L'Eglise Aristotelicienne Romaine The Roman and Aristotelic Church

[Kalixtus]

fffffdddddddddddf~ Palazzo Doria-Pamphilj su Campo Marzio a Roma ~




The Palazzo was a modest jewel—a masterpiece of elegance and solemn dignity. Fittingly, it had once belonged to Pope Innocentius himself, and from that venerable pontiff, Kalixtus had acquired both the edifice and the surrounding lands. From the very first step across its threshold, he felt wholly Roman; the courtyard, with its murmuring fountain, offered a sanctuary for silent contemplation—a Roman invention, born of the desire to flee the day's heat through the cool shade and the refreshing play of water. The crystalline spring flowed tirelessly, cooling the air, nourishing the citrus trees and potted plants that flourished in such abundance one might believe oneself upon entering the garden of Paradise. Kalixtus cherished these plants; they were living adornments, meticulously tended, each leaf a silent prayer.

As he wandered through the arcades and colonnades of the palazzo, each step revealed a new vista, a new angle, a shifting interplay of light and shadow. Both Innocentius and Kalixtus had shared the same ardent passion—for art, for the sensual and the vital. The art they fostered was a celebration of God's creation, a hymn of praise to mankind and the flesh, revering the divine and the earthly in equal measure. Kalixtus adorned the house as though it were a sanctuary, with myriad works of art that unified the human and the sacred. The walls he draped in the finest, shimmering damask and heavy silks of resplendent crimson, set against panels of gold-gleaming leather. The marble floors, laid in intricate patterns, mirrored the beauty of the richly frescoed ceilings above—a consummate harmony of opulence and grace.

Aesthete in all things, the Cardinal gave no thought to frugality. Comfort, hygiene, and repose were all granted the noblest of provisions. Particular attention he paid to the bath—a sanctuary fashioned like a Roman temple, wrought in marble and bronze, a refuge of calm and renewal.

With an almost ceremonial gait, the Cardinal would pass through the resplendent halls, by mirrors that glittered in golden frames, past deep-set windows whose niches bore finely arranged statuettes and porcelain treasures. Crystal chandeliers and gilded commodes adorned the chambers, and chairs of exquisite design invited the guest to linger. Sunlight, streaming through lofty panes, bathed the halls in gentle luminescence, while the scent of lemon blossoms wafted in from the garden, mingling with the faint, cool breath of marble. No, Kalixtus was not merely content—he was deeply, sublimely fulfilled. With his arrival, a new life breathed into these ancient walls; a life-force that warmed the stone and heralded a radiant new epoch.

Yet above all reigned his study and private sanctum—the place of thought and inward retreat, a chamber consecrated to matters eternal and essential. Opening onto a generous balcony, it overlooked his vast park, which unfolded toward the Temple of Artemis, set within the estate itself, now gracefully integrated into the grand arrangement of pools and gardens. Here, in this innermost sanctum, the clamour and vibrancy of Rome were neither seen nor heard. Only the expanse of Mediterranean serenity stretched forth—roses, white peacocks flitting across the grass, and Anasari asleep beneath the pavilion. On occasion, family and guests would be received, for this part of the estate was protected by the highest security.

From his balcony, the Cardinal could gaze beyond the wall toward the palace of Pope Sixtus; they were, in a manner, neighbours. The Colosseum, too, was visible—both from above and from the gardens, so near it stood. Thus did the Cardinal’s gaze rest upon both past and present: the Colosseum, a site of the gravest atrocities against the Aristotelian world, and beside it, the enduring symbol of the Church—an institution that had outlasted empires and, God willing, would continue to do so.

To gain entry into the Palazzo, one had to pass through two gates. The first marked the threshold between the outer world and the generous inner court—a courtyard where the fountain murmured even in winter, surrounded by a meticulously symmetrical garden. Artfully sculpted shrubs and bushes lent the air either a spicy or floral note, depending on one’s path, each vista subtly enhancing the perception of the arcades and galleries to one side, and on the other, the commanding presence of the palatial edifice in snow-white marble.

