They showed you a statue and told you to pray
They built you a temple and locked you away
But they never told you the price that you pay
For things that you might have done..

Before the Vessel, there had been war.  Before the Vessel, there had been fear and the beginnings of chaos, but Chris was too young to remember that.  Chris couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been secure in the knowledge that the Holy Child existed, a solid, real miracle in an otherwise unreliable world. 

The first time Chris laid eyes on the Vessel, it was purely accidental.  It had to have been, because men like Chris weren't worthy of ever seeing anything other than a drawing or oil portrait of the most Holy Child. 

i.

"A letter arrived today," Lance said, and waved a piece of paper at Chris.  "From Joey." 

"Hmm," Chris grunted.  He shoved the apple barrel back into the shed and let the heavy door swing shut.  "And what noble deeds has my brother done now?"  

"There's no real news," Lance admitted, and with his free hand caught the apple Chris tossed his way.  "He sends his love.  He also asks about you.  If you're...

"If I've found a job?" Chris snorted.  Lance followed him down the dirt path and toward the house; a modest brick house full of boisterous yelling and laughter.  "I'll write him as soon as there's something to write about."  Chris sank his teeth into the crisp skin of his fruit and chewed thoughtfully.  Joey had been gone for six months in the king's army, and in that time he'd become something of a legend.  Joey had always wanted to serve in the army, so when the slot had opened up, Chris had stepped aside and willingly let his brother have it. 

Yet that left Chris here, still at home, and the prospects were nearly non-existent.  Most days he busied himself with work at his own home and fields, but the truth was that his mother and sisters could easily handle that work on their own.  What they needed was more of an income; something that Chris had been hard-pressed to find. 

"You may be writing sooner than you think," Lance said.  He wiped his mouth on the edge of his sleeve and licked at the juicy flesh of the apple.  "I've set up a meeting for you.  At the monastery.  They lost one of their guards yesterday, and you were recommended--with words of many praise--for the position." 

"By who?" Chris snorted.  "You?" 

"Of course." 

"Lies, no doubt," Chris mumbled. 

"Of course," Lance repeated with a smirk.  Lance himself was a physician who worked many places, among them the monastery and at times, the king's palace.  "But lies or not, they want to meet with you tomorrow." 

Chris stopped and shoved himself backwards up and onto the crudely constructed fence.  If it were true, it could be a real opportunity for him, a chance to finally be a breadwinner rather than merely a son.  Lance had to have done more than tell a few lies to wrangle this interview for him.  The monastery housed the largest library in the region, some of the highest priests in the country, and--so it was rumored--the Vessel himself. 

"I won't let you down," he promised, trying not to let his hopes build too high. 

"I know," Lance replied.  He rolled his eyes as Chris pulled him into a brief, grateful embrace.

"Is it true?" Chris asked when they parted.  Lance tilted his head in question, and Chris grinned at him, his face flushed something wholly improper.  "They say the Holy Child lives in our monastery.  Have you treated him?" 

"Chris," Lance hissed, and glanced around them at the deserted orchard.  No one but them and the trees, yet his face was tight with concern.  "You can't talk about that.  And," he added, "As if I would ever be allowed to touch him, even for an examination." 

"Sorry," Chris said, no discernable remorse in his tone or expression.  "Stay for supper?" he asked, knowing Lance wouldn't refuse. 

ii.

Chris shifted from one foot to another, wishing he could move, but the job required rather lengthy shifts of standing still.  He was supposed to be focusing all his energy on listening and watching for anything that might be a threat to the tranquility of the monastery. 

Idly, he fiddled with the hilt of his sword, then drew it out partially, let it slide back in its sheath.  The motion was soothing and he repeated it until the sense of easy peace he'd achieved was interrupted by a harsh scraping sound down the hall.  No one was allowed in this wing, and the few priests who were permitted definitely did not make scraping sounds; rather, they seemed to almost glide about, always with silent reverence. 

It was not a priest he heard, and gut instinct told him to go, find the source of the sound.  Slowly he crept down the hall, attempting to glide like the priests.  It didn't work, but he made far less noise than whatever was only one or two halls ahead of him. 

The doors were always closed, and at every door he stopped, barely breathing, to listen.  The place seemed almost abandoned; every door seemed to lead nowhere.  At the end of the third hall he had almost given up on his phantom noise, but when he put his ear to the last door, the silence sounded more like--weeping.  His hand yielded the sword for real this time, and he burst through the door in a manner befitting a soldier, taking the room and all its occupants by storm. 

"Halt!" he shouted, and it took him four scans of the room to realize that there was no threat.  The only ones present, other than himself, were an unconscious body sprawled on the marbled floor, and the young man that sat curled beside it, draped in white robes. 

"What happened here?" he demanded, circling the pair carefully, sword still drawn. 

When the young man lifted his face to reply, Chris dropped immediately to his knees, mentally hurling insults at himself, for he had made a terrible mistake.  Even obscured by tears, Chris recognized the features well enough.  Every family owned a portrait of the Vessel, the most Holy Child. 

"I- beg your pardon," he said, staring at the floor.  His knees ached but he dared not rub away the pain.  He would be stoned, shunned, certainly released from his duties.  Never would he ever have willingly stepped into a room with the Vessel; he had more respect than that.  "I was...investigating, and I heard your...are you well?" 

"My servant," the Vessel murmured.  Calmly, his fingers wiped under his eyes and at his cheeks.  He kept his voice low, a smooth, dark sound that Chris felt he shouldn't be hearing.  It made him lightheaded--the exhilaration and awe of the Vessel, the fear of being caught.  "She had a great pain in her chest this morning, and fell here." 

