Thomas joins the Priesthood

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The fire in the hearth seemed to burn lower, as if dampened by the sorrow in the room. Thomas, just nineteen, stood before the great mirror, his reflection a portrait of bittersweet resolve. Tomorrow, he would enter the Abbey, and the world of fields and forests, of Dominic’s laughter, would be sealed away. This was his first act of devotion.

In his hand, he held a pair of sewing shears, their small, sharp blades looking inadequate for the task. His hair, a sun-kissed chestnut that fell in soft, unruly waves, was his last possession.

“It’s just vanity, Dom,” Thomas said, his voice earnest. “I’ll be glad to be rid of it.” He said it as if trying to convince himself, the sweetness in his tone belying the severity of the act. He glanced at his reflection, at the soft waves that framed his face, and added softly, “It’s not as if I’m handsome like you. It won’t be a great loss to the world.”

Dominic pushed off the bedpost, his voice sharp with a sudden, fierce intensity. “Stop it. Don’t you dare pretend you’re plain. Don’t you dare make this easier on yourself by lying. Your hair is the least of your beauty, and cutting it won’t make me love you any less, it just breaks my heart.”

Dominic knew the unspoken truth. This wasn’t a calling; it was a frantic retreat. A flight from the confusing, overwhelming feelings that crackled between them—from the few, breathless moments they had sinned and called accident.

“There are other ways to serve,” Dominic murmured, but the fight had gone out of him. He saw the peaceful, if sad, determination on Thomas’s face.

Thomas lifted the shears. The first snip was a delicate sound, and a lock of hair, light as a feather, drifted to the floor. He worked with a quiet focus, cutting great lengths away, his brow furrowed in concentration. The boyish halo of curls gave way to a rough, uneven shape. He was trying to mimic the friars’ cut, but his attempts were clumsy, leaving the back longer than the front.

A small sound of frustration escaped him. He stood there, his arm contorting awkwardly, straining to see the back in the mirror.

Dominic watched the struggle, his heart aching . With a sigh, he crossed the room and gently pried the shears from Thomas’s trembling fingers.

Thomas’s eyes, wide and glistening in the mirror, held a world of apology and unspoken feeling. The simple innocence of it pierced him with a sudden, aching fondness.

“Here,” Dominic said, his voice gentle as he took the shears from Thomas’s unresisting hand. “Let me.”

He moved behind him. His hands, so much surer, gathered the remaining long hair at Thomas’s nape. The touch was gentle, a final, fleeting caress. He could feel the tension in Thomas’s shoulders.

“Last chance to change your mind,” Dominic murmured, his lips close to Thomas’s ear. It was less a challenge and more a final, desperate offering.

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, two tears escaping to trace paths through the dusting of shorn hair on his cheeks. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Dominic, please.”

The crunch of the shears was definitive. The last long lock fell, severing the boy Thomas had been. Then Dominic’s hands, steady and sure, moved to even out the butchered job. His touch was excruciatingly gentle, ensuring the sacrifice, however foolish he believed it to be, was perfect.

The shears whispered as he straightened the heavy, straight-across bangs that would cover Thomas’s brow. Then, his touch became a study in contradiction—tender yet resolute—as he meticulously graduated the remaining length, shaping the chaos into order. It was the exact, humble style of the Abbey, executed with a lover’s care.

When he was finished, he set the shears down. He put his hands on Thomas’s shoulders again and turned him to face the mirror.

Thomas stared. The boy he had been was gone. In his place was a novice, his face framed by the severe, bowl-shaped cut. He looked younger, more vulnerable, the heavy bangs making his sincere eyes seem even larger. He reached up, his fingertips tracing the straight line over his forehead, the shorter sides. Dominic stood behind him, his hands still resting on Thomas’s shoulders, the warmth of him radiating through the thin linen of his tunic.

A single tear escaped, but he quickly wiped it away, offering Dominic a small, tremulous smile in the reflection. “It’s… perfect. Thank you, Dom. It’s what I wanted.”