This idyllic impression served merely as a prelude, completed by the high, walkable perimeter wall upon which sentries and marksmen took their posts. Lemon and orange trees stood proudly in massive terracotta urns along the ramparts, offering both fragrance and strategic concealment—for behind their foliage, guards could take cover should the defense of the wall be required.

Naturally, the main entrance too was heavily guarded. The great iron gates remained closed to all save those in possession of an invitation to a private audience.

_________________

[Siemen_van_Leeuwen]

The young man approached the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj as the first pale light of morning brushed the city.

He wore a simple yet carefully chosen blue doublet—modest enough not to offend his host’s elegance, but fine enough to reflect the respect he held for Cardinal Kalixtus. The deep blue of his attire complemented his striking eyes, though today they flickered with nervousness beneath calm restraint.

The massive white perimeter wall stood before him, a fortress of gleaming marble and stone, smooth and tall, stretching wider than the eye could trace. Its surface caught the dawn’s early rays, faintly glowing with the softest gold. Atop the wall, slender balustrades cradled terracotta urns heavy with citrus trees—orange and lemon branches bursting with fragrant fruit, their scent carried gently on the cool morning breeze.

The main entrance gate loomed ahead—a massive structure of huge double doors set in wide, towering walls. The doors remained firmly closed. Above them, huge terracotta vats overflowed with flourishing orange trees, their leaves glowing faintly in the morning light. Siemen noticed the trees’ golden fruits shimmering like scattered jewels, but behind those vats, hidden in the semi-darkness, watchful archers stood ready, cloaked in shadow, unseen by him. Guards clad in gold and white robes, muscle-bound and heavily armed, stood at either side of the gate—silent sentinels guarding the threshold between the outer world and the sanctuary within.

His heart pounded quietly in his chest. Since his last encounter with Kalixtus, doubt and unease had settled in his mind. He had spent many hours at the church, kneeling in prayer before the image of Raphaella, pleading for strength and clarity, desperately hoping to quell the feelings stirring within him—a secret crush on the Cardinal he wished would fade. Yet now, standing here, the grandeur of the place overwhelmed him, and he felt as if he were already standing before the Cardinal’s commanding presence.

Despite the gate’s closure, the young man stepped forward, heart pounding. He had no letter, no formal summons. The Cardinal’s presence lingered in his mind, refusing to be ignored, and so here he was, driven by thoughts he wished would vanish. He had spent extra time at the church praying to Raphaella, hoping to quiet these feelings that crowded his heart and mind.

Swallowing hard, he bowed nervously to the guards and stammered, “I-I w-w-would l-like to r-r-request an a-a-audience w-with C-C-Cardinal K-K-Kalixtus, p-please.”

The guards exchanged a brief glance. One of them produced a white falcon from a nearby perch. The bird was swift and sleek, a trusted messenger of the Palazzo.

With practiced ease, the falcon was released, soaring skyward with a swift flap of wings, carrying the inquiry to Kalixtus.

The young man stood waiting, his chest tight, every breath shallow and fast.
_________________

Schildknaap van Didicus Crescenzi. Baron van Waterland

[Kalixtus]

It never took long to receive such information. Kalixtus was swift in his decisions—efficient, and at times as cold and merciless as the ocean itself, that vast, glittering expanse which offered both nourishment and death, arriving either in iridescent hues that promised false security, or in towering icebergs, drifting silently like colossal islands toward their own inevitable demise.

The white falcon returned with an answer, and the guards—who had not taken their eyes off the young man—obeyed the command of the White Lion of Eros. The signal to open the gate was given. With a resounding clank and thunderous jolt, the great internal mechanisms—the fortified hinges and security locks—were released, before a deep, echoing rumble seized the moment and then yielded to silence.

One, two seconds passed. Then the monumental gate groaned beneath its massive weight as the twin doors opened in perfect symmetry for Siemen, revealing the path into the courtyard.

