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 THIRTEEN
After several days of traveling, I met the Archbishop of Broxbourne. There's no way I can explain how anticlimactic the moment was. For what seemed like forever I had been tied up alone in the back of a cart, blindfolded and gagged. I had been roughly used and beaten, but my captors had not dared to try to mutilate my person further than that. For the entire journey I had believed I was heading south, towards Fermanagh, and that when we arrived I would be again the pawn of the Queen. I believed that the unsympathetic guards around me were her personal amazarii, and I pictured in detail their cruel faces grinning to see me so defeated and helpless.
As the days went on, my anxiety grew. It had not taken us this long to reach Carmathen. What, then, was the delay? In fear and paranoia I began to imagine my captors leading us in a long, circuitous route merely to torment me. There was only the constant bumping of the cart, broken only by the very rare stop for a bite of tasteless food.
If I had not been blindfolded, I would have had a splendid view. As you travel north, the hills of Carmathen slowly give way to the steep northern mountains, covered with forests populated by trees quite unlike that of my own home, far to the south. These trees are much smaller than those I knew, and almost by magic are green throughout the year, impervious to the harsh northern winter. Strange and unfamiliar animals live in their shadows, and the air is cool and sharp. It is quite a sight to see, but I saw nothing but blackness. The weather grew cold and I shivered, confused and disoriented.
And at last we seemed to arrive at our destination. About me I could hear sounds of movement, the collective chaos of conversations. I was pushed roughly from the cart, led blindly through the sea of sounds. Around me the temperature suddenly grew hotter, though I think I attributed that only to my growing anxiety. In reality, I was being led into the heart of the mountain, into a mine-like system of excavations cut deep into the earth.
I was quite blind, but I knew it would not be for long. When the moment came at last, I knew what I would see. The Queen's smirking face burned in my imagination, her eyes twinkling with victory, her smile revealing the hundreds of tortures and indignations she had devised for me. Despite myself, trickles of sweat dripped down my brow and soaked into my blindfold.
But then, at the peak of the tension, when I was thrust to my knees and the blindfold removed, I blinked in the sudden light and looked up not at Valessa, but at a rather mundane looking middle aged man. His face and body were round - not a fat man, by any means, but stocky and large of frame. His hair, what there was of it, was combed neatly back and hung past his ears. The crown of his head was nearly bald. There was nothing remarkable about his features. The most extraordinary thing about him was his clothing. His robes were shockingly white, streaked with designs of deepest red. They hung grandly about him, and trailed behind him like a gigantic tail.
My first reaction was simple relief. He was not the Queen, and I was clearly not in Fermanagh, though there was no indication from the simple stone room where I might be instead. It was several moments before I realized at last who the man before me must be. He did not, somehow, look like I had imagined.
If I was not impressed by him, he was equally unimpressed by me.
"So," he said, looking me over. That was all he said for a long time.
There were others in the room, Broxbournean soldiers and other men dressed similarly as the Archbishop, if less ornately. Their robes were plainer, more humble, and they had not as many pieces of jewelry. I stared with disdain at the Archbishop's expensive rings and single, bold necklace - a simple chain attached to a brilliant red stone... I blinked in disbelief. I knew that amulet well. As calmly as possible, I searched the room as though looking for an escape. Behind me, near the only apparent exit, stood a large, familiar shape.
It was Golmeir. I only barely prevented showing the shock of recognition on my face. Piecing it all together, I looked about again, searching. After only a few moments I found what I was looking for. Stepan stood quite unobtrusively in the corner of the room, his wrists shackled, but otherwise looking quite well. He looked at me with deep concern and sympathy. Near him shuffled Errold, looking idiotic and nervous, and giggling at the sight of me.
"So," the Archbishop said again, "Is this really him?"
One of the men in robes nodded emphatically, "Yes, your Excellency."
"This is the man who killed Bert? Who stole the Prince's Blade? Who escaped Valessa's grasp and eluded her amazarii, and who tried to set the nation of Carmathen against me?"
"There is no doubt at all, Your Excellency," the man nodded.
"He's quite underwhelming," the Archbishop said conclusively, "Apart from his lack of hair, there's very little about him that isn't ordinary."
The men in the room nodded and murmured their agreement.
"So, Markis," the Archbishop said, addressing me for the first time, "Perhaps you would like to answer for yourself?"
