Fire ended his fall, and he could feel his limbs flailing as the demons licked at his skin, tearing cloth away until he was pale and naked before their eyes. All of his many crimes were written upon him, and he tried in vain to tear away from them, crying out when they held back his arms and his skin was granted no coolness, no shade from their gazes.

“Damned,” he whispered, his throat raw from the flames, and heard them speak, foreign words he did not know, denying the absolution that he had not prayed for. No, he had turned and had been damned just as he had wanted and she had promised him. He burned; his eyes pricked with tears with each needle-like bite upon his flesh, and he moaned to her, opening his eyes but not finding her.

“I burn.” He burned as one of those who had betrayed the light that had waited for them, waited and doubted and yet still waited. And it hurt, hurt so that gripping with his hands and snapping with his teeth could not make it go away. He never would find her, for she would never join him here. None would, and he would scream alone

Down to his bones he felt it, the wrenching fire in his soul as the Devil welcomed him and feasted upon his flesh as greedily as René had drunk from James, and René shut his eyes again so that he would not see it, wanting the feel of teeth biting into his shoulder.

There was black in his mind, no dreams to save him, just the orange of flames and the heat that prowled and scratched at his skin, until he had to try to get free again.

Hands touched his throat, and he snapped his head up, opening his mouth and feeling bitterness like salt water splash across his lips. It dried on his tongue like powder, and he choked, cursing them for this though they were as damned as he, falsely offering water to torment his senses.

“Drink,” they hissed at him, irritated with his disobedience already, and René moved his mouth, shaping a smile with singed lips. What could they offer at this Mass that his lips had not tasted already? He had even tasted the spirit of angels once.

Again, he opened his eyes, gasping at the liquid fire pouring onto his skin, stinging through his chest. They had not left him, and his eyes searched past their dark silhouettes to the corners of the small space pressing in on him.

The spirit of angels. He moaned, and twitched at the sickening heat of a touch to his brow.

“I burn,” he confessed, blinking at the converging shapes, crying as the Fathers had promised he would for being born with such a mark on his soul. The tears were hot too, so hot he thought they flew from his cheeks, rising into the air like steam, up to the sky where he could no longer reach.

But the sky opened up to him, splashing down his nose to his lips, cool and wet and sweet, like wine and he was swallowing before he knew that it was water that came to him, moving his tongue to drink of it as he was urged, opening his mouth wide and letting his eyes fall closed.

He tried to turn as the drops fell away and at that the fangs left his flesh, and the fires eased, and there was quiet as he faced the blackness. It waited too, just as the light did, and it shifted, hinting at shapes, at devils and sinners waving for him to come closer. It was impatient, the dark, and soon it would reach out to take him, angry with him for daring to consider any other.

His stomach knotted, and he twisted until his chest felt torn in two, but the warm grip on his arms only tightened, and above him came the sound of whispers, as soft as a child’s prayers, stopping his fight.

The flames of the fire made the space behind his eyes grow bright, shining at first like the moon, and then the sun, pouring across his face and shoulders, but the burn did not touch him, and there was cool water on his brow urging him to lie back.

He had promised that he would, he could remember even saying the words; hear another voice saying it to him, high and squealing and girlish. He flinched from it, that breathless giggle, and strained to hear the child’s prayers. They were more pleasing, though he longed to find the stupid boy and strike him for his innocence.

It is no time to pray when you are pressed to a warm body, even if your knees are hard on the stone of a dirty floor. But he could still hear them, soft murmurs against stiff skirts, scratching his cheek as he moved. And the laugh from above made him frown and pull at the fabric with his teeth, forgetting about his evening prayers when Mademoiselle Abrial gasped.

She seemed surprised, and he wondered if she could be, for he had seen her bitten often enough. Little marks on her neck like those that Jean sometimes was left with, after he had dared René to kiss him. And though the room smelled of incense, her skirts smelled of herbs, and René also wondered if she had bathed this morning, as she usually did after Father visited, wiping her crime free of her body.

