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The family never celebrates Pat’s birthday.
Pat turns eighteen today, but all that’s on his mind is the annual census and sortition, the selection by lots. It always falls on the day after his birthday.
Dinner isn’t raucous as it usually is. The general atmosphere has become increasingly subdued the closer the date arrives.
Pat hugs his mom and Pa after he finishes eating and excuses himself to walk down the main street of the village. Oblivious children scamper past him, playing with a young crocodile-snake makara with muddied claws and a curled tail. The makara catches a twig thrown into the air and the children laugh.
The smell of spices permeates the air when Pat passes the larder and adjacent medicine shop. Pat looks into the entryway of the town archives as he walks by, already knowing that the sturdy wooden chair behind the main desk would be empty. It is.
As twilight settles into the crevice of every thatched roof, the smoke and embers of campfires rise into the deepening blue sky. Someone is singing an old tune about an ancient gilded magic.
Pat reaches the blacksmith yard and he rubs at a speck of dust on the sign at the front of the entrance before walking past. He walks slowly through the abandoned yard, tracing his hand over his bench and personal tools. Some examples of his finest work are on the upper shelves to display to potential patrons.
In some ways, Pat owes this life to Pran.
Both their families had been longtime petty rivals in the fish trade and Pat and Pran had been expected to take over their respective family businesses. They humored their parents’ demands for a long portion of their life, but after a rather public stint when Pa fell off a boat and Pat watched frozen in place as Pran dived in to save her, the rivalry was abandoned overnight.
Left to make their own choices on how to interact with one another, Pat and Pran began a cautious friendship that easily dissolved into comfortable familiarity. It was as if they had been friends all their lives. Their differences slotted together and they spent many hours talking and tussling and laughing together.
Pran brought Pat to a hidden alcove at the edge of the beach, a secret hiding place Pran had discovered long ago. It was now a place for only the two of them. They would go there often to watch the waves and talk about their days and discuss their plans for the future.
They left the fish trade at the same time. Pat began an apprenticeship with the local blacksmith, and Pran was showing promise as an apprentice scribe. Pat got to see Pran’s beautiful studies of handwriting and documentation on more than one occasion.
Everything Pran writes about is interesting but Pat likes to read about Pran's dreams the most, specifically his dreams about colossal beings gilded with gold that melt into the wind and back again.
Pran began describing those dreams to Pat when they were both still young children learning how to be friends. Pran had been apprehensive at first, but once he learned Pat listened with rapt attention rather than teasing him, Pran told Pat about lush golden wardrobes sweeping past his skin like fine mist and gleaming hands larger than houses.
They’re fascinating dreams, but almost all forms of magic these days are old wives’ tales or natural phenomenons - that is to say, magic isn’t real. Or if it was ever real, it hasn't been real for a long time.
The day after Pran showed Pat his written work about his dreams, Pran stopped talking about them. Pat asked about it, and he figured out Pran's parents had explicitly forbidden him from talking about his dreams again. The attention could incite unnecessary tribulations. Pran's careful handwritten document about his dreams had been burnt in his family fireplace.
Pran refused to talk about it again, but Pat didn't forget.
Pat vividly remembers his fourteenth birthday, the first year he would be participating in the annual sortition. It had been a quiet day like his birthday always is.
Pran’s birthday is two weeks after Pat’s. Pat used to lord his older age over his pseudo-rival to watch Pran flush attractively and reveal his dimples with an angry scowl. The older they got, the less amusing that fact became.
That night of Pat's fourteenth birthday, Pran led Pat to their secret beach alcove. They sat together wordlessly in the dark, and for the first time, Pran held Pat’s hand and rested his head on Pat’s shoulder. His hand was very warm.
When they went back to their homes and Pat lay alone in bed, he thought about each moment of that night as he fell asleep. His lips found Pran’s in his dreams, but Pat woke up remembering only the taste of sea air.
Every year, the census official and his entourage of priests and assistants and soldiers arrive at the heart of Pat’s village with documents and a large box full of rice grains. Only one is uniquely marked. Every individual between the ages of fourteen and thirty-eight must participate.
The day after his fourteenth birthday, Pat reached into the box and felt its rice for the first time. All Pat could think about was how relieved he was that Pran had a whole year left before he would have to do the same. The rice grain Pat pulled out was plain and unmarked.
Pat would later hear from his family that the chosen one that year was from a village on the complete opposite side of the kingdom.
The first year Pran participated in the sortition, both his and Pat's rice grains were unmarked. As was everyone’s rice grain in their village.
Years passed, and not a single person from their village was chosen. Pat continued his efforts as a blacksmith apprentice, soon to become a journeyman at his young age. Pran became a town scribe. Unshaken by her perilous experience with water, Pa continued to practice her skills as a fishmonger. She turned fourteen and became one more person to worry about being taken away forever.
As Pat grew older, he began to understand more about the system he lived in. He learned that no one within the city walls has ever been subjected to the sortition. The only ones participating are those living in sparse, vulnerable rural areas in the outskirts with no means to protest. Elite families pay exorbitant fees to bypass the system, and those that attempt to dodge the system are severely punished, sometimes even appointed as the chosen ones themselves.
Now Pat is eighteen and Pran will be eighteen in two weeks and the sortition is once again arriving tomorrow. Pat rests his hands on the rotund edges of the unlit, cold furnace and prays to the gods more fervently than ever that no one will be taken from him.
Not that he has ever truly believed that they are listening.
Pat eventually finds his way back home. Before going inside, he walks to the adjacent stables to check on his steed, a massive singh gifted to Pat when he turned fourteen. Her intricate mane will never parallel the curls of a male singh’s, but it has grown deeper in color and more intricate as she ages and Pat loves her fiercely.
Pat rubs the furry space above Aeji’s nose and scratches behind one of her ears in the aggressive way she appreciates. Aeji yawns with an impressive display of teeth and curled pink tongue.
Aeji’s saddle is nearby on its designated hook. The saddle had been designed and crafted by Pat himself after years of honing his skills. Pat had begun drafting blueprint ideas when he realized the saddles that existed were mostly for horse-species makara and wouldn’t be able to maximize a singh’s massive power, especially one as large as Aeji. The saddle can carry two riders and their cargo while maintaining an ergonomic fit over Aeji’s back.
Pat wonders as he strokes Aeji’s mane if he should go look for Pran and say goodnight to him. They don’t spend much time together these days, being involved in such disparate crafts. Pat misses having time to bother Pran and watch his dimples appear.
Maybe he’s already asleep. He’s never shown any sign of anxiety each year during sortition. There’s little to indicate this year would be any different.
Pat reluctantly falls asleep against Aeji’s warm body curled around him. It’s the only way he’s been able to fall asleep on nights like this.
The late afternoon sun beats down as Pat’s family steps to the census official’s table.
Pat looks with dread at the box with its hole at the top like a gaping maw. Pa is by his side and Pran is standing somewhere close behind him in line.
Pat watches the census official talk to Pat’s mother and determine that Pat and Pa are between the ages of fourteen and thirty-eight. The census official writes something down and gestures to the box. The chance is one in one hundred thousand to be selected, but Pat doesn’t relax until he sees Pa pull out a plain light-colored grain of unpolished rice.
Pat reaches in and cards through the dusty smoothness of the rice. He pinches one grain and pulls his hand out with held breath. Pat unfurls his fingers and the plain grain of rice gleams in the sunlight.
Pa hugs Pat tight as they walk away. Pat lets out a trembling breath and squeezes her back.
There’s a sound of something between a woman’s scream and a sob. Pat whips around.
Pran’s body is tense and his mom is sobbing at his feet. Pran’s arm is outstretched above the gaping maw of the sortition box. Pat sees the obsidian-black dyed grain of rice between Pran’s slender fingers and it’s like the ground is falling out from underneath Pat’s feet.
The chance is one in one hundred thousand.
“The gods have decreed the one to usher their prosperity,” a priest says. A heavy cloth is draped over the box. Pran’s mother continues to cry as Pran’s dad holds her, his face buried in her neck. Pran still hasn’t moved.
Pran looks up, and somehow the first person he makes eye contact with is Pat. It’s two weeks before Pran will turn eighteen. Pran has been chosen. Pran will never turn eighteen.
All those long nights and hushed conversations about their futures, for what?
An uneasy murmur rises among those uninformed of the development. Pat is still looking back at Pran, and at that moment it’s as if the fog of morning has dissipated, or the water source of a sheer waterfall has been blocked off to reveal the stained crevices of the earth on the other side.
