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Sins of the Flesh
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By Robin Lawrie
robinl@s054.aone.net.au
www.home.aone.net.au/what4/
Nov, 1998
DS9  G/B, S/O, [NC17] Treksmut Illustrated Moment

Summary: The Crusades over, it is a time of Pilgrimage and 
prayer, of travel and stories. Three monks stay at an Inn while 
the storm passes. In a spiritual journey, the needs of the flesh
intrude.

One for Heather, my favourite intern (with or without her Blue 
Dress).

Disclaimer:  Star Trek, Star Trek Voyager, and the characters 
in this story are the property of Paramount.
=======================================

The Hogshead was crowded with travellers and pilgrims. The 
black stained beams bent low across the ceiling, and the 
slated floor was covered in old reeds, straw, dogs, spilled 
wine, mutton bones, spit, and ale dregs. Behind a long bench 
on one side of the room were two large barrels, on their sides, 
a bucket under their still dripping taps. The innkeeper, 
O'Brien, his face flushed from sampling his own wares, was 
kept busy refilling the tankards and his wife from Foreign Parts
worked hard before the large open fireplace to provide bowls of hot
broth for the pilgrims, and joints of mutton for the more prosperous
travellers. Their daughter, Molly, sat playing with the wine dregs
dripping into the bucket.

The heavy iron clad door creaked open and a swirl of snow 
and fresh air followed the three cloaked figures that entered. 
Their plain brown robes were wet and frosted with ice. Their 
feet, still shod in sandals even in this weather, stamped 
numbly on the flagstone as if the cold slate could impart more 
heat just by pounding it. The tallest of the three flung back his
hood. It took a few heartbeats for the patrons of the Hogshead to
notice the black skin and the tonsured head of the priest. Then into
the silence came the murmurs "ahhh, the Crusades." "A Moor!" "Tis the
Lord's work." "The heathen has accepted God's grace."  They soon
turned back to their ales, curiosity sated.

`Come brothers. Let us warm ourselves and accept the 
hospitality of this house.'

The thin monk pushed his hood back with a fine boned, 
delicate hand. His dark curled hair tried to cover the shaven 
pate that marked his calling, just as his quick intelligent glance
showed little of a monks usual downcast modesty. `And not soon enough,
Father. For a fearful moment there I thought I'd be bringing my mount
in with me, so firmly was I frozen to the saddle. Luckily, the heat
from my ass...'

`That will do, Brother Julian.' The third monk shrugged his 
hood away, as they claimed a seat by the hearth. This monk's 
face was set in a dour frown of anger or repentance or regret. 
Brother Odo carried the burden and responsibilities of his 
vocation very seriously indeed and had no time for those who 
did not measure up to his standards. In his past life as the 
Sheriff of Northumberland, this attitude had proved equally 
useful. Now, after his spiritual awakening, he trod a new path. 
He could spare no time for humour. It was frivolous, 
unnecessary, and in its own way, dangerous. 

At the rebuke, Brother Julian's shoulder's slumped. `Yes, 
brother.' His eyes betrayed his lack of contrition. His vocation,
while honest and earnest, lacked the single minded obsession of his
brother's. Under holy orders, he'd been able to study and expand his
knowledge of healing. The Abbey tolerated his frequent lapses in
devotion, as his skill in treating the sick and lame drew new and old
souls into their church for blessing and conversion to God's path.

O'Brien greeted the monks, and provided mugs of hot spiced 
wine. His wife bought new bread, and a rich meaty soup. It 
always paid to be good to the clergy. Brother Julian kicked his 
leather satchel under the bench and attacked the meal with 
gusto. Brother Odo picked at his food as if the needs of the 
flesh did not apply to him. Father Sisko sipped his wine, and 
studied the fire. Their pilgrimage to the shrine of the Prophet 
was nearly over. They had another three days travel ahead of 
them, but with the storm now blowing hard across the moors, 
perhaps a days rest would be prudent.

`Innkeeper!'

`Yes, your Reverence.'

`We'll be needing lodging for tonight and tomorrow. Do you 
have rooms?'