It was past suppertime.  Chris dared raise his gaze from the floor and found himself being stared at by the bright blues eyes that were so often discussed.  Chris had always thought it an exaggeration, but they were as vivid as the duplications suggested.   "Why has no one come to move her elsewhere?" he asked.  All day the boy had been sitting here in vigil for a dead body

"I'm not allowed to leave without an escort.  My tutors come twice a week, but Illena was the one who cared for me.  She brought my meals."  His fingers reached out and touched the hem of her dress, smoothing carefully over the wrinkles.  "Is she dead, then?" 

"Um."  Chris said uncertainly, because she was quite obviously dead, but he didn't wish to upset the most Holy Child, nor to make him cry again.  He was fairly certain, though, that those sacred hands ought not be touching a corpse.  "She's dead, all right.  You probably shouldn't, uh."  Was he allowed to give instructions to the Vessel?  Why not; he'd already broken so many rules today.  "You should maybe," he pointed to a couch against the wall.  "Sit over there until someone comes?  I'm sorry," he added. 

Though it took him a few moments, the Vessel let his fingers fall away from Illena and onto his own lap.  "Oh," he said, nodding slowly.  "You're right, of course."  He smiled at Chris, a shaky but sincere gesture. 

He didn't sit on the couch, though; instead, he stood in front of a great window that overlooked the city.  His city.

"Who are you?" he asked.  Though he faced the window, his attention had hardly strayed from Chris' face and sword.  "Are you going to take her body?" 

"No," Chris said quickly.  "I'm just a guard.  I'm not supposed to...I just.  I heard you crying." 

"You're not supposed to be here," the Vessel agreed, but he seemed pleased.  "Your name?" 

"I'm sorry," Chris blurted, cringing.  "I'm Chris."  He paused, then awkwardly added, "Your Holiness.  I'll just be going to get.  Someone." 

"Wait!"  The Vessel stepped toward Chris, his long robes whispering as they swirled around his feet.  His sleeve brushed Chris' arm and Chris drew back quickly.  No man touched the Vessel; only his caregivers, who were elderly women.  Even Chris knew that much.   "Stay?" he asked.  "I never have visitors.  I never meet anyone new." 

Chris hesitated, but refusing was not an option.  He rubbed his face and tried to remember all he'd been taught about behavior regarding the Vessel.  No one had bothered teaching him very extensively, though, seeing how he had little to no chance of ever finding himself in this position.  Keeping silent was probably the best plan of action; Chris' mouth had gotten him in trouble more times than he could count. 

"Do you...would you like a blessing?"

Chris drew back, setting wary eyes on the young man.  People waited their whole lives to receive blessings from the Vessel.  The honor was usually granted to the most desperate, needy of the population.  Or the very, very lucky.  "Do I seem like I need one?"  He wasn't being facetious.  Perhaps the Vessel knew something that he himself did not.

Although, he didn't appear to.  He actually seemed rather confused, tilting his carefully toward Chris before resuming his pacing.  "No," he replied, then gestured at the room.  "I just- I've never had visitors who weren't here for a blessing." 

"Never?" 

"No.  But-they make me gifts, and Illena brings them to me, sometimes."  His face brightened as he stepped toward Chris again.  "Would you like to see them?" 

Chris nodded and followed him to the far side of the room, up three steps to a wide area with shelves of treasures.  He himself had made a few gifts for the Vessel, back when he was in school, but he said nothing and watched the young man admiring his possessions.  Everything in this wing was shiny, immaculate, and when Chris turned around, he could see shaded marks on the floor from his boots.  His dirt, his filth, on the Vessel's floor. 

"My people make the most amazing things," The Vessel said, shaking his head in wonder, and looked to Chris for a reaction. 

"Nice," Chris managed.  He needed to leave.  Distractedly, he glanced at the door. 

"Let me show you my favorite," the Child said, and something in his tone caught Chris' attention. It held a note of pride and caution, as though he were sharing something private.  Uneasily, Chris waited.

From behind an ornately carved hutch, the Vessel pulled a large oil painting, and huffing with effort, lifted it up onto a table to lean against the wall.  "This," he said, and waited for Chris' reaction. 

It was lovely.  A young man of about sixteen years held a lamb, a perfect, spotless offering.  The lamb was beautiful and pure, as every sacrifice should be, but the most captivating aspect of the painting was the young man, with his fit body curled protectively around the lamb.  His expression revealed naked devotion, and Chris had seen such devotion before.  It was always for the Vessel, who was worthy of nothing less.  "I like it," Chris offered. 

"Me too.  It's wonderful.  Spring sacrifice," he added, as though Chris might not know.  "I love it."  He gazed at it and trailed his fingers over the lamb's wool, his fingertips tracing the texture of the canvas over and over.  "I've never seen a real one, but I have a rug.  Soft," he murmured.  "I asked them to bring him to me, the boy, to thank him and give him a blessing, but they."  He frowned and stepped back from the painting, his hand falling away.  There were slightly faded streaks on the lamb that spoke of many viewings like this one. 

"What?" Chris asked.  "You couldn't find him?"  He looked familiar to Chris, a friend of Lance's, and perhaps he could offer to find the boy for him. 

"They didn't even try.  I still don't understand," he explained slowly, and began easing the heavy frame down from the table.  Chris intervened, taking it from him as though it weighed nothing. Carefully, he slid it back in its proper place, feeling the Vessel's eyes on him the whole time.  "Thank you," the Child said, and continued.  "They got angry when I asked...they wanted to take the painting from my room!  My gift," he added.  "I don't understand why.  The priests argued about it and finally let me keep it, but  Illena told me that I ought not be looking at it very often." 

"Why?"

His face fell, cheeks filling with color.  "Vanity?" he guessed, and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck.  "Or...pride.  They give me so much...I have to remember humility.  It's not me that's important, it's them.  The gods who sent me here." 

