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Matty	By : flagfish Category: Death Note > Yaoi-Male/Male Views: 2314 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor do I make any money from writing this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Prologue
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 4
- 5
- 6
During the years that passed, the land was plagued with strife, illness and fires and wars, the conquest of southern Britain by the Saxons, which lead to agony and peril far beyond anything its people had seen.
For a long time, such houses of God as cathedrals and abbeys were lone places of sanctuary among the battlefields of war, but now even these were in peril, and the hospitals and monasteries that housed hundreds of injured women and men were no longer safe havens.
Missionaries rode out from Winchester to seek help in other lands, from places of solace that might help to carry the burden of the injured and ailing, and had traveled as far to the east as Kent, where the reaches of conquest had yet to invade.
Distastefully resigned to his duty as priest, Mello would have loved nothing more than to fight in the wars, himself, but, to his vast dismay, he remained nevertheless indoors, surviving the battles while caring on the wards for those who weren’t so lucky.
When plans were announced of the missionaries to ride out, he practically grasped Roger by the collar of his robe and cried and shouted that he must go with them or he would go mad.
It was dangerous out there, but it had become all the more dangerous, too, to stay inside, so, after several long arguments and many hours of deliberation, at last Mello was granted permission to ride out with the missionaries to the east.
It wasn’t easy. Conditions along the roads were hard in the autumn, and downright brutal in the winter that followed after that, and the small group of men battled with illness and challenge all along the way.
When staying one night near a river in their camp, Mello had gone down to the water to wash his clothes and to bathe. Now nearly twenty, he had grown to the full height of a man, yellow hair framing softly the narrow angles of his face and down to his shoulders from there.
He knelt quietly by the river’s edge, long fingers careful as he worked at unraveling the laces of his habit. He was just about partway pulling it over his head when he heard rustling, a disruption of the water’s surface and distant voices from somewhere far off—then nothing.
Waiting for several moments more, he pulled his robe all the way over his head, and then, returning his attention to his hands’ work, he began quietly to dip it in the water, then scrub it against the rocks. The cross around his neck felt cold, metallic against the naked skin of his chest—the only part of him, perhaps, that was priestly at all, a fate from which it seemed perpetually impossible to escape.
He’d never given up.
There would be a day, Mello knew, he’d escape at last. Disciplined and intense, he worked hard at his tasks until then.
Laughter, voices in the water, there it came again—not so distant after all. A woman’s voice, he realized, and a man’s, and then, after a few moments more, he bit hard at his lip, eyes going wide with embarrassment when he understood. He grabbed quickly at his robe, quietly, and turned around, making his way swiftly back to the camp.
Discipline for a priest came manifested in more ways than one, and, intensely controlled, Mello never did indulge himself in ways of the flesh. On what he missed out, he was acutely aware, and acutely aware also of what to refuse, when to hold back, despite the curiosity that came natural with adolescence and age.
He was angry, too angry inside, and this perhaps came with the intensity of discipline and self-control, with the focus of perfectionism and competition, with years of suppressed pain from childhood and further on.
He had hardly begun to rinse his habit and hadn’t bathed at all, but, not daring to return to the river bed, he hung it quietly to dry by the camp, wrapping himself in a sheet before turning to sleep at the edge of the camp, not terribly far from the others.
If there were people nearby, this meant they were probably near the town, probably not terribly far from Canterbury.
Priesthood or not, Mello still carried his sword; he’d grown into it throughout the years, and, priesthood or not, he had learned of his own accord to use it. He had it with him now, and, beneath the sheets, he grasped tightly onto the rigid handle, prepared at any moment to strike out at enemies in a manner so very unbecoming to a priest.
He woke up with a start, when, some time later, he felt upon his face the distinct splatter of water drops, just against his forehead, against the closed membranes of his eyes, and, reflexively, he spun around with his sword. He slashed blindly in the darkness, naked and entangled in a cocoon of sheets, and managed to toppled the figure of another person to the ground.
Breathing hard as he stood above him in the darkness, Mello pointed his sword directly down until he felt it come in contact with flesh, and, without releasing him, he hissed,
“Who the hell are you?”
Silence.
In the pitch darkness, Mello could feel against the hard tip of his sword the human rhythm of inspiration, expiration at his victim’s throat.
“That’s quite a sword,”
Came a soft whisper in return.
A young male voice.
And, in the darkness, Mello thought he could almost see him grinning, and there was a bout of pain there in his heart, something about this that brought back to life sorrows long suppressed.
Mello didn’t move a muscle when there came the subtle weight of fingers on his sword, a human hand curiously inspecting the wide metal edge all along its length.
“I’ve only ever known,” came the voice again, “one other boy who carried a sword like this.”
Mello allowed it, standing frozen and curiously stunned, hot skin electric with reverberating shivers as haunting echoes of the past raced all throughout him.
Gently, he felt the pressure let up against his weapon as the person moved back, and then the heavy metal tip fell to the ground with a quiet thud. In the darkness, the silhouette of a man slowly rose to its feet; Mello’s breath hitched as he felt the hot digits of his hand reach toward his naked chest, closing with familiar gentleness around the cross on his rosary.
Neither one of them said a word, but there was only the humid, hot flow of breath, and, for some reason he could not understand, Mello allowed him to inspect his cross, tug softly at it in the darkness, slide his long fingers all around the hard edges of its angular shape.
“You left—you left this by the river bed—“
Came the boy’s soft whisper, and, in the darkness, one of his hands rose to reveal a long stretch of rope, the bind Mello used to secure his habit.
That voice.
Mello’s sword dropped entirely from his hand. For reasons he couldn’t understand, he reached forth, long arms stretching blindly in the darkness, grasping at the other boy, holding him tightly to himself, heart racing and skin trembling alive.
That voice. That scent. That body, which once he held close to himself, so many years ago.
Matty.
To be continued…
- 4
- 5
- 6
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Matty