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This is a world where the gods, even the distant ones, have power still.", "count": "2", "submission_left_submission_id": "48498", "submission_left_file_name": "60147_Veritas_solace.rtf" } ], "description": "Ser Nicolai di Casson is a Padro, a tiger - a blue-eyed giant of a white tiger, to be entirely specific. He's something of a paladin - militant priest, holy warrior, whatever one may choose to call it. He fights - or, preferably, not - out of an earnest desire to see Right done in the world, with a very personal sort of faith - a devotion that's a matter for him and his god, not something to be noisy and public about. And if need be great, he can call on his god's power to heal.\n\nWhich is good, because sometimes he can't avoid battle, and sometimes, innocents get caught up in it.\n\nAnd when that happens, sometimes he needs to be especially careful not to take advantage of his position and authority. It would not do to bring harm to the people he's supposed to defend - for after his god, his loyalty is not to the lords, not even to the Crown, but to the people.\n\nStill, Nicolai is not some faith-blinded zealot. Oh, he has zeal aplenty, but he's also willing to look at the words of the prophets and actually think about what they mean. He is, for instance, no prude for its own sake... and he'll have cause to loosen up in time, to [i]really[/i] think about the assumptions that have guided his life.\n\nBy and large, if a bit misguided by his faith, it's all well-meant, and it's doubtful that he'd ever descend to doing anything in the name of that faith that could actually be called an evil act. He does try his hardest to be good.\n\nBe warned: As the viewpoint character, his faith means that this piece does have religious overtones.", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Ser Nicolai di Casson is a Padro, a tiger - a blue-eyed giant of a white tiger, to be entirely specific. He's something of a paladin - militant priest, holy warrior, whatever one may choose to call it. He fights - or, preferably, not - out of an earnest desire to see Right done in the world, with a very personal sort of faith - a devotion that's a matter for him and his god, not something to be noisy and public about. And if need be great, he can call on his god's power to heal.

Which is good, because sometimes he can't avoid battle, and sometimes, innocents get caught up in it.

And when that happens, sometimes he needs to be especially careful not to take advantage of his position and authority. It would not do to bring harm to the people he's supposed to defend - for after his god, his loyalty is not to the lords, not even to the Crown, but to the people.

Still, Nicolai is not some faith-blinded zealot. Oh, he has zeal aplenty, but he's also willing to look at the words of the prophets and actually think about what they mean. He is, for instance, no prude for its own sake... and he'll have cause to loosen up in time, to really think about the assumptions that have guided his life.

By and large, if a bit misguided by his faith, it's all well-meant, and it's doubtful that he'd ever descend to doing anything in the name of that faith that could actually be called an evil act. He does try his hardest to be good.

