The Book of the Blessed

“They say men come here to find all sorts of things,” Anson said, conversationally to Ash who had something like a longsuffering smile on his face as he pulled his cards together and placed them somewhere in his cloak.

“I come here to find all sorts of men,” Ash said.

“And did you find them?”

“I found one,” Ash said.

And then Anson said, simply, “Stay with me tonight.”

“You should have just asked when you sat down.”

“When I sat down I didn’t know I was going to.”

“I keep a room in a much more pleasant inn than this,” Ahs said.

Anson said, “Show me.”

Ash crushed out his cigarette and handed Anson the whiskey. He got up and signaled for him to follow. Anson was taller, and leaner, and though the tavern was crowded, there was no need for him to press so tightly to Ash of the beautiful golden brown eyes and brown gold skin as he did. Out in the cooler air of the street, he had to catch up with him, and when they reached the end of the block, before they went on, Ash said, “Do you have any idea what you are dealing with? What I am? The appeal of you is quite obvious. Lean, a soldier with a sword at your side, muscles not too big, just big enough I can see through that damned shirt. I wonder what you see in this conjurer.”

“The same thing you see in me,” Anson said,

“They say my ancestors fought dragons. But they also danced with them. They never ran from fire. They ran to it.”

“They were fools,” Ash said.

“Then I am too.”

“Yes. Most likely.”

A tram bearing late night revelers clattered down the street.

“Come with me,” Ash said. “See how much my fires burns.”

“Light a candle?”

“Just one candle,” Ash said, “so I can watch you undress, see you body golden and lovely.”

“It has never been lovely to me.”

“Then you are a very poor man for having missed yourself.”

“Undress with me,” Anson said.

Ash wrapped Anson in his arms, and Anson stooped down, planting his chin on Ash’s head. They kissed, and beyond the liquor and smoke of the tavern room, Anson smelled a wild spicy cologne, the late summer and Ash’s desire. Quickly they undressed each other and Anson beheld Ash, brown, strong limbed, deep chested. He kissed his firm lips.

Anson’s body, golden, long, with hair dark brown and cinnamon going down his stomach to make a small cloud over his sex, the tattoo of a dragon moving up the hills of his right bicep, breathing a strange fire as Anson stretched and his bicep flexed.

“There is music,” Anson said.

“From downstairs.”

Anson fell onto the bed on his back and opened his legs to Ash. It was so quick, and they were so quickly out of themselves. Head to the ceiling, then face looking out of the window to the street, and then down at Anson’s mouth opened in ecstasy, Ash entered him with a sigh of surprise. Anson’s large hands pulled at him. How hot, how tight how … home he was, how home Anson had felt since the moment Ash had seen him.

“Don’t come,” Anson whispered, and Ash looked at this long and large and beautiful man, thighs up for him, mouth open, face closed in pleasure.

“Don’t come. Don’t come. Please!” Anson whispered as they made a rhythm together, pushing and pulling, taking in, moving over silent hills of desire.

Ash was on his knees, and then his hands and knees, pressing into him, engulfed in heat, pulled into tightness. Anson reached back, his broad warm hand on Ash’s thigh, guiding him in deeper. Now the orgasm was like a sharp magnet that tugged at his balls and turned his cock into something large and cosmic, slick and throbbing. The orgasm pulled itself out of Ash, causing him to go into a violent seizure and then, eyes gazing at the light of nothing, he knelt there still, too taken to even move. It was Anson’s warm, large hands that moved him, put him on his back. He felt Anson riding him, cock against his cock, lubricated by the slickness of his semen. They moved together in that incredible heat until cursing and swearing with a staggered, oh—fuck—my—god-god-god-damn, Anson came too. He came hot, the liquid flowing between their stomachs, jutting to their chests.

“I know you,” Ash said. “I knew you.”

“In another life?” Anson said, not entirely joking, his blue eyes turning golden in the light.

“Perhaps in several,” Ash said.

They lay like that, Ash under the heat of Anson. Then, at last, Ash got up. He returned a few moments later, brown, nude, clean, with a white cloth for Anson. It was hot and moist and Anson cleaned himself with it. Anson rose and stood before Ash. He had the most beautiful penis, still firm, still erect and bobbing, balls hanging in their brown sack, the hair of Anson’s loins dark bronze, glinting gold, beautiful. Swiftly Ash took Anson in his mouth. He needed him. He wanted Anson so much that Anson came back to the bed and their fooling around turned into second sex. In the aftermath of it, in the late night the two men lay damp and hot and naked, tangled together, barely breathing.