I did not know what to say, so I remained silent.
"Come now, I know you can speak," he said, "We've all heard the story of your miraculous regeneration." He chuckled dismissively, and the others followed suit. "A clever piece of deception, by the way, but you will not fool me with tricks. There is only one man who could work miracles, Markis, and that was Alander." He spoke the name with reverence, and I realized that I had never properly considered the tenants of the religion that this man the Archbishop presided over.
"Let's start at the beginning," he said, "How came you to interfere with my agents, Bert and Errold?" He nodded to the babbling madman in the corner, who sniggered nervously at his own name.
I nearly laughed. "Your Excellency," I said diplomatically, but not at all respectfully, "Your agents, as you called them, interfered with me, attempting to take me prisoner and forcing me to help them plunder the tomb. I am surprised, to be honest, that a man as powerful as yourself would choose two men such as them to do your dirty work. Surely more capable men were available."
The Archbishop snorted. "My more capable men are not as expendable. They were the only men I could find greedy enough to risk the curse. They had only one true objective: to find the sword."
"In that, they failed," I said challengingly, "The sword belongs to me now."
His Excellency's face grew dark and cloudy, and he approached me threateningly. "That relic belongs rightfully to the people of Broxbourne, and to the Holy Church which worships Alander's name."
"To you, you mean," I said, "Don't hide behind words."
He struck me across the face. It stung, but I had suffered far worse blows.
"Where is the blade now?" he asked, and there was a command in his question.
I shook my head vigorously, shrugging off the pain of the slap. "I left it in Carmathen, in the Embassy."
"Do you think we are stupid? That was the first place we searched, and it was not there."
My mind raced. Alek must have escaped with the sword, and both were, for the moment, safely out of my enemy's grasp. I was filled with relief.
"Suddenly, you cannot speak? Lost your tongue, eh?" The men in the room laughed at this attempt at a joke. "We have very ingenious methods of procuring information, Markis. Believe me."
"Use whatever tortures you want," I said, "It won't do you any good. I don't know where the sword is now."
"We shall see about that," the Archbishop said, turning his back on me and waving a hand to dismiss me from his presence, "We shall see." ____________________________________________________________________________
My cell was tiny - smaller by far than the one I had occupied in Carmathen, and somehow even less inviting. I was cold and damp, and sat shivering to myself. My stomach twisted with anxiety. My entire body was tense, panicked, sending me thousands of signals to flee, to run from danger. Everything felt wrong, and my instincts cried out against them. And yet I could do nothing. There was no release from the tension, and so I sat stewing in the sensation, feeling it grow as it seeped further and further beneath my skin and rattled my bones.
The small door to the cell was made of solid metal, with the exception of a small circular window, not even quite big enough for me to pass my hand through that allowed the guards to check on me at regular intervals. From time to time I would see them, a section of a face and a peering eye suddenly framed in the small window, seeking me out, assuring that I was not engaging in any mischief. Time dragged on like that. There were no other windows in the room, and the air was stagnant. I felt buried and smothered.
I longed for the moments that the guards checked in on me - for they were the only times I could be sure that Damon would not appear. In the hours that I passed in that little cell he appeared a handful of times. Usually he was naked, beckoning to me with a lascivious grin and shaking his bottom in my direction, taunting and teasing me. In whispered tones that only I could hear he would suggest a hundred ways he could be of use to me, if only I would feed his unending desire. It had been many days since there had been any such opportunity, and I knew he must be growing weak and hungry.
I could not bring myself to do it. I could not look at him with the same kindness and gratitude as I had once done. I could not lose myself in his beauty as I had so many times before. I made excuses, brushed him aside. His tactics changed, then. The next few times he appeared, it was to threaten and intimidate me, his voice always low and calm, adding an eerie quality to his ominous words. I resisted him as best as I could, growing more disquieted. I fought a battle within myself. Damon was possibly my best chance to escape whatever doom the Archbishop had planned for me, and yet... at what cost?
At length there was a changing of the guard outside my room, and a new face appeared at the door. It did not, however, disappear after a quick glance, as the others had done. Instead it remained, studying me.
"Who are you?" the guard whispered suddenly.
I furrowed my brow in confusion. "I'm Markis," I said, feeling silly.
