Title: The Man Who Loved

Author: IndigoNight

Feedback: Yes please, yay reviews!

Rating: PG-13 for mild swearing, somewhat graphic violence, etc.

Warnings: Implied slash

Author's Note: So just an idea I came up with, hope you all like it. My first story on here, so be nice please. Please review!

Enjoy!

As I sit in this god forsaken dungeon that has been my home for the past twenty-six years, on this, my last night on this Earth, I think, and I remember. I think over what I have done in my life, before and after coming here, and I remember, I remember all of the people I’ve met, the stories I’ve heard.

One hears some of the most fascinating tales of loss, betrayal, and world-begotten woe when in jail. But I remember one story in particular, one that stuck me as the most profound.

So, although I know that this mere, pitiful scrap of paper which I have managed to claim will likely never be found by one who will appreciated it, I feel I must tell this story, in futile hopes that there may be a day, though it be far in an unforeseen future, when this man, of whom I am about to tell you, would not have been so wronged.

It was drawing on my tenth year in this cell, although I was never quite sure as it is difficult to keep track of time when one is wont for a way with which to do so, as I sat, my back resting easily against the wall with which I have over the years become quite well acquainted. My cellmate of the time, William the Butcher, sat against the wall farthest from me, gazing absently out of our small window, high up in that wall.

As I remember William was a rough man to say the least, his dark eyes set under thick brooding brows, seemingly cold and emotionless, if even perhaps a bit slow. However he was a good enough man, one of the few I have met who was actually innocent of the crime for which he had been condemned, although that in no way means I found him to be personally endearing.

We both jumped, pulled out of our brooding reverie which had become so common in our cell as I found William to be a man of few words when he pleased, when we heard the footsteps of guards approaching our cell, although neither of us bothered to move to greet them.

The guards shortly came into view, two of them holding a prisoner between them, the third unlocking our door.

“It looks as though we have a guest,” I commented lightly to William, who glanced over, nodded, and turned back to the window. As I said, a man of few words.

“Only for the night,” on of the guards said, in his uncouth, gruff voice, “We just need a place to put ‘im ‘til mornin’ when ‘e goes to meet the blessed lady.”

“I trust you boys will keep ‘im well in company,” jeered another guard as he shoved the boy in. He landed lightly, catching himself with much grace on his hands and knees. With that the guards laughed once more and strolled off, joking among themselves with the rather crude humor that such men are often wont to.

I then turned to the young man, curiously appraising him with my eyes. Now, before you judge me for being rude, in my own defense we were sorely lacking in something with which to fill our long hours, so any chance at something new to think about was quickly jumped at.

He was young; nary even eighteen I would say, with downy brown hair pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck. His features were sooth, as yet untouched by the wear of time, his sparkling green eyes still held the light, simple clarity of youth, yet was at the moment undeniably dimmed, no doubt due to the situation he found himself in at that moment.

He picked himself up off of the floor, with the same limber grace, and crossed to the third wall, as yet unoccupied, to seat himself at its base, loosely looping his arms around his knees and resting his head tiredly back against the stone.

“Hello,” I said amiably, “My name is Robert Danning, lovely to meet you.”

He opened his eyes briefly, and they flicked towards me, but he said nothing.

“Ah, as chatty as our friend William over there, I see,” I said, settling back against my wall, only a little put out that I was still to be without conversation.

“James,” he said at length, his voice gentle and melodious, youthful as his appearance.

“So, wha’d’ya do?” William asked. We both glanced at him; I more than a little surprised to see him start the conversation.

James did not answer at first, so William continued.

“Are you a thief? Perhaps with an eye for lordly trinkets? Or did you, for lack of other meat, shot one of the king’s deer?” he pressed.

“Or perhaps did you decide it uncouth and too old fashioned to court a girl properly before entreating yourself upon her?” I said, with a direct glare at William. He shot the glare back tenfold.

“None of those things,” was the quiet response, which caused us to cease our staring match and turn our gazes back to our guest. “I had the audacity to fall in love,” he said simply.

“Ah, had an eye for a little lady above your rank?” guessed William, his interest returning.

“Or a married woman?” I once more glared at him, now becoming quite annoyed with his rude manner.

“Would you like my story in full or to simply come to conclusions on your own?” he snapped, our bickering seeming to run his patience short.

We stopped, I at least properly ashamed of myself. “Please,” I said, “Do tell us. We will not interrupt you again,” I shot one last glare at William.

He nodded, and paused a moment before beginning his tale. “I am the simple son of a carpenter,” he began, “I was raised to work my will with wood, and no more. I was taught everything I should know to be a proper, honest, god-fearing man. One day, my father and I were commissioned to make some new cabinets for the lord’s household. So my father sent me to measure the place in which these cabinets would be set, so as to have to correct dimensions.

As I was at the lord’s palace, measuring as I should, then,” he paused and all the cloud of misery which had filmed his eyes for a brief moment lifted as he remembered, “then an angel walked in. This being was a being more beautiful than I had ever imagined. No, indeed, I had seen one who was more than an angel, for even the breathtaking images on the church walls could not come to half of this beauty, which stood before me.”

William snorted, obviously not in the least a romantic, but I listened intently, being sympathetically drawn in by the rapture in the young boy’s voice.

