Dublin was bustling today. The traffic was thick, busy and crazy, as usual -- and the sidewalk traffic wasn't much better. But, she smiled all day long while she was with you. She must have taken you to at least a dozen different shops after breakfast, even insisting that she buy you a couple of items 'just because'.
     The shops along Grafton Street were all packed, but the atmosphere wasn't rushed like one might expect. Everyone moved at a leisurely pace, taking their time to admire the merchandise and make their purchases. Buskers could be found almost every twenty to thirty feet along the cobble-stone pedestrian street, filling the air with music, poetry and laughter.
     The day remained grey just until before dusk, when finally the skies cleared for a bit, allowing a glimpse of the sunrise. This is when you arrived at the Bru na Boinne -- the Boyne Valley. You had just enough light to get to the base of the hill of Newgrange before the last flecks of blue from the day gave way to the black of night.
     Luckily, she brought a small flashlight in her pocket, because she's done this before... visited after dark. It's the only way to get peace at Newgrange since the Irish tourism authority turned it into a tourist spot.
     When you step onto the gravel path leading up to the tumulous, do you feel the atmosphere change? Do you feel that 'safe' feeling? It must be consecrated ground. No one would harm either of you here...if anyone else were around, that is. But no one is. It's just you. And Una.
     A strip of clouds partially obscure the moon overhead, but it offers a little bit of light to lead the way.
     A cool hand slips into yours as Una whispers, "Come on... it's a little bit of a trek to the top." She then starts to move forward, tugging on your hand gently to follow.

     That feeling. Like the sudden presence or absence of light -- whichever one finds most soothing. Like stepping into secure arms. This is sanctuary. A pocket of peace in a world that still struggles to comprehend it. Not that it has ever been his particular business to comprehend peace. Sometimes he buys and sells it. Sometimes he dashes it to pieces. Sometimes he craves it like a man craves water on his fortieth day in the desert.
     His hand is warm, gloved, soft wool and it grasps your own, fingers interlacing. Nicu lets you lead the way, and in the disappearing daylight focuses on what he can see of the surroundings...
     He is wearing new threads. Same overcoat, scarf and gloves. But the trousers are charcoal grey, the shoes are sturdy -- meant for walking, or maybe for kicking -- but comfortable, considering their newness, and his shirt is a layering of light heather green over another shirt of white cotton. Layers and layers.
     "This is a wonderful place. It is old. Very old. Older than both of us," he smiles at that. Even older than you. "What was it... once..."

     At first, the distance up the hill does not appear to be that far, but once you start walking, you realize that appearances are deceiving. It will take a few minutes to get up to the tumulus mound known as Newgrange.
     Her fingers curl around your gloved one as she leads you up that hill. Now and then, a cloud passes over the moon, obscuring it momentarily...only to release it on the other side to illuminate the path a bit better. So long as you're walking on the gravel, you shouldn't lose your way.
     "It was built in the neolithic age, if I remember correctly... 5200 BC, perhaps? It's been a while since I've done reading on it. No one really knows, but it has been speculated that it was a tomb. Thieves have long since stolen whatever was within it. There is a chamber within at the end of a long passageway. They actually call it a 'passageway tomb'," Una explains, passing the time as the two of you get nearer to the top. In the moonlight, the mound stands out on the top of the hill, the light glinting off some white stone.
     "There's actually graffiti from the 1800s inside, too... it's kind of surreal seeing that," she comments with a soft chuckle, her breath showing in the moonlight as a white puff of air.