Be warned: As the viewpoint character, his faith means that this piece does have religious overtones.", "writing": "\"Ser di Casson?\" \n\nThe big white tiger didn't answer right away, sitting cross-legged, hands palm-up on his knees, lips moving slightly in words of prayer. The messenger didn't press the issue; Ser Nicolai was, as a Hand of the Just, the most important member of the Eternal Chain to be found in the village, and one did not hurry such people without very good cause. \n\nBut when he rose, di Casson not only didn't rebuke him for the interruption, the first thing he said was, \"Forgive me for the delay. How can I assist you?\" \n\n\"It is not I who needs the assistance,\" the smaller tiger replied, offering the sealed message-tube. \"I was charged only to deliver this into your hand, Ser, and await any reply you might have on the moment, then return to advise of its delivery.\" \n\n\"Very well.\" Drawing a deep breath, Nicolai reached over for a robe and shrugged into it. The messenger had been very polite, but it would not do to hold even such an informal audience dressed in only the breechcloth he'd donned after bathing. That done, he glanced at the wax seal - burgundy, a stooping hawk with a branch in its talons; he didn't know it offhand, but the chain loop around the border suggested someone with ties to the Church - before slitting it with a claw and extracting the vellum within. \n\nIt couldn't be good news - not for a courier to interrupt his morning routine. And it wasn't. Great Verantine, have mercy on those who have done this thing - and on us for what we must do in turn. He shook his head. \"This Seigneur di Cierros - he is your client?\" \n\n\"Yes, Ser.\" \n\nNicolai nodded. \"Avail yourself of a fresh mount from our stables, and another for its relief and for supplies. Return and tell the Seigneur that these bandits will trouble him no more.\" He reached into his desk, pulling out a bronze token with his own seal embossed on it - the same chain border as that of di Cierros, but showing an eagle with wings spread, clutching the scales that served as emblem of the Hand, perched on the horns of a serpentine dragon. \"Give this to the stablemaster as proof that I sent you.\" It'd mean nothing to anyone outside these grounds, but here, it saved the time of either writing orders or going in person. \n\nThe messenger accepted the token with a sharp nod. \"I will leave on the hour, Ser.\" \n\n\"Very good,\" Nicolai di Casson sighed. \"I will attend to my preparations. May the Just Lord watch over you in your duty.\" \n\nThe courier bowed, and withdrew from his quarters. \n\nNicolai dressed in travelling clothes. They would not make a formal impression on their own, but they were comfortable - even beneath armour. That armour would make his impression for him. Given that he'd be going deeper into the mountains, he made sure they were warm travelling clothes, at that. \n\nThe bandits of which the Chain's vassal landowner had written were holed up outside the boundaries of both his fife and the Surrel March. For the Marquis to send his own troops would be dangerous - the Marquise of Kerindon might see the retaking of the robbers' plunder as theft from her own lands. Nicolai doubted that would be the case - Allyria de Kerindon was a reasonable woman - but Trevian di Surrel was generally thought of as timid. \n\nIf, as di Cierros suspected, these bandits had some sort of agreement with the Marquis di Surrel, then he had an entirely different reason to sit idle, all the while hiding behind a legitimate excuse to stay within his own borders. But the Church of Verantine, and more specifically the Order of the Eternal Chain, had their power from the common people, not the nobility. Where they were in danger, the Church would succour them. \n\nAnd Nicolai, as a Hand of the Just, was the point at which the Eternal Chain met the peerage of Rendayn - the common ground between them, a knight of the realm, sworn not to any baron or other noble, but to the Church. The law of the land gave him the authority to act on any situation when the local guards would be exceeding their authority to do so - even though he would be making use of those same guards. \n\nHe reached over to tug the bell pull and slipped into his quilted gambeson. He'd just finished belting it in place when a youth in the simple garb of a Church page peered into the room. \n\n\"Bring Armourer Frellis to me,\" he instructed. \"I have need of his assistance donning my armour.\" \n\n\"As you command, Ser,\" the boy murmured, and withdrew, leaving Nicolai to get that armour ready. \n\nThe silvery plate was gleaming; he polished it regularly, for though he rarely needed it, when he did, he also needed to look his best, to uphold the image of the Hand of the Just. Frellis arrived with his tools and an assistant, helping Nicolai to put on the heavy plate and make sure all the pieces were still properly fitted. He asked no questions; he knew that when Nicolai was ready, Nicolai would explain. \n\nThen he departed, and Nicolai belted his surcoat in place, white emblem on a red field in front, with the scales picked out in gold, and the scales alone on his back. \n\nHis gear was ready for him when he arrived at the stables - he made a mental note to find out who had arranged that, and see the person commended for his initiative. His snowdrake, Tielshar, was barded and saddled, the sturdy white lizard pawing at the turf, and a less fearsome beast - a plain brown dray - had been loaded with supplies for a journey. \n\nA day. It'd take no more than that, with the force he meant to raise, to reach the border and do what needed to be done. Another day back. But it was always wise to prepare for delays; he did not question the bounty that had been loaded on the dray. \n\n\"When will you be returning, Ser?\" asked Derella de Sanco, the small tigress who served as the shrine's senior priestess. \n\n\"Hopefully within a few days, Derella,\" he replied, easing himself up and into the saddle. \"I've no doubt that I will have much reflection to do on my return, but if you are available, your counsel will just as doubtless be welcome for some of it.\" \n\n\"Come back safe and swift, Ser,\" she said with a smile. \"And may the Divine Warden shield you with His grace.\" \n\nNicolai bowed his head, murmuring a quick prayer of his own. \"My thanks for your blessing,\" he said. \n\n\"Always, Ser. I know you ride to defend the faithful, and I know you will return successful in that.\" \n\nNicolai squared his shoulders, settling his armour in place, and gave the reins a shake. Tielshar lumbered forward, the dray trotting behind. \n\n* \n\nTwenty of the March Guard rode from Surrinar with him - ten swordsmen, four each pikemen and archers, and a pair of cavalry. Nicolai stood out among them as a living banner, a head taller than any of them even were he afoot, his shining plate - and, for that matter, the stark white and black of his pelt under it, where all the others bore orange - a testament of purity in thought and will. The Marquis had wanted details on his mission, but Nicolai had not needed to give them; he had said - rightly, whether or not the Marquis was complicit in these raids - that if news of his destination were to spread, someone with a swift steed might outrun his column and bring word to those he sought. \n\nNow, as he peered through a spyglass at the small camp in the valley, it seemed that nobody had. Perhaps he had been overly cautious; perhaps they would still have had a reception such as this if he had just told Marquis di Surrel and his court where they would be going. \n\nBut perhaps not. \n\nMarquis di Surrel would learn of matters in due time; Nicolai would make all the appropriate reports. For now, the important thing was that this did indeed seem to be a bandit camp - hunters had no need to be this well-armed or carry this much wealth with them - and they did not seem to be dug in and expecting a fight. In fact, they were very few - only three or four people in sight. Maybe some were in the tents, but at this time of day, would there be so many...? \n\n\"To the south, Ser,\" murmured the swordsman who had been serving as his footman, and Nicolai swung the glass to his right. A plume of snow was being tossed into the air - a single file of riders, with some few people on foot among them. \n\nPeople who looked to be burdened not with the tools of war, but with chains and bonds. \n\nAnd at their fore, a face he knew - one of the Marquis di Surrel's family, yes, but one the Marquis had petitioned months back to have disowned. No, Trevian di Surrel was not responsible for this mess - but with this man, this Parvus, still thought of as of his blood, no wonder that he might be hesitant to take action. It could have been quite embarrassing to him and his family to raise a hand against his own cousin. \n\n\"Good eyes, man,\" he growled, snapping shut the cover on the glass and handing it down. \"Pass the word - we form ranks and advance. Standard wedge.\" This was not the time or place to be bellowing his orders out loud, and the soldier understood that; the troops gradually, but quietly, took their positions, with the archers in the rear behind an equal rank of swordsmen, the pikes and remaining swordsmen in a wedge before them, and the mounted soldiers - a man on Nicolai's left, a woman on his right, both in chain mail and bearing a shield and sword - at the tip of that wedge. \n\nNicolai rode at their fore, slinging his shield onto his arm, the metal emblazoned with the same crest as his surcoat. For the moment, his longsword rested in its sheath, and he murmured a prayer that its thirst not be sated this day. \n\nThey rode to the mouth of the valley, intercepting the oncoming band. They did not move directly in front of them - to set their backs to the camp, however few seemed to be there, would be folly. But the riders could not pass by without confronting Nicolai's soldiers and inviting attacks from their bows. A dozen riders in light leather and fur might hope to do some damage, but Nicolai was certain that they would not breach the line of his pikemen. \n\nHe rode ahead, praying to the Holy Father that the violence might be as little as possible - and then he called out, his bellow echoing through the narrow valley. \"Parvus! All of you who ride with him! You have forsworn ties of blood and honour, and stand now before the judgement of Emperor Sashernus and of Divine Verantine! By my office as Right Hand of the Just, I command you to lay down your weapons and stand where you are!