"Yes, yes," the guard replied dismissively, "But who are you?"
There was the sudden sound of footsteps approaching, and the guard hurriedly disappeared from the peephole. He vanished so suddenly, in fact, that I detected a hint of guilt in his actions. He was behaving like somebody who was almost caught doing something forbidden. I allowed myself the hope that here was someone who might be able to give me aid.
The footsteps grew louder, and then passed the cell, and I heard my guard murmur a neutral greeting to whoever it was. Eventually, slowly, the footsteps faded again into the distance. The guard immediately appeared at the window again.
"Are you the one?" he whispered. "We've waited so long..."
I could not have been more confused by the man's question. I felt, however, like there was something so important at work here that I could not afford to make a misstep. A long moment passed in which I contemplated my next move, and then finally my desperation decided me.
"Yes," I said, with feigned conviction. "I am the one."
The guard's voice trembled with excitement. "You are?"
I hesitated for a fraction of a section. "Yes." I said. My voice sounded hallow to my ears, but the guard seemed giddy. I nearly laughed at the entire situation. I had no idea what was going on.
"I knew it!" he said, and his voice grew loud enough that he startled himself and quickly dropped back to a whisper, "I knew it. He told us you were."
"He? He who?" I asked.
The man looked around to make extra sure nobody was in earshot. "Stepan," he whispered.
I rose to my feet. "Stepan? You know him? Can you take him a message from me?"
The guard turned suddenly, as though he had heard something. "I must go," he said suddenly.
"Wait," I tried to say.
"Don't fear," the guard said, "You are not alone."
He disappeared suddenly again, and I was left to ponder the strange interaction. The entire exchange had happened so quickly, that as the hours drifted on I began to wonder if I had simply imagined it.
Time rolled inexorably onward. At one point, sometime after talking to the guard, I had drifted off into some semblance of sleep. My unease in the unpleasant environment did not allow me to rest fully, and I tossed and turned and murmured through uncomfortable dreams. I was awoken quite suddenly by a loud voice. I gasped and sat up at once, my heart pounding steadily in my chest.
"Good evening, my children."
It was the voice of the Archbishop, magnified by some mysterious means and seeming to emanate from everywhere at once. I could have almost sworn that it came from within my very room, but I could hear it also echoing into my chamber from the rooms beyond. The Archbishop of Broxbourne, then, was addressing his flock.
"As we work ever closer to reaching our goal, let us praise the Heavens above for its blessings on us this day. The times which were foretold in ancient days are nearly upon us. Soon we shall all again know the same peace and prosperity that was enjoyed under the rule of Alander himself."
"As we prepare ourselves for rest this evening, let us take a moment to be thankful and joyous. Thankful that we have been guided to the resting place of most holy relics. Thankful that the truth of the sacred prophecies have been revealed. And thankful most of all that soon an heir shall rule among us - Alander come again. Let gratitude fill our hearts and give us determination, pure and certain determination, to finish our work in despite of all enemies who would seek to destroy us. Amen."
With the last word, the Archbishops voice slowly dissipated until it was merely a faint rumble in the stone walls, and then at last there was silence again. ____________________________________________________________________________________
The strange guard did not appear again, and the surge of hope that he had inspired within me began to ebb somewhat. I lived in constant expectation that the Archbishop's vague threats of torture were to be carried out at any moment. And yet, hours passed and there was no movement or change save that of my guards, who were rotated at regular intervals. As hours became days, it grew clear that the first of the Archbishop's tortures had already begun. The guards came and went, but they brought no food or water. My stomach clenched with hunger, and my mouth was dry. I had felt weak since my capture, weaker still after enduring the trauma of having my tongue severed, and then again from my long journey in the back of the cart. Now without sustenance I felt my strength draining further still.
In the quiet hours and days that followed, I was left alone with Damon, whose promises of aid were becoming harder and harder to ignore. Still, if there was any situation in which I would find it difficult to provide him with the sustenance he craved, it would be this one. That was my chief excuse, at least, and it did not satisfy Damon's eagerness. His threats grew more ominous, his pleadings more frantic.
One night (at least I believe it was at night) when I lay in half sleep, too weak almost to move, he appeared before me. He looked quite calm and composed, studying me carefully.
"You are dying," he said dramatically. "Will you not let me aid you?"