     "Why," he wonders softly, and looking to you he grins in the moonlight, "...did you write it?" The temperature has dropped, and while it is nearing the holiday season and snow is likely at some point, all the evening bodes tonight is sprinkling, misting moisture. His breath clings on the air. His fingers squeeze your own. And Nicu looks ahead, marking the path -- what he can see of it -- and the glint of moonlight off the ancient stone.
     "I should be more reverent," he notes for the record. "The tomb of a priest, perhaps... wise man or... chief of some sort," he posits. And he looks to you again, the moonlight shines against your skin, making you stand out against the night, lighting the curve of your neck, the line of your jaw. Yes, tonight calls for dancing...
     How easily your hand fits in his. It is a fit, this. Comfortable. Strong. Understanding. "Well, rest assured I will not deface the stones. Brings bad luck. Even if one is Christian and writing on a pagan stone..." And he is most assuredly Christian. Eastern Orthodox. The church of Constantinople. Of Byzantine.

     She reaches over with her other hand and playfully punches you in the arm. "No, silly... I did not write it." She is more reverent than that, even if she will make jokes here and play-fight with you.
     "This place is what you make of it. If you want it to be calming, it will be. If you want it to be inspiring, it will be. It you want it to be entertaining... well, that's your decision, hm?" The smile which slips onto her lips only brightens her face as she looks ahead.
     Religion. That's something Una has never been completely clear about...what faith she follows. She has spoken of faith a few times, but keeps mysteriously vague about it. She always has. At one time she was very decidedly Christian, but that was before she first died at the sword of a raider on her father's ship...and then came back to whispers and rumours that she made unholy deals with the devil. None of which were true, obviously, but it left a lot of questions.
     But she's always been drawn back to Boyne. It doesn't matter what faith you follow here, so long as you have it at all.
     "Well, that is a relief then," she chuckles, looking at you for a moment to announce that the top had been reached. The mound stands before the two of you like a silent sentinal, watching over the surrounding crop fields and roaming hills of green. "Isn't it beautiful?" she asks in a hushed voice, with wonder and awe clear on her face. There is a type of joy there, too. This is a special place to her. And she has just begun to share it with you.

     His line of Romania originated in Byzantium. His father's father's father and so on. Though some of his relatives were, no doubt, some of the worst sort of heathens imaginable. Even for your imagination. You speak of wonders and he isn't looking at the green valley, Erin's 'emerald hills'. "I could say something smooth, and say... why yes... Isn't it beautiful, not noting the dolmen at all." He smiles. "I will not be insincere to the dolman," Nicu smiles, he looks around. "It is a lovely and peaceful place. And beautiful. But if I had to name my true sanctuary, and if we are talking of a beauty that is ... even more to my liking, then I will not be insincere to you. You are that."
     He is smooth. Not in an oily way, but like a stone worn smooth by a river. He turns to face you, one hand yet held by yours. His other comes up, gloved fingers smoothening against your skin. "Would it profane the gods that watch this hill," he wonders, "... if I were to ...welcome my old friend, and my old lover, with kiss? I do not wish to be struck by lightning, or to be swallowed by the earth..."
     The moonlight catches the edge of his grin.

     As you speak of insincerity to the tomb, she now pulls her gaze away from the white stones there and turns to look back at you. You're not looking at it, are you? Or you weren't. Though you might not see the flush in her cheeks in this lighting, to you see the way she makes that shy little smile when a blush does occur? The slight lowering of lashes and gaze before looking back up to you? You know her so well, so perhaps you can see these subtle things.
     For a long moment, all she does is look up at you, her mouth moving for a moment, but no sound coming out. If it were anyone else, she would likely have slapped them...or worse: sucker-punched them, hit them over the head and left them to wake in the morning with a lot of bruises.
     But you've always known how to melt her, how to speak to her in such a way... and there are the feelings which have been rekindling since last night when you showed up on her doorstep. It was like something out of a movie or romance novel, perhaps.
     Standing motionless, her breath puffing up in small clouds in the cool dampness of the night, she shakes her head slowly. "I do not think they would mind," she manages to whisper so softly.