The realization is so obvious that Pat wonders how he did not see it before. All the times he pursued Pran, desiring his time and his attention and conversation.
Pat listened to Pran complain about the limited space he had for manuscripts in his childhood room, and Pat reassured Pran that he'd add a large bookshelf to the house he'd build when they're older. Pat listened to Pran talk about the garden he wants in the future and immediately added space for a luscious garden in the future home of his mind. Pat watched the way Pran interacted with the younger children of their village, and Pat knew his house would have to have multiple rooms.
Pat told Pran about all this and was always met with the same perplexing bemused but melancholy expression. Now Pat understands what that expression meant. Pran had thought Pat wasn't being serious. Or he'd thought someday Pat would change his mind and choose a future with someone else.
It had been such a natural assumption that Pat and Pran would always be together that Pat had never thought to bring it up. It had been so natural that Pat himself never questioned it. How has he gone this long without realizing the reason why he wants to be with Pran?
Pat doesn’t just want a future with Pran. Pat can’t imagine a future without Pran in it.
Pat is startled out of his thoughts when he sees Pran striding towards him with resolve, ignoring the shouts of the guards ordering him to stay in place. Pran stops in front of him. “Pat,” Pran says.
It couldn’t be a more terrible time for Pat to realize his feelings for Pran - or maybe this is the only way Pat would’ve ever realized? How awful is that?
What now? Does Pat tell him?
“You’ve always meant a great deal to me.” Pran says. “More than you would know.”
“What,” Pat attempts to say. The guards are moving closer.
Pran grips the back of Pat’s neck. “Forgive me for being selfish this once.” Pran leans in and captures Pat’s lips with his own, an oppressive wet heat and outpouring of feelings and unspoken desires. Pat nearly crumbles under the weight.
Pran pulls back first and tries to say something else, but the words are lost among the stampede of guards and bewilderment of the onlookers. Pat lunges forward as Pran is yanked out of sight. “Pran!”
The crowd is pushing Pat back. A hand is curled around the crook of his elbow - it’s Pat’s father, trying to move Pat away from the chaos. Pat is gasping for breath, his lungs feel as if the air has been extracted from them - as if Pran’s single kiss had removed his capability to inhale.
Pat’s feelings - no, their feelings - their feelings are mutual and Pran will never know.
“Pat,” Pat’s father says. “That’s a waste of food.”
Pat simply looks at his full plate as he has been doing all evening. Pa isn’t present. She took the family boat out to sea hours ago. She’d been crying the entire day before she ran off.
Pat’s mom sighs. “It’s too bad for the young boy’s family. An only son, too.”
Pat’s father gives a halfhearted grunt of agreement. “What must it be like knowing that you’re days away from an imminent and terrible death?”
Pat knows full well what happens to the people that are chosen as sacrifices to the fertility gods. They are chained in a temple and left for the use of the city. None have survived longer than one week. They bleed out from the forced penetration or die of thirst if someone hasn’t asphyxiated them in the throes of their passions.
That’s where Pran is being taken right now.
“It shouldn’t be Pran,” Pat whispers.
Pat’s father taps his knife. “You dare anger the gods?”
Pat can’t help glaring at his father, but his father is avoiding eye contact. Likely the guilt of his past conflict with Pran’s family persists despite the rivalry being long abandoned.
Pat recalls the day the master blacksmith complimented Pat’s diligence and decided on a date for him to be granted the title and responsibilities of a journeyman. It was a substantial accomplishment to be promoted to journeyman at such a young age. Pat had felt very mature, invaluable as a talented blacksmith, a far cry from the days he struggled as a fisherman under his father’s daily criticism.
It took only a day for Pat to return to feeling young and powerless once more.
Pat pretends to go to bed early. He listens to his parents moving around the house before retiring for the night as well. They would do everything in their power to stop Pat if they knew what he was about to do, so he has to sneak past them.
Pat quietly navigates through the house down to Aeji. Unbeknownst to Pat’s parents, Pat has been preparing Aeji’s load all day, sneaking back and forth to the stables with rations and other provisions.
Supplies have been carefully wrapped in towels along with medications and a few tools. Pat attempted to pack the saddle satchels as light as possible so that Aegi will be able to travel faster.
Aeji is restless, straining to stay still in the confines of her enclosure. Pat fastens the last satchel and kisses Aeji’s mane. “I’m sorry, girl. It’s a long couple of days ahead of us. I promise you can rest afterwards.”
Pat wishes he could’ve said goodbye to Pa. He knows Pa will be upset that Pat didn’t leave a trace of farewell, but Pat can’t leave a note behind and it would be impossible to find her in person now. Pat checks the stable exterior before hoisting himself up onto Aeji. He knows exactly what he must do. He is also fully aware of the consequences.
If he were to succeed, then Pran and Pat would both become fugitives of the law. If he were to fail, a fate worse than death would accompany them both.
Aeji bounds out into the cloudless, moonlit night and Pat doesn’t look back.
Pat had been hoping to catch sight of the traveling caravan of census workers before they reached the capitol. It seemed like it would be easier to sneak Pran away from their limited numbers of guards. As Pat urges his tireless singh onwards and the city walls come into sight, he has a sinking feeling that they weren’t fast enough.
Pat allows himself and Aeji to be inspected before they step through the fortified gates into the crowded streets of the city. People openly stare at Pat’s unrefined garments and his unusual steed, and Pat warily drapes a cloth over his head and face to mask his features.
There’s so much activity everywhere that Pat has no clue where to begin his search. He comes to an intersection and blinks at the temple right in front of him. The symbolism is cryptic but it seems to be a temple dedicated to the gods of the weather. There are a few other temples in a row next to it, and Pat finds their ornamentations a rather gaudy display of wealth.
Several rowdy teenagers mounted on horse-lizard makaras rush by, and Pat hears the word ‘chosen one’ float through their conversation. Pat nudges Aeji to pursue them.
They travel further than expected deeper into the city, and the increase in wealth is blatantly visible. Pat stops Aeji as they reach the top of a hill overlooking a dense crowd outside an elaborate building with a spire.
There must be hundreds. Pat can’t breathe. Forget a week. How is anyone supposed to survive a single day chained inside of there?
“Excuse me,” Pat says to a well-dressed couple walking in the direction of the crowd. “What is the reason for this crowd?”
The women look surprised. “You must not be from around here,” says the one closest to him. She points towards the lofty spire in the distance. “The chosen one was placed inside the Temple of Fertility today, and everyone wants to look at him.”
The other woman giggles. “They’re saying he’s so beautiful, it’s nearly a shame for him to be utilized in this manner. He might have become one of the king’s consorts if the king didn’t fear the gods’ wrath.”
White-hot rage fills Pat. This dirty, festering lot doesn’t deserve a splinter of Pran’s ethereal beauty, the king included. “And this crowd persists even at night?” Pat asks.
“I believe so, although there will be far less people interested in the very early hours of the morning. I’d recommend avoiding the temple during that time. Usually the people that seek out the chosen one during such strange hours are not the kind of people you’d want to encounter.”
Pat takes a deep breath. “I see. Thank you for informing me.”
Pat turns his attention to the sky. It’s a hot day, and it’s not even midday yet. Pat guides Aeji to hunker down in the shade to rest. He plans to locate a water well for her later. Aeji dozes off quickly, but Pat has no intention of doing the same. He keeps a close eye on the temple and the never-ending swarm of people around it.
Pat has no choice but to wait.
Pat isn’t used to the night being so brilliantly illuminated.
Long after the sun has set and the cool night air has settled on the streets, the city continues to glow and teem with activity. There’s still a large crowd around the temple, likely spurred by the sheer novelty of the newcomer chained inside. Pat leans against a sleeping Aeji and keeps watch as the stars and thin clouds crawl overhead.
The sky has been dark for some time now. The horde of visitors is finally beginning to die down, and the multitude of guards have gradually left their posts until only two are left for the night watch.
Pat mounts Aeji and urges her closer. If he moves too soon or waits too long, he will miss the ideal time frame of having as few onlookers nearby as possible.
Pat prepares a giant dark shawl like a cape and selects his tools to sneak into the temple. He checks to make sure his head and face are securely covered before slipping off of Aeji and striding into the empty temple.
The lines of decorated columns that follow the length of the entry hallway scatter the sounds of dissonant echoes. Pat waits for a clearly-inebriated duo to sing and stagger out of sight down the hallway. Pat takes a deep breath and steps foot into the main room that opens up under the cavernous ceiling.
