Work Text:
David had been told that Heaven was an enormous city of mansions. It had gleaming pearl gates and shining golden streets, and the walls glittered with gemstones. Every soul would live in luxury and comfort and all would worship God. There could be no greater reward for a faithful Christian.
Kilmannán was not Heaven. The buildings were small and utilitarian. The clothes and food were plain. The only gold and jewels adorned the box which housed the relic, and that spent its time wrapped in furs at the bottom of a pit. Everything the monks had they earned through hard work and dedication. It was a hardscrabble existence, one that David would have thought himself above in a previous life.
Things were different now. The labor calmed the ghosts that whispered in his ear and the monks’ unshakeable piety soothed the aching wound the Crusades left in his faith. Most importantly, Kilmannán had Diarmuid.
In David’s fantasies, Diarmuid’s lips were soft as rose petals and his skin was as smooth as silk. He wore gold and jewels and elaborate, sumptuous clothing. He lay on beds draped in silk and feasted upon pastries rich with honey and fruit and cream.
The reality was not so grand. Diarmuid was a novice monk and he worked just as hard as any of his brothers. His lips were chapped and his hair was messy. His hands were calloused and inkstained. He wore heavy, plain wool robes and ate simple stews and porridge.
All of the jewels in Heaven couldn’t compare to Diarmuid’s smile. David would forever forsake golden streets to walk along the windswept beach beside him.