Author's notes: This is a submission to "Forbidden Love" contest (Romance, WattFest, DangerousLove, WPAfterDark, WattInterracial, Urban-Fantasy and ParanormalLovers collaboration) with the prompt of a priest and a parishioner beginning to notice that they seem to glance at each other more often than they should be.

Word count: 1286

~*~*~

St. Cross. The Holy Cross. That was what the small town that had grown along the "Way of the Charlemagne" - the Balkan route to the Holy Land - south of Belgrade was called. At first it had been just Father Michel and a handful of parishioners that had followed him in his dream to build a new church and a place to rest for pilgrims traveling this road towards Jerusalem and back. Gradually more people had settled in over the following decade and a half.

Bjorn was one of them, although his circumstances were hardly the same as the others'. He was a soldier, not a pilgrim. A soldier who had run away from battle and left his comrades behind to die. But still Father Michel had welcomed him here with open arms, shared his humble house next to the church with him and listened to his confession about his cowardice. "Our Lord understands that sometimes we cannot reach the heights we aspire for," he had said. And Bjorn had taken comfort in those words.

~*~*~

It started with small things. Hands touching a little too long when Michel hurried to help him every time he tried to carry a too large load of firewood into the house at once. The way he watched the priest's sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his skin after a long afternoon weeding the small garden. Sudden awkward silence when he had once joked that maybe he should try to get married before he'd turn into a priest himself.

Michel was not like the priests he had seen this far. He did not parade around in fancy clothes and look down on Bjorn for looking like a hairy barbarian with his beard and shoulder-length wheat-colored hair. Instead he was humble and worked as hard as any farmer to feed himself. The parishioners brought gifts of food every now and then, and he accepted them with genuine gratitude. His hands were calloused and his face toughened by the weather.

All in all, Bjorn could easily see him as an equal. And with every passing day it became harder to keep in mind that he was a man of God.

The final straw came on the day before the Easter mass. A group of pilgrims had arrived in the morning and would stay for the service. Since Bjorn would be helping with so many people in addition to the parishioners, Michel was quite adamant that he needed a haircut. To make matters worse, he let him know of this just as he was washing in the small area enclosed by high fences for privacy. Without thinking Bjorn pulled his trousers on, squeezed most of the water out of his hair with his hands and returned to the house.

"Don't even think of making me bald," Bjorn warned as he took a seat on a simple stool.

Michel smiled gently. His own hair was very short, but he didn't shave it completely either. "Don't worry. I only want you to look a little less like your namesake."

Bjorn remained still as his hair was trimmed with a sharp knife. Every inhale made him far too aware of the scent of the man standing behind him.

Suddenly Michel hissed sharply and dropped the blade.

Bjorn turned in surprise. The priest's face was flushed and he clenched one of his hands into a fist, blood slowly dripping from his palm.

"I can't-" he muttered. "I'm sorry, I...Lord have mercy..."

Bjorn stood up quickly and took a step closer. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing, merely a scratch. I was careless." Michel moved away from him. "Please...just let me be alone for a moment."

They had worked, eaten and prayed side-by-side for months. Due to the tight quarters they had also slept in the same room. And for what felt like an eternity they had both fought these things they should not be feeling. Seeing his own inner turmoil reflecting in the eyes of the man he yearned for so deeply was more than Bjorn could bear.

He closed the distance between them in a few quick strides and pulled the priest into a crushing embrace. Maybe it was the devil's fire coursing in their veins, but they were both helpless to stop what followed.

In the morning Michel led the mass like nothing was out of ordinary and blessed the pilgrims on their journey. Bjorn stayed near the front door and as far from the priest as he could. Only when all the other people were gone they both knelt in front of the altar and confessed their sins. There was no one else here to confess to except directly to God.

"It can't happen again," Michel said quietly.

"I know. I should leave as soon as possible."

"That would be...for the best..." Michel was trembling. He crossed his hands again. "Please, Lord..."

It did happen again. And again. Bjorn tried to pack what little he owned and leave, but he never got farther than the door before changing his mind and returning to his lover's embrace. Eventually he stopped trying.

Michel clearly took the situation worse. Judging by the bags under his eyes he barely slept. He didn't tend to the garden anymore either. All he did was pray in the church, and when he returned to Bjorn his eyes were reddened and puffed from crying.

And then he couldn't take it anymore.

Bjorn left St. Cross with a heavy heart, once again clad in his gambeson and his battle axe strapped to his side. Many people joined crusades for the promise of redemption. No matter the sins, you could go straight to heaven if you only fought the saracens in the Holy Land. That was why he had originally left his home in Norway - to atone for the sinful thoughts he had harbored for another man. And now he would be going back there with much more at stake.

"I will save you, Michel. I will carry both our sins."

~*~*~

It was loud, the clashing of weapons and the screams of dying men around him. The ground was trampled into mud by countless feet. And the blood flowing over his fingers from the deep wound in his stomach was warm.

Nobody paid any attention to another man at death's door more than to avoid tripping on his still form. His thoughts wandered idly away from the noise and the pain.

Michel's distorted expression, so unlike his kind smile, as he had cut the rope.

It had been against the God's laws, but still he had buried his lover to hallowed ground in the church cemetery and even sprinkled some holy water on the wooden cross he had made.

Those who commit mortal sins and die without receiving absolution will be thrown to hell.

Both sleeping with another man and taking your own life were mortal sins. But Michel would be all right. This time Bjorn had not run. He had fought and fallen on battlefield defending the Holy Land.

Lord, please take this penance on his behalf. I lured him away from the righteous path. I'm the one who does not deserve to stand in your presence.

He was scared. Who would not be when facing the eternity of torment? Michel had probably felt the same, but had still made his choice.

I am the only one to blame. Not him.

He should have never gone to St. Cross. He should have never pulled the priest into something God had forbidden. But even now he could so vividly remember the feeling of their entwined bodies, the warmth he had felt as he had watched Michel fall asleep on his arms.

Even now...I love him.