AU.
The god of darkness and the god of light have slept for centuries. Still, Brother Shane has devoted his life to the dark god's service, helping the less fortunate and praying for his lord's blessed return.
Sure is a shame when he wakes Ilya instead.
~8100 words, E, warnings for dubious consent (aka nonverbal) and disordered eating (which sees on-page pushback). Fluff & smut & hurt/comfort.
Full text on AO3.
A low voice echoed in his head. He had a head? He had been a wisp of spirit for so long….
He came to slowly, assembling the pieces of his consciousness bit by bit.
Who am I?
Where am I?
How long have I been asleep?
…Why am I alone?
His progressively more agitated queries were interrupted by that distant, essential voice.
“Show me the right path,” it pleaded. “I thought I was called to be here, but now…I don't know. I don’t know. Send me a sign. Anything. Please.”
The god - Ilya, he decided after a moment’s consideration. Ilya felt like the right name for this new iteration of himself - Ilya concentrated his energy on the man who was crying out for his aid. A stinging thought came to him as he waited for his powers to fully arise: how many of his worshippers had he neglected during his unplanned hibernation? How many prayers had gone unanswered?
No, he couldn’t go down that path. If he ever discovered who had forced him into slumber and isolation, then he could release the burning light of his rage, and he would feel no remorse for it. Until that time, he had to focus.
“I’m coming,” he swore, low and resolute. A faint shimmer appeared around his body as he willed himself to transport to the source of that fervent prayer. “Whoever you are, I’m coming. You will not have to wait any longer for what you need.”
A shadowy space - a sanctuary? - with high ceilings and gray stone walls began to materialize in front of him. At the rail knelt a dark-haired man in unflattering brown robes.
Even without seeing his face, Ilya felt a bond like a slim golden chain settle into place between them.
— — — — —
Shane pressed his forehead to the wooden rail in front of the altar, hoping the slight pain of the sensation would clear his swirling thoughts.
“Please,” he murmured, not sure what he was asking for.
He was fairly new to the dark god’s service, he reasoned. Of course there would be some…discomfort as he transitioned from being a layman to a subservient, dutiful brother. Once he understood the expectations better, he was certain he’d forget all about his current misgivings.
Besides, temporary hardships now were vastly better than the lifetime of suffering he would have faced as Thomas’s husband. He could and would do far worse than dedicating himself to helping the needy and bringing about the dark god’s blessed return to avoid being subjected to Thomas’s drunken rages and sickening touches until the day one of them died.
If he had concerns about the amount of compassion (or lack thereof) the brothers showed to some of the most destitute people in the land, well…maybe he would understand in time. He knew there were still texts and devotions he had to read to complete his novitiate. One of them would surely explain everything.
In a moment of weakness, an appeal flew out of him, desperate and unconsidered.
“Show me the right path. I thought I was called to be here, but now…I don't know. I don’t know. Send me a sign. Anything. Please.”
Shane slapped a hand over his mouth when he finished speaking. He was so worked up, he had forgotten the cardinal rule of prayer: Never forget to name the god to whom you pray in your supplications. An indistinct message can be intercepted.
What had he done?
He hastily bowed his head back over the rail, chanting the dark god, the dark god, that prayer was for the god of darkness silently. While both the god of darkness and the god of light slept, and had for centuries, they could return at any moment. It would be just Shane’s luck to wake the wrong deity with a misguided request.
A low hum sounded behind him. Shane opened his eyes and turned, assuming he was hearing things-
-Only for a glowing figure to appear in the center aisle of the sanctuary.
Shane was dumbly grateful he was already kneeling, as the shock now coursing through his body would otherwise have brought him to the ground. He still fell back against the altar rail, gaping at the unexpected sight.
“Don’t cry, sweetling,” the man crooned, stepping closer to Shane. He wore only a pale blue loincloth held up by a belt of sun-shaped golden discs, leaving his thick thighs and calves bare, and Shane couldn’t help but notice how the muscles there bunched as he moved. “I’m here now.”
“I’m not - I’m not crying,” Shane argued, fighting back the moisture at his lashes with a hard blink. If he had been brought to tears, it was only because of the light emanating from the man in front of him - so much more light than he’d seen in months. The brothers were nocturnal creatures, and prayers to the dark god were typically conducted in as little illumination as possible, given his very nature. Only the ambient moonlight from the small windows and a candle at the entrance lit the sanctuary, to prevent anyone from stumbling over the fixtures and getting injured.
“Mm, not yet,” the man said with a smirk. Even his teeth gleamed, canines flashing as his full lips parted. Shane found himself entranced by his face, with its sharp blue eyes and slightly crooked nose. There was a mole on the man’s left cheek, somehow both marring and enhancing his preternatural beauty.
There was only one entity that could be standing in front of Shane, but he simply had to ask.
“Who are you?”
The man chuckled, his messy blond curls shaking. Shane wanted to dig his fingers into them. “I should be offended you have to ask, maybe? But then again, you’ve clearly focused more on my counterpart.” He gestured at Shane’s lumpy robes, secured only by a rope belt at his waist. “Ilya. The god of light. What’s your name, little monk?”
“I’m not little,” Shane said, pushing himself to his feet and crossing his arms over his chest. While the god had a couple of inches on him, true, Shane still wasn’t short, and they were similarly broad through the shoulders. “And you don’t need to know my name. I’m not in your service.”
“You called out, and I answered. You woke me from centuries of slumber. That makes you mine, regardless of whom you serve.” Ilya closed the remaining distance between himself and Shane, wrapping his big hands around Shane’s biceps. The heat of him sank through the coarse burlap of Shane’s tunic, and Shane couldn’t avoid breathing in his enticing honey-and-musk scent. “You are right about one thing, though - you’re not little at all. These hideous robes just don’t flatter you, sweetling.”
