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Chapter 4 - "The Undying One"
[San Francisco - 1981]
Sylas sat on the cold marble floor, legs bent, and his head dunked between them, sobbing uncontrollably as hordes of hospital staff rushed past him, seemingly oblivious to his suffering. Eventually, a female doctor walked up to him, and after brushing the tears from his eyes, Sylas finally lifted his head.
"Are you here for Mr. Sanchez?" The woman asked hastily. Sylas lifted his body off the floor, eyes puffy and soaking.
"Yes." He replied, his voice sounding depleted.
"Come with me, please. Let's talk in my office." She requested, looking from side to side with a discomfiting demeanor. They walked the long and sterile corridors through rooms packed with young men, their bed stations shielded with plastic capsules, their bodies covered in rashes, and the sounds of their strained coughs echoing through the halls. "Please." She indicated, pointing her arm towards her office at the end of one of the aisles. "Sit down." She suggested. Sylas sat, his head tilting slightly back as he exhaled profusely. His tattooed arms were bare, and his hand was holding a shirt stained with dried blood. "Are you related to Mr. Sanchez?" She questioned.
"He's my partner." Sylas replied, his eyes on the bloodied shirt.
"Well, your friend..." She resumed, but Sylas immediately cut her off.
"I told you...he's my partner." He sounded as he raised his head, his eyes now locked on the woman.
"I see. Mr. Sanchez is sick. He tested positive for Karposi's sarcoma and pneumocystis pneumonia. We believe it might be related to this new virus..." She reluctantly informed. Sylas' eyes began to well up again, his mouth rigid as he tried to fight away his momentary anguish.
"He...he was doing fine a couple of days ago. What the hell is happening?" He mumbled.
"We don't know yet..." The woman replied, becoming gradually more sympathetic to Sylas' suffering. "We're still trying to figure out...the CDC has been actively engaged. Some form of contagious cancer, it seems. It spreads very fast, and the cases have been rapidly increasing. Have you had any symptoms, Mr. Campbell? She asked calmly. "Cough, chest pain, rashes on the body, and diarrhea?" She grilled. Sylas remained silent, his head tumbling down gradually. "Mr. Campbell?" She insisted.
"Is he going to die?" His frail voice asked. The woman took her hands to her face as she tried desperately to find words of comfort. But her silence answered Sylas' question. "Oh, my god..." He whimpered.
"Mr. Campbell, it might be wise for you to quarantine yourself for a few days. In case any symptoms start to show." She unlocked one of the drawers from her desk and took out a pamphlet. "Might be helpful if you take this with you and read." She suggested as she extended Sylas the folded piece of paper. Sylas grabbed it and turned it over.
"The gay cancer." He read out loud. "You fucking people..." He muttered, his voice now becoming resonant and sore. "Where is he?" He asked. The woman remained silent. "Where the fuck is he?" He hollered.
"Mr. Campbell, he's in isolation. You're not allowed to see him." She reasoned.
"Fine. I'll leave." He stated, standing up. "I'd shake your hand, doctor, but we wouldn't want you to catch any gay disease. Right?" He sarcastically questioned. The woman stood speechless, her hands firmly tucked behind her.
Sylas exited the room, but instead of heading for the elevator, he strode back the way they had come and sneaked into the service stairs. One floor at a time, he opened the door to the hallways and searched for the UCI area. He eventually came to a hall that had rooms with small plaques on them. He wandered through the corridors, reading the names one by one, and every patient inside the rooms he passed by would glance at him, pleading for hope. As his heart began to cave again, he looked to his right and finally saw the name Sanchez, engraved with a black marker on a small white strip. He entered the room and felt an immediate pungent odor.
"Baby, is that you?" A soft and debilitating voice answered. Sylas closed the door, slanted his body over it, and stood there, garnishing the courage to step forward.
"Yes. Yes, baby, it's me." He finally answered, trying to fight his tears.
"I can't see shit, but I could smell you at the end of the corridor." The young man explained. Even in that dire circumstance, his voice was sweet and melodic, albeit weak.
"I'm here." Sylas declared as he approached the bed. "I'm right here." He conveyed, the cracks showing in every word he uttered.
"Let me feel your hand, baby." The young man pleaded. Sylas scanned the large plastic tent around him and slipped his arm through a small crack, touching the young man's arm and swathing their hands together. "That's nice..." He uttered. But his voice suddenly broke. He began to sob, his breath failing as he wailed. "Sy, I don't wanna die. Please don't let me die!" He begged. Sylas' head turned over to the side as his face contorted in pain and despair. But he faced his lover again.
"Tony, listen to me...you're not going to die. You're going to be fine. Soon we'll be home again, ok?" He uttered.
"Liar!" Tony yelled, his voice rasping and his head shaking from side to side in a state of delusion. "I'm fucking blind, Sy. I'm going to die here. Oh god, please help me. Por favor Dios, no me dejes morir!" He prayed desperately. Suddenly, two male nurses with masks came rushing in, momentarily startled by Sylas' presence.
"Sir, you can't be here. You need to leave." They instructed as Tony lost consciousness, his grip on Sylas' hand becoming weak, eventually letting go. Sylas stepped back awkwardly, stumbling over some cables on the ground as the nurse began performing CPR on Tony's lifeless body. "Sir, leave!" They demanded again.
"Tony, please...don't leave me." Sylas whispered as he back-paddled towards the door. But as he reached the doorway, it slammed shut in his face.
Thirty minutes later, Tony was dead. And Sylas sat alone in the corridor, yet again, holding nothing but that bloodied shirt.