Driven by a pain he could no longer contain, Dominic slowly turned Thomas to face him. The sight of him up close, so transformed and yet so achingly familiar, was his undoing. He leaned in, his intention clear, his heart a raw, open wound.

Thomas’s eyes widened. He shied back, a flinch so slight it was barely perceptible, but it was enough. “Dom… not now,” he whispered, the plea tearing from him. “Please.”

But Dominic didn’t release him. Instead, his gaze locked with Thomas’s, he raised a hand. With a tenderness that was its own kind of agony, he gently brushed the heavy, newly-cut bangs away from Thomas’s forehead, his fingertips lingering on the skin he had revealed. It was a gesture of intimacy, of claiming the boy beneath the pious disguise.

That small, tender act shattered Thomas’s resolve. The wall of piety crumbled, and for a breathtaking, terrible moment, he was just a boy saying goodbye.

He surged forward, closing the infinitesimal distance between them. It wasn’t the kiss Dominic had tried to initiate; it was a small, soft press of lips that instantly caught flame. It deepened, becoming a frantic, hungry exchange of all the words they could never speak, all the futures they were sacrificing. It was a kiss full of salt—from whose tears, neither could say.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.

Thomas tore himself away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked at Dominic, his expression one of pure, unadulterated torment, then turned and fled from the room, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing in the corridor like a dying heartbeat.

Alone in his own small chamber, Thomas slammed the door shut and leaned against it, his chest heaving. He stumbled to the small, polished metal mirror that hung on his wall. The face that stared back was flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright with unshed tears, all framed by the stark, ugly bowl cut.

He stared, his breathing slowly calming. The haircut was ugly. But in that ugliness, he found a strange, fierce pride. This was the proof. This was the armor he needed. He had left behind his vanity. He had, for a moment, faced his greatest temptation and was now fleeing it, straight into the arms of God.

But as he traced the hard, straight line of the bangs with a trembling finger, remembering the feel of Dominic’s hand brushing them aside, a single, hot tear finally rolled down his cheek. The pride was a cold comfort. The sadness, he knew, would be his companion for a long, long time.

The Patron

The first time Lord Dominic arrived at the Abbey of Our Immaculate Lady as an official patron, it was a calculated performance. He was all polished boots and pious generosity, discussing the repair of the scriptorium’s roof with the Abbot. But his eyes, dark and hungry, never left Thomas for long.

Thomas, for his part, held firm. His haircut and habit were a suit of armor. When Dominic sought him out in the cloisters, Thomas spoke of grace, of the beauty of a soul turning toward God. “This is where I am meant to be, Dom,” he said, his voice calm, his hands tucked securely into his sleeves. “My prayer is that you, too, will find such peace.”

Dominic’s smile was thin. “I have no interest in peace, Thomas.”

The meetings became a dangerous ritual. Dominic would come, always with a pretext—a donation of books, a consultation on lands bordering the abbey’s. And always, he would find Thomas. Their conversations were a battlefield, fought with scripture and memory.

“You hide behind these walls,” Dominic accused him one afternoon in the herb garden, his voice a low whisper. “You call it devotion, but I see fear.”

“I do not fear the world. I have renounced it.” Thomas countered, though his heart hammered against his ribs.

“You have renounced me,” Dominic shot back, the pain raw in his words. “You have renounced this.” He didn’t touch him, but his gaze was a physical caress, tracing the line of Thomas’s jaw, the curve of his lip.

Thomas began to dread and crave these visits in equal measure. His prayers became frantic. “Lord, make him see. Lord, give me strength. Lord, let him stay just a moment longer.”

The breaking point came in the shadowy silence of the library, surrounded by the scent of old parchment and dust. Dominic had cornered him between two towering shelves, his patience finally spent.

“This is a lie, Thomas! This life! You are slowly letting this place bury you alive!”

“It is not a lie!” Thomas hissed, his composure cracking. “It is my calling you refuse to understand!”

“I understand that you are a coward!” The word hung in the air, sharp and cruel.

