Knowing Patrick

Praise for the writing of Emily Veinglory

Eclipse of the Heart

Ms. Veinglory is a talented writer who depicts same sex relationships in an extremely fascinating manner. Once I started reading I could not put the book down. Eclipse of the Heart is a great story that will remain on my keeper shelf for some time to come. -- Susan White, Just Erotic Romance Reviews This book isn’t about the perfect people with a perfect ending. It is about a couple with regular flaws that everyone can relate with. In the end, that is what love is all about. This story is realistic with a werewolf twist! -- Ann Lee, Just Erotic Romance Reviews I enjoyed this book, even though is a big departure from my usual preferred style. It reminded me of the Anita Blake series by Laurell K. Hamilton, with their look at the fuzzy underbelly of the wereworld, along with the flashes of humor you wouldn’t expect from works this dark…Veinglory scores with this richly written, erotic e-book chronicling Lan’s journey to learn who he is and the heartbreaking costs you must sometimes pay to get there. Lan learns that sometimes the unexpected friends you make can be the family you’ve never had. -- Michelle, Fallen Angel Reviews As a heterosexual, I found this book informative as it gave an intriguing insight of love between two men. I loved how the chemistry flowed between Mason and Lan. This is clearly a romantic tale of love, sexuality and the ability to trust. -- Suz, Coffee Time Romance

Eclipse of the Heart is now available from Loose Id.

KNOWING PATRICK

Emily Veinglory

www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

***** This book is rated:

For explicit sexual content and graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable (homoerotic sex).

Knowing Patrick Emily Veinglory This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Loose Id LLC 1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-29 Carson City NV 89701-1215 www.loose-id.com

Copyright © March 2005 by Emily Veinglory All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 1-59632-106-7 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Raven McKnight Cover Artist: April Martinez

www.loose-id.com

At thirty-six years of age, Peter had never left Ireland, never loved, and never quite discovered the purpose that his life was meant to have. He stood near the prow of the old ferry and peered through the mist, searching for the shores of England as if they were the answer he was looking for. It was spitting down and the wind was fierce, but Peter stood on the deck rather than suffer the muggy confines of the cabin with its stained seats and screaming children. Maybe it wasn’t England that was calling him after all -- maybe it was the storm. There were a few other people scattered across the deck -- tourists with cameras, a huddled pair of lovers, and a few desultory smokers. They didn’t pay Peter much heed, and why would they? He was a big man but plain, with a broad face and placid eyes. His tall frame was almost entirely covered by a black wool overcoat so thick that it hardly moved with the wind. Almost every man who had ever met Peter assumed he was just another dim-butamiable plodder -- and Peter generally found it easier just to play the part. He was good enough at his job, a reliable but distant friend, an accommodating but quiet colleague. He was a man nobody really knew and who barely knew himself.

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An announcement burred over the speakers, breaking Peter’s reverie. One of the smokers startled, tossed his butt over the side, and made for the cabin. He stumbled into Peter’s shoulder. “Sorry, Father,” the man muttered, then cast a doubtful glance and stumbled on. The smoker’s breath revealed that he’d spent some time in the onboard bar before stepping out for his fag, but drunks and children have a way of seeing things. Peter had left the Catholic priesthood some five years ago when what had always felt like a calling melted away under the weight of leisurely self-contemplation. He’d been left as a babe on the steps of St. Patrick’s, been brought up by a dour couple who saw it as a Christian duty, and slipped into priesthood far too easily. But taking off the collar would have been a grander gesture if he hadn’t immediately signed up with a religious NGO called the League of Maewyn -- a discreet private charity that operated orphanages and hospices. Oh, there was a pattern to Peter, and it was mainly tight little circles going exactly nowhere. Peter knew that, but damned if he could see a way out; God clung to Peter like a church to the rock beneath it. In Peter’s pocket, there was a small padded envelope with a flat, heavy object inside. He was struck by the strange fancy that if he jumped overboard, it would drag him straight to the bottom. He had not been told what it was he carried or why he was taking it to England. He was to be met by a colleague he did not know, a man by the name of Larson. The ferry thrust itself across the water and thumped at last up against the dock. A sourlooking man waited there, his plain jacket distinguishing him from the gaggle of tourists and idle travellers in garish leisurewear. The small enamel pin on his lapel confirmed that this was the man Peter was meant to meet. “D’you have it?” the man asked. Peter passed him the simple package, and the man took it and shoved it deep into his own pocket. “Next ferry’s in the morning. You’ll bide with us ’til then.”

