The Differing

The dig had been going on for months, but the excitement from that first week had faded, with no further discovery. They had unearthed the rock used as a foundation to some structure, one of several rooms. It was far larger than most from the time they had been able to date it. Huddled under one tent to the side of the dig site, Dr. Fergus and Dr. MacDonald poured over small artifacts and pulled out copies of research on the era, trying to find some clue as to the structure’s purpose.

It had been found by accident, a farmer’s son bored with watching the sheep, had been digging around an odd rock formation. After an hour, he had unearthed enough to know he had found something that could be important. There were phone calls, a television crew from a local station, then after a few months of no activity, the archeology group arrived from the university in Glasgow.

Jason, an American student, was down between two foundations, brushing away loose soil, when he came to a large flat stone. He worked carefully, working the brush across it from one end to the other, until he had it exposed, probably for the first time in over a thousand years.

“What have you got there?” Dr. Fergus asked, coming to his feet. His interest caused the others to stop and look over.

“I’m not sure,” Jason replied, on his knees at one end of the stone. “It looks like it might be a burial marker.” The stone slab was smooth, except for a reveal carved about ten centimeters from the edge, running around its perimeter.

“Let’s get the earth removed around it,” said Dr. MacDonald, reaching for his journal to make some notes.

Jason, three other students, and Dr. Fergus eased down next to the stone slab and began to work around its perimeter. The work would be slow going, with every pottery shard, every bronze piece of metal, six spears, and metal pieces that looked like pins or buckles, requiring careful removal. They photographed everything, looked at the surrounding soil, wondering if it had other secrets to reveal. By late afternoon of the next day, the slab was revealed to be sitting on a stone base about 12” high from the original stone floor. It was about two meters long, and one wide, and the base was smooth cut stone, with no carvings of any type.

“I don’t think it is a burial marker,” Dr. MacDonald exclaimed, as he and Dr. Fergus stood to the side of the pit and looked down at the slab sitting on its base. “What do you think?” looking toward Dr. Fergus.

“It could be, but one not marked to conceal the buried person’s identity. Or it could be…access to some chamber below?”

“You might be right. We need to remove the slab and see what it is concealing.”

It was getting late by the time they had a hoist built over the pit, with pulleys positioned where they needed them. They packed up their tools and moved to the camp a hundred meters away, set up at a small group of trees. They had hotel rooms, but the hotel was twenty-four kilometers away, and they were anxious to get started as early as possible the next morning, so they stayed in the camp for the night.

They grilled lamb and pork and made a couple of side dishes of potatoes and beans. Beer was brought out and a festive mood filled the camp as they made wild guesses at what they would find the next day, then, growing serious, there were more educated guesses, describing what could be expected of the time period.

The next morning, as soon as there was light, the two professors and students began, slowly, carefully, hoisting the large stone upward. When it was a few inches over the base, Jason dropped down on his knees, shining a flashlight into the gap.

“It looks like a chamber of some kind. I can’t see much, but…holy shit, I can see writing carved into the wall,” Jason exclaimed, looking up to Dr. Fergus, then over to Dr. MacDonald.

“Okay, let’s calm ourselves, and get the stone moved to the side,” Dr. Fergus replied, his voice betraying his own excitement.

With the stone laying to one side, Dr. Fergus lowered a ladder into the opening and climbed down. Dr. MacDonald stayed under the tent, supervising the others, while making notes.

“Ann, you should go down with Jason. Help with the documentation of the carvings,” said Dr. MacDonald, then turning to Oliver, “could you please bring me a new journal. I’ve nearly filled this one, and I’d like to do a new one to keep all the notes and sketches together.”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver replied, moving to the old Range Rover that held their gear.

Jason, then Ann, eased down the ladder to find Dr. Fergus cutting on the lamps set up to illuminate each wall. The room was narrow, fit between the foundation walls above, only two meters wide, but it was long, and a quick check with his laser measure, Jason found it was seven and a half meters.

Text was carved in the large rock slabs that made up the two long walls, and when Dr. Fergus cut the lights on the two end walls, they gasped, for those contained carvings. Jason and Ann moved up next to Dr. Fergus, looking at the carving on one end. It was two male figures, lying on the ground under a tree. The first thing they noticed was how one man lay in the arms of the other. The second was the tree, the way it was carved. They had seen similar representations of trees before, and knew it was a tree of life, but unlike any they had seen before. It was cruder, simpler, meaning it was older than the Celtic images they had seen before. In the background, a dog, head up, howling.

“Interesting, I would have guessed sometime in 1200-1400 C.E., but this looks older,” said Dr. Fergus.

“What of the dog?”

“That is puzzling, for those myths are of more recent times, unless…this is some mythical figure we’re not aware. Let’s get light on the other end.”

Ann hit the switch, and the other end wall came to life before them. Again, it was two male figures, this time seated side by side on high back chairs, they assumed were thrones of some type. Before them were kneeling figures, and over the two men a tree with its limbs in flames.

“Curious,” Dr. Fergus uttered, leaning forward for a closer look. “I wonder what is meant by this tree.”

Ann turned to the wall on her left and began to scan the old text, recognizing it as an old Scottish language. Her eyes scanned the lines of text, growing wide at times, as she began to understand the story.

“Hey guys, this is a story…or maybe it’s a history of sorts, I’m not sure, but it is talking about two men.”

“What does it say?” asked Jason, moving next to Ann, with Dr. Fergus coming to her other side.

“During the black moon of the year of the sickness, the Queen…pretended…faked…being with child. She came to the witch Cartismandua, with…I think its mid-wives, but…”

“Go on, skip that part,” said Jason, encouraging her to continue.

“Two women were with…no, they were in labor, and delivered, each a boy…

Arrival of The Differing

The wind blew viciously, howling like a wild animal, as it tore at the roof. Water dripped on the floor and trickled down the walls. The two women, both in labor screamed and cried out, begging Catismandua to help them. One bled until the blanket was soaked in it, while the other cried out again and fainted.

Catismandua mixed a potion, of herbs and roots, stirring the simmering liquid as the flame fluttered beneath it. She looked toward the door, sensing the presence of others. Maybe she heard a horse’s bray, or a man’s voice, calling out to his Queen. It was past time for her arrival.

The door flew open, the wind pushing it inward, causing it to slam against the wall, nearly pulling it from its hinges. A man rushed in, holding the door, then a woman followed, a hood pulled over her head. Despite the concealment, Catismandua knew it was the Queen. She turned to face her, bowing as the hood was pulled back.

“Not now, Catismandua, there is too much to do,” Queen Lyall exclaimed, as she watched the door pulled closed by her servant, leaving her alone with the witch and the women in labor. “They’re both in labor?”

“Yes,” Catismandua uttered, exhausted, not sure how she would cope.

“What can I do?”

“Check on Aileen, the one that fainted. I’m afraid there is no hope for Una.”

“Will the baby be okay?”

“There are no guarantees.”

The single room house seemed to sway in the howling wind, the fire in the fireplace fluttering with each gust. Una continued to scream, filling the room with her terror. Queen Lyall went to her first, despite what the witch asked, and saw for herself the hopelessness. There was too much blood. She touched the woman’s forehead and said a prayer to her gods, then moved to the other woman, who lay silent.

“Catismandua, I don’t think either will survive till morning.”

“I think the same, my Queen.”

Going to Una, Catismandua found she was delivering. The head was just visible, and she lifted the woman’s legs, got her in position, and tried to get her to push. It should have been natural, the instinct to do what was needed, but Una screamed and cried out, grabbing at the blankets then at the witch, who had promised gold for the child.

“Catismandua…she’s not breathing,” Queen Lyall exclaimed backing from the bed of Aileen.

“Damn,” Catismandua cursed as she ran to her table, “help Una. You can deliver a baby, can you not?”

“I…yes,” Queen Lyall replied moving to Una and cradling the head just in time as it slipped free.

Catismandua grabbed up her sharpest knife and rushed to Aileen, mumbling to herself. She looked at the relaxed face, one that appeared calm, despite the calamity surrounding them. She touched the forehead and uttered a prayer, then lifted the smock, until the swollen belly was visible, and she began to cut.

Two boys lay before the Queen and Catismandua, the children of Una and Aileen, who lay dead on the beds. The boys cried, arms and legs kicking at the air, as Queen Lyall and Catismandua looked at them, checking their small hands, feet, then the rest of their little bodies. Una’s boy was blonde headed, his hair almost white on his head, and his eyes the deepest blue. Aileen’s boy was black headed, with dark brown eyes. That was their difference, otherwise they could have been brothers, with so many other similarities. It was something required of the boys, characteristics that were meant to deceive the King.

Queen Lyall had tried to get with child, but time and time again, she lost each pregnancy. She was nearing thirty-five, and the king would soon be forty-six, both too old to be raising a child. But an heir was required, and Queen Lyall did what she thought necessary to provide one, making a deal with the witch and paying two country girls handsomely for their shame in getting pregnant out of wedlock.

The girls were hidden by the witch, kept out of sight once their pregnancy began to be obvious. So, for months, the girls relied on the witch to bring them food, while in the castle the Queen kept stuffing more fabric underneath her gown. She pretended to be sick, so the King would leave her alone, biding her time until one of the women delivered the appropriate child.

Now the Queen stood looking at her choices, knowing there was no decision to be made. The choice was obvious, for one shared characteristics with the king, even the same eye color.

“It’s the black haired one, isn’t it,” Catismandua whispered.

“Yes.”

“And the other boy?”

“Get rid of him. It would be best if he didn’t survive till morning and was buried with his mother,” said the Queen, stoic as always, “don’t you think?”

“If that is what you wish,” Catismandua replied.

Queen Lyall lifted the black-haired boy, holding him to her dry tits, a nurse maid already waiting in her room to feed him. “What shall we call you, heir to the throne?”

“What about Guaire?” asked Catismandua.

“Guaire? Yes, a good name,” replied Queen Lyall, then whispered “noble”, the name’s meaning.

The Queen took out a purse of gold and set it on the table, bundled up the boy who would be known as Guaire, and left the witch to clean up the deceit they had perpetrated.

Once left alone with the crying baby, Catismandua looked around the small room and wondered if she could do it. There was much to accomplish before morning. She noted the winds were dying down, the storm having passed, and wondered whether to take the two dead mothers to the cliffs and toss them into the stormy sea, or to lay them out on Bas Dheth Hill and let nature complete the task of disposing of them. She feared the cliffs, and their severe drops, but she feared more Bas Dheth Hill, and the possibility someone would find the two women.

Looking at the boy on the table, she thought of the Queen’s command, and that was what it was, for she never made suggestions without wanting them carried through. But to kill an innocent, it was beyond her. She knew she would not do it. Instead she picked him up in her dry, wrinkled hands and held him up in the candlelight to get a better look at him. He had stopped crying when she lifted him and seemed to be staring at her, as she him. Names came to her, dismissing each one, none seeming to be suitable. Then one came to her, one whose meaning seemed appropriate for a child who would be a stranger in his own lands.

“Fingal.”

The sun was rising over the rough seas as Catismandua watched the second body twist and turn in the air before splashing into its dark waters and sinking into its depths. She made her way back to her house, putting the provisions she had wrapped up in the old wagon, then set the boy next to them, bundled up in a basket. She secured her door, even though she knew no one would dare enter, not with the omen hanging over it. She climbed on the wagon and took the reins of the donkey, urging him to go with her soft mutterings the animal seemed to understand.

They would travel for five days, heading west across the rolling terrain until she came to the village of her birth, a place where she was a child. Corr Garaidh sat on a low hill between two mountain ranges, rivers cutting around it on each side. It was an old village, older than any knew, and in the center of town was the Common House, a place of social gatherings, and next to it was the place to rent rooms, with a place to eat on the first floor. Catismandua entered just as the sun was setting behind her.

“I need a room.”

She would leave two days later without the boy, a home secured for him with a widow woman on the outskirts of town.

Searching for the Secrets

The group worked systematically, each doing their assigned tasks, as they cleaned the floor, slowly sweeping away over a thousand years of dust and dirt. It was unadorned, much to their disappointment, but the pattern and stonework was just as important, for it revealed more about the age of the chamber.

After a day of getting the chamber ready to be documented, the team secured the site and headed to the hotel, leaving their security person guard it. They got cleaned up, each taking long hot showers, not only to get clean, but to loosen tight muscles. They went to a pub in town, ordering dinner and pint after pint of beer or ale, finally able to relax after days on the dig site.

At the hotel, they went to their rooms, each professor with his own, but the six students having to share: Ann and Bridget, Oliver and Reid, and Jason and Callum sharing rooms. They turned in for the night, and most where in bed as soon as possible, but Jason and Callum sat on the small balcony, the cold wind making them shiver. Between them was a bottle of Irish whiskey, that they were passing back and forth.

“What do you think?” ask Callum

“About what?”

“What Ann said about the Queen deceiving the King and taking one of the babies.”

“It’s a strange story, but not unheard of.”

“She thinks they meet again.”

“She told me.”

“I wonder what kind of friendship they had.”

“Maybe we’ll know when Ann finishes copying down the story. It is so hard to read in the chamber.”

“I know. I tried to read some of it, but the erosion is so bad. Ann seems to have a knack for it.”

“You every wonder what it was like for them. During that time?”

“All the time.”

“I know it was a tough life, and people died far younger, but I wonder whether they felt as overwhelmed as we feel today,” said Jason.

“In many ways, I would think so.”

“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier than today. With our push to be productive, to work constantly, and…”

“And?”

“To have these ideals to live up too. I know times are changing and some things are not as bad, but there still exist these…labels and expectations.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about yourself.”

“Maybe.”

“Care to tell me?”

Jason laughed, but it didn’t sound like it came from humor. He shook his head and leaned back in the chair and stared up at the sky, cloudy and gray even during the night.

“I’m gay.”

“Really?”

“Surprised?”

“Maybe…well, not really.”

“You’re not going to freak out or anything, are you?”

“No.”

“It’s kind of crazy, really.”

“What is?”

“Being gay on these digs. I can go weeks and not meet anyone. At least on campus there is the occasional date or hook up. I mean…I know it’s not easy on any of us. When is the last time you went out with someone or just hooked up?”

“Back on campus before the end of the semester.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Even straight, and with many more opportunities it is tough for you, so imagine what it is like for me.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Huh?”

“You’re making assumptions,” Callum looked over at Jason, his face illuminated with an ember glow of the street lights.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I understand. You feel like you’re the only one out here. And it would have been a safe assumption most of the time.”

“Does it get to you?”

Laughing ironically, “oh, yes, all the time.”

Jason began to laugh too, nervously at first them louder, more carefree, making Callum do the same. They settled down, Jason falling back, looking up into the dark sky while Callum picked up the bottle of whiskey and took another swig.

After a long silence, Jason giggled, then made himself stop. He glanced over at Callum, grinning.

“What’s so funny?” asked Callum.

“It’s going to be awkward sleeping in the same hotel room, isn’t it?”

Callum looked at Jason, then smiled, nodding his head. “Fuck,” he uttered.

“We should turn in.”

“Agreed.”

Callum stood first, heading back into the room they shared. Jason followed. Inside, they sat on their respected bed, getting their boots off. Callum stood first, stripping down to his boxers. He looked over at Jason who stood, doing the same.

“What do you think others thought of them?”

“I don’t know. Someone went to a hell of a lot of effort to create that chamber dedicated to them,” Jason replied.

“Is it a dedication?”

“What else could it be?”

“The way it was so unadorned, just this simple stone covering its entry. It seems…secretive.”

“Maybe it was.”

“But here’s the thing. No one thought of someone as gay. That is a contemporary term. Homosexuality was about the sex act, not some personal characteristic. They didn’t understand sex, sexuality or gender.”

“Fuck, people still don’t.”

“That’s what I’m saying. People might have looked at them as being different, of having sex out of the norm, but it wasn’t a part of them. They thought of it as…” Callum struggled for the right word.

“Choice?” Jason asked.

“Yeah, it was a choice about sex.”

“But we know better, do we not?”

“Yes,” Callum chuckled, “I’ve never felt like I had a choice in the matter.”

“What about the two of us in?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will we stay plutonic or will something happen between us?”

“It would be weird.”

“Weird? If we didn’t do something, or if we did?”

“I think…” Callum let his voice trail off, not sure how to respond.

“You know how people say a man and a woman can’t be friends, for their relationship will evolve to one that gains a physical aspect?”

“Yes.”

“Is it similar for us?  Or am I just babbling like a fool.”

“Maybe both,” Callum joked.

They climbed into their beds, and pulled the blanket up to their chin, for the room had a chill in the air, despite the heat being on.

“Have you thought about it? With me?” Callum asked in a soft whisper.

“Truthfully?”

“Yes.”

“I have. And with Oliver.”

“Can’t make up your mind which Scottish boy to jump?”

“Assuming neither of you were available, I just imagined it with each of you.”

“When I saw you back in Fall Semester in Ancient Civilizations, sitting two rows down from me, I wondered about you.”

“We had Ancient Civilizations together?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t notice too many around me. I was having a hard time with that class, and to be honest it was the professor’s dialect that had me struggling to keep up.”

“He did have a thick Irish brogue.”

“But you never approached.”

“No, and when you showed up as part of the team, I wondered about you, but still wasn’t sure, and you never said anything that gave me a clue.”

