Date: Wed, 23 May 2001 16:22:46 From: Ganymede Subject: The Rings Around the Rose 1 WARNING: This story contains a graphic description of sexual acts between a men and MINOR boys. I do not condone child abuse, however boy-love as described in this story is an entirely different matter. If the subject of man/boy sex offends you, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are under the legal age for such material, do not read further! You have been warned! Read at your own risk! Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely accidental. The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym, Ganymede. A copy has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. Feel free to post it to appropriate newsgroups or send it to your friends. The story cannot be used to derive monetary gain. It cannot be placed in archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed in any form that requires payment. THE COPYRIGHT OF OTHERS: Throughout the story there are poems and songs by others. I do not claim this work as my own. In some cases, I have modified the original to suit my purposes. Citations and sources have not been provided because it would interrupt the story. I appreciate the efforts of Ianthe, who collected and posted this material. THE NIFTY ARCHIVE: The Nifty Archive needs your support. If you enjoy reading this story, please remember that it is available only because of the Nifty Archive. Instructions are provided on the Nifty home page for how to provide support. FINAL WARNING: If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't your thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin! The Ring Around the Rose, by Ganymede Prolog: One Summer Perhaps I am still too close to remember things the way they really were. However, the story must be told nonetheless. There is a lot to be learned from what happened. I must tell thee our story, known to the Twelve Orders of the Mount as the 'Chronicle of Michel and Aidan', or to outsiders as simply 'Prince Michel and the Infernal Dragon'. The latter title is clearly an exaggeration for there was no infernal ending save for those unfortunates who died, and Etienne who will never be forgotten. The events of my four years with Michel must be accurately recorded for those boys who follow him before the truth becomes a legend. Already his life has become a tale of mystery and adventure to be retold by others. For me, the bird's eye view from this pinnacle of rock and hand-hewn stone walls in distant northern land will always be special. Looking down from the Mount, one sees only tops, or things foreshortened. It is a different perspective on the world, divorced from the plane of human existence, that earthly realm in which most of us live our lives. The distant horizon is extended further outward by elevation, endeavoring to be beyond the perception of my aged eyes. The hazy union of earth and sky is so far away that it seems to exist only in contemplation, yet it presents the possibility of a future that is always just out of sight. This story ends there, as much as it began there--looking down from a higher vantage. Only the place is different and my feelings at the time. It began in sadness and ended in enduring love and the triumph of 'materia primo prima'--spirit. Despite its reputation as a sanctuary, to my mind the Mount is not a heavenly place, because it is where the dragon came from in the end. Yet, it is far enough away from the ravages of humanity that it should somehow seem divine. It provides a suitable termination to the story of my life. Throughout the ancient citadel, one senses the existential spirit in the air, but it is forever trying to break free for freedom is in the very nature of young boys. This sanctuary is nothing less that a temple to Boy. Each boy within its monumental walls is no less than a god to be worshipped by men like me. This sanctuary is where I have discovered that love could be renewed, and that life can continue after death. The day that I consider as the beginning of this chronicle of my life with Michel, was certainly when I first laid eyes upon him. I remember it as clearly as yesterday. Although the beginning occurs on a frosty mid-morning of Fall, is impossible to overlook any of that preceding summer and the last few days of spring. Like any Gemini, he made an interesting companion. He was by any judge, clever and adaptable, with a curious mind that was ever alert for greater knowledge. A beautiful boy, with bright blue eyes and a head of flaxen gold. He bore the sign of Twins upon his forearm, a Gemini boy in every way. A lifetime of happiness was pressed into little more than a single season. It started in late spring when he descended from the Sanctuary of the Mount and joined with me in body, mind, and spirit; and it ended in fall, before the leaves were gone, not long before the snow started to fall. My memories of that wonderful boy, my sweet Etienne, are best taken from summer, that long hot unforgettable summer. The summer after a boy turned thirteen, and in battle, became a fierce indefatigable warrior. One summer was all it took to start a life together and to seal our union with enduring love and blazing passion. One summer that offered promise and fulfilled hitherto unrealized dreams, then when least expected, took his life. My boy's life. When he died, the leaves turned. A few cold nights and frosty mornings were all that were needed to change them. The leaves were yellow, gold, red, and some so brilliant that they were golden, or could be gold if the sun was anything other than a dull orb of light hidden behind the clouds. Fall then, as now, was a sad time for me. I will remember it always as the time of his passing, but his memory is no less sad than the ever-present image of gold leaf amid gold leaves on the morning his remains were interred. There were gold leaves on the ground, scattered by the wind, gathering where the eddies left them, where they stopped swirling. There was gold leaf on his coffin, carefully rubbed into the incised insignia of his Order, Gemini. Etienne, my clever and impulsive boy who was born, and then reborn again as a lover in my arms at the very end of Spring. It was a small coffin as I remember it. A small white coffin. A cynic would have observed that it looked entirely appropriate for a child's coffin. White and small, implying purity and innocence, virginal in spirit if not in deed. Inside, the coffin was lined with bright blue satin. Another cynic might have made the allusion to a jeweler's box, a container for something so precious as a lover, a family's first born child, a golden haired child. Only one person had seen its cindered contents. The final words that I remember hearing that day were softly spoken by a man in black. He wore a long, eternally black robe, a gown that reached beyond his ankles and trailed in the mud and leaves. He didn't whisper. He simply said what had to be said, quietly. With a lowered voice, he tried to imbue his words with some meaning for those who listened and tried to decipher something of importance in a boy's untimely passing. They were empty words in other ways. Words cannot explain beyond what reason understands to be unnecessary. The man shivered, as much from the cold as the dreaded crying that was about to start. No matter that they had abandoned him when he most needed them, they would cry at the bitter end. Parents always cried at a child's untimely death. They would cry even when it involved a son who had been trained upon the Mount. Forgetting the truth that their son preferred to love a man was always easier than forgiving the transgression against their doctrine. I watched his parents, their faces all but totally concealed. They had come in shame. That hurt. They should be proud of him, as proud as I was. Yet, I also appreciated that for those who chose to breed in nature's way, burying a boy of our scandalous persuasion was always difficult. However painful it may have been to them, for me it was much worse that day. Thecoffin's weight was unnaturally light. Within that immaculate casket, the body of the boy I loved was but a small number of charred remnants left by the dragon. There were few apt passages from the book the man held in his hand, so he proceeded through them at a leisurely pace, making appropriate and hopefully significant pauses to let the words sink in. Those very few who had gathered, patient and perturbed, deserved to hear that the boy had brought honor to himself and his debased kind, and he was barely thirteen years old. There was not a single word said in adoration or respect of him. It was as if he had been corrupted and disgraced