“They’re not meant to be flattering,” Shane snarled. “They’re meant to show my dedication to the dark god and his edicts. Obedience, charity, modesty, restraint. I am merely one of many brothers, not a - a subject of individual attention.”
“Still, these robes don’t have to be quite so shapeless,” Ilya said, dropping one hand to toy with Shane’s belt. “There is modesty, and there is forcing pretty things like you to hide themselves under ugly, scratchy garments.”
Ilya’s fingers sneaked under the belt and settled at the curve of Shane’s waist. They tightened almost imperceptibly, and Shane flinched at how rough the fabric felt against his admittedly sensitive skin.
“Stop.” The word was barely more than a breath. “Please.”
“You want me to stop?” Ilya asked. He too was quiet, but his tone was far more substantial than Shane’s had been. “Tell me your name, and I’ll move my hand.”
Shane forced himself to look Ilya in the eye. “Shane. My name is Shane.”
“Very good, Shane.”
As promised, Ilya moved his hand - to the knot at his hip. Before Shane could blink, his belt was on the ground, and Ilya’s smile became wicked. Hungry.
“Now for the rest.”
— — — — —
“Wh-what?”
“Were you not listening to me before, Shane?” Ilya asked. He let out a faux-reproving tsk, and Shane’s freckled cheeks turned a delicious, tempting pink. “You are mine, and I am the god of light. My chosen cannot hide themselves from me. Besides, clothing will interfere with my plans.”
Ilya stripped Shane of the sleeveless, hooded mantle that comprised the outer layer of his habit. He couldn’t hold in a groan when the thickness of the full-length tunic underneath still prevented him from making out the shape of Shane’s body.
“Your plans,” Shane repeated. His tone was flat, almost disapproving, but he fidgeted anxiously beneath Ilya’s stare.
“You wish to serve others without notice or gratitude. That is your prerogative,” Ilya said - very graciously, he thought. “To me, a good deed is a good deed - why concern yourself with how it is done? But that is a matter for another time.”
“Oh, it is, is it? Wonderful…,” Shane muttered, an adorable scowl on his face. “Just what I needed - to debate theology with my sworn god’s rival.”
Ilya couldn’t resist. He leaned in to press a kiss to the tip of Shane’s pert nose, then continued, “Later. As I was saying, you serve others without expectation of a reward, and even I can admit that is honorable. That doesn’t mean you can’t be rewarded, though.”
He started opening the line of cloth-covered buttons that ran down the front of Shane’s tunic. When Shane moved to refasten them, Ilya quickly spun them so Shane was pinned to his chest, arms tight at his sides.
“Ah, ah, ah. It’s not a request, sweetling.” Ilya finished his task, then loosened his hold on Shane so he could push his robe off and get them facing each other again. Shane tried to step away, but ended up stumbling over the puddle of fabric at his feet and falling against Ilya’s chest. Ilya immediately wrapped his arms around Shane again - embracing him this time, not restraining. “Look at that. Right where you belong.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true,” Ilya said, petting down the smooth skin of Shane’s back, gentle and slow. With a sigh, Shane closed his eyes and secured his own arms around Ilya’s shoulders, resting his head in the crook of Ilya’s neck. His soft black hair tickled Ilya’s jawline. “Oh, sweetling. How long has it been since anyone has held you, Shane?”
Shane shook his head without lifting it. Ilya cooed wordlessly and rocked them back and forth.
“Denied even the most simple comforts.” Ilya tutted. “It isn’t right.”
“I knew what I was signing up for.” Shane straightened in Ilya’s arms, allowing Ilya to see those big, resolute brown eyes of his once more.
“Doesn’t make it right,” Ilya retorted. He stroked a thumb over Shane’s cheek, then moved both hands to Shane’s round, perfect ass. Even his nearly knee-length undergarments were unrefined, though they were less coarse than his robes.
“What are you - hey!” Shane yelped as Ilya began to carry him up to the altar. Ilya smiled at the insistent bulge he could feel pressing against his pelvis. He too was hard, of course, but he could wait - he had promised Shane a reward first. “Ilya!”
“Finally, you say my name,” Ilya said, laying Shane on top of the deep black cloth. Funny how that fabric - used for nothing more than decoration - was velvety and pleasing to the touch. “It sounds so good from your mouth, Shane. Maybe that’s what your lips were made for, yes?”
“You fucking wish.” Shane flushed and Ilya crowed, delighted to hear a vulgarity from this pious brother. “I didn’t-”
“Oh, but you did. And you will again before the night is over.” Ilya shoved Shane’s undergarments down just enough to reveal his long, leaking cock. “I will make sure of it.”
At that proclamation, he bent down and captured Shane’s lips for a slow, filthy kiss, relishing how Shane immediately melted beneath him. One of his hands cradled Shane’s jaw, coaxing him to open his mouth wide enough for Ilya to slip his tongue inside, while the other trailed down Shane’s torso to his cock.
Shane moaned at Ilya’s very first stroke. “Ilya - oh, help-”
“I am helping, sweetling,” Ilya teased. “Your poor cock, neglected for so long. You were going to ignore it for the rest of your life? Pretend it wasn’t there?”
“I didn’t - I didn’t think it would be hard,” Shane said, his hands clutching Ilya’s hair. “Fuck. I never - before you-”
“No one before me?” Ilya couldn’t restrain his joy, and a light flare bloomed around them. “And you say you aren’t mine. Your body knows the truth, Shane.”