The herbs burned his nose, but he pressed his face further into her skirts until he could feel her thigh and how the muscles trembled, until he felt stifled by the heat of her and had to open his mouth to breath at all. Mademoiselle gasped again as though she could not find air either, and flattened her hand against his skull, keeping him where he was, though René could recall her protests of only a moment before.  “Naughty boy,” she laughed high above him now, and from the corner of his eyes, René could see her hand dropping, gathering fistfuls of her skirts until he could see the pale skin of her calves through her white stockings.

He exhaled into the thick wool and felt the moist air return to his heated cheeks as he lowered his hand to follow hers, and found her knee. He smoothed his palm over the sloping bone, and curved his fingers around the softer skin behind it, aware only that it tickled her when her body shuddered and she was suddenly grasping his head.

Mademoiselle yanked back on his hair until he was looking into her flushed face, and her pink mouth formed a small circle that hinted at her teeth. René felt the pain, tingling through his scalp until it throbbed like the bruise on his jaw, and then she yanked harder, licking her lips.

“Naughty,” she said again, heavily, and stared at him until René could feel his stomach twisting.

“Please, Mademoiselle,” he made himself say, and decided that she had liked it. He dared to touch her leg once more, letting his fingers drift higher until there was only skin and no more stocking. Her eyes were gleaming, and René watched how her tongue peeked out from her open mouth, as though she were panting. Like a dog, he thought without amusement, not at all surprised to see her so needy already. Jean had moaned the first time René had thought to touch him between his legs, and Father’s hand had been far up her skirt last night, before.

And she moaned like Jean had, thick and hoarse, closing her eyes and jerking and twisting against the wall before Father had stepped in closer, and René frowned and plunged his hand up toward where she felt the hottest, pressing his fingers over a wet, hot mound of flesh, feeling hairs curling around his fingertips and her skin quivering. His fingers must have been cold, for Mademoiselle jerked and hissed his name.

He could feel her thumb now, pressing into his sore cheek as her hands slid over his face, touching across his brow and then his nose before finally landing at his mouth. Her fingers probed past his lips softly, as though she desired it, and René frowned, letting his teeth scrape her fingertips in warning.

“Open your eyes, René,” Mademoiselle whispered as though she had not felt it, and René knew he was shaking, and felt his face heat to realize it. “René,” she said again, and pushed her wet finger against his lips once more, and René opened his eyes wide at how the blood rushed there, and how his whole body seemed to burn like the candles lit all around them.

But she had looked down at another like this, and René shifted, bringing himself up from his knees and sliding another hand under her skirt so that two hands rubbed against her wetness. Already she trembled with it, and when his other hand burned through the damp curls and parted the folds of skin he felt there, she began to toss her head, her breath catching in her throat.

Her body was pressed hard against him, scorching until René jerked his head up, needing to feel air on his face. His mouth opened, sucking in breaths when the heat would not ease, and Mademoiselle only pulled him closer, grasping at his shoulders and then his back. She would not let go, and when he pushed slightly against her hold, her hands slid down further and grabbed the seat of his breeches.

He jumped as her fingers pressed into him, and she was laughing, breathing giggles down against his ear as he continued to stroke there, between her legs, and her hands squeezed and pinched at his behind until his blood pounded there too, and he could feel himself growing hard, and could not stop how he exclaimed in surprise. He thought perhaps that she felt it too, on her leg, and looked into her face, what he could see with her so close to him, and caught the pleased smile that she did not hide.

“Naughty like your Papá,” Mademoiselle teased, and her teeth found his neck, scraping down his skin before she opened her mouth and began to suck, making René’s heart beat so quickly that he nearly fell back.

But her hands would not allow him to go, and instead she took a hand from his rear and slid it around his hip to his stomach, and if she thought to soothe him, she did not, and René felt his face heat when she pulled free his shirt and moved her hand under his breeches.

“But so much…better, yes?” Mademoiselle spoke once more, but René barely heard her. She was touching him, squeezing the head of his prick, and her hand was warmer than his hand had ever been. Her palm felt wet, like the sting in his eyes, and he pushed forward, thrusting against her skirts almost as Father had done.

The flesh under his hand was throbbing, and he could hear his blood in his ears, loud and pounding and eager, and tried to look at her, finding that he could not when she tugged on the hardness between his legs.