The morning sun, reflected from the white marble, dazzled all who dared enter—as if it were the eternal light of the Almighty Himself, radiating from within a paradisum, humbling every soul who crossed its threshold and compelling them to lower their gaze.

With a thunderous click, the doors locked into place, and the guards stepped aside.

Of course, the crossbowmen kept their bolts at the ready. They trusted no one. Their eyes, sharp and vigilant, tracked Siemen’s every step—guided by a providence that was both watchful and unflinching.

Whether Siemen was aware of this or not remained unclear. The movement of the archers, half-hidden between massive terracotta planters, was the mimicry of shadows. The wall—a wide construction of solid marble—could never be broken through, though it might, in time, be begun.

At night, the Cardinal illuminated wall and Palazzo alike with bright oil lamps, whose golden light was flung back by the whiteness of the stone—noble, brilliant, and serene in its reflection.

But now—now Siemen stood before a geometric courtyard composed of paths, beds, and carefully trimmed hedges, all laid out with a sacred symmetry around a central fountain: a holy mathematics wrought in green and marble. The scent of thousands of blossoms drifted from the walls and mingled with the ethereal fragrances rising from the garden beds.

The murmur of cascading water, flowing from golden figures of Greek mythology, rose up in harmony with the presence of a gilded, unclad Poseidon, his powerful trident raised. He gazed down upon the gate—upon the visitor—as a warning deity of the deep. In this tableau, one saw clearly: Kalixtus, too, laid claim to the nature of water. A life philosophy that spoke volumes of the man.

Here and there along the paths, one might glimpse snow-white peacocks spreading their magnificent plumage in the sunlight, or dozing in the shade of walls and arcades.

Those who veered westward would pass through the arcades into the older wing of the Palazzo complex, where the Cardinal had established a gallery and museum—occasionally open to select visitors. The exhibits were drawn entirely from antiquity. Artists of Italy and ancient times portrayed scenes from the mythologies of the old gods, and at times, the formidable rulers of Rome’s storied past.

The Cardinal was a patron of the arts and cherished these relics dearly.

Before the entrance to the palace itself stood statues of Aristotle and Christos—silent, solemn guardians before another grand gate, before which stood further guards, already observing the newcomer with quiet intensity.

_________________

[Siemen_van_Leeuwen]

The white falcon returned with an answer. The guards—who had not taken their eyes off the young man—seemed to understand without words. One gave a subtle nod.

Then came the signal.

With a resounding clank and thunderous jolt, the great internal mechanisms—the fortified hinges and security locks—were released, before a deep, echoing rumble seized the moment and then yielded to silence.

One, two seconds passed.

Then the monumental gate groaned beneath its massive weight as the twin doors opened in perfect symmetry for Siemen, revealing the path into the courtyard.

The morning sun struck the white marble ahead, so bright it made Siemen squint and instinctively lower his gaze—as if the light itself came from the Almighty, radiating out of some sacred place he wasn’t sure he belonged.

With a thunderous click, the doors locked into place, and the guards stepped aside.

Siemen stepped forward slowly.

His legs felt stiff, uncertain—as if the sound of the gates opening had echoed through his bones. The courtyard ahead was blindingly white and symmetrical, too perfect to belong to earth, too radiant not to stir awe and trepidation in equal measure.

He swallowed and kept walking.

His heart pounded—again—and not with the confidence of righteous duty, but with confusion, nerves, and second thoughts. The fountain's quiet song stilled his feet.

He stopped.

His chest rose and fell with quiet urgency as he looked toward the water.

He had no business here.

This was a mistake.

Why had he come? To seek counsel? Or simply because he couldn’t stop thinking of Kalixtus?

A sharp pang gripped his stomach. He clenched his hands, ashamed.

Karsten’s face filled his mind—Karsten, who had stood beside him for years, who had always been patient, constant, kind. Karsten, the closest thing he had to a friend.

And now he was here, entertaining thoughts that betrayed that loyalty. That twisted the shape of gratitude into something selfish. Sinful.