He eventually picked himself up and walked out of the hospital. He wandered around the block, lost in thought and harboring a profound sense of hopelessness and loss. He strolled past the bars he and Tony used to go to, and as Sylas stood outside on the other end of the street, he could hear the noise coming from within, the vibrant sound of all the reckless youth, oblivious to the future, unafraid of the challenges to come. He carried on, and after half an hour of walking, he found himself near the city's bay area. He strolled along the pier, finally halting there, and stood silent as he gazed at the river. His heart caved in, lost in mourning. As he observed the still water, he contemplated ending his life. Perhaps death was a blessing. He would rather die healthy than end up on a hospital bed withering away as his love did, he taught. His hands gripped the metal fence, and he raised his eight-foot body, ready to tilt himself over when a voice suddenly sneaked up from behind him.
"If you had any idea how cold that water is right now, you wouldn't jump." The male voice sounded. Sylas halted but didn't turn around right away. He just stood there, perplexed. "Step down. Let's talk." The voice continued.
"I'm busy. Go away." Sylas stated, ruffled. He finally turned his head back, but given the poor lighting around, he couldn't see the man's features as they hid in the shadows cast over the area.
"I won't leave you alone here, Sylas." The man uttered. Sylas froze.
"How..." He mumbled. "Do I know you?" He questioned, dumbfounded. His eyes squinted as he tried to catch a glimpse of the mysterious man's face.
"Not yet. No." The man replied, taking a few steps forward, unveiling himself. He was younger than Sylas, with dark, perfectly brushed silky hair, the luster perceptible even in all that darkness. His face was stunning, with hard lines yet a soft expression. And the most profound eyes that seemed to pierce through Sylas. As the man stared at him, Sylas began to feel warm, and when he brought his hands to his bare arms, he realized how cold his body was. The man undressed his coat and extended it to Sylas. "Put this on. You're going to get sick." He said.
"Maybe I'm already sick..." Sylas murmured to himself, so low it would be impossible for anyone to hear.
"You're not, Sylas." The man conveyed. Sylas' eyes gaped, and despite his will, in an almost involuntary move, he began climbing down from the metal bars that separated him from a considerably high fall into the water below. He reluctantly received the leather jacket the man was offering and put it on. It fit perfectly. "The name is Jeffrey, by the way." He introduced himself. Sylas meant to say his name, but then he remembered. They looked at each other and shared a subtle yet genuine chuckle. Sylas felt instantly guilty for laughing. As if he owed his current situation some penance. "Sit. Let's talk." Jeffrey suggested, sitting on a bench just in front of where they were, overlooking the water. Sylas stood there looking around, his body reluctant to concede to the will of this mysterious man. "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise." Jeffrey assured. Sylas finally sat down, his hand grabbing the edges of the jacket together, protecting his chest from the cold night.
"Don't take offense, but..." Sylas stated. "What do you want?" He asked. Jeffrey smiled. As Sylas glanced at him, he couldn't help but notice this strange glow inside his eyes. Like lights reflecting on it.
"To help." Jeffrey replied without hesitation.
"Well..." Sylas uttered sarcastically. "You're about one week too late." He remarked.
"I wasn't talking about Tony. I meant you." Jeffrey clarified. Sylas' mouth dropped slightly. Jeffrey took his hand and moved it in his direction, landing it on Sylas' arm. As soon as it touched his skin, Sylas felt a warm wave of overwhelming comfort envelop his whole body. The sensation was so overwhelming that his chest squeezed, and he felt like crying.
"How do you know..." He whispered, his voice becoming frail.
"What do you say we go for a ride? It'll help you get your mind off things." Jeffrey suggested. "My friend is dying to meet you." He said, pointing his head to the car parked just a few feet away from where they sat. Sylas turned his head to the parking lot and tried to see inside, but it was too dark.
"I don't even know you, man." Sylas finally uttered, uncertainty boiling inside his chest.
"But I know you, Sylas." Jeffrey replied with a commanding gaze. Sylas chuckled, incredulous. Jeffrey grinned. "I know you were born the youngest of four. I know your mother left your father the day she came home from work to find him raping your sister. I know you ran away from home the day your uncle slapped you for being gay in front of your mother as she sat idly by. I know that you never forgave her, yet, to this day, you visit her house on her birthday and stand outside watching her, hidden away. I know that you lived as an addict until you met Tony and that he saved you. In every sense that a person can be. And that your life seems void of purpose after what happened tonight." Jeffrey described. Sylas' mouth remained open for the entirety of Jeffrey's speech. Even the most astute person with the means to hire someone to dig about his life couldn't possibly know all of that. Then again, why would anyone spend resources on a man like him? He was nobody.
"How..." Sylas mumbled, his cynicism swamped by this mysterious man's words. Jeffrey's hand slid through the bench and touched Sylas' shoulder.
"Let me show you, Sylas." Jeffrey uttered soothingly. Sylas looked at him, and as he did, a strange light seemed to emanate from within his eyes.
"What will I find?" Sylas questioned as he glanced over to the car and then back at Jeffrey, who gazed at him, his eyes now bright as daylight.
"Hope, Sylas. Hope." He conveyed.
Sylas heard Jeffrey's voice echoing in his head, the sound dissipating like benevolent ripples through his body. He suddenly felt compelled to heed. They stood up and walked to the car parked just behind them as Jeffrey's touch carried him like an invisible force, nudging him toward the unknown.
