Dominicus should have been glad that the era in which text copying was an integral part of Academy education had passed, but all he could think was couldn’t those grey-clad Ainjir louts copied a few more?
The trouble was now he had to find somewhere to READ the books with artfully-dicked covers that he had reserved for perusal. MOST were actually old and unpopular enough that the few copies to spare were not to leave the library, so no sneaking away to the many hidden corners of the grounds. These had to be stacked by the Librarians in his cubby at the end of each study session (he always took out two books on something respectable to try to mask his intentions, but felt the minute shifts and slightest hesitations of the Librarians betrayed their full understanding, and contempt for his foolish attempts at deception – he was here for the dick books, obviously).
Sure, he could risk decapitation, or whatever (fitting) punishment befell cadets who snuck books out of the library (he didn’t know, Dominicus would never), but to be decapitated for dick books would only compound his shame.
Memorizing the titles (writing them down would be foolish) and simply taking them on and off the shelves when he wanted courted discovery to an even greater degree. The Librarians strongly discouraged cadets replacing books on the shelves themselves; such sticky-fingered children could be hardly trusted to read the tomes they begrubbed, much less recall proper shelving order. The Librarians often roamed precisely to prevent such meddling, and were at great pains to note each removal and replacement at the tags at the end of each shelf listing the shelf’s contents. Having to replace and remove the title tag every time they noticed the book was missing from the shelf would only emphasize the fact that somebody was diligently referencing the dick books. The Library was not so busy a place they wouldn’t notice the world’s most noticeable cadet entering and leaving with dick-book-checking regularity.
To sneak the books on and off the shelf depended entirely on his ability to do so without the Librarians ever noticing by chance that the book was missing from the shelf. This was possible to achieve if he stayed within proximity of the shelf to observe the Librarians’ comings and goings. This meant being out in the open, observable, reading the books.
This he could not do.
So he took his stacks (today, a book on camouflage, a dick book, and a book on drill order) and roamed the Library looking for disused spaces. (As if to mock him, there were plentiful discreet alcoves just outside in the hall on the way to the kitchens, but again – decapitation, dick books, compounding).
The Library had been expanded, and moved, and rebuilt several times over the course of the Academy’s life. Despite the grand and purposeful edifice at the centre, this gave the place the odd shape and feel of several rooms bled together, because it was.
Dominicus now knew there was a section built out of a much lower-ceilinged, thicker-walled formerly-independent room the cadets tended to avoid, as it was occupied by its own Librarian and the texts within were for the most part forbidden to them. If one was going to run into anyone in this section, most likely it would be an actual officer or an ollamh or some other high-status official. Loitering in the vicinity lost much of its appeal when someone able to punish, question, or task you with onerous and unwelcome extra duties was your most likely company.
Conversely, it was dark, a little bit misshapen, and most of the attention given the space was focused on a particular area (the forbidden shelves) and unlikely to waver – almost perfect for surreptitious reading.
The Ainjir penchant for floor cushions also helped him here; he dragged one into a dusty corner, poorly but sufficiently lit for reading by sconces directed at the shelves above. Maybe it had once been a hearth, or housing for a column, but the builders had gone to come effort to make the roughly-hewn rectangular blocks make an awkwardly curved wall.
He lined the books, upright between his cushion and the wall, sinking his back carefully into the curve so no edges poked him (not an easy feat to accomplish while keeping enough light to read by). Once settled, he crossed his legs, tightly packed against wall and floor to ensure no limb could stray too far out.
Safely ensconced, he picked up the book – some time ago he had stopped putting the one book in the other book just in case someone did catch him reading – and sighed heavily. An impatient kind of discontent managed to overtake his paranoia. In spite of his most fervent hope that this whole experiment would prove useless and his inclinations not as severe as he feared, he still hoped THIS book was actually useful.
So far, he had discarded one of Feichín’s selections entirely after only the opening chapter. It had started promisingly, if didactically, purporting to be the words of a ‘teacher’ to an ‘avid student of love’ but had almost immediately devolved into a series of stories about people – who, the ‘teacher’ assured him, everyone knew of – fornicating with animals in ways that both required a great deal of engineering and an improbable degree of flexibility. This was excused by the insistence some participants were divine, but whatever his ignorance Dominicus was certain that even the largest falcon was too small for... whatever. And an elk...
Elk were mean. And stupid. And Loud.
Skipping ahead, the next section was titled ‘The Families’ so Dominicus quit.
Luckily that had not been the first text he tried out.