`Aye we do, but just the one. And with just the one bed. It'll fit two
at a pinch, and thems best be real friendly, if you catch me meaning,
sorr, but for three?' O'Brien shook his head. 

`And that's it?' Father Sisko pressed.

`Weeeeelllll. I could set one of you up in the stable. It's dry 
enough, and the horses put out some heat, and the straws soft 
and not too stale.' O'Brien scuffed a toe on the stone floor. It irked
him that he couldn't provide better lodging for the holy men. `The
missus'll send you some blankets out. Y'should be all right.'

Brother Julian felt three pairs of eyes staring at him. It seemed the
decision had been made while he'd been stuffing crusty bread into his
mouth. `Ah. I see. Thank you, chief. I'm sure it will be lovely. Pay
it no heed. A bed fit for the baby Jesus is surely good enough for a
tired half frozen monk.'

O'Brien smacked his palms together. `Well done, brother. Well 
put indeed! A bed fit for the Christ child! Ha!' He ambled away 
pleased to have satisfied his guests.

`You best see to your lodgings then, Brother Julian.' The dark 
monk nodded towards the rear of the inn. 

As Brother Julian collected his satchel, and followed the 
"missus" out to the stable, Brother Odo shifted on the bench, 
until he was sitting up against Father Sisko, their rough brown 
robes pressing together, sharing heat. 

`And so to bed, Father?' came the quiet question, asked in a 
low, husky voice.

`As you wish, my son.' The fire reflected off the dark brown 
eyes that stared out from the dark, sweaty face. `Unless you 
have something to confess?'

`Don't I always? I am a sinner.'

A large brown hand placed a fragment of white bread between 
the brother's lips in a small gesture, quickly done, and 
unnoticed. 

`Aren't we all?'

***********

Brother Julian's robes whipped his thin legs, and his sandals 
sloshed through icy mud and horse shit as he crossed the 
courtyard to the stables. O'Brien's wife, with the irreverence 
expected of a Foreigner, had dumped the blankets in his 
arms, hooked a small lamp on his finger and pointed the way 
out the door. He struggled  with the heavy bar across the 
stable door, before he managed to elbow his way into the 
musty darkness of the stable. He backed against the door, and 
surveyed his new lodgings.

`Indeed.'

Three old and ill kept nags turned their heads towards him, 
looking over their stalls, blowing gusts through their noses at 
the intrusion of this Man. Along a ways at the back of the barn, he
could just make out the smaller shapes of their own three mules. Above
was the hayloft, set close to the pitched roof. A thick pole with
steps cut in provided a ladder of sorts. Unbundled hay and straw half
filled the loft. 

`Ah huh.' 

Brother Julian shifted his grip on the lantern, hitched his 
satchel close, and climbed up to bed.

************

`Your sins, Brother Odo,' the dark priest shook his head. 

`Penance? I will do the penance gladly, Father.' Please, 
Father. He lay face down on the floor, arms out, his bare back 
itching in anticipation, his cock, hard, pressed against the cold
dusty boards.

As will I, thought Father Sisko as he unpacked the flail from 
his bag. `Prepare yourself brother. Absolution is at hand.'

************

It was dry, and the hay smelled of summer, and was soft 
enough for comfort. He could have had a worse bed. Brother 
Julian pulled the blanket up and dragged more straw down 
over his legs. He reached over for the small lantern, and went 
to douse the flame. 

>From the far corner of the loft, came a sneeze.

`Bless you,' he muttered sleepily.

`Thank you, brother,' came a softly muffled reply.

`Wha...?' Brother Julian sat straight up and looked towards the 
voice. From the shadows, nearly beyond the reach of the 
lamps feeble glow, he could just make out the shape of a 
hunched figure, hooded, cloaked. Under this scrutiny, the 
figure seemed to cower slightly, then emboldened by the frank 
gaze of the young monk, he drew forward slightly, and then 
further, into the circle of light. The monk noticed the man's 
robes, that hinted at past finery, were now torn and muddied.  
His feet were wrapped in rags. 

