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David: Deo et regi fidelis (faithful to God and King)
That David covets anything, shames him. He has gone his whole life without desiring anything really. Within the span of a month in Shiloh, he is crushed by the weight of his desire. The city pulls at him relentlessly. Everything overwhelms him. The air is perpetually smothered by the stink of garbage. The stench wafts in through every open door and window. He feels the malodor settle into his marrow. David is not the smartest of men but even he has realized that Shiloh will follow him to the very end of his days.
Even as his pen hovers uncertainly over a blank sheet of paper deep in the depths of the ministry, he smells the city sneak in through every crack. He has not drawn in months but the need swept over him, fast and undeniable. This morning’s briefing sits in his inbox, ready to be read, memorized, and then spat out in his country-tinged syllables. Yet, he sits silently, mind empty, stare vacant, until he realizes he has ink-stained fingers and the need to put pen to paper has left him.
The drawing leaves little room for interpretation. David stands in the middle of a clearing tied to four horses on the verge of galloping in opposite directions.
The smallest horse, a Castilian with head held high, is Michelle. She is beautiful and brilliant. He can tell she has a heart leaps and bounds too large for him, for anyone. She will never be contained enough for a simple man like David but she is everything he should want. Like most everything in Shiloh, she attracts and repulses him.
The dark Breton is Reverend Samuels, a creature weighed with hard and heavy tasks by master. He is a quiet servant, trusting and true, working without complaint. His muscular body thrums with power. His spirit flares brightly as he toils in his thankless work. Only one other knows how difficult his burden. When the day comes that he collapses, it is because his mortal body will no longer allow him to do his appointed work.
Jack was the least difficult to discern. The Gelderland stands prominently in the foreground of the drawing. The grey horse has a deep and broad chest, tail set high, head in mid-toss. His expression conveys his self-importance. His manner demands all eyes on him. The carriage horse is an important part of the show. His clean coat gleams and he does and he is meant to do; perform. The first bit of Shiloh David ever laid eyes on was Jack. He got under David’s skin that first time, in all his dazzling self, and never left. David has a hard time looking away.
The Thoroughbred must be Silas. He is a man of God, the ultimate jockey. A maker of fame, fortune, and all things to do with success. Silas, never one to walk or wait patiently, the first out of the gate and down the track, alone. Never as alive as when chasing a dream, winning another race. Or basking in the thrill of leaving competitors far behind, too smart and cunning for them. For a short burst of time, the racehorse is flying. Repercussions hit hard and seemingly out of nowhere, hearts can’t beat fast forever and muscles wear and tear. Age grinds the victory out of the horse. Triumphs, rarer and more precious. Spirit made sullen, resentment at life flares, anger, anger, anger, bitterness; the jockey moves on.
David, who has loved horses all his life, wants them all. The Castilian, Breton, Gelderland, Thoroughbred. The thing is, with horses, a single man can’t take them all at once. Too much care, time, and resources, spread too thin for four. He feels the impending destruction upon him, heavy-handed prophetic drawing in hand.
Still, he covets and it shames him.
Jack: a deo et rege (from God and the King)
“If you were my second son, I wouldn't care, but for a king it's not possible...”
Jack’s sin was to be the firstborn son. He found it humorous. The overwhelming urge to laugh swelled within him even as his father formally introduced him to Lucinda’s parents. He stamped it down.
“Four minutes apart, Your Highness? That’s remarkable,” the elder Wolfson remarked.
“Yes,” Jack commented in a bored tone. “Four lousy minutes. She’s a dear, though.” He paused. “For not perpetually lording it over me.”
“Lucinda always wanted a younger sibling to look after.”
Michelle smiled, “Jack is the one who tends to keep an eye on me.”
“Including Shepherd,” Lucinda chimed in. “He’s been staring at you all evening.”
His sister blushed. “Captain Shepherd is a good friend of ours.”