“So, we’ve been here over two months, just circling each other,” Jason chuckled, then he rolled to his side to look over at Callum. “You want to find out what it would be like with me?”

“Yes.”

Jason climbed from his bed and eased down next to Callum, who had tossed back the blankets. They moved closer to each other, only a couple of inches between them. Hands touched stomachs as faces drew nearer until lips pressed together.

The cold air of the night penetrated room but neither felt it. Every exhale was hot, and their skin felt warm to the other, as fingers ran over flesh, feeling its forms, the contours and shapes. They quickly stripped off boxers, and touched each other until hands were fondling cocks, making them grow erect. Jason rolled to his back, pulling Callum on top, where he could feel the weight of him. With legs spread and knees raised, he opened himself to him, feeling the hard cock rub over his ass.

“Fuck,” Jason uttered as he pushed his ass against the hard cock raking up and down it.

“I want to fuck you.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus…take me,” Callum uttered, as he penetrated him, and pushed a few inches into his hole.

Callum moved slowly inside of Jason, sensing each inch tugged and pushed through the tightness. He moaned and cried out, as he worked his hips, spurred on by the hands that clung to him. He worked his cock deeper and deeper, until he was pushing against Jason’s upturned ass, and he kept fucking, slowly increasing his pace.

“Fuck…fuck me,” Jason uttered in Callum’s ear, before he tongued it, nipped at the lobe, tugged on it, then kissed along the neck and jaw until he felt lips kissing him back.

Callum pushed into Jason’s depths, over and over, until he was fucking at a steady pace. Their heated bodies pushed the cold away, made the room feel like a sauna, with sweat forming where their skin rubbed together. He fucked until his tired muscles burned with his fatigue and he had to slow. He hugged Jason to his chest and rolled over, and Jason knew what was expected.

Sitting up, Jason rode Callum’s cock. Up, then down, he moved on it, working his tight opening along every inch. He moved up till it nearly slipped free, feeling the emptiness, then he plunged down, giving himself the feel of fullness from the penetration. He moved at a steady pace, as his own cock smacked wetly on Callum’s abdomen.

“Fuck,” Callum exclaimed. He reached out and took Jason in hand, stroking the wet cock.

Jason came first, his flexing cock spurting out wad after wad on the prone body beneath him, then he felt Callum pushing upward, short thrusts that hammered against his ass, then the exhaled cry that told him Callum had come too.

The early lives of the Differing

Guaire ran freely in the castle, his father giving him far too much freedom. He explored every room, snuck down into the dungeons, and climbed up to overlooks and attics, some not visited in years. He was a daring child, afraid of very little, least of all, his father’s wrath, for he seldom saw it.

When he was ten, he began to hang around the knights and soldiers of his father’s army, watching them practice their sword play, archery, or hand to hand fighting, where injuries sometimes occurred. There was something about seeing the shirtless men, the way they fought against each other, muscles bulging with their exertions that fascinated him.

When the time demanded it, Guaire could also be the King’s little prince, dressed in the finest clothes, sitting by his father’s side, entertaining the guest that came to present themselves. He had an innate sense of what to do, the decorum expected, for he watched the others, studied their movements, learning all the time.

When Guaire turned thirteen, and the changes began that would take him being a boy to a man, he began to watch the men around him differently. He studied their physiques, their mannerisms, and during practice sessions, found excuse to touch them, to move his body against their bodies, excited by the contact. He didn’t understand this need to be around the men, nor his fascination that precluded the fairer sex. He couldn’t be bothered with the girls, not even the cousins that sought his companionship during their play. Instead he focused on his training, lured by the men that taught him.

He also grew bolder in his explorations, going all the way to Howling Mountain, exploring its caves, or down to the cliffs repelling down the vertical face to the thrashing seas battering the coast. And in the places in between. Grannd took him hunting, teaching him how to track, to search out the prey, to use a bow in the confining wood or set a trap. And at night, sitting around the campfire, Grannd taught him how to use a knife, to skin, or cut or to defend himself in a blindside attack.

At the castle, it was Loganach that taught him to read, to write, and the history of their family and the clans that lived in the King’s land. He studied the maps of the territory, and the roads that connected them. It all seemed important, every lesson, and his curiosity knew no bounds.

By the time Guaire turned fourteen, he had grown tall, his body lean, full of stamina that carried him for many days while out in the territories. He also began to understand himself, knowing he wanted the companionship of men, not that of women. He knew it made him different, something he had to keep secret. But he knew he wasn’t the only one, for he had seen Aengus and Mathe at night when they believed themselves alone. He had seen how they kissed each other, then how Mathe lay on his back and took Aengus’s cock. It fascinated him and he spied on them often, watching, learning, while he waited for the day, he could do those things.

In the northern territory, among the Mountains of the Dark Sky, in the small village of Corr Garaidh, the other child lived with the old widow. She loved him as her own, giving him the best from her table, and making him garments from the finest fabrics she could obtain in their village. She never cut his blonde hair, so blonde it was almost white, instead letting it grow long, tying it in back. She spent evenings brushing it out, while telling stories, exciting his mind more than she could realize. When she put him to bed, she tucked him beneath the old blanket and told him she loved him, whereupon he kissed her cheek and returned the sentiment. And he did love her, and how she guided him through childhood. He sat in her lap as a small child, listening to her stories. When he was five, she began to teach him the art of cooking, especially of those herbs and roots that had medicinal purposes. She taught him to read and draw, showing him how with her own book of plants, the old brittle pages beautifully illustrated with leaves, flowers, fungi and the twisting and knotted roots. There were notations for each, their uses and how to prepare them. She guided his little hands on making the curve forms, the lines that created the stem or the petal of a flower.

By the time he was eight, he roamed the village freely, running errands for the widow, or simply out exploring some corner or place he had yet to lay eyes upon. He tried to play with the other children of the village, but grew bored of their silly games, and found himself exploring the rivers, or the wood along the base of the mountain. He considered himself an explorer like those that came from the southlands, or from across the seas speaking in strange tongues.

By the time he was thirteen, he was tall for his age, taller than the other boys, and he saw how others looked at him, especially the women, who always wanted to see his vivid blue eyes or run their fingers through his thick blonde hair. When he was younger, he accepted the affections from them, but now he sought to avoid it. He hated to feel their fingers in his hair, considering their hands dirty, fouled with their labors of tending gardens and livestock, or some manual labor, the worst of which was the slaughtering of animals. He shuddered to think of it, and devised schemes to avoid them.

When not helping the widow, he continued to roam the countryside. He explored as far as he dared, coming in after dark far too often. He told the widow he was looking for roots and herbs, or just playing on one of the mountains, but in reality, he was seeking the secret places that let him watch the shepherd boys guarding their sheep. They were from his village, lived on its southern edge with their parents, but most of the time they were on one mountain or the other. The sheep were allowed to graze one area, then they would herd them to a different location. Fingal watched the two boys, Dalais and Ualas, both older than he, more mature, rougher around the edges. He watched them for hours, at times doing nothing more than laying around a campfire while the dogs kept the sheep herded together. He watched how Ualas rode their mare, while Dalais whistled and motioned to the dogs, when relocating the sheep. And he watched them by the streams or springs, shirts off, sometimes pants too, as they bathed in the cold waters. He studied their fair white bodies, Ualas lean whereas Dalais was stockier, more muscular, and he wondered which body he would have when older.

That winter was especially harsh, the wind howling during storms coming from the north, much like the night of his birth, something he would never know. The snow piled up, more than usual, and the bitter winds made the walls seem almost nonexistent. Fingal began to do the chores alone, and prepared all of their meals, for the widow had fallen ill. She lay feverish in her bed, and he piled blankets on top of her, trying to keep her warm. Fingal kept the fire stoked trying to keep the cold out of the house, and he moved his bed closer to the widow’s so he could listen to her sleep.

One night, the widow having refused to eat for the second day, he lay fretful but exhausted, as he listened to her labored breathing. He tried to wake her, hoping to get her to drink some broth or maybe even eat a little, but she refused to open her eyes. Sometime in the darkest hours of night, he drifted off to sleep, and when he awoke the widow was gone. Her body was cool and its color all wrong. He begged her to wake up, pleaded for her not to leave him, but it was for naught, for she was long gone.

Some of their neighbors helped him bury the widow out on Cill Fhinn Mountain, where her husband was also buried, the grave marked with a small flat stone. And for days he was left alone, until one of the elders of the village came to his door. Lutair was a greedy man, always taking advantage, and he produced a sealed letter for a debt by the widow. Fingal protested, saying she never mentioned any such debt, but no one could prove otherwise and by the day’s end he found himself homeless. He roamed the streets, able to eat due to the kindness of the others, but the humiliation was too much to bear. He pulled out his bundled up possessions, the few items he was able to keep; clothes, a knife, a necklace made of bone and a colorful stone the widow had received from her husband many years before, and enough bread and cured meat to last him a few days. This was his sole possessions and come sunrise of his third day without a home, he set out on the road that led to the south, not knowing where it would take him.

After three days, walking all day and into the night, when the clouds parted to allow moonlight to illuminate his way, Fingal came into Beinn Mhor. There was a village nestled in the valley, and he headed toward it. There had been no sign announcing its name, merely a small cluster of homes and a small open area in the middle with the businesses that supported them. He circled around the open area, wondering if he could find work and a place to lay his head at night, when he came to the blacksmith’s shop, the smell of burning fires and oil suddenly strong on the still air.

There was an argument inside, cursing and yelling, and soon a young man came running out, followed by an iron bar that barely missed his head. The man ran and didn’t stop until out of sight. Fingal took a deep breath, building up his courage, and stepped into the shop.

“Excuse me sir, have you need of someone?” Fingal asked.

“Yes…how old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Fingal lied, not yet fourteen.

“Can you shoe a horse?”

“I’ve seen it done, and I’m a fast learner,” he exclaimed in a rush of words.

“Well, that is a problem. Do you know how to use a broom?”

Fingal smiled at the man, “yes sir, that I do.”

Daylight was diminishing to the point the smith’s shop was getting too dark to see, and Fingal set the broom in the corner after sweeping the floor once again. The blacksmith came in from the back, carrying a couple bars of steel, setting them down the table.

“Time to call it a day,” said the blacksmith.

“Oh, alright.”

“You got a place to stay?”

“No, sir.”

“Come with me,” replied the blacksmith. He recognized the situation as soon as the young boy came into his shop. He had seen it far too often and this time he chose to act. He had not asked the boy where he was from, or what of his parents. He led the boy through the back of the shop, out into a narrow alley. It was only a few doors down to the small place he called home. Before swinging open the door, he could smell the stew his wife was preparing, its aroma filling the air. He stepped in, with Fingal following close behind.

“We have guest tonight, Ada. I trust there is enough?”

A petite woman, with long black hair, looked over her shoulder from the fireplace where she had been stirring the stew. She gazed at Fingal, smiled, nodding her head.

“Yes, there will be enough for us all,” she replied.

“He’ll need a place to stay the night.”

“The attic is clear on the street side; might he be comfortable there. We have blankets enough, I think.”

So, Fingal found a new home, a place to lay his head at night and work to keep him occupied during the bitter cold days. He worked with the blacksmith, learning each aspect of working metal, gaining knowledge and muscle, as if the two were intertwined.

Hidden Secrets

Callum and Reid were wiping out the joints of the stone pavers of the chamber. It was slow tedious work, but they wanted to make sure there was nothing they missed, not even a shard within the dust and dirt that could provide another clue.  Ann was at the far end, still copying down the text as best she could, for some portions were eroded away from water infiltration. Jason, Bridget, and Oliver were above evacuating in adjacent sections of the site.

It had been two days since the discovery of the chamber and recording of its interior was nearly complete. On the tables in the tent, lay print outs of the walls and copies of Ann’s notes on the text, where Dr. Fergus and Dr. MacDonald went line by line, working out translations of ancient words, some whose meaning had been lost over time. 

“Hey guys!” Callum yelled out, “Guys! Come here.”

The professors, Jason and Oliver climbed down, leaving the others standing around the opening, watching from above.

“What have we got?” asked Dr. MacDonald.

“It looks like there are some chambers below the floor. Look at these joints around these two slabs,” said Reid, shining a light at the joint in one location.

“They wouldn’t be large, but I see what you’re pointing at,” replied Dr. Fergus, after stooping down for a closer look. These pavers are what? 60 x 150 centimeters?”

“Yes, sir,” said Reid.

“Interesting.” Dr. Fergus looked up at Dr. MacDonald. “Should we x-ray first or try to ease up these stones?”

“Are they laying loose or do they appeared to be mortared in place?”

“Loose.”

“Let’s finish cleaning the floor to make sure we haven’t missed something, then we lift them to see what is beneath them.”

For the remainder of the day, Callum and Reid worked tirelessly to finish, with their excitement about more secret chambers. The next morning, the lights aimed at the two large stones, Jason and Oliver worked to free one from its bed. They worked gently around its edge, until they were able to lift it enough to get rope underneath it.

“The stone thick enough to lift safely?” asked Dr. Fergus.

“I think so. It’s about 10 centimeters.”

“Good, good; ease it up.”

The stone lifted heavily but soon was leaned against a wood brace. They gathered around the chamber, looking at what had been concealed within it. A Sword, about 140 centimeters long, a bronze medallion, possibly the center for a shield, a dagger about 35 centimeters long, and a small stone box. Callum slowly opened it and inside lay two rings and a blue gem. Scattered in the bottom of the chamber was detritus of other items that had deteriorated long ago.

“Let’s get the other one open,” said Dr. Fergus, unable to conceal his excitement.

The slab braced back against a wood frame, they peered into the small chamber below. Reid stooped down with Dr. Fergus next to him, and they carefully lifted out the contents. A short sword about 80 centimeters long, a knife, only about 22 centimeters long, a bone carved into an ornate form, lying next to a colorful stone, both with holes allowing them to be part of a necklace or bracelet, and a small stone box, which also contained two rings and a red ruby.

Like the other chamber, there was detritus in the bottom of items lost to time.

“I wonder where the two men were buried?” asked Dr. MacDonald.

“Good question. They should be here…unless…” replied Dr. Fergus, letting his voice trail off.

Acting Out

Guaire grew tall, towering over most men, and he was handsome beyond words. Thick, wavy black hair he let grow long, and dark eyes whose stare rattled lessor men, and drew in the weak. By his eighteenth birthday, a man now, he could weld a sword or use a bow with the best of his father’s knights. His body was muscular, strong, and few knights could best him in hand to hand combat, only those of the utmost cunning. He played his role of the prince, heir to the throne, always dressed in the finest fabrics obtained by his father. The only role he struggled was the one of available prince, one looking for a princess to sit by his side. Surrounding kings sent messengers with lengthy proclamations about available daughters, hoping for interest that could one day gain them favor in some future conflict. Sometimes they sent their daughters, having them endure the long travel with the hope that the young prince could never turn them away if they were presented in person. But each letter had a reply politely rejecting them, and those that came in person had to endure their long journey home, their rejection made in person. Guaire claimed he was too young, not yet ready to settle down, even with pressure from his father to do so. The King was nearly seventy-four, and growing frail, and he wanted his son to be married and ready to assume the throne when he finally drew his last breath.

Guaire knew the problem, had for over four years. He just wasn’t interested in any of them. They did nothing for him, but please his eye at their efforts to attract him and amuse him with their words. But he felt no stirrings that spoke of his desires. Those lay elsewhere.

Guaire no longer spied on Aengus and Mathe, even though he knew they still shared a bed. He found his own outlets around the castle and the village outside its walls.

On the days before Saturday, the day of festivals and religious ceremony, he would sneak down to the kitchen and find the head cook’s son, Bruis, luring him away on the premise of needing to acquire his assistance. He would lead Bruis up to his chambers, those in the west tower overlooking the land of Nendos, and strip him of his plain garments, so he could touch him, feel the lean body, one that looked so much younger than his own, despite the fact Bruis was a year older. Bruis was soft to the touch, almost feminine in appearance. Guaire wondered if the gods mixed the sexes within him, made him both male and female, but Bruis’ sex was male, the cock hanging heavy over its sac.

It was a Friday night, and once again Bruis was in his room, naked, standing submissively by his bed.

“Your majesty, what do you desire of me?” Bruis asked, as he always did.

“Your body,” Guaire replied, in a jovial tone, as he pushed the naked body down on his bed. He stripped from his casual robe; a garment he wore often for how easily it would fall from his shoulders and climbed on the bed. He moved between the raised legs, Bruis wise into the love between men, and slowly entered him, pushing his hard cock through the tight opening. With his eyes locked on Bruis’ face, he saw the eyes roll up, then close. He watched how the head went back, mouth open, and he smiled at the moan that escaped it. He pushed, slowly, sinking his cock into him all the way. Then he began to fuck. To work his hips, tugging outward and pushing back in, over and over. Bruis clung to him, kissed his neck, the place beneath his chin, over his face until their lips were pressed together. It spurned him to fuck faster, to grow desperate in his desires, this lust for another man. He made their fuck physical, rough, the bed squeaking noisily beneath them.

“Fuck me…fuck me harder,” Bruis cried out. Guaire knew how to please him, rising up on his hands, lifting his sweaty body over the prone Bruis, and fucked with all of his strength, hammering his cock into the depths of him. The sound of bodies coming together became louder than the protests of the bed.