Pat hasn’t seen anything worse in his life than Pran’s limp body atop the ritual bench, his limbs slack within their restraints as a stranger callously forces his erection inside of him. Pran doesn’t react at all to the haphazard thrusting, and for a heart-stopping moment, Pat thinks he might be too late.
The stranger pulls out and spatters his seed on Pran’s body before adjusting his trousers and speaking to the two people standing near him. The group of people talk and light cigars as they leave. The fragrant smoke adds another cloying scent to the air. The two lone guards are together in the opposite hallway watching the group of strangers leave. Pat is left alone with Pran.
Pat approaches the center of the room, trying not to linger on the sight of Pran’s blood mixing with viscous release everywhere that is beginning to dry and flake. Pran’s bloodied wrists have been scraped raw by the heavy shackles. A dark trail of blood trails from one side of Pran’s perfectly shaped lips, mixing with his drying tears clumping his lashes.
Pat trembles as he huddles over Pran and drapes the shawl over them, moving one ear close to Pran’s parted lips. Pat fights back his tears as he checks Pran’s pulse at his neck to confirm what he heard.
Pran is still alive.
Pat takes his well-sharpened pliers from underneath his shawl and begins to feign noises of arousal as he braces the pliers against the chains binding Pran’s left wrist.
Pran’s eyelashes flutter. Despite Pat’s face being nearly completely covered, Pran's eyes go wide with recognition. Pat grunts loudly at the instant he snaps the chain in two.
The noise is louder than he expected. One of the guards is now looking over at them with suspicion. Pat doesn’t know how much longer he can keep the noise up before drawing attention.
“No,” Pran rasps. He moves his splayed legs and the chains rattle. Pran’s volume rises. “Please, please - stop. Please stop, please, no!”
Pat freezes, but Pran isn’t physically resisting him. Pat sees Pran’s gaze flicker to the guards. The one who had initially been alerted is moving away again, desensitized to Pran’s desperate cries. Pat forces his hands to remain steady as he focuses his attention on freeing Pran’s other wrist, then his right ankle.
As Pat breaks the final chain, his pliers snap in two with a piercing crack. Pran’s cries fall silent with a whimper. Pat can still hear Pran’s unadulterated sobs of pain echoing in ears, reverberating throughout his chest. The sound will haunt him forever.
Pat abandons the broken pliers and wastes no time bundling Pran’s battered body in his shawl. He hoists Pran into his arms and rushes towards the exit free of guards. Aeji flattens her body to the ground so Pat can clamber on with Pran securely in his grasp. Pat doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice. “Run, Aeji.”
Aeji breaks into a gallop. The streets are empty of passerby, but all Pat can think about is how exposed they are and how identifiable his singh will be once the guards have been alerted.
Someone shouts at them as Pat urges Aeji past the inspection booths at the city gates. The noise behind them grows. Pat guides Aeji towards the edge of the darkest-looking forest in the opposite direction of the main roads. He trusts the deeply ingrained natural instincts of his singh that allow her to weave through the thick growth without losing pace.
Pat attempts to check Pran while keeping a tight grip on the saddle and dodging foliage overhead. It looks like Pran has fallen unconscious again despite the tumultuous journey.
Pat focuses again on the dark forest ahead of them. They travel for so long that the sun is nearly directly above when Aeji reaches her limit. She pants as she comes to a stop in the middle of the stream they’ve been wading through for a while.
Pat carefully dismounts with Pran in his arms as Aeji messily laps up water. Pat lowers Pran under the shelter of a bush before removing the cloth covering his face and returning his attention to Aeji. He checks the singh all over for injuries, but thankfully her paws are free of injury and debris. She’s just running a touch too hot and needs some time to cool down.
Pran is stirring awake, and as he sits up the fabric of the dark shawl slips from his bare shoulders. Pat approaches him, and Pran is wincing into the light with a strange expression. He chokes and Pat reacts instantly.
Pat scrambles to wrap his arms around Pran as Pran attempts to crawl face first into the water. A terrific splash sends water everywhere as they plunge into the water together. Pran doubles over and vomits into the stream. Pat supports Pran’s weight from behind as he continues to heave. The pristine water rushes all around them and through their clothing, washing away bile and bright traces of blood.
Pran shudders and goes limp against Pat. The shawl is strewn over the dry ground nearby. The sun hasn’t had time to fully warm the day yet, and Pat imagines the water must be freezing over Pran’s naked body. The metal of the shackles looks even heavier coated in water.
Pat feels Pran slowly recollecting his strength in his arms. Pran adjusts his position and brings his cupped hands to his face to rinse his mouth and face. Aeji trundles closer, and Pat reaches for one of the satchels to locate a bar of homemade soap.
Pat offers the soap, but Pran just stares at him. Pat dares to splay one wet hand through the hair behind Pran’s ear. Pran closes his eyes a little and leans into the touch.
Water trickles down Pat’s forearm as he cups water over Pran’s head and gradually dampens his hair. He pauses often to lightly massage Pran’s scalp and soothe his hand over the tense skin at Pran’s neck until he relaxes.
Pat takes the soap and begins lathering Pran’s hair, meticulous in his efforts around Pran’s ears and down to his neck and chest. The smell of the soap is earthy and mild. Pat feels the texture of prickling goosebumps as he rubs the rank smell out of Pran’s skin, keeping his hands gentle over prominent teeth marks and scratches. Pran assists Pat in rinsing his hair, and Pat averts his gaze as Pran takes the soap and finishes washing the rest of his body.
Pat helps Pran out of the water and he drapes a broad towel around Pran’s body. Pat finds a loincloth and his oldest tunic, the blue fabric softened over years of use and brutal washings. When he offers the clothing to Pran, something in Pran’s gaze makes Pat think that he recognizes the tunic.
Pat takes the soap and his own towel and he moves out of view upstream to strip out of his waterlogged garments and rapidly scrub at his grimy body. He hears Aeji haul herself out of the water with a tremendous yawn.
Pat wraps the towel around his waist and returns to see Aeji curled up near the stream. Her body heat is already drying the fur of her mane. Pran is dressed in Pat’s clothing and he's resting against Aeji with his eyes closed and the shawl wrapped around his body again.
Pat hurries to change into a new tunic before draping his wet clothing over sunlit branches to speed their drying. He curses internally looking through his limited toolset for something to break through the hasps of the shackles. The clanking of the tools makes Pran open his eyes again.
Pat takes a fine file and sits next to Pran with one hand outstretched. Pran’s eyes follow the line of Pat’s arm to his face. Pat waits, and Pran cautiously raises one hand and rests it in Pat’s.
Pat angles the file and begins to whittle away at the sturdy metal. He wishes he’d brought a coarser file, or perhaps a chisel or another set of pliers.
For a while, the only sounds are of trickling water and the rasp of grinding metal. Pat finally breaks through the hasp and the shackle falls open to reveal how badly injured Pran’s wrist is. Pat is afraid to touch it.
Pran’s body is pliant as Pat maneuvers him so Pran can lay comfortably while Pat works at the shackle around his other arm, then his ankle. Pran is fast asleep before Pat can finish breaking off the final cuff on his other ankle. It’s a relief to witness. Pat had been hoping Pran would fall asleep quickly to speed his healing.
Pat is as careful as possible in cleaning and bandaging Pran’s wounds, wincing at the copious blood loss. Pat then tidies the makeshift camp before he feeds Aeji a generous portion of rations. He takes some time to pet the fur above her nose as she consumes the food. Pat carefully searches for the driest wood he can find for a campfire before he locates his rations of smoked sheatfish and fermented sausage made with pork skin and sticky rice. He’s planning to find some aromatic herbs and boil the meat down into a stew that would be easier to consume.
Pat has just placed a tiny pot of water over wood to boil and is attempting to light a fire when he realizes Pran’s awake. He’s sitting up with one hand wrapped around a bandaged wrist, and he’s looking at Pat. Pat is about to smile reassuringly at him before his heart stutters seeing the expression on Pran’s face.
Pran speaks the first audible words Pat has heard him say since Pran asked Pat to forgive his reckless confession in their hometown. “You have to take me back.”
Pat drops his flint. “What?”
Pran’s expression is almost pitying. Pat has learned to recognize that look. It’s the one Pran gets when he understands something Pat doesn’t. Usually it’s accompanied by a subtle delight, a satisfaction at harboring knowledge that Pat doesn’t. Pat sees that expression now without any hint of the delight. “Think about it logically, Pat.”