\" \n\nThe riders milled about, their formation shifting - and then they started charging forward. \n\nPerhaps they only saw three riders, and sought them easy prey. Perhaps they were overconfident of their skills. Whatever the reason, nine riders charged, while three dismounted, keeping control of their captives. \n\nNicolai sighed, closing his gauntleted fist around the hilt of his sword and hauling it into the open air. The light of the setting sun gleamed golden on the blade as he thrust it high into the air - and four longbows sang behind him, their shafts arcing upward, seeming to pause a moment, then plunging down. \n\nThe riders had seen both the signal and the arrows, and had time to scatter - but it disrupted their charge. Nicolai shouted a command, and Tielshar surged forward, the drake's rolling, six-legged gait bearing him swiftly to battle, with the two cavalry soldiers spreading out on his flanks and the rest of the troop running after. \n\nHe left it to the soldiers to stall the riders - his goal was beyond, to the innocent lives being held in jeopardy, to Parvus and the two who had remained with him. He had to resolve that - above all else, he had to take charge of that situation. \n\nSome of the riders had drawn back and raised shortbows; now arrows fell toward him in turn. He raised his shield and lowered his head, peering above it through his visor, keeping the steel tower far enough forward that it would shelter his mount's eyes as well. Arrowheads glanced off his armour and struck his shield; still he charged, implacable in his focus. \n\nAnd then he was past the line of riders, and his goal lay before him. He had not swung his sword once so far, but with a sickening certainty, he knew that could not last - the men he saw before him were clearly positioning themselves to do violence to their captives. He saw the swords raised, knew their intent. \n\n\"Hold!\" he bellowed, charging that one word with all the righteous fury he could muster. Verantine smiled on him; the men paused, stricken with doubt, long enough for him to crash into their line. Tielshar dug in his claws, slowing to a walk as quickly as he could without dumping his rider from the saddle, and Nicolai swung, driving the pommel of his sword against the back of one man's skull, sending him crumpling to the ground. \n\n\"It's over, Parvus,\" he growled, sliding out of the saddle, armour rattling as his boots hit the packed snow. \"You have lost. Fight on, and face the judgement of Verantine. Surrender now, order your soldiers to stand down, and I will show you mercy.\" \n\n\"The mercy of a sharp blade?\" the smaller man spat. \"Where was your mercy when my Deissa was taken from me? Your precious god can take his Hand and shove it where - \" \n\n\"Look out!\" The voice cut through Parvus's tirade - that of a young male, off to his left. Nicolai didn't question; he turned, bringing his shield to bear, and felt his arm lurch as a sword crashed against it. \n\nThe third man cursed. \"Stupid boy,\" he snarled, driving his blade instead toward the young man who had cried out. Nicolai bellowed, lurching forward, swinging his longsword. There was no room for error - the man was too close to his captive. He committed his swing with the utmost of precision, and the far end of his blade bit into the man's neck, the tip passing it by a finger's breadth, severing the bandit's head from his shoulders. \n\nBut not before the man's own steel drove deep into the youth's belly. \n\n\"No!\" Nicolai heard himself scream. He dropped his sword - on some level, he was aware of Tielshar, snarling, keeping the last threat at bay, of Parvus's own weapon also falling - but none of it fixed his attention near as much as the blood running down the sword that had pierced the boy's body. \n\nHe seized its hilt, keeping it steady as he shoved the corpse of its wielder aside, lips moving in desperate prayer. He shook off his shield, setting his hand to the boy's anguished face. \"Dearest Father,\" he whispered, \"forgive me for what I have done here. I beg of you, in Your mercy, spare the life of this innocent soul, who sought only to aid me, as I in turn strive to serve You.\" He yanked the sword free and tossed it aside, splaying his fingers over the wound as though his will alone might close it, and prayed on, \"Divine Verantine, make whole this sundered flesh, that this life not return to You before its due time. Holy Warden, in Your wisdom, grant me the power to save this life through Your grace that I could not through the force of arms...\" \n\nThe prayers flowed from his lips. Consecrated knights of the Hand had some power to heal, but never had the need for Verantine's gift been as urgent for Nicolai as in this moment. Without that holy power, this boy's breaths numbered under a dozen. There was no question of that; the blade had run him through, and he knew the damage it had done, as surely as though it had torn his own flesh. He knew the boy's pain, read it in every line of his crumpling form, felt it even through the steel of his gauntlets, felt the pulse of life ebbing... \n\nNo! \n\nHe put such thoughts out of his mind, and for the tiniest moment, touched the grace of the Divine. Golden light coruscated around him, coursed through his hands, suffused the youth's slender body. \n\nAnd before his eyes, in the most wondrous miracle he had ever seen, the wound closed. Beneath it, somehow, he fancied he could feel the damage being put right, the flesh made whole. \n\nThe boy gasped, eyes going wide, their focus returning, bright and shining as they peered into Nicolai's visor. The warrior shifted his hands, gave the youth's trembling body something on which to lean, as shaking fingers reached up, lifting that visor away. \n\nBlue eyes, Nicolai suddenly noticed. Most Padro had eyes that were green, or golden, or brown. But though this boy was as orange as any other, white front and black stripes notwithstanding, his eyes were just as blue as Nicolai's. Maybe more so - the blue of a clear summer sky. Even through his gauntlets, Nicolai could feel the energy, the sheer life in that slender body; and as he looked on that handsome face, something about that energy resonated in himself, brought back to mind that time, maybe six or seven years gone, when he was this boy's age. \n\n\n$0nd with that memory came a surge of the hot blood of youth. \n\nHe swallowed, giving his head a shake, forcing himself to stand upright. The youth blinked, then turned his gaze down, clinging to Nicolai's left arm. Not for a king's ransom would the knight have tried to pry him free, in that moment. \n\nTo think that someone could drag this poor boy out of his home, away from his family, and then try to snuff out his life out of spite... \n\nHe growled, lifting his head, fixing his gaze on Parvus. The man had been keeping very still in the interim, staring at what Nicolai was doing even as he tried to keep one eye on the snarling drake; now he dropped to his knees, stammering out a plea for mercy. \n\n\"Order your men to stand down,\" Nicolai intoned, unable to keep the growl from his voice. \n\nThe desperate yell Parvus let out was probably heard in Surrinar. \n\n* \n\nThe boy, Nicolai learned, was Stefano di Tarven, seventeen summers of age. He was now an orphan, his parents slain in the attack that had led to his capture, his home burned to the ground. No family remained to him where he had come from, nor did he know where any others might live. \n\nHe rode before Nicolai now, the Hand dressed in chain mail, his plate carefully netted to the dray. Nicolai's red cloak, emblazoned with the same golden scales as the back of his surcoat, was now tucked around Stefano as well; nobody had been able to find ample clothing in the youth's size, and he shivered against Nicolai as the column rode back home, their captives in tow, tied to their saddles, the reins held by the marching soldiers. \n\nNicolai had sent a messenger ahead with his preliminary report, and so they were expected. Trumpets blared as they passed through the city gates, and the Marquis himself met him there, appearing outdoors as he had not done in some time. When he saw his cousin's face, downcast and ragged, he swallowed, ears pinning back - in what tumultuous emotion, Nicolai, his own thoughts tangled, dared not guess. \"I... I am pleased that you return triumphant, Ser di Casson,\" he began. \n\nNicolai shook his head. \"This was scarcely a triumph, my Lord Marquis. Lives were lost, and others destroyed. As you serve your people, be happy that they will be safe for now. But as you are pious, I beg of you, weep for the fallen and pray for their families.\" \n\nTrevian di Surrel swallowed, taken aback. Perhaps he still expected Nicolai to be a self-righteous crusader, chasing victory with no care for the cost it bore. Others had mistaken him for the same, and others always would. But he had answered his calling because he wished to serve people - not to fight them. Sometimes, the people needed one to stand and fight for them, but still there was no greater tragedy for him, than that he be tasked to slay one of the God's own children. \n\nBut he had a duty to these people as well, he reminded himself. \n\n\"Be glad as well,\" he said into the silence, \"that lives which might have been lost have instead been spared. Only two people fell on the field of battle, when they would not surrender. The rest of the scofflaws have returned with us to face judgement and justice - and in time, perhaps they can be redeemed. As for the innocent lives lost before we arrived - the cost of that delay is mine to bear. But we were in time to save others, and that,\" he let a smile cross his muzzle, \"is the true triumph of yesterday.\" \n\n\"As you say, Ser di Casson,\" said the Marquis, smiling nervously in turn. \"As you say. And Ser - thank you. For your discretion.\" \n\nWayward or no, the man did have feelings for his kinsman. Or at least wouldn't want to see him butchered on the battlefield. Whatever; that was not Nicolai's affair any longer, he didn't think. \"Will you take charge of justice in this matter, Marquis? These men were citizens of your March, and their depradations weighed most strongly on Surrel as well.\" \n\n\"I -\" The Marquis swallowed, looked up at Nicolai, then let his gaze fall. \"I am only mortal, Ser di Casson, and this matter touches me too closely.\" \n\nIn that, his thoughts echoed Nicolai's own. \"I crave of you, then, please send word to Sashernar, and enlist the aid of an Imperial justice.\" \n\nThe nobleman looked up at Nicolai again. Perhaps now, he no longer saw a trumped-up commoner, lording his power over the long-standing noble families. Perhaps now, he saw the mortal young man Nicolai knew himself to be, subject to a young man's limits. Perhaps not. Either way, he nodded. \"An excellent thought, Ser, and the most fair way to resolve such a tangled situation. I will dispatch a messenger this evening.\" \n\n\"Thank you,\" Nicolai sighed. \"Now my duty as a Hand of the Just is discharged; I relinquish the authority you lent me over these, your soldiers, and thank you for answering to the call of your people and the Eternal Chain which binds them together. And I would return to the shrine, for I have other matters await my attention, as I am sure do you.\" \n\nThe Marquis bowed, and the soldiers, without needing direction, continued toward the keep, bearing their prisoners along. When Marquis di Surrel had turned away in dismissal, Nicolai tugged on the reins, guiding Tielshar out of the city, toward the small shrine just up the hill, with the laden dray following behind and Stefano huddled in the knight's cloak. \n\n* \n\nThat same, humble page took charge of Nicolai's dray, saw to its being relieved of its burden and properly tended to - he would do well in the Order of the Eternal Chain, Nicolai was sure. When Tielshar was stabled and fed, Nicolai looked down at Stefano, giving the youth's shoulder a squeeze. \"We will find you quarters as soon as we can,\" he promised the dazed-looking boy. \"For now, though, would you break bread with me?