the family's line. The man's ear itched uncomfortably. His hands were slowly turning red from the cold. His circulation was not what it once was. He cleared his throat and paused yet again, looking around him with vague interest. There were three in the family. All dressed in black, even their fur cloaks. The mother was crying, letting loose the pain and horror of losing a son. In death, it did not matter that the son was of a different kind. The father inched closer, shrouded from head to foot. There was not a single glimpse to be had of his face. Had I recognized either of them, his mother or his father, I would surely had fled and not turned back. The father exuded contempt, never accepting the undeniable, denying his progeny was flawed, possessively clasping his other son's shoulder but not in a way that implied respect or devotion. I could not see his face, yet my Etienne was his brother. I did not know it at the time but the boy was nearly nine years old, turning in just a few days hence. Neither did I know that the decision had already been made for him. His birthday presents would remain unopened in the closet. The new black robe that he was wearing under his cloak would never be worn again. A gust of wind blew across the ridge. I stayed up there, standing alone. I could not join them. I should be lifeless and lying beside him. I should have died with honor, fighting to the end. Some things cannot be changed, no matter the longing for a different outcome. I came to the memorial two hours ago, to wait and to remember, standing perfectly still with only a thin woolen cassock to cover my gaunt body. Like his mother, I was crying. I had been crying since I woke up, crying on and off ever since it happened. I was ready to die, but death would not take me. A week ago there was no happier person on the face of the earth than me, with perhaps the sole exception of the boy who I loved. I stared down, peering through embittered tears, oblivious to the constant cold trickle on my cheeks, chilled to the bone, not thinking of myself. I thought only of him. I choked, grinding my fingers into my palms until it hurt my hands and my knuckles were white from the cold and pressure. I started to shake. I heard the faint words from below, lifted up the grassy, leaf-covered rise. Words were carried on the wind, along with a sprinkle of leaves, like golden confetti. "Beloved of Etienne, we are gathered here at his final resting place this day,...." I sobbed quietly, letting out the anguish that would torment me for the rest of me life. He was my life, my reason to live. I had tried to end my life five times already. Only three days had passed since I found him, what little remained. My stomach churned. I could not change what happened. My life could not get any worse. I could not be sick again for the simple reason that there was nothing left to come out. I had not eaten in days, three days, four days. I had lost all sense of time. One day was like the last. Every minute of every day was misery, intense depressing wretched misery. I watched them enviously, gathered around the gravesite in their family group, and wished again that I could be with him just one more time, just to say good-bye. For a while, not long enough, for the unforgettable halcyon days of summer, we were one and the same, our bodies merged into a single complete being. It was the way it was supposed to be for us, a man and a boy achieving perfect and fulfilling union. There were times, many times, when it seemed that all we did was couple and repeat the mating ceremony. My sobs became a torrent. I started to shake. The memory of the last time I saw Etienne was crystal clear, unforgettably clear. So much joy in being alive and bonding, penis into anus, deeply into the sacred realm within him with the boundless enthusiasm of youth. He was eager to discover everything that was possible for a human to experience. Etienne, so dynamic, energetic, fearless, and so ready to try anything that he was constantly challenging me. He was divinely beautiful. How often had I gazed upon him in silent unsurpassed admiration? I saw in him nature achieving perfect harmony, a radiant face that was instantly unforgettable. He had a body that was soft and supple, yet firm and wiry, amazing in its flexibility. He was strong and weak at the same time. He was still very much a boy, yet there were a few unequivocal signs than his puberty was on way. However, the one essential sign had barely manifested itself despite the sudden growth of his testicles. His emission was clear and reminiscent of saliva, still distant from the thick white semen of a youth. He grew stronger and faster day by day, and even more demanding of my sex, yet in contradiction to his training, there were times when he was awkward. It would have been amusing were it not for the annoyance it caused him. Almost as if expecting to be awkward, he had become so. Although his growth spurt had yet to really start, his feet were rapidly approaching mine in size. I teased him relentlessly about his coming manhood and that he would soon be insisting on equality whenever we performed that fundamental act of love. And yes, there was even a trace of faint blond hair, mere strands of sweet downy fuzz that fringed his sex and threatened to go further. I groaned aloud, releasing fetid air from my lungs. Etienne was dead. It sank through the blank pain within my mind, but it had sunk in many times before only to become surreal again. Like a dream that went away upon waking up, what happened was no longer true. I shook my head in growing despair. No! NO! NO! The man in black droned on, trying to articulate each word while his hands became too frozen to hold his book steady. The book that was supposed to hold all the answers. There were no answers for the big problems. A young boy who was so tormented that there was only one way that he could find salvation from his nightmare. He took the final way out, a brave but pointless death that consumed him in an instant conflagration. His punishment was self-imposed, death for ignominy. The words I heard denied the truth underlying his torment. The man made it sound like an accident. It was no accident. Living was no longer possible for him. He chose dying rather than living in dishonor after the dragon had defiled his body. He died a vulgar death. >From my outlook, I watched them. The distinguished man in black glanced often at the woman, Etienne's mother. Her son was, had been beautiful, so I did not need to see her face to know that she was also beautiful. Doubtless, the horror of the last few days would have ravaged her features with cruel fitness. Could she even begin to comprehend that peculiar quirk of nature that caused a boy to love a man? Her husband surely would not appreciate his son's inclination to his own. No man did, except those very few of us who realized what it meant. Did he know what had happened to his son in the dragon's lair? Did Etienne really believe that his vow of fidelity mattered to me so much that he chose to die? Was what had happened so ungodly that he needed to die? I blinked and wiped away the wetness from my eyes. Life was over in the blink of an eye. Why did the memory linger for so long? A flash of light and a flame brighter than neutron blast and he was gone from me. His future lost forever. Years of love that awaited us were gone in an instant. All my hopes, my dreams for him, the joys and tribulations of raising him to manhood, gone. GONE! GONE FOREVER! I watched his mother closely for she was turned towards me. The cloak had parted from her neck. She swallowed, and swallowed again. Like me, it was her only way of holding back the wails. There was no grief like a mother's grief, except a lover's anguish. Her face had paled like mine, completely losing the tan of summer. Her son had also been brown-skinned, except in death. Alive, my vibrant, energetic Etienne had been bronzed by the sun, and his hair was golden and glistening. He was the ideal boy for any man who loved boys. And now, he was dead! Chapter 1. My Arrival at the Mount. The next time I saw the Mount, it was cold and raining. My legs ached. I could barely feel my leaden feet. Sandals were not enough to keep away the creeping chill that came up from the ground. Bitter cold, cold that seeped through everything, even the thick wool of my cassock. My hands and face and feet were white with cold, and even underneath the brown-gray wool, I shivered when the wind blew. And the wind blew almost constantly, steadily from the north, always into my face. I hunched down and pulled the mist- dampened collar higher up my neck, and wished that I had the foresight