The Tor - 18. Chapter 18

### Chapter Eighteen

Christopher woke before the alarm.

For several seconds he lay still, staring at the ceiling while the events of the previous night returned in no particular order: the storm, the candles, Marco's hand in his, the kiss.

He closed his eyes.

For months he had imagined that if he ever crossed that particular line, everything afterwards would feel different. The world would tilt. Some hidden mechanism would begin turning. The sea might rise. The Tor might call him by a name he had forgotten. Instead, rain tapped softly against the window and a lorry changed gear somewhere along the harbour road.

Christopher opened his eyes again. Nothing had changed, except everything.

He turned his head. Marco was asleep on the sofa. Christopher stared at him. At some point during the night, after the storm had eased, they had apparently reached the mutual conclusion that neither of them knew what came next. Christopher had gone to bed. Marco had insisted the sofa was perfectly comfortable.

It plainly was not.

One arm was folded beneath his head. The blanket had slipped almost entirely onto the floor. His dark hair had fallen across his forehead.

Christopher smiled.

He had seen that face in a monastery, on a hillside covered with wild orchids, aboard a ship in a storm and on railway platforms filled with steam. He had seen it altered by centuries and circumstances, sometimes younger, sometimes harder, sometimes almost unbearably tired. He had never seen Marco asleep on his sofa.

The discovery seemed absurdly intimate.

Christopher got out of bed. He was halfway through making coffee when he heard movement behind him.

"You're awake."

Marco appeared in the doorway, rubbing one hand over his face. "Apparently."

Christopher looked at him. "Did you sleep?"

"Eventually."

"Was the sofa comfortable?"

"No."

Christopher laughed.

Marco smiled sleepily. "You said it was a perfectly good sofa."

"I was being polite."

"I thought so."

Marco walked into the kitchen. For a moment they simply stood there, looking at one another. Last night had made everything between them explicit. Somehow that made the morning more awkward rather than less.

Christopher reached for the coffee. "So." Marco raised an eyebrow. "What happens now?"

Marco considered the question. "We have breakfast."

Christopher stared at him. "That's it?"

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know. Thunder. Prophecy. The sea turning black."

Marco glanced towards the window. "The sea looks perfectly normal."

"Disappointing."

"Give it time."

Christopher laughed.

Marco reached for the second mug and poured coffee. Christopher watched him for a moment.

"I've known you for centuries," he said. "And I don't know whether you take sugar."

"Two."

"You never told me."

"You never asked."

Christopher shook his head, smiling. There was something almost ridiculous about it. He had spent weeks discovering that Marco had watched kingdoms rise and fall, had crossed centuries, had endured more grief than Christopher could begin to imagine, and now they were discussing sugar.

Christopher found he liked it.

They ate toast at the small kitchen table while rainwater ran down the windows. Marco complained that Christopher's kettle took too long to boil. Christopher told him he had survived several centuries and could therefore manage three minutes.

Marco accepted this with dignity.

"Are you busy today?" Christopher asked.

Marco shook his head.

"Neither am I."

"You have school."

"It's Saturday."

"Then you are busy doing nothing."

Christopher looked at him.

"Would you like to do something?"

Marco's expression softened. "Yes."

They left the flat a little before ten.

The storm had passed during the night. The harbour was washed clean beneath a pale autumn sky. Pools of water filled the hollows in the pavement, and the sea had settled into long grey swells.

Christopher walked beside Marco without thinking about it. That was perhaps the strangest thing of all. There was no hesitation now. No careful distance. Their shoulders brushed occasionally as they walked, and neither moved away.

They stopped at the bakery. The woman behind the counter smiled.

"The usual?"

Christopher looked at the shelves.

For one absurd instant he remembered the monastery.

Bread had been there too. Different bread, different hands, different century. He could almost smell the cool stone and beeswax.

Then the memory receded.

"The cottage loaf," he said.

Marco glanced at him.

Christopher smiled. "Apparently I'm predictable."

"I've noticed."

"And you?"

"Whatever you're having."

Christopher looked at him.

"That's dangerously romantic."

