Rights and So forth; I haven't come into a windfall by which I own the movie, book, or Chan and Jamie. I'll letcha all know if this changes.
Warnings; Still nothing filthy happening. Just the sap.
Rating; PG
Psychosomatic Remembrances
Part Two
Mark jogged every morning. He followed his feet, which meant he could follow a familiar track, or find a totally new route, when his mind wandered and he didn't pay attention to where he was going. The world was repairing itself, and he was quick to constantly remind himself it felt good to be falling into a few old patterns.
This morning was overcast. Not really wet, just gray and sloppy. He rounded the corner in the park, taking the path back toward the street. The sound of the air traveling through his body shuddered under the sound of the music thrumming through the iPod.
He didn't know what happened first. He suspects he saw the sign first, and his knee bloomed in thudding agony for the first time in months and he has to slow to a stop, supporting himself on a bench, and cursing so hard a woman escorts a little girl away while throwing him a dirty look.
He shook his leg and even bounced on it, as if that would force the ache away
"Not now!" He demands to the limb, but he thinks that this is what people who loose remission must feel- clawing some shadow of wellness to stay while it flees into the night. He curses again, lower and under his breath, limp- pacing from one bench across the way to the other, until he collapses into one and cups his head. It's a long time before he looks up
It's attached to a light post, one of those vertical banners cities use. A lot of them, one after the other flanking the wide central avenue that cuts through the middle of the park. They alternate one with an empty eyed marble bust on a background of mosaic tiles, and another with a sword and circular shield. 'The Artifacts of Rome', a traveling exhibit, and the dates.
"Jesus, I know," He mutters to his leg, then tries to sooth the muscle. "I hear you." He doesn't know much, but he knows Marcus had been a Roman Centurion. A long ass time ago Roman Centurion.
It's like his feet won't listen to him, and he hardly notices he's in sweaty jogging clothes, the cord to his ipod wrapped around his neck. He pays admission and is inside as soon as they open the doors, before the school buses pull up full of kids. He doesn't want to be swamped by tiny people who smell like Cheetos and bananas while pursuing his personal demons.
What he wouldn't give to just have his parents be killed so the whole thing could be rectified by putting on a rubber suit, driving a bad-ass car and beating the shit out of criminals with cool weapons. He wasn't even vain enough to need the signal.
He wants it to be familiar, the corroded and worn items propped in glass cases and the dummies in recreated fashion and antique jewelry. There are television screens which read out information and a big interactive display that shows the chronological progress of the Roman army's conquests across the known world, and then their withdrawal as the empire collapses. He wants to find some piece that strikes a bell inside him, but nothing does. Not about the Roman Republic or senate, or the great archeological feats, none of it. Even the decline doesn't inspire any feelings. Sure it's all familiar in that 'Gee, I think I learned that once,' way, but none of it is personal. None of it nudges Marcus out of a stupor to hand over any fucking clues, clues he just pretends he doesn't want because he thought he was over Over OVER it.
By the time he's gotten home, he caves. He shouldn't have gone in. He shouldn't have let it out of the box he tried taping up inside him. Did he let it out, or did the tape burst? Stupid Pandora.
Thankfully, ships over night,
The covers were hokey, especially of the more popular selections. Clouds and mystic women and healing crystals on a lot of them. Inside them there are a lot of false promises and out-right malarky, mystical prose and talk of spirit guides. He throws three different mainstream books against the wall in frustration before switching over to authors who have some kind of an education to their name.
He'd never been great in school, not without Catherine dragging him through what felt pointlessly academic rather than the immediately prudent which he's always been competent at. The abstract and the past just aren't, or, haven't been, his thing. He's a here and now guy.
He wades through chapters on 'Past Life Regression', the potential for healing, and lots of case studies of people who remembered being children locked in closets in the Victorian era who were no longer claustrophobic when the past life revealed itself. He learns a lot, not all of it relevant, but mostly the authors concur that the past should be put to bed, and that people who die violently or unfairly have a better chance of holding onto those memories.
That wasn't what Mark wanted. He needed to settle something with Esca. He didn't know what. Or how. In fact, in light of his new swath of information, if you believed in rebirth, Esca could be an orphan running through the streets of Cairo, a middle aged banker in Shang-hai or a ninety two year old widow with seventeen grandchildren in Finland. He could be anywhere. He could be anyone. He certainly didn't remember Marcus Flavius Aquila. Mark wasn't supposed to remember Marcus. No one was supposed to remember being some dude with a broom on his head in a long ass time ago Rome.
But... that was a thought. Did anyone else remember him? Wasn't history basically all about dead dudes? Did history remember Marcus Flavius Aquila? Wait, was it the Romans who were all pissed at Jesus? No one could remember if Jesus was really a dude who really was, if Marcus was born before Jesus, what were the odds?
The internet didn't have anything to say about Marcus. Or Esca.
