Work Text:
Every time I close my eyes
Someone else's paradise
Turns me into someone new, somewhere
“Men…always taking everything.”
He remembers Amanda muttering this under her breath, and the Connor-of-then, still foolish enough to question her, had asked what she meant. She explained that the temple once belonged to the goddess and the women who devoted themselves to her, and now it stands as a shell of itself, populated by male priests, the current king’s only concession being the three triplet girls who acted in lieu of the goddess during festivals. Connor wonders if his goddess does not love him, if men taking things has left a well of hatred within her. He hopes she is as merciful as they say, because the silent prayer writhing in his mind is begging for his life to mean something.
For him to be chosen.
The head priest, Elijah, climbs onto the pulpit. All of the men (just out of boyhood, just barely) have been kneeling for hours, legs long since gone numb. He recites a long and important passage from the old teachings, (as they have since been recorded by The Men), but Connor can barely take in the words. All he can hear is the please, please, please within him and it is so all-consuming that he doesn’t register his own name.
“Connor.” It’s harsh and cutting and his head snaps up at the admonishment. Because it is one. Everyone is glaring. His mouth is dry, and everyone is looking at him, and Elijah is waiting for him to do something. They all are.
“Yes?” He croaks. Someone snickers. Elijah’s lips quirk at the corners.
“You’ve been chosen to serve. You are the most favored of the chosen. Perhaps you listen better to Her than us?”
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, oh.” He bows so low his forehead presses against the ground and his knees prickle at the joints.
“Connor,” Elijah says again. His ears burn. Say something. Say something.
“I am–“ his voice cracks and wavers so he starts again, “I am honored to be chosen. It is my life’s purpose, my calling. To – to accept the greatest of honors is all I could hope for.” He knows now that he has ruined this moment for Amanda. These words have fallen from his mouth in perfect meter hundreds of times before, and now he chokes and stumbles over them. This is the honor she has been waiting for and Connor is embarrassing her. He’s not even sure if this is what he was supposed to say.
Most favored.
Elijah says, “The Goddess accepts you,” and moves on to the next man. Only two others are chosen, men who Connor has grown up with, called John and Shaolin. They are favored, but they are not the most favored, and he holds on to that as he is finally allowed to rise from his knees – shakily – and meet Amanda’s eyes across the temple. He thinks she looks pleased, or something like it.
When he is finally allowed to break from the line, she says, “I’m very proud of you, Connor,” and he thinks if this is the last thing she ever says to him, he would die happy. But then she says, “Your stuttering is appalling. I hope it ceases should you ever make it to the pulpit yourself.” She hugs him. He doesn’t know whether to apologize or thank her, so he does neither, and when she parts from him, he’s almost glad.
***
Elijah thinks Connor is beautiful.
It’s not something he thinks about others often, nor is it something he indulges (he is not allowed to, but that has not stopped many of his brothers), but Connor is – lovely. Elijah has known of Connor for many years; he is a regular attendant to every mass prayer or celebration, and along with his mother Amanda, he prays daily at the Goddess’ feet. Elijah himself does not stand watch over the temple except during services, but on one occasion, he did catch Connor alone. Ever a good disciple of Her word, he bowed deeply before Elijah and only rose when commanded.
“Connor, isn’t it?”
“Yes, your Holiness.”
“Your mother is not with you, today.”
“No, she is tending to my brother. He has…” he struggled with the words for a moment, “He is ill.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him at our temple.”
Connor wrung his hands. “No, no, you haven’t. He lives– elsewhere. Doing Her work. He’s very dutiful.”
“Ah. First son to the cloth, then. And you?”
“Also…to the cloth, ideally.” He looked everywhere but Elijah’s face as he approached, the sharp angles of his shoulders becoming clear as he straightened his posture and ducked his head at once. “My mother – my mother has trained me in Her ways all my life, and – and–“ He quieted abruptly as Elijah placed a hand on his head. “Your– your Holiness–“
Connor prayed at odd hours. It was why Elijah had caught him at all, the sky half-dark, half-fire. They were alone. Elijah cupped his chin and tugged his face up into the warm light of the sconce beside them. “The Goddess has blessed you,” he said.