“Logic?” Pat explodes. “What do you mean, logic? There’s nothing about any of this that could possibly be justified through reason.”
“Pat.” Pran’s level-headedness is making Pat angrier.
Pat moves closer to Pran. “You assisted your own rescue. The guards would’ve long noticed what I was trying to do if you didn’t help me.”
Pran shakes his head. “It was a moment of weakness. You need to bring me back.”
Pat stares Pran down. “You’re never going anywhere near the city again, ever.”
Now Pran’s temper is beginning to rise. “Pat, listen to me. Did you really think you could stop them by stealing me away? Who are you to determine that anyone else is more deserving of my fate than I am?”
“But you don’t deserve this!” Pat throws his hands up. “None of us do. No one in that wretched city has ever drawn lots during the sortition. The whole scheme is just a means to manipulate us for their own whims.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Pran grips his own wrist harder. “That may be true, but what can we do about it? They’ll find someone else to replace me. They’ll raze our entire village and find our families, Pat. Would you allow Pa to take my place?”
“No,” Pat says instinctually. He couldn’t give up Pa, or anyone in his or Pran’s families. He couldn’t give up any of them.
Pran looks away first. “This is why. You have to bring me back.”
“Pran,” Pat says with a tight throat. He can’t. He’s not strong enough, not selfless enough.
Pat hears Pran choke on a sob. It’s as if his resolved exterior shatters all at once. Before Pat can think or move his limbs, Pran is burying his face in Pat’s shoulder and clinging to him hard enough to bruise. Pat doesn’t know what to say. He can’t reassure Pran that things will be alright. That would be a lie and they would both know it. So Pat just holds Pran as he cries, holds him as close as he can and doesn’t let go.
Pat can see how scared Pran is, how much pain he’s been through and is still undergoing. He’s already endured unspeakable horror once. How much bravery had it taken for him to say the things he had spoken?
Pat feels Pran stifling his tears prematurely and wishes that he wouldn’t. He moves back enough to brush at the tears at the corners of Pran's eyes. Pran blinks hard and touches one finger to Pat's chin, making Pat realize the tears he'd been holding back for so long had escaped and trailed down his face. It compels Pat to speak again. “I can’t let you die, Pran.”
Pran moves as if to resist Pat’s grasp. “Because I saved Pa from drowning?”
“Because,” Pat says, cursing himself internally at his inability to form his own words, to be more elegant in conveying his thoughts at a moment as crucial as this. “Because, Pran, you mean more to me than you’ve ever known.” Pran’s eyes are wide as Pat leans forward.
Pran quickly slips a hand between them and pushes Pat back.
“Careful,” Pran whispers, keeping the hand between them. “There were many strange people touching me. I don’t want to transmit anything to you.”
Pat couldn’t care less, but if he gets sick he knows Pran would blame himself. Pat relents and settles for stroking Pran’s wet cheek. Pran’s trembling hand finds Pat’s, and he brings Pat’s hand up to place a chaste kiss to the center of his palm.
Pat bites his lip and cradles Pran’s thin cheek in his hand. “Let’s talk about this later. You should rest first.” Pran looks like he would argue if he had the strength to, but the night is deepening and Pran is clearly exhausted.
Unfazed by Pat and Pran’s outbursts, Aeji pants with her tongue lolling in the air as Pran approaches her head. “Thank you,” Pran whispers into Aeji’s ear. Aeji rumbles and Pat’s heart hurts fiercely.
Pat finally succeeds in lighting a bright fire, dry and smokeless to attract as little attention as possible. Pat watches Pran closely to make sure he eats and drinks before Pat touches any of the food.
Pran huddles between Aeji and the warmth of the dying coals of the fire, but Pat can feel as he lies next to him that Pran is still shivering. Pran’s body is stiff at first when Pat drapes the shawl over their bodies, but Pran slowly shifts his body so that they are pressed together. Pat hasn’t slept properly in a long time, but he finds that rest continues to elude him. Pat inches closer to Pran, trying to keep him warm with his body heat, but Pran is restless at his side. Pat keeps his voice soft. “Are you okay, Pran?”
Pran breathes out. “It’s the aphrodisiac that was supposed to ease my death. It was very potent.”
Hearing of yet another intrusion upon Pran’s body makes Pat’s chest ache fiercely. “I want to help you.”
Pran is sweating and he looks so drained but his expression is the most vulnerable and affectionate that Pat’s ever seen. He slips one arm over Pat’s waist. “It’s enough to have you here.”
Pat allows himself to rub Pran’s cheek with his thumb again before drawing back and trying to fall asleep. He doesn’t know what will happen to them now, but it’s best for him to be fully rested to be prepared for it.
The dense black haze renders it impossible to breathe. The black shimmers into gold and white and then back to thick black once more. Something is wrapped around Pat’s hand.
The dense haze gives way to something solid and sheer under Pat’s feet. “Pran,” Pat says when he realizes what the source of pressure around his palm is.
Pran grips Pat’s hand tighter. “Don’t let go of my hand.”
Pat swallows and looks out at the dizzying landscape. He doesn’t need to look very long to know he is somehow inside Pran’s dream. It’s just as Pran described in his manuscripts. There are towering beings of air and gold moving back and forth with massive footsteps and flowing garments. The haze takes the shape of a deep forest towering with foliage larger and taller than anything Pat has ever seen in his life before dissipating to nothingness.
“I see Pa with your mother,” Pat says with surprise, pointing below them. Somehow he sees it with clarity despite them being miniscule in the distance.
Pran is as surprised as Pat. “I see them, too. I see the whole village. I’ve never been able to see that in my dreams before.”
Pat and Pran look down at the landscape. Every detail of the city and villages surrounding it are visible. A stray dog running with a fish. A fisherman flirting with someone at a dock. The priests talking to the harried king in the throne room. Dogs and soldiers on singhs looking around in the direction Pat and Pran had escaped, failing to find any trace of their departure.
Suddenly there’s a roaring overhead. It isn’t loud but it fills the entire space and seems to echo on forever. A shape lacking a comprehensible form descends upon them with a rush of heat and gold. The screams seem to be directed in their direction.
Pat clings to Pran. “What’s happening?”
Pran’s voice is grim. “I think I know. I was in this dreamscape again before you woke me up, but for the first time, I did something. When one of the beings walked away from me, I tore off the edge of their garment.”
Pat and Pran watch as the colossal form attempts to communicate several times with them. The being almost looks like a garuda, king of birds, but the form remains filmy and fluid in shape. Their voice becomes thinner and thinner, and stars and clouds are carved into meaningless words with syllables. The words distill into their language, and the being speaks with clarity.
“You have stolen my essence from me,” the deity says without opening their mouth.
Pran takes a step closer, still keeping a tight grip on Pat. “What other way would I have to get your attention?”
The being’s disinterest is palpable. “I can’t do anything for you. It’s not my domain.”
Pure rage sears Pat’s throat. “Are we that inconsequential to you?”
The garuda faces Pat. “And who is this?”
“Someone I love very much,” Pran says loudly.
Pat grips Pran’s fingers tighter, quelling tears threatening to spill over. The deity leans back a little. “The power of love,” they muse. “Some of the deities fear love, and there is not much we fear.”
“The sacrifices to the fertility gods,” Pran says. “Was there any meaning to their loss?”
The garuda snorts. “None. There’s no such thing as ‘fertility gods’. We don’t care for your shows of hysterics, human. Your lives are rapid and inconsequential to us.”
Pat closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what would’ve been better to hear, that the carnage had been meaningless after all or that such a terrible deed was indeed bringing prosperity to the land.
Pran’s voice rises. “An innocent person dies every single year because of your neglect. Why won’t you help us?”
The deity peers at Pran. “Like I said, your lives are so rapid, it would be a burden to attend to each of your tiresome demands.”
Pran squares his shoulders. “If we are so inconsequential, I’d imagine it’s a trivial amount of effort to expend on humoring me.”
The garuda makes a strange, chiming sound and circles Pran, as if searching for their essence to steal back. Pran doesn’t budge. “Accommodate me. Otherwise I will be a thorn in your heel every moment of my dreams. And the dreams are rather frequent.”
“Such daring,” the deity says with what almost sounds like rumbling laughter. “Very well. Come closer, human.”
Pran spares a glance at Pat before giving his hand a gentle tug. They walk closer to the garuda and stop at their feet. A giant human hand manifests from the golden fog and moves forward to touch Pran’s forehead with the tip of its index finger. Pat sees brilliant light burn through Pran’s veins as he yelps.