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He turned on his heel and hiked up the boat ramp, and Peter followed him. There was a white van at the top, with its windows painted over. Peter clambered into the passenger seat and looked across at Larson. He had a balding head with a fringe of grizzled hair above a rounded face with small, black eyes. These features should have combined into a rather jolly appearance, but there was a coldness to those crinkled eyes that only deepened Peter’s concern. The league had two parts -- one devoted to charity work and staffed by amiable and well-meaning souls, and the other, smaller group that most people did not even notice existed. Peter had noticed -- dark shuffling men who talked and whispered and walked with hurried purpose. The exact nature of this inner circle was obscure, but Larson was clearly one of that number. “What is it that I brought?” Peter was careful to show only a mild, natural interest. “You’ll be told in due course.” And that was that. Larson drove the van with abrupt movements, lurching along a single-lane gravel road and changing gears harshly with each hill and bend. He cursed the tourist in a rental car who navigated the unfamiliar sidings slowly, then overtook the man with an angry skid. Peter leaned back in his seat and regarded, with distaste, the dirty windscreen and the dashboard littered with cigarette packets and other refuse. He tried to bring to mind that parable about curiosity and cats, but questions gnawed unsated at his stomach. Peter stared blankly ahead and tried to look dull. People said more and gave more away if they thought you weren’t the sort to notice or understand. The old man took him to a small, whitewashed farmhouse perched on a broken-backed hill. It was bitterly cold, and there was even a sprinkling of snow in the fallow fields. “You go in, and don’t be touching anything,” Larson said as he took out the padded envelope and tore it open. Within was a plaque made of a dark metal like pewter or tarnished silver. It was roughly in the shape of a Celtic cross, with a complex knot pattern engraved lightly upon it. “There’s a wooden case in there. Put this on top of it, and don’t do

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nothing else. I’ll go get t’others, and we’ll meet up later tonight and go on to the ferry in t’morning.” Peter stared at Larson quite blankly. “Isn’t the door locked?” he asked. “Nope.” Larson was already putting the van in gear as Peter opened the passenger door and clambered out. The van hissed and squealed off down the gravelled driveway. Peter watched it go for a moment, bemused, and then turned towards the house. The old wooden door wouldn’t budge until he shoved it hard with his shoulder. He had thought for a moment it was locked after all, but it was just swollen wood and sagging hinges. The whole house drooped disconsolately in a regalia of rust and peeling paint, and fallen roof slates lay all around it amongst the rank grass. Inside there was a large common room with a cold coal stove, a few wooden chairs, a bare mattress, and a large packing crate. The crate was made from clean, unfinished pine and was about the size of a small desk. It was nailed shut with large iron nails, and a hammer lay upon its lid. Peter put the metal cross down upon the exact centre of the broad lid, then rested his hand upon the edge of the crate. The main possibilities that occurred to him for this macabre scene were crime and insanity. The cross rather suggested the latter -- older religious organisations did tend to perpetuate some peculiar beliefs. Peter knew that Maewyn was the pagan name of the man who was christened as Patrick, the most prominent of the saints that went by that name. The League of Maewyn had an odd name, and somewhere at its heart its nature might well be just as strange, for all the ordinary virtues of its charitable works. Of course Peter wanted to know what was in the box. But even as he stood there, he became acutely aware of the cold. Where his hand rested upon the box, his palm tingled with pins and needles. He felt the chill solitude of the house and the silent mystery of the box, and became silently, irrationally afraid.