“Th–thank you–“
Elijah didn’t kiss him. Elijah caught his lip between his teeth and tore. Connor gasped and pulled away, blood spilling down his chin. Elijah had to keep himself from smiling, tried to stop the quirking of his lips, and licked the blood off his teeth. “I expect to see you at morning prayer, Connor.” He turned away and returned to his quarters, glancing over only once he had ascended the stairs, to see Connor standing there, still clutching his face.
So when Connor presents himself in a long line of young men, Elijah already knows who among them is most favored. Connor, whose pale skin held the crooked scar so dutifully, who attended that morning’s prayer with poultice on his lip, will, without a doubt, be his apprentice. It is by chance, and chance only, that he is the best among his peers as well.
What is not by chance is the mark on his neck.
The final part of initiation into the order is the burning away of the soul mark. None of the warrior priests are permitted to marry, and the existence of a mark designating one's soulmate threatens this law. In the old times – not so long ago – the priestesses could live as servants to their goddess and partners to their soulmates. Now, this is considered blasphemous, and as Elijah stands over Connor, clutching the branding iron, he wishes they had been born two generations earlier. When Connor screams, when his flesh boils beneath white-hot metal, Elijah tells himself: Well, at least he has the scar. Because his soul mark? The smattering of triangles at the nape of his neck? It is a perfect match to Elijah’s.
Connor cries, and Elijah hushes him, placing that too-heavy hand on his head before Simon coaxes him from the floor and ushers him out.
***
Connor is assigned to Elijah. It should make him happy. Instead his gut feels like curdling milk on a warm day. He stands beside the entrance to the temple bath, towels stacked in his arms, awaiting Elijah’s appearance. This is the first bath he has attended for his mentor, but he is not a week into his training and knows there will be more. When Elijah arrives, sparing him hardly more than a glance, Connor’s stomach drops.
He follows Elijah into the bath, placing the towels in their designated dish before kneeling at the edge of the water. Elijah tells him to wash his hair. Connor marvels at the feeling of the thick hair oil, poured from a dark bottle formed of glass. He can’t help but appreciate the scent, inhaling deeply as he cups it in his hands. Elijah looks over his shoulder with that almost-smile on his face. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
Connor glances away, warmth prickling across his nose. “Yes it – it is.”
“There’s no shame in appreciating what we have. In fact, I believe many here have begun to overlook the gifts they see daily. It is something all men fall prey to.” When Connor doesn’t say anything, he continues. “The oil is made of sandalwood and orange rinds. Please,” he nods to the stream of oil spilling from the crack between Connor’s palms. Again flustered, he sets to scrubbing Elijah’s hair, later rinsing it out with vinegar, scent so sharp it burns his nose. Elijah washes the rest of his body on his own (and Connor thanks the Goddess for it–), but it is Connor who towels him down, and his fingers grow stiff and trembling with the effort of diverting his thoughts from the act. Elijah is trained as a warrior priest – Connor’s life purpose – and his muscles are cut with the fine detail of a sculpture (of one of the idols relegated to the temple’s basement, something from the time Before).
“Connor.”
He startles and looks up from where he is knelt, drying the back of Elijah’s knees. “Your Holiness?”
“I’d like for you to deliver a message to Rupert for me, after we’re done.”
“Of course,” he says, though he has no idea who Rupert is yet.
***
The burn at the base of his neck still prickles. Mostly it itches, but scratching it results in searing pain, so Connor has to settle for rolling his shoulders in the hopes of folding the skin just enough to soothe the discomfort. It doesn’t really work, but the soothing ointment he’s been given is still in his room, and he stands now at the edge of the temple courtyard, message in his mouth.
Only one priest tends the sacred peafowl, great birds of pure-white coloring that represent the Goddess’ divine power. Connor’s never been sure he understands that, but it’s not his place to ask. It will never be his place to ask. He spies movement amongst the broad-leafed plants at the edge of the reflecting pool and a man not much older than him shuffles out. His shape is round and a little hunched. He looks…soft. Kind. Perhaps a bit meek. Connor approaches him and smiles, and Rupert does as well, but it falters quickly when he speaks. “Rupert? I have a message from his Holiness.”
He twirls his finger through the cord at the waist of his robe.
“You are to deliver the finest of the sacred birds to the altar this evening.”
Rupert mouth falls into a grimace, teeth half-bared. “I see.”