to bring something warmer, at best a cloak, but at least a scarf or hood to keep my head warm. One foot before the other, always plodding, one foot forward and then the next. Unsteady progress when the wind blew harder and I had to lean into it to keep from being blown backwards. At times it seemed like I went ahead one slow pace, only to be pushed back by the persistent wind the distance of another step. Before me, the causeway stretched into the infinite gray distance. The stones were often loose and splintered and I had to be careful where I placed my feet. On either side, far faraway, the infinite gray of the sky joined with a darker tone that was the earth, or rather, the mud banks that were perpetually flat. Flat, that is except for the depressed blackened and slowly coiling streaks of water courses that drained towards an unseen sea. There was no life on that desolate landscape except for a single lonely traveler. Me, Aidan, winter's boy, an Aquarius of the Mount. Aidan, a man of indeterminate years, a tested warrior even, who at one time or another had traveled through space and time. Now, I made my way into a bitter wind, into a bitter future. Onwards. One foot before the other. My teeth were gritted, my jaws were clenched, my eyes half closed. Snot froze at my nostrils. I was hungry. Only a man who has gone without all; food, shelter, love, warmth, without everything that makes life worth living could begin to understand my trial and tribulation that sunless afternoon. My boy had died. My life was over, at least as I always thought of it. He was gone from me, no matter what my mind invented in its misery. To any observer, were there anyone there to see me, they would presume that I was some scoundrel of misfortune, a miscreant who had challenged and lost, or never triumphed in the first place. I was a man condemned to end my days in this windy purgatory. With that, I smiled ruefully and drew the cassock closer. There was no one to see my onward progress. One foot placed again before the other. Slow steps, for I was getting tired, yet not so tired that I needed to stop and rest. I passed another archway of the causeway, this one crossing another of the black Styx rivers, thick with swirling effluent from the mud plains. I passed the markers, one on either side. I had lost count of the markers a long while ago. How many were there supposed to be? One for every year of a boy's happiness? Nine? Thirteen? Nine summed with thirteen? More? Less? I had counted them before. Why could I not remember? A sheet of crabs, paler gray than the mud, scurried in an undulating wave. The law of self-preservation, always strength in numbers and concerted actions. Never break rank. Stick together. I failed the test when I should have known better. I should have stayed by his side and died. It was then, a dozen paces past that unidentified and uncertain marker of remaining distance that the clouds parted momentarily. A beam of light, a radiant golden laser shot from the heavens and illuminated a pointed tower so far in the distance that I could not believe it at first. Yet, there it was. I rubbed my eyes twice, just to make sure. I blinked again and again, stopping, mouth agape. Not believing. Not a dream. My rueful smile became impenitent. There it was, a welcoming beacon to this weary traveler. The sunlight struck the tower full on and it glowed surreally, extolling the secrets hidden within. Onwards again. One foot before the other. Measured paces now that I knew how far remained. They would close the gate at dusk and if I hurried there was still sufficient time to arrive before the bolts where drawn. Seven more markers passed before I could make out detail on the mount. The pinnacle had reared again through the earth- hugging clouds some time earlier, appearing as a ghostly apparition on that featureless mud plain. The churning clouds rose above it, leaving the upper half of the Sanctuary shrouded and imbued with a mystical presence that was commensurate with what lay on every side and behind me. The tide had turned well and truly by the time I reached the drawbridge at the end of the causeway. Part of me expected it to be raised, that final denial of my arrival. It was a sallow reminder of the transience of existence to be frustrated at every opportunity. However, the bridge was down and I rushed across at a slightly faster pace than I had made all day and climbed the single, understated stone step that signified the importance of my destination. I sighed in weary relief. I was home again. This was the one other place where I known true happiness. Then, I looked up. Above, the mount soared like a misshapen pyramid, but entirely of natural origins. The same could not be said of the construction that adhered to its sides and crowned the top like a rough-hewn stone jewel. It was beautiful more though its imperfection than by any precise geometry. It belonged there. The man-laid stone was laid without coursing or any measure of control so that it appeared contiguous with the jagged coarse cliffs that rose above me. From far below, the walls were overwhelming, with crenellations on the edges and turrets at most corners except where there were lower walls, implying openings in the citadel's fortifications. I hurried up the twisting path, choosing the path to the left at every bifurcation. I circumambulated, like a devout disciple, which I was in a way. I was returning to the home I had never visited since leaving. I wondered whether I would ever return again. After a dozen switch backs, the path turned to steps, with rise equal to tread, ascending what seemed to me to be straight up. This was a test equal to any other. Still I continued, hopefully ascending while the fear of rejection settled over me, and like my soaked woolen cassock weighed me down dismally. They were in the process of closing the great white gate when I appeared, hunched and tired and dragging one tired leg behind, and the one in front not much better. My injury plagued me, but at least I lived and I had reached my destination. For once, I took the less perilous route and concealed my origin from them until I was certain of my status. "Aidan of the Northern Land seeks shelter for the night," I announced in a wavering, tired voice. One of the guards turned, returned my query with a querulous look and an expression of distain. Several day workers pushed past me, forcing me to back away and press against the wall. "We aren't a hostel. We take no travelers in for the night," the other man explained in a conciliatory tone. I nodded understandingly. "I have traveled through space and time," I said softly. To the initiated, that was clue enough to what I was even if it gave not suggestion of who I was. "I have knowledge of the millennium. I ask you to convey the name of Aidan, Aquarius, to the Master of the Mount, Lord of this Citadel, Protector of the Sanctuary of Roses." The arrogant guard turned back to complete his assigned task of turning the winches that closed the oaken doors while his companion hurried off to convey my appeal. The last few stragglers hurried out, bustling with their empty sacks and crates, returning to their homes where the causeway ended at the base. They would have to hurry to descend before night came on. I took a seat on a thick cold stone slab and rested my feet, rubbed my hands in the deep pockets of my cassock, and dreamed of sleeping in a warm soft bed. I dared not dream of being with a beautiful young boy, of lying with my arms around him and my penis drained of its juices and lodged between his firm buttocks. Etienne's memory was still too strong to permit the single fantasy that might give me pleasure. I owed him that undivided loyalty, chaste fidelity until I joined him in death. Only a narrow slit remained between the two ivory-hued doors when the guard returned. The last laborer had departed some time earlier. He appeared hesitant, somewhat distressed and he glared at me through constricted eyes that rejected me out of hand. "You are not known to him," he claimed. Yet, his tone said otherwise. His eyes were brooding, eyes that are seldom truthful. His manner was less than deferential, but not for long. "For the simple reason that I did not say who I was," I rebuked. "I asked only that you communicate my presence to him,." I smiled slightly. His gaze had shifted, leaving my eyes to study my sore and reddened feet, the grimy toes, the blood spotted sandals. "There is no charity here, stranger," he said pointedly. "I did not ask for charity," I answered. "Only that I seek shelter for the night." "By any other name, it's charity," he growled. "The Master has bid you welcome nonetheless." He