Something in Thomas snapped. In a surge of desperate, furious energy, he shoved Dominic back against the bookshelves.

“You think this is easy?” The words were a venomous hiss, his eyes blazing with a fire he’d spent a lifetime extinguishing. “You think I don’t lie awake every night remembering? You think I don’t feel your ghost in this very habit?”

His hands, which had been meant to push Dominic away, now fisted in the rich fabric of his doublet, holding him there, a captive to his anguish.

The transformation was terrifying. The meek novice was gone, replaced by a man of frightening, raw need. Dominic went utterly still, shocked by seeing the real, tormented Thomas finally break free. A stunned, hopeful awe dawned on his face.

“Thomas…”

It was too much. The proximity, the anger, the years of longing. Thomas’s resolve shattered. He crashed forward, his lips finding Dominic’s in a kiss that was all the arguments, all the prayers, all the lonely nights given a single, searing voice. It was a confession and a damnation, all at once.

When they broke apart, gasping, Thomas stared at Dominic in horror, as if seeing the devil himself in his eyes. He fled the library, the taste of sin on his tongue sweeter than any sacramental wine.

After that, their meetings changed. They were no longer debates; they were clandestine, fraught with a terrible guilt and an even more terrible need.

Thomas would return to his cell afterward, his body thrumming with a life that felt more real than any prayer, his soul screaming in turmoil. He would scour his skin with rough soap, but he could not scrub away the memory, or the creeping, blasphemous thought: “This feels more like grace.”

It was after one such meeting, with Thomas trembling and raw, that Dominic made his final, desperate plea. He held Thomas’s face, his thumbs stroking the hated bowl cut.

“Come with me,” he whispered fiercely in the shadow of the bell tower, his breath a warm cloud in the chill air. “There’s a ship leaving for Florence tomorrow. We could be on it. Please, my love. Don’t sacrifice your life at an altar of fear. This isn’t devotion, it’s a retreat. You’re hiding in here because you’re afraid of what you feel.”

“I am atoning for what I feel!” Thomas ripped his arm away, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. “Don’t you see? This is the only way I can be saved from it. From you. I cannot go to…”

“You can.” Dominic’s gaze was intense, pinning him there. “If you want this, in the morning, put a candle in your window. Just a single candle. When I see it, I will know. I will have everything prepared, and I will come for you after dark.” He searched Thomas’s tormented eyes. “That’s all you have to do. Just one small light. Let it be your answer.”

He did not wait for a spoken refusal. He simply pressed a final, desperate kiss to Thomas’s forehead, right where the coarse bangs met his skin, then turned and melted back into the shadows of the cloister.

The Plan

That night, his mind was a riot. He paced his cell, his prayers dissolving into ragged pleas for a sign, for strength, for clarity.

As the first grey light of dawn bled through his narrow window, he was exhausted, hollowed out. He stood at the Domement, looking out at a world still soft with night’s shadow. His hand shook as he reached for the stub of a tallow candle. He struck the flint. A spark caught, and the small flame sputtered to life. For a long moment, he held it, watching the tiny fire dance. It was the smallest of commitments, yet it felt like the heaviest act of his life.

He placed the candle on the cold stone sill.

From a distant hill, where he had kept a hopeless vigil all night, Dominic saw the pinprick of light bloom in the gloom. A sound escaped him, half-sob, half-laugh, a release of breath he felt he’d been holding for two years. It was the sun he had been denied.

Back in his cell, Thomas watched the candle flame flicker in the dawn breeze. The joy he had just given Dominic was the most beautiful, terrifying thing he could imagine. He stood frozen, caught between yearning and fear, his fingers nervously tracing the ugly, heavy fringe of his bangs.

The day would be long, and doubt, he knew, was a patient hunter.

Intervention

The air in Thomas’s cell was thick with the scent of beeswax and guilt. His hands trembled as he rolled a spare scapular into a tight bundle, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Tonight. The word was a prayer and a curse. Dominic was coming. The world, so long held at bay by stone and ritual, was waiting just beyond the orchard wall.