“Will you fuck better than your father, too?” Mademoiselle wondered with another small laugh, and ran her thumb across the tip of his prick when René would have leapt away, and he twitched, surprised at how good it was, wanting her to touch it more, to rub and rub as Jean would have done. And as though she knew his thoughts, she pressed her palm around him and stroked until René was scrambling to fill his chest with air, and his body was twisting, pushing back against her and pounding so much he thought he might die. And he dared to twist from it, gasping when she freed a hand to lay it across his back, smacking his rear with a light touch that burned even through his clothing.

“Yes,” Mademoiselle urged feverishly, and René frowned at her pleasure, at the sting of his ass, realizing that his hands had fallen away from her to his sides, where they were clenched tightly. “Sit,” she ordered, once, and bare moments later, shoved him back until his legs hit the wooden bench seat and he was falling into the pew.

Incense smoke tingled in his nose, his rear sore and pounding in a way that only seemed to match the tightness in his groin, and René swore at her, a word that Jean and Adèle had taught him, and narrowed his eyes when she leaned in to lick the word from his mouth. He flinched from her tongue and raised his hands, finding her hips as she settled over him and jerking her hard onto his lap. He had seen that done too, and now felt her legs tighten as though she liked it.

She raged like fire all around him, tight and squeezing his flesh, but not painful and René raised his eyes, looking at the fine golden cross that was the room’s only ornament and remembered again the prayers that he had interrupted.

“Shall I get on my back for you, René?” Mademoiselle taunted him as he burned, and René scowled. Did she think she was James, to tempt him with such an offer, and he could hear those prayers again, and tossed his hard body around, seeking easement as he joined them.

“Aspérges me. Dómine, hyssópo, et mundábor, lavábis me, et super nivem dealbábor,” he cried out just as the priest would, and then he was laughing, so hard that even the hands at his shoulders could not stop him or hold him still.

He twisted away from her hands and his arm ripped from his body at the shoulder, and he could feel himself twitching, the blood streaming from him so hot that his shredded skin seemed to be cooking. He screamed, but the walls of the chapel bounced back to him the shouts of other men and not his own cries of suffering. He ought to suffer, the priest had told him, his life was of pain and only his death would end it.

More pain and it was not enough. His throat was already raw, but he screamed until the sound was nothing but a hum in his ears as dead men surrounded his body and laughed at his opened chest, their own slashing wounds shaped like screams.

He snarled at them all, at fat bodies and handsome faces, wishing that he still had his arm and a blade, to cut them all to pieces. Each one had brought his own death upon him, and smarter men would have welcomed the end as René did now. A slow roasting, but this agony was nothing to the emptiness at his side, and they were fools not to feel it, to think the rhythmic stroking of his cheek and jaw were enough to banish the clawing hunger.

His chin rested in a warm, dry palm, and weakly, René dropped his head, letting them stroke and pet his cheek, wondering if they would ask more of him, if his mouth seemed pretty even here. But already his body tingled with the touch of that one hand, and his own sins were as clear to him as though he were to say them out loud right now, in the dark of the confessional.

“Oh, God.” He had not meant to say it, and he shuddered, letting the dead men hold him now as the shadows hinted at another visitor. He could just see the shape of him; his very greatness, and René closed his eyes as a dry hand plunged inside of him, large and rough.

He burned, and his skin stretched around the invasion until he gasped and turned his head, momentarily stilled to find cool water awaiting him where there had been an inviting touch before. The water was dropped across his lips and his brow, teasing him for one moment before the heat burned it away, and then the hand returned to caress him, driving René mad, arching his back so tautly that he heard the beast roar its approval.

“Tighter!” the demons swore at each other, and one had the face of James before it melted to the scarred, one-eyed face of another. René panted, recognizing that face and longing for a rusted blade, certain that he had already used it. Then even that was gone, and there was just the beast, heat and thrusting horns, calling his name until René parted his lips to give him his answer.

He choked on it, his mouth too full even swallow, and dizziness in his mind as he tried and failed to breathe. He would beg; he would shame himself further, if only they would let him breathe. But there were so many, so much larger, and he could feel their hands on him, holding him to hard wood floor, already gagging at the thickness in his throat and mouth.