beckoned to me with a crude gesture that would earn him a slapped face if he were younger. I squeezed through the slit between the two thick doors, scraping my arm on the rusted bolt. Nothing had changed. The four-square entry court was made of ashlar stone, all walls ninety-six cubits wide, walls that soared for a hundred-and-fifty-five cubits, and a hand's width. High up, the cube was formed by a scalloped frieze of roses. Above the roses were four rows of twelve windows on opposite walls. I had to climb that far. There was no exit except the entry portal through which I had passed. On the inside, that door was red, the color of burgundy, or blood, or anger, or warriors triumphant. "I hope that you can find your way," the errsaid sarcastically from behind me. "The Master said only that you should be granted entry." With that, both he and his companion guard slipped through the narrow slot and the huge door slammed shut with a reverberating thump. I closed me eyes and counted slowly, not to the decanal number but to nine, the age of initiation. I turned around a full circle. Then I counted to a dozen, that enchanted number of years when boy becomes youth and leaves the Sanctuary, and the number of the Sacred Orders. I turned around again, this time very slowly. There were three impressive portals in the walls, one covered with burnished gold leaf, another made of polished silver, the third door on the far end wall was of roughened ebony. Some people chose the gold, anticipating that purest of metals harbored the most valuable place of all. Others chose the silver, confounding logic but respecting some intuitive guide that what is more common is probably better. Still others chose black ebony, the color of death for some, but nothing more than the dearth of color. I turned first to black as much out of a sickened memory of my boy's remains as from any association with darkness or death. A moment later I reversed my path, aware that, like a boy's bowels, the way out was the same as the way inside. I had to go forward, yet I stared at that huge rouged door with mounting anger. If I proceeded onward, I would regret whatever decision I made. There was a reason why the door was reddened on one side and white on the other. A boy entered as a virgin and left as a warrior and ready to mate for life. Then, with intuition as my only guide, I chose gold. Gold was Vulturnus, but I thought of blond, for the color that had been Etienne's often tousled hair. He had been blond. His hair was like the tassels of corn silk, of gold, tinged with mercurial strands like the sometimes fickle nature of a boy who wasn't quite sure what he wanted, except to love and be loved in return. As I expected, the gold-foiled door opened easily. It swung on well-oiled hinges, revealing a marble staircase, a staircase crafted of the finest Verona marble and hand-polished until it reflected like a mirror. I climbed carefully, fondly reminiscing of the two times I had traveled up and down those stairs, although starting from a different door for my mood was always more aggressive. Once up and down, both times full of trepidation of the unknown future that lay ahead of me. I would never forget reluctantly climbing up as a fearful nine-year-old boy, yet appreciative that I was entering the adventure of my life. Once down four years later. Then, I was passing twelve and full of joy for I held his hand in mine and my red sash bound us together. His hand, like his heart and soul, was bound to mine. The hand of the man who taught me not only another meaning of love, but how to use my acquired skills for mutual delight. Now, I climbed again, returning not as a warrior but as a man filled with remorse. Again my mind was fearful, again trepidation roiled my thoughts into a seamless pattern of nonsense. Why was I here? Why did I return when I had no right to be here? Why had I chosen that particular door to enter the Sanctuary when the other doors also would have opened for me? At the top of the stairs, I paused, collecting my bearings, still remembering the four years of my boyhood. Like all the boys who came to the Sanctuary, I had been summarily discarded by my parents for something that was not my fault, rejected by those who were supposed to love me. At the time I could not understand why they did not want me as their son. No boy understood, not at first. They all came, some frightened, but all distraught. They came seeking solace for innocent minds that knew only conflict and torment. Understanding of a different role, unnatural in its implications, came quickly with informed teaching. Then, with unbridled pleasure and certain acceptance, the sadness began to fade. The answers were found to questions and the discovery of what was truly gratifying began. The Mount soon became a sanctuary for the boys who lived and learned there. I heard a laugh. A boy's laugh. His voice was unchanged, so like a dryad's soprano that I stopped to listen. The flute-like voice broke into song, singing notes so sweetly that it seemed to transcend purity, reaching into the air to travel throughout the citadel. It was a divine voice that came to my ears. I leaned my weight back against the wall. It was a timely delight to listen to his notes. Not shrill or piercing sounds, but unleashed clarity as he enunciated every word. It was a lover's song. I knew those words better than any others. I sighed longingly. I had sung them in my time, so had Etienne, but not long enough. Never long enough. Boyhood ended all too soon, and hairless boys became youths. Only here, in this ancient sanctuary, was there time to stop and think and enjoy the delights of pre-pubertal boys. "'Being framed in his own shadow distanced him, His naked torso white - as I, half-grown, Watched him in safety from my recessed dark. 'One day he fixed my eyes with his, brought voice And hands together in a plea, unnerved Me with his begging aria of love. 'And when he motioned me to strip as well I stepped back terrified in secret shock, Excited and yet unable to leave. 'I told no one. We never spoke. He'd haunt All summer. When I saw him laugh with others In the halls I'd look away and flee.'" The song ended and the notes faded away, leaving a very silent, empty void that was pierced by a golden shaft of light from the western sun as it sank beyond the horizon. I smiled openly. Somewhere I imagined that a boy was being loved. Indeed, at that hour, it was only to be expected that many of them would be so inclined. It would be hurried mating, mounting more to renew the spirit and freshen the mind than to satisfy a young body's urge. The day's studies and exercises were completed at sunset. There was a brief rest before they prepared for Evensong, and after that Communion, with fellowship to follow. Later, when candles burned, the boys were expected to practice again, and practice hard and often. They would practice well into the night. More than a few of them would still be at it when the first light of dawn turned the eastern sky from black to gray. It was with that thought that I started on my way again. There were statues at regular intervals all the way around the Grand Hall. The statues were all of boys of course, all of them naked as the day they were born, all perfectly preserved in white unblemished marble. I knew the history of most of the statues. Antinous, beloved of Hadrian, emperor of Rome. Patroclus, beloved of Alexander of Macedonia. Hyacinthe who loved with Hercules, Ganymede who calmed the greatest god of all, and the other boys of the Greek mythology. And some were boys who were loved in the Renaissance, when the classical era was renewed and pederasty was restored. Generations of boys who had left their mark upon the world simply by being loved by a man. I proceeded onwards, recounting my lessons in my head. Each statue held meaning, a sacred message that was needed for sincere learning. There were but a few less than a hundred statues, each of a boy whose man had achieved great things because of love, one for every boy within the citadel. The numbers, I knew well. Twenty-four boys were carefully selected and initiated every year. There were twelve Orders, with two per type, aggressive and passive, Vulturnus and Favonius by ancient accord. Ninety six boys from nine to twelve years, each bearing the sign of his Order imprinted forever on his forearm. No boy entered unless another boy departed. That was the rule, and the sole exception was seldom taken for its consequences were much too cruel. Never more than ninety-six, never less than that. There were exactly ninety-six chambers in the two towers, yet those stark small-bedded alcoves were either shared or