Page 13 of Lake of Sin

Vassago knocked our foreheads together. His breath mingled with mine. When I opened my eyes, I hoped he would be looking at me—but he wasn’t. His eyes were closed, one hand holding our heads together and the other resting gently on the bed. I was brave. I slipped my finger into his and jolted when he squeezed back.

Then, I felt him rummaging. He used no fingers, but a fuzziness overwhelmed my focus. I groaned as vertigo attacked my senses, and Vassago slipped his other hand free of mine to steady my head.

“Calm,” he cooed, but his voice was a distant fog. I was enveloped by something more, and soon, my consciousness had faded entirely.

6

Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honour.

Romans10

We work in silence.

It is a nightly occurrence: from sunset until morning, we choose not to speak to one another—an order meant to focus us on our work.

Silence is the bane of my existence, for it is within these quiet hours that I find my mind most unruly. It is far easier to stare at my brothers and have the excuse of staring for their attention, and not for ungodly reasons. But so, too, do I find that, without the distraction of conversation, I think over and over again about why God has punished me so.

I am choir monk Alessandro, twenty-two and not yet a don. I am working not in the monastery I was raised, but in a small town I have visited in the south of Italy. The details do not matter: the boy does.

He is three years older than me, and brilliant. His name is Raffiano, but he wishes to be called Paul. Paul is beautiful. I see Heaven in his eyes, God in that perfect smile. He is kind, and I cannot comprehend what his kindness means. If it means anything at all.

One day, I reach out and I take his hand. He squeezes my hand back. I think to myself that this is it. I have been vulnerable; I have done the thing I have been scared to do, and for as long as the silence lasts, I don’t have to know whether Paul sees it that way or not.

The next day, I am still delusional with my love for him. He tells me, “It is good to have a brother unafraid of his affections. You are Romans 10 in a man, Alessandro. I aspire to be like you.”

And he will still take my hand for the next month, but I know I am a brother to him. When I leave the town and return to my own monastery, he writes me a letter with Romans 10 written below his farewell.

I do not reply.

I snappedawake in Prince Vassago’s arms and squirmed with fear as I attempted to sit up. My head aches, and Vassago is shushing me. My cheeks are wet with tears.

Paul. Raffiano. I hadn’t thought about him in years.

“You wanted affection, then. Not sex.”

“All of it,” I whispered.

“Perhaps it became easier for you to think of carnal sin as more accessible than for one of your brethren to return your affections.”

I hated that Vassago could speak so easily on this. I hated that I might be eternally craving something I couldn’t have. I wanted to ask about the Hellish visions I had been shown of my monastery. I imagined Oliviero on his knees, my rosary in his mouth. I squeezed my eyes shut; it was easy to think of Oliviero like that. If he had looked at me with care in his eyes, would I have found the will to put my cock in his mouth?

Vassago shushed me; I had been breathing hard. He ran his fingers through my hair and encouraged me to lie back again. His touches were soft, gentle strokes across my neck or my chest, and never lower.

“Alessandro. You want to be loved.”

“Is it a sin?”

“We don’t care about that here.”

But Vassago wasn’t comprehending. Iwantedlove to be a sin. It would be so much easier for a demon to indulge in affection if it was against the will of God.

I said, “What if I have condemned myself to an eternity where I will never be loved?”

And Vassago said, with great wisdom, “Why are you worried about that when you are currently unable to let yourself love at all?”

I turned to look at it, relaxing minutely under its gaze. To shift the conversation away from such vulnerable things, I asked, “You’re… benevolent?”

“I am good-natured,” Vassago corrected. “Still a demon.”

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