Stay

[Conner Reid]

June 2019

Conner insisted that Val stay the night.

Val demurred, the way he often did. He had his little apartment. He didn’t want to put Conner out. He didn’t want to impose.

“I have all your plants, mate,” Conner grinned.

Val chuckled and acquiesced.

Conner cooked while Val showered. Eggs. Toast. Potatoes. Tomatoes. He listened for the shower over the kitchen sounds. Unable to get the sight of Val’s emaciated body from his mind. Worried the man might be too weak to stand for long.

Val changed into the clothes Conner gave him. Clean and fresh. A t-shirt and sweatpants. They hung on him.

Conner talked while Val ate, the two across from each other at the small dining table. He talked the same way he wrote his letters, humorous anecdotes of the months they were apart. Anything to distract Val from what he had experienced.

He asked no questions of Val. He just talked while he watched him eat the modest portion he had served him, hoping the man would ask for more. Offering more when he didn’t.

As he washed the dishes, Conner watched with amusement as Val shuffled about the apartment, checking on his plants, murmuring to them quietly. Conner just shook his head, drying his hands on a towel.

He insisted Val take the bed. Made a show of setting up some bedding on the couch for himself.

Conner brought all the lights down. But he kept the curtains open. The city lighting the studio apartment in a gentle, reassuring glow while Val settled into the bed. The electric lights of New Haven held steady, while the lanterns and gas lamps of Old Market flickered. There was no true darkness here.

Conner smoked as he looked out at the view. The feel of the cigarette a comforting sensation between his fingers. He’d ask Val to stay the next night. And the next if he could. And the next and the next. As if he could keep the man safe within his own wards of protection. He wouldn’t ask anything of him, he thought. No promises of love. Of a future. Of anything remotely resembling a romance. He wouldn’t ask. If only Val would stay. Here, in his home. Where Conner knew he was safe. Where he could watch him eat and sleep. And care for his plants.

Conner wouldn’t ask for anything. Nothing. If only he would stay. If only Val would stay.

[Cristoval]

It was nearly a week before Val talked about Riojara — long enough that Conner had heard him cry out in the night. Long enough that he owed the man an explanation.

Conner wasn’t an easy man to read, most of the time. He had a way of chuckling and deflecting, saying something clever in the moment to give him that much longer to ruminate, and that was fine by Val. He could wait.

But it was easier for him to see the worry in Conner’s restless eyes, and read the silent plea in all the hospitality he’d received. He was eating better than he had in months. He was sleeping, and showering, and safe and comfortable in the home of a friend who wasn’t asking him for anything at all.

“It’s anger.”

The words came two hours after the priest had awoken yelling and thrashing in Conner’s bed. He’d been listening to the rhythmic scrape of a brillo pad over one of the pans in the sink, and heard it slow after he spoke. There was a question in his eyes...

Or was it patience? Another way that reading the man better still eluded Cristoval, but he was getting better.

“That is... what keeps me up at night. It isn’t fear. It’s anger. While I’m awake, under the bright sun, I think about all the things I could do... and at night, in darkness... sometimes I think about what I couldn’t.”

The scrubbing stopped. Cristoval smiled, though he knew the face was weary, but it was the brightest light he had in that moment. “Riojara was like that... and the war was like that. Countless little moments where I could bring no light, only watch the darkness grow deeper before my eyes, and I become angry and tired, and...”

The priest shook his head, and moved to join Conner at the sink, turning the taps on. Washing it all away.

“It will be alright. I am finding my peace again... and I am not doing it alone... and that makes a great difference.”

He hoped it was a comfort to Conner, but the man was still so damned hard to read. He just smiled in that way — in the way the priest was beginning to treasure — and said, “Aye,” and made himself busy. Leaned closer until their shoulders touched, which drew an involuntary smile from Cristoval.

But it was cold comfort to the priest in the end, as he had just realized when he would have to leave.

[Conner Reid]

July 2019

There was a shrine in the corner. A little table that Conner had cleared off for Val to use to honor the Flickering Flame. Not a religious man himself, Conner noted the way that the shrine took shape over time. A candle. A bowl for offerings. He didn’t understand the shrine’s purpose, but he knew it was important to Val.