empty when darkness came and the flames were extinguished. That was the way of things on the Mount. It was the time when boys were mounting, or being mounted. No one queried the noises of the night, although ribald jokes might be exchanged at dawn when boys slept many more than two per bed, or masters partook of mutal discharges. >From the Library, I heard a giggle, loud and clear, and shameless. It was followed by a muted husky voice, suggesting what should follow next. Vulturnus, no doubt. I smirked, musing at the wanton whispered request of one boy to 'fuck again before Evensong'. At that seemingly tender age, their bodies were as strong as their growing lust required, and stamina was needed to achieve perpetual satisfaction. For most of them, there was no end to mating that came with an ejaculation. They kept on at it until their famished bellies demanded to be fed or they succumbed to sleep. The Master's suite was in the southern tower, a sunny corner that overlooked the causeway. I approached reluctantly, although there was no reason why I should be hesitant. I remembered the many times that I had been within that haven as a page. I would be summoned every evening, ostensibly to serve his whim, but as much to service his need as for my satisfaction. I loved him greedily. I would sometimes ache beneath my belly afterwards, and the lingering discomfort between my small bruised cheeks seemed an adequate penalty for the wonderful delight he had given me. I knocked with determination, not with the uncertain awkwardness of a nine-year-old boy. My Etienne had knocked on the very same door. All of the boys in the Sanctuary had entered through this door at one time or another. Some boys would enter again and again, and stay much longer. A few would last even until the dawn. I had, and so had Etienne. "Come in." I heard the patient tone from within and smiled. So little had changed in so long. The Sanctuary was like that. Timeless, like the love between men and boys. For a boy to be able succeed at love, there was a lot to be learned, and the lessons remained more or less consistent. I turned the bronze-knobbed handle. It was polished and shiny from the sweat from nervous young hands. How many boys had passed this way on the path to manhood? "Thank you for admitting me, Master," I said humbly. "You are welcome," he said without lifting his head from the coiling manuscript that he was reading. He straightened his robe, lifted his head, reflected silently on some unknown notion contained within the scrolls. I waited patiently. Nothing had changed. Patience was a virtue that every boy had to learn. Patience to compensate for the rash impetuosity of youth. A boy needed to learn how to control his body, mind and spirit before he could learn anything. He needed to learn how to concentrate, to focus on the goal at hand, to commit to each task or lesson with the intensity that was needed to achieve what would otherwise be impossible. That was the first lesson before anything else could be learned. And I was being tested. I smiled slightly. It was a test that I would easily pass. I stood at ease, summoning memories of my own training. There was such a lot to learn at nine years old. I vacated my mind, then created an image of the sun, blazing brightly. It was an unfortunate image for me. I should have known better. It consumed me. My eyes watered and I blinked. There was my magnificent Etienne, standing nude and beautiful and bathed by golden sunlight. His blond hair glistened. He was radiant and aroused, his squat shaft engorged and throbbing with life, a tracery of veins translucently exposed inside the extended organ. His foreskin was partially retracted to reveal the crimson tiny rose within. His eyes gazed into mine, exchanging the spirit of our love. And then the inferno ignited and exploded in blinding light. and he was gone from me. Forever. I choked. "You have something to tell me, Aidan Aquarius?" I clenched my jaws. I could not tell him, although it was very likely that he suspected the reason why I was there. "In time perhaps. Our history is a very long one, my friend," the Lord Protector began stentoriously. He took a deep breath, partially closing his aged, wrinkled eyes as if recollecting long ago events. Somewhere in the far recesses of the ancient citadel, metal struck metal and made a reverberant clash that echoed down the stone-lined hallways. There were few rugs on floors or walls to absorb the sound. Another hour had commenced. Outside the tinted green-glass windows, the light was beginning to disappear quickly. Within an hour it would be night. Thus ended Evensong, a time of prayer and universal harmony that closed the hours of day, and Communion began, when the boys joined in fellowship with fresh-baked bread and watered wine and a health-filled cornucopia to celebrate the end of fasting. "This place that I am master of," he gestured with his withered hand. "This sacred temple has not always been a citadel for our kind," he said softly. "In the past, it has served as monastery, and even as a prison-which is monastic in its own way I suppose. For a while, it was nothing more than empty walls. But in one way or another it has always been imbued with sacred qualities. I have found it to be ideal for a sanctuary for our kind. It has the seclusion that is required for our boys to be boys." I coughed. My face was flushed, yet I shivered within my damp cassock. I did not think about what it meant for boys to be boys. Boys would always be boys. A fever was building in my weakened body. I had spent too many long nights alone in the frigid air. I was tired. The cold seeped through the thick stone walls and filled the room with its life-draining chill. I huddled into the damp wool and tried to use the warm air of my breath to warm my face and neck. "I'm aware that you know well of our Sanctuary's origin. The Mount is an important part of our history, Aidan," he continued with a gesture that incorporated the world around us. "We settled here for the very same purpose that you now seek." He stopped speaking and left the thought unfinished. He turned towards the door a bare moment before I heard a timid knock. Perhaps he had heard footsteps in the corridor outside, yet I had heard nothing, absolutely nothing. This was not the time or place for conjecture. Some things could not be explained by reason. The door opened with a grating squeak, revealing a slender auburn- headed child. Not surprisingly, he was dressed in the open- fronted woolen robe of a noviate. What was surprising was that he still wore the white belt and silk under-cloth of a virgin. They seldom lasted longer than a week or two before they changed the color of their sashes and walked with legs splayed wide. He had an angelic face with greenish eyes and a pert nose that implied a curious and active mind. His hair was cut very short, Vulturnus style. He bowed gracefully, appropriately averting his eyes until his master bade him approach. Yet, there was a faint smile barely concealed to show that his demur was not servitude, but honor being paid. That was Vulturnus. There were some for whom no man could be a master. He was such a comely lad that I followed his every move. Some boys are like that, so stunning in their exquisite detail that men's eyes were drawn naturally. I looked away guiltily and silently repeated the promise I had made to my Etienne. There would be no other boy to take my love from him. "Sandor, you may serve us brandy. He is soon to lie upon the Altar," the old man explained quietly. "It seems like he's only just arrived. Barely nine and Libra, and his blood already runs hot." He smiled fondly. "What bard did speak of a fresh young boy each fall to keep a man warm through the long nights of winter?" A Libra? Already that far along? I sensed his romantic side from where I sat. The lad would be flirtatious, even self- indulgent. While he would not possess the determination needed for Vulturnus alone, in partnership he would meet success. The Master raised an eye, following the boy closely as he walked daintily across the stone floor. His hips swayed, his long legs moving as gracefully as any boy who I had ever seen. Closer, he was well-favored by good breeding. His lips were perfectly shaped for kissing. I caught the odor of flowers, that delicate familiar blend of lavender and lilac. He opened the doors of a dark- stained walnut cupboard. The old man suddenly glanced back to me, and I jerked my eyes away, realizing that he had observed my perked interest. Far worse, was the remorse that overwhelmed me. At nine, my Etienne, had been no different. His beauty was sublime. He continued to regard me