Jack gripped his glass tighter. “Indeed.”
Mr. Wolfson asked casually, “The King considers the Captain family, does he not? Almost a son?”
A sour taste filled Jack’s mouth. He needed to get away. “I’m sorry to interrupt but I’ve noticed Mother subtly signaling it’s time for dinner to commence. We should go.”
He caught the scent of Shepherd’s cologne in the air. For the n-th time in his life, for fractions of a second, Jack willed his very blood to change. For himself, Joseph, or Shepherd. He wasn’t sure.
“To be second,” he muttered under his breath in a self-toast. He downed the rest of the scotch. A server quickly moved in to refill his glass.
“Anything else I can get for you, sir?” he was asked. He could ask for nearly anything and it would be granted.
He took another swig of scotch.
“We give up what we want when we want power; believe me.”
Joseph circled the room, his eyes fixated on Jack surrounded by women. They were beautiful, he acknowledge to himself as he kept Joseph in his peripheral vision. Models from a southern portion of the country here for a photo shoot. A lucky man, other men had jeered as he strode in to the party with a woman on each arm.
Jack beckoned his bodyguard closer and leaned in to whisper in his ear. A nod of his head and someone moved in to escort Joseph out the door.
That night as he dispassionately moved inside his bodyguard, he affirmed his sacrifice. This wasn’t what he wanted. Not even close.
Silas knew a thing or two about power. He had it and others didn’t. Jack, for the briefest time, had known what it was to completely lack it.
He believed Silas.
“What wouldn't I give for a playboy who couldn't keep it in his pants and who runs through women; but what I have is a son who shows no interest in them.”
If there was ever a terrible moment to drudge up bad memories, this one in particular, it was now.
Sweat beaded his body and he breathed heavily from exertion as he thrust into his lover. He wanted them to come together so he moved faster, his hand sliding in front to grip a swollen cock. Here, now, this moment before his entire being prickled as he came, he thought of his father’s words.
As they shuddered together and collapsed, Joseph wrapped him in a fierce embrace. “I missed you,” Joseph said as his lips ghosted over his collarbone.
Jack closed his eyes for a moment. He felt his body begin to cool as sweat evaporated. His cock twitched slightly against Joseph. His fingers brushed lightly against the other’s back. This one moment, he allowed himself. His eyes opened. “I have to go,” he said as he rolled out of the hold. His eyes roamed around the room in search of his underwear.
“Don’t leave.” Joseph brought a hand up towards him. “Stay.”
“Lucinda is waiting.” He spotted his briefs and shirt and tugged them on.
“Fuck and go again, isn’t it? You don’t do anything but use me, Jack.” Joseph looked wounded but Jack was determined not to chance a glance at him. He didn’t want to leave either.
“So well that you won’t walk right tomorrow,” he smiled slightly.
“Funny.”
“Where are my pants?”
“When will you ever stay?”
“Joseph,” his tone brooked no argument. “Pants. Now. She’s waiting on me. Mother will go insane if I stand the girl up again.”
“She’ll be waiting on you forever, don’t you get it? So stay. Please.” Joseph moved from the bed toward him, naked and unashamed. He brought his arms around Jack from behind, his arousal evident as he pressed against him. “I know you. Stay with me. What will it take for you to stay?”
“When I am the second son.” Jack broke away from him with a rough push at his arms. He strode out the door half-dressed.
“Jack!” he heard called after him. “Jack! Jack!”
Lucinda wasn’t the only one that kept waiting on him.
“Oh, you thought I didn't know? I've been keeping pictures of our family out of the free press for years... what you do at night with your boys after your show of skirt-chasing is a disgrace.”
Jack turned the memory card over in his palm.
His latest bedmate had thought it wise to secretly film their encounter. Jack’s security team had discovered the device. The unfortunate man found himself breathing via a ventilator for his trouble.
Your boys.