“What are you doing?” Pat demands.
The hand vanishes and Pran sways into Pat. Pat stares at Pran. “Pran, your forehead. There’s a mark - it’s glowing.”
The garuda rumbles. “I’ve implanted a fingerprint on your skull. It’s purely ornamental, but the humans seem to like those sorts of things.”
“It will be enough,” Pran says. “Thank you.”
“At least this one is polite,” the garuda says to themself before phasing through and away from them.
Pat’s chest is heavy. “All this time, Pran. The sacrifices meant nothing to them.”
Pran agrees, “They didn’t, but now we can end this mess once and for all. When we wake up, we’re returning to the capitol.”
Pat blinks awake, and the first thing he sees is the haphazard mark on Pran’s forehead. It seems even brighter in the daylight.
Pran opens his eyes and sees Pat’s line of sight. “It’s still there?”
Pat sighs. “Look in the river.”
Pran goes to look. He moves his bangs out of the way. “That’s rather ghastly.”
When Pran turns back towards Pat, Pat reaches up and rubs at the corner of the gleaming mark. He watches it change color before reasserting its bright hue within Pran’s flesh. “Do you think it will fade away?”
“Perhaps.” Pran touches his chin. “The deity healed my mouth where I bit my tongue.”
Pat looks at Pran’s body and realizes every bruise and blemish has been removed as if they never existed. Pran peels at one of his bandages on his wrist. There are traces of blood from the wounds but the skin is flawless. Pat’s voice shakes. “You’ve been completely healed.”
“From the inside as well,” Pran agrees. “I think the deity also cleansed my blood and burned the fevers and stimulants away.”
Pat helps Pran remove the rest of his bandages until there’s a pile of cloth strips on the ground. Pran shakes off the last of the bandages and stands his full height. This is the Pran that Pat knew, eyes bright and full of purpose - yet he also looks like he’s changed so much. Or perhaps that’s just Pat’s own change in perception.
It doesn’t matter. Pran looks beautiful and Pat has never been more deeply in love. Pat can't stop himself from asking, “May I kiss you?”
Those familiar dark eyes soften and Pran rests his hands over Pat’s shoulders, drawing him closer. Pat closes his eyes first.
Pran’s mouth is plush and slightly chapped with the slightest brush of fine hairs above the curves of his upper lip. Tender touches deepen into a breathless give and take, an echo of their first kiss full of urgency and unleashed passions. Every time one tries to draw back, the other tips forward again,spurring each other on. Pat’s hands are cradling the back of Pran’s head, following each tilt of his face as they both try and fail to drink in their fill.
Pat’s lips are sore and he’s panting slightly when they both finally move back. Pran gives a small shake of his head and leans forward to press his glowing forehead against Pat’s. Pat waits for something to feel different, but all he feels is Pran’s skin and the pit of dread at the bottom of his stomach that has been growing ever since they woke up.
Pran releases Pat with a great deal of reluctance and Pat can’t take his eyes off of him. Pran tangles his fingers in the cloth of his blue tunic. “If you can spare it, I want to change before we travel. Let’s go while there’s daylight.”
Everything in Pat still wants to resist. It almost feels as if there’s another person controlling his body as he looks through his satchel for a change of clothing. Turns out, Pran didn’t want to change his tunic, only his loincloth. Pat sees the dark dried blood staining the fabric and wants to throw up. He burns the bloodied cloth and bandages before stamping out the flames and helping Pran clean their camp. Pat checks over Aeji once more before hoisting Pran into the saddle and sitting behind him.
Pat wraps his arms around Pran’s torso as he takes the reins. Pran is pressed up against the length of his front and Pat can’t help burying his face in the crook between Pran’s lovely neck and shoulder. Pran reaches up and strokes Pat’s head without looking back. “It’ll be okay, Pat,” he whispers. “Trust me.”
Pat presses a lingering kiss to Pran’s nape, memorizing the texture of his hair and skin under his lips before sitting up securely in the saddle. Aeji turns around and begins the return to the glistening capitol.
Pran’s unprecedented return to the city makes news long before Pat and Pran can reach the city gates. Someone must have seen Aeji approaching from the towering viewpoint of the city walls.
No one stops them as they pass the threshold of the city walls to the streets. Pran had adjusted his hair to part his bangs and fully reveal the deity’s golden thumbprint on his forehead. There are people crowding at the sides of the roads to gawk at them, but no one impedes their progress.
“He’s been touched by the gods,” Pat hears as Aeji turns the corner and walks down the final road towards the royal courtyard. Guards move to confront them, but when they see the gleaming mark on Pran’s forehead they immediately retreat backwards. Pat tries to relax his reflexive possessive grip around Pran.
Aeji strides boldly through the middle of the courtyard as attendants and servants stare. She seems to sense something Pat doesn’t, so Pat allows her to move of her own accord.
A crowd is beginning to form behind them as Aeji pads through the hallways vaguely reminiscent of the extravagance of the temple Pran was chained inside. Aeji comes to a stop at the edge of an inner courtyard. There are several singh lying about with luxurious manes and claws and a stairway leading up to a single throne. There is a commotion in a ring around the decorated man sitting on the throne as confused council members spot Pat and Pran and several guards assert their positions.
Pran flinches seeing the king in person for the first time and his eyes are filled with a sudden uncertainty. Pran looks back at Pat with those fearful eyes and the awful mark on his forehead. He’s been so strong until now, ceaselessly gathering the strength to fight back, even when being violated within an inch of his life. Now he’s asking Pat to lend him his strength and there’s nothing Pat can do other than give Pran his most reassuring look and trust him. If there’s anyone Pat can trust, he knows he can trust Pran.
Pran’s gaze lingers on Pat, and then he finally turns back and carefully dismounts from Aeji. The confused murmuring grows louder when Pran steps closer to the king’s ensemble, close enough that they can see the mark on his forehead. “I have a message from the deities,” Pran says.
The king raises his hand and everyone falls silent. Pran raises his voice. “The gods of fertility are dead. They have been dead for thirty millennia, and our sacrifices have meant nothing to them.”
A shocked clamour rises from the bystanders. Guards call for order, and the council’s faces range from shocked to ashen. The king stands from his seat.
Pran isn’t finished. “The deities that have ascended to replace them have not yet collected their power. You may pray to them, but it will be another several millennia before they are able to do anything to manipulate the cosmos.” Pran looks out at the crowd around them. “Until then, fate lies in the whims of the universe.”
The king says something indistinguishable to the advisor at his side. After they confer, the king raises an arm. “Send our fastest messengers to relay what has happened to their village. Spare their families, redirect the soldiers back to the city.”
Pat is tense as he waits on top of Aeji. A curious feeling seeps through him, something like the beginnings of impossible hope. The king looks from Pran to Pat. There’s a hint of kindness in the corners of his eyes, but then Pat remembers that this is the man who had allowed an unjust and terrible death to so many innocent people.
The king focuses on Pran again. “Thank you for delivering this message to us, young one. Speak of your desires and they shall be granted. No request is too great.”
A hint of exhaustion creeps into Pran’s voice. “I’d like to return home, Your Highness. That’s all.”
The king nods. “We can prepare a caravan.”
“No,” Pran says. “That’s unnecessary. I can travel back with my - my companion.” He glances back at Pat.
The king gestures to the side. “We will protect your journey back, I insist.” Pat watches as Pran receives an official document of amnesty and protection marked with the royal seal.
Pran returns to Pat and keeps a hold on Pat’s hand after Pat helps him onto the saddle. “You did it,” Pat tells him with pride. “All by yourself.”
Pran squeezes Pat’s fingers. “We both know that’s not true.”
Two of the king’s guards are selected to escort them out of the city and back to their village. Pat sees the sizes of the singhs they ride and makes a mental note to begin designing a larger stable space for Aeji.
The much larger singhs could easily outpace them, but they follow at a respectful distance as Pat lets Aeji trot down the road at a comfortable speed.
Darkness falls and they are forced to make camp and rest for the night. Pran tucks Pat under the shawl and rests his head on Pat’s shoulder. He still smells like the soap that Pat used. One of the king’s guards keeps watch as Pat and Pran fall asleep in each other’s arms.
As they get closer to the village, they encounter the messenger and city soldiers approaching from the other direction. The soldiers gawk at Pran’s forehead, but they don’t do anything else.
The outskirts of the village come into sight. Pat can see Pran’s mom and dad, Pat’s mom and Pa waiting for them. Aeji’s footsteps are more rapid, as if sensing the end of the journey is near.