Bruis stroked his own cock with a furious pace and all too soon, Guaire at the point of exhaustion, his muscles burning with their exertion, Bruis spattered his chest and stomach with cum, then his own. Guaire felt Bruis’ ejaculation and it pushed him over the edge. He shoved inward and jammed his abdomen against the upturned ass, ejaculating with each push.

Guaire sent Bruis away and laid naked on his bed, smiling at his spent satisfaction. He woke late the next morning, unconcerned about the morning festivities, for he cared little for the rituals and the religions. He strolled to the window and looked down at the burning ceremony in the courtyard, watching the people circle it seven times in small groups while the others sang some old song. He would stay in his chambers all day, waiting for it to end.

Three days later, Guaire went out with the patrol going to the east. He chose different ones each time, so he could see the lands of the kingdom, and its people, curious about the life in the countryside. And for the patrol east, there was another reason he wanted to join them. They rode for two days, making their way across mountains, through valleys, coming out into the plains of the east and they kept riding until they came to Achadh Reite, a small town that supported the region. They visited its governor, and the Elders of the Chamber. After a night’s rest and hardy food, they set out again, passing through Turlann, the village of Beinn Leitir and Obar Eilid. Four days later they rode up to the top of a rise in the terrain and looked down on Braigh Mharr and Guaire smiled, knowing what awaited there.

The patrol went to the Elders of the village while Guaire went in search of Rosach, the blacksmith. He rode down the main lane in the middle of the village, then cut down an alley coming out to the pens where animals were kept, the foul stench making him speed up. With his horse at a gallop, he rode out to the lone structure, separated from all the others, for the fires inside burned constantly in their open furnaces. The fear of destruction from fire made the villagers cautious, and for Rosach, it gave him the solitude he desired. A solitude that allowed for visitors, such as his favorite, the prince, who strolled in smiling wickedly.

“Rosach, my blacksmith, what do you say about taking a break from your labors?”

“My prince,” Rosach replied, his lust evident in his tone.

Rosach was of average height, but stocky. His upper body bulged with muscle from his hard labors, and in the heat of the furnaces, he was shirtless, letting Guaire look upon it. The hairy chest, the fully formed pecs and the scars from battle when he had been a soldier in the king’s army.

Guaire followed Rosach to his room, adjacent to his shop, sharing the heat of the furnaces, and its smells. But Guaire didn’t care, for sex with Rosach was worth any mild agitation. He removed his outer garments, then stripped completely, while watching Rosach remove his own. He stood naked before him, and Rosach’s eyes stared at him with lust. He stared at Guaire’s hardening cock without shame, then moved closer.

“Suck my cock,” Rosach uttered and he watched the prince go to his knees and take him in his mouth, knowing it would be hard as the steel very soon.

Guaire gave himself to the blacksmith, as he had done that first time, letting Rosach think he had been the one seduced. He took the man’s cock, letting it fill his mouth and push to the back of his throat. In another position, he could take it all, but not on his knees before him. But he took all he could, working lips along the hard, smooth shaft and tonguing the head until Rosach used all the profanity he knew. Reaching up between the massive thighs, he took the low hanging sac, pulling the nuts down tight into its bottom, and he kept pulling until the body quivered and Rosach begged him to stop.

“FUCK!” Rosach cried out, grabbing Guaire underneath the arms and lifting him to his feet. Guaire knew if he had not been so tall, Rosach would have lifted him into the air. Instead, Rosach got him to his feet and pushed him on the bed.

“You want to fuck this son of a king?”

“Yes,” Rosach replied breathlessly.

“You want to sink that massive cock into my ass?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, you peasant, fuck my princely ass,” Guaire taunted Rosach, knowing how it would spurn him to fuck with abandon.

Rosach moved onto Guaire, roughly grabbing up the long legs and holding them to his chest. He scooted forward and put his wet cock to the tight opening and with one push, breached it. Guaire grabbed at the bed, threw his head back, and moaned whorishly at the feel of it sinking into depths.

Rosach wasn’t one to be gentle, to manipulate a body until it begged him for what they both wanted. He was a man who took what he wanted, and for Guaire, it was arousing in a way he knew it should bring him shame, but it didn’t. He loved the way Rosach took him, despite him being a prince, or because of it. He lay on the bed, legs pinned to the broad, sweaty chest, and took every push into his depths. He felt his opening finally loosen, accept the thick cock that tugged and pushed through it. His own cock grew rock hard, then drooled on his stomach, as Rosach battered his insides making him see stars.

Rosach pulled out, and for a moment he felt air blow over his hole. Large hands manhandled him, flipped him over and pulled him up on his knees. As cock bore back into his depths, a hand grabbed his long black hair and pulled. With head pulled back, back arched, he took Rosach’s fuck. Every thrust, with their bodies smacking together. His own cock flopped between his thighs, at times smacking his stomach with the roughness of their fuck.

Rosach bellowed, his cry out echoing in the small room, and he shoved inward, then jammed his abdomen against Guaire’s ass, over and over, as he shot his load.

Guaire didn’t have time to catch his breath, when Rosach flipped him back to his back, and entered him again. He knew this fuck would last a long time. He stretched out, arms pushing against the rough wall, as he took every inch again. He felt that cock hit his insides until he saw stars. It made his cock grow harder until bobbing up and down. Rosach fucked him until both were sweating and panting for breath.

“Fuck me…harder…fuck me…” Guaire cried out, as he felt the building of his own release. His cock was drooling pools onto his stomach. Rosach shifted position and continued to hammer his insides. He arched his back, stretching out his long body, and came. Cum rained down on his chest and stomach, as Rosach hammered his insides. With cock spent, Rosach tortured him by taking it in hand and stroking it, making him shudder and beg for him to stop. Then Rosach pushed down on his legs, burying the knees into the mattress, and fucked to his own release, pumping another load into his depths.

The patrol would ride out at first light, continuing east for one more day, camping that night at the cliffs that overlooked the stormy sea. Guaire would climb into his tent and sleep soundly, even with the men around the campfire talking loudly and joking around. The next morning, they would head west, back to the castle. With fewer stops and those shorter than before, they would cut three days from their travel time.

Guaire rode among the men as they came up to the castle, and he looked up at its weathered stone walls and smiled, wondering what Bruis, the cook’s son, was doing.

Fingal learned to smelt iron, how to heat it, to hammer it into shapes. Axes, spears, knives, horseshoes, tools and on occasion, a sword. The work hardened his body, made it grow more muscular. He was not broad in body, always lean, but he showed his muscular strength. Arms and legs bulged with it, and his stomach was not round like most of the men of the village, but flat, lines of muscle fanning out from the center of his stomach. And he had great stamina, running up into the mountains, getting to their peaks in half the time of others who tried to keep up.

The young women of the village took note of him right away, with his long, wavy blonde hair he kept tied back, and blue eyes that were bluer, than any sky they had ever seen. They desired him shamelessly, but none were able to capture his affections.

Fingal tried to suppress his desires, but he couldn’t stop from looking. The Elder Foirbeis’ son, Preas with his tall, lanky build and unruly dark brown hair. Ceallach, the farmer’s youngest son, who lived in the edge of the village. Ceallach was short and lean, and even though he was twenty, he looked so much younger. Fingal would watch them, study their mannerisms and when close enough, listen to their voices. When Ceallach came to the shop for tools, he stammered like a fool and blushed with embarrassment, struggling to conceal his attraction toward him. It was why he liked hiking on the nearby mountain when he had a day off, for it let him avoid them and when concealed behind a rock outcropping or behind some small group of trees, he could open his pants and take himself in hand, trying to imagine what he would do with the them if given the chance.  

It was the first day of summer, and it was warm enough for only the most basic of garments. Fingal ate with his family, then headed out for the day. He crossed the valley’s floor, stepping across the shallow stream, and headed toward the mountain.

“Hey, Fingal, wait up.”

Fingal recognized the voice and jerked around trying hard to suppress a smile, as Ceallach was crossed the stream and came along side of him.

“Are you hiking up the mountain?”

“Yes.”

“Can I tag along?”

“You don’t have chores to do?”

“They can wait. I wanted to…I just want to do something else.”

“Well, let’s hike up this old mountain,” Fingal motioned toward the low eroded form above them, trying to sound nonchalant about it.

On the lower sections they were able to walk side by side, and Fingal would cut quick looks over at Ceallach. They talked little, Fingal not knowing what to say, even though he was curious why Ceallach was suddenly wanting to hang out with him. About halfway up, the slope steepened, and the trail narrowed, forcing them to hike in single file. Fingal let Ceallach lead, allowing him to watch the lean legs move with assuredness, the delicate looking hands reach out to brace against a rock and the body concealed by far too many garments, even if lightly dressed for the warm day.

“Do you come up here a lot?” Ceallach asked, finally breaking a long silence.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To…get away. To think and…” Fingal stuttered, the image of him masturbating on the mountaintop making him loose his train of thought. “What about you? You never do anything but work on your family’s farm.”

“I know. I want to do other stuff, but it is difficult. But the crops are laid by and Baran and Seadh are taking care of the livestock,” referring to his older brothers.

“Well, I’m glad you could come with me,” Fingal replied, keeping his voice low for fear of giving away what he was really feeling, but when Ceallach turned and smiled at him he nearly stumbled, as he hoped it meant something.

They hiked to the top of the old mountain, the top a wide, curved expanse with rock outcroppings in a few places. Fingal led them to the largest, one he knew a way to the top by way of a narrow passage between the slabs of rock. On top they sat and looked out over the valley, and their village sitting on a rise in the middle, that protected them from flood waters when the streams turned to roiling rivers after heavy rains. On the opposite side, along the mountain that was eroded down until they should have called it a hill, they saw sheep being herded along its top.

The sun was warm against their skin, and both were sweating from their exertions. Fingal lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it on the rock behind him and lay back on it, hands clasped behind his head. He let the sun warm his skin and dry the sweat. He felt the caress of a breeze over his chest and stomach and the beginnings of his arousal. He glanced over at Ceallach, catching the stare at his exposed body before quickly turning away.

‘Maybe he is like me’ Fingal thought as he looked at Ceallach’s hair blow around his face.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” asked Fingal.

“What?”

“The sun.”

“I guess.”

“Take off your shirt and let it dry your skin.”

Ceallach sat still for so long Fingal thought he was going to ignore his suggestion, then those delicate hands took the hem of the shirt and lifted. A lean torso came into view. The fair white skin was unblemished, not even a mole or scar. Ceallach laid out his shirt and lay back. Fingal looked at the small nipples and how their centers extended outward, growing hard, and he wondered if it was the feel of the wind against his skin, or maybe it was knowing he was looking. He scanned the lean torso, wondering what it would feel like to touch it. He longed for the contact, even though he wasn’t sure where it would lead. Looking down the flat stomach and over the shorts, the crotch was showing more bulge than before.

“Do I look okay?” Ceallach whispered.

“Yes.”

“You can touch me,” Ceallach boldly whispered.

‘You devil’ Fingal thought as he reached out, hand shaking, until it was hovering over the flat chest. Ceallach turned to him, eyes imploring in their stare and Fingal stared back as he let his hand come down on the warm skin. He ran it over the nipples feeling the hard centers. He rubbed up along the long neck, then across the collar bone and back down across the chest. He continued downward, suddenly bold with Ceallach’s permission, running his hand over the undulating stomach until his fingers raked along the top of the shorts. He let them slip underneath to the first knuckle as he raked them across the stomach. Then he ran his hand over the rough fabric of the shorts until the bulge was underneath his palm and he closed his hand down on it, feeling the tube of flesh within.

“We should move out of sight,” Fingal uttered as he looked up at Ceallach, feeling a desire to kiss him, the most intimate thing he could think to do with another.

They picked up their shirts and walked back to the narrow gap in the rock, and down the natural steps, each one too tall to negotiate easily. Down in the narrow passage where the sunlight could not penetrate, nor the stare of others, Ceallach leaned against the rock wall. Fingal moved to him, leaned over and kissed the narrow neck, up to the space below the ear then along the smooth jaw, all the time wondering if Ceallach would eventually stop him. When he grazed lips over Ceallach’s and felt a push back, he knew there would be no stopping him, until both were satisfied. He kissed him, growing more passionate, more aroused by the second. He felt those delicate hands touch his chest, stomach, then his cock still trapped in his shorts. He felt the hands undo them and when they fell to his ankles Ceallach pulled back, looking up into his eyes.

“Let me?” Ceallach whispered and Fingal nodded.

Ceallach slipped down between the rock wall and Fingal until on his knees and Fingal watched him take his cock, kiss the head then lick it. He shuddered with the manipulation, almost begging him to stop, despite his desire for him to continue. Then he watched his hard cock slide through lips until Ceallach had more than half of him, and he braced himself against the rock as Ceallach began to move his head back and forth.

“Fuck,” Fingal uttered through gritted teeth, as Ceallach manipulated him, toyed with his cock until he was ready to come. “Ceallach, I’m going to…” he stammered unable to finish as he filled Ceallach’s mouth. He felt his cum around his cock as it spurt wad after wad, then he felt the swallowing. When Ceallach stood, his shorts lay around his ankles and his cock stuck out, angled upward, so hard it was leaking. Fingal was going to drop to his knees. He was going to do the things Ceallach did to him. Imagine his surprise when Ceallach turned facing the rock wall, arms braced on it with head resting against them.

“Put it in me,” Ceallach uttered, his voice pleading in tone.

Fingal was shocked, wondering how Ceallach knew such things. He had heard of it but now, with his eyes locked on the small round ass, he knew he was going to experience it. He moved to the body that was leaning forward, ass pushed back, and he raked his still hard cock along the cleft, moving the wet head along the tight space. He raked his cock up and down until it moved slickly along the cleft.

Hands came to each ass cheek and Fingal watched them get spread apart until he could see the space between them, including the tight opening.

“Fingal…please…put it in me,” Ceallach begged.

Fingal didn’t make him beg again, so aroused by him, and this willingness to do these things. He put his wet cock against the tight opening and pushed until he felt the squeeze on the head. Ceallach shuddered and moaned, and he held still letting him adjust to the penetration. When Ceallach began to push back, he pushed forward, slowly sinking his cock into the narrow ass, amazed to see it take all of his cock.

Holding Ceallach by the waist, he began to fuck, to drive with his hips, pushing and tugging his cock through that impossibly tight opening. It milked his cock, made him more aroused than any of his fantasies. He fucked until sweat beaded up on his skin and his breathing grew labored.

Ceallach looked over his right shoulder, eyes glazed over, and Fingal wanted more of their intimacy. He reached out, wrapping an arm around the long neck and pulled Ceallach back against his chest, feeling the heat of the body against his own. He bowed him back, stretched out the lean torso as he pumped his cock into its depths. He couldn’t get enough of Ceallach. He slid his other hand down the sweating torso until he held the hard cock. It fit in his hand perfectly, and he stroked its full length. Ceallach responded to the manipulation, moving his ass back and forth, pushing back on Fingal’s cock then pushing forward, fucking his own cock through Fingal’s fist.

Their cries echoed in the narrow passage as Ceallach spattered cum on the rock wall. He shuddered and shook in Fingal’s arms as he came, all the time taking every thrust into his depths. It was too much for Fingal, his arousal pushed to the edge and he shoved inward and came.

Afterward, they leaned against the rock walls facing each other. They stood naked, cocks flaccid, sated of their sexual desires. Eyes roamed over exposed bodies, following the lines of shadow, the curved and bulges of flesh. Then they laughed, joyously, without shame. They dressed and headed back to the village, knowing what they had done had to be kept secret, something that was just between them.

For Fingal it was a love and desire for someone he didn’t know if he could control. Every opportunity afforded them, they would find secluded places, secret places, that the two of them could be alone. The storage building behind Breac’s shop that was never locked and rarely used any more, the barn at Ceallach’s family’s farm, or the mountain when weather permitted, for it was a place that gave them the greatest sense of concealment. A place they could strip naked and touch each other without feeling a need to rush.

Deciphering the first secrets

Ann stood at the head of the table, with notes, photos and drawings scattered on it. The team sat around it with Dr. Fergus and Dr. MacDonald at the opposite end.

“I took a step back this morning, realizing something I was overlooking. Even with the erosion, it was evident there are three different hands involved in the craving of the story and they are within a different section. The story begins at the panel with the two men laying under a tree. On the right, the story of a witch, her looking into the future making a prophecy of two boys being born, one raised by a king and one by a man of iron. On the left side, the story of the boys’ birth and how a queen came to choose one, wanting the other put to death, but the witch disobeyed, fulfilling the first of the prophecy. There is a different hand to each of these panels, and I’m not sure why, when the other six panels are done by only one other, consistently down each wall.”

“You mean one person carved the next three panels down each wall?” asked Callum.

“Yes. It might not mean anything, but I thought it interesting.”

“Go on, Ann, continue,” said Dr. Fergus.

“Well, the next panels are about each of the boys. The left side for the one named Fingal, the one not chosen. The right about Guaire, or it may be Greum, I’m not sure. I need more time to study it. But it tells of his life as the chosen one.”

“What happened to them?” asked Jason.

“The last panels are really eroded but tomorrow I’m laser scanning them. I’m sure that will bring out some more detail, so I can begin to work it out. But of the panels deciphered, the one that is interesting is the story of the witch.”