I shook my head, a feeble motion, "I can't."
"You will let yourself be lost out of pride? Now, when the power we have sought is so close to your grasp?"
I laughed bitterly. Power felt very far away at that particular moment.
"I could force you," he said, "You are too weak to resist me."
I was horrified at this suggestion, but tried not to show it. Instead, I cupped my groin with hand and said, "I'm too weak for what you want."
He was not convinced. "I cannot allow you to destroy yourself," he said, crossing his arms. "I will do what I must."
He came closer to me. I made no move to avoid him, though in my thoughts I howled for him to stay away. He reached out to me with his left hand, reaching across his body to touch my own left hand where it lay on the stone floor next to me. His face showed intense concentration. I felt the warm touch of his fingers on my palm and then there was something else. A strange buzzing sensation, a frenzy of heat and motion. Slowly, his fingers began to sink into the flesh of my hand, growing faint and translucent as they vanished. I stared at this phenomenon in utter horror and frozen fascination.
When most of his hand had vanished into me, I saw the muscles of his forearm flex. My fingers jerked suddenly, awkwardly, and I shouted and pulled my hand away, cradling it close to my body.
The motion had not been my own.
"What are you doing to me?" I hissed. "What are you?"
He looked at me impassively, blankly. "I am not yet strong enough," he said, "but I can wait. You will need my help in time -- you will have no choice but to feed me again."
He turned away from me then and vanished into the darkness. ____________________________________________________________________________________
Hours and hours passed, and there was no change except the changing of my guards. During one of these rotations, I heard a voice whispering which seemed familiar to me. I rose to my feet wearily and crept close to the door to listen further.
At that exact moment, Stepan's face appeared in the peephole, startling me.
"Markis!" he whispered eagerly, "It's so good to see you!"
I returned the sentiment, sincerely. "What's going on? Where are we?"
Stepan looked around cautiously. I was near enough to the peephole now that I could make out another figure standing beyond him - it was the guard who had spoken to me earlier.
"I don't have much time, Markis. I can't be seen here, talking to you. I have won a little trust here, the Archbishop has relaxed security around me somewhat, but if I were caught doing something suspicious I would be back in a cell just like you."
I nodded. "Where are we?"
The old man licked his lips nervously. "We're in Broxbournean lands, in the mountains somewhere east of the city proper. The Archbishop has been looking for something here for a long time, and he's nearly found it."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Alander's tomb," Stepan said.
I shook my head in confusion. "But I've already been to Alander's tomb. I found the Prince's Blade there."
"The Anatherians often created several tombs for the same person, one for each of the various stages or roles they played in life," Stepan said, "or at least that is my hypothesis. The tomb you found in the southern forest was the resting place of Alander as Prince of Anatheria, thus its location in the south where the Empire began and the presence of the blade that signified his royal heritage. Here, buried deep in the mountains that marked the far edge of Empire in its days of glory, the Archbishop hopes to find the tomb of Alander as King."
"Why? What purpose does he have?"
Stepan paused, considering how best to explain. "You have to understand the culture of Broxbourne. They were nothing before Alander's Empire, a collection of barbarian tribes plagued by centuries of war and struggle. The Anatherians brought them civilization, and after an initial struggle they took to the new way of life very strongly. Even now they regard the rule of Alander as a golden age. Their high respect and admiration of him became fear and awe and over the generations became a full-fledged theology, of which the Archbishop is the head. The principle belief of the religion dedicated to Alander's name is that another like him will come again. This heir will unite the lands through bloodshed and war and eventually bring the same lasting and glorious peace, like his predecessor."
"The Archbishop seeks to be recognized as Alander's heir," I said, lamely, stating the obvious.
"Exactly," Stepan nodded, "The Broxbourneans have waited for such a figure for a long time. Many are already prepared to accept him as the one. With the relics contained in this tomb, he will convince many more. They will follow him anywhere, and his conquest of the lands will begin."
"What relics?"
"Alander's crown, most notably. But there's bound to be other artifacts connected to his person. Once he is able to open the tomb, he'll possess them all."
"What is preventing him?"
The old man shifted his weight, thinking. "The door to the tomb has been found, but it won't open to just anybody. It's attuned by some ancient means to the royal line of Anatheria. The Archbishop has been frantically seeking a way around this. That's why he sent his men for me. He thought my knowledge of the ancient empire might help him find another way into the tomb."