The moment Aeji slows to a stop, Pran slips off of Aeji and is engulfed in his parents’ crushing hug. Pat smiles helplessly at the sight. Pran’s mom moves back a little to sweep back Pran’s bangs and scrutinize the golden mark. “It looks so awful.” She sniffles and hugs Pran again.
Pat dismounts Aeji and rushes to tightly hug his mom and a crying Pa. Pa smacks his arm. “You didn’t leave me any sort of goodbye message.”
Pat rests a hand on Pa’s head. “I didn’t want anyone thinking any of you were involved in any way.” Pat dares to look at his mother’s expression. There is love, but there is also a sort of resignation that Pat realizes he’s seen before. It’s a look that she often gets when Pran is involved.
Pran watches his mother stare as Pat lets go of Pa and turns to face him. “He saved me,” Pran tells her.
Pat shakes his head. “I’d say we saved each other.”
Pat barely finishes the sentence before Pran’s mom is hugging Pat for the first time in their lives. Bewilderment gives way to a quiet awe as Pat hugs Pran’s mom back. He marvels at how natural it feels. Pran’s dad looks pleased, but Pran looks as amazed as Pat.
“Come on,” Pran’s mom says briskly. “Our place. Let’s eat.”
The king’s guards leave as Pat takes Aeji’s reins and follows Pran’s mom back to the village. Pran’s dad has his arm around Pran’s mom and is talking quietly to Pat’s mom. Pa falls back to walk with Pat and Pran. She looks at the mark on Pran’s forehead. “Does it hurt?” she asks.
“No,” Pran says. “I didn’t know if it was there until Pat told me.”
Pa looks from Pran to Pat, a depth of knowledge in her eyes. It’s not a surprise. Pat couldn’t have been more obvious with his feelings, risking everything to save Pran.
Pat looks at Pran’s hand closest to him and how it’s angled as if to prevent Pat from attempting to reach out and hold it. There’s no way Pran doesn’t know how Pat feels about him, and Pat knows Pran desires him in return, but can that be enough?
Pat focuses on the path in front of him, trying to ignore the whispers of the fascinated villagers around them. The boy that was touched by the gods.
Pat’s family returns to their home first so that Pat can let Aeji eat and rest in her stable. Pat enters the house and finds his father sitting in a corner whittling a small piece of wood. He’s ignoring Pat. His father doesn’t need to make eye contact for Pat to sense the keen disapproval radiating off of him.
Shame clogs Pat’s throat. He knows what he did was foolish, a selfish and impulsive act that endangered his entire village. He would do it again in a heartbeat.
Pat and his mother follow Pa back out the door. Pa holds Pat’s hand as they walk to Pran’s home, swinging their arms with each step. It was the strangest feeling seeing the inside of Pran’s front door for the first time, sitting next to Pran and watching Pa talk casually to Pran’s father about their recent sales of fish. Pran’s hand finds Pat’s under the shelter of the dining table and Pat grips him tightly, feeling unmoored in vast and unfamiliar waters.
Pran and Pat remain mostly silent for the duration of the meal and afterwards, allowing the others to keep up the conversation. When they finish and Pat’s mother and Pa say goodbye, Pat stares at Pran standing within the threshold of his home.
Pat sees that Pran is still watching him when Pat and his family walk around the corner out of sight.
Pat thinks he’ll never be able to fall asleep, but he does and sleeps deeply well into the heat of the afternoon of the next day.
A pattern begins of Pran’s mother inviting them over to eat with them. The tepid atmosphere between them breaks as Pat becomes more comfortable speaking with Pran’s family. Pat’s dad never accepts the invitations.
One day Pat finds himself sitting in front of a soapy tub in Pran’s kitchen, having been delegated by Pran’s mother to wash the dishes. Pran joins him later, quietly slipping by his side close enough that their conversation won’t be overheard. “Have you ever dreamed of the gods again?”
Pat presses to Pran’s side. “I haven’t. Have you had those dreams again?”
Pran shakes his head. “Not since I received the fingerprint.”
Pat studies Pran’s face. His lips are set in a tense line and his gaze is unfocused. “Are you feeling okay, Pran?”
“I might need to lie down,” Pran admits.
Pran looks ill the next morning as well while their families eat breakfast together. Pran discreetly slips out by himself, and Pat goes to follow him. Pat sees Pran fall to his hands and knees and he panics. “Pran? Pran!”
Pat hears Pran retching as he rushes to his side. Pat falls to his knees and rubs Pran’s back as Pran coughs. “Pran, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been feeling nauseous,” Pran says to the ground.
“Maybe you’re pregnant,” Pat says lightly.
Pran huffs at him, but a sparkle catches both their eyes. They stare at the blooming foliage spiraling out of the compacted dirt where Pran had just thrown up. The petals of the leaves are a strange dark red, and they gleam gold as they wither into fine dust as if they never existed.
Pran swallows. “Pat,” he says. “I don’t think the god’s touch was purely ornamental.”
Pat is still gaping at the once-more barren patch of dirt.
“Pat.” Pran looks at Pat with pleading eyes. “We can’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want to be worshipped. Or worse, I don’t want people thinking they can gain the gods’ power by undergoing what I’ve gone through.”
“Never,” Pat says immediately. “It’ll be our secret.”
Pran sighs. “Thank you.” He stands with Pat’s assistance. “At least I don’t feel as sick anymore.”
“That’s a relief.” Pran does look like some color has returned to his face, but Pat keeps a sharp eye on Pran for the rest of the morning.
Pat checks on Pran during the consecutive days, but Pran doesn’t act strangely anymore. His unexpected magic doesn’t happen again, either. If Pat hadn’t witnessed the bizarre stint of magic with his own eyes, he never would’ve known differently.
On the day Pran turns eighteen, Pat watches him receive well wishes from their friends. He’s wearing a long tunic with a subtle magenta-red tone, and his golden mark is hidden under his bangs over his forehead.
Instead of joining the celebration, Pat goes to the blacksmith yard as usual, refusing to let his thoughts cloud his focus on his work.
Two hours before Pat usually leaves for the day, he is approached by the master blacksmith and his partner. “We know whose birthday it is today,” the blacksmith’s partner says to Pat. He holds out a purple-red flower that matches the color of Pran’s clothing.
“Go on now,” the master blacksmith says as he shoos at Pat. Pat huffs out a laugh and accepts the flower.
Pat cleans up his workspace and walks to Pran’s house accompanied by the fading light of the day. Pran is squatting in the grass in front of his house as his father dozes in a chair nearby. Pran is holding a twig and playing tug with a baby crocodile-snake makara. When he sees Pat approaching, his whole face lights up. The makara skitters away with the twig between its little teeth.
Pat smiles back at Pran and tucks the purple-red flower into Pran’s hair behind one ear. Pran’s eyes are smiling as he feels the flower. “Is this your present to me?”
Pat’s heart beats faster. “I have something else in mind.”
Pran waits. “Where is it?”
“Not here,” Pat says. “Later.”
“Oh.” Pran looks genuinely perplexed, but he doesn’t pry.
Pran’s mom looks amused by the flower in Pran’s hair as they all sit to eat dinner together. It’s a joyous meal full of the love of Pran’s parents.
When Pat and Pran are momentarily left alone, Pat grips Pran’s hand and moves to place his lips against the curves of Pran’s ear. “In my room or yours?”
Pran leans back and assesses Pat for a moment. “Mine,” he decides.
Pran kisses his mother and father’s cheeks in turn before taking Pat’s hand and leading him to the other side of the house. It’s Pat’s first time seeing the inside of Pran’s childhood room. The room is dim and crowded with keepsakes but neatly organized. Pat watches Pran place the flower in a safe space before turning to him with inquiring eyes.
Pat tentatively takes Pran’s hands into his, studying each delicate ridge and fingernail. He wants those hands just as he wants all of Pran, he aches with the need and he wonders how much of it Pran can see.
It doesn't matter, though. What matters is what Pran wants. “I saw all of you without your consent, so I wanted to give you a choice.” Pat brings Pran’s hands to his coat-strings.
Pran looks at Pat with pure shock. Pat waits quietly. Pran’s shock turns into a grim recollection of past memories, then it becomes a soft gaze of wonderment belied by a low simmer of heat.
Pat watches Pran get up and move past him to lock his door. Pran returns and stands in front of Pat, placing one hand back over Pat’s coat-strings. Pat’s hands fall to his sides. He won't move again without Pran's permission.