His lips parted, and his eyes rose to the image of Poseidon.

But it was not the old gods he turned to.

He stepped forward, quietly, toward the edge of the fountain, and with trembling fingers touched his breast and then brought his hands together.

“B-blessed R-Raphaella…” he whispered under his breath. “P-please. T-take these f-feelings f-from me. R-r-remove this… th-this… temptation f-from m-my heart. I-I d-don’t want it. I w-want t-to be good.”

He bowed his head low, the scent of the lemon blossoms settling softly around him. He stayed there a while, murmuring pleas beneath his breath, his fingers tightening against each other until the knuckles went pale.

And yet…

Even as he prayed, even as his heart broke with guilt, the image of the Cardinal returned. Kalixtus—standing in a sunbeam like an eternal judge, inscrutable and beautiful.

When the prayer was done, no answer came.

Only silence.

Doubt sat heavy on his shoulders.

He should turn back. He knew it.

But somehow, against his will, his feet began to move.

He stepped forward. Then again.

And again.

He passed the peacocks, the hedges, the final marble path.

And soon, the statues rose up before him—Aristotle and Christos, watching with ageless wisdom.

He stopped once more, dropped his gaze, and bowed deeply before them both.

“G-give me strength,” he whispered.

And then, slowly, trembling but carried forward by something he could no longer name, the young man lifted his head—and met the eyes of the guards waiting for him.
_________________

Schildknaap van Didicus Crescenzi. Baron van Waterland

[Kalixtus]

The gates of the main entrance slammed shut once more, their heavy rumble echoing across the courtyard like distant thunder. Siemen was now trapped—there was no way back. Only forward. The guards opened the inner gate of the palazzo.

Beyond the powerful iron gates stood a young and striking servant. He was dressed in white garments embroidered with gold thread, signifying his rank in the service of the Cardinal. With a graceful motion, he gestured for the guests to follow.

The entrance hall, like the entire palace, was hewn from immaculate white marble, exuding an air of cool, majestic solemnity. Along the walls unfurled masterfully painted frescoes, portraying the ascent of souls into the solar paradise. Far above, at the dizzying height of the domed ceiling, a radiant golden sun spread its light across the hall, joined by the warm gleam of a grand chandelier casting its glow over the sweeping staircase.

Tastefully carved furniture, exquisitely painted porcelain vases, and lush exotic plants adorned the space. Gilded mirrors shimmered in the shifting light, while great wall clocks ticked with a deep and rhythmic pulse—a constant, gentle reminder of mortality.

The servant moved noiselessly ahead, guiding Siemen through the hall and into the grand salon. This expansive room opened toward the sun-drenched park through a wall of towering windows, dissolving the boundary between interior and exterior.

The salon was furnished with the utmost refinement: a plush arrangement of seats invited repose, while an enormous portrait dominated the far wall. The master of the house, Kalixtus, draped in flowing robes, gazed down with solemn gravity. In his right hand rested the Holy Dogma, while his raised index finger bestowed a gesture of benediction—an austere symbol of divine authority.

Still, the Cardinal did not appear. Silently, the guests followed the servant further, stepping onto the vast terrace. Beneath a canopy of gently billowing fabric, a shaded sanctuary unfolded. A grand table, surrounded by finely crafted chairs, was set in opulent elegance—bowls of ripe fruits and nuts stood beside fresh flowers perfuming the air, and slender candelabras flickered gently in the breeze.

But the Cardinal was not there.

The servant continued onward, leading them through the Mediterranean gardens, past blooming flower beds and towering cypress trees, until they arrived at the shimmering waters of a vast pool.

It was not a mere pool, but an entire aquatic landscape—a Roman basin inlaid with intricate mosaics of shimmering mother-of-pearl and gold. The designs formed a complex astrological pattern, surely imbued with hidden meaning to those versed in such matters. One of those was the Cardinal himself, a being elevated beyond the material world, presiding cosmologically above all such earthly things.