The door opened without a sound.

Brother August stood framed in the doorway, his face a landscape of quiet disappointment in the flickering light. His eyes, old and deep as well-shafts, took in the scene.

“You are leaving,” he said. It was not a question.

Thomas’s chin lifted, a gesture of defiance that felt foreign on him. “I am called away, Brother.”

A sad, knowing smile touched August’s lips. “Do not use the language of vocation for this, my son. We both know who calls you. The Lord Dominic’s visits have grown frequent,” August said, stepping inside and closing the door. “His soul is a concern to you, I know. But I fear it is your own that now hangs in the balance.”

“It is not what you think,” Thomas began, his voice desperate. “What I feel for him… it is… a pure thing.”

August’s expression did not change, but a profound sadness settled in the lines around his mouth. “The Devil does not always come with claws and smoke, my son. Sometimes, he comes with a familiar face and a voice that sounds like childhood joy. This ‘love’ you speak of—it is a snare. It will not build a life; it will build a pyre that will consume both your souls. You will be his secret, his sin. There is no honor in that world for a love like yours, only shame and hiding.”

Each word was a well-aimed blade. Thomas flinched as Dominic’s sunlit promise was reframed into a future of scorn, the beautiful dream curdling into something monstrous in his mind’s eye.

“But what if God made our hearts to love?” Thomas protested, his conviction wavering. “What if this is His plan?”

“His plan?” August’s voice gained a sharp, cutting edge. “His plan was for you to take the vows you now seek to break. To serve at His altar, not to kneel to some mortal man.” The words landed with finality, and Thomas saw himself not as a brave rebel, but as a failed priest—the pure thing in his heart now feeling ugly and selfish.

“I… I have always been committed to this life,” Thomas whispered, more to himself than to August.

“I know,” August said, his tone softening into a devastating gentleness. He stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Thomas’s shaking shoulder. “That boy, who came to us with a sincere heart, is still here. He is merely lost in a storm of confusion. The tonsure is your path back. It is the final, physical surrender that will sever this earthly anchor. Let the razor sever the temptation. Offer this sacrifice, and God will grant you the peace you crave.”

Thomas looked down, the image of Dominic’s hopeful face warring with the part of him that had been forged in this abbey—the part that truly, deeply loved God.

“I am weak,” Thomas breathed, a tear tracing a path down his cheek.

“No, my son,” August murmured. “You are being tested.”

And in that moment, the test became clear. It was not about resisting Dominic, but about choosing God. Fully. Finally. The fight drained out of him, replaced not by dread, but by a devastating clarity. This was the cost of his devotion. This beautiful, agonizing pull toward Dominic was the final sacrifice he had to make.

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. He saw the one true calling that had steadied him since boyhood. He was committed to the life of a priest. This temptation, this beautiful, agonizing pull towards Dominic, was the final, greatest test of his devotion. He could not succumb. He would not.

“I am ready,” Thomas whispered, the words a vow.

Broken Vows

The air in the chapel was cold and heavy with the scent of incense and damp stone. Each breath Thomas took felt like swallowing ash. He knelt before the altar, the rough hemp of his habit scratching against his knees. The fading light, stained a somber blue and pink by the high windows, cut across the floor and illuminated the dust motes dancing like lost spirits.

Brother August stood behind him, a solemn silhouette. In his hands, he held the shears and the razor, instruments of salvation.

“Receive, my son, this crown of the Lord,” August’s voice intoned, not unkindly, “that the thorns of worldly temptation may be uprooted from your heart, and you may be made a new man, fit for the kingdom of God.”

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. This is what you want, he told himself, the mantra a desperate shield. This is freedom. This is peace. He had committed his life to Christ, to a path of piety and service. This sinful infatuation, this beautiful, agonizing pull toward Dominic, was a flaw in his soul, a weakness to be carved out. This ritual was the scalpel.

The first snip of the cold metal shears was deafening. A thick lock of his ugly bowl cut fell onto his lap, a dark smudge against the white of his habit. Then another, and another. He felt a tremor run through him, a physical jolt as if something vital was being clipped away.