Chris nodded.  If the boy spoke honestly, then he did not have a problem with pride at all, because though part of what he said was true, he was important.  Shifting from one foot to another, Chris tried to find the best way out of this situation.  It wasn't proper for him to talk with the Vessel, yet it was tempting beyond all words, like a jewel found on the forest floor.  As easy as it would be to pocket the found stone, it would be just as easy to let himself look upon and enjoy the untouched splendor of the young Vessel.  His face was as lovely as the rumors had suggested, framed by soft brown curls. 

"I have to leave," Chris said, a bit desperately, then paused.  He was hearing the strange scraping sound again, but it was likely his imagination.  "I'll send someone to-" 

Chris felt it before he saw, and even then he caught only a flicker of movement from the edge of his vision.  His eyes never left the stunned face of the Holy Child, not even when he flicked his wrist and drove his sword into the soft belly of the unseen assailant.  The blood flowed freely when he withdrew his sword, this time sliding it back into its proper place on his belt.  The body fell with a crash, which was expected but still startled them both. 

"They try this sometimes," the Vessel said from a safe distance, his voice soft but matter-of fact.  "To take me, or hurt me.  Sometimes they kill my guards, but so far I've been well-protected."  He smiled shakily, sinking down onto a couch covered in fluffy sheepskin. 

Chris looked at the crimson stream rushing across white marble and sighed.  As far as first days on the job went, this did not bode well.

iii.  

The moon was full and high when Chris arrived home, yet Lance was sitting on the porch steps, his head resting on his knees.  He made no movement when Chris approached, and Chris had to nudge him twice before he finally stirred. 

Lance blinked, then opened his mouth.  "What did you do?" he accused.  "I heard about some trouble, and I knew it was you!  Then you were so late...I can't even imagine, Chris. Did you take one of the kitchen maids to bed?  Curse in the presence of a priest?  Ugh, don't tell me."  He covered his ears with both hands. 

"Stop it," Chris said, and pulled his hands away.  "It wasn't anything like that.  In fact," he said, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small satchel.  "It's your lucky day."  He tossed the satchel at Lance, who caught it, feeling the weight of coins inside. 

"Gold?" he asked, peeking into the bag. 

"Yes.  For you, dear doctor, for recommending me for the position." 

"Me?" 

"You." Chris mocked Lance's confusion.  "Lord Rassmussin gave me a reward as well.  He does so for everyone who saves the life of the Vessel." 

"The-" Lance's fingers tightened around the satchel.  "You?"

"Yes.  There was an intruder."  Chris sank down next to Lance and draped his arm around his friend's shoulders.  It had been hours since he'd rested, and his eyes fell shut, weighed down by the events of the day.  "I killed him, Lance," he whispered.  "With my sword, and I did it so quickly, without a thought." 

Lance shifted so that Chris could move even closer, his head coming to rest on Lance's shoulder.  "If he was there to harm the Vessel, then his fate was to be death anyhow.  You took nothing from him that wouldn't have been taken by the day's end," he replied, and turned slightly to let his lips smooth across Chris' temple.  "You were right to protect such a treasure." 

"Yes..."  Chris said.  "I'm still in a bit of trouble, I think," he admitted. 

"I was wondering.  For talking to the...you didn't touch him, did you?" 

"No!  I'm not an idiot, Lance.  I could hardly look at him.  It was all a big mistake, but I'm glad I was there." 

"Me too," Lance said, and squeezed Chris with one arm around his waist.  "I can't even imagine a world without Him." 

iv.

Chris couldn't imagine a world without Him, either, but that didn't stop him from putting up a yelling, screaming fit when the priests cornered him at work the next day and explained his new, temporary duties to him. 

"I'm prone to violence!" Chris protested, scrabbling for the doorknob until he was escorted to his seat.  "I curse and...steal!" he added, but they just frowned and shook their heads.  Though they seemed to disapprove of him, their minds had been made up and before the day's end Chris was in the chambers of the Holy Child once again.   

The Child seemed happy to see him at first, but Chris' chest was still tight with anger over his lack of choice in the situation.  He couldn't bring himself to return the shy smile that was offered, and after the first few, tense moments of silence, the Child wandered over to his desk and began to read quietly to himself. 

"I don't understand why they would allow me here," Chris mused.  "Much less want me here."  The walls seemed closer and more solid than they had the last time he was in these chambers.

"Um.  I told them you touched me," the Child admitted, looking away, toward the window.

"A lie?"  He had thought the Vessel was without sin; it was part of the prophecy. 

"I-yes."

"Why?" 

His blue eyes darkened in thought, but when he finally answered, it was with a small, helpless shrug.  

v.

Chris liked things that moved quickly, and watching the Holy Child go through two hours of prayer and meditation was making his limbs twitchy.  After the time of meditation, they were ushered by guards to a room with three priests, who all stood by as an old man was brought in. 

The old man bowed deeply, falling to his knees as soon as he reached the Vessel, who regarded him with silent sympathy that was evident in his expressive eyes.  In a low voice he blessed the man, then gave him a few soft words and sent him on his way. 

It was obvious the man didn't want to leave, but he was rushed away by the guards as the priests quickly stepped in and waved about smoking incense, cleansing the Holy Child after his brief contact with the world.  When the doors opened again to bring in the next supplicant, the process was repeated.  Eight people he blessed, and eight times Chris watched them leave as though it hurt to be parted from him. 

It was well into the afternoon by the time Chris brought him back to his chambers.  He didn't say anything, but Chris had the feeling the morning's activities had been tiring for his charge.

"Would you like to rest?" he asked, looking at the bed, which was covered in plush furs. 

The Child looked at the bed as well.  His body language showed reluctance, but already his eyes were drooping.  "Just for a while," he replied, and crawled onto the bed, sinking into the silky luxury of the coverings.  "I didn't sleep well last night," he admitted.  "It was my first night without Illena here, and- " he pressed his face into the pillows.  "It was- different from what I'm used to," he mumbled. 