The first he hardly understood at all. Phrases jumped out, but the Ainjir it was written in, while not quite Old Ainjir, was too archaic for him to follow with the rudimentary lessons he had had thus far. It seemed to be an elaborate manual on courtship disguised in a story with characters named things like ‘TrueLover’ and ‘LoyalFlower’ mixed in with occasional historical figure. Much of the instruction, painfully inserted between improbable behaviour and actual historical crimes, involved wildly detailed accounts of obscure gestures like specific ways of yawning and whether one’s palm faced out or in when one delicately concealed a smile. A great deal was spent describing proper ways of not communicating directly with the person one was interested in, but as dropping a handkerchief could apparently signal that it was appropriate to go to war and burn down an entire castle, slaughtering event the infants within, he could see why the manual was so preoccupied.
This unhappy marriage of fable, history, and manual was far, far too much for Dominicus.
As for the second, perhaps it had merely been the day – an oddly easy one, as a break in the driving cold for good weather had inclined everyone to try not to disturb their good luck – but the text, though even more obscure, was also more... effective. Determined not be waylaid by the verse, he had waded in with ferocious focus, such that roughly an hour later, while he still had no idea what was going on, he found himself... responding... to couplets about gardening.
This was more confusing then embarrassing because he had faith that Feichín had chosen texts appropriately – clearly the gardening meant... something – but he did not appreciate that now he could feel a tingling in his gut whenever he thought about about thrusting a spade in soft and yielding earth and the fighting of vines squeezing their way up the trunks of trees to their mutual, intertwined deaths. (He also did not appreciate that these phrases – never having entered his mind before – now occurred unbidden at odd times). At any rate, he felt a better understanding of the aesthetics and philosophy of gardening in Ainjir than he did any further understanding of what, exactly, he was to do with these feelings of (potential – he still didn’t KNOW, did he?) physical attraction to other men.
The shit teaching one had been third.
This fourth thus seemed full of ambivalent potential. True, it had more artfully abstract dicks on the cover than some of the others, but also some rather beautiful animals – he thought they were ducks, or some other waterfowl – in the twisted and winding style of Old Ainjir art.
He hoped very sincerely it was not actually about animals. Or at least, people and animals. The dread possibility of a text about farm husbandry similar to the gardening one dropped his gut.
He began to read and quickly shut it again.
He looked at the cover.
It was a very pretty green, obviously very tough, folded and tanned leather, the images pressed deeply into the material and highlighted with gilding and dyes. The cover creaked open smoothly, pleasantly even given how stiff it must have been when first made, the crease between cover and binding gone soft and supple with many openings.
It was only one of many Feichín had picked out. Many of which had been useless. It could hardly have been specially selected.
He toyed with the cover, observing the way the leather bent, and when his face felt less hot, kept reading.
First – he appreciated the no-nonsense introduction. Far too many texts dithered with thanks to patrons and reflections on personal careers or screeds against enemies and critics.
Second – an unusual text, this was a collection of specific tales derived from another larger collection that apparently any Ainjir of even the basest level of education would be familiar with (as Ainjir had no systematic education for the young, Dominicus suspected the ‘basest level’ the collector described was in fact decently high by Midraeic standards). Such a derived collection, the pleasantly direct and modern introduction explained, would be good for exploring themes.
Third – the theme was ‘Dicks.’
Or, rather, the theme was specifically ‘twined male passion.’ Dominicus wasn’t certain of the phrase’s meaning, as the directness of the introduction included not messing about explaining things everyone was supposed to know, but the collector seemed to feel strongly that reflection on such a theme was extremely necessary in their troubled age (this may or may not have been casting aspersions on the age – Dominicus was not versed enough in Ainjir history to tell. The directness also excluded excess digression on opinions).
The first story the author tersely described as ‘ambivalent’; ambivalent about what, or in what ways, Dominicus couldn’t guess. Relatively little concerned his deepest questions, but it fascinated him:
Working outside one day, an artist spotted a handsome youth walking a mule on which sat the youth’s ailing mother. The artist watched them pass, but was deeply unsettled, his thoughts preoccupied by the youth, such that the next he went into town to distract himself. In town, he bumped into the youth, and invited him back to his house – an invitation the youth accepted – and tried to seduce him – an invitation the youth declined. Obsessed and despairing, the artist began to waste away; upon hearing this, the youth returned and exchanged his favour for medicine for his mother.