He had had many. Most without names to put to faces. Quantity over quality. He reasoned volume would let him stomach the show he put on nightly for the adoring masses, the girls he toyed with. He closed his eyes and imagined a random jacking him off, even as his teeth tugged playfully at too-soft cherry lips.
Boys, he had had many. Men, none. None like him. God, he wished to long for another. Anyone but him. How he wished it was Joseph, who loved him and could never have him. He had a chance with Joseph. For him, he sometimes indulged the fantasy of forsaking the crown. If only he loved him.
David Shepherd was the wrong man to lust after. An enigma, something he couldn’t understand. Neither a friend or, he shuddered, a brother. Shepherd, as good as another son to the King. Jack wished him enemy and like always, was found left wanting.
He threw the card into the fire and watched it burn.
“Now, you want to show me you have the heart to be king, show me you can control it. Wrestle it to the ground. Numb it with ice. But you cannot be what God made you, not if you mean to take my place...”
Shepherd lay slumped beside him. He had yet to awaken after Jack had attacked him. His chest rose and fell evenly.
Alone, Belile knocked unconscious by a smart whip of his gun, Jack felt free to survey him.
Shepherd radiated warmth, exuded it all the time.
Jack’s eyes took in the lithe, well-muscled body. Shepherd was beautiful. His fingers twitched at his side, aching to touch. He wanted to trail his fingers over Shepherd’s features, over his eyelids, his nose, those soft lips, and strong jaw. He longed to know what his skin tasted like, what it felt to lose himself in a man like Shepherd’s and be held safe, to bury himself in him.
Again, his fingers twitched. They moved a fraction of an inch.
Shepherd groaned and started to wake.
Jack moved away into the cold. He could numb it.
“Get it together. We’re moving.”
“ Celebrate, Jack, it's what you're good at.”
Joseph’s sparsely-attended funeral was held hours before, his casket not yet lowered into the ground when Jack had left. Jack now stood in the middle of a fundraiser gala for the arts, courtesy of his mother.
The medical examiner’s report stated the cause of death as a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Found at the scene was a 9 mm handgun. Joseph’s father had gifted him the weapon for his 21st birthday. “A real man owns a gun,” the man had said with a hearty clap to the back. At his next birthday, Joseph had come out to him and his father wished him to turn the gun on himself like a real man, not a faggot, would. Wish granted.
Jack tried not to imagine the scene in Joseph’s apartment. Try as he might, he couldn’t help but picture gore and brain matter on white walls and tacky carpet. Who would clean, he wondered idly.
“Sad, isn’t it?” a voice behind him asked.
Jack closed his eyes. He could almost feel Joseph coming to stand by him, thin but strong arms wrapping around his waist, warm breath at the nape of his neck. Joseph liked to plant small kisses behind his ear before Jack pulled away. He always pulled away.
“Jack?”
Stay, don’t go, don’t leave, stay.
A touch to his shoulder. “Jack?”
I missed you, I love you, I need you, do you need me?
“Jack?”
The identity of the voice dawned on him. Neither important nor wanted. He asked absentmindedly, “Yes, dear?”
Lucinda sighed, “Sad, isn’t it?” She gestured at the room. “$500 a plate. Your mother didn’t charge enough. The dregs of Shiloh are in attendance.”
“Sad,” he murmured.
“Thomasina needs you, some urgent Ministry matter.”
Thomasina, who had stood with him as Joseph was buried. Thomasina, who stood and did nothing as he walled himself inside the palace; a living death. Thomasina, who heard his whispered confession at the cemetery: When it’s dark.
“I’ll see what she needs.”
He passed Shepherd on his way. His skin tingled and he cursed himself.
Sad.
Silas: crux mihi ancora (the cross is my anchor)
“Hanson, what do you see?” Silas waved lazily at the object behind him as he stared out at the cityscape. Night turned Shiloh to multi-color lit splendor. King of all he surveyed, he could almost feel the electricity that powered the city course through his veins.