Chris hadn't even thought of that.  He'd been so concerned with giving proper goodbyes to his mother and sisters that he'd given little thought to how this might be affecting the Holy Child.  It would indeed be strange-and probably frightening- to be suddenly alone after being cared for by the same person since birth.  He went to the window and looked down to the town below. 

"I'm a poor substitute for a woman with Illena's experience," Chris offered, "But I'm here, for now at least.  You're safe to sleep.  Your Holiness," he added.  When  he glanced over at the Vessel, Chris found that his every move was being tracked by sleepy but intensely curious eyes. 

"JC," the Child said, and yawned, stretching his legs out on the bed.  "It's my name," he explained, when Chris just stood dumbly.  "My given name.  It's what my parents call me...and Illena.  It's what you should call me, inside my chamber." 

"Um."  Chris couldn't get past the idea that the Vessel had parents, but of course he had.  They just hadn't been allowed to raise him.  "All right then.  JC," he said.  Lance would die, absolutely die if he knew Chris were calling the Holy Child by a familiar name, and he grinned a little at the thought, but the smile faltered after a moment.  He hadn't been able to track down Lance in the brief time they'd given him to sort out his business.  He'd had to make due with giving his mother a note pass on to his dearest friend. 

Down into the city he looked, and was able to make out the shapes of a man leading a horse, three young ladies gossiping behind a small house, and some children sailing boats in the stream.  If he squinted, he thought he could see his own home on the outskirts of town.  

"Do you have people out there?" JC asked from his bed.  "Family, or...anyone?"

"Yes."  Chris pulled himself away from the window and took the seat next to the bed.  The best place for keeping watch, he supposed.  JC's eyes stayed on him, patiently expectant, so he kept on.  "My mother, of course, and my sisters.  All younger, all giggling, adorable fools."  At this, JC grinned, the first time Chris had seen him show his amusement with anything.  It was probably boring up here by himself all the time, so Chris tried to make his description more entertaining.  "My brother Joseph is away in the king's army.  A hero," he added. 

"Like you," JC pointed out.

"No...I was just at the right time and place.  Joey is a soldier, heart and soul.  He's big enough to take out even the scariest enemy, and when we were kids he made sure no one messed with me since I'm kind of small." 

JC rolled over and sleepily studied Chris.  "Smaller than most guards I've seen.  But not too small," he allowed. 

"Yes, well."  Chris didn't like to talk about himself nearly as much as he liked talking about the others.  "And Lance.  My best friend." 

"Lance?" 

"We've been friends since we were in school.  He was trained as a doctor but he sings, too.  We sing together, sometimes."  

"Mmm, he sounds nice," JC said.  He was fading fast, so Chris stopped talking and did his job, watching over him as he slept. 

***

Chris had already lit several lamps by the time JC stirred from his deep sleep.  He wasn't used to the quiet, and jumped to his feet when JC gave a loud yawn.  His robes were twisted around his body, and it took a few moments for him to kick his way out before sliding off the bed and rubbing his eyes blearily. 

"Hello," he said, and covered a yawn with one hand.  "I slept too long." 

"I was about to wake you," Chris said.  He watched JC shuffle around sleepily.  He was still trying to get used to the idea of the Vessel as a person who could get tired, or hungry, and lonely.  "They came to the door and said your baths were ready?" 

JC nodded.  "I always have to bathe after the blessings."  Chris just looked at him, so he moved toward the east side of the room.  "I'll show you," he said, and led Chris toward an almost hidden door that revealed a narrow flight of stairs.  The stairs led down to a small but lavish room that held a rectangular pool of steaming water in the center.  The pool was only about two feet deep, and Chris could see the ornate tile the covered the bottom.  It was beautiful, serene, and yet his stomach tightened in on itself. 

JC padded quietly across the ocean-colored floor, to a bench where he began removing his robes.  Chris didn't know how they had made the climate of the room to feel like the hottest summer day, but he knew enough to avert his eyes when the layers of robes came off.  This wasn't good, it wasn't what he had wanted when he'd come to the monastery for a job.  He hadn't asked for this, which made it so painfully unfair.  His hands wandered clumsily over some bottles of soap and oils that were lined up on a table next to a neatly stacked pile of cloths. 

The sounds of light splashing came from the pool, and Chris refused to look.  Instead, he looked at what was in his hand, pretending to read the labels.  Sandalwood, jasmine, mint....  From the corner of his eye he could see pale, naked skin, and he was not this perverted, he would never think anything inappropriate about the Holy Child.  He would not.  He wouldnotwouldnot, and he wasn't yet, because he had more decency than that, but he also had enough sense to know that this was a slippery slope and his libido had led him in the wrong direction more than once, in the past. 

"-Chris?  I'm ready now." 

Ready?  Chris had suspected this was part of his duties, yet surely the priests could see a difference between an old woman and a young man putting their hands on the bare skin of the world's most forbidden virgin. 

"I...apologize," he said, still turned toward the toiletries.  "I don't know what's expected, here.  They didn't tell me..."

"Oh.  There are some cloths there, and some soaps?  That's all you need," JC explained, smiling. 

All he needed was a quick way out of this terrible situation, but he picked up the white cloth from the top of the pile and unfolded it carefully.  Illena probably never made JC wait this long, but Chris could hardly force himself to move as he removed his boots, socks, and pushed up his pants.   Somehow he managed to keep his eyes on the floor while wading out to the middle of the bath where JC was standing, waiting patiently. 

"Um."  He held up the cloth and soap, waving it helplessly in front of JC, whose face wrinkled slightly in confusion, then relaxed.

"I just need washing," he instructed, and let his arms drop to hang loosely at his sides.  Chris nodded and dipped the cloth into the warm water.  He could do this, he told himself, but that didn't still the shake of his hand when he reached out toward the safest thing he could see; JC's shoulder. 

