The Tor - 13. Chapter 13

For several moments neither of them spoke. The wind moved across the harbour, carrying the smell of salt and seaweed from the dark water below. Somewhere farther along the promenade, a gull cried out. The sound seemed strangely distant. Christopher stood with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, watching Marco hesitate. That, more than anything else, had become intolerable. Every answer led to another question. Every explanation dissolved into implication and half-finished warnings.

"No." The word came sharper than Christopher intended. "No more of this. You don't get to keep doing that."

A faint crease appeared between Marco's brows. "Doing what?"

"You know exactly what." Christopher took a step towards him. "Every time I ask a direct question, you give me another riddle. Every time something impossible happens, you tell me to wait. I've had enough." Marco remained silent. "You knew things about me before we met." Christopher's voice tightened. "You knew about the dreams."

The storm flashed through his mind. Armour. Smoke. The cold weight of grief that sometimes seemed older than his own life.

"You knew exactly what was happening to me."

Marco lowered his eyes briefly. That tiny movement felt almost like an admission.

Christopher laughed once, without humour. "So tell me."

Marco looked towards the dark outline of the tor rising above the harbour. His jaw tightened.

"No dreams," Christopher said. "No stories. No archaeological theories." Marco met his gaze. "The truth."

Silence stretched between them. Christopher watched the hesitation in Marco's face.

"Well?"

Marco drew a slow breath. His eyes closed briefly.

Christopher felt anger flare. "Stop it."

Marco blinked. "Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like you've had this argument before."

For the first time since the conversation began, Marco seemed genuinely shaken. The colour drained slightly from his face. Neither of them spoke. Then Marco held Christopher's gaze.

"I have."

The words were quiet. Christopher felt a chill move through him. Marco looked away towards the harbour.

"We have known each other before."

Christopher stared at him. For a second he thought he had misheard.

Then he laughed. The sound escaped before he could stop it, a short, disbelieving bark that seemed absurdly loud in the night air.

"Oh, for God's sake." Marco did not react. "You cannot seriously expect me to believe that."

"We have."

Christopher turned away, running a hand through his hair.

"What does that even mean?"

"It means exactly what I said."

Christopher looked back at him. "What, in another life?"

Marco held his gaze. "Yes."

Christopher stared at him. "And you've been there?"

"Many times."

Christopher actually recoiled. He stared at him for several seconds, waiting for some sign that this was a joke, or an elaborate attempt to frighten him, or even some strange archaeological theory that had been badly expressed. There was nothing.

"You think this is funny?"

"I don't."

"You expect me to stand here and listen to this?"

"I expect nothing."

Christopher took another step towards him. "You're asking me to discard everything I know about history, psychology and memory?" Marco said nothing. "Have you found some vulnerable idiot having strange dreams and decided to convince him he's the reincarnation of somebody from another age?"

The wind pulled at his coat. He suddenly felt cold, though the sensation seemed to come from somewhere deeper. A slight unsteadiness passed through him, as though the ground beneath him had shifted fractionally out of alignment. He ignored it. The certainty in Marco's voice was unbearable.

"You don't know me."

Marco's gaze never wavered. "I do."

"You met me a few weeks ago."

Marco lowered his eyes briefly. When he looked up again there was something ancient in the sadness of his expression.

"A few weeks ago," he repeated softly.

Christopher disliked the feeling the phrase produced because some part of him recognised it. Recognised Marco's face. Recognised the sorrow. Recognised the unbearable familiarity that had haunted every encounter between them from the beginning.

Christopher folded his arms. "Then prove it."

For the first time uncertainty flickered across Marco's face. Not uncertainty about what he was saying. Uncertainty about how much he should reveal.

"I cannot prove it to you tonight."

"Convenient."

"I can only tell you the truth."

Christopher stared at him. The harbour lights shimmered across the dark water below. There was no triumph in Marco's expression. No satisfaction. Only a quiet certainty that frightened Christopher far more than enthusiasm would have.

The waves rolled against the rocks below. A gust of wind swept across the harbour and rattled the railings along the promenade.

He shook his head. "No." Marco said nothing. "No, I don't accept that." Christopher ran a hand across his face. He could feel the beginnings of a headache gathering behind his eyes.

"You keep saying these things as if they're facts."

"They are facts."

Christopher laughed sharply. "There it is again."

He turned away and looked out across the dark water. Harbour lights stretched across the surface in broken ribbons of gold and white. He concentrated on them. Something solid. Something real. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. More controlled. The tone he used in classrooms, when dismantling an argument he knew was unsound.

"Do you know what memory actually is?" Marco remained silent. "It isn't a recording. Every study we've ever done shows that memory is reconstructive. People fill gaps without realising it. They create connections that never existed. False memories can be implanted. People can become absolutely convinced of things that never happened."

"I know."

Christopher frowned. "You know?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you standing here telling me I've lived multiple lives?"

"Because you have."

"That's not an answer."

"No."

Christopher folded his arms. "Dreams aren't evidence."