(Somewhere in South Carolina - 1897)
Casey's bright blue eyes blinked, concealed behind the large book cover, his elbows placed on the small desk as he gazed at the boy, three chairs in front of him, watching silently, oblivious to the turmoil around the classroom as the teacher attempted to manage the noise.
"There's a box in the main hall where you can place your letters. Do not mark them." The young teacher explained as she sat on her chair, an exhausted look piercing through her. "Try to be polite and refrain from doing something you'll later regret." She said, scanning the room that had now become quieter.
"Like what, Mrs. Selner?" The young boy Casey was peeking at said.
"Tommy W. Dent, don't make me regret putting you in charge of the letterbox..." The teacher uttered. "If anything happens, I will spank you. Then I will call your father, and he will spank you." She threatened. The boy looked at her, slightly scared, but not enough to avoid turning over to his friends and whispering something, making them all start giggling complicitly.
As they did, a loud bell fired outside before the whole classroom broke out, pushing tables and dragging their belongings as they ran out the door. Casey remained seated, looking over the book cover at the commotion around him and patiently waiting for it to cease. As it did, he slowly began stuffing his books and pencils inside his small, old backpack.
"Casey, is everything alright?" The teacher asked from the other side of the room. Casey's head nodded slowly. "Everything all right at home?" She inquired reluctantly. The boy nodded yet again, but the woman seemed unconvinced. She got up from her chair and walked over to the boy. As she approached him, she stopped, drew one of the chairs over to him, pulled her skirt up slightly, and sat beside him. "Casey, look at me." She instructed. The boy's eyes remained hidden. She reached over and held his tiny hand. "You know the Lord doesn't like children who lie..." She said, endeavoring to scare him into opening up. "Is it your father? Is he still drinking?" She questioned. The boy nodded affirmatively, with visible apprehension. "Lord, have mercy. You'll need to be strong, you hear!" She stated, grabbing the boy's chin and turning his head to face her.
"Mrs. Selner...can I ask you a favor?" Casey's gentle voice uttered.
"What is it?" She asked.
"Can you put my letter in the box, please?" The boy begged, embarrassed. The teacher looked at him, confused.
"Don't you want to be the one to do it? I mean...it might be nice to let the girl you wrote it to know you like her?" She insisted, playfully nudging her body into his, teasing him as she smiled.
"I don't want anyone to know I put it there." Casey revealed. Her expression changed immediately, becoming intrigued with the boy's request and subsequent secrecy.
"I suppose I can, yes." She said as she extended her hand to receive his small piece of paper. His hands were dirty as he placed a crumpled piece of paper in her hand.
"I...didn't have enough nickels to buy the envelope. Lady at the store said I had to pay for it, but pappa didn't give me lunch money today." The boy explained under the watchful eye of his teacher. She held the paper in her hand.
"Run along now, Casey. Your momma is going to get worried. I'll see you in church on Sunday, alright?" She conveyed, her face denoting apprehension. Casey slid off his chair and went out the door, dragging his beat-down sandals through the cracked wooden floor of the old wooden school.
He wandered outside, the noon sun peaking and pressing down on his little blonde head. He began to walk. The same walk he would do every day. The worn-out sandals could barely hold his growing feet, and his dirty, baggy clothes couldn't hide how thin and frail the boy looked underneath. From time to time, Casey would stop and adjust his feet, trying to keep his sandals intact. But on this particular day, he seemed uneasy. Despite his usually peaceful demeanor, Casey sighed loudly, grabbed his sandals, and angrily tossed them over the side of the road into the large, bushy area around it. As he did, he suddenly felt a presence around him, but as Casey scanned his surroundings, the boy failed to find anything that would explain the eerie feeling he had just felt. He shrugged his shoulders and tiptoed the rest of the way home, trying not to step on a sharp rock and injure his feet. As the boy approached his house, a small, beaten-down wooden shack on the side of the deserted dirt road, his eyes spotted his mother waiting for him on the small porch. He walked cautiously over to her, preparing himself for some scolding.
"Casey, what happened to your shoes?" His mother questioned. There was no bitterness or anger in her voice. Casey's mother had bestowed upon him her beautiful looks. She had stunning silk blonde hair, and the boy shared her deep, bright blue eyes. And notwithstanding her young age, her semblance reflected an older woman's soul, bitter and sad. Yet, as she gazed at her son, a ray of hope emerged inside her eyes. Whatever it was that maintained this woman's spirit alive, it resided inside the boy. He was her reason to live. "If your father catches you barefoot, we're in trouble. Go inside and take a bath. I'll heat the water in the fireplace. But hurry 'cause momma still needs to start dinner." She informed, grabbing his head and pulling him into her, nestling his blond hair between her fingers and holding the boy close to her belly. As they parted, she dropped down and looked at him. "I love you. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" She said.
Casey's eyes welled up. Inside his mother's embrace, he found the comfort he sought. The only joy in the boy's daily life was these few hours he'd spend with her alone before his father returned home from work, when the sun recoiled, and the twilight hovered melancholically over that small house in the middle of nowhere. As he took his bath and stood on the porch while his mother dried his frail body with a towel, Casey stared at the vast sky and dreamt of a life beyond his own. One where he and his mother lived peacefully, away from the dark and violent nature brought on by his father's abusive nature. But those fleeting minutes of hope always ended the same way. His father would eventually come home drunk, spewing hateful things at them. Some nights, if they were lucky, he would be too drunk and pass out on the chair near the fireplace, where he usually sat. But on the nights his stamina hadn't been entirely depleted by the alcohol, he would expend his last fragments of energy beating Casey's mother or Casey himself if the boy tried to protect her. He would even go as far as locking Casey inside his room some nights and dragging his mother by the hair into their room, where he would rape her continuously until her screams became faint or she eventually passed out. Even so, through all the pain inflicted, both physically and mentally, Casey's twelve-year-old self still dreamt. That hope and unbridled determination poured from him with inexplicable tenacity. A luminous spirit that even the darkest reality seemed unable to punch through. On this particular day, Casey's father was late for dinner, which wasn't usual. The young boy could feel his mother's anxiousness show, and as the hours passed, so grew their fear. It got dark, so his mother locked the door and fell asleep on Casey's bed as she nursed him to sleep. His father's absence provided a few hours of uninhibited peace, and so, under the dark star-filled sky, in that house in the middle of a deserted road, mother and child fell asleep in a loving embrace.