James was the sun, to burn him so with just his presence, and René wanted to strike him, push him away for his touch like hot coals, trying to burn the sin from him now that his kisses had failed. And water turned to steam on his mouth as James tried to cleanse him once more, and René shoved against the arms holding him still and fought for air around the ash that filled his nostrils, his body falling away into its blackness.

It seemed to pour from his skin, out from his hands and at his forehead into his hair, and he thrashed against their hold, barely feeling when he rose from the floor before they pushed him back. He could not stop his shaking, his vision swirling to nothing but blackness and stars, and his ears hearing the shocked exclamations before he heard nothing at all and felt only the fire on his skin.

She was there when he woke, kneeling on the floor by his bed, her face shining and beautiful. His eyes felt heavy, but he blinked a few times to rid them of the strange weight and squinted at Maman in the darkness, wondering at why she was there; it was Mademoiselle’s job to watch him.

His tongue felt dry when he opened his mouth, and it throbbed as though he had bitten it. His mouth tasted strange too, and he frowned at his mother, hoping she would tell him what had happened.

“Am I better, Maman?” he asked her quietly, his voice seeming even quieter in his small room, and when she did not answer, he looked around for Mademoiselle, but she was not there. There was not even a maid in the room, so René turned back to his mother expectantly, watching intently as she took her eyes from his face at his questions and rose from her knees to light more candles.

His head still ached, more now with the greater light, and he was thirsty, but his stomach did not feel sick, and his arms and legs felt only tired and not sore as they had before. He longed for water, and smacked his lips when Maman brought him a cup, tipping it carefully to allow him only a little, smoothing her hand over his forehead to hold his hair back as he drank.

There was barely the taste of it on his tongue and she was taking it away, but he protested, wanting more of its sweetness. “Sleep now, my René,” she whispered in a voice that was rough and low, and not the soft touch of her prayers and songs. His eyes were heavy again, but he fought against them, glaring when she bit her lip and turned away from him, to the door where he could hear a man’s voice.

“Maman?” he asked again and heard the gruff reply, twisting his head and attempting to turn his body, but it was held firmly in place.

“They all cry for their mothers,” a man remarked calmly.

“I am surprised he had a mother,” a woman answered, though gently, and when René turned toward her, he felt the warmth at his neck, hands holding his chin to keep him still.

“Do it quickly,” another man spoke firmly, silencing the other two voices, and René searched for the speaker with his eyes, seeing a low, wooden ceiling above him, hearing a distant creaking. The hands still would not allow him to move, and though this did not please him, René tried to smile. He hoped they would not touch his cheek, it still burned from where Father had hit him, and it was hard to keep the frown from his face at that.

“I will be still,” he promised with the same smile, knowing Mademoiselle liked his smiles, even more than his other ladies had. Her eyes would dwell on it and then she would stop frowning and forget that she had been told to make him say his rosary and let him go.

“Yes, René,” she said after a long pause, but her hands did not release him, and René frowned, tensing when her thumb swept softly across his face. Her voice was calm now, but it had not been only hours before this, choked and winded and pleased as she had bent over the table and spread her legs.

How slowly her hand touched him, and René felt his mouth curve up into something as sharp as the pains in his shoulder.

The stone floor was not cold as it should have been against his palms as he fell over her, it was hot and burned and rolled just as Mademoiselle’s body writhed against him, making his body so hard that it hurt, and he knew he panted now too, and hated her for it. His stomach twisted as though he might be sick, and he trembled so much that he fell down onto her, her curving flesh wrapping tightly around him. The skin of her neck was under his mouth, and he could feel her heart beating, smell the herbs and perfume on her.

It had been a gift, the oil of roses, and together with the herbs he felt the burn in his throat as he fought his vomit, letting the tickle of her hair distract him. He even smiled as he opened his mouth and sucked so hard on her throat that she arched up from the ground and moaned greedily.

It would leave a mark, he knew that if she had forgotten, and, just for a moment, he let his teeth sink into her neck, knowing she would like it because he had seen her like it. She squirmed underneath him, offering her body to him in short little thrusts. Each one pierced him like a needle, but when he did not move, she reached between them until her skirts were above her knees and her hand was tight on his prick, and then she squeezed, pressing him into her nakedness, and letting her head roll back, uncaring of who should walk in and see her in her lust.