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He felt two divergent impulses. One was to snatch up the hammer and rip open the crate; the other was to run out the door and just keep going. In the end, he walked carefully to the opposite end of the room, took one of the old wooden chairs, sat with his back against the wall, and crossed his arms. His instincts told him that what he did now might be very important indeed. Much depended on how much faith he had in the league, and how much loyalty. After a few minutes, his thoughts were interrupted as the door burst open. It was Larson. He looked around the room and finally saw Peter seated against the wall. “What’re you doing?” “What I was told.” Larson looked at Peter levelly, and then barked a short laugh. “Good, good. Just came to say Barret called on the cell. His train’s been delayed, and I’ll have to go right down the line to get him an’ the boys. You’ll have to stay here overnight, and we’ll pick you and the cargo up in the morning. Okay? Just make sure no one messes with it -- no one at all.” “Yeah.” “Good, right man for t’job, I’m sure.” Larson wandered quite casually over to the box, eyed the cross, and put the hammer in his overcoat pocket. He left again, and Peter heard the van heading off down the road. Larson must have changed his usual driving habits to come back up without being heard. Must have thought he’d find Peter wielding that claw hammer. Now he was probably quite happy that Peter was the unimaginative thug that he appeared. For once the stereotypes his looks provoked might do some good. Peter sat there a while longer and contemplated a night without heat or, as a tug on the dangling cord confirmed, electric light. He should have asked Larson for a lighter, because without one, even finding fuel would get him nowhere. He sat on that chair until he was quite sure of one thing -- whether it was wise or not, he was definitely going to have a look

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in that box. Peter went to the window and looked out at the blank field and the empty road stretching down to the shore. Pretty soon it would be night, and he would be stuck here with a mystery in the dark, and a door with no lock. He went back to the big box. It still sent shivers up his arms as his broad fingers pried at the thick planks of the lid. It was hard without a hammer -- the large nails were split at the ends to grab the timber tightly. By the time he got a chink in it, he was frustrated, sweaty, and his thumb had a big splinter buried deep in it. The cross slid off the lid and crashed to the floor. The lid came up in one piece, and the light of dusk barely penetrated the shadows within... The figure lay upon its side, knees bent, wrapped with fine chains but not a stitch of clothing. Pale flesh was crossed and creased with metal links. The air in the box was palpably warm; the figure nearly glowed in the darkness. Naked, almost in foetal position, a lithe young man with silver hair and... It immediately occurred to Peter that this must be some sort of test or joke. A pointyeared elf in a box -- it could hardly be true. Yet what choice did he have but to believe what his eyes told him, and act as his conscience bid? Peter bent down deep into the box and took one of the fine chains in his broad fists. He froze as the figure stirred slightly. He saw how the captive’s flesh was raw and reddened where the metal had touched it. The elf’s eyes opened a sliver, revealing pale irises, sharp with life. Peter’s heart thudded, and he felt light-headed and almost outside of reality -- like he was watching his own actions from a distance. With a panicky jerk, he broke the chain and set it aside. He reached for the next strand of links, acutely conscious of how his rough fingertips brushed the unmistakably real flesh of this creature. One after the other, he broke the fine, uneven chains. They were brittle and appeared antique, yet it took all his strength to snap them, despite the slenderness of the links, which looked more like jewellery than fetters. Finally, one last remaining strand about the captive’s neck was set aside. The elf was beginning to stir.

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Peter stepped back and kicked the cruciform plaque further from the box and towards the wall. He could no longer see over the edge but could hear the shuffling of bodily movement, skin against rough wood. It was getting very dark with only a few rays of ruddy light piercing the grimy windowpanes. Finally a hand curled over the rim, and the elf rose, unsteadily. He regarded Peter with a gaze like a lance, pure and silvery. With one sinuous movement, he emerged, barefoot and naked, from his confinement. Peter’s intuitive intellect was making connections quietly; thoughts filtered up from his subconscious. The fey, iron chains, the league -- St. Patrick, even. Peter’s eyes and conscious mind absorbed the sight before him. Even seeing one so scarred and feeble, he could understand the myths of men going mad or even dying for the love of an elf. Tall as an average man, but slender and with an opaque, ivory-toned complexion, the elf’s body was almost devoid of fat, and perfectly proportioned muscles moved beneath unblemished skin. His face was built upon high cheekbones and huge eyes with large irises and pupils that seemed more slitted than round. His hair was a glory of white-blond and silver strands that fell straight and heavy almost to his waist. With an embarrassed glance, Peter saw that proportion and perfection extended to every part of the elf’s body. Peter slipped off his heavy wool coat and offered it. “I don’t know exactly what was happening here, but I imagine you want to leave.” The elf reached out, his long fingers closing over the lapel of the coat. He was still staring at Peter fixedly as he drew the coat to himself and pulled it on. It reached to the ground and hung loosely from his slender shoulders. Finally, he spoke. “I have been fortunate, in you,” he said in a light but strangely ordinary voice. He moved past Peter and took a careful path around the discarded metal cross. Peter turned and saw the elf’s bare feet flicking up the hem of the coat. The elf opened the jammed door effortlessly and then paused, turning to regard Peter over his shoulder. “You and I shall meet again,” the elf said.