Pran licks his lips as he raises his free hand to splay at the skin at the base of Pat’s neck. Pran tucks his hand under the edge of the collar and Pat’s eyes slip shut as Pran’s fingers caress the space between Pat's clothing and skin.
Pran finally undoes the string and removes Pat’s outer layer of clothing, carefully placing it to the side on top of his bed. Pran’s fingers trail up under Pat’s tunic and then remove it as well. Pat is left half-naked in only his undergarments.
Pran's fingers trace over each edge and divot of Pat's face, those beautiful fingers that had held that terrible obsidian-colored grain of rice. They rub over Pat's cheeks, dip into the hollows of Pat's ears and around their concave shapes.
Pran's palms rest around Pat's neck and Pat swears he can see Pran's hands move because his pulse is so thunderous. Pran's eyes follow his finger that he uses to trace up the inner lines of Pat’s wrist, up his arm over his birthmark and across his collarbone down until he's touching Pat's other wrist. Pran touches Pat's back, Pat's chest and his stomach. There isn’t any skin he leaves untouched.
Pran sits on the edge of his bed, his hands loosely clasped around Pat’s torso to guide him close. For a while, he simply looks at Pat. When Pat simply remains still, watching and waiting, Pran rubs a thumb over Pat's hipbone and gently slides his loincloth down his legs without unraveling it.
Pran helps Pat step out of the fabric before trailing his hands up Pat's calves, over his knees and thighs up to his waist. Pran glances up at Pat’s face before letting his hands fall, lower and lower. Pran's hand grazes over Pat's coarse pubic hair before carefully wrapping around Pat's length.
Pat’s body is reacting to Pran’s touch, his length hardening in Pran’s grasp. Pran cups Pat’s groin and Pat bites his lips as he wills himself not to mindlessly, desperately rut against Pran's hand.
Pat remains immobile, feeling Pran's hands running up his backside and completing their journey. Pran's touch all over has settled something unexplainable in Pat, and at the same time has made Pat desperate for so much more.
Pran rests his hands on Pat’s hips and Pat can see the conflict in Pran's eyes, a desperate internal struggle. A choice. Pran looks away. It’s not hesitation. He’s already reached a decision. “You can do whatever you want,” Pat says with a tight throat.
“I know.” Pran grips Pat’s hips. “I know. I can’t.”
Pat understands, of course he understands. There’s so many reasons why Pran wouldn’t. To do so would mean something irreversible has changed between them. Pat can understand why Pran would be afraid to choose him. Already, Pat can sense Pran’s fear of how entangled they are, his fear of depending on Pat even more than he already has. Pran isn’t ready, or he’ll never be ready. Or he simply doesn’t want Pat at all.
“Thank you for your gift,” Pran whispers. “Thank you for everything, Pat.” Pran stands again to hug Pat, and Pat rests his head on Pran’s shoulder with a deep exhale. Pran’s body heat seems to radiate into every part of where Pat’s skin touches him. Pat wishes they could stay like this forever. Of course, that’s the instant that Pran lets go and takes his warmth with him.
When Pat goes to retrieve his clothing, Pran grips his wrist. “Wait.” Pran goes to a drawer and pulls it open to reveal rows of neatly folded clothing. He takes out a light-colored tunic and drapes it over Pat’s shoulders. Pat quietly accepts the clothing. Pran takes Pat’s tunic, neatly folding it and cradling it in his arms.
The sight of Pat’s tunic in Pran’s hands reminds Pat that Pran never gave back the blue tunic Pat gave him the night they escaped the capitol. Pat shakes his head. “Keep this up, and my wardrobe will be yours.”
Pran chuckles. “Goodnight, Pat.”
The moment Pat returns to his bedroom, he strips off Pran’s tunic and buries his face in it. Every inhale smells like Pran, earthy and warm and sweet. Pat falls asleep clutching the tunic in both hands.
Somehow, a sort of normalcy returns to their lives. Pat returns to the blacksmith yard each morning. Pran doesn't participate in documentation work anymore. These days, he’s turned to composing music. His former work as a scribe fits seamlessly with his lyrical composition. Pat listens to Pran sing and play the fretted lute and finds that he can’t listen long without the emotions completely overwhelming him.
Pat feels like he’s imposing on the hospitality of Pran’s parents, so he uses his skills and resources to construct beautiful gifts for them, candleholders, iron pans and decorative masks, even an intricately swirled window frame for the front door. Pran’s mom is appreciative but Pran’s dad is always completely fascinated by the metalwork.
Pat rests with Pran behind Pran’s house after having dinner with his family. Pran’s dad had caught a particularly rare fish and was very proud to reveal it. Pat can hear Pran’s parents muffled talking and movements around the kitchen. Pran is playing his lute, and he stops playing midway through a song. “The son of the tailor visited our home today.”
Pat stares. “Why?”
Pran’s voice is soft. “He wishes to court me.”
A cloying bitterness rises in Pat’s throat. They make eye contact, and Pat can sense the unspoken question passing between them.
Pat can’t respond. He doesn’t dare ask Pran to reject all others and choose him instead. He doesn’t know why, but he senses that he’ll only have one chance to ask, and he’ll be damned if he wasted that chance on a hasty advance. And there’s little he fears more than Pran rejecting him.
One of those things he fears more is that Pran wouldn’t be able to reject him even if he wanted to.
Pran’s parents keep inviting Pat over to eat, but it’s harder to look Pran in the eye. Some days Pran’s not even home when Pat visits. Pat hears from Pran’s parents and from rumors floating through the village that Pran is preparing for a long expedition with the son of one of the new local guards, Korn. Pat doesn’t think they are courting or sharing any sort of furtive intimacy, but he has no way of knowing.
The day is grey and completely clouded over when Pat finds his way out to the edge of the coast. The sounds of the waves fill the air and Pat closes his eyes as he tastes arid salt. It's been a while since he looked to the place where the hidden alcove once existed. The torrent of waves and wind had caused the shallow cave to collapse in on itself several years ago.
There’s a presence at his side, and Pat turns to see Pran looking at him like he’s already said goodbye.
“Where are you going?” Pat asks.
A hint of Pran’s dimple appears on one cheek. “I’ll only tell you if you promise not to follow.”
“Then you’d better not tell me,” Pat says. He can’t even say it as a joke.
Pran’s face falls a little. He looks down at his hands. “I want to look for someone that might be able to help me control my rogue magic. Or at the very least, find someone who could balance it. It will be difficult to ask around, but surely there must be someone out there with knowledge on what to do. I can’t risk hurting anyone.”
“You’ll have to be careful,” Pat says, fear churning his stomach. “You’re still ‘the boy that was touched by the gods’.”
Pran gives Pat a small smile. The light of the golden mark on his forehead is faint behind his bangs. Pran takes Pat’s hands into his own. They’re very soft and slightly cool. “I don’t know if I will return.”
It’s not surprising. Such a long and sprawling journey would make it difficult to retrace one’s steps. Pat stares at his hands within Pran’s, wishing as he often does these days that fate could have treated them more kindly.
Pran rubs his thumbs over Pat’s knuckles, his voice softer still. “Will you tell me to stay?”
Pat could never chain him down. Pran’s already received a lifetime’s worth of that. Pat extracts himself from Pran’s grasp and places his hands to either side of Pran’s face with its slight features. Pat’s voice is unsteady with the knowledge that this is goodbye. “Know that you’re loved and will always be loved. Please, stay safe for me.”
Pran swallows, his eyes full of unshed tears. “I will.”
They walk back to the village together until the road brings them between their houses. They part, and when Pat looks back, he sees that Pran isn’t doing the same.
Pat goes home and cries into Aeji’s mane until he can’t cry anymore. He doesn’t look for Pran in the morning. He stays pressed against Aeji until Pa comes to tell him what he already knows - that Pran has said his farewells and departed from the village.
After one year, Pat’s family celebrates Pat’s birthday for the first time. They’re still cautious about it, as if still in disbelief that the sortition will never be held again. Pat doesn’t blame them.
The next day is full of tense anticipation. The census workers never arrive. They don’t come the next day, or the entire week. They will never come back again. The census from now on will be a migration to be registered with the advent of every new generation of rulers.
Pat looks up at the stars on Pran’s birthday and allows himself to wonder what Pran is doing. Is he safe? Is he happy?
After two years, Pat celebrates his birthday with far more serenity than before. He’s established his reputation in his local and neighbouring villages as a blacksmith journeyman, and he uses his abundance of wealth from his patrons to purchase a portion of land from Pran’s parents. They insisted on giving it to him, but Pat refused. In the end they compromised and Pat paid for part of the land while Pran’s parents gifted him the rest.