“The angel did not speak to me that day,” James continued, too wrapped up in his memories to even notice our reactions, “But instead stood watching me for a moment, and I found that as those impossibly blue eyes, more blue than the sky above or the sea abroad. Deeper and clearer than a mirror of glass, so perfect that simply to look upon them would banish from one’s mind any doubt that the great creator which had shaped the was not perfect in every way, for what could create something thus that which was not perfect himself?” the musical lilt of his voice was so alluring that one could almost imagine the boy before me himself to be an angel, fallen from heaven. “Those eyes, one simple glance into them was nearly enough to so enrapture me that I forgot even my own name, it having been lost along with everything else in those endless depths.”

“The next day,” he continued, “I found myself making the excuse to my father that I believed I had made a mistake in my calculations of the space, and therefore had to go back, for we could not afford to displease the lord by giving him an imperfect product. My father, seeing the logic in my reasoning, agreed and off I was, although my thoughts were filled with nothing but the chance to see my angel again. The cabinets were to be placed in one of the informal living rooms of the palace, and, to my shock and utter joy, I found that the angel was already sitting calmly in the room, reading a book.

In all proper respect I bowed my head and went about my work. Although I was unable to stop myself from stealing frequent, covetous glances at the relaxed figure, so lithe and graceful, even in such a simple movement as to turn the page of the book, so blessed to be touched by those pale, eloquent hands.”

William made a retching sound, obviously finding all of this sappy speech to be sickening and overly dramatized. James blinked, pulled from the reverie of his memories to glance at us, seemingly having forgotten we were even there.

“Could ya sound any more like a love-sick puppy?” William asked gruffly.

“I believe, my friend,” I said sternly, “That that is precisely the point of his story.”

William rolled his eyes and turned back to the window.

“Please continue,” I said apologetically nodding to James.

The boy shrugged, “There is not much more to tell,” he said, “there was never a word spoken between my beloved and I. As I turned to my work, or at least to pretend to do my work, I heard the sound of the book being placed on a table sitting nearby, and soft footsteps padding toward me. I froze, not knowing what to do. But as one of the gentle, smooth hands I coveted so much touched my shoulder and I turned, finding heaven in those eyes so much sweeter at such a close range.

Before I knew it, I was pressed against the wall, unable to think for the fire running through my body from the places where our hips met, our hands met, our thighs, our lips,” his voice faltered and died. He lowed his head, blinking furiously.

“What happened next?” I pressed, unable to quell my curiosity.

“They found us,” was the simple reply, “I-I,” I could tell that he was fighting valiantly to keep his voice even, “I had never imagined that there could be a pain so great as the one I felt when they ripped my love from my arms,” his last words were barely more than a whisper.

I was so moved by this speech that I was quite at a loss for words for several minutes. William however, sadly, was not.

“That-“ William choked, whether on laughter or disgust I never decided, “Is that damn sappiest thing I have ever heard, I makes me sick.” At that moment, despite my usual calm, self control, I wanted more than anything to punch that crude butcher in the nose.

However James only kept his eyes quietly on the floor, most likely still lost in his memories.

“Oh just go to sleep,” I snapped at William, my patience quite thin. He sneered at me and turned broodingly back to the window, I then proceeded to ignore his existence.

I watched James for several minutes, but he did not seem inclined toward any further conversation, so I said nothing.

The rest of the night passed slowly, as eventually one by one we each dropped off to sleep.

As the sun rose the next morning we were jerked awake as the guards returned to take James away.

William and I, in morbid fascination, crowded around our tiny window, which looked out onto the execution plaza, something I at least usually did not do. The crowd that had amassed jeered as James was led out and up onto the platform from which the noose hung awaiting him.

Once the noose had been placed around his neck, as was customary, the lord stood and asked if he had anything to say for himself. This practice, which I have never fully understood, as far as I have seen, is simply ceremonial. However, for the first time to my knowledge, James said, “Yes, sir, I do.”

The crowd seemed just as shocked as I was, so shocked, that for the first time in my memory, the plaza was completely silent, waiting for James to make his statement.

“I, James the carpenter’s son,” James said clearly, his voice loud and ringing through the silence, “Am and will remain to be, in love with the young Lord Samuel until the end of-“ but I will never know what he intended to say in full, as that moment the hangman pulled the lever and dropped the floor, cutting my young friend off.

William jeered along with the rest of the crowd; I however, stalked back to my wall, quite overwhelmed both with my disgust at William, and my astonishment at discovering the true identity of the one of whom James had spoken with such rapture.

I had never pondered the idea before, but I did then, and in fact continued to for several days afterwards. However, no matter how long I pondered, I found that the manner with which James had spoken of the lord’s son, was not different in the least to the manner with which every man I have even known would speak of his chosen woman, or any woman would speak of her man.

Countless tales throughout the ages speak of people falling in love to the point where they are willing to die for that love, which is precisely what James did. So how is James’ story any different from any other lover’s tale? I then came to the conclusion that indeed it isn’t, not in the least. That for all that others say, if one were to truly sit down and think about it, as I have done, they would realize, that love is not in the least connected to or decided by gender. Love is, at its purest quintessence, free from all such earthly discriminations as race, class, gender, or any other such qualification that men place upon it. This belief I hold firmly to, and I hope that the story of this one simple carpenter’s son who dared to love for love and nothing else, will stir in the hearts of others as it has mine. Though the discrepancies against my friend James can never be set right, perhaps future generations will be inspired to do as he did, and be met with better results.

It is with that thought, that I can allow myself to die on the ‘morrow without any regrets. With simply the meager possibility that in some distant time and place a man can love as he pleases, without discrimination as to whom he chooses to dote upon.

And so, I bid adieu to this world.

Sincerely,

Robert Danning