with curious eyes while the deliciously scented boy prepared two thin-stemmed glasses by pouring the amber nectar from an ancient dusty bottle. His deliberate actions implied that the slightest drop would signal his ineptitude. Yet, his underlying nervousness belied his proud stance. He stood feet apart and shoulders squared, his bottom firm and tightened and his slender back ram-rod straight. He was learning how to serve the role of cup-bearer, as the fair Ganymede had served his Jupiter on Mount Olympus, as all boys must serve their men before their beards are grown. In time, not longer than a day or two most likely, he would learn his most important role. "My sire, my Jupiter," the lad said in a hushed tone when he approached. He bowed gracefully, but like all boys who were trained as warriors, he kept his eyes upon his lord. "'Pour forth heaven's wine, Idaean Ganymede, And let it fill the Daedal cups like fire.'" Sandor smiled pleasingly, his bright green-hued eyes sparkling with a child's infatuation rather than with the unbridled lust that would soon appear there. He handed the first glass to his master to be blessed, entirely appropriate for protocol demanded that the master always have the right of offering the first words before it was brought to his guest. "The child has the voice of an angel, does he not?" I nodded slightly in what would appear to be agreement, yet concealing my true impression that while Sandor's sweet voice was certainly pleasant to the ear, it was far from angelic. I had yet to hear a boy whose voice could rival that of the boy I loved more than life itself. I muttered my own blessing and followed the boy with my eyes as he crossed the room, carefully carrying the goblets. "Like anyone and everyone who lives within these hallowed walls of stone, you are seeking sanctuary from persecution." The Master nodded thoughtfully, templing his fingers. "Persection that is, before the world realized the special strengths we possess. As I alluded, this Mount has an interesting history." I nodded. It was increasingly difficult to concentrate, not the least being my close proximity to a very pretty boy. He had thin hands, elegant hands with long fingers and precisely manicured nails. The boy paused before handing the glass to me. His fingers brushed mine, a light feathery touch, a touch that could mean nothing or everything. I swallowed, feeling a sharp dagger forced down my inflamed throat. It was less painful to breath through my mouth. The brandy would do little in that regard. As always, when I took wine, I thought of him, my precious Etienne, and again the agony of losing him was restored. How often had we shared a glass at the end of the day? And coupled while the brandy warmed our bellies. The taste turned bitter. It was as if my anguish had always been there in the forefront of my mind. I stemmed my panic by drinking again. Calmness returned and the vivid memory of his soft small hands held within mine faded to obscurity once more. "Would I know that history, Master?" I mused quietly, shivering. At least my mouth and throat were warm. The old man smiled absently. "Would you indeed, Aidan. We know nothing when all is said and done." A moment passed in silence. "This place has its beginning in in the very middle of the night. On the soltsice of the night, to be precise. Our founder had a vision of what was to be done here. An apparition of a boy, appearing no less than as a saint himself." "The Archangel of Roses," I intoned in humbled respect. He nodded thoughtfully and genuflected. "The true prince of angels." It was some time before either of us spoke. So long did silence reign, that I dozed a while, eyes still half open but seeing nothing except the flicker of the fire. I was barely aware of the pretty boy, now stopped and standing silently by the side of his master. Their sole contact, a man's hand upon a young boy's narrow hip was barely realized by my inner self. Yet, I sensed that the bond of two souls was there, already formed and growing stronger day by day, slowly merging into one. It was only a matter of time before they joined, before the white sash of virginity became red and the pretty lad was marked for all to see by the ring around his rose. All boys upon the Mount were that way, but that did not lessen the insidious shame I felt. My Etienne, I wanted to cry, was just as splendid, before he died. "His hallowed name is our battle cry," the Lord Protector pronounced eventually. "As the warrior you have been and still are, you should appreciate that even more than I." "Once was," I corrected simply. My face was flushed with shame. "I have had my share of battles. One wasted life is enough for one lifetime," I remarked ambiguously. "I am here to rest and pay my dues before passing on." The old man chuckled. "Is that all you seek, Aidan?" "Isn't that enough," I said abjectly. My misery was explained by him, that despicable thrill I sensed from merely looking at another boy. "You are what our sons seek," he acknowledged tonelessly. "A master?" I queried. "A master such as you, Aidan Aquarius, but as much a warrior than a teacher in the sacred ways." "You would have me become a tutelary man for the boys of the Sanctuary?" I suggested after a moment's hesitation. I was curious despite my immediate shock. I had reservations, yet it was an interesting proposition, nonetheless. I had not considered staying longer than a night. My goal in coming was well-intentioned, merely seeking to trace the path that I had followed in the Spring before to find the boy who I loved. It was if I was searching as much to find conclusion as to strengthen the memories of him that came from Summer, before the battle cries were shouted. It was a delightful time that season, when everything was simpler. A man loved a boy. A boy loved a man. That was how it was supposed to be forever. "He will send thee before a boy for thou art His to love and cherish," the Master muttered. He raised his right eyebrow, expecting my response. "As Man liveth, His son hath been my lover. There is none other," I answered absently. I regarded my hands with contempt. Hands that had only recently stroked his lovely body, touched places of exquisite pleasure, pitiable hands that would eagerly touch another body. I glanced quickly at Sandor and recognized his shy smile for what it was, the need for lust and love that existed in every boy upon the Mount. "You cite the Rules with undue devotion," he said gleefully. "Indeed, I had hoped that you are who you have not said you are." "And who is that?" I asked wearily. "The one man who can initiate what must be initiated. The man I sent for. The warrior first, the teacher next, the lover later. I have expected you, Aidan Aquarius." "But I have nothing to teach them," I replied firmly. "You are sent to us as a teacher nonetheless. 'And there was a great battle in heaven, Michel and his angels fought with the dragon'." I glanced at him surreptiously. "I know nothing of a dragon," I denied with my eyes lowered to hide the obvious lie. My Etienne had died by dragon fire. "Apocalypse awaits us, Aidan," was his only response. Again, we sat there in silence, not looking at each other. Two men who knew what was truth and what was lie, and what stood in between. Worse, my life was a lie now that Etienne was dead. "Enough, Aidan!" he exclaimed. "No more games. It is time that we talked in truth and honesty. We need you here." My look was questioning. "It is difficult enough to teach these boys all they need to learn before they leave here. However, you're needed far more than as a master." Still, I gazed upon him and wondered what I could teach that needed to be learned by boys. I had skills unique to me, and a certain knowledge of technique, but little more than that remained of my four years in the citadel of stone walls. One boy was more than enough for a lifetime. I could not deal with another, let alone a horde of twelve demanding boys. "Tell me, Aidan, what is your ideal?" he asked. I did not need further explanation of 'ideal'. There was only one thing that could be addressed in such terms. I did not pause to collect my thoughts, but launched immediately into a description of Etienne, unidentified by name but no less the boy who I loved. "A boy who is full of wisdom, sublime in spirit, and perfect in beauty," I answered honestly. "A boy who sings with the nightingale, who has the speed of a cheetah, the reflexes of a cobra, and the grace of an antelope. Alas, I wax on, but such is a boy of rare grandeur and singular felicity." "And you would have him strong of body?" he offered. "That too," I agreed. "As strong and valiant as a lion. For there come