"They are not."

"They're influenced by stress."

"That is true."

"Trauma can produce hallucinations."

"Also undeniable."

"People experience religious visions all the time."

"I won't argue against that."

Christopher stared at him. Every objection seemed to disappear into the same calm response. There was no defensiveness. No attempt to win, only acknowledgement.

It was strangely infuriating.

"You keep agreeing with me."

"Because you're right."

"Then stop contradicting yourself."

Marco lifted his eyes to meet Christopher's. "I'm not."

Christopher let out an exasperated breath. "Listen to yourself." He began pacing along the edge of the promenade. "You've met a man who's having vivid dreams. A man who's under stress. A man who's become obsessed with a series of increasingly strange experiences." Marco watched him quietly. "You know enough about psychology to understand how suggestible people can be. You know enough about history to understand how powerful myth can be." Christopher pointed towards himself. "And somehow your conclusion is that I'm remembering previous incarnations."

"Yes." The answer arrived with maddening simplicity.

Christopher closed his eyes briefly. "You realise how this sounds?"

"Yes."

"It sounds exactly like the beginning of a breakdown."

For the first time, Marco's expression shifted. Something painful flickered through it. Christopher caught the look immediately.

"You genuinely believe this."

Marco was silent for several seconds.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried a weariness Christopher had never heard before. "I don't need to believe it."

Christopher frowned. "What does that mean?"

Marco looked towards the sea. "It means belief stopped being relevant a very long time ago."

The answer lingered between them. Christopher hated it because it sounded rehearsed, because it sounded like the response of a fanatic.

And because some small part of him had the terrible feeling that it was neither.

And because some small part of him had the terrible feeling that it was neither.

At last Christopher spoke quietly. "Then maybe I'm losing my mind."

The words escaped before he could stop them. Marco's face changed. A shadow passed through his eyes. A grief so sudden and familiar that it caught Christopher completely off guard.

"No," Marco said softly. The certainty in his voice was absolute. "No. You are not."

Christopher stared at him. Something in that certainty frightened him more than the revelation itself. He turned away and gripped the cold stone wall overlooking the harbour. The sea lay black beneath the moonlight. A scattering of lights trembled across the water from the fishing boats anchored beyond the breakwater.

His arguments remained sound. That was the problem. They should have been enough.

A memory surfaced.

No. Not a memory.

A dream.

That was what it had to be.

Waves breaking against stone. Salt water washing crimson across rock. A man kneeling beside a body. Armour glistening beneath a grey sky.

Christopher closed his eyes. The image vanished. The grief remained. That was what frightened him.

Not the image. The emotion.

The crushing sense of loss that accompanied it.

It had never felt imagined.

It felt remembered.

Christopher opened his eyes. He thought of the first time he had seen Marco.

The immediate recognition. The impossible certainty that he knew a man he had never met.

He had blamed stress, curiosity or even attraction. None of them had explained it.

He had known Marco.

The certainty had been immediate, instinctive, older than thought.

The wind moved across the harbour. Behind him, Marco remained silent.

Christopher swallowed. "I recognised you." Marco did not answer immediately. "The first time we met," Christopher continued. "I knew I recognised you."

A long pause.

"Yes."

Then Christopher asked, "What happens now?"

Marco's gaze remained fixed on the sea. For several seconds he did not answer.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "Your birthday is tomorrow."

Christopher frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Marco looked towards the black water below.

"The unusually low tide."

Christopher went still.

He had spent hours researching that anomaly. He had never understood why it had seemed important.

"That's tomorrow?"

"Yes."

Christopher turned towards him. "How do you know about it?"

Marco's expression darkened. "It always begins around your birthday."

A chill moved through Christopher. The words sounded rehearsed. As though they belonged to a conversation that had occurred before. Many times.

"What does?"

Marco looked away towards the tor before answering. "You begin to remember."

Christopher felt his stomach tighten. "Remember what?"

Marco hesitated. The pause was brief, but significant. "I don't completely understand it myself."

Christopher blinked. That answer was unexpected. "You don't?"

"No." Marco folded his arms against the cold. "I only know that it happens."

"What happens?"

Christopher waited. Marco looked towards the tor again. "The memories become harder to ignore."

Christopher's pulse quickened. "And then?"

Marco said nothing. Christopher stepped closer. "If you've seen this before, then you must know something."

Marco's gaze settled on him. A shadow crossed his face, deeper than either pain or weariness. "I know what happens."

Christopher stared at him. "What happened last time?"

Marco closed his eyes. "No."

Christopher's anger returned. "What happened?"

"No."

"After everything you've told me, you're still keeping secrets?"

Marco met his gaze. The sorrow in his eyes stopped whatever Christopher had been about to say. "I am trying to prevent it."

Christopher opened his mouth. Nothing emerged. The wind moved softly across the water. Marco looked away first. Christopher followed his gaze towards the dark outline of the tor above the sleeping town.

Neither man spoke again.

Far below, the sea continued its slow and ancient conversation with the shore.