I almost lost my faith in this place. No, not my faith in the Lord, never that, but rather my faith in humanity. And, I suppose that since we are all mere extensions of Him, to lose faith in humanity is to lose faith in God. But is it truly that bad? To lose faith is the Lord? Humanity is what we live with, to lose faith in that is to lose one's brother, one's friend, one's lover, one's soul even. But I digress and in doing so have committed heresy. Well, perhaps not heresy, but to doubt God is to put oneself on the scaffold. I am not made of the stuff of saints and martyrs, that is not my lot in life. A maker of martyrs can hardly be one himself.
But my faith. It was almost lost, stood on the edge of an abyss with only darkness around me. I stood there, feeling it pulling me, slowly consuming me, and I should have fallen – freely perhaps – had I not met the only honest man I know. It's beyond my ability to understand how he survived this world. The wolves should have devoured him alive long ago. I thought all innocence was lost with the fading of youth and the end of childhood. It certainly could not survive the court and yet his has. It has survived, flourished even, and lord is his innocence beautiful.
It was his smile I have now realized. It was so uncertain, so slow in coming, but once it had arrived it was truly glorious. I would have freely given up all worldly goods to see him wear it everyday. I would have freely given up my life if he gave it to me with no pre-curser, just one, simple, honest smile.
If his Majesty the king is the midday sun then Cranmer is the gentle, milky sun of the morn. His is a soothing presence, calm, reassuring, and dazzling in its own right. It has been recorded that the midday sun can kill. It scorches the earth, a reign of terror before abating, and when it is over there is always the dead to be collected. But never the morning sun and I find comfort in that, even if he denies that there is any comfort to give.
Is it love? I do not know and perhaps it is better that way. Love can harm, torture, kill. To love here is to die. Each gasped breath, each hushed moan and secret whisper is but a small death. There are no soft songs, soft looks, and even softer kisses where those who have erred by loving go.
And even those that survive do not survive in entirety. A part of them is forever lost, chipped away and impossible to repair. It is better to die than live half a life, better to have not loved at all than to have loved and lost oneself in the bloody turmoil that follows.
I am not a passionate man. Do not confuse me with wanton and urgent lovers whose songs and poems are of endless supply. My love is far more steady than the tides, more loyal than one would ever know. And my poetry, composed for one man, is hidden away, nay, seared into the darkest chambers of my heart and will never see the light of day. I could not live with myself if I lost him. If my love (if that is indeed what it is) took his life, worse, his respect for me. And it would. He is too good a man to be this depraved. Too good a man to be willing to commit such heinous and disgusting acts. And dear Christ in heaven do I love him for it.