"And what about the sword?" I asked, "What has that to do with this?"
"It's another relic that will link him to Alander," Stepan replied, "but it's more than that. He believes the possession of the sword might... I don't know... fool the door. Trick whatever mechanism that keeps it closed into thinking he's the Prince of Anatheria and open. Where is it, the sword?"
I shrugged, "I have no idea. With my... my friend, I guess. Safe for now, I hope."
He nodded. "Good. I don't think having it will make any difference, but... just in case, I'm glad he didn't get it when he got you."
"You have some followers, it seems," I said suddenly, "Any chance we could escape?"
Stepan shook his head. "Not likely. I've thought about it from every angle. For one thing, we're far from the surface here. The effort to excavate this mountain has been massive, Markis. Hundreds of men and giant slaves carving into the rock - I can't believe he's kept this enterprise a secret!"
"Giants?"
"Yes," Stepan said, "Many of them. Enslaved. You remember that amulet you wore?"
"Of course," I replied, "it allowed me to control the giant Golmeir."
"It is a prison-stone. There is a more ancient word for it, an ugly word in a different tongue, but that's what we call them in modern speech. Once captured by the magic of the stone, its victim must obey the commands of the amulet's bearer. It is a sinister, evil thing used in ancient days. The Archbishop and his mages must have rediscovered them, for he has captured many of the giants with them to help him tear up the mountain. I have no idea how he managed it - the giants are infamously reclusive and untrusting."
"Is there a way to destroy the stones? To free the captives?"
Stepan shook his head. "If there is, I don't know of it. The amulet is indestructible by all conventional means. But, its power does have limitations."
"Such as?" I asked, thinking furiously. If we could free Golmeir and his kin, they would almost certainly aid us against the Broxbourneans.
"I have heard the mages instructing the guards who bear the amulets never to command one of the captured giants to do any harm against one of their own kind. That's all I know."
I considered this information, then asked, "Can you bring me some food? Or water?
Stepan's mouth grew tight with anger as he realized my plight. "I will do my best," he said, "Try to hold out. There are those, like my friend here," (he indicated the guard behind him) "who secretly do not believe the Archbishop is the true heir of Alander. I will spread the word amongst them, and they will try to help you if they can. For now, I must leave. I have already stayed too long."
I thanked him, touching his hand through the small hole in the door. He turned to leave when suddenly I felt compelled to speak.
"Stepan," I said quickly, stopping him in his tracks, "I... I met your son. He is very worried about you. He wanted to help me rescue you."
The old man turned to face me slowly, his face suddenly unreadable and blank.
"I just..." I hesitated, then continued, "I thought you might want to know."
Stepan looked at me for a long moment then whispered hoarsely, "Thank you." He shuffled off down the hall quickly without saying another word. ____________________________________________________________________________________
I have no doubt that Stepan was as good as his word, and did his best to send me relief for my hunger and thirst. His followers must have found complying with his request difficult. No aid came, except once a hard and tasteless biscuit dropped through the small opening in my door. While it was very much appreciated, it did little to ease my suffering. I tried not to grow resentful, but logic and reason were slipping quickly from my grasp.
When at last the door to my cell was thrown open and guards came to escort me back to the presence of the Archbishop, they practically had to carry me I was so weak. They did not even bother to blindfold me this time, and I gazed eagerly at the excavation complex that had become my prison.
He awaited me in the same room in which I had seen him before. His ministers, the similarly robed sycophants who nodded with approval at every word from their master's lips, sneered at me from behind their leader. But there was something different the air. A sharpness of anticipation that shook me. I was weak, hungry, and tired - and I knew that some kind of torture now awaited me.
"Have you enjoyed your stay?" the Archbishop said. He did not bother to add irony to his voice. "Now that a little of your defiance has been starved out of you, we can get down to business."
A man in a dark robe appeared, carrying a large bowl carefully in his hands. It was covered by a piece of cloth, through which steam trickled out from the hidden contents inside.
"The mixture is at full potency, Your Excellency," the dark-robbed man said.
The Archbishop nodded, and the bowl was brought closer to me. The guards flanking me held my arms with one hand, and covered their mouth and nose with the other. I could smell the contents of the bowl now, a rotting, rancid odor that would have made me vomit had my stomach not been so thoroughly empty.