Firm, young flesh.  When Chris wiped in the opposite direction, his thumb skimmed against bare skin and it was unstoppable, the way the heat of the room somehow crawled its way under his skin and into his blood.  Hot.  JC's skin--no, he told himself, the Holy Child's skin-- was already damp and slick from that heat, and Chris could feel his own cock hardening, filling the small space available in his already tight trousers.  There was no way to hide it, and that angered him because he hadn't asked to be here, yet would be blamed in the harshest way for feeling this way.

Quickly, he dragged the cloth across JC's chest, to the other shoulder where he wiped with swift, efficient movements.  "Lift your arms," he said, and JC obeyed to allow Chris to wash the pale, sensitive skin underneath.  When he was finished with that area, JC's nipples were raised into hard little peaks, so he pushed the cloth across those and plunged it back into the water, rinsing with a splash that was perhaps more violent than he'd intended.

The neck was easy, and JC granted access when Chris nudged at his chin, but then there was nowhere to go but down, which was too dangerous in his state of mind.  Instead, he went around to the back, which proved just as dangerous, and for a second Chris couldn't do anything but stand frozen in abject horror.  The Holy Child was not a child at all, and Chris had been foolish to consider him something on a plane above human men.  No, the Holy Child was a man in possession of everything an alluring young man might wish to have.  To make matters worse, when Chris touched the cloth to the firm curve of his buttocks, JC shifted his stance so that his legs were spread further apart, making it clear to Chris what was expected of him. 

Up until that point he had been doing fine, all things considering.  He had been doing fine, but when his soap-slippery hand brought the cloth between JC's legs and his fingers slid into the same crevice, chasing the fragrant suds, Chris' breath hitched and suddenly his own breathing sounded louder than anything else in the small room.  It was panting, really, because there wasn't enough air in the room, only blood, blood that pooled in his face, his groin, rushing beneath the surface and heating him until he was convinced he would burn JC with his touch.  Telling himself that this man was unattainable did no good, because his body was responding to the heavy weight of a cock and balls against his hand, however briefly, and the soft sighs coming from JC, who was probably enjoying this. 

Chris gritted his teeth, and using a firmer stroke, wiped down JC's legs, his feet and then back around to his front.  It was insanity, being forced to play this ridiculous role, and he was foolish!  disgusting! he told himself.  The scolding did nothing to calm the unsteadiness of his movements, which he tried to remedy with quicker, harder swipes. 

JC's belly jumped under his touch, and Chris thought he'd imagined the flinch until he let his eyes flicker up to JC's face, and saw the...not fear exactly, but definitely a guarded apprehension, in his strained features. 

"What?" Chris asked, and it was too loud, too tense and harsh for the situation.  The room was designed to soothe and relax, which was probably why JC had seemed to pleased to announce his bathtime.

"You're angry," JC said slowly.  It was a question, but also an expression of disbelief.  He stepped back and held his hand protectively over his belly where Chris had just washed so roughly.  A pink mark stood out against the otherwise milky canvas.  Chris had put it there.

"No," Chris said quickly, his eyes glued to the bright smudge. "I'm finished," he said, and turned to go, sloshing back through the water.  He climbed the stairs without looking back and hoped JC knew how to dress himself. 

***

JC eventually emerged from the bath chambers, fresh and clean.  His clothing was a different version of the white robes he had worn before, this time embroidered with green at the neckline and sleeves.  He did a good job of ignoring Chris, but it was probably a defense mechanism, not a snub. 

Someone had left a tray of food on the table in the main rooms while Chris and JC had been away.  "Are you hungry?" he asked, and wasn't surprised when JC shook his head and rummaged under his pillow for his small, well-worn prayer book.  

Chris settled back onto his own small bed and prepared for a long stretch of silence, but JC had only been in meditation for a few minutes when he opened his eyes. 

"I never asked whether or not Illena liked bathing me," he said suddenly.  "Or oiling and dressing me, after."  As he thought, his front teeth pressed into his bottom lip over and over again.   "I always thought she liked taking care of me." 

"I'm sure she did." 

"You don't," JC retorted.  Chris had four sisters; he recognized the ruffled tone and closed-off posture.  JC was sulking, but it was borne more out of confusion and hurt feelings.   He had never faced rejection or ridicule, so he didn't know how to handle what had happened.

"Illena was a woman!" Chris argued, then softened his tone.  This was exactly what he'd been afraid of, of course-- that he'd somehow single-handedly spoil or harm the Child in some way.  "I mean, she'd been trained to care for people since she was girl, probably." 

"She had," JC confirmed.

"And I'm a man," Chris continued, relieved by JC's willingness to listen.  "Trained with a sword.  If you hadn't told them I touched you, they'd never have assigned someone with my background to care for you.  But Illena, she was probably honored beyond all reason.  To serve you is a great privilege and if I weren't so unskilled, I'd probably appreciate that privilege a whole lot more." 

"It's only temporary," JC mused.  Chris' words didn't seem to have appeased him in the slightest.  "As soon as Illena's replacement is trained you will have your freedom again."  If anything, he seemed more discontented than before.  "And...I'm a man, too," he whispered.  

Chris studied him carefully, but JC was curled into himself, head ducked down onto his knees.  It felt similar to dealing with one of his sisters when they were in a snit, but Chris knew that candy or a good tickle wouldn't work in this situation.  JC had probably never even been tickled, would probably think he was being attacked, which made Chris a little sad.  Chris was a man driven by mostly instinct, but this time he couldn't go with that instinct, which was to wrap JC up in his arms and show him what friendship felt like, as opposed to the carefully supervised touches that JC was required to dole out to the select few strangers with whom he came into contact.   "I'm sorry I hurt you," he settled for saying.  "It'll never happen again.  I promise."

vi.

