by the curse."
"I was wondering that as well," Gavril said, turning to me. "Can you explain?"
"I am not sure but it's possible...." I sighed and rubbed my head, wondering how much I should say. "What you said about Alander having no children, Stepan. I don't think it is true. My tribe was founded by a great man named Alander, who passed the mantle of leadership down to his son upon his death. The High Priests of my people are his descendents, and his blood runs strongly in us. In me. I am... I was the heir to the High Priesthood, and if our celebrated founder was the same man..."
I immediately regretted making this revelation. Stepan's face went pale and his eyes grew so wide that they seemed to fill his entire face. Gavril murmured to himself and rubbed his forehead anxiously. They exchanged glances and the atmosphere in the room quickly grew more serious.
"You," said Stepan, his voice quivering, "You are Alander's blood?"
"I believe I am," I admitted, looking at the sword, "I think I must be."
Gavril slapped his older companion on the back. "I knew there was something special about this one, did I not tell you, Stepan? The son of Alander's forgotten line!"
"We assume," the old man said cautiously, though his face betrayed excitement, "We have no proof."
Gavril shook his head, "No, don't you see? It doesn't matter if it is true or not. It might be true, and that alone makes Markis the perfect key to our plans. The people will come, they will want to believe that Alander's blood is among us again. They will listen to him."
Stepan nodded, stroking his beard again in thought, "Yes, yes, I believe you are right. He might very well inspire the change that we cannot."
I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "Excuse me," I said quietly, "I am still here, you know."
"Forgive us, Markis," Gavril said, crossing to me and giving an apologetic bow. "We have lost focus in the moment of excitement. After many years of discipline, even our willpower is sometimes weak. We have long awaited you, my friend - a sign that the ancient times of glory may come again. Fate has brought you to us today."
"I'm not a sign," I protested, "I'm an exile who shouldn't even be here."
Stepan shook his finger at me. "No man can see the hidden hand of fate, boy. Call it what you will, but it is no accident that you of all people have come to this place and at this time."
"He's right, Markis," Gavril said, "You have an important role to play, surely you must have suspected this. You are the heir of Destiny. You are not an ordinary man -- you are destined for greatness."
In my mind I could hear Damon laughing, and I did not know if it was a creation of my own imagination or if my strange servant was actually communicating to me through some silent means. Certainly Gavril at that moment sounded shockingly similar to Damon, both of them convinced that I was to become someone admired and powerful, both of them oblivious to the fact that I wanted neither. My stomach twisted into a knot.
"Everything about you is remarkable," Gavril continued, "Your appearance, your background, your lineage, the sword you carry. You bear the blood of the man Tharon himself admired above all others. You are a tangible link to a past that the people of our lands long for, a reminder of a golden age of community and prosperity when Fermanagh, Carmathen, and Broxbourne and all the other minor cities and kingdoms were united as one powerful whole. People will be fascinated by you. Most importantly, they will listen to you."
"At present we are reviled because the Council has branded us a threat," Stepan added, "But times of change are coming. The people grow restless under the current order. Before long there will be revolution, corruption will be purified."
"That's right," Gavril said. "We the Disciples must be at the center of that revolution so that the new order that is established will be more just, more disciplined, more pure. You will be the heart of this revolution, Markis. You will be our champion. You must be. It is your destiny to bring the winds of change to Carmathen, I feel certain of it."
Though I have recalled and written these pronouncements with a mixture of amusement and awe (for Gavril, it would seem, proved more of a prophet than I would have given him credit for), at the time I listened with horror and anxiety. I had no wish to get swept up in the political upheavals of Carmathen. In Fermanagh I had learned too well the perils of becoming involved in politics. My priority now was to fulfill my promise to Cedrik and then to stop what I was sure was a Broxbournean plot against me. Though I sympathized with his cause (I had seen for myself how desperately the people of the city needed change) I did not believe that I could be the political figurehead that Gavril wanted, and I did not want them to nurture false hope in me, as the Elders of my people had once done.
I protested in the strongest terms to their desires. My voice grew louder with tension and frustration, for they would not listen to my words but were lost in their certainty that my arrival was the will of a Higher Power. Errold seemed to catch on to my agitation and began dancing about while babbling loudly, adding only further chaos into the room. I shouted at him to be quiet, but he seemed not to hear me.
"We will not force you," Gavril said at last, clearly displeased by my resistance. "But do not think you can hide from your destiny. One way or another, you have a important role to play. We will not be the only ones in the city who will want you on their side."