In the mornings, they walked together. The Dockside district slowly awakening around them. The merchants unlocking and opening their shutters. Rugs shaken out and beaten in the street. Buckets of soapy water dumped on sidewalks in need of washing.

Conner walked and talked the way he usually did, holding his morning cigarette in his far hand, guiding Val around puddles with a gentle touch before letting it fall away again. They stopped for pastries and espresso at the corner barista. Bought fresh tomatoes and strawberries from the grocer. Admired the carpet seller’s new shipment of wares. Skimmed the newshawk’s headlines. Each day a different path with the same familiar stops.

In the few short weeks, Val was greeted like an old friend. And Conner could see he was getting strong again.

At night, Conner stayed with him. Made sure he had what he needed. A glass of water for the bad nights. Whiskey for when it was worse. An open window for the cool breeze off the water.

Conner stayed up, smoking in the darkness. He read short stories. Poetry. Anything to keep from fixating completely on the man in his bed, the mystery in his bed, that he could not seem to unravel, the words he could not seem to speak.

And when Val needed it, he read aloud.

My hands that are a chopping block and I
cannot touch him. I cannot touch him
without not touching me.

Because if you leave, and you are already leaving, there are three.
But you say less than three. And the couch, in your absence,
is crenellated. And who is going to watch us as we leave.

And when Val slept, Conner made sure the candle at the shrine was lit. And sometimes he set a shot of whiskey beside the candle. And sometimes he drank it.



Excerpt from the poem “Thaw” by TC Tolbert

[Cristoval]

September 2019

It took until the end of the summer for the nightmares to stop, and the darkest hours of the night finally seemed bright enough that Cristoval finally shut the curtains that Conner always left open. The flame flickering from the shrine's solitary candle was enough, except on some nights, when he would awaken and light a few more, and spent the small hours reading and praying.

As the lingering effects of the Red City's sickness began to fade, Cristoval lit his candles further and further beyond the small sanctuary that was Conner's studio. He cleaned the trio of street corner shrines he had established in Old Temple and Dockside during his first year in RhyDin, scrubbing away filth and graffiti, setting out new candles in a star-like pattern, and leaving matches for those in need of a little light. After a few more weeks, he made two new shrines, defining their boundaries with golden string, the charcoal rubbings from doused matches, and the blessings of the proprietors. One stood in Old Market, and the other in Dragon's Gate, and he told Conner with a confident smile that Seaside and New Haven would have their little lights soon enough.

The next day, there was a letter from his order. It had been left by one of the little candles in Old Market, but he waited until after they were back in the apartment, after dinner, after the dishes, after he could think of no more excuses to avoid it. He gently opened the envelope, and could feel Conner's eyes on him as he read, and imagined he heard it, too, in the way he blew out a long drag of his cigarette.

"Updates... on my brothers and sisters abroad, and how they fare. We have three new friars, and two students becoming priests... and three deaths. Old age," he added, realizing that in his order, the matter needed clarification." He leaned back on the counter, giving a loud hum as he scanned the rest of the letter. "...We are still short-handed... no one could be spared for RhyDin in my absence, as I thought, but they are... looking into it."

A pause preceded Conner's answer, careful in its seeming nonchalance. "Need you here, then, aye?"

"They need... someone here." The priest frowned, folding the letter carefully in his hands as he thought over the future of his humble order. "I am... one of I think a dozen priests below the age of sixty with more than seven years experience... and among those, one of eight who have served in both war and plague." He looked at Conner. "When they can, if they can, they will send a new priest to RhyDin, to shadow me for a year."

And then you'll go. Conner didn't say the words aloud, but he thought them loud enough in his head and his heart that for a moment he thought maybe he had. Instead, he nodded. "Aye."

Val nodded at nothing, the flicker of his smile at odds with the sad frown lingering around his eyes. "After receiving an update... it's customary for everyone to reply. To let them know if they're fit to leave, if they're needed for another emergency, like Riojara." The letter crinkled as he clenched his fingers around it. "I'll be responding tomorrow... letting them know, I'm fit to leave." All thanks to you. The words unsaid filled him with more ache than warmth as he stared across the loft at Conner. All the care that the clever man had shown his friend the priest made him able to leave, after asking him to stay.