"There is no doubt you are a very brave man, Markis," the Archbishop said, and I shrieked inside. I did not feel brave at all. "But there is no man who is immune to fear - as you will soon see."
The dark robed man place the bowl on the ground before me, and the guards forced me to my knees above it. With a quick movement the robed man pulled the cloth from the bowl and scurried away. At the same moment my guards released me and took several big steps backwards, away.
For a brief moment, I thought I was free and I marveled at their stupidity. But then I saw the cloud of steam escaping from the bubbling bowl, and then there was no time to flinch or hold my breath, or turn away. In a moment of shock and panic I inhaled the vapor deeply.
At first there was only the sensation of terror. The fear coursed through my body and made me scream out. It was only after this first wave of overwhelming anxiety had passed that I began to have the hallucinations. The stone room, the Archbishop and his men, all of it faded from my vision and I was quite suddenly on an open plain staring into a wide, gaping, terrifying sky. The extent of its nothingness, its emptiness, was vast and I could not but imagine that I was falling upwards, into the void, to be lost forever. I looked down at the ground in panic only to see my feet lifting from the ground, the grassy earth vanishing from sight quickly until I was lost, falling forever into the sky, flailing my arms and weeping but lost forever. I screamed out for mercy as my fears directed the hallucination perfectly, and the men in the room stared at my misery without compassion.
"Fascinating," I heard the Archbishop say - distantly., as though I was on another world. "What does he see, I wonder? What does this one fear?"
"There's no way to know for sure, Your Excellency," another voice replied.
"I know," the Archbishop said, "it's the mystery that intrigues me."
The hallucinations went on. Vision upon vision of terror assaulted me. I fell for what felt like years into the sky, towards the stars. I faced my tribe and was spit upon and attacked. I saw Cedrik and Valen and Pasha and yes, even Stepan and Gavril destroyed before my eyes. I saw Alek killed in a thousand ways. He cursed my name as he died. He turned to the arms of other men, of women lovely and numerous. I faced loneliness and death in every moment.
"Stop!" I whimpered at last, "Stop this, I beg you!"
"You wish this to end?"
"Yes!" I cried out, collapsing to the ground in convulsions of dread.
"Then, confess!" the Archbishop said, "Tell me what I want to hear!"
I was lost in confusion. I didn't know what he wanted me to say. I did not know where the sword was. I did not know how to give him what he wanted. I didn't know anything he already knew... except perhaps one things. One secret that I had held in my heart and tried not to even acknowledge it myself. I had carried its burden for weeks now, but I had not been able to face it. Now there was no choice.
In my vision Alek pulled a dagger and attacked me.
"Confess!" the Archbishop repeated.
"It's me," I mumbled, terrified, "I am what you seek."
"What? What are you saying?" The men around me leaned forward eagerly.
"It's me!" I shouted desperately, "I AM THE HEIR OF ALANDER!"
There was a commotion in the room. The men around the Archbishop shouted out in disbelief and disapproval. There were shouts of heresy, demands for my life. Each man tried to outdo the other in their expressions of horror. But the Archbishop himself was silent, exchanging glances with the dark-robed man who had prepared the hallucinogen. They knew what I was enduring. They knew I did not lie.
"End this," the Archbishop said, and his voice sounded hallow and empty. The throaty confidence that had filled his voice was gone. "End this, I say!"
A blow to my head sent me sprawling to the ground and into the welcome, sweet relief of unconsciousness. __________________________________________________________________________________
I woke up suddenly, jerking upright in a cold sweat and immediately on edge. I was back in my cell, and in another frozen moment of fear (there had been so many now) I saw that I was not alone. A large dark shape sat in the corner, watching me.
"Golmeir?" I whispered at last. The shape nodded slowly. "What...?"
The giant's voice rumbled, vibrating the cell walls gently. "I'm to guard you."
"I see," I said, my memories of the torture coming back. "He no longer trusts me with the regular guards."
Again the giant nodded slowly. "I'm... sorry," it said, with some difficulty.
"It's not your fault," I replied.
"If you try to escape," it said, regretfully, "I will kill you."
