Of Waves and War

11: he spoke to his own heart

Penelope

My mother and my sister gave me an extremely long talk about avoiding the advances of a man with a silver-tongue and also his charms in general and how to see through and avoid them for all men are liars, but this one I've picked especially. Naturally, I took all that into great consideration.

"Why haven't you kissed me yet?" I asked, as we stood in his father's orchards. He'd been showing me one of his bows. He had several and was equally proud of all of them and while watching him adore the instruments was diverting, the question was rather pressing.

"Should I?" he shrugged.

"I go home tomorrow, the two weeks  are done, I did expect a kiss goodbye. That is what is done, but if you're not going to I'd like a reason," I said, rationally.

He shrugged.

"Well? Do you not want to kiss me?" I asked.

"Every moment," he said, looking at the bow in his hands, "But I'd also not sully you."

"I am a person not a spare bit of cloth don't think yourself so great as to change me by your touch," I scoffed.

"If  I could imagine anyone able to want me of their own volition it's you. But as it is I cannot. I'm too used to getting my way and not deserving it I could take no pleasure for the fear that I'd tricked you somehow," he said.

"You can't trick me," I said, stubbornly.

He shrugged.

"You're an arrogant idiot if you think you can pull one over on me and make me fall in love with, with your fine words and your lying tongue," I said.

He smiled a bit, not looking at me.

"I love you for free. With every trick, every lie, every falsehood, every curse you have, because that's who I am. Freely, don't flatter yourself," I said, walking up and pinching his cheek.

He grinned and said nothing.

"What?"

"If I speak I don't stop and I'd sooner hear your voice as you're going home."

"So you'll not kiss me?"

"I'll not yet," he said, "Let it be my own folly then, but I won't have it."

I didn't think he'd keep his word. He wasn't anything like truthful. And so the next day when I was to depart I did expect him to at least kiss me goodbye. Especially after the point of all of it was that I wanted him to.

He saw me off the docks, and carried a few of my bags even. His mother came as well. She'd gotten to like me and had made many comments about putting up with her son and my probably being blessed by the gods for doing so.

"Goodbye," I said. We had no plans to see the other again. He'd said he'd write, but I knew his parents needed him at home that time of year.

"Goodbye," he said, stiffly, something like tears in his eyes. Then he raised a curled fist to his lips. He closed his eyes as he pressed his lips to his palm. Then, very, gently, he moved to place his palm on my cheek, conveying the kiss and smoothing it along my skin.

"Bet you'll miss me when I'm gone," I whispered.

"I lose," he said, his hand still cradling my cheek with the most sacred of kisses. "Name your price."

I cradle my cheek with one hand, pretending its his there and we're moments not oceans apart. But it does no good. And my nightmare from last night still burns in my mind. I have not felt that full of panic in years.

"Bet you never meant to break my heart," I say, looking at the bubbles in the kettle as it boils for our tea.

"My price is your heart," I said, "I have to have it."

"That can't work."

"Why?"

"Because it's already yours."

I sigh. Sweet memories. Of course I was in anguish that day at leaving him. I didn't know how many lovely days  ahead I would have with his arm draped over my shoulders.

"Good morning," Telemachus walks in carrying a trombone. Telemachus does not know how to play the trombone, "Get any sleep? Love the scones, anyway I'm off."  

"Oh please, Tel, we discussed this. Today is my day to deal with the suitors," I sigh.

"Yeah, but you didn't sleep and I'm the man of the house so I've made an executive decision. Go on to your needlework and such; I have things taken care of," boldly strolling out with the trombone to his lips, playing nothing like a song. Great groaning and cries of anger and swearing issue from the main hall where the suitors lie.

I sigh, shaking my head, "Got to give the child points for persistence, don't we, love?"

I don't understand the nightmare though. Usually I do. Of course my dreams are tortured with his death at war. With waiting and waiting him never to return.

Last night it was different. It was water. Cold water, like the night we made a bet and ran off the pier and leapt into a harbor. That was filled with joy though, not fear. The frozen rush of the ocean. Eulises before me, plunging into the water, our fingers intertwining as we sank just below the surface. A smile spreading across his fine face, black curls floating in a halo around his head as his glinting black-gold eyes turned to me and then the smile spread further.

Why then I did I feel fear in a dream of water? In all dreams he is there, that's the only solace I get from missing him. So why the nightmare?