Conner met that long gaze. Then he nodded, bringing his cigarette up for a final drag, exhaling a word on the last roll of smoke, "Alright." He shifted from his lean, crossing towards Val in a few easy strides, tossing his cigarette into the sink. The distance between them had disappeared, the counter acting as conspirator to keep Val trapped just aside of Conner in the small space that was left. "But until then," he sought the priest's dark gaze again, "here you be."

Cristoval looked at Conner for a silent three count, then returned his gaze to the hazy spot he had just occupied. "Here I am."

The priest's large hands clenched around the edge of the counter. "It has been," he began, "five years since..." His words trailed off. He tried again. "I do not want to cause you -- pain."

Conner's somber expression cracked, a quiet, breathy snort giving way to a rueful smile. "Too late for that, mate." He waited, only for a moment, for Val to look at him again. And when he didn't look fast enough, he took a step back. Then another, until he turned completely, putting his back to the priest while he busied himself with something that didn't need doing. He cleared his throat. "Tomorrow, in the afternoon. Come with me somewhere?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Want to show you something."

Conner's truth hadn't surprised the priest, but they silenced him just the same. "Of course," he said. "I'd be glad to."

Val took a breath, as if preparing for a plunge, before he pushed off from the counter for the armchair across the room. "If we could switch, and you make the tea tonight... I can pick up where we left off with Mr. Whitman."

Conner made a quiet sound of assent, and turned to fill the kettle, as Val tried to pick up from where they'd been the night before.

[Conner Reid]

December 2019

“Tomorrow, in the afternoon. Come with me somewhere? Want to show you something.”

Tomorrow came. And tomorrow went. Conner didn’t say anything about the request he’d made the night before. He left in the midday as he usually did and didn’t return until the night. Home late, but in time to cook another of their late-night dinners, telling tales of the city and his work over a glass of wine.

He would ask again. A week later. “You busy tomorrow, mate?” But there was no mention of it the following day.

And so it followed, week to week, as the months passed. The question coming. Val promising his afternoon. Only for Conner to disappear as usual.

But he did disappear, nearly every day. With a regularity that shaped their days. Mornings together. Followed by long hours apart. Until Conner returned home. Sometimes with takeout or fresh fruit. New weapons. New books. New cuts and bruises for Val to quietly fuss over. And sometimes he came home drunk.

It was one of those nights, a drunken night, that they finally shared the bed. Conner stumbled in, well past time for any shared meal, so thoroughly in his cups that he struggled to remain upright.

In some part of his mind he knew Val was there already, already in bed, the bedside light on, a book in his hand, but all he could think about was getting into bed. The comfort of his bed. The comfort of Val in his bed.

It was Val who removed him from his shoes and from his coat. It was Val who insisted he drink some water and set the glass beside the bed. It was Val who stroked a hand through his hair, and murmured those quiet words of his faith until Conner finally found enough peace to sleep, a heavy arm slung across Val’s chest in a drunken claiming that he would never have allowed himself in the light of sobriety.

The next night Conner needed no such excuse. The single night having somehow secured permission. The two never spoke of it. How they now companionably shared the bed. The extra linens were put away after the next laundry day. And the couch was the couch once more.

It was in the early morning Conner could see him best. He loved the autumn dawn. The light refracting through the windows casting a rimey glow across Val’s skin. The man had more scars than he had, a realization that caused Conner no little amount of pain. A galaxy of them, stretching across his back and down his side.

He watched Val in the mornings. He would lay still in the quiet, watching whatever part of the man he could see hidden amongst the bedding. The nape of his neck. The slope of his shoulder. The scruff of his jaw. He suspected that Val knew. And that the priest laid still, his eyelashes patiently at rest, his breath quietly even, allowing himself to be watched.

How many mornings were left? Would he see him in spring? When the blankets would fall away. When the windows would be open to the air again as the world thawed around them. Would there be mornings in summer? Mornings with the sheets thrown off. With arms protectively bent over eyes against sunbeams. With the scent of sweat and coffee. How many mornings were left?