He pulled off Shane’s cock long enough to spit in his hand and get a little more lubrication, wanting to make the slide easier. Shane’s thighs shuddered, and he covered his eyes with one of his forearms.
“Absolutely not,” Ilya growled, using his free hand to tug the limb away. “You will look at this - at us. You will see how gorgeous you are, flushed and sweaty and desperate. You will not hide. Not with me.”
Shane acquiesced with a groan, bending his arms to link his hands behind his head instead. Ilya smacked a kiss to Shane’s temple.
“Good boy.” Ilya increased the speed of the hand at Shane’s cock, bringing Shane closer and closer to completion, and pressed the forefinger of the other against Shane’s entrance. Shane let out a noise that was somehow both a keen and a sob. “Now. Come for me, Shane.”
With a loud “Ilya,” Shane did as he was told.
Ilya couldn’t ignore his own cock any longer. Shoving the folds of his loincloth aside, he stroked himself with determination, needing only a few moments to get over the edge.
The sight of his release mingling with Shane’s, coating Shane’s defined abs and ample pecs, made Ilya want to roar with satisfaction. For a moment, only the sound of their labored breathing could be heard in the cavernous sanctuary.
“I’m not leaving the abbey,” Shane said abruptly, still sprawled on his back. “I’ll admit I have some reservations about being a brother, but…I still believe in our mission. I want to be of service to those in need.”
“In the abbey or out of it, a monk or a layman - none of this matters. I have claimed you, Shane,” Ilya said, laying a hand over Shane’s heart. He sent a pulse of heat through his palm, making Shane gasp. “I will always be with you. I will always come when you need me. And when you realize your rightful place is by my side, I will install you in my home, where we will be together until the sun burns out. What are a few extra weeks compared to eternity?”
Ilya removed his hand, revealing a metallic gold tattoo in the shape of a sun. Shane’s jaw dropped, an astonished look in his doelike eyes.
“Be good, sweetling. I will return for you later, yes? There is much for me to do now that I’ve awakened.” Ilya stole one last kiss, caressed Shane’s hair, and willed himself away to his villa in the clouds. Much as he wished his sweetling was still in his arms, he couldn’t deny that he loved a challenge.
If Shane needed convincing that he belonged to no one but Ilya, well. Ilya could be very persuasive.
— — — — —
Shane had truly hoped he was hallucinating. Yes, he had been covered in enough spend for two people, and yes, that gold tattoo on his chest gleamed no matter how hard he scrubbed at it, but once he had cleaned himself up and crawled into his bed, he thought he would wake up the next evening and realize the whole encounter had been an incredibly vivid dream.
He was sorely mistaken.
“Cold porridge?” a disgusted voice whispered in his ear at breakfast. “In a teacup? Sweetling, that’s not enough food to keep an infant alive, much less a strong boy like you.”
Shane had had to pretend he had a sudden muscle cramp to explain why he’d jumped and thrown his oats across the refectory.
A couple of weeks later, the comments had only continued. Everywhere Shane went, Ilya’s voice commanded or teased or consoled.
When the brothers made bundles of cast-off clothing for the villagers? “Keep that shirt, Shane. That green would look perfect with your freckles.”
Shane made sure the shirt was folded neatly and given to the first man who seemed to be the right size.
When Shane was assigned to gardening duty, widely known as the worst possible chore because it involved going outside during the lawlessness of the day rather than the security of the night? “This is punishment? Feel the warmth of my light on your cheeks, sweetling. Look at how green and vibrant the plants are, how blue the water in your pond is. Isn’t the world beautiful when you can actually see it?”
“The water shines plenty bright under the light of the moon,” Shane grumbled, harvesting vegetables as quickly as he could. Ilya didn’t keep arguing his case. Instead, a fond chuckle echoed in Shane’s ears, and a fleeting, illusory kiss lingered against his brow.
After evensong, when Shane was reprimanded by Father Roger for singing too loudly? “He is just jealous, sweetling. Anyone could see your heart was true and your spirit was moved by your love for your god. Your ‘father’ wouldn’t know sincere worship if it bit him in the ass.”
Shane sputtered, then bit his lip to try to control his face. “You can’t say that!”
“Why not? I felt your devotion, Shane. While I admit I would prefer it was directed at me, I cannot deny that it was genuine. Isn’t that the point of dedicating your life to a god? To worship them without reservation or artifice? To serve them fully and passionately?”
“I thought so,” Shane said, wilting where he sat. He hung his head, staring at the gray flagstone floors next to his bed without really seeing them. “I thought I was going to feed the hungry and clothe the naked and live in a community of men who shared my ideals. I thought I would feel…fulfilled.”
“I can fill you anytime you want, sweetling. All you have to do is give in.” Though Shane couldn’t see Ilya, he could tell the god was waggling his eyebrows. He just knew.
“Fuck off,” Shane said with a laugh. “I was being serious!”
“So was I,” Ilya said, letting out a snicker of his own. “About everything. You are the exact type of servant any god would be lucky to have, Shane. Don’t let anyone, even your so-called superiors, tell you otherwise.”
“Is that an order?” Shane sniffled and willed himself not to let any tears fall.
Another phantom kiss tickled the crown of Shane’s head. “Yes. Must I tell you in person for the message to stick?”
Shane curled onto his side and yawned, worn out from the stress of the evening. “Maybe. It couldn’t hurt.”
“Shh.” A warm breeze swirled around Shane, ruffling his hair. “Don’t tempt me.”
That honey-and-musk scent filled Shane’s nostrils once again, and he was out before he could think of a response.