Ash tried to laugh and sat up.

“Are we having an affair now?” he asked.

Anson pulled Ash’s warm body to his. It was important they be as close as possible. It felt so good to hold him, to be near him. He kissed him very softly and then squeezed Ash.

Anson told him: “We could.”

Anson woke from a sleep without nightmares. He rolled over, stretching for Ash and yawning, said, “Good morning.”

“It is a morning,” Ash agreed, reclining on one elbow, “And I find it good.”

“What time is it?”

“Early yet, scarcely day.”

“Damnation,” Anson murmured, “I do not want to leave. Is there much to do on your end, today?”

“A few things.” Ash held out a hand and shook it feebly as if he were not sure how much these things mattered.

“I guess I better go,” Anson said.

“You don’t have to,” Ash said. “But you probably should.”

“I said I should go hours ago.”

Anson slowly separated himself from Ash and, on the edge of the bed, searched in the room lit only by dim lamps, for his underwear, his trousers, his shirt.

“And I agreed then, too,” Ash told him, sitting up. “But pointed out there wasn’t much of a reason we shouldn’t have the whole night.”

“And we’ve had the whole night,” Anson said.

He leaned over and kissed Ash on the mouth. They kissed like that a long time, and Ash drew him back into the bed where they kissed, tangled their bodies and tasted each other a long time before separating.

“It’s nearly morning.”

“It is morning,” Ash told him.

Ash helped him dress, and then wrapped himself in his robe and pulled him outside.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” he said.

They were quiet the whole time they went through the halls and down the stairs.

“This place is huge,” Anson whispered.

Ash said nothing, but only squeezed his hand.

At the door Anson said, “When will I see you again?”

“That should be my question. Promise you’ll come to me soon.”

They kissed again, a long while, Ash reaching up to press his hands into Anson’s short hair. And then he separated from him and pushed the great glass paned door open.

The sky was grey and the street was barely lit.

“It’s morning,” said Anson.

Ash touched his chest and agreed, “It is morning.”

Anson walked down the steps of the hotel and turned to the right, walking along the high old buildings of North Gate. Broad Street was nearly empty but for a few sledge cabs and some early morning risers setting up stalls, tipping their hats. To the south, he heard the tolling of bells and looked up to see the white and lavender towers of Purplekirk. He turned into Birk Street and came up the steps that led to the great round tower where the House Guard of Kingsboro stayed. This was no simple barracks, and usually they had two servants, Ivy and Corn.

The Chapterhouse had a high stone stair, and Anson walked up the steps humming to himself. The heavy door wasn’t locked, and Anson came into the foyer and then entered the large, high ceilinged parlor.

“You certainly had a night,” Jon said.

“You startled me.”

Jon was the chief bodyguard of Prince Cedd, and now he sat drinking, possibly, a mug of coffee, and his feet were stretched out before the large hearth.

“Did I miss anything?” Anson said.

“No. A few of us went out to a tavern. Cherval did wonder if you fell in the river, but Errik seemed to know you were alright.”

Jon smiled slowly, and sipping from his drink said, “I assumed you found your boy.”

There were other parts of Westrial and, for that matter, of this city and even of this palace where Anson’s desires might have been frowned upon, or even condemned, but here, in this house, everyone knew what he went looking for now and again, at least twice a month, when he went into the Red District on the east end of town.

“I did,” Anson answered.

“And found him well?”

“Just left him,” Anson admitted in a quiet voice.

“Well, you’ll be able to go back to him a few times I guess. Though your look and your voice say this is different. It seems like you all have something serious for each other.”

“This is different,” Anson said, frankly. “I came looking for another boy and found… a very different man.”

Jon, no stranger to love, nodded, then said, “You care for coffee?”

Anson stretched and yawned.

“No, I need sleep.”

Jon chuckled and said, “I imagine you would have gotten very little of that. Well, off with you and to bed.”

Anson headed up the steps, and going toward his room he was mildly startled by the large black dog before Errik’s room. It opened its eyes, rose up, came to sniff Anson’s feet and then licked his hand before returning to guard the room.

“You’re a good doggie,” Anson said. Then he said, “Well, you’re a huge doggie.”

“To bed,” Anson yawned. “To bed.”