So, he went to the library. Then another. Then seven more. Bust.
When Mark hadn't left his apartment in nine days and was surviving on order-in Chinese he called an archeologist who was also a professor on sabbatical from the UK. A lot of published material to his name about the British occupied Rome, which was easier than actually calling Italy since Mark didn't have a word of Italian to his name.
"Marcus Flavius Aquila? Is this for a book or something?" The reedy voice was speculative.
"Or something. I know he was a centurion, but I haven't been able to find any record of him."
"Well, of course not. I've never heard of him, and I would have, believe me. There aren't extensive records about specific Centurions. Where did you get the name?"
"It's not important. " Mark pursed his lips. "What about the name Esca?"
"Esca? Not Roman. Probably has it's roots in a Celtic language."
"Celtic? Like, Irish?"
"Maybe. Variations of it would have been spoken in Britain, into Gaul- France, that is, Germany, even as far down as Spain. A lot of them have died out of course, and it's a debated issue about where what was spoken when. No Celt speakers left written records; we know what we know from Greek and Roman accounts and writing done in the middle ages."
Mark didn't find this has made things any clearer. "I know this is a little sudden, thank you for your patience. Would you happen to know what a Roman Centurion would be doing with a Celtic-speaker?" He asked, trying to sound something between non-nonchalant and interested at a respectable distance.
"Killing him probably." Mark almost choked.
"Barring that, his family could have been Romanized, or his tribe aligned with Rome and eventually swallowed up. More likely, a Celtic speaker in continued contact with a Roman was a slave."
"Esca is not a slave!" The words were out of his mouth before Mark could temper their verve, or even understood why the notion sent heat shearing across his chest. There was stunned silence on the other end and then a 'Goodness, Sir' or something like it that was equally British and mildly miffed.
"I'm sorry, I just got a little- I'm sorry. Uh, Thank you for your time." Mark disconnected, then thrusts the heels of his hands into his eyes.
This was stupid. So stupid.
Mark stretched on the couch, almost pulled into the fetal position.
This wasn't his thing. History and reading about some time he could have cared less about a year ago. He doesn't like how it's crept inside him.
"Leave me alone, just... leave me alone," He murmurs to his own brain and he imagines a faceless ghost raising a brow at him.
"Who's stalking who, then?"
The weather is crisp and cold. The fields are green, with craggy rocks. There is the smell of heather, though he had never known the scent to place a name to it. It just is. Like so many of his dreams.
"I'm looking for you," He says to the water color figure who reclines not far from where Mark stretches on his back. The sun is weak, but warm for the place and the time. Horses are tied somewhere, eating clover. His horses.
"Why?" Esca wants to know. He's just a shape, and though Mark knows how and where he moves, and even what expression he is making, he can't see it.
"I don't know. It's not done, I don't think."
"We're dead. That seems done enough." Esca picks up a stone, hefts the weight then sends it flying. There might be a splash that follows, Mark isn't sure.
"Then why won't it go away?"
"You're clingy?" Suggests Esca.
"No one has ever called me clingy." Especially not the last few women who he's taken home for the night and then doesn't call. He's really lucky none of them have turned up on his door-step to cut off his balls.
Esca drags a shoulder up in a half shrug. "Masochist?"
"I'm not stupid. Whatever- Whoever we were we aren't any more. It's not about picking up something that existed between two people we haven't been in a thousand years."
"So why rub it in, masochist?"
A gusty sigh. "Not rubbing it in. I want to relieve a regret. I can't go forward until I've done it."
Mark feels a breeze rush them. It smells clean. Cleaner than anything else, from a time when the world was newer and humans were just beginning to learn they could lay claim to it.
"I think...I miss you. Not just now. Always. I just didn't know it was you I was missing, but I won't confuse that with expectations. I don't even know what it is I regret." Mark admits when the silence stretches and stretches.
"Sappy." Chiding, but affectionate.
"You could be more helpful," Mark says.
"Not sure how I can do that. You know I'm not here. Is this even me? Is this who I was then? Or who you think I would be now? Maybe who you imagine I was then is just something you made up. That doesn't even take into account if this is something that's meant to be done. People die and forget and start over for a reason."
Mark looks up at the sky. It's gray and sketched with fuzzy clouds.
"This is really philosophical for my head. I used to just dream about winning the Superbowl. And cheerleaders."
"Jock."
"I just...I don't know what to do. I don't like this."
"Then stop it."
Mark doesn't want to do that, either.
They sit, and the wind bites, but he doesn't seem to be able to move. Not even when he suspects that it has begun to rain.
Mark wakes up shivering and he hates it. Hates how he longs, is sick to be so wrapped up in a face he doesn't know, and probably won't ever see again. Face of a man. Jesus, maybe he is gay. Esca hits too hard, dead center of the chest.