— — — — —
Much as he wanted to, Ilya did not allow himself to focus exclusively on his bond with Shane. He always made time during the night to bring their connection to the forefront of his mind and speak directly to Shane, but he did have other tasks he needed to accomplish now that he was awake - answering his other worshippers, restoring his temples, strengthening crops before the harvest. In order to give those duties the focus they required, he frequently relegated the bond to the very back of his consciousness, only aware of a gentle pulse at the base of his skull that reassured him that Shane was healthy, active, alive.
Ilya was on his way to one of his temples near the sea, riding the currents of the wind and intent on realigning the standing stones at the easternmost point of the complex, when a wave of misery blasted up the bond and overwhelmed him.
Shane.
It was the work of an instant for Ilya to redirect his thoughts and appear at Shane’s side.
“Sweetling?” Ilya called, dropping to his knees next to Shane’s bed. Shane was scarlet with fever and half-asleep, eyes screwed shut and quiet moans falling from his lips. His flimsy coverlet was crumpled at the foot of his equally thin pallet, and he wore only those wretched undergarments. When Ilya placed a hand to Shane’s brow, the moans became soft, desperate sighs. “Shane. Look at me, sweetling.”
“Ilya?” Shane’s voice was thready, disbelieving. “What-”
“When did you fall ill?” Ilya asked, cutting him off. He moved his hand to Shane’s cheek, and Shane nuzzled into it like a kitten. Part of Ilya’s brain registered how adorable the action was, but the majority was focused on the immediate problem. “What medicine have you had?”
“Felt bad before I fell asleep,” Shane said, his eyes falling shut again. The poor thing looked exhausted. “Some of the other brothers were already sick, so I must have gotten it from one of them. No medicine.”
“Where is the infirmary? I’ll get some from the stores.” Ilya pushed himself to his feet. He was halfway to the door when Shane’s next words stopped him cold.
“Not allowed,” Shane mumbled. “Bad.”
“What do you mean, bad?” Ilya repeated, flabbergasted.
Shane lifted one hand and made a weak grabbing motion. Ilya needed no further encouragement to return and settled himself on the narrow mattress, carefully maneuvering Shane to rest atop his chest.
“Shane?”
“Herbs get harvested in the daylight. They’re your domain. We’re already - already weak. Can’t make it worse by ingesting the light god’s substances.”
Ilya’s grip tightened reflexively, making Shane whine with displeasure. “Shh, shh, sweetling. I’m sorry. But that is-”
“No food, either,” Shane continued, as casual as speaking about the weather. “Also your domain. ‘S why our regular meals are so small to begin with - you always nag me about that.”
“What the fuck,” Ilya snarled. “None of this mattered to the god of darkness when we were last awake.”
“What do you mean?” Shane’s glassy eyes were wide.
“I knew the dark god before, sweetling. How could I not, when he was my counterpart in all things?” Ilya petted down Shane's sweat-dampened hair. “And I tell you, he did not prohibit his followers from eating or taking medicine. Why would he want them to suffer?”
“But Father Roger says-”
“Father Roger is a mere mortal working from scraps of text. I was there, and I remember,” Ilya declared. “So you are going to eat and get well. No arguing.”
Shane was right about one thing, at least: food - more specifically, things that grew and thrived in the sunlight - was his domain. And if it was his, he could summon it at will.
Ilya wasted no time conjuring a large bowl of soup, filled with hearty vegetables and a healthy dose of ginger. It hovered in front of them while Ilya encouraged Shane to sit up against the headboard with him, then settled into Shane's hands.
“Heavy,” Shane complained. Ilya quickly grabbed the bowl before it could spill.
“Just hold the spoon, sweetling,” he encouraged. “I've got it.”
It was slow going, but Shane began to perk up as the nutrients filled his body. When about a third of the broth remained, he dropped the spoon and tilted his head away.
“I’m sorry, Ilya, I can’t eat any more.” He set a hand on his stomach. “Too full.”
“That was perfect, sweetling, good job. Don’t make yourself sick.” Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple and vanished the bowl. Shane settled his head against Ilya’s shoulder with a satisfied hum. “Sick-er, that is.”
“The dark god really never restricted how much his followers ate before?” Shane asked. His gaze was clearer now, but his muscles had relaxed further, making him almost boneless in Ilya’s arms. Ilya wasn’t complaining.
“Never,” Ilya confirmed. “He could be harsh when the moment called for it, yes, but he loved his worshippers with his whole heart. He held them to a high standard, not an unreasonable one. How could he expect them to effectively serve the needy if they were weak with hunger or delirious with illness?”
“That makes sense,” Shane said, staring into the middle distance. Ilya waited for him to continue, running a hand down his back as he gathered his thoughts. “We have direct quotations from the dark god about caring for the less fortunate and making the comfort of night real for all people. It stands to reason that the brothers should give whatever extra we might have to that cause. But the only texts that harp on about the importance of our abject poverty and the sinfulness of eating are from well after the dark god fell asleep. I don’t know why that didn’t stand out to me before.”
“You didn’t have me before,” Ilya said, smug. “I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.”
“Humble, too,” Shane teased. Ilya retaliated by tickling down Shane’s sides, making him screech and try to wiggle away. “Ilya!”
“It’s OK. You are clearly out of your mind with fever.” Ilya resettled them against the pillow. “Rest will help.”
Shane’s eyelids fluttered as he became horizontal once more. “You’ll stay?”
“What did I tell you, sweetling? I will always be with you.” Ilya allowed his own eyes to close, but as a god, he didn’t really sleep. Instead, he focused on the feeling of Shane in his arms, allowing his consciousness to drift, but never so far that he couldn’t ascertain that Shane was breathing steadily and at peace.