"I was trying to avoid making a decision."

They bought the loaf and walked towards the harbour. Christopher broke off a piece while they went.

"You've been here all this time," he said.

"Not all the time."

"You said you lived here."

"I've lived in many places."

"But you always come back."

"Eventually."

Christopher was quiet.

He had once imagined Marco's immortality as a kind of endless vigil. A man standing at the Tor while centuries passed around him.

He understood now that it could not have been so simple.

"What do you do?" he asked.

Marco looked puzzled. "Now?"

"Yes."

"I read."

"Anything in particular?"

"History."

Christopher laughed. "Of course."

"I garden."

"You garden?"

"I garden."

"What do you grow?"

"Mostly things that survive when I neglect them."

"That sounds promising."

"I also cook."

"You're going to have to prove that."

"I make a very good soup."

"That's not proof."

"I've made the same soup in several centuries."

Christopher looked at him. "That isn't necessarily reassuring."

Marco laughed. They continued along the harbour.

"I repair things," Marco said. "I walk. I read. Sometimes I teach."

"Teach?"

"Languages. History. Whatever people are willing to pay me for."

"Do you ever have friends?"

"Yes."

Christopher waited. Marco looked towards the sea.

"Not always for very long."

Christopher understood. He did not ask why. Instead he pointed towards a small boat whose owner was struggling with a length of rope.

"You're going to help him, aren't you?"

Marco looked innocent. "I don't know what you mean."

"You've already slowed down."

"I was admiring the workmanship."

"Marco."

Marco sighed. "Perhaps."

They crossed the quay.

Within minutes Marco was kneeling beside the boat, showing the fisherman how to secure a damaged line. Christopher stood nearby, holding the loose end and wondering whether this was another thing Marco had done in another life.

Perhaps. This was now.

When they continued towards the town, Christopher said, "You know, I think that's the first time I've seen you do something completely mundane."

Marco glanced at him. "I've been doing ordinary things for centuries."

"Yes."

Christopher smiled. "I suppose I just never remembered them."

They had lunch at a small pub overlooking the harbour. There was nothing remarkable about it.

The windows were steamed from the kitchen. Someone at the next table was discussing football too loudly. A child was trying to persuade his mother that chips counted as vegetables.

Christopher ordered fish and chips. Marco ordered the shepherds' pie.

When Christopher looked down a few minutes later, one of his chips was missing.

He looked at Marco.

"You took that."

Marco continued eating. "No."

"You did."

"I didn't."

"There's vinegar on your fork."

Marco considered the evidence. "That proves nothing."

Christopher laughed. "You are a terrible liar."

"I've had centuries of practice."

"Apparently not enough."

Marco stole another chip. Christopher reached across the table and caught his wrist. For a moment neither of them moved. The gesture was so ordinary that Christopher almost missed its significance. His hand rested against Marco's wrist. Marco's thumb moved once across his palm.

Christopher let go.

Neither of them mentioned it. After lunch they walked towards the Tor. The path was muddy after the storm. Christopher slipped once and Marco caught his arm.

"I had it."

"I know."

"You didn't have to catch me."

"I know."

Christopher smiled.

At the top they sat on the grass above the harbour. The town looked small from there. The roofs were wet and shining. The fishing boats moved slowly across the water. Beyond them, the sea stretched towards a horizon softened by cloud.

Christopher waited. Nothing happened. No vision came. No memory stirred.

He felt almost disappointed.

Marco noticed. "You were expecting something."

"Perhaps."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Marco settled back on his hands. "You don't have to remember every time you come here."

"I know."

They sat in silence.

Christopher looked at him. "Do you ever come here when you aren't looking for me?"

Marco smiled. "Yes."

"What for?"

"To sit."

"That's all?"

"That's enough."

Christopher considered that. For centuries this place had represented death, searching and return. Perhaps it could simply be a hill.

He stretched out on the grass. "I think we're supposed to be doing something profound."

Marco looked down at him. "Why?"

"Because we're apparently caught in some ancient curse."

"You're not."

"Fine. I'm apparently caught in some ancient curse."

