Look at him. Can you see? Is he not so very beautiful? See the chin. The jawline, hard and straight. I can only say it is the chin of a man, knowing you will know what I mean if you have ever held a man, or loved a man as I have.

They stand at the river’s edge as I swing from the willow’s branches, somersaulting with a whoop and a splash to the water. And I am watched for a season long while I perfect this technique, and while the branches I dive from grow higher. The men of the temple see my progress as the splashes turn into dives, and as the dives gain the perfection of hard practice, until I leave no bubbles, no ripples, behind.

He isn’t thinking about the first time. He is thinking of his five years as a saint. Thinking of the man he has become, and the way he reached his destination. We are different men. The things the priests have done with us – different. Hafar has looked into our eyes and found different needs there. He has made of my body a receptacle for their love.

And this is how I come to see the new king’s coronation. Be a part of it. A hundred feet above marble and mosaic. With the view of a bird.

He is handsome, as I think a representative of the gods might well be. My eyes slide again to his chest, and I count the lines of muscle as they climb down to the golden-pink sweep of his sash.

Handsome as a pirate as he slides his robe to the floor. Hard as teak. Hard as brass.