As the sky deepened and day gave over to night, Shane’s fever broke. The waking bell of the abbey rang moments later.
“Will you come with me, Shane?” Ilya asked as Shane’s eyes opened.
“Not yet, Ilya,” Shane replied. “But I think…soon. Once I’ve completed my business here.”
A wide, unguarded smile burst across Ilya’s cheeks. “I will be back the moment you call, sweetling. Until then.”
He stole a kiss and disappeared, relishing the blissful look on Shane’s face.
— — — — —
Shane made his move a few days later, during the brothers’ weekly food giveaway. They provided both a hot meal at the abbey and crates of essentials for the villagers to take home, and Shane knew those supplies made a real difference in the lives of the locals. More than one of them had thanked him for the flour or the potatoes or the apples, saying they had helped tide their families over until the next distribution.
Tiding families over wasn’t enough for Shane anymore, though. He heard the way they talked amongst themselves when he was gathering the remaining plates after supper - maybe they weren’t starving, but too many mothers mentioned giving their shares of the supplies to their growing children to keep them healthy and strong. The brothers’ garden had been thriving ever since - well, ever since Ilya had awoken. The brothers themselves weren’t eating more than usual, so what was happening to the excess Shane knew they had?
A plaintive wail drew Shane from his musings.
“Still hungry, Mama.”
Jackie Pike shushed her youngest child, handing her plate back to Shane with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Brother Shane. She’s only little.”
“No, I understand, Mistress Pike,” Shane said, feeling his heart clench as he looked down at Amber. She was almost two, but smaller than many of the other toddlers Shane had seen when they were that age. He assumed it had something to do with her being a Pike.
Hayden and Shane had only been at the abbey together for a short while, but Shane liked to think they had been proper friends. Hayden was slightly older than Shane, only recently a full brother himself, so he had plenty of advice and enthusiasm when Shane had questions or concerns. They had been serving meals together on a night much like this one when Jackie and her family arrived for the first time, new residents of the village.
It had only taken one look for Hayden to know she was his true destiny.
Shane still got incensed if he thought about how Father Roger mandated certain treatment of Hayden and the Pikes after he renounced his vows. Yes, the brothers had the dark god’s own words saying that dedicating one’s life to his service earned one favor in his sight. They also had lines upon lines of the dark god extolling the goodness of love, commanding his followers to love each other as he loved them (and his beloved one, if Shane made out the sloppily redacted words in his devotional correctly - but that was a puzzle for another time), ordering them not to tolerate anything that could stand between them and their loves.
If the dark god was so obviously in favor of love, why did Father Roger forbid the remaining brothers from even speaking to Hayden? Why did his family always receive the smallest meals, the lightest crates? What did his children (for they were all his children, even the ones Jackie had brought with her from her former home) do to deserve such a punishment?
All of these thoughts flashed through Shane’s mind in an instant, and he knew what he had to do. He leaned down toward Jackie.
“Wait here,” he murmured. Screwing up his courage, he bustled back over to the long tables where the brothers served the meals, snatching up two rolls from a basket and hiding the bounty under his mantle. Moments later, he was back at Jackie’s side. “For you, Amber.”
Amber chirped with glee and dug in, and Jackie looked up at Shane with wide, grateful eyes. “Thank you, Shane. On behalf of us all.”
They both cast their eyes to the door, knowing that Hayden was waiting outside in the cold for his family, no longer permitted to enter the abbey.
“Tell him…tell him I still consider him my friend,” Shane said, only able to meet Jackie’s gaze for a moment. She simply nodded, and Shane hurried off again, proud of himself for trusting his instincts, not anyone else’s.
He had almost made it back to the kitchen when Brother Patrice intercepted him.
“Father Roger wants to see you,” he said, tugging Shane out of the refectory. “Now.”
Shane stumbled over his own feet as Brother Patrice dragged him down the long hall to Father Roger’s office. “Wh-”
“Ah, brothers. You made it.” Father Roger was at his wide walnut desk when Shane and Brother Patrice entered the room. Brother Gilbert was already there, seated in one of the unpadded wooden chairs between the desk and the door. Shane was unceremoniously shoved into the one in the middle, and Brother Patrice took the seat at his right. “Would you care to explain yourself, Brother Shane?”
“Pardon?”
“Brother Gilbert here just told me the most upsetting story,” Father Roger said, inclining his head at the man in question. “He claims that he came out of the kitchen just now to see you stealing food and giving it to the basest of our villagers, the youngest Pike child.”
“Amber Pike is a baby, she isn’t base,” Shane spat, incensed. “And she was hungry. We have food to spare, why-”
Father Roger cut Shane off, unconcerned. “That’s enough from you. Brother Patrice, you said you had something you wanted to inform me of once you found Brother Shane?”
“I did, Father,” Brother Patrice said. His tone was obsequious, sending shivers of disgust down Shane’s spine. “I accidentally walked in on my brother in his bath yesterday - he was washing his hair when I knocked, he didn’t hear me. No one’s fault. I left as soon as I realized my error, of course, but I did catch sight of something strange.”
“Which was?” Father Roger asked, raising an eyebrow.
“There was this glint of gold on Brother Shane’s chest. Until now, I had thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but Father…it did look remarkably like a sun.” Brother Patrice widened his eyes, the picture of guilelessness. Shane wanted to wring his neck. “Father, I’m concerned our brother has been corrupted by the god of light. There have been rumors he’s awakened, and it would be just like him to go after one of our own.”