He wanted to bite her, as much as he would like to bruise the Englishman’s neck, bite hard into the cords of muscles and suck until he begged. He was fond of begging, would do it easily, and his voice would be rough with it by the time Rene was through with him. His teeth would sink into the tanned chest that he had seen straining as the fool had learned to do more than read his books, and his tongue would taste each droplet of sweat that gilded his flesh, and James Fitzroy would throw his head back and plead to be fucked. And no other would have him first; he had seen their heavy glances and they would learn to leave their captain’s share untouched. He would slit the throat of any who dared to lay a hand upon him.

Marechal would not like that, and René thought that perhaps he would have his fill of the Englishman someplace where Marechal could hear the groans of pleasure.

No. His eyes opened again and before him was a blurred vision of a door, chipped and worn from use, but he could not focus on it and turned to look over the chests that lined the wall near him. No, Marechal was dead.

His mouth worked but no sounds emerged, and fear brought René’s head up, so light that he felt almost empty. His stomach tightened once, and then heaved, and it was only the strength at his back that kept him from collapsing to the floor.

“It is not possible,” he tried to say, but though his throat worked, he could not speak. Thickness coated his eyes, and he could feel pangs behind them, his head aching as though he had been drinking. His mouth was dry, and he thought that maybe it was only that, the wine in him.

He shook his head and his stomach lurched immediately, spasming so tightly that he bent and fell onto his side, gagging at the burn of his vomit. He could feel something, hear something, startled motion from behind him, but he was shuddering weakly as the clutching of his stomach eased, and could not bring himself to open his eyes.

“My God,” the voice whispered and through he frowned and ordered himself to move, René could do nothing as he was lifted from the floor and his face wiped clean with something wet and sweet that was not wine. “You have awoken then?” he asked as he ran his hands over René’s skull, and René could feel the palm on the stubbly, odd length of his hair. He felt his eyelids flutter and moaned when they would not open.

It was not truth, and he turned from it, shifting his head and then shivering as his cheek rubbed across stiff fabric. No, it was not that, but soft and warm, and his own breath warmed it more, and it was a relief. The rest of his body felt suddenly cold, and he knew he trembled, unable to lift his arms to find his coat.

He was not a peasant boy in the streets with no shoes or coat, and if the cold air made him shiver than it was his own fault for forgetting that. Maman would not be happy to see him playing with the children in the streets either, to be curled up in a brief moment of rest against Jean and Adèle-Laure, though he should not. They had cheated in their race, he was sure of it, and when his chest no longer felt so tight and his legs so shaky, he was going to show them why they should never try to cheat him.

Jean raised a hand to stroke his head again, and René frowned at it when Jean’s other arm was wrapped around Adèle, when they were in the streets when anyone could see them. But he felt his bones ache at just the idea of moving, and lifted his chin the smallest bit, his scowl deepening when fingers traced delicately over his ear.

“I am tired,” he confessed quietly, his cheeks hot against his warmth though the rest of him was so cold, and he was surprised at the soft laugh of his reply.

“Then sleep,” he answered as though it were obvious when it was not. When sleep brought the dark and the things that lived there. René opened his mouth to argue and only pulled in air, needing his hands to stay strong and keep their hold on the scratching wool as the rest of him was drawn back. Maman would say to pray, but he did not think that prayers would hold them away.

He bowed his head and tore a hand from the fabric to grab at his chest, startled to not feel the hard metal of the cross against his fingers. He spread his fingers out flat against his own chest and felt the stuttering pace of his heart, jerking when he heard the first sound, the laugh that had woken him up.

René turned, smelling a hint of the scent of roses on his pillow and knowing that she was gone.

The laugh came again, and he recognized it, glaring through the darkness at his door, wondering when she would return. There was almost no light from his window, and it would be a long time before the sun came up, and the candles were far away.

The floor was cold on his feet, thin rugs tickling his toes as he crossed carefully to the door, hands out ahead of him with his fingers outstretched. Even squinting he could not see anything, and he let out a loud breath when his hands found the wood. The handle dug into his palm, but he twisted it slowly and pulled, pushing his face eagerly into the little crack of light from the hall outside.