JC's tutor was an old, tall gentleman with a stringy beard that reminded Chris of a goat's chin.  His name was Morris, and as far as Chris was concerned, his personality wasn't much better than a goat either.  Today's studies were in map-reading and strategy, something in which Chris found himself taking an interest.  JC didn't seem to need the lessons at all; he kept finishing the puzzles Morris created for him in only a few minutes, which seemed to irritate his teacher.  Chris liked it when people were irritated, so the whole thing was highly entertaining to watch, especially since he suspected that JC was aware of how his actions affected the old man. 

"Strategy!" Morris boomed out, every few minutes.  "A battle can only be won by strategy, son."  He pushed a document toward JC and tapped a long, bony finger on the small red dots.  "See what you can make of this."

JC, ever agreeable, tucked his legs up underneath himself and took the document.  It made for a charming picture, JC's slim fingers tapping at the paper while his mouth worked the problem silently.  Chris watched for as long as he thought acceptable, and then turned a dubious eye on Morris.

"What does he need to know about battles?" Chris asked.  Better they should teach JC about the basic rules of living.  About people, and what they do outside these walls.  

"He should know a little of everything, of course."

Chris gave him a long look before muttering, in shades softer than he would have preferred, "Yes, he should." 

vii. 

"I've never worn pants," JC said one evening, just after dinner. 

Chris had begun writing a letter to Lance, but he pushed the paper aside.  This had the potential to be more interesting than the idle news he'd been relating to his friend because JC never said anything that wasn't going somewhere specific. 

"No?" he encouraged. 

"No."  JC gazed over the soft suede of Chris' pants, then frowned down at his own white robes.  "I've always wondered..."  Thoughtfully, he lifted the pair Chris had lain out for tomorrow from where they hung on the back of a chair.  "Can I?" he asked Chris, who shrugged.  JC was already petting the soft fabric the way he loved to pet his furs.  The priests should either buy him a pet or allow him more human contact, Chris thought, because the need was there even if no one recognized it.  

Feigning indifference, Chris returned to his letter as JC stripped off his robes and donned the unfamiliar pants, fumbling clumsily at the fastenings.  When the final ties had been tightened, JC approached the mirror that covered nearly the entire south wall. 

Chris lay his pen on the desk. 

JC posed in front of the mirror shyly at first, then brought himself up to his full height.  He must have liked what he saw because his face lit up and his hands went to his hips, smoothing over the lines of his hips and thighs, which were now hugged by the fine fabric.

"Feels nice," he whispered, not taking his eyes from his reflection, even as one hand wandered to the front of his pants, skimming over the slight bulge of his penis.  Changing his stance, he did it again and Chris noticed that when he brought his hand away, the shape of him was firm and noticeable beneath the fabric.

 "I look like you," JC said, and Chris didn't know what to make of where his gaze was fixed when he said it. 

He tried to reply, but the words stuck in his throat.  On the second try, he only ended up saying, "You need a belt."  What he'd wanted to say was that JC looked nothing like him, outside the basic concept of arms and legs, fingers and toes.  JC was unassumingly elegant with a sweet, handsome face and eyes so bright they didn't seem real.  Even if Chris had been born the Holy Child, they probably wouldn't have painted his likeness thousands of times over. 

"I do," JC agreed.  The pants had slid down on his hips far enough that the line of hair below his belly button was exposed and somehow he looked more naked standing here in these unsuitable pants than he had in the bath.  As though he could hear Chris' thoughts, his hand went to the bare skin of his belly and covered the expanse with his outspread palm.  "They probably won't let me wear these," he sighed.  He did a complete turn and looked back over his shoulder at his reflection. 

"Probably not.  But why would you even want to..."  Chris stopped.  Real men wore pants, and robes such as these were reserved for priests, judges, invalids.  It was as though a robe were meant to prepare a man for a dull, uneventful life. 

"I'm more like you than I am like them," JC said.  He walked over to where Chris' sword where it rested on the table.  For a moment Chris thought he would draw it out, but his long fingers simply skimmed over the hilt with hesitation.

"You can hold it if you want," Chris offered.  JC's face held such an expression of jumbled longing, Chris wasn't sure JC even knew what he wanted. 

"I- no," JC said, but his hand returned to the sword.  "Maybe if you..."  He looked to Chris, all deep imploring blue, and it was like a blow to the stomach because Chris realized now why he had trouble looking JC in the eye.  It wasn't reverence or respect that kept him at a distance, but the pure need that JC exuded.  The Holy Child himself seemed oblivious to it, but Chris had caught it displayed so clearly on JC's face on more than one occasion.  Chris knew his own weaknesses, and that look--that want, underlain with such desperation-- was one of them.

 "Maybe," he said, and took the sword out of JC's hand, placed it out of his reach, "we should get you back in your own clothes."  

***

JC liked to play games.  Chris would hear him talking aloud to himself, and whenever he approached he would inevitably become sucked into the game or the songs JC liked to make up about the people he blessed.  Sometimes, Chris contemplated singing for JC one of the many songs he'd written for the Vessel himself, as offerings, but he always shoved the notion away as being foolish.  In the past, he'd always assumed his songs were not even near being worthy of the Holy Child, but now that he knew JC it was even more so, only...different.  

Chris could have written a whole new song about JC's gentle nature and dedication to learning, and an entire contata about his beautiful eyes, softly curved lips and the pale, lean limbs he kept hidden under the yards of fabric of his robes.  JC deserved everything, which was why it was so unsettling when Chris overheard him reciting an impromptu story of an epic journey, with details so topsy-turvy that it almost seemed a joke. 

"What are you saying?" he asked curiously.  

"Just a story," JC smiled, drumming his fingers on the window.  Watching the world from the window was one of his favorite things to do...it was just such a small view.  

"A story about an ocean with grassy banks?"  

"I...is it not so?"  

The ocean was just a half day's journey from the mountain.  "No," Chris replied.  "The ocean is banked by the beach; sand that's cool and wet at night, hot and dry during the day."  

