Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I am surprised he had a mother,” a woman answered, though gently, and when René turned toward her, he felt the warmth at his neck, hands holding his chin to keep him still. “Do it quickly,” another man spoke firmly, silencing the other two voices, and René searched for the speaker with his eyes, seeing a low, wooden ceiling above him, hearing a distant creaking. The hands still would not allow him to move, and though this did not please him, René tried to smile. He hoped they would not touch his cheek, it still burned from where Father had hit him, and it was hard to keep the frown from his face at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Marechal would not like that, and René thought that perhaps he would have his fill of the Englishman someplace where Marechal could hear the groans of pleasure. No. His eyes opened again and before him was a blurred vision of a door, chipped and worn from use, but he could not focus on it and turned to look over the chests that lined the wall near him. No, he said, in a voice that was never heard. Marechal was dead.

  His mouth worked, and fear brought René’s head up. His stomach tightened and then heaved, and it was only the strength at his back that kept him from collapsing to the floor. “It is not possible,” he tried to say, but th
ough his throat worked, he could not speak. Thickness coated his eyes, and he could feel pangs behind them, his head aching as though he had been drinking. His mouth was dry, and he thought that maybe it was only that, the wine in him.

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

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

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

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

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

  “I am tired,” he confessed quietly, his cheeks hot against his warmth though the rest of him was so cold, and he was surprised at the soft laugh of the reply. “Then sleep,” the man answered as though it were obvious when it was not. When sleep brought the dark and the things that lived there. René opened his mouth to argue and only pulled in air, needing his hands to stay strong and keep their hold on the scratching wool as the rest of him was drawn back.Maman would say to pray, but he did not think that prayers would hold them away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Now she told him to pray, to recite the words hismaman had taught him, but he heard his voice, small and high and stumbling as he tried to get the words out of his stiff lips. “Show us Oh Lord, thy mercy, and grant us thy salvation.” He could taste the bitterness on his tongue, harsh like herbs, and he choked, feeling the rise of it in his throat. But she would not stop, he could hear her, spitting outMaman’s words as though they were nothing, and René turned his head, knowing that if he opened his eyes, the colours of the glass window would sparkle like tears.

  “Yes?” she hissed at him when he did not speak again, and he knew she was angry too, as Father had been, and he opened his eyes, turning back to look at her. His eyes found her neck, as pale as his own skin but for the circling bruise that coloured it brown and purple, red at the edges, with little lines for each vein. He glanced up quickly and closed his eyes once more whenMademoiselle raised her eyebrow at him, impatient with him for forgetting. He had not forgotten. He knew his prayers better than she did, in whatever language she chose, so he continued, smoothing out his tongue and inhaling softly when he was finished with each verse.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Alleluia,” a deeper voice added when he seemed to forget, and René frowned, opening his eyes and blinking to see that there was no altar before him, thatMademoiselle was gone. “Alleluia,” his voice repeated, but he could not swallow his throat was so dry, and he knew the words had not come from his mouth. “…And all they to…whom…the water came were saved, and they shall say…Alleluia.”

  “Very good.” Warmth and laughter followed the simple words, from two voices as if all the delights in the world were to be found in the reciting of childish prayers. René opened his eyes wider and found that he was staring at a ceiling that he had seen many times before, his own cabin, softly sliding back and forth as he swayed with the ship’s movements. Casting his eyes downward only revealed to him his feet, bare and pale, and his legs, covered in a blanket.

  Marechal…he started to think but the thought slipped away from him, drawing a curse that his tight throat held back. “Am I really?” The voice refused to be silenced, and Ren�
� jerked his head up, opening his mouth and gasping silently at the flood of burning pain through his shoulder. Tossing his head the opposite way, momentary dizziness made him shut his eyes, waiting for thehamaca to grow still before he moved again.

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

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

  “James?” he asked, and the child leaned in his head, placing one small hand on the middle of James’ chest, spreading out his fingers to encircle his heart, clutching like some foolish lover. The boy’s face was coloured with eagerness in the dim light, rosy and not pale with fright as he parted his lips and stretched forward, arching his neck to press his mouth to James’ softness.

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

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

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