His assistant cleared his throat and said almost uncertainly, “A chair, sir.”
“A chair? Your powers of observation are not found lacking.” Silas chortled and finally turned to lay hand on the chair. He ran his hand over the back, down the arms. “Back height adjustment, control tilt, forward tilt, pneumatic seat height, lumbar support, padded saddle seat. The most expensive ergonomic office chair available and it does not satisfy. The fifteenth such kind I have tried and yet my back protests, old wounds flare.”
“Sir?” Hanson asked, a nervous tremor in his voice. “Do you wish it replaced?”
“What I wish…” Silas trailed off. The room descended into silence once again. He could hear Hanson shift his weight from foot to foot behind him. An efficient assistant who served with the fear of replacement, from position and life. A flick of his fingers, Silas waved him away. The man backed off quickly with a bow.
As the door clicked closed, Silas circled the chair and continued, “…does not matter. No, my wishes matter not to Him. If they did, would you not surmise I would find a comfortable seat from which to rule? Day upon day, hour after hour, I, weary, do sit here to rule and serve this nation. Have I not earned comfort? Why do You not see fit to bestow relief on faithful servant?”
He sat down heavily on the chair. “Modern throne that You guided me to and mine alone. So why does it not fit? My body hinders duty, not due to crippling age or disease but by Your determined elusive reprieve.” He traced the mark he himself had carved into the armrests; the small cross went unnoticed by all, save one.
Silas spun around to face the empty chamber of seats. “What more must I accomplish or offer? Heavenly being, I am not, lest you forget. I am Man, not divine in nature, and I have given all of me that there is to give!”
He stood suddenly and kicked the chair away. It fell to the ground with a clatter that echoed. Once more, he drew to the windows and leaned mournfully against a pane. “You test me, continuously and without thought to cost,” he whispered. “It is my seat and yet it is not mine. It has never been perfect and right. Cease your machinations, I beg of You.”
The wind whipped the trees lining the street. The promised storm had finally arrived and much needed rain began to pelt the earth. Before the rain completely blanketed the world, he spied a billboard. David Shepherd looked gravely at him, solemn figure proud and tall, savior of Gilboa. Silas recalled reports of an increase in recruits since the billboard had been erected. So God spoke after all.
Silas’ voice rose. “Him? Him, you choose? Cruel joke that you play. ‘Silas,’ you said. ‘Do this, do that. Save your country. Be the one to unite what was disrupted. They will love you for it and so will I.’
For a time, I was loved. You failed to mention that though I’m sure you know. The time clause in the fine print of our agreement escaped me. A foolish man I was to trust you, to trust to do right by me after all that I have sacrificed. Now it is him you favor. Your love is as fragile as butterflies.”
Shepherd’s eyes seemed to burn bright even as the rain fell harder. Silas tapped the pane with his forefinger. He softened, his voice barely above a whisper. “You make the wrong enemy. Though mortal, I hold power now. Wrest it only from cold hands. Shepherd is mine to do with as I please, victim to my whims. You will not have him and he will not have what is mine.”
Thunder crashed and seemed to do so right above the palace. Lightning tore through the sky. So God heard. Silas righted the chair, hefted it into his arms, and strode through the dimly lit hallways. He burst onto the roof and hustled toward the edge. Within moments, he was soaked to the bone. The cold seeped in as his suit clung to his body. He yelled at the sky, “You spite me at every turn. Do not mistake me for toothless cub. Answer me, damn You. Answer me!”
He paused. The rain ceased and the night stilled. It was as if storm had never existed. He had his answer. With a mighty shove, the chair careened over the edge and plummeted. “I need not Your seat, I rule and stand alone. We are done,” he said after he heard the crash. He added as he went inside, “Know this, I do not expect to win but I will deny You as You have denied me. To grow old was not a card in the hand I was dealt; I accept it.”
He shut the door firmly behind him.