At this Stepan's face grew cloudy, his eyes twinkled with rage and pain, and I could make out a tense frown behind his massive beard. These were strange sights on such a friendly face.
"Do not speak of them, Gavril," he said shortly, "They are beneath contempt."
"I know it pains you to hear, my friend," Gavril replied, "But Markis must know what he might face."
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
Gavril paced the room, throwing an annoyed look at Errold, who continued his manic ravings without signs of stopping. "I spoke to you before of Veru, the woman who once served with Tharon under Alander, and who also came to this place after the Unifier's death. There are a few in the city who still follow her ways."
"A few?" Stepan snorted, "Their numbers are much greater than ours, as well you know."
"Yes," Gavril replied dismissively, "But we are far more organized. The Veruvians' aims are as far-reaching and radical as our own, but they are much too given to corruption and weak in will to hope to have any success. They will surely seek you out, Markis - they will recognize, as we do, that your support will bring scores of converts from the populace above. You can attract the attention of all Carmathen."
"Don't listen to a word they say," Stepan said, with surprising venom in his voice, "Their words are seductive, but poisonous. They will seek out your worst impulses and turn them against you."
Gavril laid a hand on Stepan's shoulder, then turned to me. "Stepan knows too well what the Veruvians are capable of. His son fell victim to their lies and is now numbered among them."
"I do not wish to speak of it!" Stepan said, crossing his arms. "He is no longer my son."
It was at this moment that Errold made a desperate attempt for my sword. He had been making such an annoying but apparently harmless commotion that I had tuned him out completely, allowing him to catch me off guard. One hand clutched at my throat wildly, surprising me but not causing any real harm, while the other grasped the hilt of the sword and began to free it from its sheathe that hung from my belt. I pried his fingers off of it, and, with Gavril's help, freed myself from his grasp, sending him howling to the ground with frustration.
"He's comin, Bert!" the crazed man babbled, "He sees! He knows! We must get, we must get... No more time! And then, and then..." He trailed off into incoherence.
"Your friend is not as docile as he seems," the Tharonite leader remarked dryly.
I could only nod as I caught my breath. "He still desires the sword," I said at last. "And this strange amulet he gave me some time ago. I am to blame - I knew he wanted them, and I should have been keeping a better watch."
Stepan shuffled closer to me. "What amulet? Show it to me."
I obliged, and drew out the stone from inside my shirt where I often kept it hidden. Stepan bent closer to look at it, wrinkling his nose in concentration. Suddenly he recoiled in shock and backed away, raising his hands protectively as if in a panic.
"What is it?" I asked, "Are you alright?"
The old man looked horrified. "Do you know what that is?"
I would have answered, I suppose, to the best of my ability and explained what I had learned from Golmeir, but I was not given the opportunity. A disturbingly loud, low-pitched sound echoed through the caves, startling me. It vibrated the walls of the cavern, and shook a light rain of dust off the ceiling. Gavril said nothing, but reacted with impressive speed as he grabbed for a weapon and ran out the nearest tunnel. He was gone before I had time to question him. Stepan shuffled after him as quickly as his age allowed him.
"Wait!" I called out, "Where are you going? What's happening?"
Stepan barely paused to look back at me and say, "We've been found!"
I watched him disappear down the tunnel. The sound we heard was an alarm of some sort, I reasoned. Violence seemed likely, and I was torn between two desires: to help Gavril's men in the fight or to remain uninvolved and return to the surface and to the Consulate. Either way, there was still the problem of Errold. I turned to look for him, just in time to see the madman throwing a wild, desperate punch towards my face. It stuck with surprising force, sending a wave of pain and shock across my entire head - the memory of it is so strong that I winced to remember while writing this. Dazed, I stumbled backwards and began to fall. Errold grabbed at me and (as best as I can work out, since I was not in the position to be noticing details at the time) caught hold of the amulet about my neck. For the tiniest measurement of time I must have hung, suspended by the chain about my neck while my arms thrashed about uselessly. The amulet itself was magical and therefore difficult to destroy, as Golmeir claimed. But the silver chain was quite ordinary, as I learned to my frustration when one of the tiny links, unable to withstand the increasing pressure, buckled and broke. Have I written before of how the smallest things can affect our destinies?
I collapsed onto the ground, and when I had come to myself enough to think clearly (a count of eight, perhaps, but no longer) I sat up and realized that Golmeir's amulet was gone and that Errold was fleeing with it down the tunnel. I scrambled to my feet and began the pursuit.
