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.



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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.