Casey woke up with a slapping sound echoing inside his room. Next thing he knew, his mother's body was being pulled violently from his bed and onto the floor, falling violently on her back. But rather than going for her, his father seemed focused on the boy. Casey rolled left on top of the bed as the leather belt descended upon his frail body, knocking him to the floor. He tried to sneak under the bed to avoid the belt's lashes, but his father's strength was unstoppable. He grabbed the boy by the ankle and pulled him violently to him, rolling him with his back to the floor and locking Casey's wrists under his knees.
"I knew, sooner or later, your mother's handling of you would cost me shame." The man said, slapping the child's face with the back of his hand. His mother's face emerged from under his father's shoulder, her hands hitting his back and pulling him, trying desperately to move his heavy body away from their son.
"Let him go, John! For the love of God!" She implored desperately.
"Get the hell away from me, woman! It's all your fault!" He said, knocking her back with a stroke of his elbow. "I knew there was something wrong with you. The way you looked at your cousins and the boys at school. You got the devil inside you, boy. And by God, I will beat that sickness out." The father roared, punching Casey's head into the ground. His mother yanked herself off the floor and jumped on the man's back again, scratching her nails on his face, making him turn his attention to her. "You fucking bitch!" He uttered, his eyes red with rage.
"Hit me." She said. "But please...leave him alone." She pleaded.
"I should kill you both for the shame you brought on me. I'm the laughing stock of the whole town..." He murmured, almost embarrassed to utter those words out loud.
"What happened?" Casey's mother asked, desperately trying to dig beneath the rage. Her husband looked at her, then at Casey, who's beaten-down body attempted to lift itself off the floor.
"His school teacher found a letter your son wrote to another boy." The father said, shutting his eyes. "Sodomy..." He murmured. "I won't let you poison this house with your perverted nature. God is my witness: I will kill the demon inside you, boy!" He proclaimed, finally turning to Casey and grabbing the boy by his blonde curls.
"John, please! Please! He's just a boy! Let him go!" The mother implored.
Casey's father dragged his skinny body through the damp wooden floor towards the front door, across the porch, and down the two steps. Then over the cold grassy yard and inside the fenced chicken coop. He grabbed a large chopping knife, finally dropping Casey at the bottom of his feet.
"Pray." He ordered. Casey looked at his father, tears in his eyes and relentless fear. He turned his back to him, kneeled on the filthy floor, held his hands together, and started to pray, his feeble voice trembling. As he did, his father clutched large chunks of his golden locks in his fingers and chopped them with the large knife, causing Casey's head to jerk violently from side to side. The boy kept praying as his pleading words fused with his lament. His mother kneeled on all fours by the porch, crying alongside her child. "I will not be made a fool of, boy." John yelled as he cut his son's beautiful hair down to an inch's length. "Your sickness is skin deep, so let this be a reminder. Never disgrace my name again." He uttered before pulling his son's head back and sliding his knife over Casey's scalp.
A loud, long, and high-pitched sound pierced that windless night. Casey's cry of pain broke the air like a rumble of thunder before the coming of a storm. His body fell forward, and his face collapsed on the mud-covered ground. His eyes became red-soaked as blood ran down his face. His father dropped the knife on the floor and calmly walked inside the house, closing the door and locking them outside. Casey's mother crawled her way over to her son. She approached the boy, her hand frozen in mid-air, dreading to touch him, her eyes completely transfixed on that horrific scene. She finally held his body and brought the young boy closer to her, holding him inside her embrace. But not even her bosom could contain the loud cries from the child, whose head bled profusely into her white night strappy.
Six years went by since that incident, and Casey, despite a deep-rooted desire to run away and escape his father's violence, never brought himself to do it, unable to withstand the thought of leaving his mother hostage to a violent marriage. He remained there, protecting her. And as his body and mind grew, so did his father's hate for his gentle nature. But his strength was now capable of overpowering his father's menacing personality, so gradually, the house became more peaceful as his father started spending more and more time away from home. Casey eventually quit school and found a job as a woodworker, and every day until his 18th birthday, he walked to town on foot. The boy had felt since that fateful day an ominous presence. As if he was being looked after, observed from a distance. Yet, he never saw anyone or heard anything. This presence was more of a feeling, something he couldn't explain. One day, on a hot summer afternoon, after a grueling day at work, Casey wandered home but decided to take the path closest to the river, and as he reached it, he felt compelled to strip naked. Casey had become a beautiful young and vibrant man. Despite his dark history, his heart and body had crystalized his scars, and he had ultimately blossomed into a remarkably alluring boy. But even then, the town had never forgotten the incident with the letter, and prejudice kept rearing its ugly head at every turn. As such, Casey lived his whole life on the margin, solitude being his only confidante. While his smooth body stood there, his feet inside the freshwater, his eyes gazing at the river's surface, Casey relished the peaceful moment. He took a few steps forward and plunged inside, the cold layering his heated body like a blanket. When his head broke the surface, he released a loud breath, exhaling as he turned toward the shore. To his surprise, a man was standing near his clothes, staring at him from a distance.