“Come with me somewhere today. This afternoon.” He had asked so many times. So many times. And yet Val had never said ‘no.’ Had never questioned.

But this day was different. This day, Conner didn’t leave on his own in the afternoon. Instead he stood at the door, wearing his coat and the kelly green scarf Val had once gifted him. And he waited, with gloves in hand, watching the snowfall outside while the priest finished getting ready.

Cristoval acted no differently than any other outing they had been on. He bundled up and checked the shrine to his goddess, that every candle had been blown out, and met Conner at the door. Only then did he pause, meeting the man’s gaze as he offered him his hand.

[Conner Reid]

Same day, December 2019

A strange, misty chill had settled on Old Temple that afternoon. The leeries were sent out early, appearing in the dark with their long black poles reaching up towards the lanterns, barely steps ahead of Conner and Val as they walked. The lanterns did little to light their way, but Conner’s path was sure.

It was a small house, set back from the stone road, squat and forgettable under a cozy thatched roof, half-hidden behind a well-tended hedge and a gate that didn’t dare squeak when Conner pushed it open for them to pass. The garden was at once wild and tended, the plants wintering together in a hoary huddle on either side of the path to the blue-painted door.

The magical wards announced their presence at the stoop, a wave of protection so powerful that several restaurant menus and fliers for local cleaners had been left tucked into a slumbering rose bush once it was obvious that they could not be left fully at the door. Conner collected the detritus, folding up the papers before he set his hand on the door knob and knocked twice. It was not a knock of permission, it was a knock of announcement. “Mum?”

The front door gave way to the cozy home as Conner wiped his boots on the welcome mat then stepped aside for Val. Like so many old homes, it was arranged around a stone hearth, currently ablaze and casting a warm spell on the whole place. It was furnished in a way that suggested thoughtful selections from a second-hand store, neatly patched couches and armchairs had throw blankets and hand-sewn pillows strategically covering their minor imperfections.

There were books stacked here and there, baskets of fabrics and spools of thread, skeins of woolen yarn, an old radio sat on the windowsill, its antenna angled optimistically upwards. A stand held a lace pillow, the bobbins lying in wait, ready to be taken up for the pattern work to continue. A cat slept on a basket of discarded newspapers in front of the fire, its black and white tail weaving lazily back and forth.

The room was empty, but there was evidence that someone had just been there: a mug sat steaming on a side table, a book held open only by virtue of being draped over the arm of the armchair. And in the other room, the kitchen most-likely, there was the sound of movement.

“Mum?” Conner repeated, just beginning to loosen his scarf when she came through the kitchen door.

[Cristoval]

Conner’s mother was not an old woman, and she was not frail. Her dark hair was barely streaked with gray, braided and tied with a dark green ribbon. She wore a knit sweater over a long skirt that didn’t quite hide the warm, woolen socks she wore. Her eyes were an echo of her son’s, bright with good humor, even in their darkness. And as she entered, she paused in the doorway, smiling as she held two more steaming mugs, as if she had known all along that her son would not arrive alone.

Conner moved towards her to relieve her of her burden and press a kiss to her cheek. But without saying anything, she gestured him away, keeping hold of the mugs and motioning the pair of them towards the couch.

Conner relented with a good-natured smile and a glance at Val, reaching to take the man’s coat to hang with his own on a hook by the door. “Mum, this is Val.” Conner turned back as his mother set the mugs on the low table in front of the couch and then straightened to face them. “Val, this is my mother, Peggy.”

Peggy smiled warmly, looking between the two men. But she remained silent, still, as she again gestured them towards the couch.

“I am pleased to meet you, Peggy.” The priest greeted her with a warm smile, but there was a pain underlying Val’s expression, easily read by the man who shared his bed, as he struggled with the idea of not helping in some way.

But this was a woman in her own home, and Val knew that the best way he could help her was to not get in her way, sit where she asked him to, and drink her tea. He watched her as he took a slow sip, his eyes curious and insightful, but kind.

He lowered the cup to the table and smiled. “Thank you.”