“That would explain our brother’s behavior,” Brother Gilbert chimed in. “You know the god of light encourages excess and hedonism. He must have been in Brother Shane’s ear, whispering at him to indulge that undeserving brat.”
“These are weighty accusations, brothers.” Father Roger leveled a canny gaze on Shane. “Thankfully, disproving them should be simple. Unbutton your robes, Brother Shane. Show us you do not bear the mark of the light god.”
Shane froze.
“You have - you have no right,” he finally choked out. “Brothers are meant to be modest - we do not show ourselves even to the other members of our order-”
“If you had nothing to hide, you would have complied the moment Brother Patrice levied his claims against you,” Father Roger rebutted with a sad shake of his head. “Oh, my poor brother. This isn’t your fault. The god of light is crafty, and you’re only a novice. You can still be redeemed.”
“I can?” Shane asked, nonplussed. He recovered himself and went on. “That is - I have done nothing from which I need to be redeemed.”
“You are clearly under diabolical influences, Brother Shane. Don’t fret. Let us help you.” Father Roger gestured to the ornate cabinet behind his desk. “Brother Gilbert, Brother Patrice. The special vestments. And…the other necessities.”
The brothers complied silently, pulling out yards of the same heavy fabric that comprised their habits, an obsidian ball suspended between two lengths of leather, and a brown glass bottle with a rag over top of it. Brother Patrice handed Father Roger the last of these items, and he doused the cloth with whatever substance was in the bottle.
Shane tried to lean away when Father Roger brought the rag toward his face, but the other man was swift and sure.
“Shhh, brother. All will be well.”
A sweet, cloying aroma overpowered Shane, and he knew no more.
— — — — —
Ilya thought the distress Shane sent through the bond when he was sick was the worst sensation he had ever experienced. That was before he was inundated with pure, unadulterated panic.
A blink, and he was in the sanctuary where he had first seen Shane. Another, and he was on his knees at Shane’s side, aware of nothing but Shane, Shane, Shane.
Shane, huddled over the altar rail, a thick iron chain anchoring his cuffed wrists to the wood.
Shane, covered from head to toe in even more of that hideous material, a shapeless cloak obscuring all traces of his strong, perfect body. Only the soles of his bare feet peeked out, nearly blue with cold.
Shane, turning bloodshot, watery eyes up to Ilya and revealing that someone had put a veil over most of his face, had hidden away those beautiful freckles and soft lips that Ilya constantly longed to kiss.
“Who did this to you?” Ilya snarled. Shane mumbled an incoherent answer, but Ilya was too enraged to hear it. He had other tasks at hand.
It was the work of an instant to use his strength to snap the iron manacles that bound Shane. Moments later, he had the veil untied and thrown across the room, moving to cup Shane’s cheeks and learning-
Oh. It wasn’t panic that had Shane unable to speak.
Ilya’s vision turned scarlet at the sight of his sweetling with a ball gag in his mouth. He wasted no time unbuckling it and trying to pull the hard black bit out from between Shane’s lips, but Shane fought him, pulling at Ilya’s arms and trying to close his jaw around the object.
“Sweetling, it’s OK, let me have it,” Ilya coaxed, trying to keep his tone gentle - his boy was clearly in great distress. Shane shook his head, but Ilya was stronger than he was. He tugged a little harder, not wanting to take Shane’s teeth with the gag, and felt the ball pop loose.
Shane shouted, “No, Ilya! Please - run!” just as Ilya closed his fist around the hateful object. Ilya went to reassure him, but before he could speak, a strange, unnatural weakness came upon him.
By the time he noticed the figures emerging from behind the altar, it was too late.
— — — — —
Shane wanted to move, to scream, to do something, but he couldn’t fight down enough of his terror to regain control of his limbs.
Brother Gilbert had darted out of the shadowy apse the instant Ilya pulled the obsidian gag from Shane’s mouth, ready to subdue him by any means necessary. Brother Patrice was hot on his heels, a set of cuffs made of more of the deep black stone in his hands.
Ilya never saw them coming. They had him prostrate on the cold slate floor tiles in moments, wrists caught behind his back. Brother Patrice held his legs to the ground, while Brother Gilbert seized his shoulders, immobilizing him.
“Excellent work, brothers.” Father Roger was the last to leave the alcove where they’d hidden, a malevolent smile on his face. “The dark god will be well pleased with you, truly.”
“What - what the fuck are you talking about?” Shane asked, finally finding his voice.
“Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t tell you any of this until you’re fully initiated as a brother, but perhaps you’ll repent properly if you understand what’s at stake,” Father Roger said, staring down at Shane with disdain from the opening between the altar rails. “The clock is ticking, after all.”
Ilya moaned softly, his voice muffled against the floor. Shane felt a coldness bloom somewhere deep in his gut, like an icy stream starting to seep through long-dry riverbeds.
“You’d made it far enough in your studies to know that obsidian is the only material that can weaken and bind the god of light, much like diamond is the only substance capable of subduing the god of darkness. Once you had taken your final vows, you would have been told of the cuffs. Our order has kept them a secret for ages, from the moment the gods fell asleep. We knew that one day, they would return, more powerful than ever, eager to resume their battle for primacy. Whenever that time came, we would be ready. We would ensure our dark god prevailed.” Father Roger delivered this speech with eyes blazing brighter than Shane had ever seen them before, his zealotry apparent in every word.