"Better."

Christopher laughed. Marco lay back beside him. They watched clouds move slowly across the sky.

After a while Christopher said, "What was the happiest life?"

Marco was silent.

Christopher turned his head. "You don't have to answer."

"I know."

Marco looked towards the harbour. "There were many."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

Christopher waited. Marco smiled faintly.

"There was one in which we lived beside a river. We had a dog that hated me."

Christopher laughed.

"Why?"

"I never fed him when he begged."

"Reasonable."

"He disagreed. He would only sleep beside your side of the bed."

"What happened?"

"We grew old."

Christopher's smile faded. "Both of us?"

"Yes."

"Together?"

"Yes."

Christopher looked back towards the sky. "That sounds nice."

"It was."

"How did it end?"

Marco was quiet for a moment. "Peacefully."

Christopher swallowed. He reached across the grass until his fingers found Marco's.

"Then remember this one differently."

Marco looked at him. "How?"

"Don't remember how it ends."

Marco's expression changed. Christopher squeezed his hand. "Just remember today."

For a long time Marco said nothing.

Then he turned his hand and laced their fingers together. "I can do that."

They stayed on the Tor until the afternoon began to fade. No one came looking for them. Nothing called Christopher's name. The wind moved through the grass.

Eventually Marco stood. "We should go."

"Why?"

"Dinner."

Christopher looked up. "You really are determined to make this ordinary."

Marco smiled. "Yes."

They walked back through Penmere as the light faded.

At Marco's house, Christopher discovered that Marco was, in fact, a good cook.

The soup was excellent. He refused to admit this at first.

"It needs salt."

"It doesn't."

"It does."

Marco tasted it. "No."

Christopher added salt.

Marco watched him. "You are impossible."

"So you've said."

They ate at a small wooden table beside the window.

Christopher found himself telling Marco about school. One pupil had written an essay on the strategic importance of Roman military mules, with the conviction that Rome's entire imperial expansion could be explained through pack animals. Another had apparently decided punctuation was optional. Marco listened with genuine interest.

Christopher asked about Marco's garden. Marco described a stubborn rosebush that refused to die.

They argued about whether that constituted admirable resilience or poor taste.

By the time they finished washing the dishes, it was dark. They sat together on the sofa.

Christopher found a book on the coffee table and picked it up. Marco chose another. For several minutes they read in silence.

Christopher became aware of their knees touching. He did not move. Neither did Marco. The room was quiet.

Outside, the sea moved against the harbour wall.

Christopher thought of all the memories that had come to him during the past few days.

The monastery.

The ship.

The railway platform.

The little room above the stationer's.

The smuggler's alley.

Each had seemed important because it had survived inside him. But perhaps that was not quite right.

The lives had mattered because they had been lived. The deaths had merely made them memorable.

He looked at Marco. Marco was reading. A lamp beside him cast a pool of warm light across the page.

Christopher smiled.

"What?" Marco lowered the book.

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I know."

"Why?"

Christopher considered the question. "I'm trying to remember this."

Marco understood.

The centuries had taught Marco to remember endings because endings were what remained.

Christopher reached across the space between them.

He took Marco's hand. "You don't have to remember it." Marco looked at him. "You can just have it."

Something moved across Marco's face. He closed his fingers around Christopher's. For a moment neither spoke.

Then Marco lifted Christopher's hand and kissed his knuckles.

Christopher smiled. No memory came. No ancient voice whispered from the Tor. Nothing changed, and that was precisely what made the moment feel extraordinary.

They remained there until the book in Christopher's lap slid slowly towards the floor. Marco caught it. Christopher laughed.

"You saved it."

"I have experience."

"With books?"

"With you."

Christopher leaned against him. Marco rested his cheek lightly against Christopher's hair.

The sea continued beyond the windows.

Christopher closed his eyes.

For centuries, Marco had remembered him through endings.

This was different.

There was no ending yet.

Only the quiet weight of Marco beside him, the sound of the sea, and this ordinary day.

For once, neither of them had to say goodbye.

They were simply there, together.

For today, that was enough.