Connor wants to ask him about the birds. Connor wants to pet one. Elijah said they are trained, they can be touched, their slim necks smooth and soft when stroked. But Rupert isn’t happy, and he’s glaring at Connor because Connor is just standing there, not doing anything, so he smiles and bows and turns away.
***
Connor has never seen the sacrifice of a peafowl. Such a thing is rare, and seldom observed by those outside the temple itself. Tonight, the entire village has gathered, many carrying torches that glow warm and amber in the night. Connor looks for Amanda in the crowd, and assumes she must be there, but he cannot find her. Most of the faces are obscured by darkness, the forms of what should be his extended family shifting and fading into shadows. In his arms, the peafowl writhes, its legs bound and beak covered with cloth and tied. It pushes against his chest and he wonders at how strong it becomes in its fear. But he mustn’t drop it, and as the priests approach with the sacred python, he clutches the bird ever tighter.
One of the older priests, Simon, leads the procession, the front of the snake curling over his arms. Behind him walk John and Shaolin, each carrying another portion of the snake. The latter half of the snake is carried by the three identical sisters who tend it. It is relatively still, but it lifts its head as it passes Connor and tastes the air. He feels its gaze boring into him as its head tilts to the side, though more than likely it is looking for its meal. Elijah recites a prayer as they lower the serpent into the pit below the altar, all limestone cracked and softened by rain. It is deep enough that the python cannot escape without assistance, and Rupert has clipped the peafowl’s wings so it will remain trapped until it is devoured.
Elijah calls Connor forward and he releases the peacock below. It is male, with brilliantly clean plumage that spreads in a glorious halo behind it. It screeches and dances around the python, pecking and clawing at it. Elijah chants the same string of words over and over. The serpent loops and curls, snapping forward to catch the bird’s middle.
The fight is lost.
Solid muscle twists, scales traveling in hypnotic motion as its body tightens, loops in on itself, the peafowl’s frantic writhing falling into twitching and finally stillness. Elijah’s prayer rises into a shout of glee, and the onlookers with him, as it turns to swallow the bird’s head. Thoroughly dead, now, the service continues on with further prayer, devotees coming forward to whisper their woes and wishes to the snake. Connor’s eyes are on the knot of bodies at the center of the pit, the serpent’s jaw unhinging, feathery abdomen disappearing as the snake’s body accommodates it, grotesque and distended. He can feel the bile rising at the back of his throat, its misshapen form making something roil in his gut. Food is brought out, and Connor must leave Elijah’s side to assist the other acolytes. He would be glad if the sight of glistening meat, slick with its own fat, didn't remind him of the half-swallowed thing in the pit. After all the attendees have processed down the line, he realizes that he did not see Amanda.
***
Elijah sits with his head in his hands. Connor is waiting outside the door, he knows, to do whatever it is Elijah requires of him next. He doesn’t…he doesn’t want to see Connor right now. Simon had sought him out, whispering that a devotee named Amanda wished to speak with him, and Elijah obliged, if only because of her connection to Connor. He almost regrets it now; Connor delivers his less pleasant missives for a reason. Perhaps it is a cruelty to his charge, but he would rather spend a moment reassuring Connor that he works in service to the Goddess than comfort a bawling woman over the death of her husband.
He sighs. “Connor, come in, please.”
Ah.
Now Connor is standing in front of him, waiting.
He sighs again.
“Your mother spoke to me a short time ago. She wished…” He trails off. Already Connor is running his thumb across his knuckles, squeezing his hands tight when he notices Elijah’s shifting attention. He knows Connor has spent his entire life in training to become a priest. He does not know what he has paid for it with, besides a bloody mouth. “She wished to inform you that your brother has passed away.”
Connor says, “Oh. I see.” His hands squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze. Python and peafowl.
“If you would like to speak about it, I am here,” he says, though he’d rather not.
“I understand.” The tips of his fingers are white, the nails deep red.
“He served another temple, yes?”
“He did.”
“Were you close?”
“No.”
Elijah chews the inside of his lip. “Your mother said it was his illness. You told me something similar in the past.”
“When we first spoke,” he clarifies. “When you–“ He cuts himself off, hands still clasped around one another, reddening. “He’s dead.” Connor gives in to wringing his hands, and it’s almost a relief. He collapses into the chair before Elijah’s desk. “I haven’t seen him in almost ten years.”
“I’m sorry. He’s in the Goddess’ arms now.” Connor nods and says nothing else, so Elijah says, “Why don’t you take the rest of the day?”