This, however, was an even more mixed blessing, as the youth’s ethereal beauty and his mother’s sickness came from the same source – his half-divine, and in the way of the Old Gods of Ainjir, half-animal father – and the artist, having copulated with a being sharing in the divine, began to die (the shit teaching book mentioned none of this supposed fornication-with-the-divine-meaning-death, choosing instead to describe the monstrosities produced and horrors perpetrated by other divine beings jealous of animal/god attention). Thus the artist traded his life for the continued relationship, the tale turning to the youth reflecting mournfully on their relationship (in a way Dominicus could only imagine came from a kind of madness or mislaid moralizing by the original author, as it didn’t seem like that great of a relationship to him).
The story then became less comprehensible, as the spirit of the artist returned to inhabit another body (this was, apparently, an option), this one having a high political position that embroiled him in an ongoing power struggle in the kingdom (woefully under-described). The (dead, spirit) artist thought only of returning to the youth (to waste another body?) who instead pointed him to a cousin (a woman? With a god-uncle?) and then the artist told the youth to seduce his persecutor (also involved with other men?). The youth did so (what happened to his hesitance? Was faithfulness so foreign to Ainjir?), the persecutor died and everyone else continued on happily(???).
Except what seemed to Dominicus as over-lengthy diversions into scenes of seduction, which he wasn’t sure how seriously he should interpret (lots of fruit was involved, many glances of improbably deep meaning), the story mostly confused him.
He liked the second story much better. Much more of it was political. It told of a general who rose to become a benevolent king of several joined kingdoms. This story took place well before Ainjir itself had even been united, shortly after what would become the nobility of Ainjir had been driven out of Geron but had finally, in turn, driven their former countrymen back to their own borders.
That meant it all took place in lands Dominicus could imagine, as it all took place in the north.
The collector (Dominicus’ former ally) now disappointed Dominicus by cutting or summarizing most of the battles and intrigue, in favour of pulling out the complex relationships of the various courts. As things were then organized much as in Geron, this involved a great deal of family-tree explanation, blood prices and carefully balanced vengeances, as well as debts of loyalty going back to some grand-aunt’s sheltering of cousin’s brother during a particularly bad winter in the distant past.
As for the main story: the general had actually performed something of coup, along with another general who would his companion, after their own corrupt and cruel king decided to kill the general and family despite them having completed many successful military campaigns for him. The general successfully became king himself, and with his companion took over several neighbouring kingdoms. Against the advice of his companion, even as the general gained greater power, he continued to be merciful to his enemies, pardoning them and letting them live when feasible. When the companion fell ill, his last words were against this practice, and against continued expansion, but the general did not take this dying advice. Despite ruling well, he would be betrayed and ultimately die a confusing death, which the collector attempted to explain using an analogy to another figure of Ainjir’s past, only making it more confusing.
A good story, but not exactly what Dominicus had been looking for (though he took notes, in order to find more about this general in actual histories, that would tell him more about his tactics and strategies. How common were coups in Ainjir’s history? The country was younger than it pretended to be, but was it also less stable than it pretended to be?).
He did not read the next one. The author’s prelude waxed on about the complexity of its interpretation while also excusing the collector’s inclusion of it as it came from a different collection of tales than the one from which the collector had originally drawn.
In other words, the collector was including it because they liked it, a favour evident enough in the exhaustive analysis provided.
The tale had to be interpreted couched in several contexts of varying depth, including the position of the tale in its larger collection of tales (themselves tales supposedly told by a variety of speakers, according to the original author’s conceit, thus a cycle-within-a-cycle), the nature of the speaker (who may or may not have been a eunuch), his particular profession and prologue, and the speakers’ way of telling the tale before they ran out of page space and Dominicus simply skipped the whole thing.
It wasn’t solely because the speaker might not have had a functioning dick, and dicks were of central concern, but it didn’t help, and at this point Dominicus was growing tired.
The third tale Dominicus read...
The third tale...
The...
The collector was dismissive. This tale, the collector said, revelled in its baseness, concealing a good plot within extraneous flights of obviously-erotic poetry (the eroticism of the poetry wasn’t the problem, but the obviousness of its analogues to certain physical acts, which proper poetry conveyed thematically rather than directly). It could also (apparently) be accused of being nostalgic for the discarded tradition of the ‘Beloved’ (belovedness? Loving-ones?) which the collector carefully dismissed without excusing, citing the clarity of the details which differentiated this piece despite the common form. It’s primary value, as indeed, the collector noted, could be seen in its inclusion in medical texts, was its attention to matters hygienic, sociable, and spiritual.
It was instructions.
Comparatively detailed instructions.
The collector (damn his publisher forever) regretted the need to excise the illustrations for space, but these could apparently be easily found in any respectable text of a variety Dominicus had never heard of and which he was uncertain would be held in the Academy Library.
