Work Text:
June 1914
*
How beautifully cool and dim was the narthex of St Peter's after the heat and bustle of the Keep. Jim removed his cap, dipped his fingers into the stoup, and made the sign of the cross, then silently trod the worn flagstone floor of the aisle to a pew before genuflecting and kneeling to pray.
The church was empty but for a shawled woman and one old man near the altar, and a young private across the aisle, one of his own: Bennett, Francis Bennett, from Bournemouth, just eighteen, scarcely old enough to shave, and wild with impatience to fight the Germans. Though he should have been praying, examining his conscience, Jim observed him for a moment. Good Lord, how young the boy seemed. Well, he was young, wasn't he? They all were.
Jim's attention was diverted by the priest emerging from the vestry, adjusting his purple stole round his neck. The priest himself was quite young; was it a condition of Jim's state of mind that he seemed to particularly notice those in the full flower of youth? There seemed so many tender souls about just lately. The priest made his way down the side aisle and disappeared into the centre of the confessional. The shawled woman and the old man heaved themselves to their feet and shuffled down the aisle; the woman went into the side compartment of the confessional and closed herself in.
Jim dug his rosary, his mother's parting gift to him, from his pocket. The beads were pale wood, carved into tiny roses, the chain a pinkish gold. The Pope had blessed it, evidently. Jim held it in his hands, letting the fine chain and cool beads thread through his fingers, and closed his eyes. Dear Lord, fount of truth and wisdom and strength, help me to know all my sins; to be sorry for them; to confess them properly; to resolve not to commit these same sins again; to say the penance well. Amen.
Strange: he should have been attacked by more doubts and misgivings, but he had remarkably few considering the magnitude of his sin. Perhaps at last the Holy Ghost had taken flight and left him alone in this great ancient church with its smells of old stone and wood and candle-wax and incense. Would that be such a terrible thing?
The old woman emerged from the confessional and the old man went in. Private Bennett rose, cap in hand, and faced the altar, genuflecting before crossing the aisle to slouch outside the confessional. He caught Jim's eye and nodded, then smiled shyly.
Jim nodded gravely in response, then fixed his gaze upon the altar and the crucified Christ on the cross. There had been a time when Mass had been a lovely event; his church had had a grand organ and a splendid choir, and the music, more than anything else, had transported Jim's heart and made him feel as though God watched over him and the whole world with benign pleasure. He had served faithfully at the altar in school as well, but by and by the devotion he'd felt had diminished, and now he believed in God, but sometimes wondered if He was even paying attention to what was happening below Him; certainly it seemed as if they were all about to get involved in a damnable mess.
The old man came out, and Bennett disappeared into the confessional. Jim got to his feet and moved to stand near the booth, slipping into reverie as he recalled the sullen lines of waiting boys at school, the brothers, sometimes jovial, sometimes grim, but always severe with penances, the comparisons afterward. Brother Mathias was a terror, sometimes hectoring loudly; the boys uniformly confessed only the most trivial sins to him. Brother Aloysius was apt to wring tears from his small penitents, so skilled was he at lathering on guilt. And Brother Timothy was famous for his one-minute confessions, gruffly ordering the boys to come to the point, and quickly.
Private Bennett emerged red-faced from the confessional and moved toward the front of the church, avoiding Jim's eyes. Jim wondered what dreadful sin could have possibly prompted such embarrassment, but there was no time for idle dreaming – no-one else stood waiting, and it was his turn.
Jim went into the confessional and closed the door, swathing himself in darkness and the closed-in smell of wood and unwashed bodies. He groped for the prie-dieu and knelt, crossing himself, heat rising in his face. Dear God, what would he say? Why on earth had he decided to do this? Was he truly sorry?
A scraping noise sounded near Jim's chest; the priest had pulled the little sliding door aside. He spoke through the grille. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Jim whispered. "It has been one month since my last confession."
The priest sighed, as if lamenting the vast distance of time between Jim's confessions, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle. "Name your sins, my son."
Jim hesitated. He hadn't examined his conscience properly, using his time before the sacrament to question his behaviour, Commandment by Commandment. He scrambled for some venial sins, parrying for time and courage. "I committed the sin of avarice. I'm a captain in the Queen's Own Yeomanry, Father, and one of my men just acquired a marvellous horse. I wanted her for my own. I took the Lord's name in vain twice and failed to reprimand some of my men for doing the same. I neglected several prayers through carelessness."
"Military service is honourable, but nonetheless there are so very many perils that may befall one upon the road. Be sure that you remember your faith, my son. A strong will and a steady character can only convey you so far – through your complete surrender, opening yourself to the divine scrutiny, you will receive God's light and grace in your soul."
Heat crept into Jim's cheeks. Complete surrender. Open yourself to….
"Is that all?"
Jim started. "I'm sorry, Father?"
"Have you anything else to confess?"
"I…." Jim took a breath. "My commanding officer."
"Yes?"
"I am very fond of him." A tremor of apprehension rippled Jim's frame.
There was a long silence. "Explain."
"He…he occupies my thoughts. Frequently." True, wherein the occupation of Jim's thoughts meant that he was tormented by images that had crept upon him stealthily: Jamie sitting straight-backed in his chair, looking over their cavalry training manual – what would it be like to bend and press a kiss to the nape of his long and graceful neck, glowing with cleanliness and fresh barbering, strangely vulnerable and so enticing? And then –
"In what way does he occupy your thoughts?"
"It was all quite innocent, Father – he's a fine man, a brave one. He'd never do anything untoward and he's never given any indication – when I see him, my thoughts are impure."
"Lustful."
Blood surged in Jim's cheeks. "Yes, Father."
"It was right of you to come, my child," the priest said warmly. "Far better for you to acknowledge your sin now than to suffer for all eternity in the absence of our Lord."