\" \n\n\"Y-yes, please,\" the smaller Padro stammered. \n\n\n$0rue to his instruction, a meal arrived quickly - he hadn't even hung up his cloak when that dutiful page tapped at the door, handing him a tray when he answered. Stefano had already sat by the fireplace, curled up in the comfortable chair there; Nicolai tossed in a fresh log on the embers and stirred the fire to life, and then shifted a small table over, followed by a plainer seat for himself. The boy ate neatly, but with a will - travel rations were not kind to a growing man, especially not after being ripped out of his life like he had been, and now he was making up for the deficit with fresh bread and moist, roasted meat. \n\nNicolai stripped out of his jerkin before eating, and once he did, ate little. When he had finished, he gazed deep into the fire. The dancing flames pushed back the physical chill of the journey as did the hot food, but they couldn't dispel the cold dread of sins unspoken. \n\nHe could not abandon his post, but he would have to send to the capital for aid in his own right. His soul was heavy, and though Derella de Sanco was able and willing to serve as his confessor, some matters he could only speak of with one of the elders of the Hand - others who had been on the field of battle, and would be able to say with conviction if he had done all he could, or if he had erred and owed penance. \n\n\"S-Ser?\" A hand touched his knee. \"Are you well?\" \n\nHe brought his head up with a start, meeting the blue-eyed gaze of the anxious youth. \n\nPerhaps there was where he should find his judgement, after all... \n\n\"Stefano, I...\" He swallowed. \"I am so very, very sorry. I should have arrived sooner, kept those ruffians from leaving to do ill that day.\" \n\n\"No, no,\" the youth urged, leaning on his thigh. \"Ser, you rode fast, all the men said so! You couldn't have got there in time. And if you had, I... I'd never have met you...\" \n\nNicolai blinked. \"But, Stefano, your family...\" \n\nThe boy gulped, eyes squeezing shut, but not before he saw the moisture welling up in them. He gathered the youth into his arms, onto his knee, holding the younger Padro as the tears came at last, dampening the fur of Nicolai's chest as Stefano let out his grief. \n\n\"I miss them so,\" the youth choked out when his sobbing started to slow. \"But meeting you, seeing what you're like... I didn't know what to do with my life. Now I do. You gave me life, Ser. I need to give some of it back the same way.\" \n\n\"The seminary is not an easy place,\" Nicolai protested. \"For one who has just suffered so - \" \n\n\"You are strong!\" Stefano exclaimed, his voice rising a little. \"I have to be strong too! Please, Ser Nicolai, d-don't try to t-talk me out of this.\" He swallowed, drawing his head back, eyes wide and shining. \"D-don't they always say there's a calling? I can't ignore it, Ser. I have to listen. You've shown me the path I need to follow. I'll do it without your support if I have to, but I will do it. I have to try. Please...\" \n\nNicolai thought of himself, of his own youth, not so long gone by. Of how he'd seen one of the Hand, seen the faith burning in her eyes, felt it change him. Of that deep need he'd felt, that sense of emptiness that would not fade until he had joined the seminary. \n\nWho was he, to deny this boy his place in life? He, Nicolai di Casson, was only a flawed mortal. He was no saint, to claim wisdom Stefano lacked. \n\n\"I wished only to spare you from still more pain,\" he sighed, brushing his fingers over Stefano's cheek. \n\nThe boy turned his head, nuzzling at Nicolai's wrist. \"I know,\" he whispered. \"And I thank you. But I need to do this.\" \n\nNicolai swallowed again. That touch felt so nice, carrying with it such pure trust... but was he worthy of such trust? \"Stefano, I... I should not be advising you,\" he protested. \"I have not been to confession, and have had impure thoughts.\" \n\n\"I've had impure thoughts too,\" the youth replied, turning his gaze back to Nicolai's. There was something burning in those bright blue eyes - something other than faith; something that made the bigger male's heart lurch in his chest. \"But that's just what we are, isn't it? Mortals, sinners... We can always try to do better, but there's no shame in being as were were made, is there?\" The tip of the youth's tail danced about behind him, his breath hot on Nicolai's whiskers. \n\n\"Stefano, I...\" He trailed off, shaking his head. What could he say to that? The boy was right, and yet... something about the way he said those things... something beyond the provincial drawl that sounded so different, yet so musical, to Nicolai's ears, tuned as they were to the cultured language of the capital... \n\n\"You comforted me when I needed it,\" Stefano breathed, his hands sliding along Nicolai's sides. \"Is there anything... anything at all... I can help you with, before we part ways? Some comfort I can give you, maybe?\" \n\nBy the Holy Father, the sheer life in that slender body - the life, he reminded himself, that Verantine had seen fit to restore and preserve, even if Nicolai had been the worldly channel of that will - that life made his blood sing like it had on those nights years ago, when he'd first awakened to the burning urges of manhood. It'd be easy, so easy, to take this warm, vibrant soul to his bed, to give free rein to the urges he hadn't been able to back then... \n\nNo! He'd seen other young men, broken and despairing, used and tossed aside by older men who had used them to slake their lusts. He would not be one of those despicable predators. His lot was to serve his God and his people, not to defy the One and use the other. He had sworn vows to both. He would not be forsworn now! \n\nWhile he sat unresisting, Stefano's hand had started tugging at his belt; he took hold of the boy's wrist, now, stopping that before it went too far. \"Stefano, this is...\" Wrong, he wanted to say, but the boy looked so eager... Not for a thousand kingdoms would he shatter that trust by hurting him, by making him feel guilty for his own hot blood. \"I cannot do this.\" I cannot ask this of you, he wanted to say - but he felt sure the youth would read that wrong, would think Nicolai wanted to use him so, but couldn't take the first step. No - he had to stop this before it happened, no matter how sweet it might feel in the moment. He had been strong in battle; he would be strong now. \n\nStefano ducked his head, nodding slightly. \"I understand,\" he whispered, leaning back a little, easing away from that charged proximity. \"But Ser - thank you, anyway. You've given me so much; I just wish I could give something back.\" \n\n\"Give to the people, as you have resolved,\" Nicolai urged. \"That is enough for me.\" \n\nA tap at the door distracted them. Stefano looked suddenly guilty; Nicolai, for his part, was relieved to have something else to focus on. \"Come!\" \n\nA now-familiar page looked in. \"Ser di Casson, Priestess Derella bids me inform you, she has had quarters made ready for your guest, and wishes also to find him suitable raiment.\" \n\nNicolai let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. \"There you are,\" he said to Stefano. \"Derella is wise, and can teach you much, even before the next class at the seminary. She will take good care of you.\" \n\nA soft smile. \"Be well, Ser. And thank you.\" \n\nHe couldn't help but smile in turn, ruffling between Stefano's ears as he might a kit of his own. \"Gladly given, young man. Do your family proud.\" \n\n\"I will.\" And with that, Stefano let the page usher him away. \n\nNicolai tried meditating a time to calm his thoughts, but simply couldn't get the feel of that lithe body out of his mind. Not that way. He bolted the door and threw himself onto his bed. \n\nIf a man's lust grow strong, or a woman's, the scriptures wrote, and no wife or husband is near, that one should seek the means to ease that lust without pushing it onto another. Oh, the teachers at the seminary all said this meant their youthful charges should meditate or pray and forget about such worldly concerns - but did not Verantine also say, Forget not that you are of the world, and seek not to rise above it; make use of what you are given, without bemoaning your station? They were made with their urges because those urges, on some level, pleased the Holy Father. Was not the bliss of release a spark of the divine, to show His approval for their pleasure? To pervert such a thing by forcing it on another would be a sin most grave, turning the divine to foul ends - but who was harmed by him casting aside his breechcloth and taking his swelling shaft in hand, squeezing it, letting the pleasure course through him? \n\nNobody at all. \n\nHe tried to close his eyes and relax, but Stefano's face danced in his mind's eye. No. He'd not profane the boy even in thought. He shifted his pillow, propping his head up, letting him more easily fix his gaze on his own pure-black flesh as he traced the shape of it, fingered the aching head, stroked his thumb over the tip and smeared the clear drop of moisture that had pooled there over the taut skin. \n\nHe squeezed near the base of his shaft, drew his hand slowly upward, milking out a little more of that slickness, spreading it over his glans, pads tickling at the pebbly skin. Such undiluted pleasure the touch brought. Surely this was a gift from Verantine, a way to ease the loneliness that could otherwise sap the energy from any man or woman, however strong. \n\nHis hand drove along, faster, harder, his breath quickening from the exertion, tail lashing about his ankles, toes curling. In time, he prayed, he would be able to enjoy this with a fine woman in holy union, and bring pleasure to her as well - not just that of the flesh, but that of companionship. Perhaps, one day, of children. \n\nFor now, he renewed, in his mind, his pledge to his people and especially to his God, and breathed the holy Name as the rush of his climax coursed through him, his length surging in his grip, his thick, musky seed arcing over his stomach and chest, several strong jets of it streaking his snow-white pelt. \n\nHe lay there for some minutes after, waiting for his breath to slow down, idly caressing his softening length. Though he'd never been inclined to pay too much attention to his own appearance beyond making sure it was neat, he couldn't help but marvel at the way he'd been made, at the means Verantine had given him and all men - and women, too, he was sure would have their own - to ease the burdens of single life. \n\nThen he shook his head and rolled off of his cot, wrapping a towel around himself, pulling back the bolt, and leaving his quarters for the baths. \n\nIn the morning, he would confess his impure thoughts for one who should have been his ward. And for those matters which touched on him specifically as a Hand of the Just, he would seek the presence of one of the older, wiser Hands from the capital, who could no longer act as vigorously as he but remained with the Order to lend their wisdom. \n\nBut he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had not allowed impure thought to turn to profane deed. No, contemplating the holy writ had saved him from that. \n\nAnd with that, he would be able to rest easy.", "writing_bbcode_parsed": ""Ser di Casson?"