“But the dark god hasn’t returned,” Shane pointed out. “If you kill Ilya-”
“When we kill the god of light,” Father Roger corrected, “The dark god will surely rise again. He will absorb this demon’s power and have full dominion over the earth, as he has always desired. Your brothers and I will be honored at his right hand for facilitating his glorious return, and you, Brother Shane, will face his ire for succumbing to temptation. Unless…”
Shane knew he wasn’t going to like whatever option Father Roger was about to offer him, but he still had to ask. “Unless?”
“Unless you deliver the final blow,” Father Roger said, pulling a shiny, wickedly curved blade out from underneath his mantle. “Assist us, and you too will earn the dark god’s favor. Denounce this fiend, Brother Shane. There is still goodness and piety somewhere in your heart, isn’t there?”
That eerie coldness had reached Shane’s extremities. It throbbed at the tips of his fingers, his toes, the crown of his head, then trailed back through his veins, heading for his torso.
“No,” he muttered, barely audible.
“No?” Father Roger raised his eyebrows. “A shame. You had such promise once.”
He stepped off the low dais and positioned himself on Ilya’s left, raising that terrible blade over his unprotected nape.
“Then I suppose it’s my duty as the father of this flock to defeat this evil myself.”
Brother Gilbert and Brother Patrice firmed their grips, preventing Ilya from wriggling out of the way. The coldness settled into Shane’s heart, cracking it open and revealing-
Revealing-
“I said no,” Shane roared as a sudden gust of wind lifted him into the air. The three monks gaped at him, but he took no heed. He was caught in a cloud of star-strewn darkness, feeling his long-dormant power revitalize every fragment of his being.
When his energy settled and his feet touched the floor once more, he looked down to see his robes were a pile of ash around him, and a black, toga-like garment covered him from where it gathered at one shoulder to the tops of his thighs. Ilya’s golden sun tattoo shone proudly on the exposed side of his chest.
Ilya. A shimmering silver chain fell into place between them as Shane finally turned his newly awakened gaze to his beloved. It braided with a golden equivalent that must be Ilya’s end of their bond.
“M-my lord,” Father Roger stuttered. He hastily stepped back and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground. After a beat, Brother Gilbert and Brother Patrice followed his example. “You honor us-”
“I do no such thing,” Shane said, his voice taking on a new resonance. “You claim to have followed my will these many years, but I tell you now: you have perverted it. You told my people I wanted them to starve and scrape and suffer. You have chained my beloved like a dog after removing any mention of him from my teachings. You deserve no mercy, and I will show you none.”
Shane summoned more of that sparkling energy that had catalyzed his transformation and sent it into Father Roger’s very lungs. When the man toppled over, choking and clawing at his throat, Shane noted the action with impassivity, only looking away when he finally ceased to move.
“Go. Bear witness of this moment,” Shane commanded the remaining brothers. “Tell everyone my beloved and I have awoken. We are not rivals. We are counterparts. One of us cannot exist without the other, nor will we ever permit ourselves to be separated again. Should anyone try, they will meet the same end as this so-called father.”
Brother Gilbert and Brother Patrice fled without another word, both of them pale and trembling.
Finally, Shane and Ilya were alone. Shane knelt at Ilya’s side and sent a wave of power into those damnable cuffs, shattering them. Ilya’s strength visibly returned, and he sat up, hauling Shane into his arms.
“Sweetling.”
“Beloved.”
“You couldn’t have come into your power another way? Without seeing me mere inches from death?” Ilya teased, leaning back to cup Shane’s face in his hands.
“You think I wouldn’t have preferred that?” Shane fired back with a scowl. “I don’t even know how any of this is possible. You awoke as your true self, but I lived five-and-twenty years as a mortal. Did you know? Is that why-”
Ilya cut Shane off before he could start rattling off more questions. “I only knew you were mine, sweetling. I suppose I should have suspected when you were the one to wake me, but your true nature slept deeply - I saw no sign of it in your eyes, in your heart.”
“So it’s reciprocal,” Shane said, suddenly seeing how the threads connected. “I was alone and afraid, and you came to me. You were helpless in the face of death, and I saved you. And sleeping is a vague term, when you think about it. You were formless, unconscious, but always yourself. I was flesh and bone, but unaware of my true self. We really are counterparts in every way.”
“Yes, I heard you when you told those oafs a moment ago,” Ilya said with a snort. “That was a beautiful speech, by the way.”
“Shut up.”
“Truly!” Ilya cried, stroking his thumbs over Shane’s cheeks. “You were…protective. I liked it.”
“I meant it,” Shane said, fierce and sincere. “Every word. You are my beloved, and I will tear this world in two before I allow us to be parted again. In fact….”
He set his palm to Ilya’s chest, mirroring the motion Ilya had made when they first met. A pulse of coldness followed, and he smiled with satisfaction when he saw the shimmery black crescent moon and pair of four-pointed stars that now lay above Ilya’s heart.
“Mine,” he declared.
“Yours,” Ilya confirmed, pressing his hand over the mark. “Forever.”
“Take me home.” Shane leaned his forehead against Ilya’s and shut his eyes, sighing. Ilya shifted to pull him back into an embrace. “Please.”
There was a ripple of wind, and when Shane reopened his eyes, they were in an airy villa, the first fingers of dawn beginning to light the sky around them. The structure had no rooms or roof, but groupings of furniture denoted where they would sit, would eat, would rest.
Ilya immediately picked Shane up and carried him to the large four-poster bed in the corner. Hangings of every shade of blue gave it privacy and emulated all the colors of the sky above.
“In your rightful place,” Ilya said, settling Shane against the plush mattress.
Shane raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And where’s yours?”
“Here, of course.” Ilya climbed on top of Shane, bracketing him with his forearms and knees. Shane leaned up for a kiss and Ilya met him halfway, both of them letting out moans at the sensation.