This is for you, Lord, he prayed, his mind a frantic, silent scream. Take this from me. Take this desire, this weakness. Make me clean. Make me Yours alone. He was willing the ritual to work, to scour him hollow, to fill the Dominic-shaped void in his soul with divine light.

Then came the razor.

As the cold, slick lather was applied to the crown of his head, Thomas’s eyes, desperate for an anchor, drifted to the shadows of the chapel’s entrance.

And there he was.

Dominic. He had come. His face, usually so full of arrogant charm and easy laughter, was a mask of utter devastation. In that single, shattering moment, the entire plan—the ship, Florence, a life lived in sunlight—flashed between them. A surge of pure, unadulterated joy and relief so powerful it was almost painful shot through Thomas. The hope in Dominic’s eyes ignited a matching courage in his own soul. He’s here. We can go. We can be free. Their eyes locked, and in that single, luminous moment, the oppressive weight of the Abbey, the guilt, the fear—it all fell away. A brilliant, hopeful smile began to touch his lips. His future was not this cold stone floor; it was the man standing in the doorway.

He drew a sharp breath, his lips parting. The word—Stop!—was on his tongue, a rebellion ready to be born.

In that exact, fractured second, the razor scraped forward.

The first pass was a rough, grating scrape, more brutal than he’d imagined. The sensation was a violent shock—a cold, grating theft.

No! The silent scream echoed in his skull. Indignation and a sickening sense of impotence flooded him, so violent it left him gasping, his mouth still hanging open. The chance was gone, stolen in the space between a breath and a blade’s stroke.

The fight drained out of him as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving a hollow, aching shell. Of course. That sunlit life of freedom was not meant for him. It was a beautiful, impossible dream. He didn’t look away from Dominic. His eye held onto the only anchor he had left, pouring out a silent, desperate apology. I’m sorry. I tried. Forgive me. He accepted the next rough scrape of the razor, flinching at the pain but never breaking his gaze, as if Dominic’s face was the only penance he would ever need.

From the doorway, Dominic had seen it all—the dawning recognition, the blaze of hope in Thomas’s eyes, the parted lips poised to change their destiny. His own heart had soared, a silent plea screaming in his mind: Say it! Speak!

But then the razor scraped. A choked, strangled sob was stifled in his throat. He had lost him. Not to God, but to fear.

They held each other’s gaze through the entire brutal ritual—Thomas’s a torrent of shame and regret, Dominic’s a landscape of devastation and utter betrayal. It was a conversation of silence, more profound and painful than any words.

The final scrape of the razor finished. Brother August murmured a blessing, but the words were ash in Thomas’s ears. A single, hot tear broke free, a silent confession to the love he was sacrificing on the altar. Thomas remained on his knees, the chill of the air a shock on his newly shorn head, the ice of Dominic’s gaze a deeper freeze in his soul.

From the shadows, Dominic stepped forward into a sliver of light, ensuring Thomas had a perfect view. His eyes, red-rimmed and blazing, locked with Thomas’s for one final, searing moment of accusation. Dominic made a sharp, guttural sound of frustration—too loud for the sacred space. He didn’t stifle it. Let them throw him out. He raked a hand through his own perfect hair, a gesture of pure, spoiled agitation, then he swept his cape around his body with a sharp, contemptuous flourish. He turned on his heel, his boots striking the flagstones with deliberate, echoing force, not caring if the entire abbey heard him, not caring if they knew. Let them. He was already gone.

Brother August flinched at the loud, frustrated sound, his eyes darting towards the door with a look of alarm. “What in heaven…?” he whispered. But Thomas didn’t need to look. The finality of Dominic’s exit was a door slamming shut in his soul. The sound simply locked it. He had to be committed now. There were no more options, no more chances, no more Dominic. The fight was over. A strange, numb stillness settled over him. This wasn’t the joy he’d been promised, but might be an end to the torment. He would accept it. There was nothing else to do. He would cling to this life because it was the only one he had not yet ruined.