"Can I help you?" Casey uttered, trying to mask his unease.
"Just making sure you don't drown." The man uttered, displaying a smile.
"I'll be fine." Casey responded, but the man wouldn't budge. He looked around, hesitant to exit the water. "Fuck." He mumbled and began stepping out. Casey wasn't shy about his nudity. Most of the closeted men in town had seen him naked or at least seen his luscious lips wrapped around their cocks. But this situation was beyond anything he had experienced so far. He strolled over to his clothes and put on his pants, leaving his smooth and muscular upper body unclothed and dripping in river water. "Who are you?" The boy asked, trying to lock on the man's eyes which now scanned his entire body.
"The name's Jeffrey." The man stated, extending his hand to shake Casey's. The boy reciprocated.
"I don't think I've seen you around, sir." Casey remarked.
"I try to be discreet." Jeffrey replied.
"This is a small town. No point in being discreet." The boy teased. "I don't know...I feel like I know you from somewhere." The boy expressed, shrugging his shoulders and picking his dirty shirt off the floor. "Well, nice to meet you." He said as he started to walk away.
"Casey." The man called. The boy froze dead in his tracks. He turned away to find Jeffrey looking at him with an unexpectedly soft expression. Unphased by the blatant shock on the boy's face.
"How do you know my name?" Casey asked.
"I know more than that." Jeffrey stated. Casey looked at him. Their eyes locked, and suddenly Casey felt a warm wave run through him. "The answer is no." He said. The boy squinted at him, puzzled.
"What...?" Casey asked.
"You asked a question." Jeffrey reiterated.
"No, I didn't." Casey declared, his head looking from side to side, increasingly incredulous.
"Not now. That night. The night your father gave you that scar." Jeffrey revealed. Casey's eyes twitched. A sudden rush of euphoria and profound awe came over him as tears started to run down his face. "When you kneeled outside as he cut your hair, you prayed and asked God a question. I came here to tell you that the answer is no." Jeffrey revealed. Casey bit his luscious lips, trying to cage his emotion. Jeffrey smiled at him, revealing his connection to the boy's thoughts.
"It's...impossible." Casey uttered, his voice sounding crushed by his incredulity. Jeffrey slowly began walking in his direction as the boy stood there, gazing at this mysterious man, seemingly unable to move or react. Jeffrey's hand extended outwards and touched his shoulder.
"Ask it again, Casey." Jeffrey suggested. "This time, I'll answer it." He uttered. Casey's head fell on Jeffrey's chest. His unwavering strength seemed unsettled as his fragility finally surfaced.
"Will..." He mumbled inwardly. "Will I..." He continued, trying to unearth this buried memory. "Will I always suffer?" He finally revealed, breaking into a loud sob, his hands clutching Jeffrey's arms as his legs faltered. "I..." He sobbed. "I thought I was alone..." He continued. "That no one was listening." He uttered. Jeffrey's hand went over the boy's scar, landing on it softly.
"I was listening, Jacob." Jeffrey revealed. "And I'm here to tell you: you will never suffer again." He promised. The two men finally stapled their chests together as Casey plunged himself into Jeffrey's embrace, which felt oddly familiar. As he wept inside that stranger's arms, Casey finally uncovered the hope he believed lost to him.
(Spanish Netherlands - Maastricht- 1576)
There was little silence in the courtroom as military officials, Spanish inquisitors, and church bishops probed the army defectors and Dutch rebels in the wake of the siege. In the middle of the room stood a striking young man, shirtless, his hands shackled, his smooth chest dirty, and his body marked with several bloodied bruises and cuts.
"Commander Jafri, you're to answer the questions asked. May I remind you that you are in this court to face charges of mutiny against the empire and the church? Papal legate to Cologne, bishop Giovanni Battista Castagna shall resume the inquiry." The Spanish officer said as the voices in the room erupted with murmurs and vigorous shouting. An old churchman, small in stature, stood up and walked forward, standing behind a wooden pulpit, his head barely visible behind the box.
"Commander Jafri, you are accused of treason to King Philip the Second, yet you show no remorse or willingness to repent." The bishop declared, his voice feeble and dragging. There was a sense of cruelty in his demeanor, and he took pleasure in the cruel conduct of his duty. "Are we to assume all your actions were premeditated and that you aided the rebels willingly?"
"My allegiance lies with the troupes, your grace..." Jafri uttered, his head held high, his eyes piercing through the room, directly at the bishop. "And to the 3000 men we lost in the pursuit of this senseless war." He concluded as the room flared into a thunderous roar.
"Tell me...commander..." The small man voiced, his mouth stretching into a devious smile. "Are you a man of faith?" He asked, with a provoking tone.
"When one has seen war, your grace...not believing in something is a luxury one cannot afford." Jafri replied. The room became silent. Feeling the shift and anticipating Jafri's charisma, which seemed to be capturing the room's attention, Castagna punched his hand on the wood plate.
"Tell me then...if you could talk to God, what would you say?" The miserably short man stirred.
Jafri looked down at his bloodstained hands, and his eyes started welling up as he looked out the window into the bloodied battlefield where countless of his men had lost their lives days before. He turned his face to meet his inquisitors.