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“No.” The elf frowned slightly; his was an elegant face on which expression seemed more eloquent than words. Hit by the last rays of the sun, his canted eyebrow seemed to say, “How could you not want this? How dare you contradict me?” “If you count yourself at all in my debt, we shall not,” Peter said. The elf made no further reply, but stepped outside. There was only silence after he stepped beyond the barrier of the half-open door. When Peter followed to the threshold, the elf was nowhere in sight across the great expanse of the stubbled fields. It was biting cold and settling to lay down a frost, but that was not why Peter shivered. That was when the final piece of the puzzle came together: Saint Patrick, who drove all the snakes out of Ireland. Biologists now knew there never were snakes native to Ireland. These days, the tale was taken as an allegory for driving out pagan ways, but perhaps it was more literal than that, after all? Perhaps Patrick and the league were involved in keeping an entirely different creature away from Ireland’s shores. Now the only question was, were they right? The elf was fine to look at, but evil can take on many forms.

***** Some weeks later, Peter was lodging in a rent-by-the-day hotel that set its back to a stinking canal and its face to the grey and busy street. Peter’s room overlooked the canal; the wallpaper was spotted and peeling with the damp, despite the fact that the window didn’t open. The room stank persistently of old smoke, dirt, and desperation -- but Peter had almost ceased to notice. It felt like his life had been lived like a skipping stone. His unknown mother produced him, and he was caught and tossed away by the church, his foster parents, the church again, the league -- and finally he had passed through the surface of reality and sunk. That moment in the farmhouse doorway, he had gone under. He had been left standing there, doubting his

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sanity and all but regretting his actions -- knowing that he couldn’t stay in the farmhouse and just hope that Larson and his many superiors weren’t too annoyed. A group that knew of and imprisoned magical creatures might do almost anything. So he had wandered across England, gradually, to London. He divided his time there between taking on enough casual work to survive, and carrying out surreptitious research. One corner of the small room was occupied by ragged stacks of photocopied paper topped by a few dog-eared books with outrageous titles. He never found much more than a line or two in any one source, but he felt that he was slowly putting it all together. During the dark hours of the night, he was fairly sure that he truly had gone mad; but with the dawn, his tenacious nature reasserted itself, and he went on. This particular evening, Peter lay on his back and read by the light of a small desk lamp. One more clue, one facet to the amazing truth. The League of Maewyn were the current keepers of the power that had cast all of the fey out of Ireland. On occasion, they would test the power of the ward by stepping outside of those boundaries, capturing one of the fey, and taking them back to Ireland. If Maewyn’s binding was still powerful, the fey would die. That, it seemed, was what had been happening at the farmhouse -- an elf bound as a lamb to the slaughter. Perhaps they had trapped a rather ferocious fey, one the blessed iron chain could barely hold... Peter was reading through a Victorian diary in which an obscure entomologist mentioned, in passing, the theories of his mad clergyman uncle -- theories that some agency was using ley lines to protect the land of Eire from devils, and murdering anyone who meddled with their plans. It occurred to Peter that all the orphanages, hospices, and charitable works were nothing more than a way to put a rather insidious secret society above reproach. It all pivoted on one issue -- were the fey evil? Peter sighed and laid the book down on his lap. The information available about fairies and elves was far too voluminous and unreliable for one man to ever truly understand.