“I can–“ he chokes on the words before he gets them out.
“Take the rest of the day. And…from what I understand, Rupert lost his sister some time ago. Perhaps you would like to speak with him, when you are able.”
Connor remains seated for a few moments, before gathering himself and walking out. He forgets to bow. Elijah decides to forgive it.
***
Elijah shouldn’t like his baths as much as he does. Previously, they served as a respite from the day to day, wherein he allowed himself to put aside the responsibilities which plagued him and rest. Now, though, it is a time during which he is tended by his favorite. Connor is hesitant with his touches, evidently unused to the act and easily flustered. Initially, Elijah only required him to wash his hair, and Elijah would take care of himself. Today, he would like for Connor to wash the rest of him.
“Connor.” (He always likes to start with his name, likes to feel it roll off his tongue.)
“Your Holiness?” He is knelt beside the pool, arms damp from washing Elijah’s hair.
Elijah gestures to the oil he prefers to use on his body. “Bathe me, please.”
Connor falters. It’s been four days since his brother died. Perhaps it’s unfair of Elijah to use him like this, but he wants this, and that takes precedent.
“Why don’t you get in the water? You can take off your robes. Wouldn’t want to get them wet.” Elijah has seen Connor nude, once, during the initiation ritual. The lights were dim in the temple, and all Elijah could see was that his skin was pale and unblemished. Now, as Connor does as he is advised (he always does), he can see the smattering of freckles that cross his shoulders and chest and trail down his stomach, his groin, his slim legs. He steps into the water, a soft exhale escaping. “Warm, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t meet Elijah’s gaze, but picks up the oil. The acolytes aren’t permitted to use this bath, nor are the other priests; it is sourced from a spring and the water is always warm. It is Elijah’s and Elijah’s only.
Connor starts at his neck and shoulders, scrubbing his hand over the long-healed scar at the base of his neck. He pauses there and runs his hand over it again. “It’s the same place as mine,” he says.
Elijah hums and trails his finger up Connor’s back, starting at the base of his spine and ending at his scar. His eyes widen and he shudders beneath the touch.
“Your Holi–“
“It is.” Elijah rubs at the mark. “I saw yours, during the ritual.”
“Oh.” He is frozen in place.
Elijah shouldn’t do this. But Elijah wants this. Elijah wants, and wants, and wants. And Elijah is the only one in the whole temple who is permitted to act on anything without permission, and he’s a little miffed that he’s not allowed the one thing his Goddess will never permit. (And anyway, once upon a time, she did). He says, “We have the same soul mark.”
“N…no. No. That’s not right.”
“I’m the only one who could tell you for certain.”
Connor pulls away from him, silent for a moment. “Did you know? Before. When you…” He raises a trembling hand and touches his lip. “Did you know?”
He considers his options:
I knew the Goddess had chosen you long ago.
I knew we were soulmates, or we had to be. I couldn’t look away from you.
I didn’t know anything but your beauty.
“No,” he says, “but I knew we had to be something. I couldn’t look away from you.” He reaches out to Connor again, and he lets Elijah draw his hands around his neck and feel the mark, but he’s stiff and staring down at the water. “Con–“
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he interrupts. “It doesn’t. We’re not allowed. The laws say we’re not allowed.”
“I know the laws. What do you feel ?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are fixed on the wavering image of his feet, until, slowly, he draws them up to look Elijah in the face. It starts as a slight motion, the way he shakes his head, but it grows more violent until he is tearing Elijah’s hands from him and backing out of the water, gathering up his robes and throwing them on even though they cling to his skin (and oh how they cling– ) as he rushes out the door. He leaves his mentor to bathe himself, question unanswered. Elijah isn’t certain if he will forgive it.
***
Connor sits himself down at a bench. The action is preceded by several painfully long moments (perhaps even minutes) wherein he stood at the courtyard’s edge, waiting for someone to appear and tell him he would be allowed to sit. No one does, and his heart is still pounding in his chest from the hours he spent tending Elijah in silence this morning. His Holiness won’t speak to him, except to direct him to do this or that, and it’s tremendously painful. He thought perhaps the entire thing had been a test, Elijah pushing him to break the most sacred of laws on the basis that he was meant to, and now – now he is being punished for holding to his beliefs. How could he spend the rest of his life at this temple after breaking the laws so early? He would be ruined. Or he thought that would be the case, but every ticking second of Elijah’s silence feels like lightning in his bones and, and –
He inhales a shaky breath.