"Yes, Father." It was a sin, was it not? They'd been told precious little at school compared to other boys he'd known; the brothers hadn't thundered hellfire and damnation and had mainly told them not to indulge in self-abuse. He'd had to grope, in every understanding of the word, his way toward knowledge of the sex act. It was a wonder people managed to procreate at all.
"You know the purpose of the marital embrace."
"Yes, Father."
"Tell me."
Jim reached back into the distant memories of his catechism classes. "Er…to make a perfect union between man and woman. To – to beget children."
"Yes. The most glorious happiness between a wedded couple is that which fills their souls when they hold their child in their arms, a product of their love, a living monument to the glory of God."
Children were lovely; Jim had always been kindly disposed toward little ones. But he'd never been drawn powerfully to a girl as he'd been drawn toward Jamie. In his twenty-four years, only Jamie had caused his heart to quicken so, his face to blush. Only Jamie caused the stirring that sent him into the privy to fondle himself, imagining Jamie's mouth on his body, his hands strong and bold, his manhood stiff, jutting out, ready for Jim's lips and tongue.
"He who loves danger will perish in it," the priest said, his voice low and vehement. "The animal in us is still strong. God has not given man animal passions that he might recklessly indulge them, much less with one of the same sex. If you expose yourself to the danger of arousing those passions, the concupiscence of the flesh is such that it will easily disregard all considerations of honour, self-respect, and virtue in order to gratify its desires. Hell awaits such a man."
"I don't wish to sin, Father," Jim whispered. "But I cannot understand it…myself, my urges. Why would God implant these desires if He wished me to marry a woman and have children?"
"Why did Satan tempt Christ in the desert?"
"I'm not Christ. I'm only a man."
"But Christ is your guiding light, child. You know full well what terrible consequences followed from Eve's curiosity about the forbidden fruit. That loss transformed the sex appetite from a gift of exquisite beauty created by God into a thing aroused by the mere sight of what it craves. Only within the confines of marriage is it beautiful and sacred. You must take steps to avoid this man, your superior officer though he may be. The more you look upon him, the more likely it is that your passions are aroused."
That, at least was true. Jim's imagination had become positively febrile. Though he tried to control himself, he couldn't keep from picturing Jamie naked, his thighs sprawled wide, beckoning in silence, or standing as Jim knelt, worshipping Jamie with his mouth, or behind Jim, mounting him and thrusting in deeply.
But it was more than that.
"What did you say?"
Jim was unaware he'd spoken aloud. "It's more. More than that. I love him."
"Two men cannot love each other as men and women do. That is abomination."
"He doesn't love me. I never said he did. I love him. He's fine and decent and honourable, and he has no idea how I feel." Jim hooked his fingers into the elaborately scrolled grille of the confessional. "I do feel physical passion for him, yes. I shall never say a word to him about it – not because you say it's wrong, but because I would never dream of burdening him with unrequited ardour. God put him in my path, and if I must bear mute witness for the rest of my days, so be it. I love him. I would die for him." Jim passed a trembling hand over his brow. "And I'm not sorry for it."
"You are unrepentant, and you will burn eternally. I will not offer you absolution." The priest's voice shook with anger.
"I don't want it." Jim snatched up his cap, pushed himself from the prie-dieu, and stumbled out of the confessional. As he reached the door, he instinctively reached into the font and blessed himself – a futile gesture, if the priest was to be believed. A scraping noise sounded behind him; he turned to see that the young priest had emerged from the confessional and was staring at him, red-faced, breathing hard. He started forward, as if to speak to Jim, then turned, marching up the side aisle, the sound of his hobnailed shoes ringing against the stone floor.
Jim pushed open the heavy door and emerged into the bright sunshine and clamour of the square. He shielded his eyes against the day's brilliance and uttered a little laugh of mingled bewilderment and exhilaration. His mother would be heartbroken to know that he'd gone into battle unshriven, but the last lingering shreds of guilt and uncertainty had been swept aside in his declaration; there was no way but forward.
"Well, Captain Nicholls."
Jim's heart hammered in his chest, a predictable and oddly comforting response to that voice. "Major." He replaced his cap, trotted down the steps, and patted Topthorn on his sleek nose. "Upon my word, he's looking fine."
"Fit as a fiddle and freshly groomed," Jamie said with a nod. "When are you going to find a mount of your own?"
"Oh, I've almost got enough saved," Jim said. "If I had just ten bob more I'd bet I'd find a faster fellow than this big brute."
Jamie's brow furrowed. "Look here, can't I lend you –"
"Don't be silly!" Jim interrupted. "Still, we'll see if I can’t beat you. When's our first practise charge?"
"A week, no more," Jamie said. "Doesn't give you much time, old man."
Jim smiled. "I'll find something splendid, don't worry. What brings you out here, anyhow?"
“Saw Bennett and he said you were inside. Reckoned I'd wait." Jamie began walking, leading Topthorn by the reins. "Services?"
Jim didn't yearn to explain the finer points of confession, especially as he wasn't a dab hand at it any longer. "Yes, in a way."
Jamie peered up at the soaring stone façade. "Never been much of a churchgoer myself. Thought you and I might have a bite of supper at that inn atop the hill. Hear they've got a first-rate beefsteak. What do you say?"
"Marvellous." Jim kept pace with Jamie's stride, pleased that Jamie had sought him out. It would do, for now and forever, if need be. He could adore at a distance without demanding anything for himself. Peripherally, he took in the length of Jamie's lean body, the pale light of his eyes, the gentle curl of his ear, and desire surged.
Later, he would see to himself, for that was a necessity. If he never knew the communion of their bodies fitted together, rough and tender, then so be it, Jim decided. That was both penance, and absolution.
Nevertheless, he sent up the smallest prayer.
End.