As I bathed at the trough by the well in the courtyard, I sang a song my mother used to sing to me when I was young and she was still alive. An old song from her childhood.

After a day working in the fields, I was carefully washing the dust and sweat from my body in preparation for the coming night, as this day marked my passing into adulthood, and tonight there should be celebrations, and tomorrow I should come into my inheritance. This was the custom, because though my father still lived, I was the only son of an only child who was a female, and whose father, my grandfather, had owned the great farm that spread out for many leagues from the well in the courtyard where I bathed. His father, my great grandfather, had built the fortified farmhouse about the well and extended the lands his father had left him. But I doubted I would ever become master of the place, and I sang not from joy but to keep away the fear of what might happen to me that night, and to recall the good times when my mother and grandfather still lived.

“I am weary from the road,” a stranger’s deep voice said, startling me from my brooding, and I spun about.

A man, no, a giant, a god, was walking toward me. His golden hair curled about his face, his skin was golden, his body muscular and of a great size, but graceful as a cat. I was almost overwhelmed by the sight of him, for I confess that I greatly admire men of beauty. And he was truly magnificently beautiful.

Gathering my wits, I greeted him as our customs required me to. “Welcome stranger,” I said, my eyes traveling all over his magnificent body, his only clothing a pale leather loincloth and the belts that secured his weapons upon his back. “I am Hilaron, only son of Margaret, daughter of Mortho . . .” Then I hesitated, uncertain for a moment, before I continued with pride, “. . . who today will become master of this house. If you come in peace, you are welcome here,” I said, as was the custom in our region, and I was suddenly gladdened to speak with pride of my lineage and inheritance to even one stranger on that special day.

“I am Konan, and yes, I come in peace,” he replied, “and thank you for your welcome, Hilaron, son of Margaret, daughter of Mortho and master of this fine house.” His response thrilled me, and I was aware of his eyes exploring my nakedness as plainly as mine had explored him. “I have traveled far and am weary of the road and seek a bed for the night.”

“You are . . . welcome to a bed,” I replied, gulping and unable not to think of him in my bed, though my eyes drifted from him to the open gates into the courtyard, knowing that my father would soon return and that he might not welcome a stranger in his house, on this night of all nights. Then I wondered if perhaps my father had sent for this man Konan. But no, I was sure my father was too mean with his gold, my gold now, if I lived through the night, to do such a thing.

“If you wish to wash the sweat and dust of your journey off you, I shall draw water from the well for you,” I said to Konan, for now he was close, standing but an arm’s length from me, I saw that he was dusty from the road and streaks of sweat ran down him.

He accepted my offer, and I was glad, if for no other reason than that my manhood was growing at the very closeness of him and washing him meant I could hide it from him. He was such a magnificent man, and his scent was strong, and I was embarrassed and still slightly uncertain if he was merely an innocent traveler passing by or not.

“I gladly accept your offer,” he replied courteously, and with obvious pleasure he removed the fine sword, quiver of arrows, small lance, and his bow from his back and set them aside, the leather straps that held them having left pale honey-colored damp strips across his golden skin where the sun had not reached it. Then I was almost unable to breath as he undid his loincloth and set it aside, and I confess I could not take my eyes from what it had only half hidden before.

Ahhh. He was as big there as anywhere, and his balls were full and large, and I was sure his weapon was partly firm it was so long and full and the head was peeping free of its pocket. He was the most magnificent man I had ever set my eyes on. A man such as young men dream of. A wild barbarian, but one more like the gods than ordinary men. That he should arrive on this day of all days made it seem as if the gods were smiling on me at last. For I had formed a plan for the coming night, but one not easy to carry out alone.

Konan stepped up beside me in the trough, and I quickly filled the bucket with cool, clear water from the well. He took it from my hands and poured the water over his head and let it run refreshingly down his chest and back. Then he gave the bucket back to me, and I filled it again, and as he stood with his back to me, I poured it over his back and shoulders myself.

We continued in that way for some time, me drawing up the water from the well and pouring it over him as he moved about and used his hands to rub the dust and sweat away. Then suddenly he turned, and smiling at me broadly, took the bucket from me as I began trembling, and poured it over me. My trembling was caused by what I now saw, for when he turned, I saw clearly . . .