It’s been six days.
He lets himself cry.
It’s a while before he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. When he wipes the tears from his eyes, he sees that it’s Rupert.
He offers a slight smile. “Can I sit?” He waits for Connor to nod before sitting beside him. For a long time they stay like that, watching the peafowl peck at the dirt and fluff their feathers. When Connor’s hiccups quiet to sniffling, Rupert says, “Is it Eli?”
Eli?
“No,” he answers quickly. A why would it be nearly follows, but he stuffs it to the back of his throat and says, “I lost my…my brother.” His core trembles with the effort of keeping his breathing even.
Rupert nods sagely. “So shortly after you entered the temple. I’m sorry.”
“I haven’t, um…” he trails off, swallows tears. He sighs and rubs his eyes.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
He thinks of Elijah prying answers from him in his study. Rupert doesn’t, and eventually, the tension ebbs into a comfortable silence. One of the peafowl, a female, piebald blue-green and white, nears. She scratches at the ground and snatches up a grub. Rupert digs some dried grains from his pocket and holds out his hand. Connor watches her eat.
“Would you like to pet her?” Again, he waits for Connor’s little nod, and pours some of the grains into his palm. The peafowl shifts her attention to Connor and pecks at her food. “The white ones are favored, but…some of them go deaf. I’m hoping she won’t, you know? She might never be an honored sacrifice, but,” he lowers his voice, “I think that’s alright. Here.” He reaches out and strokes her head. “Like this.”
Connor mimics the motion with his free hand, and she leans into it. Rupert sits back and watches them, expression softening. Connor thinks he likes this, the comfortable quiet, the leaves rustling as the peafowl pass through them. He thinks he likes it better than feeding them to the snake. Eventually the bird loses interest and shuffles away.
“Ah,” Rupert sighs, “it’s a shame you're Eli’s apprentice. You would be wonderful with the birds.” He seems to realize what he’s said a moment too late and clarifies, “I mean – you were best among your peers. The Goddess smiles on you.”
“So she does,” he answers, and spends the rest of the night sitting in the garden, even after Rupert has gone.
***
Solid wood collides with his nose. Something cracks and warm blood bursts forth, pouring down his chin and into the back of his throat. He tries to beg a reprieve, but Elijah strikes him again with the staff, the side of it slamming into his ribs and sending him reeling sideways.
“Defend yourself,” he says, but Connor is raising his own staff in front of him, forearms shielding his face. “Connor.” The scuffing of bare feet on sand drops to silence, and Connor loosens his guard enough to peer out at Elijah. He lowers his staff and holds out a hand. “Let me see your nose.”
He hesitates before dropping his arms. His eyes burn and a solid line across his face stings. Elijah cups his chin. (Always, holding his face while he bleeds.) “I’m sorry,” Connor says.
“For what?” Elijah tilts his head so the blood pours down his throat. He swallows it.
He’s still trying to catch his breath, everything in his mouth metallic and slimy. “For this. For the…for the bath.” It’s been over a week, and Elijah has warmed to him since, but everything feels different and off-kilter.
Elijah hums. “You don’t like when I ignore you, hm?”
He pushes into Elijah’s hand so more of the blood flows out his nose rather than his throat. The corners of Elijah’s lips quirk as they do when Connor pleases him. The touch burns, though, and he can’t remember if it felt like this before he knew of the mark. “No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shirked my duties so.”
“I wanted you to answer me.”
He tries to tuck his chin away but Elijah holds fast. He could hit him, could run off as he did before, but it’s searing a hole in his skin and he doesn’t know if he wants it to stop. “I’m afraid,” he says, and he hates how afraid cracks like a twig in his mouth. Elijah strokes his cheek, and it’s gentle, too gentle, and he’d almost rather another strike of the staff.
“You may call me Elijah, when we are alone.” He releases Connor’s face and steps back. “Now, I want you to defend yourself, properly. You can’t be afraid to hurt me.” He circles Connor, staff poised. “You were quick to defend during the examination, but seldom struck your peers with significant force. I know you can do it.”