The Witch

Castismandua had lived most of her years near the cliffs, letting her fear of them keep her constantly aware of her surroundings. She had been married once, long ago, when a young girl, but the cruelty of fate took him from her before she was with child. She tried to forget. The pain and sense of loss would stagger her, and bring tears to her eyes, even now, after decades had passed. It was why she left the village and traveled east, eventually finding this old dwelling, abandoned by the previous owner. She claimed it as her own and explored her surroundings to know what the land would provide for her. And over the years, despite the nature of weather, she survived on the land, and on the fees charged to the desperate women who started showing up at her door.

Cartismandua eased across the room, feeling frailer with each passing day. She had lived a long time, much longer than most, to the point even she was unsure of her age. She pulled down the jar with the dried root and moved back to the iron pot hanging over the burning wood in the fireplace. She stirred in a palm full of the dried root, and watched the simmering liquid turn purple, then red, redder than the flames below the pot. She stirred it a few more times, then let it simmer.

She had been watching for signs, anything that would bring back her connection with the boy, the one not chosen. She had lost him, years ago when the widow had died. She had missed it, the foretelling, and now searched for him. She had studied the leaves in the bottom of her cup, tossed the telling stones across the wood table, and brewed her vision spell whenever there was a full moon.

The prince, Guaire was so easy to follow, brash and rebellious, his path through space and time shimmered vivid blue. She followed his life, laughing at his assuredness and blushing at his proclivities, even though she knew before he did what they would be. But Fingal became lost to her with her carelessness, and she worried if her reading of the prophecy could be wrong.

She sat the shallow bowl carved from rock on the table. It was heavy, even though carved down thin as was dared, and it had veins that shined in the candlelight, from green emerald embedded in it. She ladled out a cup of the potion and poured it in the shallow bowl with a circular motion, spreading the liquid over the bottom’s surface. She said words of the ancients, whose meanings were lost to time and bowed her head over the bowl, letting the fragrance of the potion fill her nose. It burned at first, then dulled all her senses. She sat up, with eyes rolling back in her head.

There was a red. Shimmering like fire. Then a sound. Metal on metal. She saw the swing of an arm, then to one side, watching, Fingal. The room came into focus, only the very far edges still blurred, but it wasn’t enough. Then she saw Fingal among large boulders, shielded from prying eyes, naked, with another boy. It made her feel feverish to witness. Then she saw Fingal, hammer in hand, working glowing metal, bending it into a new shape. She moved up, through the roof, out into the gray sky and looked down on the village. She circled in space, studying the terrain, the shape of the mountains, the curves of the streams and smiled, knowingly. She recognized this place, even though it had been a very long time since she last stepped foot in it.

Cartismandua tried to come back but something held her in place and she looked to the south, then the west, and saw the smoke plumes rising from the horizon and when she listened, she heard the sounds of battle. She smiled, for it was time for the next prophecy.

Awakening from her induced sleep, she struggled to her feet and dipped out water to quench her thirst. It was never as severe as after a reading, and she drank heavily, one cup then another. Standing at the only window in her small house, she looked toward the eastern horizon, wondering if there was still time before dark. She could wait until the next day, but she was anxious for closure, that promised in the prophecy, if she did her part.

She gathered her pray shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders, then she straightened her shelves, lining up the vials and jars. She spread the hanging flowers, leaves and bulbs along the beam, so they were neatly arranged along its length. She made her bed, the first time she had done so in a very long time, and laid out her scrolls and book of knowledge, one began by her great-grandmother and passed down until it was hers. She knew it was the end of magic, for she was the last remaining in the world. She no longer heard the voices of others, losing communication with them years ago.  After she was gone, magic would cease, and everything after would be nothing but myth and superstition.

She went out, securing the door behind her, satisfied there was plenty of time before the sun set. She untied the donkey, the last animal in her care, knowing she would soon set it free. She tugged on its rope once and it followed her away from her house as smoke billowed out the chimney, out from the eaves and then the window. Soon the whole house was engulfed in flames. She watched it burn, waiting for this purification, this final purging, and when the roof collapsed, then the four walls until only a pile of burning wood remained, she tugged on the rope and the donkey kneeled for her, allowing her to climb on its back.

She rode east, toward the cliffs and the stormy sea. It would be late, the sun just above the horizon when she stood on the cliff’s edge. The donkey was gone, having been freed upon her arrival, no longer in need of its service to her. With the salty wind whipping about her, she stood alone, the last of her kind while looking out over the dark, roiling waters. She uttered her final prayer and leaned over the edge. The fall seemed to take a lifetime, as she fell facing upward, looking at the gray cloudy sky. She smiled, then hit the surface, sinking into the dark waters, disappearing forever.

.

Blue and Red

The campfire was burned down, the flames low, as Jason, Ann and Callum sat around it, the only ones still up. They had been busy for days, photographing the chamber, copying down the text, and sketching out the space, with measurements and notes. Ann had spent the last three days, with help from Dr. Fergus, interpreting the text, bringing the story to life that covered the walls. Erosion and time had made sections impossible to decipher but they had most of it, after the laser scanning, and tonight, they had cooked out while listening to Ann read the story. She put everything in context, put the sequence to events in order, removing the confusion, after days of discussing the panels out of order.

“What do you think?” asked Jason.

“What do you mean?” asked Ann.

“The story; do you think it is some kind of legend or myth, the imaginings of someone high on some root or mushroom? Or could it be historical?”

“I think it’s historical,” Callum replied.

“I tend to agree, but some details are definitely exaggerated,” said Ann, looking from Callum then to Jason.

“But would those two guys, having sex with men. You think that is real?” asked Jason.

“I think so. It’s not something to exaggerate, and there was no myth in the region to foster such a story,” Ann replied.

“Like David in the Old Testament, expressing his love for Jonathan?” asked Callum.

“But it wasn’t as explicit as this.”

“Wasn’t it, in a way?”

“I wonder what their lives had been like. Two boys born for a Queen to choose from, and then coming back together years later. Sounds like a fairy tale,” said Jason.

“Might be,” Ann muttered, stretching her arms up and out. “I’m beat and going to turn in.”

“I’m not far behind you,” said Callum, although neither Jason nor he made a move to get up. Instead they waited on the camp to grow quiet, for everyone to be settled in for the night, then Jason led Callum out into the darkness, with just enough moonlight to illuminate their way. He held the rough, calloused hand, as he moved toward the rock jutting out of the rolling terrain to their east. Every morning their tents stayed in shadow longer than those by the pit due to the rock formation, but tonight they would conceal something else.

Within the gaps between the stones, Jason pulled and tugged on Callum’s clothes until he was naked, then he removed his own. They touched each other, pulled their bodies together in tight embraces, and kissed with a passion each wondered if the story of Fingal and Guaire kindled to greater intensity. Callum pushed Jason back, spun him around, and Jason put his hands on the stone, bracing his body. Callum moved up behind him and soon Jason felt the penetration, the push into his depths and he stifled a desire to cry out. He pushed back, taking Callum all the way. Hands held his waist and soon Callum was thrusting cock into his depths, so roughly their bodies smacked together. Then a hand was on his cock, stroking him.

Callum closed his eyes, while thrusting into Jason depths, and saw vivid blues, swirling like a fog. He pressed his forehead against Jason’s back, never slowing the swing of his hips, as he saw the blue take different forms.

“Fuck…take me.”

Jason saw red, fiery red, as if radiating a heat. He felt it, his whole body feeling feverish, sweat rising on his hot skin. He felt the fullness of penetration, cock boring deep into his body. He felt the tight grip of Callum’s hand on his cock, and the slick feel of it stroking him.

“Jason…Jason…fuck…” Callum stammered as he held them together in a tight embrace, shoving into Jason’s depths and releasing his load. Jason felt the flexing cock in his hole and the hand on his cock rubbing over the sensitive head and he cried out, then painted the rock face with cum.

A Time of War

Fingal arrived at the shepherd’s barn just before sunset. He had left early that morning with tools and blades requested by the farmer some week’s earlier. The blacksmith had sent him in lieu of going himself, for there was a great deal of work to get completed. The shepherd took the new tools and blades and put them away in the barn, then led Fingal into his home, a guest for night.

Fingal sat around the family’s table, dining with them as the shepherd’s son and daughter talked about their day. He wondered how they lived so isolated from others, so far from any village or town. Then he considered his own life, one always lived at the periphery of society, never a central figure in any of it.

At daybreak the next morning, Fingal climbed upon his horse, said goodbye to the family and began his journey home that would take all day. He rode over the wide rolling terrain, coming to the first mountain ridge and after nearly two hours was crossing the valley. He kept riding southwest, the sun moving from his back and left to his face and right. It was midafternoon, one more mountain ridge to cross over, one higher than the others, when he saw smoke from the direction of the village. It was too thick for chimney fires and he stared at it trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

“No, no, no,” Fingal uttered, as he spurred the horse to move, increasing their pace. He became frantic as he moved toward the smoke. It seemed to take an eternity to cross over the mountain ridge but finally he was in the valley of his village, racing down the muddy lane, drawing closer and closer to the smoke that began to diminish. By the time he crested a small rise and could look down on the village, the smoke had nearly stopped, and he could see the destruction that had be wrought. Every structure was burned to the ground, only stone foundations and walls remained. Scattered among the burnt ruins lay bodies, so many as to seem more than possible. He spurred the horse to move, trying to get the fatigued animal to run but it only galloped, too tired to go faster. When he finally drew close, and the stench of burnt bodies hit his nose, he dismounted and ran into the ruins.

Nothing seemed right, and he was mixed up on his orientation, as he stumbled among the ruins trying to find the blacksmith’s shop and residence. He finally found the shop with its stone furnaces, still smoldering hot, and among the ruins he saw the body of the blacksmith. He fell to his knees, crying out, with fists pounding the hard ground. He stumbled back to his feet and went to where the residence should be only to find a few burnt boards, a pile of ash and the stone of the foundations and fireplace. The chimney had collapsed, scattering its stone across the ground. He looked around, seeing nothing but the dead. There was no sign of life anywhere, not even the dogs, or farm animals. He spun around and looked out toward the farm where Ceallach lived. There were only smoldering ruins of buildings and broken-down fence. He ran to the site, seeing a few hogs laying dead in the pen, and he slowed so he could look around, wondering where Ceallach would be lying dead, hoping otherwise. But he knew the truth. He walked around the house site seeing two bodies, and by the barn the father lay with arrows in his back. Moving around until he was back at the pen, he looked in among the dead hogs and saw Ceallach and rushed to him. Ceallach was lying face up, his chest split open from an axe or sword. He looked asleep, but Fingal knew the lie of it. On his knees, he leaned over the lifeless body and cried until the sky grew dark, concealing the evils of men.

Fingal lay under a tree, unable to sleep in the cold, and at first light he buried Ceallach and his family, then he buried the blacksmith. He looked around the ruins of the house but knew it was no use to search further. He searched the site, especially around the blacksmith’s shop, finding a sword and two knives. Their handles were damaged, but they would suffice until he could do better. He slipped the knives into his pack, and held the sword up in the early morning light, noting how its blade was blacker than normal and he considered it an evil thing, but something he would possess as he sought out revenge.

He rode north until he saw the smoke of new fires, and knew it was the next village being plundered.

Fingal stopped to rest as he watched the smoke rise into the sky, knowing he alone, could do nothing to stop the carnage. The sun was still high in the sky, but he was so exhausted having not slept in two days, he had to stop. He guided the horse to a group of trees, and dismounted, tied the horse, and fell back on the ground. He fell into a sleep filled with nightmares.

When he woke, he was confused, with the strange surroundings and it being dark, not light. Then he remembered, all of it, and he felt his sadness and fear overwhelm him. He pulled out dried meat and satisfied his thirst, then eased out into the open. The sky was clear for the first time in days and he considered it a sign. He could see in the darkness for the moon was transitioning toward a full moon, and the land looked like that of a dream.

Staring toward the north, he wondered where the invading army would be, now that it was dark. He wondered if they were attacking another village, or if they were camped for the night. His fear and sadness changed to anger, with visions of revenge. Imagining what he could do to an army, even if just one man. He grinned; one of a man seeking his revenge.

He packed up and climbed on his horse and rode north, parallel with the ridge of the low mountain. He kept an eye out of any movement and listened for any sound out of the ordinary, while he considered his different options. It was after midnight when he came to the village and saw it wasn’t in ruins like his own. Some structures still stood, but it was too quiet, a place of the dead now. He dismounted and eased into it, searching each house, for it was apparent those were the only structures left standing, all those for business or farming nothing but smoldering ash. The dead lay everywhere, inside, and out, and it was obvious no one was spared. He took some stored food the army had left and went back to his horse to ride further north, for in the distance he could see small fires burning, and knew it was the army camped for the night.

Halfway to the camp, he released his horse, allowing it roam freely in the opposite valley, then made his way to a place that overlooked the camp. A few men on patrol moved around the perimeter, otherwise the camp was quiet. He settled down and waited for the break of day.

At first light, Fingal saw men stir, some going out to relieve themselves, others bathing by the stream, but most were sitting around fires waiting for meats to be cooked. He scanned the camp, looking for the largest, nicest tent, finding it on the southern side, within an open area of the smaller tents, and knew it was the one he sought. Men began to come and go from it, then he saw four men come out, heading to their horses. They rode out, heading north, two climbing up the mountain on the west side of the valley, and two climbing the mountain along the east side, the side Fingal lay in hiding.

Fingal gave pursuit on foot, knowing the men on horseback would slow after riding for half a day, allowing them to move silently in search of their next target. He moved along the mountain, hiding behind rock and trees, until north of the camp, then he jogged along old trails until his side hurt and lungs burned. When he stopped, taking a much needed drink, he heard a horse whinny. There was a small group of trees ahead, and he eased into them, finding the two horses tied to a tree. Pulling out his knife, he eased through the trees until he found the two men on its northern side, laying on the ground, surveying a village that lay in the valley.

He moved up behind them, then dove on the one to the left, using his body to hold him down, while reaching out and jamming his knife into the opposite side of the neck of the man. He pulled the knife around the neck, cutting as deeply as he could, stifling any sound the man tried to make, then jerked the knife over to the one beneath him. The man recovered from the shock of being pounced on and began to fight, but before he could throw him off, Fingal plunged the knife into his neck and cut.

He hid the bodies and led the horses down into the other valley. He removed the saddles and blankets, and sent them running north, hoping they didn’t return to the camp. He wanted the men to disappear, the camp not know of their fate, for sometimes not knowing was worse. He ransacked the men’s gear, finding a short sword, two long swords, knives, provisions, and some personal effects. Why he did it, he didn’t know, but he took the short sword, the knives, food and blankets, burying the rest, including the nicer long swords. Then he wondered about the best way to get to the other side of the valley without being spotted.

Fingal knew he would never be able to get to the other side before the men began their return ride back to their camp, so he jogged along the mountain trial heading back to the south, hoping the men would wait until late in the day before beginning their ride back.  When he felt it was safe, he eased across the valley and over mountain until he came to the main trail. He looked at the tracks left by horses, seeing they were heading north, none going south. Relieved to be there before the scouts, he found a place to hide, and waited.

As suspected, the men came along the trail just before dark, moving at a casual trot. Fingal made ready to jump them, wondering if he could take both without a fight. They drew near and he crouched down, waiting. Just before he was prepared to jump, the man in the lead stopped.

“I’ve got to go,” the lead rider exclaimed, making the other laugh.

“Again? I told you that meat was bad,” the second man laughed.

As the lead rider moved down into the woods below the trail, the other rode up and took the reins of his horse. At first, he remained still but his horse moved forward a few steps, eyeing the grass growing by some rock. Fingal jumped, landing on the horse behind the rider and had his throat slit before he could utter a sound. Then he went in pursuit of the other man.

Bodies hid, their effects ransacked, he sent one horse running north, then used the other to ride back to his own horse, knowing he would keep it.

That night, back at his overlook, he watched the camp, saw how men stood on the north side keeping watch, while others patrolled the perimeter. He saw men come and go from the large tent and heard shouts, none loud enough to discern. Then he scanned the opposite mountain, looking for those keeping an eye out from vantage points on that side. He never saw anyone, but knew they were there somewhere, and were on his side too. His only advantage would be the lookouts would be looking away from camp, not toward it.

Fingal waited, let it get into the early morning hours, the moon low in the sky, creating long black shadows across the valley. He stripped to his pants and moved to a spring on the mountain and covered himself in dark mud from head to toe. He eased down the mountain, keeping low, and at the base, hiding behind rock, he checked to see if the patrols were past the area in front of him. Then he eased across the valley until near the camp. He crawled and ran low until past the perimeter the patrols had set up. Then he checked an area around him, making sure there were no patrols within the camp. He found the camp quiet except for the snores and mutters men do in their sleep. He pulled out two knives, one for each hand, and began to go from tent to tent, slitting throats or stabbing beating hearts, taking one after the other. He worked his way along the southern end of the camp, moving silently, carefully, between tents. He didn’t rush, keeping himself calm with his vengeance. Continuing until he knew daybreak was only about an hour away. He eased out past the patrols and back to his overlook, where he waited for daybreak, and with it the camp’s awareness of his silent destruction.