"Oh," JC said, nodding as though he understood.  "I know sand.  I have a tutor that teaches me of all the stones, minerals and such.  Sand, you can put your fingers in it."  He seemed pleased with the memory, and Chris could imagine him making the discovery, thrilled as he let the sand trickle through his fingers for the first time.  

"And feet," Chris grinned.  "And bury your friends while they're sleeping."  

JC looked away from the window, startled, before a slow, sly smile crept over his face.  "I'll have to include that in my next story," he said.  "And perhaps it will be you who is buried."  

viii.

"I didn't know this was so important," Chris apologized again.  In truth, he probably would have balked at the task even if he'd understood its importance, but it gave him something to say as JC undressed in the corner.

The priests had come to Chris earlier that day demanding to know why he hadn't properly oiled the Vessel after his baths, why the vials of oil had been still full when they had gone to replace them.  He tried to defend himself, to explain that he'd warned them he wasn't right for the job, but they had years of school on him and were wickedly clever with words.  They'd admonished him loudly and thoroughly, and in front of JC, which had bothered Chris more than all the rest of it.  JC had simply stood and watched as though he were watching nothing more than a sunset from his lofty window.  It wasn't right, this removal of his humanity, but Chris had watched him do it day after day, changing into an idol of holiness when they wanted it and then back into his own uncertain, curious self when he was left alone.   Through gritted teeth, Chris had promised to do better at his job and the priests had gone to prepare new baths, which brought Chris to his current task. 

"It's all right," JC said, but he was much slower to disrobe than he had been last time.  When his robes were gone, he folded them as before and waded in again, this time sitting on the edge of the pool, his legs submerged in the calm waters.  Chris took the vial of oil and held the slight weight of it in his hand, carrying it with him as he joined JC, approaching with caution. 

"You don't need to use a lot," JC instructed before Chris could even ask.  His voice was low and anxious, and his hands fluttered nervously around before finally coming to rest on the edge of the pool, where they gripped tightly.  "Just spread it on my skin, and..." he bit at his lip, stopping himself, but Chris understood.

"I'll be careful this time," he promised, and poured some oil into his hand.  "I didn't mean to hurt you, before." 

"It's fine," JC said, but his body stayed tense as Chris smoothed his hands first over his shoulders and then down his arms.  The purpose was to anoint, but Chris tried to make it pleasant for him. 

"Your face?" he asked, pausing, and JC shook his head, keeping his eyes downcast, away from what Chris was doing.  He seemed...upset, but Chris couldn't tell.  Without those expressive eyes, he couldn't gauge the situation, and it made him hesitate, worrying.  "What's wrong?" he asked.  "Isn't this how Illena did it?" 

"It is," JC assured him, shifting where he sat.  "I'm- I don't know," he admitted.  "It's different.  I don't feel right." 

"Oh," Chris said.  Maybe JC was talking about the fact that he'd gotten hard when Chris had begun touching him.  "But, I'm sure that's happened before, sometimes?" he said, trying to sound encouraging.  JC was accustomed to being bathed by others. 

"Sometimes."  JC nodded, so Chris stepped back and quickly ran his hands down the line of JC's arms, then poured some more oil, which he smoothed onto the smooth skin of his chest.  A few fat drops got away from him, racing downward in fragrant streams, and mindful to not waste any, Chris chased them to JC's belly.  With careful fingers he caught them while avoiding contact with the erection that rose from between JC's legs. 

Chris couldn't help looking, no matter how briefly.  It was big; bigger than his own but not moreso than Lance's, which Chris had always teased Lance about but secretly admired.  It was hard to concentrate because the air in this room was so wet and warm, it fogged his brain with its thick, humid perfume and made it difficult to be reasonable.  Beneath his touch, JC trembled, his eyes closed as though he were suffering through this, so Chris sighed and tried to hurry things along.  JC's thighs were slender and smooth to the touch, and the way Chris' hands fit over them felt wonderful.  He ran his hands up and down, first soft and then harder, massaging the tense muscles with his thumbs. 

The room was strangely quiet except for the occasional splashing of Chris' feet, and Chris thought suddenly that JC had been right, it did feel wrong, because how could he be expected to be here with this warm, slick, naked young man and not want to pull him down into the water and do more?  Whenever Chris had his hands on the flawless, bare skin of another person he was accustomed to letting them roam where they wanted, searching out all the secret, sensitive places, and it was an act of great will for him to keep them on track this time, going only where they were permitted and nowhere else.  

It was like a song.  Every flex of his hands resulted in some tiny, perfect reaction, and Chris was losing himself in it, no longer merely spreading oil; he was giving pleasure here, and taking pleasure in the resulting sighs.  To cover JC with oil and then wrap him back up again seemed cruel and wasteful, so Chris methodically stroked the pads of his fingers down JC's thighs and up, over and over again, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest. 

JC huffed out a wet shock of breath, as quick and unexpected as the way his body jerked, suddenly curling forward.  Chris couldn't know what it meant, didn't know until it was too late- wet heat dripping onto his wrist- and when he looked down, the indescribable throb of JC's cock that quickly dwindled to a faint pulse. 

"Oh," JC breathed. His eyes were wide and terrified, glittering with emotion as he stared down first at himself and then at Chris, who knew that he probably mirrored JC's shocked expression. 

"It's all right," Chris attempted gently.  His hands were still gripping JC's thighs.  "Yes," he insisted when JC began to shake his head no.  "It is," Chris assured him, though his insides were trembling with apprehension.  His hands stayed where they were even as his gaze was drawn to the thick cock, the smooth head smeared with semen.  Hot arousal and cold shame rolled through Chris' belly in equal parts. 

"It was too much," JC choked, still shaking his head.  "Too..."  He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands, damp curls wrapping around his fingers. Chris didn't stop him. 

ix.