Back when Connor trained with his brother, they were allowed to use full contact. But he grew up, and left, and then it was just Connor and Amanda, and he was never allowed to hurt her. She could hurt him, and he had to defend himself or else . But sometimes she wanted to hurt him, she needed to punish him, and preventing that only brought her rage down on him all the harder. He assumed Elijah wanted to hurt him, and he thinks he was right. He apologized, and now he’s been given permission to protect himself.
The next round, he does better holding his own against Elijah, and eventually the dizzying stream of blood stops on its own, though it leaves Connor lightheaded and nauseous. He sidesteps a blow and grabs Elijah’s staff, tugging it forward and sending him off balance. Connor uses the opportunity to stumble out of the ring and vomit blood.
Elijah’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “Perhaps we should stop for the day.”
“I can–"
“No,” he interrupts, “You can’t.”
Elijah brings Connor to his bath to clean up. It feels wrong, dirtying the water so, but he doesn’t make him undress right away and lets him dangle his feet in the pool. It is Elijah who takes the damp cloth to his face, and the gentle pressure against his skin makes his eyes burn again. He tries to brush Elijah’s hand away, but he only does that halfway-to-a-smile lip quirk and holds Connor’s head still. Eventually, he tells Connor to strip and leaves him to find other robes. It’s nice, to bathe alone in the warmth, but he isn’t sure what to do when he finally gets out and Elijah presses soft towels to his skin and says nothing about it. It’s too stark a contrast between the broken nose or the split lip and this. When he pulls away, and hands Connor a fresh robe, the absence of touch burns like a brand.
***
Connor has never spoken with the sisters before. One of them is named Chloe, but he’s not sure about the other two, and he’s never heard anyone call them anything but “the sisters.” They tend the sacred python, an ancient duty now the only place women hold in the temple. Triplets are preferred; that they are identical serves to further affirm their divine blessing. Generally, none of the priests interact with them, except in preparation for a ritual. When the sisters approach Connor as he rests in the courtyard, he startles. Their approach is silent, yes, but he knows they are on the periphery (as they always are); what is more nerve wracking is that they stand before him, looking down, all lapis-blue eyes and placid smiles. The outline of a serpent is burned across each of their breasts, just below the collarbone, over the heart. They are otherwise covered in plain robes as the rest of the clergy. He waits for them to speak.
The one standing to his right goes first. “You want,” she says.
“He does, he wants,” another echoes.
“The Goddess allows for wanting,” the third continues.
The peafowl at Connor’s side pecks at his hand. He’s run out of grain and pulls away from her.
The sister at his left speaks again. “It will hurt too much not to give in.”
“Indeed. It will hurt. It hurts now.”
“She will still love you. She has always loved you.”
“Who?” Connor asks, and all of them frown.
“Her.”
“Who else?”
“There is only Her.”
They turn and leave him, alone in the garden with the birds.
***
Wanting.
Connor leans into Elijah’s touch, these days. It’s wrong, he knows, but it’s the only soft touch he gets.
Rupert watches him. The sisters watch him. He supposes, somewhere, his Goddess is watching him, though She has better things to do.
He keeps telling Elijah “no,” to anything else, and it’s not doing him any favors, because now he’s standing on hot stone with a blindfold on, and he hopes he isn’t where he thinks he is. Elijah’s hands rest, briefly, on his hips, before climbing his ribs and brushing his jaw to, finally, cup his chin from behind. He has certain things he likes; this Connor knows by now.
“It gives me great pain to know you still don’t trust me.”
“I’m sor–“
“Don’t. Speak.” He pauses. “I know you trust your Goddess more. Do you know where we are, Connor?” When he doesn’t answer, Elijah chuckles, his breath tickling the back of Connor’s neck. “You can answer.”
He feels the cracked limestone ridges beneath his toes. Elijah wanted him to take his sandals off. “The snake pit.”
“That’s right. The divine serpent, messenger of our Goddess. She will judge us.” The “us” rings empty as Elijah’s sandals scuff against the steps. He wonders who brought the snake here – who else was complicit.
“Elijah,” he calls out. “Eli–“
“No. You wait. In silence. I’m here, Connor. Trust me.”
Something slides against the stone. He can’t trust Elijah, and as he swallows down the trembling in his chest, he tries to understand why.
A torn lip in the early morning dark.
A derision in front of his peers.
The mark.
The mark.
The mark.