At first light, Fingal began to count tents, knowing each contained two men on average. He counted while men began to shout and rush from tent to tent. There were 24 tents, not counting the captain’s, and he knew the army was about fifty men. Then he watched as the dead were removed from tents and laid out and smiled with vengeful satisfaction that twenty-six men lay dead. He continued watching as men were sent out looking for the scouts, only to return hours later alone, not even the horses found. The dead were buried, and foolish, self-serving prayers uttered them. The camp was packed up, with tents loaded on the wagons. And through it all, he heard the shouts and wild gestures between the men, and knew they sought revenge, seeking to continue north. But what was left of the army headed south.

Guaire led the young soldier to the back passage and up the stair that led to his room. He didn’t remember the man’s name, nor did he care. He was just satisfying his desire, one fueled by the young man’s attractive good looks. He had seen him bathing behind soldier’s quarters and quickly discerned if there was an interest.

Inside his room, he told him to take his clothes off and smiled as each garment was removed from his body until he stood naked, cock half hard, before his latest conquest. After dropping down on knees, the young soldier took him in his mouth and sucked until he was so hard, his cock ached for more. He pulled him to his feet, stripped him, then pushed him onto his bed. He moved over him, feeling legs wrap around his waist, and he smiled as a hand guided him to his target. He pushed through the tightness and watched, as the young soldier threw his head back and cried out. It increased his arousal to hear it, and he pushed inward, sinking deeper and deeper inside the young soldier’s hole.

Guaire began to fuck, to drive his cock into the young soldier’s depths, over and over, feeling rushed to satisfy himself, and to get back before being missed. He held him down, and fucked roughly, the bed protesting beneath them, as he listened to the pleadings.

“Fuck…fuck me…” the young soldier uttered between moans and cries.

Guaire kept up his brutal pace, until his body ached with his exertions. Sweat trickled down his face and chest and rained down on the young soldier, as he fucked for release.

It didn’t take long, too aroused to hold out, and Guaire shoved into the young soldier’s depths and filled him with his load. He pulled out and told him to leave as he lay on his bed, breathing hard, feeling the sweat dry on his skin. He lay feeling his lusts sated, but still lacking some satisfaction. It was this way with all of his conquests.

Dressed, Guaire went to the window and saw a commotion in the courtyard, men huddled in groups and some riding out in a rush. A knock at his door, and his manservant came into his room.

“Sir, the king requests your presence.”

Guaire knew something was wrong, and rushed down to the Great Hall, where his father held court. The room was full of men in heated debate, and they parted when he arrived, allowing him to approach the king, his father.

“Guaire, there is bad news from the territory. We’re under attack. There is word of an army coming up from the south, and one from the west.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“The king of Cuil Lodair, Druimein.”

“Why?”

“To expand his territory, to have access to the sea, or some reason we can’t fathom.”

“We should ride out and defeat his armies!”

The king smiled, nodding his head. “We will do that. I want you to take a group of men and head south to stop that army, and Ambarsan will take a group west.”

Guaire bowed to his father, feeling a pride at the responsibility given him. “Yes, father.”

Guaire gathered his men, a group of forty of the king’s finest swordsmen and archers. They rode out as soon as they were prepared and headed down the lane to the point it split, going off into the distance in three directions, and he led his men straight ahead, going south, and Ambarsan headed west with his men.

Guaire and his men rode hard for two days, passing through villages and small towns, some aware of the danger that lurked beyond the horizon, and some unaware. On the third day, a scout came back to them.

“Sir, the invaders have left the territory.”

“Are you sure?” asked Guaire.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“It appears they were attacked. The village of Bealach said half their army was killed during the night, and horses for their scouts were found grazing in the valley.”

“Who attacked them?”

“We don’t know, sir.”

“How far did they get before being turned back?”

“They destroyed two villages. One was Leirbert, the other had no name.”

“Survivors?”

“None.”

Guaire looked around at his men, seeing the puzzled expressions of those that overhead. He looked ahead at a small forest land nestled in the valley.

“Let’s get to those trees and set up camp. We need to rest up. Tomorrow I’ll take a small group of men and investigate this myself.”

“Sir,” the patrol replied, guiding his horse to one side, letting Prince Guaire and his fellow men pass.

The camp set up in the edge of the woods, near a stream that gave access to water. After they prepared food and sated their appetites, the men relaxed, passing bottles of ale while telling stories of past glories. Guaire walked among the camp, checking on each man, while he tried to make sense of the patrol’s report. He knew of no armies in the area, no group of men capable of defeating any king’s army. Lost to his thoughts, he found himself wandering into the woods, deeper and deeper into the old undisturbed land. He came to the main river the stream fed into some ways upstream, and looked at its cold, roiling waters. He moved along its banks, unhurried, as he wondered what his next step should be. If the report proved true, should he ride west to meet Ambarsan’s army to add to his number? Was it possible he could arrive in time to be of assistance?

Hearing the splashing of water, Guaire froze. He scanned the river, looking further down stream where a bend took it out of sight. He eased forward, sword drawn, pulling back from the river into the dense woodland. He made his way until the river came back into view, the section below the bend. He heard the whinny of a horse and saw two grazing on grass along the banks of the river. He saw a small makeshift camp and clothing hung over limbs, then he heard a splash and a man cry out, cursing the cold waters.

Guaire moved forward, swinging away from the campsite to come out on the river downstream of the man in it. He found a rock outcropping, and moved up on top, letting him look down where he heard him.

He saw a young man, about his age, covered in mud and blood, easing out into the river. The water was up to his thighs, and he was shivering with the coldness of it. Guaire had never seen such, a man covered so completely. The man bent over and dunked his head, working fingers into his hair to remove the mud and blood. The water ran red, slowing absorbing it until it appeared gone, once past Guaire. Standing upright, the man’s true hair color shined in the light of the late day sun. It was blonde and hung long around the man’s head. The man began to wash away the mud and blood on his chest and stomach and when the worst was removed, he sucked in his breath and plunged into the cold waters. Coming up further out, gasping for breath, the man swam back toward the shore until able to stand on the bottom. He made his way to the bank, rising out of the water, unaware of the stare of Guaire.

Guaire was amazed to see a perfect body, not one scare on the torso, only one on the right arm. He stared at the body rising out of the river, trying to control his thoughts. He still didn’t know if this was friend or foe. He stood on the rock, raising his sword.

“Who are you?” Guaire called out, making the young man freeze.

Looking up, having to shield his eyes, for Guaire stood with the sun at his back. Even in silhouette he recognized his king’s shield on the breastplate. “I’m Fingal, of the village south of Leirbert.”

“You were from the village that was attacked?” How did you survive?”

“I was on an errand for my father, delivering tools. I got back after the attack.”

“Why were you covered in mud and blood?”

“I…huh…my lord, may I get dressed? I’m freezing.”

“Of course,” Guaire replied, as he looked at the naked man before him, controlling his expression, even as he noticed the endowment hanging thick and long, despite the cold. He felt a primitive attraction toward this peasant, unlike any he had felt toward any other man.

Guaire climbed down and went into the man’s camp seeing him pull on his clothes, and he watched him without shame.

“Have we met before?” asked Guaire, suddenly sensing some knowing about Fingal.

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve never been to the castle,” pulling his shirt in place and facing Guaire. “Are you one of the king’s captains? You are younger than I would expect?”

“No, I’m the prince.”

“OH, my lord, forgive me my manners,” Fingal replied, bowing to the prince.

“Please, you didn’t know who I was, so no apologies necessary. So, you grew up in that small village?”

“Not exactly. I was raised by a widow woman in Corr Geraidh after being abandoned by my mother, whom I know nothing about. After the widow passed, I made my way to the village where I was taken in by the blacksmith and his wife.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“And what about your appearance? Covered in mud and…”

“The mud was for concealment, the blood from my revenge.”

Guaire grinned, seeing the fierceness in Fingal, an anger at the wrongs done to him.

“Revenge? Did you attack the army?”

“Yes, sir. I…”

“Please, tell me, every detail. I want to know.”

“Can I offer you something to eat or drink first?”

“No, but if you’ve not eaten, please, go ahead.”

“Thanks, my lord. I’ve not eaten since yesterday and I’m famished.”

Guaire watched Fingal pull out dried meats, bread and a small bottle of ale, provisions he had taken the day before. Guaire stooped by the dying fire, adding wood to bring back the burning flames. Then he eased away and leaned against a tree, watching Fingal eat and drink, while telling of the previous two days events. The return to find his village destroyed, then the next one too, and finally coming to spy on the invader’s camp.

“I followed the scouts north and when I had the opportunity, I took them out. I hid the bodies and sent their horses running north, all except that brown gelding, point to the horse next to his black mare.

“You hid the bodies? Why?”

“I didn’t want those invaders to find them. The unknown can be far scarier than the known, don’t you think, my lord,” Fingal replied in all seriousness.

Guaire laughed, shaking his head, “why yes, you are right. Go on, continue.”

“I came back to watch the camp and when it got dark, I…covered myself in the dark mud and sneaked into it.”

“You, alone, killed their men.”

“I…guess...I didn’t think, my lord. I just eased from tent to tent, slitting throats and stabbing chests until they lay still in death. I didn’t know how many tents I had gone into, but before daybreak, I made my way back to my hideout and waited.”

“Waited?”

“For daylight so I could see the camp’s reaction. I wanted to see their reaction when they found their men dead, and their patrols failed to show back up. I wanted to see their misery.”

“How many do you think you killed that night?”

“There were two men in most tents, one with only one man and two with three, and I watched them carry bodies out of twelve tents.”

“How many tents were there in total? We were told the army was about fifty men.”

“That sounds about right for I counted twenty-seven tents, not counting their captain’s. I counted twenty-six bodies when they laid them out for burial.”

Guaire laughed, rolling to his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Why does my king need an army, when he has you?”

Fingal blushed, suddenly feeling some shame at the violence he had done.

“My lord, I’m not a violent man by nature. I promise, I’m not evil of heart.”

“Fingal, I can see that, but when a man has been wronged, as you have been, revenge and vengeance can become a tool for the most extreme justice, and yes, we must be careful, but in this case, I’m glad to hear of it.”

Guaire sat up and watched Fingal wipe his hands and take a final drink before putting the bottle of ale away. He realized this was it, all Fingal had left in the world and he suddenly felt a sadness that felt like a knot in his chest.

“What will you do now?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Come with me. Back to the castle. We could use someone of your cunning.”

“I’m no soldier. I’m a blacksmith’s…” Fingal stammered, stopping himself from saying he was the son of the blacksmith, for despite how the blacksmith treated him, he knew it wasn’t the truth.

“But you said you had nowhere to go. What do you have to lose in coming with us? You’ll not want for anything ever again. I promise,” said Guaire, not knowing the lengths he’d go to keep that promise.

Guaire led Fingal back into their camp where a group of soldiers gathered around them before they could dismount. They looked at Fingal, a peasant by all appearances, wondering why the prince would bring him to their camp. But some smiled, knowing the prince’s proclivities, wondering if this peasant had already given himself to their prince.

 “Men, this is Fingal. He will be joining us,” said Guaire as he looked upon the questioning looks. “Let’s rest up and be prepared to head out in the morning.”

“Are we continuing south?”

“Yes, we continue to the villages attacked and survey it for ourselves so we can report back to our king. I’ll send Breac out in the morning to head west to meet with Ambarsan, on whether or not we should go assist him or head back to the castle.”

For the next two days, Guaire led his men south, while Fingal was questioned by one man after the next, none of them wanting to believe the story he told. They came to a small village, where the men told tales of the army being repelled by a demon of middle earth, rising out of the ground, and killing the men in their sleep. Further south, they came to the village the scouts of the invaders had been watching when Fingal killed them, and found men telling the same story, and some more fanciful. Guaire shook his head and winked at Fingal, seeing his displeasure at becoming a demon of middle earth in the tales being told.

At the spot of the campsite, Fingal pointed out the graves and where the tents had been set up, half the area with dried blood still on its surface. Fingal stood in the middle of what had been a campsite and pointed to the place from where he spied on them, then he pointed north, telling of the scouts that were never to return, and how he could show them where he hid the bodies on the way back. The soldiers listened, as they looked at the bloodied ground, the twenty-six mounds, marked with stacked stone, and the tracks that came into the site, then returned in the direction from whence they came.

They traveled further south, visiting the two destroyed villages. At the latter, the men stood silent as Fingal wept once again while pointing out where the blacksmith shop and their residence had been. He walked the men down to the farm on the edge of the village and cried harder as he told of his finding his friend. Guaire heard the pain of loss, how much it tore at Fingal, this loss of his friend, and he wondered how close their relationship had been. He had been holding back, wondering if Fingal was someone willing, but now he knew he needed to hold back longer, for Fingal was just starting to grieve.

Breac rode over the mountains of the west and back into camp that night, telling them the invaders had fled the country, that the army in the west pulled out after hearing word of the south army’s defeat. The men cheered, their voice echoing down the valley, and brought out jugs of ale. They partied late into the night, celebrating a victory that claimed none of the men.

Fingal sat at the periphery, unable to feel the joy of victory, the sadness of loss too great. He sipped the ale, at times chugging it, until he was numb. Guaire came over and sat beside him, cup in hand.

“I’m sorry,” Guaire uttered in a low voice, as the men sang songs of victory.

“For what?”

“Your loss. Your family and…your friend. I could tell he was important to you.”

“He was.”

“I’ve never known such loss. How it makes one feel.”

“It’s as if I’ve been hollowed out.”

Guaire nodded, looking over once seeing Fingal turn his cup up, emptying it.

“You should try to get some sleep. I know you’re still grieving and need time.”

“Thanks, my lord,” Fingal got to his feet and pulled down the blankets from his horse and strolled off into the woods.

“Where are you going? Don’t you have a tent?”

“No, my lord,” came Fingal’s reply as he disappeared into the woods.

Finding Place through Time.

Ann came out the tent, waving a handful of papers, as she ran down to the dig site.

“Hey guys, I think I figured out some of the places!”

“Really,” said Bridget, as the others stood.

Dr. Fergus came up the ladder, sticking his head out the chamber. “Why don’t we break for the day and see what Ann has worked out. Then we can prepare dinner and eat on time for once.”

Ann returned to the tent, and waited for the others to arrive, hearing them wash up outside while chatting excitedly about their dig site. Dr. Fergus came in first followed by the others and they sat around the table with Ann standing at its head, fidgeting with her laptop, hooking it up to the small flat screen at the other end of the table.

“Okay, this is a map of the area. We’re here, right?”

“Yes,” came a reply in unison.

“Okay, from what I can decipher, here where the mountains come the closest to the coast is where the castle was located.”

“There are three or four sites of ruins that we don’t know the full history,” said Dr. MacDonald.

“And I think one of them is our castle, and I’d focus on these two.”

“Why those?”

“The relationship to the coast and the mountains and the how these valleys run more north and south, where most in this region run southeast to northwest.”

“Good observation,” said Dr. Fergus.

“If I’m right, the witch, Catismandua, lived somewhere in this region, where the coast is rugged cliffs. All of this is nearby, but on foot or horseback, it would have taken a couple days to get here.”

“Why is this chamber so far away from the castle?”

“I’m working on it. We’re x-raying again in the morning, doing the last panel for Guaire. The villages mentioned in the panels have either disappeared or become larger and given new names, but this one here, Lethnot, is of interest. I think this is the village that was spared by Fingal’s attack on the army.”

“So, you think it is historical?” asked Callum.

“I want to go to some of the towns nearby and search their libraries, but right now, I think there is nothing to lead me to think otherwise.”

“We’ve found no other chambers and no sign of buried remains anywhere, so was this a place of remembrance?” asked Dr. Fergus, looking over at Dr. MacDonald, then to Ann.

“Maybe,” Ann replied as Dr. MacDonald shrugged his shoulders.

A New Beginning

The ride back to the castle took eight days, the men no longer in a hurry, as they rode on familiar lanes, stopping in villages and small towns to relay the good news to those who had not heard. During the long days, riding along on horseback, Guaire gave Fingal time to collect himself, to grieve for his loss, letting him ride along the rear. After five days, he went Fingal’s tent, something they got him to utilize after their first night together. It was still early, some men still sleeping, and he found Fingal sitting outside of it on a rock, staring off into the distance.

“You okay?” asked Guaire.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Could we dispense with the formalities when alone?”

Fingal looked over his shoulder and up at Guaire, as if seeing him for the first time. “If that is what you wish.”

“It is. When I’m out here with my men, I can finally relax, not worry about appearances and the expectations put upon me.”

“I wouldn’t know of such,” Fingal replied, his tone a bit sharp.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me. It’s just…”

“I understand. You’re not yourself. When we set out, I want you to ride by my side.”

“Sir?”

“It’s Guaire, and you heard me. I’ve let you lag behind, taking up the rear and instructed the men not to disturb you. But it’s been five days and…you’ll never get over the loss but you have to move on with your life.”

“I know. I just don’t know what that will be?”

“You’ll be a soldier for the king.”

“I’m not a fighter.”

“No, maybe not in hand to hand, but you are a cunning one.”

“But will I not be an embarrassment…a bastard…”

“No. Stop. You can’t help how you came into the world, but you can control how you live in it?”

“Can I?”

“Yes, with a little help from your friends. Will you allow me to be your friend?” asked Guaire.

Fingal blushed, the way Guaire said it, far too intimate, the voice too low, like a secret not to be shared. He looked at the dark brown eyes and smiled, nodding his head.