`I mean you no harm, sir. I wasn't expecting company. The 
innkeeper made no mention of other guests in my loft, but you 
are welcome to share. You have a blanket? May I offer mine? 
The straw is quite adequate for me, and my robes are in better 
shape than yours, if you'll excuse the observation.' Brother 
Julian kept talking, puzzled but not afraid of his bedmate.

`Such kindness. I am ... unused to it. Achooo!' Deep within the 
hood, came snuffling and wiping noises. The monk's trained 
ear could easily pick up the solid wheezing from the heaving 
chest of his new companion. 

`Are you ill? You must be chilled, sir. Here. Come close. I 
have some small talent in the art of healing. Perhaps I can 
provide ease for that chest of yours?'

`You cannot heal me, brother. Many have tried, with no 
success. My sickness is not of this earth, of that I'm sure. 
Since birth, I have been different. It is as if I belong to another
place, a warmer clime perhaps, with others of my ilk. I know this in
my bones.' A dry hacking cough accompanied this speech. 

The monk's hands strayed to his satchel, as if sensing a 
challenge.

`Please. Would you let me try and help?'

`Help? Help me, would you?' A mocking laughter rasped out. 
`Help *this* then, holy man!' With a sweeping gesture, two 
hands reached out from under the man's tattered robes and 
pulled the hood from his head. 

`Sweet mother of Christ.' Brother Julian crossed himself, as he 
stared at the grey, wrinkled, ridged and deformed head 
presented to him. It seemed as if every feature of a normal 
man's face had been highlighted with bone and scale. The 
hair, by contrast was black and shiny, as if mocking the 
ugliness of the visage it framed. Two ridges of fleshy scale ran down
either side of the grey skinned neck, hinting that the deformity as
not confined to the face. Following the monk's gaze, and guessing at
his thoughts, the man skinned back the sleeves of his robe, and showed
the scaled and grey skin of his arms. 

`Oh yes, my handsome young friend. It goes all over. All over.'

`Even your...?'

The man smiled with humour sparking his eyes. `Yes brother. 
Even there.'

Brother Julian smiled as he saw that humour. He smiled as he 
recognised something of himself in this man whom life and 
God had so ill favoured. And with that smile, the man felt 
acceptance, from another human being, for the first time in a 
very long while.

***********

`With pain I cast out the evil within you! Your sins are struck 
from your ungodly flesh! Purify! Purify your spirit!'

`Yes! Yes! Oh God! Oh God!'

Father Sisko raised his arm up, on fire with the wrath of a  
cleansing spirit. He flicked his tongue to his lips, tasting the salt
of sweat and blood. As his arm descended, his cassock rubbed again and
again against his erection. But he'd do something about that after
Brother Odo was cleansed. 

***********

`Listen. That cough has nothing to do with your... your...'

`Problem?'

`Yes.' Brother Julian fussed about in his satchel, dragging out 
small wrapped parcels, inspecting their contents and putting 
them aside. `Ah. Here we go.' He held up a small vial, and 
shook it, gauging the amount remaining. `Just enough, I'm 
sure.'

`Enough for what?'

`Please, Mr... er... what was your name again?' the monk 
asked vaguely.

`I am known as Elim. It is a Foreign word, meaning Leper.'

`Elim. Is that Moorish?'

Elim glanced uncomfortably at the floor. `I have travelled 
widely in search of a cure. I know this much. I am not a leper.'

`No! Of course you're not! That much is blatantly obvious.' 
Brother Julian mumbled as he opened the stopper and sniffed 
the contents.

`But to the common man, I am labelled one. You, my dear 
brother, are an uncommon man.' His blue eyes sparkled, as 
he caught the young monks glance, then astonished him by 
winking. 

`I... well... Yes.' Brother Julian opened and closed his mouth on no
words. It wasn't like him to be unsettled by a patient like this. But
then again, he had never met a man like this before. He tried to
concentrate on his medicine first.

`Right. Well lets have that robe off, and I'll rub this on your 
chest. The herbs and oils will give ease and perhaps, with 
prayer, you can shake off that nagging cough. One less thing 
to trouble your journey.'