When I emerged into the main chamber of the Tharonite complex, where I had first met Gavril some hours earlier, I found myself in the middle of a fevered battle. A dozen of the veiled Tharonites fought ferociously against men in armor I recognized all too well. I had expected a squadron of the City Guard, come to bring Gavril and his men to the justice of the Council. Even in the flickering light of the torches, there was no doubt that these men were of the army of Broxbourne. For a brief moment, I froze in shock, but then caught sight of Errold weaving his way through the fight and pushed my fears aside and went after him.
Two men of Broxbourne who had just dispatched a Tharonite parted to let Errold pass, then raised their weapons as I approached. My silver blade was out in a flash. I fought with desperation, batting aside the blade of one with an aggressive parry and sending a kick squarely to his chest. As he staggered back, gasping for breath, I engaged and killed the other with a quick swipe. By the time I turned back to first, Gavril and another Tharonite were upon him. I looked frantically then for Errold, and found him in the far corner of the cave, waving the amulet in the face of a Broxbournean soldier and being dragged away from the fight. There were too many enemies between us for me to get to him directly, so I joined Gavril and the others in the attempt to push back the invaders.
The fight did not last much longer. Indeed, it seems that in nearly every battle of which I have fought I have always felt as though the end came quite abruptly. Later, during the War, I led my troops into battle at dawn and within moments (as it seemed to me then) looked up with shock to see the sun setting and the sky streaked with twilight. In the heat of battle, a man loses all sense of time. This contrasts strongly with the other half of warfare, the wait before the fight, in which each moment is a lifetime.
At first I thought that we had simply won, for without warning or any apparent sign the Broxbourneans turned and fled. Thinking that we had routed them, we pursued, but they threw small packets that looked like tiny coin purses as they ran that exploded and filled the air with smoke. By the time the Tharonites coughed and floundered their way through the haze, there was no trace of the enemy. The men, unwilling to make a further pursuit, began to tend the wounded and count the dead, while I sought out Gavril urgently. My conscience was heavy and my mind busy with frantic activity.
"I must apologize," I said at once. Tears streamed down my cheeks, though whether this was from sincere contrition or from the irritation of the smoke, I cannot say. "I should have known better than to bring Errold here. He was always a pawn of the Ambassador, and they must have been keeping their eyes on him somehow, hoping he would find me here in the city. He led them right to me, and I led them right to you. I should go before I put any more of your people in danger."
Gavril shook his head grimly. "They weren't here for you, Markis."
I blinked in confusion. "Of course they were," I replied, "They have sought me and my sword for some time now. What else would they want?"
The Tharonite leader's face was empty and pale. "Stepan is gone," he said tonelessly, "They took Stepan." ___________________________________________________________________________________
I let out a small cry of frustration as I raised my sputtering torch higher and examined my surroundings. At last I forced myself to admit that I had lost track of the complicated directions Gavril had given me and was now surely lost. Though the Tharonite leader had urged me to take an escort to guide me back to the surface, I had stubbornly insisted that I would go alone rather than to expose his men to any further danger.
He had asked me once more, of course, to stay among them and become the champion to their cause, but once again I declined. It had been several hours since I left the Consulate and it was already well into the night, and I wanted to rejoin Alek and plan our next move. It was clear that I would need to find Errold and recover the amulet, and I told Gavril that I would do my best to find and free Stepan if I could.
"Our cause is more important than the life of one man," Gavril had replied, "Stepan understood this. Stay and help us, Markis. Only a purified, strong Carmathen could prove an able opposition to the might of Broxbourne."
"I don't have time to wait for that," was my counter-argument, "I will face them myself if I must."
I had stormed off alone, but before long I was cursing my arrogance. What harm could there have been in allowing one of the Tharonites to guide me? I had acted on emotion and principle, and not on reason. Time was moving quickly, and Errold and the Broxbourneans were surely more distant with each passing moment. I could not afford this diversion.
I cursed aloud. In response to this I heard laughter, a giggle that echoed through the cave. I turned about in vain, shining my light into pockets of darkness and looking for the source of the sound.
"Who's there?" I asked, trying to sound bold, "Show yourself."
A silky feminine voice responded. "Have you lost your way, poor man?" It was a simple, helpful question, but it was said in a tone of flirtatious teasing that made me blush despite myself.
"I'm trying to reach the surface," I said, composing myself, "Any help you could offer would be welcome."