Ilya’s hand snaked up Shane’s leg and circled teasingly at the apex of his thighs, where he discovered- “No horrible undergarments?”
“Never,” Shane breathed, enjoying the delicious feeling of air against his bare skin. “They chafed.”
“My poor Shane,” Ilya cooed, dropping a kiss to his nose. “Let me see.”
He unfastened the silver buckle at Shane’s shoulder, tugging the black chiffon of his toga off and depositing it over the side of the bed. This time, Shane didn’t shy away from Ilya’s hungry gaze.
His cock jutted against his belly, red and aching. Ilya’s eyes locked onto it.
“Oh, sweetling. I know just what you need,” he said, shifting down the mattress and shoving Shane’s legs up.
“Ilya.” Shane’s hips bucked as Ilya’s mouth moved along his cock, chasing the perfect wet warmth of his throat. One of Ilya’s hands slid up his body and toyed with his chest, right over his tattoo. “Ilya, my beloved, I’m gonna - gonna - you’ve gotta stop.”
“No,” Ilya growled, mouth still around Shane’s cock. Shane couldn’t help but whine at the vibration of it.
“Please,” Shane said, grabbing at Ilya’s curls. “Want - want you in me the first time. The first time as us.”
Ilya moaned and squeezed Shane’s pec again. “Us,” he repeated, finally pulling off. He pressed a kiss to the tip of Shane’s cock, making him shudder. “I love the sound of that.”
He removed his own clothing before climbing back up the length of Shane’s body. Once they were aligned, he reached for a small flask atop the bedside table, warming the lube between his fingers, then pressing one into Shane’s waiting entrance.
“Oh,” Shane keened, throwing his head back. Ilya started mouthing against the sensitive skin of his throat, kissing and nibbling at the length of it. “Yes.”
One finger became two became three. By then, Shane was a puddle on the bed, a halo of darkness emanating from his entire body.
“I’m ready,” he said, raking his nails down Ilya’s back. “C’mon, I’m ready.”
“Shh. I’ve got you,” Ilya replied, lifting one of Shane’s legs to his shoulder. “Look at me, sweetling.”
Shane complied, and a smile burst across his face as Ilya pushed in carefully and a corona of light bloomed from his pores. Golden suns and silver shooting stars hung in the air as they chased their pleasure, Ilya’s hips meeting every thrust of Shane’s.
“My love…my Shane…never leave me,” Ilya moaned brokenly, his pace speeding up.
He broke off as his release hit him, slumping against the pillows. Ilya’s own arrived moments later, and he went boneless atop Shane, leaving him to bear the full brunt of his weight.
Shane would happily let Ilya crush him into this mattress for the rest of eternity.
“Look,” he mumbled once he’d regained some of his wits. “It’s dawn. You’ll be more powerful than I am in a moment. What will you do with me?”
“Oh, I have some ideas.” Ilya tilted his head back and waggled his eyebrows at Shane lasciviously. “Good thing we have nothing but time.”
@pscentral event 49: literature | for @mulderscully
Thinking about history makes me wonder how I'll fit into it one day, I guess. And you too. I kinda wish people still wrote like that.
History, huh? Bet we could make some.
anyway shane has an office at the irina foundation HQ in ottawa bc he can never get any work done at home and its important to him that hes Somewhat Involved even if he doesnt get to spend much time there. ilya comes by to pick him up so they can go to dinner post-outing and gets five seconds into a joke about sexy mr hollander and his big fancy desk before he notices there’s a framed picture of him just. sitting there. on the big fancy desk. shane framed a picture of him and keeps it on his desk, in public. it’s not even that good of a picture, it’s just ilya sitting on the couch in sweats and smiling at the camera. probably one of the many pictures that shane has sent to his parents over the years, proof of life after an injury or something equally inane.
but it’s there, in a nice frame. and ilya stops mid-joke and points at it and says “this is me?” as if it could be anyone else. shane’s shrugging his jacket on and doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, not really, until he looks over to where ilya is pointing. and he looks between ilya and the desk a few times, confused, because… yes? obviously?
“you have a picture of me on your desk?” ilya asks, and he’s trying so hard to play it off like it’s nothing, something to tease him about, but. but.
shane shrugs. “well, yeah. i like that picture of you.”
“is a bad picture, hollander.”
“fuck you. it’s my desk. i can put what i want on it.”
and maybe ilya would say something like oh i’ll put you on the desk in a minute if he wasn’t suddenly feeling very raw. a few years ago he would’ve said it anyway, but he’s so stuck on the fact that shane has a picture of him on his desk. after a decade of deleting pictures and messages, being so careful not to be photographed anywhere near each other, not even being able to have pictures in their own homes— now shane has a soft, domestic, printed fucking photograph of him framed on his desk in his office. in the headquarters for the charity they share. named after his mother. named for his mother, a name that shane chose, for everything she went through.
“baby, oh my god,” shane is panicking, dashing over the few steps to ilya and wiping the tears from his cheeks with the sleeves of his jacket, “ilya, if you don’t like the picture i can change it.”
“no, no,” ilya tries to wave him off, feeling silly, feeling vulnerable, but shane doesn’t let him go. eyes so wide, so earnest and worried. “no, i like it. i like you. i like you a lot. fuck.”
and shane laughs, but it isn’t mocking or mean or anything ilya would expect from anyone else who might catch him crying. it never is, not with his shane. he just smooths his thumb over ilya’s cheekbone and presses closer to him and says, “i like you too. it’s a good job we’re married, ‘cause otherwise it’d be, like, embarrassing how much i like you.”
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