The big white tiger didn't answer right away, sitting cross-legged, hands palm-up on his knees, lips moving slightly in words of prayer. The messenger didn't press the issue; Ser Nicolai was, as a Hand of the Just, the most important member of the Eternal Chain to be found in the village, and one did not hurry such people without very good cause.

But when he rose, di Casson not only didn't rebuke him for the interruption, the first thing he said was, "Forgive me for the delay. How can I assist you?"

"It is not I who needs the assistance," the smaller tiger replied, offering the sealed message-tube. "I was charged only to deliver this into your hand, Ser, and await any reply you might have on the moment, then return to advise of its delivery."

"Very well." Drawing a deep breath, Nicolai reached over for a robe and shrugged into it. The messenger had been very polite, but it would not do to hold even such an informal audience dressed in only the breechcloth he'd donned after bathing. That done, he glanced at the wax seal - burgundy, a stooping hawk with a branch in its talons; he didn't know it offhand, but the chain loop around the border suggested someone with ties to the Church - before slitting it with a claw and extracting the vellum within.

It couldn't be good news - not for a courier to interrupt his morning routine. And it wasn't. Great Verantine, have mercy on those who have done this thing - and on us for what we must do in turn. He shook his head. "This Seigneur di Cierros - he is your client?"

"Yes, Ser."

Nicolai nodded. "Avail yourself of a fresh mount from our stables, and another for its relief and for supplies. Return and tell the Seigneur that these bandits will trouble him no more." He reached into his desk, pulling out a bronze token with his own seal embossed on it - the same chain border as that of di Cierros, but showing an eagle with wings spread, clutching the scales that served as emblem of the Hand, perched on the horns of a serpentine dragon. "Give this to the stablemaster as proof that I sent you." It'd mean nothing to anyone outside these grounds, but here, it saved the time of either writing orders or going in person.

The messenger accepted the token with a sharp nod. "I will leave on the hour, Ser."

"Very good," Nicolai di Casson sighed. "I will attend to my preparations. May the Just Lord watch over you in your duty."

The courier bowed, and withdrew from his quarters.

Nicolai dressed in travelling clothes. They would not make a formal impression on their own, but they were comfortable - even beneath armour. That armour would make his impression for him. Given that he'd be going deeper into the mountains, he made sure they were warm travelling clothes, at that.

The bandits of which the Chain's vassal landowner had written were holed up outside the boundaries of both his fife and the Surrel March. For the Marquis to send his own troops would be dangerous - the Marquise of Kerindon might see the retaking of the robbers' plunder as theft from her own lands. Nicolai doubted that would be the case - Allyria de Kerindon was a reasonable woman - but Trevian di Surrel was generally thought of as timid.

If, as di Cierros suspected, these bandits had some sort of agreement with the Marquis di Surrel, then he had an entirely different reason to sit idle, all the while hiding behind a legitimate excuse to stay within his own borders. But the Church of Verantine, and more specifically the Order of the Eternal Chain, had their power from the common people, not the nobility. Where they were in danger, the Church would succour them.

And Nicolai, as a Hand of the Just, was the point at which the Eternal Chain met the peerage of Rendayn - the common ground between them, a knight of the realm, sworn not to any baron or other noble, but to the Church. The law of the land gave him the authority to act on any situation when the local guards would be exceeding their authority to do so - even though he would be making use of those same guards.

He reached over to tug the bell pull and slipped into his quilted gambeson. He'd just finished belting it in place when a youth in the simple garb of a Church page peered into the room.

"Bring Armourer Frellis to me," he instructed. "I have need of his assistance donning my armour."

"As you command, Ser," the boy murmured, and withdrew, leaving Nicolai to get that armour ready.

The silvery plate was gleaming; he polished it regularly, for though he rarely needed it, when he did, he also needed to look his best, to uphold the image of the Hand of the Just. Frellis arrived with his tools and an assistant, helping Nicolai to put on the heavy plate and make sure all the pieces were still properly fitted. He asked no questions; he knew that when Nicolai was ready, Nicolai would explain.

Then he departed, and Nicolai belted his surcoat in place, white emblem on a red field in front, with the scales picked out in gold, and the scales alone on his back.

His gear was ready for him when he arrived at the stables - he made a mental note to find out who had arranged that, and see the person commended for his initiative. His snowdrake, Tielshar, was barded and saddled, the sturdy white lizard pawing at the turf, and a less fearsome beast - a plain brown dray - had been loaded with supplies for a journey.

A day. It'd take no more than that, with the force he meant to raise, to reach the border and do what needed to be done. Another day back. But it was always wise to prepare for delays; he did not question the bounty that had been loaded on the dray.

"When will you be returning, Ser?" asked Derella de Sanco, the small tigress who served as the shrine's senior priestess.

"Hopefully within a few days, Derella," he replied, easing himself up and into the saddle. "I've no doubt that I will have much reflection to do on my return, but if you are available, your counsel will just as doubtless be welcome for some of it."

"Come back safe and swift, Ser," she said with a smile. "And may the Divine Warden shield you with His grace."

Nicolai bowed his head, murmuring a quick prayer of his own. "My thanks for your blessing," he said.

"Always, Ser. I know you ride to defend the faithful, and I know you will return successful in that."

Nicolai squared his shoulders, settling his armour in place, and gave the reins a shake. Tielshar lumbered forward, the dray trotting behind.

*

Twenty of the March Guard rode from Surrinar with him - ten swordsmen, four each pikemen and archers, and a pair of cavalry. Nicolai stood out among them as a living banner, a head taller than any of them even were he afoot, his shining plate - and, for that matter, the stark white and black of his pelt under it, where all the others bore orange - a testament of purity in thought and will. The Marquis had wanted details on his mission, but Nicolai had not needed to give them; he had said - rightly, whether or not the Marquis was complicit in these raids - that if news of his destination were to spread, someone with a swift steed might outrun his column and bring word to those he sought.