He flinched back the moment the flickering light hit his face, his eyes wide and his mouth dry. He wondered if he frowned, for his head felt strained and knotted, his eyes burning when he did not blink. His body tingled, hot and twitching underneath the long nightdress and when his muscles protested he turned away, surprise to see his hands white and shaking in the darkness against the frame of the door.

He looked up once more, seized with something sickening, and shouted as he moved his hands, slamming his door with enough to force to nearly knock him from his feet. No, he did fall, and the floor was hard on his back, hurting as he scrambled back, light flooding the room for one short moment.

“Be still,” someone urged and René closed his eyes tighter, refusing to open them as he knew they wanted him to. He did not have to, and that was why he had come here, why his stomach made uneasy noises and smoke burned his nose. His face stung and his ears were ringing still, even after hours alone in his room, but he could still hear her, on her knees and lying next to him, pretending to lead him in prayers. She had spoken the same words to his mother, with the same mouth that had laughed with Father last night, that had not said anything when it had all been over. And now she told him to pray, to recite the words his maman had taught him, but he heard his voice, small and high and stumbling as he tried to get the words out of his stiff lips.

“Show us Oh Lord, thy mercy, and grant us thy salvation.” He could taste the bitterness on his tongue, harsh like herbs, and he choked, feeling the rise of it in his throat. But she would not stop, he could hear her, spitting out the Maman’s words as though they were nothing, and René turned his head, knowing that if he opened his eyes, the colours of the glass window would sparkle like tears.

“Yes?” she hissed at him when he did not speak again, and he knew she was angry too, as Father had been, and he opened his eyes, turning back to look at her. His eyes found her neck, as pale as his own skin but for the circling bruise that coloured it brown and purple, red at the edges, with little lines for each vein. He glanced up quickly and closed his eyes once more when Mademoiselle raised her eyebrow at him, impatient with him for forgetting.

He had not forgotten. He knew his prayers better than she did, in whatever language she chose, so he continued, smoothing out his tongue and inhaling softly when he was finished with each verse.

“Good,” she praised him after some time, and René opened his eyes, wondering at how she could dare to praise him for such a thing. She was before him now, standing in front of the altar and blocking his view with her skirts, forcing him to look up.

“You are a smart boy,” she whispered with eyes that were warmer than they had been last night, and René leaned his head to one side, imagining if Mademoiselle would find it pleasing if he smiled at her now, if she would think the memories were already gone from his mind. Just a smile, for she liked his smiles.

His teeth were sharp against his cheeks as his lips moved, and he let his eyes fall at the pleased blush across her face. It was not the feverish splotches of red that had painted her face before, but he could see the beginnings there, the hint that more dye would spill onto her cheeks with only a little encouragement. So he nodded, bringing his head up and narrowing his eyes as he licked his lips, searching for the next prayer in the litany.

His voice was lower now, almost as deep as his father’s as he continued, reciting the lines as though they were meaningless, simply wanting to make sure Mademoiselle was pleased with him.

“I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple…”

“Alleluia,” a deeper voice added when he seemed to forget, and René frowned, opening his eyes and blinking to see that there was no altar before him, that Mademoiselle was gone.

“Alleluia,” his voice repeated, but he could not swallow his throat was so dry, and he knew the words had not come from his mouth. “…And all they to…whom…the water came were saved, and they shall say…Alleluia.”

“Very good.” Warmth and laughter followed the simple words, from two voices as if all the delights in the world were to be found in the reciting of childish prayers.

René opened his eyes wider and found that he was staring at a ceiling that he had seen many times before, his own cabin, softly sliding back and forth as he swayed with the ship’s movements. Casting his eyes downward only revealed to him his feet, bare and pale, and his legs, covered in a blanket.

Marechal…he started to think but the thought slipped away from him, drawing a curse that his tight throat held back.

“Am I really?” The voice refused to be silenced, and René jerked his head up, opening his mouth and gasping silently at the flood of burning pain through his shoulder. Tossing his head the opposite way, momentary dizziness made him shut his eyes, waiting for the hamaca to grow still before he moved again.

“Of course.” And the heat of the reply had René’s skin twitching, urging to move and move now, and he bit his tongue to hold in his cries as he obeyed, his shoulder trying to tear itself in two.