Peggy retook her seat in the armchair beside her own steaming mug, and she smiled back at Val, her fine eyes considering him directly. Her expression was one of ease and comfort, but lacked the curiosity that his own held. She seemed to take in what she could of the man her son had brought to her home, but she said nothing and she asked nothing.

“Afraid me mum isn’t much for conversation.” Conner leaned to press a kiss to the top of her head, then moved towards the fire. He stoked the fire, then checked the stack of seasoned wood that was ready and waiting beside it. “But she be understanding you fine.”

The priest nodded his understanding, and decided to feel out the small talk... and also a little more about the man by the fire, by extension. “Has Conner told you about what I do?”

Despite Conner’s reassurance that she understood, there was little response visible in Peggy’s expression. She continued to consider Val with an easy smile, reaching for her own mug of tea.

Conner’s reaction, by contrast, was plain, even if it too was silent. For a moment, he seemed to be holding his breath, his shoulders tense as he stood watching. He allowed a beat of silence to pass before he cleared his throat, “Mentioned it to her, aye.”

Val nodded again, and slid his fingers into his flannel shirt to slide out the pendant. “The Flickering Flame... she isn’t famous in these parts, or most others,” he explained with a humorous smile, before he let the symbol fall back to his chest. His hands moved to his tea, and he caught Conner in his next question: “Did you grow up here?” He indicated the house with a tip of his head, and took a long drink as he looked between them.

Conner hesitated before responding. His eyes moved between the pair of them, as if he were expecting something to happen. Expecting or fearing. When his response came, it was as if he was catching up with the conversation. “Ah--” he nodded, “--aye.” He found a smile of his own, unusual in that it did a poor job of hiding his unease. “Can show you about in a bit.”

Peggy, for her part, exhibited no such discomfort. She continued to smile, her eyes taking in the pair of them while she sipped her tea.

Val was observing them, but seemed only as observant as any new guest would be. After another drink he lowered the tea, but kept it in hand as he remarked, “It is very lovely... I’d love to see more, when you’re ready,” gently placing the agency in Conner’s hands. His eyes danced around the room, over the rafters and along the walls — lingering on the cat, with a fond smile, before he shifted in his seat and continued, “It reminds me of my great-uncle’s home. My family, my parents and grandparents and siblings, lived up in the hills with all the sheep and goats... but he lived in a stone house like this, down in the valley, by the river. He grew roses, too,” he added with a thoughtful rumble.

Although her expression rarely changed in any significant way, it was clear that Peggy was listening. Her eyes never glazed, and her attention rarely drifted away from Val while he spoke, shifting only briefly to look at her son before returning.

“I do not think he was as good a gardener as you,” and Val’s eyes gleamed with good humor; “he did not prepare for winter well, and I have tried to repent for his errors by adopting plants of my own. He was not a good gardener... but he was a poet,” and he glanced over at Conner, his tone indicating this was new information for the man. “Patricio Sandoval — El Profesor. He was better at trimming words than trimming hedges,” he chuckled.

As the conversation moved away from The Flickering Flame and Val’s work, Conner relaxed. He gave up his post beside the fire, moving to take the seat beside Val, near enough for their knees to touch, while their conversation continued.

[Conner Reid]

After a tea-time’s worth of conversation, Conner excused himself awkwardly, begging Val’s forgiveness so that he could care for some things about the house. He set his hand on the man’s shoulder as he rose, looking between his mother and the priest before escaping out the back of the house, leaving Val and his mother alone to their one-sided conversation, soon to be joined by the sound of wood being chopped in the backyard.

Conner chopped wood for as long as he could, filling his mind with meaningless thoughts so he couldn’t hear what, if anything, Val chose to speak to his silent mother about. Or what else might be passing between them. Instead he listened to the birds in the trees, the rustling of small animals in the dry winter leaves, the steady rhythm section of his breath and the falling of the axe. He let the axe fall, again and again. Again and again. Until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

He stacked the freshly chopped wood to season and then carried some of the already seasoned wood inside. Balancing the stack in his arms, he followed the comforting sound of Val’s voice back into the warm firelight.

“...and that is how the donkey put on a pair of trousers.”