"If I could talk to God, I would ask him why we suffer so much?" Must the debt of life we owe him, be paid with death? If he doesn't sleep or eat and is ultimately content, why didn't he make us so we too could forsake those human needs?" Jafri conveyed.
"Heresy..." Castagna whispered, his eyes filled with hate and disgust.
"Spare me your judgment. I hold myself in contempt! For leading these young boys to their deaths, fighting battles in the name of powerful men who would sooner see them killed than concede to this war! I deserve death as much as any of you." Jafri shot back, his jaw clenched in anger.
"Those are the words of a defector! Arrest this blasphemous servant of the devil! Commander Jafri, you are hereby sentenced to death by hanging. Take him to his cell!" Castagna ordered, raising his tiny hand in the air, pointing towards a back door in the courtroom, where four guards proceeded to take Jafri.
Two days went by as Jafri awaited his sentence, and despite the circumstances, his mind was at peace as he had accepted the outcome of his actions. That night, as he fell asleep looking out the window at the bright full moon, he heard a distinct brush of shoes on the floor of the cell block. Moments later, a figure, concealed by the shadow that loomed outside his prison bars, walked in and sat on the stone bench in front of him. Jafri was shocked and confused, as visitors were seldom allowed inside the cells where prisoners awaited death. While seated, the human shadow crossed his legs and, by doing so, unveiled the tip of what seemed like a very poor and beaten-down leather sandal. In the distance, Jafri could hear the sounds of metal chains scraping against the walls and metal sticks hitting the cell's iron bars.
"Hello, Jafri." A young male voice spoke from the darkness. "I hope you don't find it offensive that we meet like this. I would have had it differently, but it is what it is." His tone was appeasing and gentle, in complete contrast with the surroundings. As the voice spoke, Jafri could feel a heat wave invade his body with surprising tenderness. "That was quite the powerful speech you gave." The voice said. Jofri, whose hands hanged held by metal cuffs, pulled his chest forward, trying to catch the man's face.
"Who are you?" He questioned.
"A friend." The voice replied, the tenderness still there.
"All my friends are dead." Jafri shot back, his head plunging to the damp floor in shame.
"Well...I'm a different kind of friend." The voice informed, pausing slightly. "Did you mean what you said to those men?" He asked, his legs unlocking as he tilted forward. "Did you wish men shared God's immortality?" He persisted. Jafri's eyes squinted as they unveiled the man behind the shadow.
"I...wish life wouldn't be so fleeting." Jafri uttered, his voice low and weary. As he lowered his face again, he felt the man stand up, so he lifted his head just as the voice behind the shadow stepped forward and pierced through the moonlight that tumbled through the small window to the outside. Emerging from the dark stood the most beautiful boy Jafri had ever seen. He couldn't be more than 20 years old, his face was pale, his hair was long and dark as raven feathers, and his eyes were like two emerald stones, shining a bright light from within. He wore a white robe, a simple cloth weaved by a simple man. Jafri seemed mesmerized by the lad yet perplexed by his presence. "You're...so young." He uttered. The boy looked at him and smiled. "Strange..." Jafri mumbled to himself.
"What is?" The boy asked. Jafri pulled his body against the wall and rested his back on it, staring at the beautiful, long-haired young man.
"I assumed, by how you spoke, that..." Jafri tried to explain. But the young man cut him off.
"That I would be older." The boy added, chuckling softly to himself as if he had cracked a joke only he understood. "If only..." He whispered, his words lost in the space between them. "How old do you think I am?" The boy asked.
"I...don't...19...maybe 20 years of age?" Jafri threw, randomly. The boy leaned forward, grabbed the cold iron bars of the cell, brought his body down to Jafri's line of sight, and gazed at him intensely.
"I'm 457 years old." The boy uttered. There was a dead silence, then a shot of laughter broke through from Jafri's mouth as he rolled his back onto the filthy wall behind him, his hands shackled over his head. As his chuckles subsided, his semblance began to change. The boy stood there, staring at him sternly, with no malice or ill intent. "Men are taught to believe in God, but when a miracle is in front of them, they anoint it a lie." The boy said, his eyes beginning to sparkle with an intense glare. Jafri's face zoned in on the young man, his eyes entangled by the bright light. "You fear what you don't understand. The shackles that bind you to that wall...those are the lies." The boy said, leaning forward and extending his hand through the prison cell door. "Take my hand, Jafri." He commanded. Jafri's body began to feel heavy as the intensity of the glow emanating from the boy's eyes became overpowering and blinding.
"What are you doing...?" Jafri questioned as his arm, unbeknownst to his will, extended to meet the young man. And before his consciousness faded into oblivion, he heard the boy's voice.
"I'm setting you free."
Jafri opened his eyes with strain as they felt heavy and glued together. He could feel a burning heat stemming from a small fire in front of him. As his eyes blinked, Jafri saw the young man sitting in front of him on a large log, facing the fire. As Jafri locked eyes with him, he smiled.
"Good evening, commander." The boy uttered.
"Where am I?" Jafri asked, bewildered.
"That is the least important question, my friend." The boy said as he chuckled, seemingly amusing himself. "You're alive. And for now, free." He continued. "We'll have to keep moving, though. But don't worry, I have a plan." He concluded. Jafri tilted his body upwards, his hands holding himself straight.
"Who are you?" Jafri asked as he gazed at the young man profusely. The young man smiled back at him.
"I'm just a man." He answered.
"Lies!" Jafri fired back with his eyes transfixed on the young man. "Answer me." He demanded. The boy's face changed. His appeasing and luminous eyes turned dark and elusive.
"I am nobody." The boy uttered. There was a profound sadness attached to his voice.