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“I said that we would meet again.” The elf stood at the end of the bed, lit by little more than the desk lamp’s light reflected up from the pale bed sheets. He was straight and lithe as a tempered blade and dressed all in black, close-fitting cloth. What had once seemed like vulnerable beauty now looked more like the terrifying functionality of a hunting panther. The elf reached forward and took up the book, an echo of their last encounter. He glanced at the page. “You have proved a most diligent scholar,” the elf continued with studied nonchalance. “Most men would have discovered not half as much, even if they devoted decades to the task.” Peter felt himself relaxing somewhat. “I knew what I was looking for.” “I don’t think you do, as yet.” The elf set the book down on a stack and sat upon the edge of the bed. For a moment, he simply looked at Peter in a coolly appraising manner that made Peter all too aware of his worn clothes and haggard looks. He was growing thin; it showed in his gaunt cheeks. And, while clean, his hair and nails grew unkempt. But then the elf smiled, and that small gesture had a most miraculous effect. A gentle expression made the elf seem genuine in his concern, and somehow more real. He laid one hand quite casually on Peter’s thigh, and it seemed quite natural that he do so. “My name is Veleur,” he said. “And I have been waiting for you to be ready to know the whole truth. The truth that Maewyn banished from Eire not only my people, but many of the arts of yours. In another world, you would have been a druid, Peter, never a priest.” Peter grew a little cold at this; one thing he had never questioned was God -- and he never would, however men might bend His name and words to their purposes. Yet equally, Peter’s body warmed to that slight touch and yearned for this creature to venture more. “You are ready now for me to help you,” Veleur said. “To begin to develop that talent that lies dormant within you.”

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Peter felt his face set in a rigid expression. “And why should you? To what end?” Veleur laughed. His hand crept a little higher as he turned more towards Peter. “It is our way, and I will answer any and all questions you have. There are the fey, a few -- and many of us are in exile. Here in these small islands, there are men and women who can channel the strength of the land and choose to share it with us -- that together we might make magic. But long ago, in Ireland, a young man strong in magic was made a slave and grew very angry. He fled to France and there became a Christian and a priest. He returned and cast a spell, in the shape of a prayer, that severed the land from the people and cast the fey out into exile. This much I think you know.” Peter sat up slowly. Veleur, with sad and downcast eyes, no longer frightened him. The urge to reach out to the elf was hard to resist. “So what is it that I don’t know?” Veleur looked at him, his great grey eyes wide and sincere. Peter felt a pain in his chest like a fishing hook being set and pulled. “When a human who will be a magic-worker reaches maturity, one of the fey is drawn to them, to be their partner and together do good in the land. Now it has become hard for these partners to find each other, and to do the great work that remains before us.” Peter shook his head. “I don’t even believe in magic, and I’m sure I shall never...” Veleur drew his knee up on the bed so that he could face Peter directly. They were only a few inches apart, and the elf leaned forward in the near-darkness and kissed Peter. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. Peter saw phantom lights like shooting stars and felt a keen regret when Veleur leaned back again. But now, looking at the elf, he saw him wreathed in sinuous skeins of green lights that outlined his body and reached out, with gentle strands, to all things in the room, especially reaching out to Peter. And as he looked, he could actually feel the gentle touches upon the bare skin of his face and hands.

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Peter reached forward and touched Veleur’s face tentatively with his fingertips. “You think that you and I...” He could accept that an elf might have some kind of grand destiny, but not his humble, mortal self. Veleur took Peter’s hand and turned it palm up. The elf answered with a kiss upon the palm, then the wrist, the pale underside of the arm. Each touch struck sparks that made Peter gasp aloud. “That is for you to say,” Veleur whispered. He slipped the buttons of Peter’s shirt open and pushed the garment back off his shoulders. The green light flared and danced across Peter’s chest like pins and needles. Peter leaned back, and Veleur straddled his body. It felt right, so right -- when it should have been so wrong. “Veleur, I don’t, I haven’t...” The elf’s long hands cupped his face. “If ever you dislike anything that happens, stop me. Say no, and I will always heed you.” Then they kissed again, and Peter lay quite helpless to the sensation. He reached up and curled his hands around Veleur’s sides. For some time, they lay together, with Veleur’s body pressing close down upon his. For a man like Peter, who had hardly experienced even the lightest touch over most of his life, it came to feel the most natural thing in the world, very quickly. Veleur leaned back. The lamp had fallen to the floor, and only a little light shone, glancing up across the elf’s form to join his own natural luminance. Veleur drew his tunic over his head, displaying the lean muscles of his torso and disarraying his silvery mane. He shucked off his leggings and soft shoes, and curled, naked, against Peter’s side. “Can you not feel it now? The magic?” Veleur asked. “What I feel is yours, not mine.”