Conner looked between Val and his mother, bewildered. But his mother appeared to have been following whatever story Val had just finished, her eyes lit up with humor, her smile wide, body leaned forward in what Conner recognized as her own silent version of laughter. He exhaled, looking between them still. “She been telling you all my secrets?” He winked at his mother as he moved to set the fresh stack of wood beside the fireplace.

Peggy rose from her chair, as Conner finished stacking the wood beside the hearth. She smiled at Val, the same way she had for much of the afternoon. But somehow, the signal was clear. The visit was over. Conner brushed the bark bits from the front of his sweater as he moved towards her. “Alright, mum. Be bringing fresh cream tomorrow, aye? Mayhaps another side, aye?”

Peggy nodded at him. Then she reached up to take his face in both her hands. The two met eyes, mother and son, in a gesture that seemed at once familiar and tender. A moment shared that they had shared many times before. Then Conner ducked his head, lowering it enough for his mother to press her soft lips to his brow. Conner grinned when he straightened and moved for the coats.

But Peggy didn’t let Val go just yet either. She gestured for Val to come near. And when he did, she reached for him in the same way she had just embraced her son. Both hands lifted to cup his face, her dark eyes searching his. Her look was deep and direct. There were no words to whatever she was trying to communicate. But when she was done, she lifted to her toes, craning to press her lips to Val’s brow, in the same way she had just shared a kiss with her own son.

Conner could only watch the exchange for the briefest moment before he turned. He grabbed his coat from the hook, shrugging it on. Then moved to lead the way back out onto the front walk, striding out a pace or two before stopping to wait for Val, his jaw tight, hands plunged deep into his pockets.

Val was out soon after, casting a quiet smile over his shoulder into the doorway, and placed one large hand on the small of Conner’s back, a simple gesture of comfort as he fell into step beside him, away from his childhood home.

[Cristoval]

It was on the walk home — home, how familiar and comfortable Conner’s loft had become in Val’s heart — that the priest finally spoke.

“Thank you.”

It was spoken in the middle of a small footbridge over a canal, when they occupied it alone. They had just passed by a couple, two older women carrying the shopping in their free hands as they strolled arm-in-arm. Their quiet conversation continued, unconcerned by Conner and Val.

Conner’s steps had slowed to give the women some room to pass. He slowed further as he turned to look at Val, searching his expression. Searching it for something. Then he just nodded, head bent as he continued on.

Val’s expression seemed warm, and patient, and patiently willing as it had been every time he had been invited to what turned out to be his mother’s house. “I think that the both of you have the same sense of humor...” he mused, voice rumbling as it often did when he spoke thoughtfully. “She liked my fishing story.”

“Could you hear her?” His brow furrowed, an almost accusatory tone as he stopped walking again and turned to look at Val. “Really--really hear her?”

The priest frowned and turned to Conner, shaking his head slowly. “No... I mean, I did my best to respond to what she said with her -- pues -- her expressions and... body movement.” Body language. “But if there was some other way that she was speaking...” He shook his head, apparently misreading what had occurred. “Then I am sorry, I missed it.”

Conner’s head fell again, his body sinking against the low-wall of the foot bridge. “Used to think she were speaking in my mind… when I were a lad.” He looked up at Val a moment, then out at the water. “Were so sure of what she were saying. So sure it were her.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “But it were just me wanting it.”

Sometimes Cristoval made a noise when he sat down, a stretching groan, and this was one of those times. He sat down beside him, willing to be one of two men sitting on the ground on a footbridge in public, and watched the water, too. “How long has it been like that, with your mother?”

“From the beginning.” Conner rested his elbows on his knees, his head ducked into his hands. “Never heard her hum a tune, even.” He took a breath. “When I were just a tot, she left me with a neighbor during the days. Making sure I heard people speaking.”

Cristoval gave a warm hum at the mention of Conner’s mother taking care of him like that, and rested one elbow over his knee to let his hand dangle. His free hand moved to the man’s hair, a soothing touch while he rested his head in his hands. “If you want to... can you tell me something that you heard from her? As a lad?” he added a moment later, a touch of humor in his tone as he used one of Conner’s words that the priest himself rarely touched.