I swallowed hard. For a moment there was nothing to say. I finally noticed a bowl nearby, filled with some kind of sickly smelling gruel. I was starving, however, and I ate hungrily with my fingers, trying to savor every mouthful. Clearly the Archbishop was not ready for me to die just yet. Golmeir watched me, his face blank.
"I would have freed you if I could," I said, after licking my bowl clean. "I'm sorry that I failed."
The giant did not reply at first. I studied him in the faint light. His face and features were as repulsive as always, hard and cruel, and yet... as before, when I looked at him I had begun to feel more sympathy than revulsion.
"Only you of all my masters have shown me kindness," it replied at last. "I owe you much."
I shook my head. "No. I failed you."
"It is I who failed. I am to blame," the giant continued. I had never heard him speak so many words. "All of these my brethren, captured like me. It is my fault. I was arrogant. I thought we could trust the holy men and their promises. My father did not agree and we fought."
"Your father?" I asked, filled with curiosity.
"Ruler of our people," Golmeir said, his deep voice filled with woe, "Headfather of my clan. He learned I had made a deal with holy men, to help them dig into mountain. I have never seen him so furious. I was cast out. Many of my brethren followed me. We went to the holy men - by the time we learned of their true purpose, we were captured. You see? My folly has brought this doom upon us."
His grief and regret were sincere, and I was touched more than I can say. Carefully I slid closer to him and, hesitating only slightly, I placed my hand on his arm affectionately.
"Golmeir," I said, "You are a prince and an exile. We are the same."
He met my eyes then, and I thought I saw something different in his features. His skin felt warm and smooth - not at all tough and craggy as it appeared. For just a moment I thought I saw something less than ugly in face, something almost pleasant in its shape. He hesitated, then draped his enormous arm around me and pulled me into an awkward, smothering embrace. I was frightened at first, but I was still so shaken from my torments and so in need of company and affection that at last I embraced him back, my hands reaching feebly only half way around his gigantic frame.
"You are a good man," the giant said. In his voice I could hear the same need for companionship that I felt myself.
I had noticed his erection almost immediately, as it was impossible to miss. It poked out of the giants meager loincloth and stretched toward the ceiling defiantly. Its enormous bulk was frightening - even more gigantic than I had imagined. At first I tried politely to ignore it, unsure of how such a thing was treated in the giant's culture. Perhaps it was not uncommon to become aroused in front of others. It could not, I was sure, have anything to do with me.
But as I pulled away from the embrace, Golmeir saw me trying not to look.
"I am... sorry," Golmeir said, "that you must see my suffering." He pointed at his crotch.
"Your suffering?" I said. "Can you not... surely you could relieve yourself, if you needed. I would not be offended."
The giant blushed. It was an amazing, incongruent sight - such a sign of daintiness in such a massive monster. "I cannot," he said, "I am forbidden by the holder of the amulet. It is a... punishment."
You know what I had to do, mysterious reader. Lonely as I was, how could I ignore the giant's suffering? But I cannot fully describe what happened next. I can only hint at it with cheap words. It was one of the most profoundly magical moments of my life - and I learned a most desperately needed lesson.
I still found him ugly - so it was, I believe, a true act of service, a selfless gift that I wanted to offer him. I reached out and touched him, and again his flesh surprised me by its smoothness and warmth. I had to use both hands to reach around his shaft, and as I did I looked up at his face and gasped in wonder. A single tear slid down his cheek, and suddenly I could see him clearly. Like studying the stars and suddenly seeing a coherent picture formed out of the chaos, he appeared fully. His features did not actually change, exactly, but the veil that had kept me from truly seeing him was gone. His ugliness faded away, was reinterpreted anew by eyes that saw past revulsion. With a gasp I saw what had always been the truth.
He was beautiful - powerful, majestic, masculine. Proud and noble, with an air of grace. Still frightening in his way, but not a monster, not a creature at all. A man - a giant, handsome, awe-inspiring man.
"Can you see me?" he whispered, and his voice vibrated my whole body.
"Yes," I replied in wonder, "Yes. Yes."
He did not sob or weep, but from deep in his chest came a moaning sigh of relief and gratitude so profound that I shook to hear it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to smile.
It's been a year since I started THE EXILE, so if you are still reading, thanks a ton! More to come as soon as possible, so please be patient. You know how to reach me if you wanna: thephallocrat@gmail.com