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David did not associate holiness with anything good. Not anymore.
Holy was a cruel and ambitious word, soaked in blood and reeking of smoke, its edges as sharp as a blade and its taste as bitter as poison. Holy preceded screams of terror and wails of grief. Holy clung to his nightmares and gave voice to the ghosts in his ears. Holy would drag him down to hell where he belonged.
Or so he’d hoped.
Instead he found a foreign monastery on the edge of the world and a group of monks who were merciful enough to let him stay. And among them, Diarmuid.
Diarmuid, who was untouched by the cruelty and bloodshed of the outside world. Diarmuid, who walked alongside David while he worked and kept up a stream of constant chatter, not caring that David couldn’t respond. Diarmuid, who pressed flower bouquets and pieces of honeyed bread and into David’s hands. Diarmuid, with his mop of unruly curls and eyes the color of dark tea. Diarmuid, who called David my friend instead of the Mute. Diarmuid, who found him on the beach and saved his life. Diarmuid, who David fell in love with a little more each day.
David set out on that oarless ship because a holy war had burned away his will to live. Now a novice monk had sifted through the ashes and planted new seeds.
A year after David’s arrival, Diarmuid began visiting his clochán at night. He sat on a stool in the corner to recount the day’s events and ask questions his brothers would have scolded him for. David washed his hands and face and lay on his straw mattress, letting the day’s stresses leech out of his body. If a day’s work had been especially backbreaking, he peeled off his sweat-stained shirts. The first time he did this, Diarmuid’s chatter abruptly broke off. When David turned around, the novice’s wide eyes trailed over his torso and caught on the silvery scars.
“Oh dear,” Diarmuid said. “Can I…?”
David nodded. Diarmuid stood up and walked over to him, eyebrows furrowed. His hand hovered above one particularly nasty scar on David’s bicep. His eyes flicked upward, asking permission, and David nodded again. Diarmuid’s fingers were as calloused as David’s from a lifetime of work, and his touch was as warm as a ray of sun. Backlit by the fire, he looked as though he had a glowing halo. He looked like an angel, holier than even the monastery’s closely-guarded relic.
I would go to war for you, David thought. Images of once more donning armor and taking up a sword filled his mind. None of the Crusade’s broken promises had made the bloodshed and nightmares worth it, but to keep Diarmuid safe and happy, David would happily bear it all and more. Any scar gained in service to Diarmuid would be a blessing.
Only when Diarmuid spoke did David snap out of his reverie.
“These must have hurt,” Diarmuid murmured, frowning. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, mo chara. Thank the Lord and His infinite mercy for bringing you here, where we have some kind of peace.”
David swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. He would go to war for Diarmuid in a heartbeat, yes, but Diarmuid would never give the order. The novice didn’t have a hostile bone in his body; he fretted when David was late coming back from the forest and gave him jars of salve for his dry, cracked hands. How foolish to think that he would ever want to put David in harm’s way again. To think that the only way to serve this holiness was to fight.
Diarmuid moved his hand from David’s shoulder to his cheek. “I hope we’ve been a good home for you. That I’ve been a good friend. You deserve a good place to heal, and good people to help you.” His eyes were so unsure, so worried.
David cupped the back of Diarmuid’s head with his hand—slowly, so that Diarmuid had the chance to move away if he wished—and brought their heads together, so that their foreheads touched and their eyes were scarcely an inch apart. A flush spread across Diarmuid’s cheeks, visible even in the dim light. “Oh,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad.”
David waited for Diarmuid to move away, but he didn’t. They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, breathing each other’s air and basking in each other’s body heat.
Holy had dragged him to the brink of damnation. It could pull him back as well.