Work Text:
There is a moment he wants to keep—to cast in bronze, to preserve in wax, to have carved in carnelian or jasper, an intaglio ring to wear on his finger.
He is with Diarmuid because he is always with Diarmuid, and they are sitting on the shore together because they are always sitting on the shore together. But this day strikes him as especially fine. The sun bright and warm, the breeze cool, the sky clear and blue, the sea calm, and Diarmuid is there, musing about something—he can see it on his face, the way he herds his thoughts together like one might gather sheep. He is about to tell him something. Diarmuid is always telling him something and he is always there with a ready and sympathetic ear.
It's this—this small span of time, these few heartbeats on this day, when Diarmuid rests his head against his shoulder in a comfortable, idle way, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and he makes a soft noise, a click of his teeth that indicates that he's found the words he wants to say.
An impossible wish. One day Diarmuid will take his vows and he will no longer a novice's leisure, or perhaps he will not take his vows at all and he will leave this place behind, or perhaps, in time, the monastery will no longer have any use for a laybrother, or perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
But still, he thinks, Dear Lord, let this be forever.