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"Is it not good, though," Brother Cathal asks. "To die a martyr?"
Brother Ciarán's weathered face is stern. "No man seeks martyrdom."
They'd spoken in Irish, not in Latin, but he's been at this monastery long enough to glean most of their meaning, though some terms he knows were lost as he translated them in his head. The monks whisper of men in the deep woods. These men do not worship God but other things, and when they catch a Christian they kill them horribly, making a mockery of the crucifixion.
This news worries him, but only vaguely. The monastery is, if not at the ends of the Earth, then very close to it. And these men live in the deep forest—that is way aways from here, because here is the shore with its rocky sand and its scraggly trees that somehow grow from saltwater.
But what he's heard does conjure inspire in him. Intrigue, or interest. They are a potential threat, these shadow-men, only spoken of, and as he labors he plans for their arrival. What buildings could be fortified? He immediately dismisses the clocháin. They barely fit even one person. The monks would huddle in the church together like mice, but it has only one entrance, and the slits in the stone walls that act as windows are too small to escape from. They'd die in there, lambs to a slaughter, or perhaps they'd simply burn.
Fine, then they'd run. Leave the crops in the ground, take what they can from the cellar. What animals could be sacrificed, and what animals could be taken with them? A hen to a monk, perhaps. The horses—ah, they're old nags, truly, but he's fond of them, and one can carry supplies and the other can carry Diarmuid.
Now it is the monks' turn to be sacrificed. It is no choice, truly, for he knows that as much as he loves these men, there is one that he loves all the more.
What would happen if they caught Diarmuid? He is the youngest of the monastery's inhabitants, but he has chosen to remain a novice, a decision not made lightly and not given to those still considered children. Would they torture him as they have others? Make him into a martyr?
Diarmuid's hands are so small compared to his own, his wrists so thin. A nail would pierce him so easily—would cut through flesh and tendon and bone to affix him to a cross.
He hates the image his own mind has conjured. Diarmuid, crucified. Hates himself more because there is something enticing about it, something he yearns to see, something that blends fear and fantasy—the young man stripped bare, pale, freckled skin on display, vulnerable and wounded and aching for comfort and protection that he would readily, eagerly give.
It's all muddled in his mind—love and violence, lust and gore. What a monster he is. What a damned monster.
He presses his thumb to Diarmuid's wrist, pulse warm and strong underneath his touch.
"What?" Diarmuid asks. "What is it?"
Desire.
He swallows.
God, he knows that can save Diarmuid—but who will save Diarmuid from him?