“Ben?” The same low voice asked a question and René knew it, trembling as he raised his head and followed it, searching him out with his eyes since his body would not.

“James?” he asked, and the child leaned in his head, placing one small hand on the middle of James’ chest, spreading out his fingers to encircle his heart, clutching like some foolish and greedy lover.

The boy’s face was coloured with eagerness in the dim light, rosy and not pale with fright as he parted his lips and stretched forward, arching his neck to press his mouth to James’ softness.

James gasped or tried to speak, something that opened his mouth, and René felt his own lips fall apart as the boy jerked his hand across James’ chest as though surprised, and then let it fall down between them.

“No!” Two voices merged, and two pairs of eyes turned to face him before René felt the roughness in his throat. James was shaking his head, silent for once as he stared at René his head high and away, his lips dark and wet.

“What have you done?” René accused, turning to the boy and watching the sly green eyes widen before they narrowed. Then the pointed face turned away from him, but also from James, and then he was lost to black as René blinked and the room spun.

Shaking his head slowed the spinning, and far too slowly the light returned, but René did not stop to ask either of them what they had done to him. His body throbbed with hurt and the sickness slid along his teeth until his forehead creased and his ears rang with it.

They were still close, knees nearly touching as they both sat frozen in their guilt on the floor, and then René tore at the sky with his hand when his legs would not move, and something—the blanket that had covered him—was thrown up, and René could see his own body underneath before it fell back.

His hand smacked against the blanket, wrapping around the net of the hamaca as it swung wildly back and forth. The muscles in his throat tightened as his body heaved, and René could hear the rush of his blood past his ears and opened his eyes, startled to know that he had closed them.

He would not sleep more. The idea made him frown, awareness that he had fallen to the dark before, that they had made him, that they had told him to do it as though it were nothing.

James was at his side now, standing and staring down at him as he held the hamaca still.

“You are truly awake?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and René struck his hand from the netting, grinding his teeth at the pain this caused but sending his eyes around the room until they found the child.

Ben stood at the far wall. His eyes had already found what they wanted.

“You will not!” He demanded instantly and the uncomfortable chill of sweat scratched down his forehead. It stained his body, itching under his arms and along the thin, white lines of his ribs, but he let it. “Fool!” he spat it dryly and tasted the roughness of his teeth, thick and unclean.

The boy flinched, but remained standing, dropping his chin to look up at him with eyes alone, his eyebrows tight together.

“You think to woo him with prayer?” René saw from look of confusion that the boy did not understand, and wondered dizzily what language he had spoken. “And what then, when you have taken even that?” Whatever language it found, his tongue went on, flapping against his cheeks like a loose sail, cutting itself to ribbons. “You think I will kill this one too? That he will save you as he takes you?”

He did not shout, but his throat ached as he tore himself free of the arm James held out and he swallowed the scream of pain. “Idiot!” he panted as the breath left him. “Fool! Stupid bastard son of a whore!” One hand curled into the blanket, exposing part of his chest to the cool of the air, and it stung as it hit his shoulder. The other arm lay weak and worthless at his side, but twitched hotly when he attempted to move it.

“What more will you profane before you are through?” He could hear a rushing, like wind through trees, and felt his chest empty and begging. Ben jerked away from the wall, opening his mouth, but he was not yet done. “You will rot with every swallow…!”

“You’re nothin’ but a shit-suckin’ Frog sodomite, and ye’ve got not right to be tellin’ me what to do!” The child’s face twisted up into an ugly grimace as he shouted, and from the side of his eyes René saw James look to the door as though expecting others to come running in. René ignored him, focusing on the son of Lucifer in front of him, feeling the bones of the boy’s face against the back of his hand for one moment. How dare the child turn to him with bright eyes when he only claimed what belonged to him?

“You’d be sucking him yourself now if you could get your arse off that bed,” the boy continued, holding his stance for a moment before ducking his head. It was only for a moment, but it weakened him, showed his reluctance to face James, and René sneered at him.

“You are a brave cocksucker,” he remarked, wondering if the words were correct in English; he had only ever heard them in French.

“René!” There was no mistaking the horror and revulsion in James’ voice, and René felt his head fall before he raised his chin, finding James’ eyes for one moment and struggling to see into the muddy depths.