For the remainder of their ride Fingal rode next to Guaire, wondering who was this prince? They arrived at the castle, where Guaire led Fingal to guest chambers, leaving one of his manservants at his disposal. Clothes and food were sent up and near the end of the day, a request for him to join Guaire for dinner.

It was all too strange, the luxurious surroundings, all the servants moving about, more people than Fingal has seen in a long time. He paced in his room, stared out the window down into the courtyard below where he saw the horses being groomed after their long travels. He worried about being in the castle, being a bastard, and worse, one with a secret.

He thought of all the times he saw Guaire staring at him. Looks he was too afraid to consider. But what disturbed him more was the sense they had crossed paths before. Even Guaire had asked if it were so. At the appointed time, the manservant led him through the castle until they were at the doors to a large dining hall. The ceiling soared over head, so high it was in darkness, with the room lit by candles on the table and torches along the walls. Guaire met him at the door, dressed in his finest clothes, and Fingal bowed to him.

“My lord.”

“Fingal; come this way. You’ll sit next to me.”

Guaire led Fingal to the far end of the table, and he realized the king was at the head and the queen sat opposite of where Guaire was headed, and next to Guaire one empty chair. He felt out of breath, too close to his king. He stumbled and Guaire caught his arm.

“Relax; its just dinner,” Guaire whispered.

But it wasn’t just dinner. The dishes came out the kitchen faster than he could count, and there were dishes he had never seen before, and more meat than his entire village could afford to bring to a table. The king talked of their great victory, the invaders fleeing back to their country, and he talked of his son, the prince going to meet them only to find them fled already. Then he turned to Fingal.

“Tell us.”

“Your majesty?”

“Go on, tell us how you slew so many of the invaders.”

Fingal knew the table wanted a grand story, a tale of adventure and exploits that would excite them. But he was no storyteller, not one to embellish, and he told the story again, fighting back tears when he told of finding his family and friend. Then his rage surfaced, his face turning red, as he told of hunting down the scouts, then going into the camp and slitting throats and stabbing men in the heart. He was shaking when he finished and looked up to see the table staring at him, with looks he couldn’t discern. He didn’t know what to add, thinking they wanted to hear more but finally, a man across the table broke the silence.

“Was that real?”

“Yes,” Guaire interjected, leaning forward, “we saw the campsite and graves, all twenty-six of them, and we took the scouts from their hiding places and buried them properly on the way back. And I saw Fingal on the day after his attack, still covered in the black mud and blood from his revenge, as he waded out in a river to clean himself up.”

There were murmurs among the guest, exclamations, and Fingal grew nervous, looking over to Guaire then the king, who winked at him, smiling.

When the dinner was finally over, the entertainment dismissed and the guest finally cleared out, only Guaire, Fingal and the king remained.

“I could tell you’re not one to embellish but still, that story,” said the king, laughing, “you scared them with those descriptions. My boy, I’ve not sat at this table in a long time and seen guests that shaken.” He laughed again, shaking his head, then he looked at Guaire. “I trust you have him comfortable quarters?”

“Yes, father.”

“What should we do with him?”

“I think he should join the army.”

“But sir, I’m not soldier!” Fingal exclaimed looking at Guaire. “I’m just a blacksmith.”

The king and Guaire laughed, then the king stood, and Guaire and Fingal stood too.

“I’m retiring. You two should get some rest too.”

For the next few weeks, Fingal was allowed to relax. He dined with Guaire, and followed him around the castle, or into the village outside its walls. They toured stables, blacksmiths where Fingal would watch intently how each one handled the hot metal, and the market where all manner of goods were sold. In the afternoons, Fingal sat to the side as he watched Guaire and his men practice with sword and bow. He watched wrestling matches where the men learned to get control of someone, or how to get free.

For Guaire, having Fingal along with him was a pleasure he tried to conceal. He struggled not to smile at Fingal’s wide eye stare at something new to him, or the serious expressions when faced with something that intrigued him. He found himself wanting to have Fingal around, planning his day to include him as much as he could, only his meetings with his father pulling him away. He studied him, the physical nature of him, and his personality. Fingal seemed so humble, introverted, and he couldn’t figure out where the warrior was hidden within him. But it wasn’t the warrior he thought of most often. It was the sexual nature of Fingal that made him shameless in his desire to have him around all the time.

He pictured the naked man from the river, with the long blonde hair and tall, lean muscular body. He imagined it in his chambers, in his bed. He tried to imagine his domination of Fingal, but he couldn’t really imagine it, instead he saw himself submitting to him, and it aroused him. He couldn’t stop thinking of it, to the point he stopped seeking Bruis, the cook’s son, or finding excuse to go with a patrol of the land, to visit Rosach in Braigh Mharr. Every available minute he spent with Fingal, wondering if there was anyway Fingal could return his affections.

Fingal found places in the castle where he could be alone, places that didn’t remind him of the place he had found himself, unlike his room with the big luxurious bed and all the clothing and food brought in even before he asked for it. There was a window with a wide sill on a back stair that overlooked the village below. The King’s stables, with his own blacksmith, where Fingal sat to the side, a guest given reverence. He watched the blacksmith hammer the hot metal, and when allowed, demonstrated his own skill. There was a room in the back of the castle, one just above the kitchens, that was sparsely furnished. He sat for hours in one of the chairs wondering what the future held.

He ached for the blacksmith and his wife, then cried for Ceallach. The first boy to show him what was possible between two men. The first one to whisper shyly in the darkness of night how he loved him. He grieved for Ceallach, cried himself to sleep for nights on end, and cursed the gods in the darkness of night for their cruelty.

Winter arrived, and the winds howled over the castle, sending its cold deep within it. Fireplaces were kept burning throughout the day and night. Heavy garments were brought out of storage and everyone seemed to be bundled up until only a face could be seen.

The soldiers moved indoors to a hall near the main entrance, one for receiving the people of the territory, and practiced with their swords and bow, using the room’s long length to their advantage.

After a couple of weeks, over two months since the invasion, Fingal continued to show up for the training sessions, at first watching from the side, but eventually taking part. With a bow, he showed a skill that surprised the men but with the sword, he was timid, hesitate to strike when the opportunity presented itself.

“I think he has to be riled up to perform well,” Guaire whispered to MacCaibe, one of his best swordsmen.

MacCaibe smiled, then went over to Fingal, challenging him. They sparred back and forth, but Fingal never really attacked.

“I hear you’re a bastard,” MacCaibe taunted.

“What did you say?” Fingal replied.

“You heard me. Why are you here? To wash the prince’s clothes?”

“I’ve had enough,” Fingal replied, turning to walk away.

“Go on, then. I bet that is what that farm boy was doing when they were attacked. Running off, only to get caught in a pig sty.”

“YOU take that back,” Fingal yelled, rounding on MacCaibe, sword swinging though the air. MacCaibe barely had time to react, throwing up his own sword. The clash of steel on steel echoed loudly, and MacCaibe felt the strength of the blow through his arm. Fingal stepped to the side, then spun with the sword out, letting its weight carry him around. MacCaibe realized nearly too late what was happening, and at the last minute angled his sword down to block. Fingal’s sword struck hard, knocking MacCaibe’s from his hand, while he stumbled backward, going down on his back. Fingal was red faced, the fury of his anger consuming him. He moved to MacCaibe, raising his sword.

“I give…I give…” MacCaible cried out.

Fingal froze, realizing what he had done, and he lowered his sword. “I’m sorry…I don’t know what come over me.”

MacCaibe looked over at Guaire and began to laugh. “He sucks in practice, but I’d not want to go against him in battle.”

“Nor I,” Guaire replied.

Fingal looked at the men, seeing their smiling faces and realized it was a test, one to push him to fight. “You did that on purpose…to see how I’d react?”

“Yes, now let’s break for some food. I’m starving,” Guaire exclaimed, as he slipped his sword into his belt.

Fingal held his hand out to help MacGaibe stand. “Ass,” he whispered, smiling at him, red-faced with embarrassment.

“It was good to see this fight you keep concealed,” MacGaibe replied.

Fingal continued to practice with the men, improving his aim with the bow and learning the best ways to handle a sword. He enjoyed his time with the men, a distraction from all that had happened. The camaraderie developed with them, and once again feeling a purpose in life. But there was another reason for his practice. He saw the dark eyes looking at him all the time, and he found a satisfaction in the attention. This awareness of him by someone else. He realized it was missing from his life. He missed Ceallach, ached at the cruelty that took him, but he felt a softening of his heart. A release of the fury and sadness that had fueled his desire for revenge. Looking at Guaire, he dared think of it, how he was different, and wondered if Guaire might be too.

As the last of the snow began to melt and grass sprouted from the wet ground, there was sense of renewal within the castle and village. Spring was upon them and life began to return to the lanes and outdoor markets. People came out into the sunshine, stretching aching limbs while looking up, letting the sun hit their pale faces. They seemed to be awaking from hibernation.

Fingal was strolling the narrow lane through the market, seeing who braved the last of the cold to celebrate the approaching spring. Guaire was in counsel with his father, leaving him alone to roam. He moved past the stalls of blankets, colorful fabrics, metal utensils and tools, and root vegetables that had been stored over the winter. At the end of the lane, he cut back up a narrow alley, then back to the castle entry along a lane with residences on each side, some with small pens in front with two or three hogs, or chickens pecking at the wet ground.

At the entry to the castle, the gate secured above, Fingal moved through the shadowed passage, feeling the chill still within the air. He passed through the main courtyard, then climbed the steps to the next level. Nearing the door to the stair that would lead up to his chamber, it swung open before he could reach for it, and Guaire stepped out.

“Hey, I found you,” said Guaire.

“You need me?”

Guaire started to speak, hesitated, then smiled, nodding his head. “I’m going out for a ride and want you to come along.”

“When?”

“Now. Go get changed. I’ll swing by the kitchen for provisions. I thought we’d ride out to this lake to our north. The passage should be clear enough for the horses.”

“That will take till dark to make the trip.”

“I know. I’m having a tent and gear packed for us. So, go. Get changed and let’s get out of here.”

Mounted on their horses and a third loaded with gear, Guaire and Fingal set off. They passed through the courtyards of the castle, the entry and out into the village. Fingal watched with unease how villages stopped and bowed to Guaire, wondering if he would ever become accustomed to such a ritual. Two dogs ran along with them until they came to crossroads, where they turned to head north.

In the open, the sun and cool wind fought in conflict, the sun warming their skin and the wind cooling it. A light coat kept them comfortable, as they rode up the road, coming to the mountains. It would be late afternoon by the time they were crossing the second ridge where the lake lay below them. Stopped at a rock outcropping, they climbed on top to see the view of the valley it afforded them.

“It’s beautiful,” Fingal whispered.

“That it is,” Guaire replied. That is the nearest village,” pointing to the west of the lake, “so if we need help, that is where we should go.”

“You think something could happen?”

“I don’t think so, but it’s always good to be prepared.”

“Look!” Fingal exclaimed, pointing at a falcon flying downward, wings back. They watched it pull up, wings spread out, as it snatched a bird in flight.

“They are so fast,” Guaire replied, then he turned and started down. “We should get going or it’ll be after dark by the time we get to the lake.”

They rode down the narrow trail until at the base of the mountain, where it widened out into a proper lane, allowing them to ride side by side. It cut across the valley, with patches of snow and grass starting to come up. The trees became denser in their growth, until they were in a proper wood, the lane winding through them. It was cold under the canopy of the trees and they pulled out another jacket.

The lane cut around a large boulder, dropped down steeply for a short distance then fell into alignment with the edge of the lake, following its sweeping curve across the floor of the valley.

“There’s a perfect place to camp up ahead,” said Guaire.

After following the edge of the lake for half an hour, they came to a place the trees were spread apart, the ground too rocky for them to grow thickly. To one side, down near the water’s edge, a large flat boulder lay on the ground, only a foot or so above it.

“We can set up on the rock and build our fire there, at its edge,” said Guaire, as they rode the horses up to it.

They unpacked their gear, tied up the horses, and set up the tent. It was one of the smaller two-man tents, not one of the larger ones, Guaire explaining it was a lighter load for the horse. They tossed the blankets inside and built a fire.

“Should we fish for supper or go for a walk?” asked Guaire.

“Didn’t we bring food?”

“Yes.”

“Then, let’s go for a walk.”

It was late in the day when they set out, the sun barely above the western horizon. They strolled along a narrow trail that stayed close to the water’s edge. They talked very little, and even then about what they saw, like fish in the lake or the birds that flew over it, dipping down for a drink. By the time they turned around to head back, the sun was below the horizon and the sky was darkening.

Fingal stroked the fire, building it up, while Guaire pulled out the food. They ate the cured meat, cheese, and bread, while sitting around the fire.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Guaire uttered without looking over.

“I should be thanking you. I’ve never had a day like this.”

“Never?”

Fingal shook his head, then leaned back on elbows, looking over at Guaire, with his face glowing in the light of the fire. He wondered how he could sleep in the tent with him and not think of it. He saw Guaire cut his eyes over toward him, then look back at the fire and he wondered if it were possible this prince was different too.

A wind started blowing, coming off the lake bitterly cold.

“Let’s turn in,” said Guaire, coming to his feet.

Fingal rolled to his feet and followed him into the tent, and they tied off the flaps at the entry. The wind caused the fabric to flutter, but it kept the wind out. Boots kicked off, Guaire and Fingal pulled back blankets and lay down. They bundled up, lying next to each other.

“It’s going to colder,” Guaire whispered.

“I know.”

“Can we sleep together?”

Fingal lay still, unsure how to respond. Was Guaire aware of the temptation he was exerting on him? Was he aware of how he felt? Did he feel the same? He rolled to his side facing away from Guaire, wondering if he should respond, but knowing he couldn’t say no.

“Yes.”

Fingal felt his blanket lift up, then a tug. He felt Guaire move close, then all of the blankets coming to rest over them. He felt the weight of the them, and the warmth trapped beneath t from the heat of their two bodies. He tried to control his breathing while fighting the urge to roll over and face him. He wanted to reach out and touch him, just to feel another man. Then he felt Guaire move close to him until their bodies were spooned together, and an arm wrapped around his body, hugging him.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

Guaire was tired of waiting. Tired of having Fingal so close, but always out of reach. He had never wanted another man as much as he wanted him. It didn’t make sense. He knew the expectations that were placed upon him. To marry a daughter of a nearby king, or of some wealthy person who served them. He knew the dangers of fulfilling his desires, and knew it was even more dangerous to want a life with another man. But for days, weeks, he had watched Fingal, wanting him in ways he never considered with another.

His desires became torments in his dreams, illusions (some would say delusions) where Fingal and he had known each other since birth. Two infants; destined to be together, despite their different paths. He saw his mother, and a witch, and a young Fingal roaming among a red landscape, an alien place of only legend and myth. He saw smoke and fire and blood.

Now he felt his own blood coursing through his veins. He felt his rapid heartbeat and the stirrings of his cock, its movement in his loose garments, and he boldly pressed it against Fingal, wanting him to feel it, to know what he did to him. He pushed his face into the long hair, buried his nose in it, until it parted, and the neck was exposed. He kissed it and felt the shivering of the body next to him.

“Please don’t ask me to stop,” Guaire whispered.

“I can’t…I won’t…” Fingal uttered, rolling to his back to face him.

Guaire ran his hands over the clothed body, then pulled at ties, undid buckles, and tugged each garment from Fingal’s body, kissing the exposed flesh as it was revealed. He ran his hand over the firm stomach, up to the chest, feeling the nipples rake across his palms. He leaned down and kissed Fingal, feeling the mouth relax to his ministrations. He kissed along the neck as he ran a hand down the stomach and took him in hand, surprised at the thick erection awaiting him. He stroked it, slowly, making Fingal moan. Then he felt a hand touching him, moving down his chest, over his stomach, down over his pants to where his cock tented them outward in their confinement, and it toyed with him until he couldn’t take it.

Sitting up, the two of them stripped him of his clothes. Naked, his cock angled up between his thighs, he moved to Fingal, hovered over his prone body, then crawled down until between the long legs. He kissed the thigh, dragged his tongue over it, until he felt the cock against his cheek, and he dragged his tongue over the tightening sac, moving the orbs within it around. Fingal shuddered beneath him, as he kissed along the rock-hard shaft, until the head was at his lips, and he took it in his mouth and pushed down, taking all he could.

The taunt ‘cocksucker’ came to mind and he smiled inwardly, as he moved on Fingal. ‘Yes’, he thought, ‘cocksucker’, and he worked his lips along the hard shaft. A hand combed through his hair, and he felt its urgency, the need expressed by the fingers moving over his scalp. The tight grip of his hair. The pull. The push. The control. He submitted to it, let it control the pace of his mouth on the cock. Then the cock flexed on his tongue and the hand pushed his head down, and his mouth filled with Fingal’s cum.

“Guaire,” Fingal uttered, breathlessly, pulling him up, kissing him on the mouth, tongue exploring its wet slick interior. “Please…let me.”

Guaire found himself being rolled over, and Fingal soon had his legs held in a tight embrace. There was the move forward, pushing his legs over, and he felt his ass rise from the blanket, then the touch of wet cock against it. He felt it rub over his ass, then push against his tightness.