Now, as he peered through a spyglass at the small camp in the valley, it seemed that nobody had. Perhaps he had been overly cautious; perhaps they would still have had a reception such as this if he had just told Marquis di Surrel and his court where they would be going.

But perhaps not.

Marquis di Surrel would learn of matters in due time; Nicolai would make all the appropriate reports. For now, the important thing was that this did indeed seem to be a bandit camp - hunters had no need to be this well-armed or carry this much wealth with them - and they did not seem to be dug in and expecting a fight. In fact, they were very few - only three or four people in sight. Maybe some were in the tents, but at this time of day, would there be so many...?

"To the south, Ser," murmured the swordsman who had been serving as his footman, and Nicolai swung the glass to his right. A plume of snow was being tossed into the air - a single file of riders, with some few people on foot among them.

People who looked to be burdened not with the tools of war, but with chains and bonds.

And at their fore, a face he knew - one of the Marquis di Surrel's family, yes, but one the Marquis had petitioned months back to have disowned. No, Trevian di Surrel was not responsible for this mess - but with this man, this Parvus, still thought of as of his blood, no wonder that he might be hesitant to take action. It could have been quite embarrassing to him and his family to raise a hand against his own cousin.

"Good eyes, man," he growled, snapping shut the cover on the glass and handing it down. "Pass the word - we form ranks and advance. Standard wedge." This was not the time or place to be bellowing his orders out loud, and the soldier understood that; the troops gradually, but quietly, took their positions, with the archers in the rear behind an equal rank of swordsmen, the pikes and remaining swordsmen in a wedge before them, and the mounted soldiers - a man on Nicolai's left, a woman on his right, both in chain mail and bearing a shield and sword - at the tip of that wedge.

Nicolai rode at their fore, slinging his shield onto his arm, the metal emblazoned with the same crest as his surcoat. For the moment, his longsword rested in its sheath, and he murmured a prayer that its thirst not be sated this day.

They rode to the mouth of the valley, intercepting the oncoming band. They did not move directly in front of them - to set their backs to the camp, however few seemed to be there, would be folly. But the riders could not pass by without confronting Nicolai's soldiers and inviting attacks from their bows. A dozen riders in light leather and fur might hope to do some damage, but Nicolai was certain that they would not breach the line of his pikemen.

He rode ahead, praying to the Holy Father that the violence might be as little as possible - and then he called out, his bellow echoing through the narrow valley. "Parvus! All of you who ride with him! You have forsworn ties of blood and honour, and stand now before the judgement of Emperor Sashernus and of Divine Verantine! By my office as Right Hand of the Just, I command you to lay down your weapons and stand where you are!"

The riders milled about, their formation shifting - and then they started charging forward.

Perhaps they only saw three riders, and sought them easy prey. Perhaps they were overconfident of their skills. Whatever the reason, nine riders charged, while three dismounted, keeping control of their captives.

Nicolai sighed, closing his gauntleted fist around the hilt of his sword and hauling it into the open air. The light of the setting sun gleamed golden on the blade as he thrust it high into the air - and four longbows sang behind him, their shafts arcing upward, seeming to pause a moment, then plunging down.

The riders had seen both the signal and the arrows, and had time to scatter - but it disrupted their charge. Nicolai shouted a command, and Tielshar surged forward, the drake's rolling, six-legged gait bearing him swiftly to battle, with the two cavalry soldiers spreading out on his flanks and the rest of the troop running after.

He left it to the soldiers to stall the riders - his goal was beyond, to the innocent lives being held in jeopardy, to Parvus and the two who had remained with him. He had to resolve that - above all else, he had to take charge of that situation.

Some of the riders had drawn back and raised shortbows; now arrows fell toward him in turn. He raised his shield and lowered his head, peering above it through his visor, keeping the steel tower far enough forward that it would shelter his mount's eyes as well. Arrowheads glanced off his armour and struck his shield; still he charged, implacable in his focus.

And then he was past the line of riders, and his goal lay before him. He had not swung his sword once so far, but with a sickening certainty, he knew that could not last - the men he saw before him were clearly positioning themselves to do violence to their captives. He saw the swords raised, knew their intent.

"Hold!" he bellowed, charging that one word with all the righteous fury he could muster. Verantine smiled on him; the men paused, stricken with doubt, long enough for him to crash into their line. Tielshar dug in his claws, slowing to a walk as quickly as he could without dumping his rider from the saddle, and Nicolai swung, driving the pommel of his sword against the back of one man's skull, sending him crumpling to the ground.

"It's over, Parvus," he growled, sliding out of the saddle, armour rattling as his boots hit the packed snow. "You have lost. Fight on, and face the judgement of Verantine. Surrender now, order your soldiers to stand down, and I will show you mercy."

"The mercy of a sharp blade?" the smaller man spat. "Where was your mercy when my Deissa was taken from me? Your precious god can take his Hand and shove it where - "

"Look out!" The voice cut through Parvus's tirade - that of a young male, off to his left. Nicolai didn't question; he turned, bringing his shield to bear, and felt his arm lurch as a sword crashed against it.

The third man cursed. "Stupid boy," he snarled, driving his blade instead toward the young man who had cried out. Nicolai bellowed, lurching forward, swinging his longsword. There was no room for error - the man was too close to his captive. He committed his swing with the utmost of precision, and the far end of his blade bit into the man's neck, the tip passing it by a finger's breadth, severing the bandit's head from his shoulders.

But not before the man's own steel drove deep into the youth's belly.

"No!" Nicolai heard himself scream. He dropped his sword - on some level, he was aware of Tielshar, snarling, keeping the last threat at bay, of Parvus's own weapon also falling - but none of it fixed his attention near as much as the blood running down the sword that had pierced the boy's body.

He seized its hilt, keeping it steady as he shoved the corpse of its wielder aside, lips moving in desperate prayer. He shook off his shield, setting his hand to the boy's anguished face. "Dearest Father," he whispered, "forgive me for what I have done here. I beg of you, in Your mercy, spare the life of this innocent soul, who sought only to aid me, as I in turn strive to serve You." He yanked the sword free and tossed it aside, splaying his fingers over the wound as though his will alone might close it, and prayed on, "Divine Verantine, make whole this sundered flesh, that this life not return to You before its due time. Holy Warden, in Your wisdom, grant me the power to save this life through Your grace that I could not through the force of arms..."

The prayers flowed from his lips. Consecrated knights of the Hand had some power to heal, but never had the need for Verantine's gift been as urgent for Nicolai as in this moment. Without that holy power, this boy's breaths numbered under a dozen. There was no question of that; the blade had run him through, and he knew the damage it had done, as surely as though it had torn his own flesh. He knew the boy's pain, read it in every line of his crumpling form, felt it even through the steel of his gauntlets, felt the pulse of life ebbing...

No!

He put such thoughts out of his mind, and for the tiniest moment, touched the grace of the Divine. Golden light coruscated around him, coursed through his hands, suffused the youth's slender body.

And before his eyes, in the most wondrous miracle he had ever seen, the wound closed. Beneath it, somehow, he fancied he could feel the damage being put right, the flesh made whole.

The boy gasped, eyes going wide, their focus returning, bright and shining as they peered into Nicolai's visor. The warrior shifted his hands, gave the youth's trembling body something on which to lean, as shaking fingers reached up, lifting that visor away.