A figure stepped into my torchlight. She was very tall for a woman, taller than me, and her height was composed mostly of her legs. She was dressed as if she were attending some festival, in a dress that sparkled in the light of the fire. Her hair, long and straight and black, hung partially in front of her face, obscuring one of her eyes. She was all cheekbone, with an sharp and angular nose -- an unforgettable face. Her appearance was so striking that I remember it as clearly as though she stood before me now, though I never did learn her name and our time together was brief.
"You are Markis, are you not?" she asked, pursing her lips seductively.
Unconsciously I laid a hand upon my sword, and said, "And you are of the Veruvians, no doubt."
She smiled and clapped her hands together in delight, "How clever of you! You have heard of us already."
"Is it so surprising? You have heard of me," I said, "so why shouldn't I have heard of you? I was warned against you."
At this she laughed, with sincere mirth, "Were you?" she replied, flipping some of her hair over her shoulder, "How flattering."
I hesitated. "I have no quarrel with you or your sect," I said, "And I hope that you will help me."
"Oh, we will, Markis," she said, her voice rich with irony, "We certainly will, if you will allow it."
I knew her words had hidden layers of meaning, but I decided to take them at face value. "Then please show me the way."
She stepped closer and ran a single finger across my chest. "Follow me, then, Markis," she whispered, "And I will lead you out of darkness."
The strange woman led the way, never looking back to make sure I was keeping pace and seeming to have no need for the light of my torch. I followed her through several twists and turns in silence before finally daring to speak.
"What do you call yourselves, then? Or are you simply the Veruvians?" I asked, full of curiosity.
She giggled. "Call ourselves? Why, nothing at all," she said, "We are simply ourselves."
There was an awkward pause as we continued down the tunnel.
"I ask only because the Tharonites don't call themselves Tharonites," I explained lamely.
"Oh?" she replied, with only mild interest in her voice.
"No," I said, "They call themselves the Disciples of Purity."
At this she laughed, the loudest I had yet heard from her. "That really is adorable," she said, as her chuckling finally subsided, and said no more. I found her brevity and silence irritating, for it only served to pique my interest further -- in retrospect, of course, I realize that this was exactly her intention.
"So you have no name for yourselves besides the Veruvians?" I pressed.
"If you wish, I will invent one," she said, and I could hear her smile in her voice, "Call us the Acolytes of Beauty. It shares a certain symmetry with the other, does it not?"
"I suppose it does," I admitted.
"What did you think of those Disciples, Markis?" she asked, pointing out the next turn we were to take, "You spent some time among them, yes?"
"Briefly," I said, considering. I decided it could do no harm to give my honest opinion. I wanted her to help me, and I thought that any criticism I might make against the Tharonites would only earn me favor with their apparent rivals. "I found them admirable, in a way, but severely misguided."
She made a sympathetic noise that seemed to suggest that I continue.
"I found the severity of their practices distasteful," I said, "Hardship and adversity can certainly strengthen the soul, but I'm not sure it counts in quite the same way when it is self-inflicted."
Again the woman laughed, as though I had said something quite clever.
"They sacrifice much that is joyful and lovely," I explained, "and in the end they may have strengthened their will, but their soul, I think, has withered." I nodded to myself with conviction. It is often the case that we don't know our own opinions clearly until we first speak them aloud. I was learning my own beliefs even as I was forming the words in my mouth. "They find all acts of physical union and pleasure to be abominable and weak," I said, "But I have had some experience in these matters lately, and I must disagree. They would say that it is only my weakness, my vulnerability that has tricked me into thinking so."
"Do you think it is?" she asked.
"No," I said, firmly, "I think that men and women were created with the capacity for pleasure in many forms, and that these impulses were not given to us to be ignored. There is no wrong in what the Tharonites call carnal embraces. Not in the act of itself, just as there is no wrong in a sword in and of itself. A sword can be used for evil ends, but that does not make it an evil thing."
"You are wise," she said.
"I speak what is sense amongst my people," I continued, carried away by my reflections. Speaking of these things was a welcome distraction from the troubles that weighed upon my mind. "We ... They believe that in the union between a man and a woman, spiritual energy is created. This energy they sometimes call magic, but I don't think that's the best way to describe it. It's more profound than simple spells or tricks. It is the power and capacity to see beyond the surface of people, of things, of the world, to see the truth -- and then to speak and act with the authority of knowing that truth. At least this is the belief as I understand it from my training, and from what my father told me."
"And have you found it to be an accurate belief?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.
I shook my head, though she walked ahead of me and could not see it. "I wouldn't know," I replied, "In our... in their traditions, it is only in a union with a woman that such power is possible. That is why I am here, an exile, and not among them now."