“Be quiet, James!” he snapped with a heat that made James step back. There was no time for childish hurts and slow realizations that would have long since occurred to any other man. Would he run to his prayers, disappear into the arms of his God? “What will you make of him?” he turned back to the boy, and watched his little face grow nearly as white as the body that had been hidden by the blanket. “Are your lips so soft?” he taunted and felt the rawness of his skin where the flames had burned him. Ben was glaring now, odd spots of colour in his face though the rest of his body had been drained.

James studied him, and René wondered if Ben could feel those eyes on him, feel the knowledge in them, the questions now appearing, if the colour in his cheeks was the shame he deserved for acting the whore and turning James into his keeper.

“I’ve done the same as you!” Ben was still defiant though the full lips that had dared to kiss James were trembling and wet. “I can take pleasure where I want.”

“Pleasure!” René barked, and the pain in his arm rolled to his chest, gripping his heart and squeezing the air from him. Lights like the sparks of a pistol filled the edges of his vision, surrounding the boy with smoke and colour, filling his cheeks and making him almost beautiful. “What of that did you receive before? A groping hand on your prick before he forced you down? Don’t deny what you are. Hell will find you,” he added into the silence and heard the wheezing sound of James’ gasp, the horror of his own words leaving his lips open as though he waited for them to crawl back in.

“I have no shame, Maman,” René answered his mother quietly, flinching at the cold air that hit the back of his neck as the door behind him opened, and his father entered the room. He could already feel her leaving, slipping out silently as though she had never been there.

“Damn you, René.”

René turned his head from her only to see James, and bent his head forward under the weight of it, suddenly too weak to stop himself from coughing, spitting up a small bit of water onto his chest. It burned, and the smell made him cough again, not surprised that they left him to spew up his guts. The water left his mouth bitter, though it was salt on his lips when his tongue touched them. “Are you still fevered?” James asked him distantly, coldly it seemed though his eyes were fiery enough, limitless as they raged at him. “You must be, to say such things to a child, or a monster else.”

What a fool he was, to complain of James’ thousand questions when he had forgotten what it lay behind them. James, when he at last chose to act, would shoot a man without flinching and watch his agonies with a firm heart.

“Such things?” René asked through the narrowing black, his voice dry and breaking.

“I’m not a child!” It was Ben’s voice screaming now, volumes of emotion ringing in the air as his feet moved against the wood, and the small door slammed closed.

“As though they are dreams…” The door seemed a long distance away, though the room was not wide. He thought perhaps there were voices beyond it, but he could not understand their words. Those were also denied him and those like him, and he tried to widen his eyes. “I do not dream,” he told James distinctly, nodding slowly once, though James was angry with him. He would not understand. She never had either, chiding him for being foolish when he had told her. “It is all real,” he finished, searching for light until he grew dizzy from moving his head, and he wondered at the new sound of the door, softly scraping wood and metal hinges.

James was angry with him, and there was no wine. If he waited, he would grow used to the burn of it, and this would be nothing. But he coughed—a weak, pathetic sound—and he tossed his head away from the light breeze that stroked his face, shutting his already useless eyes and letting out a breath that stirred not one single hair on his white chest. When he inhaled, his mouth was filled with dust, and some fell heavily to his stomach.

His lips moved though he could not hear the voices to answer them, and then he tasted salt again on his tongue, and he made his throat move to swallow every drop, though it scorched like an Englishman’s liquor. It hurt, and he gasped at the pain, swallowing again when his mouth filled. The burn was greater, and he could not help his weakness; he tossed his head and opened his eyes, blinking to see how the world shimmered. A thousand lights swam before him, shapeless and voiceless until he sucked in a loud, unsteady breath.

Something hard and solid touched him in the swirling confusion and he grasped it, focusing on just the coolness against his palm. It was not withdrawn, and he felt it pressed to him until he thought that it should have hurt. But though it grew hot, he felt no pain, and opened his eyes once again to look upon on the shimmering lights. They were beautiful, he realized quietly, and thought perhaps that he frowned when something passed before his eyes and some of the lights disappeared for a moment.

“Do not weep.” A feather brushed across his cheek, compelling him to close his eyes, and he shivered when the soft quills dragged in the dampness there.

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

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