`You are too kind.' Elim unfastened the ties holding his robe 
closed, and peeled the tattered cloth from his upper body. He 
didn't flinch under the healer's stare. Having given the young 
man his trust, he was not about to test it so soon by looking for
faults. He lay down on the frayed blanket, feeling the coarse woollen
weave under his skin. Despite the ridges and the scales, his sense of
touch was unmarred. 

The young monk smeared the oil on his hands to warm it first, 
then spread his slender fingers across the grey and rippled 
chest. His eyebrows flew upwards in surprise at the heat of the 
skin under his fingers.

`You have a fever! Your skin burns!'

`No, my friend. My flesh lives hotter than yours. It is usual.'

`Indeed,' murmured the brother, already concentrating on the 
muscles and bone beneath his fingers, his eyes now closed, 
using his sense of touch alone, rubbing and smoothing, 
healing the body beneath him. It was his gift. 

Elim closed his eyes also. It had been too long since a man 
had touched him in this way. In any way. It wasn't love, but it 
was care. That would do. In a way, he could accept that far 
more easily than love. 

*************

Father Sisko put the flail away. It was done. The penitent lay 
bleeding on floor, spent and exhausted. He would stay there 
that night, amidst the dust and sweat, and do cruel duty to his 
beaten flesh. It was deserved. 

The dark monk stripped his cassock off, and ran a hand over 
his bald head. He held his hand away, flexing the muscles, 
turning it over and about, looking at the way the candle light 
shone on the muscles and the sinews. A strong arm, ready to 
do the Lord's work. Ready to punish, ready to cleanse. His 
hand strayed to his chest, brushing through the sparse hairs, 
over the nipples, erect in the room's cold air, then across the 
hard muscles of his flat stomach. He didn't watch as the hand 
grabbed the large erection. He didn't think about it as the hand began
to stroke his cock, gently at first then harder and faster. He didn't
watch as the drops of cum landed on the scarred and abused back of
Brother Odo, and the way his follower flinched at their salty touch. 

But afterwards, he couldn't help but notice how the flame from 
their candle burned a trail across his palm, scouring the 
badness from it.

Atonement was never easy for the sins of the flesh. 

**********

In the hayloft, above the sweaty earthy smell of the horses, 
amid the rustling of the mice and the thin whistling of the wind in
the gables, two men began to dream.

One dreamed of the thrill of finding a cure for the incurable. 
The ability to do God's work. The healing of the sick and the 
lame. By the laying on of hands, and the application of prayer, 
the use of his skill and his herbs and his lotions, he would cure
everyone. And pleasure was his reward.

The other dreamed of a smooth man with soft fingers. A man 
whose eyes saw everything and told everything and hid 
nothing. It was a painful dream. It was a deceptive dream. 

Elim woke and watched the rise and fall of his friend's bare 
chest. He saw the perfect face, lips parted slightly, long dark 
lashes on closed eyes. A hand lay open near his face, relaxed, 
with half curled fingers. He resisted the impulse to kiss it.

Elim gathered his belongings, and re-tied his robe. In the pre-
dawn light, he lowered himself down from the loft, stepped 
quietly passed the dozing horses, and slipped through the 
door. 

A man like him did not deserve Brother Julian.

***********

`Good morning Brother Julian. Sleep well?'

`Yes Father. And you?'

`Very well. Brother Odo and I are well rested.'

The three monks looked to their mounts, adjusted tack, and 
tightened straps. They rode out of the courtyard of the 
Hogshead together. The shrine of the Prophet was still three 
days away. The weather was clearing; there was no reason to 
stay another day.

The hooves clacked on the cobbles then thudded onto the turf 
of the path. 

Passing a large oak tree before the inn disappeared behind 
them, Brother Julian saw a shadow dart behind a nearby privet 
hedge. He turned, but casually, not wishing to draw attention 
to his action. He saw for a fleeting moment, a grey hand, 
wave, then disappear.

`Elim. I *will* find a cure,' he whispered.

**************
**************