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But he did feel one thing. They were meant to be together, he and this man -- this creature -- whom he hardly knew. It felt like Veleur belonged right here in his arms. Peter’s hand slowly described the profile of Veleur’s body -- shoulder, ribcage, hip, and thigh. The flesh felt firm and warm and almost human, but for some small difference in proportion and skin with a texture so smooth it was like alabaster come to life. Green fire flickered across it and wandered along Peter’s arms and chest before guttering in the darkness. “Are you sure that you have found the right man?” Peter said with some regret. “If not, it is my mistake to make.” Veleur seemed almost amused by Peter’s doubt. He unbuttoned Peter’s jeans with unmistakable confidence. Peter pulled them off and cast them aside. He curled one arm around Veleur, and his body seemed to know its own way forward. They fitted together easily, Peter’s thigh hooked over Veleur’s and his hands and tongue exploring the terrain of chest and shoulder. They kissed again, deeply, Veleur’s mouth opening and inviting Peter’s questing tongue. Everywhere they touched, the emerald fire smouldered. Desire burned within Peter, reined in only by the matching desire to pull out each moment of pleasure to its greatest extent. Veleur turned toward the wall so that he was spooned against the length of Peter’s body; Peter leaned upon his elbow, given great vantage by his few inches of extra height. He placed his broad hand upon Veleur’s hip; his own flesh seemed so coarse in contrast. His cock was straining and alert, and Veleur moved so that it nestled between his thighs, pressing up against his buttocks. Peter’s breath seemed so loud to his own ears. He moved very slightly, pushing between Veleur’s creamy thighs. He wrapped his arms around Veleur’s body and pulled him close. Veleur raised his thigh and, for one brief moment, Peter felt utterly detached. He saw himself, a conspiracy-obsessed madman in a doss-house room, with the man of his dreams spinning him a line about magic and destiny. If this is madness, let me be mad. His splayed

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fingers ran over the curve of hip and thigh and then moved gently. Spitting upon his palm to ease his eager flesh, he sought the point he wanted. Soft and tight. Peter found his place and pressed forward, hand upon Veleur’s hip. Slowly, slowly. He groaned aloud as he entered the smooth, tight grip of Veleur’s body. Sensations spiralled and the uncanny light flared. They pressed tightly together. The elf reached back and gripped Peter’s thigh with a trembling hand. Peter, arm lying under Veleur’s body, felt his lover’s chest fluttering with rapid breath. Peter moved against Veleur’s body with a gentle, gradual rhythm. He felt the warmth of the elf’s body insinuating into his own. He seemed almost to be outside his body, looking down at the two of them locked together in shared sensation. Veleur seemed slight beside him, but his flesh was firm with corded muscle and sleek as a racehorse. Gradually, tension began to build inside Peter’s groin, and he stopped; they lay still together in the darkness. A faint pop and the lamp went out, leaving them in just the magical light, like moonlight reflected through seawater. His climax could not be contained. Peter trembled, slight, involuntary movements of his pelvis telling him he was on the edge of coming. Suddenly the light changed and flared. Orgasm uncoiled from his groin and rushed outward. The whole room went red, and it felt like all the strength in his body left him in a single tide of ecstasy. He heard Veleur cry out; then Peter saw nothing, like he had gone blind. In the moments afterwards, the room was totally dark, and Peter’s skin felt cold and clammy with sweat. His breath still rasped but began to slow. Veleur turned in his grasp and kissed him again. Peter started to speak, but Veleur hushed him. “Shh, wait and see...” A new light kindled in the darkness. Ruddy and slight, it flickered. Peter raised his hand and saw a new and tenuous flame licking over it. He placed his hand on Veleur’s shoulder, where yellow-green radiance answered and mingled with it in a rainbow dance.