"I understand," she said, and her tone conveyed she understood indeed. "Come, we have almost arrived."
"You aren't taking me to the surface," I said, "are you?"
"I will whenever you like," she claimed, "But there is something you should see first."
We turned a corner, and entered a small cavern with several exits, each blocked by some kind of drapery or curtain of different colors: blue, red, green, and others I cannot recall. Here the woman stopped and signaled that I should go ahead.
"The blue curtain for you, I think," she said, indicating it with a gesture.
"What lies beyond?" I asked, nervously.
"That you must see for yourself," she said simply, taking my torch from me. I relinquished it without argument.
There was a strange smell, like a kind of incense in the chamber, that was intoxicating. The air seemed mystical and enticing, and I knew my curiosity would not allow me to leave before I had seen what the woman wanted to show me. Slowly, I edged near the blue curtain. I could hear human voices beyond, though they did not seem to be speaking in intelligible words. As I raised my hand to draw back the drapery, I noticed it was trembling. I gasped with an agony of expectation that I could not explain or understand, then with a final breath of courage pushed the fabric aside.
Beyond, in the dimly lit cavern, lay a sight that will tax me greatly to describe. Imagine with me, if you will, the scene that now presented itself before me. Let us summon it up in our minds together: a low-roofed cavern, buried deep in the earth, lit only by a few torches. The floor covered in carpets and blankets, pillows and cushions. The room itself populated by men, dozens of them, each bare of any clothing. Men of every shape, age, and description. Men young and fresh-faced and men turning white with age, men as pale as ivory and as dark as the sky at midnight, men tall and lanky and men short and broad. Men whose bodies shimmered with a coat of sweat, men who exuded a musky fragrance that filled my nostrils and made my head spin and my vision blur. Men entwined in each other's arms, kissing, stroking, rubbing. Men taking each other into their mouths, as Damon loved to do to me, and men entering each other, as I loved to do to Damon. Men engaging in other acts which I had never before imagined and for which I had no name.
They filled the room in groups of three or four, filling the room with moans of pleasure. Their faces were flushed with exertion, their eyes rolled back with pleasure, their hands roamed from body to body with restless desire. As I looked on, two or three shouted in climax and their release covered everything and everyone indiscriminately. They were a vast, writhing creature giving and receiving pleasure, acting and reacting as one.
Most ignored me or were oblivious to my presence, lost in their own sensations. But there was one young man, barely older than a boy, who met my gaze. His face was round and child-like, his hair long and curly, his cheeks painted red. It struck me then (to the degree in which I was capable of rational thought, faced with such a sight) that he seemed far too young to be engaged in such activities, though in truth he had seen only two or three summers fewer than me. An older man was bent over his crotch, pleasuring him, while another about my age kissed his neck sensuously. And yet the young man I speak of seemed unaware of their attention, but only met my gaze with a look of shock and recognition. It was not until much later that I would realize that I had seen this young man before.
The woman who had led me to this place was suddenly at my side, her voice whispering insistently into my ear. "Do you see?"
"What is this place?" I asked breathlessly, unable to tear my eyes away.
"Your new home, if you wish," she replied, "Your new family."
I shook my head feebly.
"Your old family rejected you," she continued, "But here your desires are not a crime, they are a gift. Here, your desires bond you with your brothers, make you one. Here you are welcome, here you are wanted. Here you are free to be who you long to be."
Her hand went to my crotch, where I was erect with desire, and she squeezed me gently. "You see?" she said, "Your whole body strains with desire for this. You have waited your whole life to find others who thought as you, who felt as you, who find pleasure as you. There is no evil in carnal embraces, Markis. This you said yourself."
She brushed past me then to enter the room. Several of the naked men looked up from their engagements to smile and greet her warmly. She turned to face me, blocking my view of the curly-haired young man, and spreading her arms wide in welcome invitation.
"Come, Markis. We know you as one of us," she said, "Let your new family welcome you home." The men shouted out in unison, filling the cavern with their calls of desire, each beckoning me with cheerful urgency.
I stood rooted to the spot -- I could not move. I could not even bring myself to blink, and my eyes grew so dry they began to fill with tears. My heart thumped loudly in my chest, and with each pulse of my blood I could feel a corresponding twitch in my trousers. At last, slowly, and with terrible agony, I took a step backwards, then another, and then (how it pained me!) I turned and ran into the darkness.
As always, please contact me at thephallocrat@gmail.com with comments, suggestions, or to point out any annoying typo that I may have missed. I really appreciate it!