“Do it…put it in me,” he exclaimed, then cried out as cock penetrated him, pushed slowly into his depths. “Fuck,” he exclaimed, when Fingal pushed against his ass, and he knew he had all of him.

Fingal couldn’t stop, even as ‘he’s a prince, what are you doing?’ circled in his mind. He had been hurt in a way he didn’t think he could recover, but over the last couple of weeks, he found is longing for another come back to him, and in this moment, aroused beyond reason, he pushed into Guaire’s depths, fulfilling his desire. He let his weight pin thighs against chest, as he pumped his cock in the depths of Guaire. He kissed the neck, the jaw, feeling the rough stubble against his lips. A roughness that increased his sexual arousal, this desire for another man. He worked his hips until the muscles in his thighs and stomach burned with his exertion. He no longer felt the cold, his skin wet with the heat of his body. He heaved for breath and drove cock into Guaire’s depths over and over.

Guaire cried out, shuddering beneath him, and he felt a rope of cum against his chest. He pulled his cock outward, then pushed back in, feeling the spasm of Guaire’s opening milk his shaft. Hands dug into his flesh, desperate, unyielding in the way they clung to him. And he jammed his cock all the way inside of Guaire and came. He shuddered while jamming his hips against the upturned ass, filling it with his cum.

They slept naked under the blankets, sharing the heat of their bodies, and at first light, Guaire woke Fingal riding his cock. He moved on it slowly, savoring the feel of every inch that tugged and pulled at his opening. He moved down all the way, feeling the fullness of the penetration. He moved slowly for a long time, until his own cock drooled puddles on Fingal’s stomach and he heard the soft pleadings.

“Please…Guaire…faster…”

And Guaire moved faster, rougher, until he was fucking himself on Fingal’s cock. He plunged his ass down until fully seated, and rose until the head slipped free at times, and he shuddered at the feel of each new penetration.

Fingal sat up and held him loosely in his arms. His cock raked up the smooth chest, the head far too sensitive for such manipulation, but he didn’t stop, letting it send shivers up his spine. He felt Fingal’s hands rub his back, as he moved up and down faster and faster. Then he came, his cock spurting cum up Fingal’s chest. He kept moving on him, letting his cock smear his cum on Fingal’s chest and stomach, then he felt the arms tighten around him, and he was rolled to his back.

Guaire felt the thrust of cock into his depths. It filled him, made a connection with this man he never wanted to end. He threw his head back and cried out, begging Fingal to fuck harder. All too soon, Fingal was jamming hips against his ass, and filling him with cum.

They dressed, built up a fire and ate around its warmth. They watched the sun move overhead, and birds diving down to the water’s surface. Looking to the east they saw large Red Deer grazing along the lake’s edge, then just as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone. They rode their horses around one end of the lake, getting back late in the day, the shadows long across the land. They fished until two large Brown Trout lay on the grass.

The fish were grilled and Guaire brought out a bottle of ale, and they sat around the fire, laughing for no reason, with Guaire going on about their future, and how Fingal was to move to his chambers when they got back. Then he moved to Fingal, pulling off his clothes as he moved around the fire. He stood naked before him, skin seeming to glow in the dim light. Fingal moved to his knees and took him, slipped every growing inch into his mouth and manipulated it with his tongue, worked his lips along the shaft until Guaire was hard as rock.

“Get out of your clothes…now,” Guaire exclaimed as he stepped back, not ready for his release.

Standing before Guaire, no longer embarrassed to be seen by him, Fingal removed his clothes, while grinning with impish notions. Tossing aside the last garment, he stood naked, white skin seeming to glow the same as Guaire and he stroked his growing erection, letting Guaire watch.

“What do you want to do?” Fingal asked, his tone mischievous.

“I want to fuck,” Guaire replied, moving around him and getting on the rock on hands and knees. “Fuck me.”

Fingal moved between the legs, pushed his cock against the spread ass, then raked the head up and down it until both were wet. He pushed against the tight opening and watched as his cock squeezed through it. Then he began to fuck.

Holding the waist, Fingal bore into Guaire’s depths with every push. He thrust inward so hard his abdomen smacked against the firm spread ass. He watched Guaire’s right arm as it moved with a familiar rhythm. As he increased his pace, so did the movement of the arm.

“Come for me…shoot it…” Fingal urged Guaire as he hammered the depths of his hole.

Guaire rose to his knees, stroking his cock, and Fingal bearhugged their bodies together, pulling Guaire back, stretching his muscular torso.

“Shoot…come on…shoot for me,” Fingal urged.

Guaire began to jerk, then he moaned louder, cried out and cum rained down the rock. Fingal felt the spasm of the opening around his cock and he hugged him tighter and drove cock up inside him harder, until he too was shooting his load. He kept fucking until he felt cum trickle down his sac before finally stopping. They collapsed on the rock, suddenly feeling the cold. Their breaths came out as a fog and their skin goosebumped.

“Fuck, when did it get so cold,” said Guaire, picking up his clothes.

“I don’t know,” Fingal replied, picking up his clothes, following Guaire into their tent.

They would settle down underneath the warmth of the blankets, telling each other they needed to get to sleep, but it wasn’t long, and Fingal was on his back, Guaire riding his cock again.

At first light, Fingal woke to find Guaire asleep next to him. He looked at the closed eyes with their long black eyelashes. He looked at the shape of the nose and the stubble coming in along the chin and jaw. He kissed the lips softly and felt them push back. He felt hands touch his chest, then rub downward until holding his growing erection. He moved on top of Guaire and entered him easily, and for as long as he could, he slow fucked him. He fucked until the blankets had to be thrown off and his muscles burned. He fucked until his cock was so sensitive, he was shaking, then he increased his pace just enough to push himself over the edge. Then he realized cum was smeared between them, and Guaire was laying back, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. When he finally fell still, Guaire hugged their bodies together.

“That was nice. I wish we didn’t have to go back,” Guaire whispered.

They packed up the camp, climbed upon their horses, and headed back. They backtracked along the lanes and trails and let the horses gallop along the wider lanes. By the time they got to the castle the day was nearly gone. The courtyard was in deep shadow and everyone moved as if ready for the day’s end. Guaire’s servants came out and took the reins of their horses, while he led Fingal inside, up an unfamiliar stair, until on an upper floor, moving down a wide corridor.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Fingal asked.

“Not at all,” Guaire jokingly replied, “seriously, it’ll be fine. No one comes up here but my servants.”

At the end of the corridor was a wood door, smaller than Fingal expected. It had no adornment, not carvings or inlays. Guaire pushed it open and stood to one side, motioning Fingal to enter.

The room was round, in one of the towers, and the ceiling was high above them. Windows overlooked the castle grounds and out toward the east. A large bed, with heavy drapes pulled back at each corner sat between the windows and at its foot a large trunk. Furniture sat at along the walls and in the center of the room, two chairs and a long bench, covered in leather. Fingal went to the sitting area and turned slowly around looking at every item. It was larger than expected by such a simple door, but he saw the meaning of it, a place that concealed its grandeur, portraying to those on the outside a humble façade.

“It’s…”

“It’s our room, now,” Guaire finished Fingal’s sentence, coming up behind him. “Let’s go raid the kitchen and retire for the night.”

“I could use something to eat,” Fingal replied, smiling over his shoulder.

They brought food and ale back to the room, and sitting on the bed, ate and drank until their appetites were sated. Then they stripped off their clothes and made love until their bodies were exhausted, which allowed sleep to come easily.

“Sir…sir! Wake up. Please…it’s the king,” Guaire’s main manservant exclaimed, as he knocked on the door.

Guaire rolled out bed, motioning Fingal to remain quiet, slipped on his robe. He moved quickly across the room and to the door.

“What is it?” as he cracked it open.

“Sir, it’s the king. He…didn’t wake up this morning.”

“What are you saying?”

“Sir, please, the queen has asked for you.”

Old References in a New Light

Ann drove up late in the day, the others sitting around a campfire resting after another long day. She rushed down to them, waving a handful of documents.

“Guys, you’re not going to believe this, but I found them!”

“You found a reference to the two boys?”

“I think so…no…I’m pretty sure it is them. It has to be.”

She went into the large tent and sat at the head of the table as the others filed in taking seats around it. Once everyone was around the table, she began to explain what she had found.

“I went to this old church, and into their archives, and in some copies of older documents that were made back in 1773, I found this,” said Ann laying out a copy of an old text. “It took me awhile to find it, for I was looking at references to a later time. You know the dates we thought the chamber might have been made, but I came up empty. Then I realized we have no idea of the time frame from the events it portrays and the time of its construction, so I started going backward.”

“How far back?” asked Callum.

“Two hundred years.”

“Two hundred? That seems more than I would expect for something that didn’t develop into a legend or myth,” replied Dr. Fergus.

“Well, what if there had been a legend, one that the Catholic Church wouldn’t tolerate?”

“They would have destroyed all evidence of it, if able.”

“And I think that was the case. The first reference was to an invasion of the territory, and how it was vanquished. One place said it was god, another said it was a demon, one…that rose out of middle earth.”

“No shit, so that was a legend,” replied Reid.

“Then there was a reference to the king dying, and the prince took the throne, still a single man.”

“Another confirmed bachelor,” Jason joked.

“It would seem so,” Ann replied, grinning at Jason.

“What else does it say?”

“That he ruled with his closest advisor and friend.”

“How do you know this is the same two men?” asked MacDonald.

“Let me read it:

Prince Guaire assumed the throne upon the death of his father, the year after the defeat of the invading armies of King Druimein of Cyil Lodair, becoming the next king of the territory. He ruled with his advisor, Fingal of Southlands, who was always by his side.

The territory of the invading king is spelled differently, but everything else matches.”

“Fuck, it’s real?” Oliver uttered, looking around the room.

“There’s more,” said Ann, and she flipped to another copy, and began to read.

“King Guaire was found blasphemous in the eyes of God, doing unspeakable evil that included his advisor Fincal of the South.

Fingal’s name is spelled differently and the reference of where he is from is different too, but it has to be him.”

“Scribes were notorious for copying mistakes, so that is to be expected,” said Dr. Fergus.

“Agree. Go on, what else do you have?” added MacDonald.

“They were tried and executed by the church on the first day of spring, in the year of 1003 A.D.,” Ann read.

“Executed? But I thought the panels indicated they left the region?” asked Callum.

“That is what it the panels indicate, but the church says they executed them,” Ann replied.

“Maybe the church lied?” asked Jason.

“If the two men escaped and the church needed a show of strength, pretend they had taken care of the situation, then they would have lied about it. It’s very plausible,” said Dr. Fergus.

 “I thought the same thing. When I left the church, I went to the city to browse their records, but that was a dead end,” said Ann, smiling mischievously afterward.

“What? What are you hiding?” asked Callum.

“On the way back, I came to this small town, a village really, but the buildings in the center looked really old, so I stopped.”

“What did you find?” asked Jason.

Ann pulled out two pages, laid them down on the table side by side.

“In their archives, down in this creepy basement, were old records and books, and I found a copy of a journal, a diary of a Gavina.”

“A woman who could write. She must have been in the…”

“In the king’s family? Yes. From the earlier entries, she seems to have been a niece to the queen and lived in the castle since a young girl. The first entries are of a young girl living in a castle on the coast. Then her parents die, and she ends up in the castle of our story. Her writings get more serious, having more detail about things she saw in the castle.”

“And?”

“She talked about Guaire and him being a handsome man, taller than most, with black hair and dark brown eyes.”

“Sounds like she was crushing on cousin,” said Jason.

“A bit, but she goes on. How did she say it?” Ann mumbled to herself as she scanned the first page of the copy. “Here it is: …Guaire was different from most young men, and when Fingal arrived, it was only three moons before I believe them to share the prince’s quarters.”

Ann sat back, with a smile on her face.

“There are more references in the journal, but what is of interest to us, is after Guaire assumes the throne, the church slowly gains more power in the region with the start of a new church nearby. There are the accusations, a trail, and the verdict, but what I found most interesting, is a comment made by Gavina over a year after Guaire and Fingal are supposedly put to death,” flipping to another copy. “Listen to this:

…the Queen and I slipped out in the early morning hours and rode for three days, finally arriving at a village. Unbeknownst to me, it was where Guaire and Fingal were living. We stayed with them for a few days, and on preparation to return, I received from them a necklace that belonged to a widow that had cared for Fingal as a young child, their rings and necklaces with red and blue gems, the crest from Guaire’s shield and his journals,  which I hid in the old cloak room of the castle, for I knew the journals were forbidden by the church.”

“That was over a year later?” asked Oliver.

“Yes, so it would seem the church lied about their execution. And the objects…they sound like some of those we found.”

“I wonder where they went?” Jason uttered, more to himself than to the others.

“I’m going to the search through records in some of the villages by the coast. I’ll go back a bit longer and see if I can also find anything on the witch, Catismandua.”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up on finding anything on her, if she lived a solitary life,” said Dr. Fergus. “But keep up the good work. Never know, you may find a clue about where they went,” he added, winking at Ann, a gesture all knew he made when pleased with their work.

Nearly a week passed before Ann returned to the dig site, jumping out of the small hatchback, and rushing down to the tent where everyone was already gathered, reviewing the finds of the last two days. There had been animal bones in a side area, probably buried by a local farmer during some past age. There were spears and small carved bones, one appearing to be some sort of whistle.

Ann came into the tent, almost breathless, clutching her journal, with papers sticking out of it. She moved to an empty seat while Bridget and Oliver wrapped up their findings. Once they were seated, Dr. Fergus turned to Ann, seeing her excited expression, he smiled, shaking his head.

“Okay, Ann, get up here and tell us what you found.”

“The witch,” Ann replied, grinning.

“You sure?” asked Bridget.

“I’m ninety percent sure. I want to run it by you guys and see what you think. First, look at the spelling of the witch’s name, as it is in the chamber,” said Ann, going to the dry erase board and writing out the name.

C A T I S M A N D U A

“Now we know it is not unusual to see more than one spelling of a name, person or place. In a town a little north of where I intended to search, I found their old land deed records. I started not to go through them, for there were decades missing in some of the last couple of hundred years, and even less going back farther, but I took a chance and in the year 1003, there was a land transaction, where a man took over an abandoned property, some mile or so from the coast. It was…

“…abandoned for nearly a year, the small dwelling having burned sometime in the year 1002, the time of the invasion. Caismanus, the mid-wife and healer, who dwelled there, has not been seen since, and presumed gone to meet her maker.

“The spelling is like this.”

C A I S M A N U S

“The time and place are in line with the chamber’s storyline, and here she is called a mid-wife and healer,” said Ann, stepping to one side.

“What others of the time would have called a witch,” Dr. Fergus uttered, as everyone looked at the two names on the board.

“The ‘t’ is dropped, and the ending is changed, but…yeah, could be,” said Callum, looking over at Jason to see if he agreed, getting a nod in response.

“And there is one more thing,” said Ann.

“Yes?” asked Dr. Fergus.

“In a town to the south, further inland, the one I started in, I found a journal from the governor of one of the towns. It was in the town’s museum, that had copied it a few decades ago putting it microfilm, along with other artifacts.

“In the year 983, he wrote in his journal:

The witch has been accused of murder, for two women have gone missing. They had been with child and had been seen with the witch. A search of her dwelling has revealed no evidence. I fear some of the townspeople will take matters in their own hands.”

“983? That would be…” Callum stopped to consider the time difference.

“Nineteen years prior to the invasion. It lines up,” said Jason.

“So, we think we have some confirmation of the historical nature of the chamber’s story. We’ll want you to focus on trying to make out the rest of the text,” said Dr. MacDonald.

“The x-ray images come back?” asked Ann.

“Yes. They’re in the drawer,” Callum replied, pointing to the flat file they kept maps and large documents.

“Well, let’s see if I can decipher those last two panels.”

The King is Dead

Guaire turned to Fingal, his face pale, and he whispered in his ear.

“Stay here. I’ll have someone bring up food. Please, don’t go anywhere.”

“I understand.”

“Thanks,” Guaire replied, kissing Fingal on the mouth.

Guaire ran down the stair and through the passages that would take him to his father’s chambers. Men were guarding the door, moving aside as he approached. Inside the room, his mother sat by a window staring out, while the healer and elders of the castle stood by the bed, heads bowed. Laying on it, all life gone from the face, lay his father, the king.

“What happened?”

“He died sometime during the night,” the healer replied.

Guaire moved to the bed and took his father’s hand, feeling it suck the warmth from his own. “What are we going to do?” he whispered and didn’t notice his mother moving to his side until she was there.

“You’re going to be crowned king and assume the throne,” she whispered.

“But…”

“Guaire, my son, we knew this day was coming. He had not been well for some time.”

“I know, but…I’m not ready.”

“You have no choice, for to delay invites trouble. The territory needs its king. And we should make arrangements for marriage as soon as possible.”

“NO!”

“But Guaire.”

“Mother, don’t do this; not now.”

The queen assumed he meant it was too much to deal with his father’s passing, and she nodded her consent.

Before the sun set on the day, Guaire was crowned king and to the surprise of his court, Fingal was positioned to his right, given the title of Advisor. There were murmurs among the court, but a few knew the truth, and bowed their heads to keep others from seeing their smiles.

During the days that followed, rituals of burial were performed and the king laid to rest in the burial grounds to the west of the castle. And at night, Guaire lay beneath Fingal. They had sex until both were exhausted, Guaire clinging to Fingal, crying at times, and at others, begging for his fuck.