Chris was utterly sick as he prepared for bed, unable to even think about what he'd done.  In addition to his queasy stomach was a tightness in his throat that suggested he might cry, which he hadn't done in years--months, if he counted his disappointment when Joey had taken the position in the army.  No, he refused to cry, mostly because  JC seemed confused enough; the last thing he needed was for Chris to give him further proof that something terrible had happened.  Still, he couldn't bear the awkward, oppressive air that had settled over the room, and it was his responsibility to piece back together the order he'd found when he'd first come here to serve.

"I want a blessing," he mumbled, and went to his knees.  "please." 

JC kissed the palm of his own hand and pressed it to Chris' shoulder, then bent down to whisper a tremulous "peace," into the top of Chris' head.  The blessing surprised Chris, who had been expecting something like "forgiveness," and he stumbled backwards, nodding his thanks.               

x. 

"I wish you could stay here always," JC said the next day.  He'd just spent six hours in meditation and seemed as peaceful as he ought to be. 

Chris, despite the blessing, had found no such peace.  "I'm not a fitting caregiver for you," he pointed out.  His stomach hurt.

"Not as a caregiver."  JC remained stubborn. 

"As what, then?" 

"What other ways are there?"

Chris paused.  "For us?" he said slowly, and dropped his gaze to the fine hem of JC's robe.  "none." 

xi.

The priests came in the morning to check on JC.  To JC, they were pleasant, but Chris received several more harsh warnings and admonitions before they left.  They were still angry about his earlier mistake, though if they knew of all the mistakes he'd made, the omission of a bath would probably seem like a trifle.  Being the object of such disdain made him even more hot-blooded than he already tended to be, and he spent the afternoon pacing the length of the Vessel's quarters, dressed in full uniform.  Back and forth he paced, his boots pounding out a steady, punishing rhythm on the floor, and he knew full well that it was making JC uncomfortable. 

Part of what bothered Chris was the way he himself had been so foolishly optimistic about this job--that is, the original job as a guard for which he'd been hired.  He'd thought of it as his chance to be like Joey and to show his mother that he, too, could be a hero.  Or, at the very least that he was capable of bringing in a steady paycheck.  Instead, here he was being harangued and snubbed by his superiors because he couldn't do a simple job.  The vague nagging feeling of missing Lance returned full-force, and he finally settled himself by sitting down at the desk to write a letter to his dear friend.  If he couldn't talk to Lance, then at least he could write him, complain about this mad situation in some form.  Setting his pen to paper was usually soothing, but when Chris began, his hand moved in quick, brutal strokes as he spelled out the details of the past several days.

JC approached quietly and Chris ignored him until he set something on the corner of the desk.  It made a small clinking sound when he set it down, and Chris glanced over at the object, not pausing in his writing.  He did see it, though, the small sculpture of a goat with wide eyes and a scruffy beard.  He didn't want it, and skin crawling with irritation, he glared up at JC, who wore a hesitantly brave smile.  "Strategy!" JC bleated, and Chris blinked at him, then back at the goat before he realized that this was an attempt at comedy, and not a bad one at that.  He just hadn't expected it from JC.  He hadn't expected a lot from JC. 

This, however, this was too precious.  JC was blatantly mocking, an act unquestionably contrary to what he'd been taught, and all for Chris' sake.  And it was pretty damn funny, too.   Who'd have thought that JC, the pure one, would also see an old goat when he looked at his tutor?   The tension that had held Chris' temples in a vice of pain all day was released as his face relaxed into a smile.  A startled chuckle escaped, then another and another until he put his pen down on the table and folded his paper in half.  He didn't mean half the things on the page, anyhow. 

JC didn't join in his laughter; he just stood awkwardly to the side of the desk with his eyes downcast, the barest hint of a smile on his lips.  To Chris, it appeared like one of his young sisters bringing the offering of a gift and waiting to see if he liked it or not.  It was a touching effort to raise Chris' spirits, something Chris wasn't sure he deserved.

 "You're full of surprises," he said, and touched JC's hand lightly.  JC drew away from the touch, but stayed nearby.

"So are you," he murmured, his eyes on his bare feet.  So long as he hovered nearby, Chris didn't go back to his letter-writing.  He waited it out until JC's rapid, nervous breathing slowed enough to speak, a low, unsteady, "Chris." 

"Yes?" Chris asked, but he knew exactly where this was going. 

"May I ask you something?" 

"Of course." 

"What happened in the baths, is that...does it..."  JC rubbed his forehead, as though the thoughts just wouldn't release themselves from his tangled mind.  "Does it have something to do with why they wanted to take that painting from my room?" 

Oh, gods in heaven.  Chris froze, though he probably shouldn't have been surprised that JC had made the connection.  "I think so, yes," he admitted, and JC seemed almost disappointed by the answer.

"You know what happened to me?" 

"If you don't already know, then I can't...I shouldn't.  It's not my place, your Holiness." 

"Don't call me that."  His hand scrubbed roughly at the back of his neck as though the name were an irritating insect, an itch to scratch away.  He'd gone serious, almost angry, and Chris didn't blame him.  He would be angry, too.  "Please," JC begged.  "Just tell me." 

Chris clasped his hands together on the desk, but kept a sharp eye on JC.  "What exactly do you want to know?" 

"I.."  JC shook his head, dazed.  "I don't even know what questions to ask."   Chris sympathized, but rather than give up what JC wanted to know, he tapped his pen on the paper, feigning boredom when boredom was the furthest thing from the truth as he watched JC struggle to find his questions.  JC had all the command in the world at his disposal, and Chris' breathing went shallow as he waited to see if JC would discover and wield that power. 

He didn't find it.  Remaining oblivious to his own authority, he abandoned the search for the perfect line of questioning and blurted, "In the baths I was- it felt like I was coming apart!  And I saw your face, Chris, you were afraid.  You're still afraid," he added.