The water extended all the way to the ancient Temple of Artemis, which stood solemnly on the Cardinal’s estate. The entire pool was fed by cascading springs, pouring forth fresh water in rhythmic abundance.

Kalixtus swam through his waters, and as Siemen reached the edge of the garden path, it was time for the master to receive his guest.

Anasari, his white lion, lay in the shade of a great pavilion near the rose beds, which the beast seemed fond of smelling. The rose gardens were his favorite place to rest—and Kalixtus, too, had a deep affection for roses.

With long, fluid strokes, Kalixtus swam toward the edge. The water barely rippled. Then, in a single, unbroken movement—graceful and deliberate, like a predator rising from stillness—he emerged from the pool.

Siemen saw him clearly now: the Cardinal had bathed entirely nude, and his body, radiant in the light of the sun, revealed itself in all its glorious splendor. Tiny droplets of water clung to his skin, refracting the light like scattered diamonds upon alabaster. His hairless frame possessed a beauty that rivaled the marble statues surrounding them. No sign of age clung to him—it was, perhaps, one of nature’s injustices. The water coursed along the lines of his muscles and gathered around his loins, where his manhood, framed with a symbol shaven into his skin—celestial in design, pure white like the hair on his head—stood like a sacred mark.

Kalixtus, ever conscious of his effect on others, stepped onto the soft grass. His long white hair had been woven into a strict French braid, tied with a golden ribbon at the crown of his head. The braid reached all the way to his lower back and moved with the rhythm of his steps—mesmerizing, almost hypnotic in its elegance.

As if on cue, half-naked servants appeared. Their garments—white and gold—revealed more than they concealed, displaying not only their strength but the full beauty of the male form.

With reverence and precision, they clothed Kalixtus in a floor-length cloak of ivory silk, open at the front. The Cardinal made no move to conceal his body as he approached Siemen. His ice-blue eyes fixed on the young man with quiet intensity.

_________________

[Siemen_van_Leeuwen]

Siemen followed the silent servant through the marble halls like a lamb being led to the altar.

The Palazzo was no ordinary place. The entrance alone stole his breath—cool white marble beneath his feet, a radiant golden sun painted on the ceiling above, frescoes of ascending souls along the walls. Every ticking clock, every carved chair, every shaft of filtered light through tall windows whispered holiness. Majesty. Judgment. It felt less like a home and more like the inside of some divine cathedral—one where he did not belong.

And yet, step by trembling step, he kept walking.

Every corridor they passed deepened the weight in his chest. The frescoes. The chandeliers. The sunlit grandeur. All of it was magnificent. Terrifying. Divine. And everywhere—everywhere—he felt him. Kalixtus. The palace pulsed with the Cardinal’s presence, as if it had been shaped by his will alone. Every vase, every flower, every slant of golden light arranged with purpose. His purpose.

The young lion—he had always tried to live as he was named: quiet, steady, bound by duty. A lion who did not roar. But with every step into this sacred den, he felt that obedience being tested.

He was not walking into a palace.

He was walking into a lion’s den.

Not just any lion—the White Lion of Eros. The Alpha.

And Siemen, trembling and devout, walked straight into his jaws.

His hands began to tremble somewhere between the second and third antechamber. By the time they reached the terrace, the cool breeze of the garden could do little to steady him. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure the servant could hear it. Every part of him screamed turn back, but his feet would not obey.

He fought to mask his awe—but failed. The beauty pressed down on him—oppressive, overwhelming. Not just wealth, but raw conviction. Power.

Then they reached the pool.

Siemen’s breath caught.

There he was.

Kalixtus.

Swimming like something pulled from the First Age—untouched by time, unmarred by sin. He moved through the water as if it parted for him in worship. A creature born of stillness and command. Every movement perfect. Unbroken. Divine.

Siemen froze at the edge of the path.

He could not move.

His lips parted, but no breath came.

Then the Cardinal rose.

A single motion—fluid, terrible, impossibly beautiful.