"Do you have a name?" Jafri questioned.
"I had a birth name...yes." The boy replied, his words searching for a lost memory. "My mother named me Lucius." He said, smiling as he had just discovered a lost treasure. "But I've had many names since." He declared, sadness creeping in again.
"What...are you?" Jafri asked, willing at this point to believe whatever Lucius told him.
"I am a vessel." Lucius answered.
"For what?" Jafri questioned. Lucius seemed conflicted, struggling to explain the unnatural nature of his condition.
"For every life that came before, every journey, every soul." Lucius described. His words were like a song from a distant time.
"Are you...mortal?" Jafri questioned, captivated.
"In a sense. I breathe, I sleep, I eat, I love. But alas, I cannot die, nor do I age." Lucius explained. Then he stopped momentarily as his eyes became lost for a second, suspended in a wayfaring gaze. "But I am not impervious to the burden of time...my punishment is bound to my gift." He disclosed.
"Are there others like you?" Jafri wondered.
"There have been. We have walked the heart since the dawn of time. And we have been given many names. But names matter nothing. For it's what you do, Jafri, your honor, that will determine who you become." Lucius explained. Jafri's eyes gazed at him, utterly gripped by his words.
"Where are the others?" Jafri enquired. But he immediately regretted it once he saw the look on Lucius' face.
"They are gone." He said cryptically.
"What happened?" Jafri asked, unable to withhold the words from leaving his lips. But Lucius' eyes, who had been staring at the flames from the small fire between them, raised and locked on Jafri mirroring a profound sadness.
"A tale for another time, perhaps. You should get some sleep." Lucius suggested as he got up and rested his body on a large piece of heavy cloth on the floor. As he lay there twitching slightly, trying to adjust his position, he noticed Jafri had remained seated, his head held up and his eyes fixed on him.
"It's cold." Jafri whispered. There was a brief silence. "Can I join you?" He asked. In times of war, this was, for Jafri, commonplace. Soldiers would nestle close to each other to fight the long cold nights of scouting enemy territory.
"Of Course." Lucius voiced, his back facing the fire. Jafri stood up and walked over to Lucius' spot. He carefully laid next to him with his body facing up, one of his arms beneath his head. He rested there for a moment, his body still shivering, until he noticed an intense heat coming from Lucius. His head turned over, and his nose grazed the young man's back.
"You are so warm." Jafri uttered.
"You can come closer if you desire." Lucius' soft voice suggested. His words were like a siren's call, enchanting and hypnotizing. Jafri's body rolled sideways and squeezed into Lucius'.
Suddenly the heat ripple surged over him. His half-naked and bruised body seemed healed from the cold and the wounds inflicted upon it. A sensation so overwhelming his pelvis tilted forward as his groin pulsated. His cock expanded with every breath of his lungs, bursting through the delicate fabric of his slops and nudging its tip on Lucius' back.
"I'm sorry...the war...it has been a long time since..." Jafri excused himself, awkwardly attempting to move away. But as he did, Lucius' hand stemmed him, falling gently over his hip.
"It's alright." Lucius whispered as he turned his head around, both men's faces now inches from each other. "It has been a long time for me too..." He confessed. Jafri's body rolled slightly upwards, his lips hovering over Lucius'.
"I'm conflicted..." He uttered, his breath coating Lucius' chiseled face and his lips almost touching his plump mouth. "I've never laid with another man before." He confessed, his pelvis now shoving his hard cock in between Lucius' cheeks, who moaned discreetly. "Lucius, may I kiss you?" Jafri pleaded, his eyes filled with lust. But his answer came rushing back to him when Lucius towed his head up and kissed Jafri. Their lips stayed locked for a moment. But something happened. After a brief moment, Jafri pulled away and stood frozen, admiring Lucius with a bewildered expression.
"I am..." Lucius uttered, but his statement was interrupted abruptly.
"Be silent." Jofri uttered, his voice deep and commanding. His eyes scanned Lucius' entire face. His hand slid down, grabbed the young man's tunic, and pulled it up, exposing his smooth and beautifully toned lower body. The boy's cock was hard, tucked between his legs, and his firm peach was nudging in Jafri's direction, offering itself to him. Jafri plunged his lips back down and drove his tongue inside Lucius' mouth. As he did, they both released a loud moan, followed by heavy coordinated breaths, pumping air into each other, releasing it through their noses. Jafri's tongue rolled inside, collecting every bit of Lucius' spit. The young man's taste was excruciatingly pleasurable, and the more Jafri's mouth remained attached, the more difficult it seemed to pull away. In the meantime, his right hand began pushing his slops down, exposing his remarkable shaft, now veiny and throbbing with lust. The heat emanating from Lucius' body seemed to entice it even more, and Jafri's hips began to inadvertently push themselves into the boy, a string of precum dangling from the tip. His right hand began grabbing the young man's bubbly cheeks, his lust building as he pulled them apart, uncovering Lucius' taint, making more room for him to shove his cock inside. Yet, it still felt dry and rubbery to his shaft's touch, so he brought his hand up along the boy's body, grabbing his neck aggressively. Jafri pulled away from their kiss, several twines of their conjoined spit following his lips. Before they could detach, he gathered them with his hand, then took it over to Lucius' mouth.
"Spit on it." He ordered. The young man obliged, spitting into his hand and then turning his head around again, his mouth opened, beckoning Jafri to kiss him again.