The land is isolated from the homes of other villagers and a short distance from where Pran’s parents live. It’s further away from the main area of the village but closer to the coastal rivers where villagers often travel to do laundry or play in the water.
With the rest of his savings, Pat bought building supplies and supplemental labor - bricks for the foundation, lumber, tiles, the sturdiest of driftwood hardened with years of salt from the seawater. Pat oversees the building of the foundation for a house on his newly bought land and the clearing of shrubbery for the beginnings of Aeji’s stable space. Pat already has the ample space planned out. There will be a garden between the house and stable, and a balcony space for a wide bench or hammock.
Two weeks go by, and Pat silently wishes Pran a happy birthday as a rare thunderstorm brings swaths of rain upon the land. The tunic Pran gave Pat has long lost its scent, but Pat still keeps it close. The memory of Pran is less fresh, a dull ache rather than a gash bleeding anew each morning.
Pat frequently consults the carpenters he knows for advice, but he wants to do most of the construction on his own. He knows how long it will take, but that knowledge doesn’t deter him.
Pa’s smitten with the new scribe that’s recently arrived at the village. When Pat told the new scribe her name was befitting of her occupation, Pa glared at him but Ink laughed heartily. Pat liked her immediately and made sure to let Pa know. That made Pa blush fiercely.
Pran’s parents frequently visit the house-in-progress, offering their compliments and support in the form of new dishes. The food is frequently spicy, but Pat’s spice tolerance has increased drastically after eating so much of Pran’s mom’s cooking.
Pat takes Aeji out frequently to transport building materials or simply venture out to explore someplace new, by himself or with Pa. Aeji seems to enjoy everything equally, eagerly hauling timber or wading through water and tasting the droplets falling from her chin as Pa giggles. Aeji is growing rapidly, nearly to the size of the singhs of the king’s guards, and Pat silently thanks his former self who thought to considerably expand her new stable space.
Construction progresses until there’s enough shelter for Pat to move in. He decides to do so as quickly as possible. There’s a part of Pat that had hoped his father would come around, but his relationship with his father was never the same after Pat left to rescue Pran. Pat and his father clash frequently, and whenever Pat tries to bring up Pran or that night, his father acts like neither exist. The frustration only makes Pat's father respond even less favorably. It seems like having some distance between them would be the best thing for their relationship right now.
The unfinished house is much smaller than the home of Pa and Pat’s parents, but far too large for a single person to live in. Pat lies on his crackling straw mattress next to a half-finished bookshelf and resolutely tells himself the emptiness is not a reminder of his loneliness, it’s a promise of what could be in the future.
Those words feel emptier with each passing day that Pat works and sleeps alone.
Three months after Pat celebrates another birthday, he finishes looking over every inch of construction for jagged surfaces or missed sharp points. The house is the same as it’s been for the past two days as Pat checked over it several times for any defects. Every edge has been sanded to a silky finish, every nail trimmed and invisible from the interior. The rooms are still sparse with minimal decorations of swaths of fabric and potted plants, but it’s a sturdy house, comfortable and impervious to the weather. Pat thinks it’s wonderful.
The very next day, someone knocks on Pat’s door. Pat opens it to see a face he’d never thought he would see again.
Pran’s expression is radiant as he smiles helplessly at Pat. He’s standing at the threshold by himself, wearing a light coat and Pat’s blue tunic. Pat blinks twice, but Pran is still there. Pat works his throat and his voice is coarse. “Pran? How?”
“I asked my parents where you live now,” Pran says with laughter in his voice. “They’ve invited us to dinner later.”
With trembling fingers, Pat lifts his hand to Pran’s forehead, silently begging for permission. Pran tilts his head in acquiescence, and Pat pushes his bangs up to reveal the deity’s thumbprint. It’s as bright as the first night he had seen it in their dreams.
“May I come in?” Pran’s voice startles Pat out of his trance. Pat nearly stumbles over himself showing Pran inside and it makes Pran smile brilliantly with his dimples on full display. “You’ll show me around?” he asks.
Pat leads Pran through the neatly made rooms and cozy kitchen space, pouting at Pran’s feigned disbelief at how tidy everything is. He can’t pout for long when he sees the way Pran smiles.
“Aeji,” Pran says with delight when Pat brings them to her new stable space. Aeji rumbles with satisfaction when Pran rubs the space above her nose. “She’s gotten so big.”
“I’ve had to change her saddle twice.” Pat’s heart always seems to ache when he sees how affectionately Pran treats Aeji, and how Aeji responds to Pran in turn.
Pran walks to the balcony behind the house and touches one of the supporting beams. “It’s wonderful. It’s the perfect size for two, but it seems like it would be lonely to live in alone.”
It is, but Pat doesn’t mention that.
Pran moves about with ease, but something isn’t quite right. Pat can’t tell if he’s just imagining the tension between them. Then Pat tries to make eye contact and Pran averts his gaze slightly, and Pat knows it’s not all in his head.
Pran lounges in the wide hammock and looks expectantly at Pat. Pat slowly moves closer and leans on the driftwood railing across from Pran.
Something in Pran’s eyes changes. He tucks his legs under him. “The temple doesn’t exist anymore.”
Pat’s heart jumps. “You went back to the capitol.”
“I did.” Pran’s gaze becomes distant. “Most of the stone has been discarded or buried. They don’t want to reuse it in new buildings because they fear the spirits of the innocent may linger. Now they’re planning to erect a monument of remembrance in its place.” Pran gives Pat a look of thinly veiled amusement. “They requested my input, but I know little about architectural design.”
“I’m sure anything you suggested would have been beautiful,” Pat says.
Pran sighs and smiles at Pat, as if still in disbelief at Pat’s ceaseless blind faith in him. They fall silent, and the whispers of foliage and ambiance of the village fill the background. It’s quiet but not uncomfortably so.
Pran stands. “Pat, I’d like to hug you, if that’s alright.”
Pat’s heartbeat spikes. He can’t vocalize a response so he raises his hands, silently beckoning Pran to him.
Pran melts into his arms and Pat can’t help shuddering as he pulls Pran closer. Pran’s hands trail lower, lower and lower as he drags his chin up Pat’s shoulder and rests his lips on the sensitive skin of Pat’s neck. It’s as if everything is conveyed through their touch, all that was left uncommunicated during their years apart, all they desire in the present for the future. Pat can tell this is not the touch of somebody that is already committed to someone else.
There’s a small noise of Pran kissing Pat’s neck before he draws back. “My parents informed me that you’re still unattached.”
“Pran,” Pat whispers with his arms tight around Pran. He can’t tiptoe around the topic any longer. “What made you return?”
Pran swallows hard. “I told you I was looking for a cure to my magic. Truthfully, I never was able to find someone that could help me. I could’ve ventured further, but I never could bring myself to go. This whole time, I didn’t know if I was facing my fears or running from what actually scared me.”
Pran moves so his nose is almost touching Pat’s. His eyes are brimming with emotion. “Every day, all I could think about was how much I missed home.”
Pat laughs, his eyes full of tears. “Welcome home.”
Pat can hear the smile in Pran’s words. “I’m home, Pat. I’m home.”
The tears spill over as Pat hugs Pran again and feels the pressure of Pran’s arms in return. Pran’s chest shudders once and he pulls back to look at Pat’s face. “My Pat,” he whispers as his lovely fingers wipe at the tears falling down Pat’s face.
Pran attempts to kiss him but Pat turns his cheek. “Wouldn’t you like to be courted properly first? It would be rather crude of me to impose on you when you’ve just returned.”
“Pat,” Pran complains with a laugh. He pinches Pat’s cheeks with a flash in his eyes. “Kiss me.”
So Pat does. Pran’s lips are as sweet and tender as he remembers.
Pran and Pat settle in the hammock meant for two and exchange reverent kisses until they’re breathless. Pran’s fingers stroke the back of Pat’s hand until Pran goes lax as he dozes at Pat’s side.
Pat nuzzles Pran’s temple and kisses his head. Later, Pat will show Pran the baby crocodile-snake makaras in the garden guarding the tender vegetables from unpleasant gnats and pests. He will walk with Pran to visit Pran’s parents as Pran had said they would earlier. He will take Pran’s hand and ask to formally court him as he has wished to do for so long.
For now, Pat focuses on the warmth and scent of Pran wrapped around him within the seclusion of the place they can call their own.