Chapter 330 - 240: Bear Gathering Firewood
Sunlight danced on their bodies as they moved in the light.
The scent of their mingled sweat and the spicy fragrance of her hair filled his every breath, becoming a part of him. In the light, it all felt sacred.
He felt Cecilia tense beneath him and turn her head. He kissed her eyelids, her nose, her throat, and then her mouth.
As her lips parted beneath his, he tasted the sweet scent of malt.
He held her in his arms, and she wrapped her legs around him, embracing him tightly in return, giving and receiving.
When it was over, they lay pressed together under the Cloak, skin against skin.
Cecilia saw his golden hair haloed by the sun, as if they were creatures made of light.
Just then, an ill-timed gust of cold wind slipped through a gap in the Cloak, making her shiver. Goosebumps prickled her arms.
The trace of blood on her inner thighs quickly grew cold.
"Are you a little cold?" Eric asked suddenly.
They were pressed close. He stroked her, cupping her in his hand as easily as one might hold a sun-warmed apple.
"A little late to be asking, don’t you think?" Cecilia buried her face in his neck, feeling the thrum of his pulse. "Maybe you should have said, ’This isn’t a good idea, let’s find a proper place,’ from the start."
Her drawers had been pulled down from beneath her skirt, her chemise pushed up to her waist. And while Eric’s woolen Cloak was large and warm, cold drafts occasionally slipped through the gaps. But the sun was fully out now, its light warming the river, the boat, and her skin. She could draw warmth from Eric’s body, too, so it wasn’t unbearable. In fact, she quite liked this feeling.
He kissed her collarbone and her slender, pale throat, admiring the way the winter sun glowed on her skin.
Her youth and vitality were more intoxicating than mead, oysters, or pomegranates.
Her eyes were the black of charcoal ash, ringed with halos of amber around the pupils.
But he knew when to stop. He helped her dress, then caressed her cheek and said with a smile, "Alright, my mistake."
"The word ’mistake’ coming from you? That’s a rare thing indeed." Cecilia poked the corner of his mouth with a finger that smelled of beeswax. "You have no sense of occasion. I’ll let it slide this time, but on Saint Gall’s Day two years ago, you were a real menace. If we’d been caught, you would have lost your hands."
"I seem to recall you biting my tongue," Eric said with a laugh.
"Well, who told you to kiss me out of nowhere? We were ’borrowing’ something from Saint Gall, weren’t we? If Philip found out, he’d kill you. I’d wager on it."
"What was it again?"
"A silver platter. It had the story of Saint Gall and the bear engraved on it, I remember. A terrible engraving, though." Cecilia snuggled closer to Eric. "That story is pretty interesting.
"The blessed Saint was coming home on a winter’s night when he found a bear stealing his dinner. He gave it a good scolding and sent it off to gather firewood, and the bear became his servant. I’ve always wanted to see a bear gathering firewood for myself."
"So we ended up with nothing that day, because a certain someone was afraid of Saint Gall’s wrath. I had to take something from *her* instead." Eric began kissing her neck.
"Did you have to bring that up?" Cecilia pinched his ear. "But I’ve never understood why Saint Gall is the patron saint of chickens. Why do chickens even need a patron saint? Based on that famous story, he should be the patron saint of bears."
"Because he once drove an evil Demon from the body of a young girl. A whole group of Bishops tried to cast the Demon out, and all of them failed. But then the blessed Saint Gall arrived, and he cursed that Demon. He *cursed* it! And the Demon shrieked in terror.
"Then it fled from her body in the form of a black hen—a little black pullet!" Eric finished in an exaggerated, spooky voice, mimicking the Demon’s terror.
"I still like the story about the bear and the firewood better," Cecilia said, resting her forehead against his cheek.
"You’ll get your chance. I promise you. I promise, Cecilia." Eric continued to kiss her.
.....
Back when he was still at King’s Bridge Monastery, Eric would sometimes think that perhaps staying there and following the rules wouldn’t have been so bad.
In a way, he was lucky. Not everyone had the chance to become a Cultivator, not everyone could eat a full meal every day, and not everyone commanded respect in most places.
He could handle all the theological questions in the Monastery with ease. He always found a way to leave the old Cultivators and lecturers, so certain of their own knowledge, speechless.
The only trouble was that whenever they started losing an argument, they would pull rank on him. He never had a good answer for that. After all, he couldn’t just go around beating them all up.
So, eventually, he learned to hold his tongue. Making too many enemies did him no good—though he realized that a little too late.
If you are going to be in a group for a long time, it is best not to stand out too much.
This was especially true in a place like a Monastery, a community that, barring any surprises, you were a part of for life. Eating, sleeping, dressing, praying... nearly everything was done together. It was the communal life advocated by Benedict.