Like a pleasurable torture, Jafri looked at him with a taunting grin and hovered over his mouth like prey. He took his spit-fueled hand down to his massive cock and rubbed it over it, teasing the tip, which felt particularly sensitive at this point. Then took the remaining moist and rubbed it over the boy's sphincter. Then, suddenly, Jafri felt something. Every part of his body he had touched with Lucius' spit was now burning intensely. But not unpleasantly. Very much the opposite. The young man's juices seemed to enhance his already flaming libido. He felt his head cloud and his heart race. The feeling was exhilarating, almost unbearable. Unwillingly, Jafri's hand came up in the hair and flew down, slapping Lucius' ass vigorously. The boy let out a sharp exclamation. Short and poignant. His mouth remained open, waiting for Jafri's tongue. Jafri's eyes started to turn, becoming black-glazed like a shark.
"I...do not wish to hurt you..." Jafri murmured, his voice hoarse and edgy. The tip of his dick slid vigorously around Lucius' taint, occasionally pressing against his hole.
"You won't hurt me. I promise." The boy uttered. "Take me. No fear." He whispered into Jafri's mouth.
Then, as he stared into the young man's eyes, Jafri saw it. The bright white light. He felt the wave of warmth and finally let himself go, diving into the boy's mouth again. As their mouths locked, sucking vigorously on each other, his hand steered his cock's tip inside the boy's hole. With absolute recklessness, he shoved it inside. His neck snapped back in ecstasy as more than half his cock slid inside. Lucius' hole was tight, yet it invited his shaft with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. It felt like home. Jafri pulled his head back and glanced at his cock shoved inside Lucius' hole, his eyes glistening with ardor and amusement. His hand grasped the boy's cheek, pulling it apart as he began thrusting with delight. His pelvis began slapping into the hole with reckless abandonment. Their bodies seemed bound by a muted intimacy. An indescribable connection beyond anything Jafri had ever experienced. Lucius' moans became louder, beckoning Jafri's dominance over him. Following the boy's plea, Jafri brought his hand up, swathed it around the young man's beautiful, long raven hair, grabbed it in a ponytail, and pulled it violently, snapping his head back. He rolled himself over the boy, their stomachs down, and pulled their bodies up, their knees on the floor. With his left hand free, Jafri grasped Lucius' hip and started riding the boy into submission. Like a warrior riding a wild horse, Jafri swung his 12-inch cock inside Lucius' velvety, now loose hole. The boy's sphincter queefed loudly with each thrust, his body being propelled forward only to be brought back by the grip of Jafri's hand on his long hair. Lucius' mouth remained open, but as the pumps increased in rhythm, his moans decreased in intensity. His pleasure became soundless, and now only his expression propelled his desire. That young man, who until now showed a seasoned demeanor and age-old soul, now seemed youthful and more vibrant than ever. Jafri eventually let go of his hair, which tumbled gracefully over Lucius' shoulders like a cascade of thick liquid. He grabbed the boy's hips with both hands and continued fucking his hole, maintaining every ounce of his energy. Jafri was a man forged in war. He fucked as he battled, his cock plunged inside Lucius' hole with a soldier's determination, and his mission was the pursuit of both their pleasures. He pulled out of Lucius, a loud queefing sound exploding from inside his hole, turned him around on his back, pulled him over by his hips, and shoved his dick back inside, resuming the rampage. Lucius tilted his pelvis up, keeping his ass hovering over the ground, steering his hole into a position that allowed Jafri's strokes to go even deeper. Once he did, and with the tip of Jafri's dick hitting mindlessly at his prostate, his moans regained sound, now vibrant and loud, echoing across the empty clearance.
Jafri tilted his head back, and as he did, his eyes discovered the star-filled night sky above them. He squinted, unable to hold the tears. As Jafri looked down at Luscius, the boy's mouth agape, a euphoric expression as his hole savored every inch of Jafri's manhood, he realized he wasn't simply fucking Lucius. He was expressing his gratitude and showing his savior the vibrancy of the freedom he had allowed him again. He was offering Lucius all of his life force.
"I cannot hold it any longer." Jafri announced as he felt his dick throb inside Lucius' hole. He arched his head back as his dick began to unload, tick strings of batter filling up the young man's hole. His dick expanded and filled every layer of Lucius' insides. But then something happened. He felt the boy's hand grab his neck and pull up, swathing both his arms around Jafri's neck and closing in on his mouth.
"Veniet pulsans ad ostium. Homo qui te servabit. Mementote, Jeffrey." Lucius chanted, his eyes consumed with a bright glow. Then he gently let his head fall back, and as his mouth opened, tiny particles of light evaded his mouth, levitating in the air and dissipating quietly amidst the night sky.
"What did you call me?" Jafri questioned, between heavy breaths and profound perplexity.
"Jeffrey...Jeffrey..." He heard echoing faintly inside his head.
(Present Day - 2023)
"JEFFREY!" Sylas uttered, visibly vexed. Jeffrey sat at the foot of his bed with his back to the door. His muscular arms pushed against the mattress, and his head fell over his chest.
"Yes." He said calmly. "What is it?" He questioned, his face still hidden from sight.
"Jacob's here. He wants to see you." Sylas informed.
"I know..." Jeffrey said elusively, his voice sounding weakened. Sylas stood there, hesitant. He went to close the door but suddenly halted.
"You know you can talk to us, right? You've been...we love you, Jeff. And we're here for you." He declared, closing the door behind him.
Jeffrey's crumpled body sat in that empty room in silence. He finally lifted his head, opening his eyes. From them emanated the brightest of lights, profound and incandescent.
And under all its beautiful luminescence, Jeffrey wept.
(To be continued...)