He sniffed, an amused sound. “Fix your socks.” He lifted his head and looked aside at Val. “Eat your veg. Don’t be forgetting to wash behind your ears.” He took a breath, his voice quieting. “Thought she said she loved me. A hundred times, thought I heard her saying it.”

Cristoval gave a more thoughtful hum at whatever was happening in his own head, trying to shape and form it before he was ready to put it out in the world. “I think that she has, and that she does.” He turned to look at Conner, his hand stilling on his shoulder. “I did not hear the words, but I could read I love you in the way that she looked at you, treated you, and held you. And it is a beautiful thing to hear the words in people’s actions.” He smiled.

“I am sorry that you have not heard a physical voice for those words. I know that is reassuring to hear. But I am glad you have heard them all the same.”

Conner huffed impatiently at the calm, reassuring tone in Val’s words. He knew he was right, but he had always known that. “Were there nothing you could do for her?” He looked at Val, brow furrowed. “Were there--were there nothing?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, shaking his head again. “It may be beyond what I can petition her for,” and there was a familiar way in which he referred to his goddess, “but my elder brothers and sisters in the Order have learned deeper prayer rites than I have mastered... but that depends. What have you learned about her condition?”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t--” He shook his head, his eyes filling with unshed tears as he looked out at the water and swallowed his own thoughts. He pressed a hand to his chest. “No. She--she be perfect. Just as she is.”

The priest raised his hands a little, palms open, and nodded as he echoed, “Just as she is.” There was a slow breath that came out in a quiet sigh, and one hand returned Conner’s back. He let the silence stretch on, watching the water once more as he dragged slow, lazy circles. “She has eyes just like yours... and she is beautiful like you,” he quietly rumbled.

Conner pressed the back of his hand to his nose and mouth. He looked aside at Val. But he could say nothing.

He didn’t have to. Cristoval put an arm around him, letting the man lean his head on his shoulder, and stayed sitting with him on the bridge to watch the water.

[Conner Reid]

March 2021

Conner did not have birthdays. Not like the other children did.

In the poor little corner of Old Temple where he grew up, birthday parties were rare anyhow. Precious few families could afford having a class full of children to feed and entertain and to serve cake, even for just a day. And few children could afford bringing gifts to each of their schoolmates when their birthdays came around.

But there were still birthday traditions.

Some mums and dads brought treats to the class. Hot cross buns and sugary doughnuts. Sticky sweet baklava and almond cookies. Sometimes the family would decorate their house. Conner could see the dancing charms on their front doors as he walked to school. It was someone’s birthday, the charms told him.

Mrs. Blykins used to write the name of the birthday child on the chalkboard. Conner could remember her using the pink, yellow, and blue chalks to decorate a cheerful cloud around their names. His own name never got such treatment, only appearing on the chalkboard beneath the underlined section ‘Detention.’

Even as a lad, he didn’t let it bother him. Growing up with his mum was different. He’d known it for as long as he’d become aware of other families. Other families with more than one parent. Other families with siblings and aunts and uncles and grandfolks. Other families where their parents spoke to their children in actual words. His mum was different. And that was just how it was.

He did not have a birthday. Not one he could tell the teacher. Not one he could commemorate with a charmed front door or a basket of cranapple muffins.

But he did have a birthday. It would be years before he realized it. Before he understood. Too many years, he would later joke to Val. He was in his early teens when it finally occurred to him.

Every March there was a gift. Something waiting on his bedside table when he awoke in the morning. Handmade toys -- a wooden train engine with wheels that spun, a soft stuffed gnome with a jaunty felt hat, a wooden sword like the other kids had. As he grew the gifts grew too. New silver buttons for his winter coat. A second-hand pocket watch. A pair of boxing gloves.

It was only when he was in his teens that it clicked into place. By then he had come to anticipate the day. It was around this time, wasn’t it? Checking his bedside table each morning. There would be a gift soon, wouldn’t there? And just as he thought, there it was. Another thoughtful gift, not wrapped, but topped or held together with a looping hand-tied bow.

Conner’s mum could not tell him his birthday. But like so many things, she spoke in all the other ways she could.

His birthday was March 16th.