The Book of the Blessed
Pol
The last time he was with Austin, Pol had turned to open the curtain and let light as much to gaze on that young man’s face as to find the oil. He wanted to look over Austin’s white body, long and lightly muscled, to run his hands over his ample bottom, and watch the young lord’s body as he made him moan. But then he got up long enough to shut the curtain because some things belonged to the dark. Growing things belonged to the dark and this, whatever it was, born out of lust and curiousity, now turning into friendship, was growing.
When it was over, the two men lay on their stomachs and Pol said, “How was it?”
Austin did not speak at first, but then Pol hadn’t spoken right away either. It took a long time to form words from sensation. When Austin had gone on his hands and knees, his eyes had watered, and the dimness of night vision had gone even dimmer from the pain of Pol pressing inside of him, the burning of being entered. He had let his gasps of pain escape, and Pol had whispered, “Do you want me to stop?” But Austin had reached back and cupped the firm round hills of Pol’s ass, so much firmer, more compact than his, and expertly pulled Pol back inside of him.
“It hurt like hell,” Austin said. “But when you were fucking me I didn’t want it to stop.
“Pol?”
“Yes, friend?”
“What is that song you always sing?”
“Song?”
“And seven came down! And seven came!”
“Oh, yes!” Pol said. “I think it’s about a battle from long ago. An old folk song.”
“Sing it for me.”
“Now?” Pol ran a hand over his face and narrowed his almond shaped eyes to show how tired he was.
“Please.”
Pol sat up, while he sang in a low voice, his long left hand massaging Austin’s thigh.
First was the mage
Who moved from age to age
And second was his hero strong
Third was the starry maid,
who lived in trees,
whose wood would never die
Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down
Four is for the lady who fits inside
men’s hands
Who gave up arms and legs to
be an arm again
And Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down
Five alive, the Great old Man,
the mighty Oaken Tree
Mighty rash, who bore the Ash,
and Ash and onto Thee
Seven came down
Oh, and seven came down
They say a man gave up his
land to be the Woman’s Key!
Oh! And Seven came down
Oh, and Seven came down!
Pol inside of him was the most feeling he’d ever had. It was the most intense thing he had ever known, save being inside of Pol, and feeling him react the same way, being deeper and deeper inside of him and watching the color drain from his face, feeling on the edge of everything, coming, exploding, his insides twisting, blacking out, feeling like he was dying.
“It still hurts,” Austin said. He clenched himself.
“I can still feel you inside of me,” Pol confided.
“I don’t want the hurt to stop,” Austin said. “I didn’t know something could be like this. If it felt good, it felt good. If it hurt then I didn’t want it. With you the pain is the pleasure. I will be in the great hall beside my wife, watching the new King at table, watching the minstrels sing their songs, and I’ll still be throbbing, Pol, feeling you deep inside me.”
It took a few moments for Pol to wake up and realize there was a rapping on his door. He looked at the pillow and at the wall for some time, willing the tapping to stop, and when he finally realized it would not, Pol Kurusagan rolled out of bed and wrapped a housecoat about him, an elegant expensive gift from a past lover. He went down the narrow stair and opened the door, cursing himself for not checking the eyehole, and then immediately jumping back as a woman lunged in.
“STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY HUSBAND!”
Pol blinked at her. She was round and dark haired, homely looking and, given his line of work, could have been referring to any of the many men he had known.
“Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She did not look terribly intelligent. She looked as if she was figuring out what to do next, and what she figured was she would growl, putting her feet together, “Stay… away… from my husband.”
“I can’t even promise that.”
“My husband is Lord Austin Buwa!”
“Then you are the Lady Buwa,” Pol said so graciously it took the woman’s breath away.
Again, she did not seem to know what to say, and he almost pitied her.
She said, “I am Lady Buwa.”
Pol said, “You can’t possibly think this is my doing, given what your husband is. You can’t possibly think that if he never comes to me he’ll never come to anyone else?”
“Leave him alone!” she breathed.
Pol yawned.
“Please leave.”
“I am a lady.”
“Then, Lady,” Pol said, “if you cannot remove yourself, I will have someone move you. Good day.”
And so he closed the door on her, shut the bolts and returned up the stairs.
Though he enjoyed his entanglements with high society and the royal family, as he was always sure to tell Prince Anson, Pol had to work. He preferred to work. Lord Austin had not been around and Pol wondered how his wife had found out about their brief affair. Pol had been making the rounds with many men. This last round had not even come into his house. He looked around the high ceilinged bedroom with its long, slit windows so high up in the walls that his small place was nearly a fortress. He stripped his housecoat, went into the small piss room and relieved himself, then flounced back onto the bed, drifting into sleep and longing for a lover, longing, now that he thought about it, for Austin.
The very last time they had been together, Austin’s hair was tied in a savage ponytail, and kohl rimmed his almond eyes. When Pol closed his eyes he could see his creamy white thighs, so firm, see his wonderful rump, remember the kisses of his red mouth, remember being lost in that black hair. Even now, Pol touched himself in homage.
Later he dressed in a light silk thong, snug brown leather drews, a tight sky blue shirt of watered silk that stretched across his chest, shimmering like waves. He put the kohl around his eyes and spiked up his tea colored hair. Taking his cigarette case he prepared for a long journey but was surprised by a new knock at his door. While he cocked his head, he heard the door open, and then heard someone coming up the stairs. Smoothly he reached for his pistol and nearly yelped as, his mantle over him, his hood over his face, Ash entered the room. The pistol had nearly gone off, but Ash made a gesture and it fell from Pol’s hand.
“I was on my way to the palace,” Pol said, “and I was even wondering how in the world I would get in. Wonderiing what would happen if I told the guards I was looking for you.”
“That might be the worst way to get into the Kingsboro,” Ash said. “But I am here.”
Ash sat on the bed, his staff between his knees and looked up at Pol.
“But I suspect that I—lovely as I am—am not the only reason you want to enter the palace.”
“I want to see that Austin Buwa.”
Ash nodded.
“What are you thinking?” Pol said.
“How strange it is. How interesting,” Ash pronounced the word with care. “It is usually men who seek you out. Not the other way around.”
“I have to see him.”
“I can relay the message to him,” Ash said. “But now for what concerns me.”
“Yes.”
“We are leaving.”
“I know.”
“What if you were to come with us? Or do you wish to live in this city of memories, still?”
“And bad memories at that,” Pol reflected. “I need time to get out. I don’t want to leave all my things.”
“Put the things you absolutely need in a cart,” Ash said, “and forget the rest. Come with us, leave the past behind.”