Dominicus squirmed into the wall at his back, body suddenly heated despite the chill, unmoving Library air.
The story was a conversation between a mythical ruler and a goddess (either or both of whom may or may not have been a real person). The ruler, despite his success in life, had several fears, not least of which was securing his succession, eliminating fear of battle, and maintaining his health. The goddess, as a sign of favour, offered to tell him the secrets that would secure him. But she also sent him a young man (divine in some way?) to act as his ‘balance’, and as this was closest to the collector’s theme, these were the sections of the tale collected.
So everything was fragmented. He didn’t really know what was going on, what spurred whatever problem the ruler briefly complained of to the young man before the answer inevitably became some kind of... joining.
There was also a lot of explanation. A lot of talking. Dominicus didn’t know about the talking. Seemed too much.
Nothing was ever quite clear. It was still poetry. And explanation. But there was definitely... well, there would be a moment, when it was clear there was going to be... an encounter.
Naturally, he read rather quickly through the one having to do with using a hand – he knew how to do that, whatever the didactic logic being used to support its description was hardly mattered. He didn’t do it very often, recently on account of rare privacy, but in the past...
In the past it hadn’t mattered as much. It simply hadn’t occurred to him very often. Everything was theoretical – one day he would be married and it would matter and the less he had to do with it before that point the better, as it was very unlikely much of that would be his choice. To become wrapped up in lust was at least as foolish as it was sinful. Certain things... got to him, but not often.
And that was precisely the problem now: it was no longer rare to be confronted with... something that he wanted. Or something like that. He wasn’t sure. That’s what he was doing here. Trying to be sure. Afraid he would be sure. It felt foolish and sinful now that he had so disdained the weakness of those plagued by lust in the stories they read, when maybe he simply hadn’t been seeing enough... of course it was easy when you weren’t seeing enough...
Well, it was just a stupid book. He was turning the pages rather rapidly, but it was just a stupid book. He was reading about a complex situation – some kind of threatening conflict – and the advice was to expend your energy when decisions that had to be made and had to be certain lacked clarity. To facilitate this, the young man sat astride the ruler’s lap, leaning back, while the ruler held firmly at his waist, such that the young man moved first, and when he was ready, the ruler could draw him down more forcefully. There was a lot of talk about depth, and standing stiff like a pike, and then a rolling forward, like a battle charge, to penetrate with depth...
Fuck.
Dominicus was staring at the book but he really wasn’t seeing the pages. His seat had become uncomfortable, his inner thigh aching as he realized he had been holding his crossed legs still with greater and greater tension. He was undoubtedly hard, and his face was hot, and he cast a despairing glance up and out at the stones and the darkness and the high towering shelves of books –
This was the Library, for God’s sake!
The stupid glance upward spiked the corner of a brick into his skull, causing a sharp spike of idiot pain that could almost have killed his desire if he hadn’t also pressed his shoulders into the wall, such that even through the thick jacket he could feel its uneven scraping against his skin, probably as much sound of brick on wool as sensation.
Fuck.
He put the book aside, elbow slamming awkwardly into the other two tomes he had set upright beside himself, and the feeling of cramped-ness spread out from there, such his left hand was working on his trouser buttons the way a drowning man clung to floating debris.
Fuck.
He should have warmed up his hand but it felt somehow appropriately shameful that he felt his own cold grip on himself like he had plunged his dick into a spring pond – it didn’t fucking stop him, anyway, so what did he care? Hissing out prayers for forgiveness in what he hoped was more breath than out-loud speech. He had to switch hands because the stupid books cramped his elbow, but this was just as good – there was not a more and less practised hand – and other slipped off the pillow onto the stone floor to press his back more securely into the sheltering stone of his little alcove.
This was not satisfactory.
This was not satisfactory; it felt stupid and shameful and rushed and in the Library for God’s sake! but he nonetheless barely used his scraped hand to tug free his handkerchief and catch his own come before he even further embarrassed himself.
How quick.
He rested his head against the wall and glanced over at the book, taking in silent breaths through an open, dry mouth. His place had been lost; he had set it down and it had opened up to some other silly page, the context-less words a meaningless jumble. Thank fuck nobody had strolled by. His palm hurt; he had put deep scratches in it, close to but not drawing blood thanks to the under-trod floor of his special hiding place, and little bits of debris were still popping loose from his skin. His other hand stuffed himself back into his trousers and rearranged everything, messy handkerchief bundled up and tossed aside.
It was just a stupid book. He barely knew what was even happening. It was supposed to elicit such responses.
This proved nothing.
Further tests were needed.