Another Hillside, to the South of the Rose
I can, he’d said. Aremu had looked back; he’d known better than to look, but he had, again, anyway.
Aremu was the one to look away, now. “Of course,” he said, quietly. He hadn’t thought. Whatever this meant to him, surely it was nothing to Gideon; surely it was nothing at all.
He was tired, Aremu thought, aching, more tired than he’d realized. That was all; surely he knew better, by now, than to speak of such things to anyone. For a moment he thought – he wished. But there were letters that could not be sent, and orange-scented bathwater felt more like a strange dream than a memory, as unreal as the brush of petals beneath the moonlight, as foreign as sitting on the pier and watching the sky for lightning.
He did not bring it up again; he had known not to bring it up at all, if he was honest with himself. That he had done so anyway only made him a fool, and he was sorry for it. Lies, Aremu knew, built a wall; lies to oneself were no better than the rest, even if a man who knew honor did not have to worry about them. Or perhaps he did; Aremu was grateful not to know, though not as grateful as he was bitter.
Dunno what it means, just know that it is.
True enough, Aremu thought, trying not to smile or frown, trying to do nothing but continue walking steadily towards the Rose. He wondered what Harper would make of such a description. It was, he thought, as apt as any of the man’s science.
Didn’t know before, Gideon had said, knew then. It had been fear, Aremu thought, achingly tired, thinking of the other man’s hand groping in the dark, and wanting not to wonder what sort of thoughts he’d had. He wanted to say it, even now, in the wide open space of the rolling hills with the breeze rustling through his hair and coat. I’m not dangerous, he wanted to say, in that way. That part of me won’t hurt you, even if.
He didn’t say it. Whatever fear Gideon had felt – whatever fear he had felt, and Aremu could acknowledge that he, too, had been afraid – he thought he would rather leave it behind in the tunnel. He should not, Aremu thought, had asked; he wasn’t sure he was glad of the answer. Just a word, after all; just a way of describing himself.
Aremu breathed in, deeply, tasting the salt air, and back out. They were climbing, once more; his steps slowed, and Gideon’s did too. They crested the hill, and down below it Aremu could see the edges of homes and shops, the edge of the Rose itself; there were no streets, yet, but they were not far away. He sagged with tiredness, pressing his face to his hand for a long moment, then grunted himself up and kept on.