Pallas’ body felt heavy. Heavier than it usually did after so many decades of life. He felt a warm desert breeze drift over him, the smell of citrusy incense burning in a nearby room. It was enough to rouse him from his pile of light sheets and blankets.

Mornings on Sintra were always like this. The masters of the Sacred Penumbra were only just beginning their daybreak rites.

And Pallas’ bedmate?

Maude was asleep beside him, arm slung over Pallas’ middle. Their loose hair had been plaited by one of the attendants the day before, and it was unusual to see them without the nest of hair obscuring their face. Pallas carefully slid Maude’s arm from his waist and pulled the sheets back. He was sore, but it was a good kind of sore, a welcomed one which would lull him back to sleep if he wasn’t careful. He figured he should go before anyone saw him and Maude together and draw their own conclusions about the night they had.

Pallas tried not to move the bed when he got up but it was no use. Maude’s arm found its way back around his middle and he was tugged back, this time into the others lap.

“No,” Maude said, their voice low and rough with sleep, “Don’t go, I want you to stay.”

Pallas felt his face flush, his voice stuttering as he said, “What if someone sees us like this? What would they say?”

“They would say nothing unless they wanted my wrath.” Maude murmured, their hands wandering, pressing comforting circles into Pallas’ side.

Pallas bowed his head a bit, embarrassed. He felt more embarrassed now than how he would have felt when he was young.

“Maude, this is,“

“Do you want me to stop?” The monk asked, their eyes cracking open and pinning Pallas in such a way that he felt stuck.

“No,” Pallas said after a moment, “I don’t.”

“Than lay back down and forget the world with me.” Maude said, “We have hours before breakfast.”