Over the next month, the king’s personal possessions were stored in the castle’s archives and the queen moved from her quarters, taking the chamber Guaire had laid claim for the last five years, seeking the solitude it would afford. Guaire moved into the King’s chambers and put Fingal in the Queen’s, that were connected by a back passage.

On the first night with everyone in their new chambers, Guaire eased down the back passage and into Fingal’s room. Fingal stood by a table, stripped of his clothes, wiping down his body, preparing for bed. Guaire approached him from behind, stripping off his clothes as he went.

“What are you doing?” Fingal asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Coming to be with my queen,” Guaire joked.

“Very funny. I do believe I’m the man in this relationship,” Fingal replied, grinning.

“If that is how you wish to think of it,” Guaire replied, coming up to Fingal, turning him around then going to his knees. He took the flaccid cock and with a little manipulation soon had it filling his mouth. He worked his mouth along its length, and toyed with the head, knowing Fingal couldn’t bear it. He felt the shuddering of Fingal’s body and the hands that held his head, while pushing cock deep into his mouth until the head was pushing into his throat.

Fingal lifted Guaire to his feet and pushed him roughly on the bed and moved on top. Legs wrapped his waist and a hand took him, guided him to the tight opening. He pushed against it until his cock squeezed through and Guaire cried out. Then he slow fucked, driving his cock into Guaire’s depths. Arms embraced him, held them tight together, and he felt the urgency of it, the need. He pushed into Guaire’s depths, over and over, until he was close. He fell still, then pulled Guaire on top as he rolled to his back. He watched the muscular body move on his cock. Up, then down, the pace increasing until the bed squeaked and rocked beneath them.

Guaire began to masturbate as he rode Fingal, his hand moving faster and faster, until a blur. Then cum sprayed Fingal across the face and chest, then pooled on his stomach, as Guaire shuddered and jerked with release. With a hand on each of Guaire’s thighs, Fingal held him down, while pushing upward, his own cock spurting, filling the hole with his load.

Afterward, they lay over the bed, their skin glistening in the dim candlelight as they touched each other, kissed, and whispered small comforts. Fingal was glad to see the old Guaire, a return of the playfulness and jovial nature, but one that could be so serious in times of intimacy.

The territory settled down with its new king and flourished with the treaties formed with neighboring kings. There was even a crossing of the sea to form alliances with the foreign states. And Guaire sat on the throne, Fingal at his side, receiving guest, from his territory and from other kingdoms.

For three years, Guaire ruled, and ignored the calls to take a queen and the rumors that had more truth to them, than most dared consider. In the fourth year, one that began with storms that were destructive and with spring, turned to rains that seemed to never cease, the Church came into the territory, with their Latin languages and old writings. The priest preached of salvation when luring new congregates and threatened with punishments for blasphemies of their church. Guaire knew there were people in his territory who believed this religion, followed its teachings, so he allowed them to come and eventually build a church. It was a modest structure, just outside the village at the castle. The priest cajoled Guaire to attend, to become a member, but Guaire knew the purpose, and it wasn’t some salvation for him. For months, there was a truce between them, but Guaire failed to understand the lengths the priest was willing to go, for a share of the power in his territory.

The next spring, the land covered in new grass and the trees budding out, Guaire and Fingal had ridden out to the lake for time alone, for it had been four years since their last visit, camping by its waters. They rode along the familiar lanes, and the trails that made their way over mountains, until they were at the same place as before. They had sex as soon as they arrived, then set up camp, both still naked. They chased each around and played in the cold lake waters where it was shallow. They cooked fish and ate by the campfire, and with appetites sated, they sated other desires.

They did not know a spy lurked in the woods, one that had followed them from the castle. One sent by the priest.

When they returned to the castle two days later, the guards arrested them, accused of crimes against nature and the Church. Despite the threats of Guaire’s council, and standoffs in the castle’s courtyard, enough of the people were now a part of this old religion, that Guaire and Fingal remained locked in cells in the dungeons.

The priest came, telling them to ask for forgiveness, smiling wickedly when Guaire, then Fingal refused. There was to be trial and with it, threats of an auto-da-fe.

Guaire and Fingal were separated, a cell between them, preventing any physical contact. The guards of the castle were replaced by those of the church, the meaning of the red uniforms not lost on either. There was a guard positioned to face each cell door and two more in the next room, where they could hear them bantering and gambling with dice.

The night before the trial, the priest came to their cells, alone for the first time.

“What do you want?” asked Guaire, his tone stoic.

“I’ve come to see if you realize your fates, or if you’re still delusional about the outcome that awaits you.”

“We have no doubt what you have planned, you devil.”

The priest smiled at Guaire, then walked over to Fingal’s cell door.

“Guard, I think this prisoner needs to be brought under control.”

The guard nodded and pulled out his key.

“What are you doing, stop…stop!” Guaire pleaded.

Fingal stepped back from the door and waited, hands behind his back. He felt his anger build. All the wrongs by this priest that had been festering, suddenly rise to the surface. He let Guaire’s pleas become a white noise and ignored the sick laughter coming from the priest, as he kept his eyes on the guard. He saw the short sword in its belt and the necklace around his neck, that ghastly cross hanging from it, wondering how they could worship with such a thing. He knew the guard was a hand shorter, and stockier, not all of it muscle by the way his stomach curved outward. He saw the guard was right-handed, and knew he walked with a slight limp, favoring his left foot. He wondered if it was the king’s disease: gout.

The cell door swung open and the guard approached, grinning at his anticipation of causing pain. He balled up his fist and moved in to take a swing. Fingal moved lightning fast, grabbing the necklace, using it to pull the guard toward him off balance. He stomped on the toes of the left foot, causing the guard to howl in pain, as he snatched the short sword from his belt. The guard never realized his own sword was piercing his back until protruding through his stomach. He fell forward, clutching at it as blood flowed freely from his wounds.

Fingal turned and kicked the door as the other guard tried to close it. The force pushed the guard to his back and before he could rise, the blade of the sword sliced his throat.

“Guards! Guards!” the priest cried out, as he took steps back, in shock at the quick brutality that rose up against him.

Fingal moved to the side of the door, eyes locked on the priest, as he cut the first guard who came through, then swung the sword into the doorway sinking the blade into the next one’s stomach. With the priest watching, he turned the blade upward and pushed it in to the hilt, then jerked out the bloody blade.

“No…no…you can’t do this,” the priest pleaded.

Guaire watched, shocked at the speed of Fingal’s attack, as he approached the priest. Face red with his fury, nothing but vengeance on his mind, he moved to the priest, pushing him against the wall, holding the blade of the sword to his neck.

“Would you like to confess your sins, father,” Fingal uttered.

The priest suddenly smiled, and he looked at Fingal with disdain.

“I’ll not confess to the likes of…”

Fingal didn’t wait for him to finish, slicing through the neck until the blade hit bone, and he stepped back, watching the priest gasp, suddenly aware he really was going to die. He tumbled to the floor and Fingal dropped the sword and turned to Guaire.

“Guaire…what have I done?”

“You saved us. Now get the key and unlock this door. We have to go.”

With the aid of those loyal to them, they packed up and rode out in the late hours of night. They rode south, then east, Fingal leading them to a village that he had saved from destruction. They would hide for over a year, while rumors spread over the land. The Church had tried them, then performed the auto-da-fe. Then rumors of their escape circulated, leaving the people to wonder as to the truth.

The fall brought cooling weather and a time of harvest for the small farms around the village. Fingal and Guaire, were in the fields with the other men, sweating with their efforts when men on horseback, along with a wagon, came into view. They pulled into the village and stopped and the men in the field went to investigate. Guaire and Fingal followed, and as they approached realized it was men of the castle. There had been secret messages sent to Guaire’s mother, the queen. She now sat on the throne, taking her son’s place and suddenly Guaire realized she was on the wagon, dressed simply so as not to draw attention.

“Mother! Why have you come?” Guaire exclaimed, rushing to her.

“Guaire, my son,” she replied, while being helped down. A young girl followed her, about seventeen years in age. “I wanted to see my son.”

“Who’s this?” Guaire asked.

“She’s your cousin. She has been living in the castle since last winter.”

“Cousin?”

“Gavina, this is Guaire, the rightful king.”

“Mother.”

“But its true. Are you not coming back?”

“No mother, you know that is not possible.”

The queen looked at Fingal, then back at Guaire. “I guess not.”

“Gavina, why have you let your queen drag you all the way out here?” Guaire asked.

“To meet you,” Gavina replied, bowing her head.

“I’ve told her all about our history, the events that led to you having to leave.”

“Everything?”

The queen nodded her head and smiled, “there is no need to tell lies now, is there?”

“No, mother, I guess not.”

“What shall you do? You can’t stay here. The Church as warned us they are sending patrols to come search for you.”

“They’re not going to give up, are they?” Fingal interjected, causing everyone to look his way.

“No, they are not,” the queen replied.

“Did you bring what I asked for,” said Guaire.

“Yes. Gold coin and clothes of commoners that are durable.”

“Well, lets get everything inside and we can talk more.”

The queen and Gavina stayed for three days, listening to Guaire tell of their plans. She frowned at the realization it would be the last time she saw her son. She held back tears, remaining stoic, as they sat around the old wood table that occupied half the small room.

“Mother, it’s okay. In the coming years, none of this will matter. We’ll be forgotten, not worth mentioning in the writings of history,” said Guaire.

“That’s not true,” Gavina exclaimed, causing the others to smile at her.

“But Gavina, I was only on the throne a short time and of a kingdom that was really a small territory, compared to the great empires of time.”

“You’ll be remembered. I’ll see to it,” Gavina replied. “I’ll build a monument in your honor, or commission a statue, or…” and she fell silent, unable to think of another means of honoring Guaire.

“That will be lovely,” Guaire replied, humoring her.

On the morning the queen and Gavina were to return to the castle, Guaire and Fingal pulled out two boxes, and laid them on the table.

“What’s this?” the queen asked.

“It’s for Gavina. For her monument,” Guaire replied, winking at his mother.

Gavina rushed to the table and opened each box, surveying what was inside each. She lifted a long sword by the handle, unable to lift it all the way, then he brought out the crest from Guaire’s shield, a dagger, a small stone box. She opened it, eyes growing wide, as two rings and a necklace holding a blue gem lay inside it. And stacked in one end, several journals. She moved to the other box and pulled out a similar box, finding two rings and a necklace, like the other, only the gem was red. She lifted out a necklace of carved bone and gentle ran a finger over the lines in its surface. Then she took out a short sword, one the queen recognized. Down in the bottom, lay a single journal, and she left it alone, knowing to wait to read it once alone.

“Gavina, its time we go, put those things back in the box. We’ll get someone to load them on the wagon.”

Guaire and Fingal stood outside watching the queen and Gavina ride away. They stood in the lane outside the village and watched until they were out of sight. Then they made their way back to the fields to join the other men in finishing the harvest.

In the early morning hours before daybreak, three days later, they rode out, heading south to the great city on the coast. They rode for days, keeping away from the villages and towns dominated by a church. In the city, they went to the wharves and secured passage on a ship crossing the sea and going to the famed Mediterranean Sea.

They would set sail two days later, leaving their homeland. They had no final destination, only a desire to travel as far as they could and find a place they could live without fear, knowing they would never return.

Ten Years Later

The city was large, over 400,000 inhabitants. The streets and alleys were crowded with its citizens. Among the residences with businesses below or in front, facing the street, there was one residence, that sat at the back of a block, opening internally on a courtyard. There was a lone tree at one end and a small pool at the other, the entry bridging spanning over it. The bedroom opened to the courtyard, and on most days, like this one, they were swung open letting the breeze enter the rooms within.

Guaire came to the door, sipping a fresh tea, wearing a traditional Shenyi, the sash loose around his waist the collar hanging open. He moved to the edge of the porch, looking across the courtyard, still amazed at the cultural differences of this faraway land. A place he now called home. There would be no return journey. It had taken nearly three years to arrive in the country, having stopped along the way in one city after the next. Cordova, Rome, Cairo, Baghdad, Nishapur, and so many smaller cities and towns, he couldn’t recall all of them. Once in China, a nation of unimaginable size, and far more advanced than he had dared to imagine, it took another year before arriving in Louyang. It was the kindness of a scholar, who they met after arriving, that helped them learn the language enough to communicate with their neighbors, who in turn taught them more words. Even though Fingal had no formal education, there was something about the language that drew him in, and he learned it faster than Guaire, who struggled at first, feeling it was impossible. Six years later, those struggles to learn the language seem so long ago, an ancient history to him. He heard Fingal come to the door behind him and he looked over his shoulder seeing he was stripped to the waist, a simple garment wrapped around his waist.

“You want to go down to the river and watch the fisherman?” asked Fingal.

Guaire knew Fingal, even after six years, still found the local customs and how they did some task, fascinating. But the sky was clouding up, and he knew it would soon be raining.

“Not today.”

“Then what does his highness want to do today?” Fingal asked sarcastically, wrapping arms around Guaire’s waist.

Guaire smiled, turning in Fingal’s arms.

“Why don’t we lounge around in bed today?” Guaire replied.

Fingal smiled, while pressing his body against him. He felt the tug at his waist and the cloth dropped to the wood flooring of the porch, leaving him naked. He kissed Guaire, then took him by the hand and led him back inside and into the shadowed interior. He would undress Guaire, then push him down on the bed. He would move over him, letting a hand take him, guiding him to the tight opening, and he would penetrate it, slowly, making this connection between them. A connection that would continue for years to come.

Twenty Years Later

The small castle was finally finished, a second home for the Queen. She strolled through its Hall, followed the corridors to the two guest chambers, then up to her chambers on the top floor. It was south of the main castle, near the village where she last met them, her former king and his advisor, knowing the ruse of the title. She smiled while looking down in the valley below, where in the distance sat the small town that the village had become.

Going back down the winding stair, all the way to the chambers below grade, she wandered down the narrow passages until she came into the small room that looked like a shrine. It was the place she paid homage to the former queen and her mentor, the mother of the exiled king. She looked up at the family crest on the wall and the painting of the queen. Around the room were furniture and personal effects of the former Queen Lyall. She circled the room once, all too familiar with every item in the room, and went into the next room, a narrow passage, where paintings lined the walls. The likenesses were not right, but she knew the intent of each one. They were Guaire and his lover, Fingal. She had no qualms acknowledging it but knew she must keep this secret away from others, especially the Church, which was exercising more and more control over their land.

Standing at one end of the room, she scanned the two long walls, one dedicated to Guaire and one dedicated to Fingal. In the middle of the floor was an opening to a chamber below. It was her memorial to the two men, wondering if they still drew breath somewhere in the world. She would leave it open for now, using the ladder to descend when no one was around, but knew sooner or later, it would need to be sealed up, kept secret from the Church and their damnations about things they didn’t understand. She felt she owed Guaire and Fingal much, even though she had met them only once. She had hid Guaire’s journals, and the one by Fingal in her chambers upon their return, all those years ago. She had read them until she knew what was contained in each from memory. Guaire’s spoke of life in the castle, and his love for Fingal. Fingal’s sole journal, only covering his time beside his lover, the king, but the journal was full of drawings, flowers, insects, animals, landscapes, and portraits of Guaire, better than any in her chamber. They told her so much more than the queen had been able to tell. The ways of the elders and advisors in the castle, the ways of men and their wicked deceptions, and how to negotiate treaties with friend and foe alike. And she also learned about love, to have someone you cared about and wanted to share the rest of your life. She had followed Guaire’s advice and married the man she loved, instead of one of the men selected by the elders. He was the blacksmith’s son, tall like Fingal, with the same golden hair, and it made her smile at the comparison; being like Guaire, in her own way.

She remembered the stories by the Queen Lyall, and those she overhead down in the kitchens or in the stables, hiding in a dark corner or behind a piece of furniture. She heard the descriptions, all some variation of being different, not like normal people, and she grew fond of these descriptions, the idea Guaire and Fingal were not normal, but somehow better. She considered how they lived, two men sharing a bed, thinking of it as The Differing. It was an odd phrase, one used by the old widow that had lived in the village. Others in the village had pretended to be disgusted by the widow, often calling her a witch, but when one was sick, or in need of protection, or a mid-wife, they knocked on the widow’s door late in the night.

She had befriended the woman, and soon sat at her table listening to stories about real witches, those that could do magic and foresee the future. Invariably, the stories led to the last of the great witches, the one that vanished before the invasion. She told of the witch delivering babies from chosen women for the queen. And how one was selected, one was not. After the births, the mothers vanished, like smoke in the sky, and the queen raised the chosen one as her own. Gavina was too young at first to understand the implications, but after a few years, it dawned on her the reality of those stories. She made the old woman repeat it during her every visit, sneaking away in the early morning hours to eat sweat breads and listen to each retelling. And near the end of each retelling, the widow would laugh, as she told how both boys eventually came to be in the castle, lovers who defied the Church.

“Queen Gavina, your guests have arrived,” called down one of the servants.

“I’ll be right up. Make them comfortable in the hall,” Gavina replied.

“Yes, my lady.”

She looked around the room, this shrine to The Differing, two lovers, both male, who guided her by their writings. She blew out the candles as she moved through the rooms, until climbing the stair, leaving them in darkness, their secrets hers alone.