Salvation

The rain had fallen for three days, a weeping sky that mirrored the cold, sharp knot permanently lodged beneath Dominic’s ribs. He had dismissed the servants, seeking the manor’s cavernous silence to echo the profound stillness where his hopes had once lived. The image of Thomas kneeling at the altar, the blade taking his hair and their future, was seared into him—a permanent, infuriating monument to how he had been cheated of the only thing that ever mattered.

A soft, insistent knock at the heavy oak door was an intrusion. He almost didn’t answer. But something—a faint, foolish pull—drew him to the entrance.

He opened the door to the grey, weeping twilight. It was Thomas. But not the Thomas of the abbey. He was clad in simple, rough-spun traveler’s clothes, too large for his slender frame, soaked through by the rain. And on his head, pulled low, was a wide-brimmed hat.

For a long moment, they simply stared, the rain pattering on the hat, on Dominic’s fine doublet. The silence was a chasm, filled with the memory of their last, shattered look in the chapel. Then, a torrent of emotion broke through Dominic’s shock. A sob of pure, unadulterated relief burst from him, and he crossed the space between them in three long strides, his arms closing around Thomas in a crushing embrace.

“You’re here,” he choked.

Thomas was stiff at first, then his arms came up, clinging to Dominic as if he were the only solid thing in a rushing river and buried his face in Dominic’s neck.

After a long moment, Dominic drew back, his hands coming up to frame Thomas’s face. His thumbs stroked the pale cheeks, wiping away rain and tears. He looked at Thomas with a kind of awe, not for what was, but for the sheer, painful fact that he was here. It was then that his eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, drifted upwards to the hat. A silent understanding passed between them.

“May I?” Dominic whispered, his hands moving slowly, reverently, to the brim.

A wave of panic crossed Thomas’s face. Before, in the abbey, this act had been one of pious submission, a thing of solemn beauty. Here, in the grey light of the real world, under Dominic’s gaze, it was suddenly grotesque. He tried to pull back, his hands coming up to stop him. “Don’t. It’s… it’s horrible, Dom.”

But Dominic didn’t let him go. He held him firmly, his gaze steady and full of a love so profound it stole Thomas’s breath. “Shhh,” he murmured. Before Thomas could protest further, Dominic lifted the hat from Thomas’s head.

There it was. The brutal truth. The crown of his head was bare and the rest, where the hated bowl cut had been, was shorn shockingly short.

Thomas did not look away. He held Dominic’s gaze, his own wide with a terrified hope, silently begging to be seen as beautiful, as something still worthy despite the brutal mark of his submission. He had never cared about being handsome, not truly, until this very moment. Now, the question was a torment. Was I? Was I ever? It didn’t matter. He only knew, with a certainty that choked him, that he was ugly now.

And then, he felt a touch. A trembling, warm palm laid against the shorn scalp. The touch was feather-light, a balm on the remembered sting of the razor, aching with grief for what had been done.

A soft gasp escaped him. Thomas held Dominic’s gaze, his eyes wide and shining with a frantic need for absolution. The hesitant smile he offered was a plea etched in the faintest curve of his lips, whispering without sound: Tell me I am enough. Please, tell me it’s okay.

Dominic’s breath hitched. He saw the plea in Thomas’s eyes, the fear that the sacrifice had rendered him unworthy. His thumb stroked the vulnerable skin of Thomas’s temple, his own eyes shimmering. “Oh, my love,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “What they did to you.”

A tear finally traced a path down his own cheek as he cradled Thomas’s face. “You foolish, beautiful man,” he breathed, his voice raw with a love that felt like a vow. “This…” he said, his thumb gently sweeping over Thomas’s brow, “changes nothing. I am yours.”

And in that moment, something bloomed inside Thomas. He saw his reflection in the tear-filled mirror of Dominic’s eyes, and for the first time in his life, he did not see a novice, a sinner, or a disappointment. He saw a man, loved. He saw himself as handsome.