Blue eyes, Nicolai suddenly noticed. Most Padro had eyes that were green, or golden, or brown. But though this boy was as orange as any other, white front and black stripes notwithstanding, his eyes were just as blue as Nicolai's. Maybe more so - the blue of a clear summer sky. Even through his gauntlets, Nicolai could feel the energy, the sheer life in that slender body; and as he looked on that handsome face, something about that energy resonated in himself, brought back to mind that time, maybe six or seven years gone, when he was this boy's age.


$0nd with that memory came a surge of the hot blood of youth.

He swallowed, giving his head a shake, forcing himself to stand upright. The youth blinked, then turned his gaze down, clinging to Nicolai's left arm. Not for a king's ransom would the knight have tried to pry him free, in that moment.

To think that someone could drag this poor boy out of his home, away from his family, and then try to snuff out his life out of spite...

He growled, lifting his head, fixing his gaze on Parvus. The man had been keeping very still in the interim, staring at what Nicolai was doing even as he tried to keep one eye on the snarling drake; now he dropped to his knees, stammering out a plea for mercy.

"Order your men to stand down," Nicolai intoned, unable to keep the growl from his voice.

The desperate yell Parvus let out was probably heard in Surrinar.

*

The boy, Nicolai learned, was Stefano di Tarven, seventeen summers of age. He was now an orphan, his parents slain in the attack that had led to his capture, his home burned to the ground. No family remained to him where he had come from, nor did he know where any others might live.

He rode before Nicolai now, the Hand dressed in chain mail, his plate carefully netted to the dray. Nicolai's red cloak, emblazoned with the same golden scales as the back of his surcoat, was now tucked around Stefano as well; nobody had been able to find ample clothing in the youth's size, and he shivered against Nicolai as the column rode back home, their captives in tow, tied to their saddles, the reins held by the marching soldiers.

Nicolai had sent a messenger ahead with his preliminary report, and so they were expected. Trumpets blared as they passed through the city gates, and the Marquis himself met him there, appearing outdoors as he had not done in some time. When he saw his cousin's face, downcast and ragged, he swallowed, ears pinning back - in what tumultuous emotion, Nicolai, his own thoughts tangled, dared not guess. "I... I am pleased that you return triumphant, Ser di Casson," he began.

Nicolai shook his head. "This was scarcely a triumph, my Lord Marquis. Lives were lost, and others destroyed. As you serve your people, be happy that they will be safe for now. But as you are pious, I beg of you, weep for the fallen and pray for their families."

Trevian di Surrel swallowed, taken aback. Perhaps he still expected Nicolai to be a self-righteous crusader, chasing victory with no care for the cost it bore. Others had mistaken him for the same, and others always would. But he had answered his calling because he wished to serve people - not to fight them. Sometimes, the people needed one to stand and fight for them, but still there was no greater tragedy for him, than that he be tasked to slay one of the God's own children.

But he had a duty to these people as well, he reminded himself.

"Be glad as well," he said into the silence, "that lives which might have been lost have instead been spared. Only two people fell on the field of battle, when they would not surrender. The rest of the scofflaws have returned with us to face judgement and justice - and in time, perhaps they can be redeemed. As for the innocent lives lost before we arrived - the cost of that delay is mine to bear. But we were in time to save others, and that," he let a smile cross his muzzle, "is the true triumph of yesterday."

"As you say, Ser di Casson," said the Marquis, smiling nervously in turn. "As you say. And Ser - thank you. For your discretion."

Wayward or no, the man did have feelings for his kinsman. Or at least wouldn't want to see him butchered on the battlefield. Whatever; that was not Nicolai's affair any longer, he didn't think. "Will you take charge of justice in this matter, Marquis? These men were citizens of your March, and their depradations weighed most strongly on Surrel as well."

"I -" The Marquis swallowed, looked up at Nicolai, then let his gaze fall. "I am only mortal, Ser di Casson, and this matter touches me too closely."

In that, his thoughts echoed Nicolai's own. "I crave of you, then, please send word to Sashernar, and enlist the aid of an Imperial justice."

The nobleman looked up at Nicolai again. Perhaps now, he no longer saw a trumped-up commoner, lording his power over the long-standing noble families. Perhaps now, he saw the mortal young man Nicolai knew himself to be, subject to a young man's limits. Perhaps not. Either way, he nodded. "An excellent thought, Ser, and the most fair way to resolve such a tangled situation. I will dispatch a messenger this evening."

"Thank you," Nicolai sighed. "Now my duty as a Hand of the Just is discharged; I relinquish the authority you lent me over these, your soldiers, and thank you for answering to the call of your people and the Eternal Chain which binds them together. And I would return to the shrine, for I have other matters await my attention, as I am sure do you."

The Marquis bowed, and the soldiers, without needing direction, continued toward the keep, bearing their prisoners along. When Marquis di Surrel had turned away in dismissal, Nicolai tugged on the reins, guiding Tielshar out of the city, toward the small shrine just up the hill, with the laden dray following behind and Stefano huddled in the knight's cloak.

*

That same, humble page took charge of Nicolai's dray, saw to its being relieved of its burden and properly tended to - he would do well in the Order of the Eternal Chain, Nicolai was sure. When Tielshar was stabled and fed, Nicolai looked down at Stefano, giving the youth's shoulder a squeeze. "We will find you quarters as soon as we can," he promised the dazed-looking boy. "For now, though, would you break bread with me?"

"Y-yes, please," the smaller Padro stammered.


$0rue to his instruction, a meal arrived quickly - he hadn't even hung up his cloak when that dutiful page tapped at the door, handing him a tray when he answered. Stefano had already sat by the fireplace, curled up in the comfortable chair there; Nicolai tossed in a fresh log on the embers and stirred the fire to life, and then shifted a small table over, followed by a plainer seat for himself. The boy ate neatly, but with a will - travel rations were not kind to a growing man, especially not after being ripped out of his life like he had been, and now he was making up for the deficit with fresh bread and moist, roasted meat.

Nicolai stripped out of his jerkin before eating, and once he did, ate little. When he had finished, he gazed deep into the fire. The dancing flames pushed back the physical chill of the journey as did the hot food, but they couldn't dispel the cold dread of sins unspoken.

He could not abandon his post, but he would have to send to the capital for aid in his own right. His soul was heavy, and though Derella de Sanco was able and willing to serve as his confessor, some matters he could only speak of with one of the elders of the Hand - others who had been on the field of battle, and would be able to say with conviction if he had done all he could, or if he had erred and owed penance.

"S-Ser?" A hand touched his knee. "Are you well?"

He brought his head up with a start, meeting the blue-eyed gaze of the anxious youth.

Perhaps there was where he should find his judgement, after all...

"Stefano, I..." He swallowed. "I am so very, very sorry. I should have arrived sooner, kept those ruffians from leaving to do ill that day."

"No, no," the youth urged, leaning on his thigh. "Ser, you rode fast, all the men said so! You couldn't have got there in time. And if you had, I... I'd never have met you..."

Nicolai blinked. "But, Stefano, your family..."

The boy gulped, eyes squeezing shut, but not before he saw the moisture welling up in them. He gathered the youth into his arms, onto his knee, holding the younger Padro as the tears came at last, dampening the fur of Nicolai's chest as Stefano let out his grief.

"I miss them so," the youth choked out when his sobbing started to slow. "But meeting you, seeing what you're like... I didn't know what to do with my life. Now I do. You gave me life, Ser. I need to give some of it back the same way."