And Siemen saw him.

All of him.

The water clung to Kalixtus like worship itself—each drop a gleaming jewel upon skin like sculpted marble. His form was flawless, radiant, and far too real. And there, carved into the pale flesh above his manhood, was the sacred mark—his celestial seal. The proof of what he was. Who he was.

A shiver coiled through him.

Heat flushed his cheeks, blood surging where he prayed it would not.

He turned his head—but too late. The image had already seared itself into the hollows of his mind.

His knees nearly buckled beneath him.

“Oh… D-dear Jah,” he whispered—not just a breath but a sound, raw and shaken.

The Cardinal’s pale eyes lifted.

He began to walk forward.

Slow. Deliberate. Unashamed.

The ivory robe draped across his shoulders like a second skin, open and flowing, revealing everything Jah had given him. He made no move to hide, no gesture toward modesty—divinity excused all.

Siemen closed his eyes.

It didn’t help.

The image—that image—was burned into him now. Branded on the inside of his eyelids. In his pulse. In his breath.

He felt sick. Shame coiled in his stomach like a serpent—and still, that unbearable fire roared beneath it. The thoughts he had tried to crush under hours of prayer returned stronger now. Unwelcome. Filthy. Honest.

He had come seeking clarity. Instead, he found his undoing.

His name meant 'obedient lion'—a quiet strength bound by duty. But here, before the White Lion, his obedience faltered. His body betrayed him. His mind betrayed him. Every whispered sin he'd fought to silence rose up like a tide inside him.

Still trembling, he dared a glance.

Kalixtus’ eyes were waiting—ice blue, unreadable, merciless in their certainty.

Siemen tried to speak.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

His throat was dry. His heart thundered.

He swallowed again.

And there he stood—the obedient lion—alone and exposed before the white one.
_________________

Schildknaap van Didicus Crescenzi. Baron van Waterland

[Kalixtus]

Here was his dominion — his very center. Some singular substance seemed to emanate from this throbbing heart at the core of Rome. A heartbeat that moved between the millennia, relentless, palpable, a tremor intoxicating, beguiling — even dangerously animalistic.

All around him breathed the essence of Kalixtus; and all around him appeared drawn to him, orbiting like planets about the sun in a cosmos that existed solely for him. It was a spectacle for the outer world, whose fragments — like wayward asteroids — merely passed him by in glancing proximity. But for him, the White Lion, this world — his world — was the only one. His perception remained unclouded while others surrendered to the raptures and perfumes of the dominion over which he ruled. Senses that gorged themselves in orgiastic delight — thirsting for fulfillment, for anointing, for revelation… for attention. That rare, warm satisfaction of being seen — by Him, by Kalixtus. The name alone was a promise. A name layered with more meaning than pages in a book.

And now he stood, bathed in sunlight before Siemen — unveiled, revealed, and in this form more heroic than ever before. Kalixtus could see how the image offered to Siemen would burn itself into his memory for eternity. How his eyes brushed over his body like the greedy hands of one dying of thirst reaching for a vessel of water. Like lips cracked by the desert heat receiving the first sacred drop granted to them in an oasis.

Kalixtus knew these gazes. He savored every one, for they were sacrament and testament — that he, once a slave, was now a god. A god of the ancient days. Like Apollo or radiant Helios. Kalixtus, the fairest.

He ran his long, crescent-shaped nails across the boy’s face. He traced his eyebrows, moved along the cheekbones, until he brushed the lips that now contorted like fire spreading through him — igniting every part of the young man. Kalixtus governed Siemen’s thoughts, his dreams, his fate — and now, here and now, his body as well, whose masculinity strained beneath his garments toward him. Toward him — Kalixtus, Lord over the realms of the Sun.

"Welcome," spoke the Cardinal. "Welcome to my humble dominion here in the heart of the Eternal City."
The warm, dark voice — with that timbre that made every word sound like a salving excerpt from sacred scripture — pierced the room like rays from the mother star.