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“... I think I have the right man, in every way.”

***** Peter lounged in an old armchair in the conservatory, where the stored heat of the day still lingered. The sunset filtered through the leaves of the trees in the new forest. A book lay unopened beside his hand. He could see the life-force of the trees mingle with the rays of the sun. A squirrel moved along one of the branches, the creature’s own life-force visible as a point of golden light arching and connecting with trees and sun. Veleur walked quickly across the backyard and entered the back door with a sigh, suddenly in no hurry at all. “You said you would read that book,” he chided. Peter looked at the heavy tome, A Beginner’s Guide to Pagan Pathways. Sometimes Veleur acted more like a father or schoolmaster than a lover, but Peter tried to be patient. He had a great deal to learn, and Veleur, it seemed, had been a long time alone and was unused to compromise. “I know,” Peter said with a conciliatory smile. “The trees were rather more interesting.” “All day?” “I’ve never seen them like this before. Besides...” Veleur waited for him to speak on. His face had taken on its customary cast of smooth disdain. Peter could not find the words whilst addressing that. He reached out one hand to Veleur and beckoned. There was one word that best described Veleur: mercurial. His moods were deeply felt and unpredictable, but on this occasion he was placated. Veleur covered the distance between them and slid in beside him, hooking one leg casually over Peter’s so that they could fit together in the old armchair. “Besides?” he asked more gently. “You say there are others like us, partners exiled from our native land?”

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“Yes, and you will meet them soon; but first I want you to feel more sure of yourself.” Peter wasn’t so sure of Veleur’s reason, but he was patient and more than content to idle away the time in his beautiful cottage -- and its spacious featherbed. It had also given him time to think; his mind had found new purchase and fermented new ideas daily. Peter tried to explain. “And there have been others over the years, but none have yet overcome Maewyn’s binding?” “Not yet, but we have not given up hope, even as our numbers dwindle. What has been made by one man can be unmade by others.” Peter nodded. “And each man or woman that has come to you has learned your ways, your powers, as you understand them?” Veleur craned to look at Peter quizzically. His eyes were sparking with interest, and a hint of affront. “Go on.” Peter tried to assemble his slow-forming thoughts. “St. Patrick had only his native power and was young and untaught when he was enslaved. The shape and discipline of his mind came from the church -- as, indeed, did mine. And I am like him, to some extent, in that my faith is still with me. I do not think Jesus somehow invented God; He is eternal and has been known imperfectly through many faiths. Do not frown, Veleur; hear me.” “I do hear you, Peter --” Veleur’s body was tense, and Peter hurried on. “To reverse St. Patrick’s work, we must know his mind, his heart. You are trying to unmake me, my faith, my way of thinking, and overwrite it with...” “Blasphemy?” Veleur offered wryly. “Sacrilege?” “You own perspective, that is all. But this is all about knowing St. Patrick and understanding his work. That is the most important thing, and perhaps I am better able to do that my own way. Even the league calls him Maewyn, but it is St. Patrick we must come to know.”

Knowing Patrick

17

Veleur frowned again, as he always did when Peter called Patrick ‘Saint’. Peter put his arm around Veleur, then laid his head against his lover’s shoulder. The heat of their bodies blended, and Peter could feel the elf leaning, curving into him. As Veleur turned to kiss him, Peter heard the book slide and hit the wooden floor. Veleur’s hands settled on Peter possessively and insinuated beneath his shirt, the touch striking sparks that rippled across Peter’s skin. Their disharmony was washed away effortlessly by mutual desire. Peter moaned, and Veleur conceded in a husky voice... “Know Patrick as you like. So long as I know Peter.”

Emily Veinglory Emily Veinglory is an animal behaviorist by day, freelance writer and illustrator by night. Author of previous novellas Broken Sword and Alas, the Red Dragon, she loves to write gay romance and erotica in fantasy settings. When not writing, she is busy walking a hyperactive collie and trying to make a living. For more information, visit www.veinglory.com.

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