     He has a natural charm, sometimes of the aw-shucks variety, charm that does not think it is charming, which is, of course, horribly charming. But more often, like now, there is a gallantry to it. A statelines that may remind one of 18th Century European courts. Maybe that is why it is reminiscent of Hollywood or Danielle Steele. Neither of which he's familiar with, of course. "Ah," Nicu says, a smile lighting his features, "...but would you mind it...That is the question, I think..."
     But he does not give you time to answer that, or perhaps even think of it again and change your mind. Or make it such a rhetorical enterprise that you cease to care whether He Will or He Won't.
     And as for how it is, let your memory serve you...
     How someone from a nation so cold, so dreary, with such a reputation for elusiveness or aloofness, could kiss with such fire. The snow and grey clouds overlay a fiery disposition. You remember that, surely. It was surprising once, to learn how quickly the ice could melt. Is it any less surprising now?
     The air has warmed between you, mist lingering moments and moments after the kiss has halted, as if the two of you could create your own fog.

     As you ask the question, a small smile manages to slip onto her lips...only to be hidden by yours. Her eyes close as her memories flood her mind, reminding her just how much she cared about you, how much she desired you, how much she truly did (and still does) love you.
     As for not giving her time to answer or think on the question, you always did have a knack for that...and for catching her by surprise. Perhaps that is one of the qualities about you which allowed you to capture her heart? That, coupled with the fierceness of heat beneath your cool exterior. She always loved that about you...because it was surprising. Because it always kept things interesting.
     It was a fire which matched that of her own. The jokes and rumours about redheads may only be that, but not with her.. she lives up to the reputation. Do you remember?
     But then the kiss is halted, causing her lashes to flutter open, but only just. She breathes a little heavily now, adding to the mist lingering about the two of you, her lips just slightly parted. Her gaze lingers upon your mouth, then slowly raises, finding your eyes. Her mind races, trying to find the words to express herself to you... but all she manages to whisper is, "Oh, I missed you.."
     Do her eyes manage to convey it all to you? The longing? The desire she feels welling up inside of her as she stands so close to you? Every touch merely fuels this. Another cloud passes over the moon, obscuring much from sight. But she is still there... solid.. warm.. unmoving.

     His hands cover your hands, and though there is a smile held in his eyes it does not make it all the way to his lips. "I've missed you, too." And the air has felt the pressure of it since he first saw you tending the bar. In your room, it threatened to explode. Today in the bathroom. All of that... pressure, that tension culminates in the second kiss.
     "If we stand here much longer," he says after a while, "I will have to profane sacred ground," you know what he means. And now, Nicu smiles. He laughs a little, hand smoothing back your hair. "Your bed will be softer than the clover, though... maybe the clover will do..." He makes an issue of looking around, as if he were serious. Then again, perhaps he is.
     He has breezed his way back into your life, on the heels of winter. Bringing the grey and the rain from Romania. He will find his way into your bed only one night and after a hundred years.
     And he says he's not smooth...

     Her own fire is more evident in the second kiss, making things seem a little more urgent, perhaps. Her hands ball up into small fists within yours, keeping warm within your grasp.
     That sense of humour of yours... she can't help but laugh a little bit. "If it were warmer, I'd agree that clover would do. But honestly, I think it wouldn't do out here." You're right. The bed would be much softer. It did look comfortable earlier, did it not?
     You were trying to be gentlemanly and not assume much, but did you really have to worry? No, it does not seem that way. Even though it has been a hundred years or so, is it so strange? Will anything have changed? Not likely... you'll both just need to do a little remembering with each other.
     Looking up at you, Una finally asks you softly, "So, what do we do now?" It is in your hands now. You decide. She will accept. Her hair has already started to curl up a bit more under the mist in the air.

     "Go to your apartment," Nicu replies, taking your hand. A squeeze of it and a smile. "You will make us some tea? To warm us from this... and I will add to it a little brandy, just for insurance. And then..." He rolls his shoulders. We will let Fate and Nature take care of us.
     Do not plan too much. Do not worry too much. Just enjoy...
     He closes his eyes, he kisses your hand, blows upon them to warm your fingers, and then he turns to head back to the gravel path, and the road and the waiting Rover.

Posted by rowan at March 01, 2001 07:44 PM