But how could this be? What power — no, what sorcery — was it that this man commanded, that mortals should surrender and deify him so? It was the shimmer of immortal aether, spun around him by God’s grace like a thin, invisible thread — woven from potent conviction and perfect harmony.

Cardinal Kalixtus knew who he was.

He was… everything.

_________________

[Siemen_van_Leeuwen]

The young man's heart thundered in his chest, loud and unrelenting, as if trying to warn him, or perhaps to flee from his own ribs. The moment Kalixtus' fingers touched him—those long, curved, glinting nails—his breath caught like silk on thorns.

It was not a touch. It was possession.

He flinched—but not from fear. From the fire. From the way Kalixtus' hand moved with such terrifying patience, tracing his brow, his cheek, down to his lips, which now trembled and parted with a faint, helpless sound—

A whimper.

“D-Dear J-Jah…” he whispered, shaking.

He swallowed hard, the heat blooming violently beneath his skin. His thoughts screamed. His flesh betrayed him. That shivering breath he let out—he hated it. He needed it.

His voice, when it came, was barely more than air.

“Th-thank you… f-for accepting me…”

He bowed. Or tried to. The motion nearly unmade him—blood rushed from his head to places it had no business being, and his vision swam with white edges and shame.

He gasped and staggered, a hand nearly reaching out to steady himself before he forced it back. No. He would not fall. Jah would not let him fall. Not here. Not yet.

He wrapped his arms tightly around himself—not to hide, but to hold himself together. If he didn’t, he feared he might fall apart right there in front of him.

He straightened, grateful to still be upright. But he didn’t dare meet Kalixtus' gaze.

He shouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

And yet…

His eyes betrayed him. Lifted. Looked.

And there they were—those eyes, colder than ice, deeper than truth. Looking through him. Into him. Past every lie he told himself. Every mask of piety. Every carefully stacked stone of his faith, his control, his supposed virtue. It all cracked beneath that gaze.

He couldn’t breathe.

His face flushed crimson with shame. With longing. With the unbearable ache of being seen—not just seen, but known. Entirely. Down to the ruinous hunger curling inside him.

His body wanted. Jah, it wanted.

His heart beat like a bird thrashing against a golden cage.

And his mind—his poor, trembling mind—whirled with sin. With doubt. With the desperate urge to flee. This had been a mistake. A terrible, unforgivable mistake. He never should have come. Not here. Not to him.

Not to Kalixtus.

The man he could not stop thinking of. The man who haunted his prayers. Who unraveled him with a look. Who made his heart sing songs no faithful man should ever know.

He couldn’t move.

He wasn’t afraid.

No—that was the worst part. He wasn’t afraid at all.

He was unraveling. Every vow. Every conviction. Falling to pieces beneath the eyes of the White Lion.

And still, he stayed.

Jah help him.

He stayed.

Siemen tried to look at the ground—anywhere but at Kalixtus. He needed to regain his senses, to find some footing in the storm—but it was useless. His pants had become uncomfortably tight from where the blood had flown, and now he fought to hide it, twisting slightly, trying to angle his cloak. A futile attempt. He was certain Kali had seen. Seen what his body had done. How it had reacted to him.

His cheeks burned—hot with shame. With humiliation. With something far more frightening. He’d never felt like this for another man before. Not like this. Sure, some had made his heart flutter when they passed him by… but not like this. Not this fire. Not this hunger that stripped him bare.

What was wrong with him?

Why couldn’t he control himself like he always had? Why couldn’t he crush this sin?

He clutched his head between his hands, trying—desperately—to make sense of the storm in his mind, the thoughts crashing in on themselves like a dam breaking. His lips moved before he could stop them.

“W-what’s w-wrong w-with m-me?”

The words were faint. But real. Spoken.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His body was on fire and his mind—his faith—was in shambles. And still… the only thing in his head was the Cardinal. Always. Only. Him.
_________________

Schildknaap van Didicus Crescenzi. Baron van Waterland