"The seminary is not an easy place," Nicolai protested. "For one who has just suffered so - "

"You are strong!" Stefano exclaimed, his voice rising a little. "I have to be strong too! Please, Ser Nicolai, d-don't try to t-talk me out of this." He swallowed, drawing his head back, eyes wide and shining. "D-don't they always say there's a calling? I can't ignore it, Ser. I have to listen. You've shown me the path I need to follow. I'll do it without your support if I have to, but I will do it. I have to try. Please..."

Nicolai thought of himself, of his own youth, not so long gone by. Of how he'd seen one of the Hand, seen the faith burning in her eyes, felt it change him. Of that deep need he'd felt, that sense of emptiness that would not fade until he had joined the seminary.

Who was he, to deny this boy his place in life? He, Nicolai di Casson, was only a flawed mortal. He was no saint, to claim wisdom Stefano lacked.

"I wished only to spare you from still more pain," he sighed, brushing his fingers over Stefano's cheek.

The boy turned his head, nuzzling at Nicolai's wrist. "I know," he whispered. "And I thank you. But I need to do this."

Nicolai swallowed again. That touch felt so nice, carrying with it such pure trust... but was he worthy of such trust? "Stefano, I... I should not be advising you," he protested. "I have not been to confession, and have had impure thoughts."

"I've had impure thoughts too," the youth replied, turning his gaze back to Nicolai's. There was something burning in those bright blue eyes - something other than faith; something that made the bigger male's heart lurch in his chest. "But that's just what we are, isn't it? Mortals, sinners... We can always try to do better, but there's no shame in being as were were made, is there?" The tip of the youth's tail danced about behind him, his breath hot on Nicolai's whiskers.

"Stefano, I..." He trailed off, shaking his head. What could he say to that? The boy was right, and yet... something about the way he said those things... something beyond the provincial drawl that sounded so different, yet so musical, to Nicolai's ears, tuned as they were to the cultured language of the capital...

"You comforted me when I needed it," Stefano breathed, his hands sliding along Nicolai's sides. "Is there anything... anything at all... I can help you with, before we part ways? Some comfort I can give you, maybe?"

By the Holy Father, the sheer life in that slender body - the life, he reminded himself, that Verantine had seen fit to restore and preserve, even if Nicolai had been the worldly channel of that will - that life made his blood sing like it had on those nights years ago, when he'd first awakened to the burning urges of manhood. It'd be easy, so easy, to take this warm, vibrant soul to his bed, to give free rein to the urges he hadn't been able to back then...

No! He'd seen other young men, broken and despairing, used and tossed aside by older men who had used them to slake their lusts. He would not be one of those despicable predators. His lot was to serve his God and his people, not to defy the One and use the other. He had sworn vows to both. He would not be forsworn now!

While he sat unresisting, Stefano's hand had started tugging at his belt; he took hold of the boy's wrist, now, stopping that before it went too far. "Stefano, this is..." Wrong, he wanted to say, but the boy looked so eager... Not for a thousand kingdoms would he shatter that trust by hurting him, by making him feel guilty for his own hot blood. "I cannot do this." I cannot ask this of you, he wanted to say - but he felt sure the youth would read that wrong, would think Nicolai wanted to use him so, but couldn't take the first step. No - he had to stop this before it happened, no matter how sweet it might feel in the moment. He had been strong in battle; he would be strong now.

Stefano ducked his head, nodding slightly. "I understand," he whispered, leaning back a little, easing away from that charged proximity. "But Ser - thank you, anyway. You've given me so much; I just wish I could give something back."

"Give to the people, as you have resolved," Nicolai urged. "That is enough for me."

A tap at the door distracted them. Stefano looked suddenly guilty; Nicolai, for his part, was relieved to have something else to focus on. "Come!"

A now-familiar page looked in. "Ser di Casson, Priestess Derella bids me inform you, she has had quarters made ready for your guest, and wishes also to find him suitable raiment."

Nicolai let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "There you are," he said to Stefano. "Derella is wise, and can teach you much, even before the next class at the seminary. She will take good care of you."

A soft smile. "Be well, Ser. And thank you."

He couldn't help but smile in turn, ruffling between Stefano's ears as he might a kit of his own. "Gladly given, young man. Do your family proud."

"I will." And with that, Stefano let the page usher him away.

Nicolai tried meditating a time to calm his thoughts, but simply couldn't get the feel of that lithe body out of his mind. Not that way. He bolted the door and threw himself onto his bed.

If a man's lust grow strong, or a woman's, the scriptures wrote, and no wife or husband is near, that one should seek the means to ease that lust without pushing it onto another. Oh, the teachers at the seminary all said this meant their youthful charges should meditate or pray and forget about such worldly concerns - but did not Verantine also say, Forget not that you are of the world, and seek not to rise above it; make use of what you are given, without bemoaning your station? They were made with their urges because those urges, on some level, pleased the Holy Father. Was not the bliss of release a spark of the divine, to show His approval for their pleasure? To pervert such a thing by forcing it on another would be a sin most grave, turning the divine to foul ends - but who was harmed by him casting aside his breechcloth and taking his swelling shaft in hand, squeezing it, letting the pleasure course through him?

Nobody at all.

He tried to close his eyes and relax, but Stefano's face danced in his mind's eye. No. He'd not profane the boy even in thought. He shifted his pillow, propping his head up, letting him more easily fix his gaze on his own pure-black flesh as he traced the shape of it, fingered the aching head, stroked his thumb over the tip and smeared the clear drop of moisture that had pooled there over the taut skin.

He squeezed near the base of his shaft, drew his hand slowly upward, milking out a little more of that slickness, spreading it over his glans, pads tickling at the pebbly skin. Such undiluted pleasure the touch brought. Surely this was a gift from Verantine, a way to ease the loneliness that could otherwise sap the energy from any man or woman, however strong.

His hand drove along, faster, harder, his breath quickening from the exertion, tail lashing about his ankles, toes curling. In time, he prayed, he would be able to enjoy this with a fine woman in holy union, and bring pleasure to her as well - not just that of the flesh, but that of companionship. Perhaps, one day, of children.

For now, he renewed, in his mind, his pledge to his people and especially to his God, and breathed the holy Name as the rush of his climax coursed through him, his length surging in his grip, his thick, musky seed arcing over his stomach and chest, several strong jets of it streaking his snow-white pelt.

He lay there for some minutes after, waiting for his breath to slow down, idly caressing his softening length. Though he'd never been inclined to pay too much attention to his own appearance beyond making sure it was neat, he couldn't help but marvel at the way he'd been made, at the means Verantine had given him and all men - and women, too, he was sure would have their own - to ease the burdens of single life.

Then he shook his head and rolled off of his cot, wrapping a towel around himself, pulling back the bolt, and leaving his quarters for the baths.

In the morning, he would confess his impure thoughts for one who should have been his ward. And for those matters which touched on him specifically as a Hand of the Just, he would seek the presence of one of the older, wiser Hands from the capital, who could no longer act as vigorously as he but remained with the Order to lend their wisdom.

But he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had not allowed impure thought to turn to profane deed. No, contemplating the holy writ had saved him from that.

And with that, he would be able to rest easy.", "pools_count": 1, "title": "In Service of Justice", "deleted": "f", "public": "t", "mimetype": "text/rtf", "pagecount": "1", "rating_id": "2", "rating_name": "Adult", "ratings": [ { "content_tag_id": "4", "name": "Sexual Themes", "description": "Erotic imagery, sexual activity or arousal", "rating_id": "2" }, { "content_tag_id": "5", "name": "Strong Violence", "description": "Strong violence, blood, serious injury or death", "rating_id": "2" } ], "submission_type_id": "12", "type_name": "Writing - Document", "guest_block": "f", "friends_only": "f", "comments_count": "0", "views": "61" }