His soulmate is just as capable of hurting him as anybody else, isn’t he? His nose still clicks when he touches it. The serpent’s tongue tickles his foot. He flinches and stumbles back. It could be an insect, might not be the snake , but–
Elijah tsk’s. “Stay still, Connor.”
The python finds him again, its tongue flicking against his ankle, and then slowly, horrifyingly, it begins to drag itself across his feet, the smooth scales of its belly sliding and sliding. It’s going to kill him, and Elijah will watch. He wanted another sacrifice, he wanted to play the long game with Connor, and Connor wouldn’t bite, wouldn’t play at being soulmates, and now he’s being punished. Always being punished. He’s supposed to stay quiet, but a mortifyingly small whimper escapes his lips as the snake curls back around. It’s looping around and like with the peafowl, it’ll rise up, circle his ribs, crush them until he suffocates and then swallow him headfirst.
“Eli, please ,” he’s begging now, that’s all he has left–
“Shouldn’t you be asking your Goddess?”
“But you’re right here –“ His voice cracks. The snake keeps moving, tightening, holding him in place. Elijah doesn’t come. His Goddess doesn’t come either, but he feels cool air over his skin between solid python muscle and then it’s — gone.
“The Goddess smiles on us,” Elijah says, and strong hands clasp Connor’s shoulders so suddenly he jumps. “Come now.” He tugs away the blindfold. “Oh, look at you.” Tears spill down Connor’s cheeks. Elijah tries to stroke them away, but he stumbles out of his reach.
“Don’t–"
He scowls. “What’s the matter with you? The Goddess has approved of our relationship.”
“No,” Connor says. “No. The snake didn’t–” he sees it now, a few feet from them, gliding along the floor. “You put me in danger for your test.”
Elijah tries to touch him again and he ducks away. “Connor, you’re missing the point .”
“No. No, I’m not.” He turns away and clambers over the side of the pit, skipping over the sacred snake on the way out. Elijah calls after him, but he doesn’t answer.
***
He’s punished for it, of course. Elijah doesn’t speak to him for weeks except to deliver orders, and even then he relegates Connor to the outside, calling on Simon or the other apprentices to communicate with him. It’s a constant strain, every passing glance with Elijah, every moment spent within his vicinity a vice grip around his heart. He’s not sure what he wanted; not whatever Elijah wanted, evidently. Couldn’t they have just been mentor and student? Couldn’t they have brushed aside the soul marks and their forbidden bindings? Couldn’t they have followed the rules ?
That’s all he wanted. Something simple. Rules. Laws. Rituals. Chain of command. An ordered life.
He didn’t want to guess what people wanted anymore. And not knowing when or if Elijah will forgive him, when or if he can see him, be spoken to by him, when he can hope for things to feel comfortable again…Well, it aches. It aches a hole in his heart. And he’s really not sure if it has anything to do with love, but he’s certain Elijah is the only one who can fix it.
He asks Simon to call on Elijah for an audience. He shouldn’t have to, he should already be at Elijah’s side. It’s embarrassing to even ask, but Simon doesn’t say anything (only gives that apologetic smile he’s always wearing), and he’s told to visit his quarters that night.
He stands in front of the door. He wrings his hands, tries to quell the thudding of his heart. It doesn’t work. The rapping of his knuckles against the wood reverberates through his bones.
“Enter.”
It’s a small room, cramped and austere as befits a priest, even of Elijah’s stature. Elijah is sitting on the bed, a book of temple doctrine in his lap.
“Sit.”
Connor kneels at his feet. “Your Holiness,” he whispers. “I…”
“Elijah,” he reminds him. It’s some small relief to know he’s still allowed this intimacy.
“Elijah, I...I’m sorry.”
Connor has his attention now. He finally looks away from his book. “For?”
“Rejecting you. All this time, I – it’s not… Eli,” and the name is desperate. “Eli, you...no one loves me like you do.”
Something cracks in Elijah’s expression. “And?”
He reaches out to grip Elijah’s robe and press his forehead to his knee. “You want me to love you back.”
“Of course I do. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
(Something simple.)
“Will you still accept me?”
He hums, a thoughtful sound, and it feels like the python twirling between Connor’s ankles. Then, he says, “Yes. I will.” He slumps against Elijah’s leg, and allows himself to be lifted up to the bed. Eli gathers him into his arms and –
Finally –
Kisses him.
No teeth.