presents...
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Mountain Climbing
His father had loved the mountains. Solid, strong, enduring: qualities Antonio admired. He called the granite peaks "Theus's bones" and held them in a special reverance.
Marco didn't understand it. The mountains were beautiful to look at, but so were the ocean and the sunset. And he himself certainly loved being on the mountain, climbing, exploring, and hunting. There were things to do there, ways he could test himself against it. That was worth coming back for. But loving rocks just for being rocks? What was that about?
He wondered what Francesca would say about it. Privately, he thought she'd agree with him. She was up ahead of him, in her riding habit, nimbly picking her way over the craggy slope. Because she wanted to climb the mountain, the tallest mountain in the islands. Just to do it. To show that she could do it. Testing herself, against the rocks. He understood that, on a gut level at least. He didn't even know what drove him to these physical challenges, again and again. He couldn't even begin to guess what drove her.
It certainly wasn't ladylike. That was all right by him. He'd grown up with a first-hand view of what ladies were like, and they seemed to mostly be scheming, conniving, manipulative, greedy shrews intent on milking every possible cento from their men. He'd watched them transform themselves, over the course of five steps down the hall, from villifying the men they were about to meet to greeting them with wild joy.
It bothered him. It was false and hollow and beneath them, he thought. Because he did admire their eloquence and how they could defend their opinions on everything under the sun - honestly, it seemed to him, but tactfully and entertainingly too. They were most beautiful when they were honest.
Francesca, he thought, had the same eloquence, the same outspoken manner, but not the false front. Not with him, at least. And it made such a difference. He had always thought she was beautiful, but out here... There was a high color in her cheeks and a lift to her chin he didn't recall seeing back home. And she moved so, so...
Free. We're free here, for a little while. Not 'the bastard' and 'the Senzavista.' We're just us. Testing... to find out what 'us' is.
It was a strange sort of thought for Marco, but in the cool morning breeze, it felt like a true thought.
And then the ascent grew steeper, and he had to put such thoughts aside.
"Marco." He looked up at the sound of his name. She was beckoning. "Just leave it for a minute. We came all this way and you aren't going to look?"
He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry. I just wanted to get the pack off, and then once the pack was off, I just thought - " He broke off with another shrug before setting down the bundle of food he'd been untying and going to her.
The view was, as always, amazing. It was past noon, so the morning mists had all burned off, leaving all of Mondavi Island visible. The palace was well below them, and Chiarisa's port was beyond it. Brown mountains and green trees, further down, stretched out left and right, and they could see hamlets and fishing villages dotting the interior and the coast. Marco pointed out the ones he knew.
"What's that one? What do they do there?"
He glanced in the direction she was pointing. "Canneto," he said. "They raise goats just like..." He'd looked back at her and lost his voice. Still flushed from exertion and pride at her accomplishment, she was surveying the scene like a queen or maybe a Numan goddess - mistress, he thought, of all she surveys. Proud, accomplished, confident. A few locks of her hair had escaped her braid and were moving gently in the wind, blowing across her face. He reached to brush them away.
She turned even before his fingers touched her temple, reacting (he thought) instinctively to seeing, out of the corner of her eye, something approaching her face. He finished the gesture, gently brushing the stray hair aside but leaving his hand to cup her cheek.
And for a moment, they were alone on the mountain, without his father, her husband, between them. And in that moment, he pulled her close to him and kissed her, warm and soft in that rocky, wind-swept place.
And then the moment passed. He stepped back suddenly, as if he could retreat back behind the line they had just crossed. His father's wife. He didn't dare look at her, not sure what he'd see in her face, not sure what he wanted to see there. "I'm, I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm sorry, I didn't - "
Now it was her hand on his cheek, raising his face to hers. Her brown eyes were so deep, and there was a current there so strong he felt that it would carry him away and drown him. "I'm not sorry," she said quietly.
His breath caught, and they stepped into each other's arms again, two souls flying free above the spires of Chiarisa.
Back to Game 17 log.
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