times when stamina as much as strength is needed." "And passion? What of that?" he added. "A modicum of ardor is needed, but he should be innocent in the ways of men from the day on which he was created until sperm is found in him," I said directly. The Master nodded thoughtfully, seeming to accept rather than reject. "You'd have him wait for mating till his boyhood has departed? Is it natural that his desire remain quiescent for so long." I shook my head slightly. Boys would always be boys if left to their own devices. Desire came early if not held in restraint. "Such a boy has already heard the call to battle," the Master added under his breath. "He can no longer sing the notes of the nightingale. His reflexes are dulled by ego. There is hair where he should be smooth. He has no need for teachers or tutors." "When the time is ripe, like his balls, he needs nought but a warrior as his lover?" I suggested with a feeble effort to return his patient smile. "Yes. That's true. I agree that an older boy has particular charms." He stopped a moment, reflecting on some thoughts known only to him before he continued: "'...This boy unequaled in his seed unequaled in his adolescent need, He imagines his thighs astride the rude lust of a man's embrace, his love fulfilled and body filled with sweetest nectars of the demon, joyfully seeking the impure land.' 'He hardens and the nameless youth sweats profusely at his efforts, the glowing droplets, like tiny crystal eggs in the golden nest of his matted hair. and he revels in the decadent squalor of himself.'" I smiled. I could have proceeded through all the verses of that poem. Instead, I chose a verse that reminded me most strongly of one boy in particular, my Etienne. "'Coltish limbs, thighs, calves, his wrists attaching masturbating hands to lithe, sleek muscles in his sculpted arms, trim, tautly skinned angles of the young man he will become. 'His shoulder blades like an angel's wings, fret on the planes of his spine. Warm, delicious hollows of boy, reveled in, a mound of downy hair brushing cheeks, boyish chest, his strength overlaid with the silkiest of skin, a softness so fast upon the hardness of his firm young body, creating joy intoxicating to even him.'" We both laughed. He patted Sandor's flank tenderly. For a moment they shared a secret smile. Did the lad begin to grasp the meaning of those words? He would in time, as all boys would who graced the Mount. "I'm not quite sure that I agree with the poet's sentiments," the Master admitted. "There is no charm quite like that which a younger boy possesses. However, I admit to being attracted to some on occassion, but if only if he's been properly taught to love and to be loved in the first place," he chuckled. "It takes considerable training for the pain to yield completely to pleasure. To be worth the effort, a boy must practice hard." I nodded my head a veritable venerable inch. "If I remember from my training, it took a great many nights of being taught the many ways to love another. And even when I was not with my teacher, there are always boys for company when the hours of night become too long to sleep." Again the Master smiled, this time more amused than previously. He nodded in silent appraisal. "True too, and for most boys in the light of day as well, when the urge is strong. It has been my experience that all young males will willing mount and be mounted if any opportunity arises. One knows the frequent use of opened gates. Such is the nature of unrestrained passion. Boys will be boys and it is only to be expected. However, I am not asking of the ways of boys as you well know." "There are other ways?" I asked demurrely. His hand then passed within the boy's robe, reaching from below. I saw the cloth shift. He rearranged that precious boy- part so that it pointed directly outward like a key within a door lock. It was still small, appropriate in dimension for a nine or ten-year-old boy, yet prominent enough that it caused a crease from his white belt down to the hem. The cloth moved again, presenting the distinguishable bulge of a man's hand wrapped around the little stake. The boy smiled wantonly, as agreeable as any boy to the holding of his treasure. This was the way that all boys learned what was needed to be known before they left the Mount. The lessons that were never forgotten were always taught by his teacher and master. I shifted uncomfortably. The urge to look was overpowering. Was it stronger than my promise? I shuddered at the thought. I could not look away. Despite my penitence I was the victim of desire. "You are a welcome change with refreshing innuendo." He met my piqued eyes, playfully rubbing his hand back and forth on what was obviously a very sensitive part. The boy trembled and arched, pressing into the hand that contained his boyhood. His amused expression was fleeting. His jaws quickly tightened. His eyes darted back and forth, finally narrowing to slits. His lips parted and he breathed deeply. He felt the urge overwhelming, the growing desire. His hand was willingly placed on the man's broad shoulder to brace himself. The movement was becoming urgent. I sat and watched in silent self-reproach. "And as any man who stays within these walls, you are well aware of what is done here. Any training that affects the parts between a boy's legs is best started well before his eggs drop," the Master added seriously. Then, I laughed without regret, appreciating that he of all people should have seen through my veil. He understood far more than I had given him credit for. I was a man who loved boys, who would always love boys. "That's very true," I admitted. "I learned too well. I took finger and found I liked it, three fingers within a week, and a man not much later when I was initiated." At that, he smiled. "'A boy's body --- nothing so crystal clearly perfect; lamb-like to hold, goat-like to fuck. An enduring innocence dwelling in eyes, alluring, trusting, allowing, as varied in glinting colors as a bulging bag of marbles in a young boy's pocket, his toys before he's mounted.'" He suddenly sat forward. His right hand still moving under the robe, still rubbing, still dedicated to the purpose of giving pleasure. The boy's hands were balled to fists, his expression dreamy, his enjoyment wilfull. I watched surreptiously, not as a voyeur watches a couple copulating, but as a man appreciating the signs of affection and the overpowering push towards orgasm. I drank from the goblet yet again, savoring the taste of brandy before replacing it on the table before me with a shaking hand. Grief, regret, sadness, all faded despite my longing otherwise. Such beauty, such elation, inspired my spirit to accept what was happening right before my eyes. I nodded in agreement. "It's agreed then." "What's agreed?" I asked uncertainly. "You will stay here at the Mount to train the boys as to what is proper in love and war." I did not need to affirm. It was agreed. Ever yielding, for that was what I was required to do until I left the room. He was the Master. "We have been waiting for you, Aidan," he continued. "'At that time shall Michel rise up, when taken from the East, the great prince standeth for the boys of the Rose. Harken well for he is the one who Etienne died for.'" I regarded him blankly. "I am not sure what that means," I said slowly. His citation of my boy's name further unnerved me. "And, for that matter, neither am I," he replied calmly. "It is in the scroll I have before me. An ancient text whose origins are murky at best. I know only that the great prince rises after he has been mounted by a man of the East who wishes death would take him. The ring around the rose that's yours, no doubt?" I stiffened. Not there, but in my seat. They were powerful words. Etienne had said almost the same thing just before he went away. I had not understood then and I had no understanding now. My expression was blank, my face blanched and cold. "What we teach is between alpha and omega," the Master said quietly. The words had a mystery of their own. "Alpha and omega?" I asked uncertainly. "As well know you, Aidan, a boy has both a beginning and an end," he explained. "There is a part that points the way to begin with." The boy smirked gleefully, shamelessly lifting his opened robe higher. He was pale skinned and nude beneath his robe, his milky body capturing my attention. His under-cloth had dropped away and was lying on the floor beside his feet. Before my constant gaze, the man lovingly touched the boy's small stiff penis. The lad sighed softly, eagerly awaiting, yet the fingers that had touched him all too briefly had just now drifted away. The finger-sized organ continued to quiver