Page 42 of These Godly Lies
“No,” Khiran says, without any hesitation. “We wish to live here, contribute to the wellbeing of the monastery and respect your traditions while being allowed the courtesy of our beliefs within the privacy of our own quarters.”
A gong echoes, sounding closer than it should. Anna’s eyes follow the sound, spotting an open pipe in the wall. She wonders if they run throughout the entire monastery.
Tenzing taps a crooked knuckle thoughtfully against his chin. “There is so much suffering in the world. To relieve us from these ills, we choose a monastic life,” he murmurs. “But, there are many different paths. Even if ours lead in different directions, I suppose it’s still possible to end up in the same place.” He rises, joints creaking but spine straight. “I will have Dawa show you where you may stay and where we take our meals. Feed your body and rest your mind for today. Tomorrow we will come to an arrangement.”
Khiran goes lax with relief, his words tight with emotion over his pressed palms. “Thank you.”
It’s surreal, falling into sleep next to him every night and waking to him every morning.
There had been a time when she longed for a reality where he could stay more than a few days at a time. One where he didn’t feel forced to leave for the sake of maintaining the fragile illusion of safety. One where she didn’t have to let him go. Sometimes, he kisses her goodbye and she has to remind herself that he’s only going down the mountain and not across the world—that he’ll return faster than the sun sets.
Being able to keep him close, to share his days and nights, brings her as much joy as it does guilt. When he comes home in the evenings, she sees the cost as easily as if he were wearing it around his shoulders.
Khiran is tired.
Anna can see it in the way his spine bows and his feet shuffle. While her days are spent between sitting in on lessons with the youngest monks and assisting in the kitchen, Khiran’s responsibilities have taken him away from the monastery. The monks live entirely off a system of gifts—no money, no bartering—is to exchange hands with laypeople. The food they eat, the clothing on their backs, is all donated.
Tenzing has expressed no qualms about the monastery sharing their food, but Anna and Khiran both feel uncomfortable eating what was never gifted tothem. Khiran spends his days traveling down the mountain and collecting donations so the people of the village do not have to brave the trek. He makes a point of purchasing food and cloth with their own money to contribute. Then he returns, donations strapped to his back and his hands rough from where the rope bit into the soft skin of his palms. The first day, he collapsed into bed, eyes closing, with barely a word to her.
The next evening was the same, and the night after that.
Concern rises like floodwater; the rushing sound of warningsbefore the levee breaks. She knows this isn’t what he’s used to. Knows that a life of hard labor and simple blessings isn’t one he’s lived since he was just another mortal boy in Eira’s care. He’s had thousands of years of freedom—of enjoying everything the world has to offer without living the realities of it.
She’s determined to do what she can to make it easier on him. So, when he comes home from the hike, she’s ready for him.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the wooden foot stool. For a moment it looks as if he’ll refuse, but she tips her chin challengingly. When she repeats the word, there’s a command threading her voice. “Sit.”
Khiran sighs, but does as he’s told. She kneels in front of him; helps him unbutton his top, peels the fabric from his shoulders. Her fingertips brush over his chest, muscle flexing beneath the skin. “Where does it hurt?”
He tips his head back, face to the beamed ceiling, and closes his eyes. The flickering light of the candle dances along the planes of his exposed neck. “Who says I am?”
Her answering stare is steady. “You promised me honesty in all things.”
A moment of silence, a sigh in the dim. “Everywhere.”
Anna nods, knowing he cannot see it. She pours a small amount of oil on her palms. “Give me your hand.”
Eyes opening, he studies her face for a few moments before doing as he’s told. Anna massages the oil into his palm, her thumbs catching on calluses that weren’t there a week ago.
She knows his body heals faster than a mortal’s, but she’s also painfully aware that when it comes to injuries, he’s just as fragile as anyone else. It hadn’t occurred to her until today that he would suffer muscle strain like one, too. That every day he was breaking down muscle and healing it in a cycle that would take any mortal man a week. It’s no wonder he’s as tired as he is when he finally comes through the door.
Her thumbs run along the lines of his palms with diligent pressure, massaging the muscles in his hand. He groans, the sound low and deep as if rising from the very bottom of his lungs. “You should have told me it was bothering you,” she chides softly, turning hiswrist and starting on the sinewy lines of his forearm. “I would have done this for you sooner.”
“Careful, my love,” he murmurs, eyes hooded and dark. “You may find yourself growing weary of my whining if you continue to reward me for it.”
Anna smothers a smile. “I think I’ll manage just fine.” The curve of her lips falters. Fades. “Is it harder than you thought it would be?”
Khiran’s sigh is so deep she can almost feel it. “In some ways, it’s exactly as I expected.” He glances down at his arm, tendons flexing beneath her fingers as he clasps his hand. “I admit I didn’t factor in the physical toll. I’ll adapt. Another week or so and it won’t be so taxing.” She moves to his upper arm and his sigh stutters. “I can’t tell if you’re incredibly good at this or if I’m just desperate.”
“Perhaps both,” she offers.
“Dare I ask where you learned to do this?”
She shrugs. “I picked a bit up here and there, but I suppose I improved the skill during the First World War. They used massage therapy to help with the rehabilitation of nerve injuries. I was never officially trained in it, but one of the girls was kind enough to show me a few basics.”
He hums, eyes slipping closed and leaning towards her, his forehead resting in the curve of her neck and shoulder and his hands cupping the curve of her hips. “I hope she’s living a long and prosperous life.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the silence is broken only by her soft instructions and his breathy groans that flirt at the edges between pleasure and pain. Anna’s hands knead at his flesh, working away the stiffness that has settled in the knotted muscle of his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” The apology slips from her lips like a confession, soft as a secret and heavy with regret.
