Brothers

They called it the brotherhood when he first arrived. He was eighteen and fresh out of high school. He loved the sound of it. Everyone preferred saying it. No one mentioned monk anymore, only the priests here and there. He was happy. It didn’t matter that his parents disapproved. His only desire was to serve the Lord.

It sounds wrong to his ears now. He avoids saying it. He tastes it whenever he tries. He despises the staleness it brings. It makes him nauseous.

His crime was falling in love. He didn’t plan it. It had happened when he wasn’t paying attention. He never acknowledged it. Not until he came to him. They used to love him, that boy. Everyone, even the tutors. He loved him too. How he made him feel. His laughter. How he looked at him. It was that love that carried him out of his room late that night, into the garden behind the chapel. It was also that love that made him stand his ground when Fr. Patrick caught them and brought them to the panel.

They don’t love him so much now. Not when both of them are standing in front of the congregation, their hands tied together, backs against each other, awaiting their judgment. Their eyes are closed in obedience and meditation, their robes white, a symbol of penance. Even now, a giggle is bubbling somewhere in his stomach. Whether he lives or dies, he still loves the Lord. He wonders if the other side truly exists and if he'll find peace.

My second entry for @vermillionfox's flash fiction contest

Image is from the original post.