expectantly. Then, he guided the boy to turn side on and easily cupped his hand over a pinched pale cheek. "And it ends here, hidden within, when the seed of life is held deep inside him." I nodded, remembering the beginning and the end, the alpha and omega of my own training. "Everything must be developed between the beginning and the end," he said deliberately. "The entire body, the mind, and the spirit of a boy, dedicated to a single purpose. In love as in war, the heat of battle or the heat of passion, he must be mounted so often that the rose is ringed and unrestrained, even for Vulturnus boys. Every muscle, every thought, every deed, even the soul within, all of it conducted to the singular cause of loving a man or dying for his cause. This must happen before a boy can leave the Sanctuary." I nodded again. I had been trained to make love just as my Etienne had been trained. In due course, soon now, the angelic boy before me also would be trained. That was the way of things. We were trained to love as much as to fight. Indeed, there was no difference in the training save that ultimate ending, one in orgasm and the other in death. "I am not certain that I can,...." I began self-consciously. I licked my lips. I was sweating, the damp wool of the cassock holding in my body's heat until it was unbearable. I breathed through my mouth, not gasping but making an effort to fill my lungs. He continued to fondle the boy's firm rump, caressing the halves with the tips of his fingers and thumb. The small milk- toned bottom was smooth like polished alabaster and likely as soft as Chinese silk. The boy's eyes flickered at me, his wanton lust revealed as he smiled directly at me. "Of course you can," the Master acknowledged. "The desire is still within you." He dipped his finger into the small vial of creamy paste that lay on the table before him. He smeared it along the length of his extended digit, then wiped his other fingers clean on the hem of the boy's spread robe. "It's been too long," I said awkwardly. No matter that I wanted to hate myself. I remembered the feeling of a man's strong fingers slicked with lard. I knew what joy awaited the slim boy who stood before him once he had been annointed. Was I to watch? I felt a thrill build within me. "Too much has transpired for me to teach. There are many others better suited to the task," I muttered uncomfortably. "The need to teach boys about love still exists within you, Aidan. I know your sadness, yet I know that need remains as strong as ever despite what you have lost. It will never go away for you, or for me, or for any man like us." How did he know about my anguish? I was sullen, again regretting my decision to return. I did not need to be reminded by him. I did not need his sympathy. Every time I looked at Sandor, or any pretty boy, I would be reminded of what I had lost. My Etienne, my boy, burned to a few dark cinders. Nothing was left for me to live for. I could not find happiness in this place or any other, but here I could be useful to others. The hand moved, dropping down and out of my sight and the young boy immediately winced and whimpered softly. I knew that sound anywhere. It was a familiar sound. The child's eyes darted back to me, then away again. His expression left no doubt he had been penetrated. He looked surprised. Satisfied. Sensuous. Serene. Familiar feelings. I smiled at him reassuringly, openly endorsing what was transpiring. He would become used to being mounted sooner if he was proud. He had reason to be proud. There was no shame in it, not when the feelings were so profound. Yet, there was shame in my mind, shame for watching, for the excitement that swelled between my thighs, shame for abandoning Etienne's memory to watch another boy's stimulation. The Master hesitated a moment for the boy to relax and then he pushed gently. Immediately, the boy wriggled back to take even more of his finger. No doubt that finger enscounced between his small firm cheeks was gently rotating, for that was the usual way of it. Twisting slightly as the finger cautiously pushed inwards, sliding on the slick greasy film. Burrowing into the tight hole to stretch the tissue wider. Then two fingers, going where only one had been before. Always stretching, always getting wider, until the opening stayed open. Then and only then, when the body was ready, the mind embracing, and the spirt freed and willing, would a boy be mounted. "Master," I began guiltily. How could I look him in the eyes? "I am not worthy of the role." The short penis I had previously observed as projecting outward, had swiftly wilted as another more gratifying pleasure took control. His boy had a dreamy look, that abandoned, eyes half-closed look that I knew so well. The same blissful, joyful look that I had seen so often on Etienne's face, and he was four years older and fully trained before I loved him. How could I do that to any other boy? I owed him chastity if nothing else. "You must find your own way, Aidan," the old man said softly. "Our boys need you." "Perhaps they do. But do I need them, Master?" I queried repentently. "Time must pass for your wound to heal, Aidan." "I'm not sure I can wait that long." The old man smiled genuinely. "In time you will celebrate the love of Plato again. It is merely a matter of finding the right boy to warm your body, ignite your heart, and make your spirit flare brightly once more. You will always love your Etienne, but another will shortly follow. You must be ready for him, Aidan." I glared at him, envious of his uncanny ability to see beyond my facade. The illusion to fire and heat and Etienne's untimely death was hidden within his words, He realized my desire had not departed, that I constantly glanced at Sandor, and my eyes were still interested if not intentionally lustful. There was a glimmer of arousal every time I looked at his boy's bared body. Only castration would provide contrition. I bowed my head. 'No matter what', Etienne had made me promise, 'not that!'. He had held my penis within his grasp, playfully licking on the crimson bud. His lips were red, redder than the rose that flamed upon the end. That ultimate penance was not a possibility. "Go forth now, Aidan. With the dawn, comes a new day and a new life for you. Tomorrow, you will join Favonius, boy-gods of the west wind, sweet Zephyr. You will be the protector of our precious flowers." "I was trained Vulturnus," I remarked pointedly. "That is only as it should be. Equals yet opposites provides for better teaching and boys with greater skills. The prediction of the prince, taken from the East, is what I have in mind." I opened my mouth to summarily deny, yet there was nothing that I could say. His decision as much as mine had already been made. "Master Aleyn is ready to retire so you will begin with the novitiates. Besides, our junior boys provide a special challenge to a lonely man," he suggested with lively all-seeing eyes. I gawked, not expecting that. Not to train nine-year-old boys who missed their mothers. Not boys with tight holes and tiny tools. Not boys who knew nothing of the ways of men. Not boys who had the ways of girls. Why not Vulturnus, like Etienne and I had been? I could love his little Sandor until the early dawn and never falter. The very thought made me quiver. I swallowed and my throat burned even more intensely. I drank quickly from my shrinking goblet, imbibing brandy in the faint hope that the pain would go away. "You'd have me lie with little boys who lack a quantity of gender? Why not boys like him?" I asked boldly, observing the young Vulturnus. The Master smiled and Sandor's eyes suddenly grew wide. His mouth opened, showing small white teeth when he inhaled. His lean legs tensed. His hands clenched. His hips trembled, barely held in restraint. I watched a leaf quiver in the stiffening breeze, growing stronger as the tempest neared. His penis sprang erect and pulsed erratically. His body bucked, then he shuddered as he groaned aloud. The finger within him was against the pressure point behind his rectum. The boy's face glowed. His body arched like a boy in agony and then, gasping deeply, he quaked and nearly crumpled to the floor. The Master nodded with appreciation of the response. He took his hand away and the boy's robe dropped back down to shield a small, still throbbing sex. His voice to my ears was barely more than a whisper, yet the words were very clear. It did not help that my penis was fully erect by then and I was overwhelmed by my compunction. "'All radiant from his triumph in the fight. The shaft has just been shot; the arrow bright With an immortal's vengeance; in the dragon's eye,'" he said profoundly.