He hates how he knows once Esca came back for him, and it's his turn, against all odds, to return to Esca. He hates how parts of his mind seem to taunt him with tidbits of information, hates the way there is a glimpse and then it's gone.
"I don't want to let go, I don't want to go to my happy place, I just want to find him. He's in here, and you have to get him out for me." Mark said without prelude, jamming a finger at his temple. Cindra flinches a little at the sudden vehemence in him, and he would normally back down and apologize for scaring her, since, after all, he's a big musclebound guy, but he cant make room for that thought.
"I can't think, I can't breath. Maybe if I know it will stop and I can pick up whatever pieces there are left to have."
He throws himself into the chair.
"Show me Esca,"
"Mark, I'm not sure that this is a good idea." She said in the mellow water-against-the-shore soothing tones.
"I don't care. You can take me, or I'll find someone else. You'll get paid. Didn't you say no one can force you to do anything you don't want to do in hypnosis? Well, I don't want to let go."
They go down and he goes deep, only this time he wants to go, he strains for it, deeper and deeper, down. Relaxing, his toes, his calves his knees... down the stairs. His thighs, his stomach..his chest...into a deeper state of relaxation...fingers uncurling, arms loosening, relaxing... deeper still...his neck, his face, his head...deep sleep.
"Mark, let's go to your special place, and when you're there I want you to find Marcus. Can you see him? He's in his breastplate and his helmet. Can you see him? Good. I want you to walk up to him and look him in the eyes. This time, though, I want you to step inside him."
He nods. Or, maybe it's Marcus. Mark, Marcus, is there a difference?
"Can you tell me where you first saw Esca?"
He can.
It's a small arena that swims before his eyes, not the kind of giant stone Colosseum in the movies, but little and wooden and muddy. He's being moved, big hands helping him. Why? His leg hurts. His leg hurts because he was injured. Injured and discharged. All of him hurts. He's used up, never to reclaim family honor. He's failed Rome. Failed his father. If he ever had something besides a debt, it's gone now.
"Marcus, focus. Look for Esca. What do you see?"
He sees the crowd rippling, milling. A gladiator with the mask of Janus enters the ring with a flourish. The crowd cheers. The gladiator circles the ring, soaking up the praise.
This was Esca? No. It isn't
His opponent enters the ring and Mark's and Marcus' heart constricts.
That is Esca. He is lean and wiry and small. Bronze haired and scowling. Dirty. He's shoved in, a slave, a Briton. Marcus thinks he's too small to be there. Mark sees the muscles and the ferocity and knows that the little ones can fight like crazy mother-fuckers.
A tinny voice talks beside him, but he can't hear it. All he can see is that lonely, hostile little figure who will not dance for the pleasure of the masses. Who looks at the people who see him as meat-toy for their amusement right in the face. Who faces his death with courage and dignity. Who is struck to the ground and still rises to die on his feet until the crowd's favor is lost. It's not love at first sight, but it's something so jaggedly close that there just isn't any air. Marcus has been looked at like he was nothing before, and he knows what it is to be valued only for the accomplishments of his sword. Marcus had accepted that as his only route for redemption, and even the capacity to fulfill his obligation has been taken from him. What else was there? Not just for him, but for that slave down there, who is as trapped as he is. Surely there had to be more.
No one even expected the Briton to win. He was there to die, to thrill the masses with his desperate struggle for life while the Gladiator plunges repeated holes in him so they can feel more alive through his death. Esca won't give them that satisfaction, and though he looks for a clean kill he is not defeated, not ground down.
And Marcus? How can he sit there and let a light so brilliant go out? He cannot let him die.
And so he doesn't.
Cindra won't let him come the next day. He's going against her advice anyway, she says, so they will do it at a pace she deems healthy. She won't let him come back until Thursday. Waiting is torment.
It comes easier, but it's not like watching a movie. Memories come out of order, and he doesn't really know what is going on half the time. The details are sketchy. He doesn't know why they are doing things, but thinks those details must have been very important in that life, even if now they are trivial. There are gaps missing and nothing is accounted for perfectly. He thunders through fields with Esca on a hunt, he's shuddering by a campfire racked with illness, Esca's face painted in orange and shadow. There are baths, and he's dragged behind a horse, then they are standing at the prow of a ship, skating over water.
What is real is the people. The way they touch him and what they make him feel. He's surprised that Marcus' Uncle Aquila is there, warm and steady, and in him Mark sees his old football coach who he still keeps in contact with. He feels how much a man named Placidus is like Catherine's older brother Tom; someone whose teeth he just wants to kick in. A painted man in a mohawk streaks across his mind, and he's that jerk Liam Conners from work, who never forgets, and indeed, takes a kind of delight in reminding Mark that he's better and more qualified, not to mention capable, than Mark will ever be at the job. That, he, Liam, is the one that deserves to climb, because he as the skills, and all Mark has are parents who own the place. Mark has never even managed to feel angry at Liam, because he's right, he deserves it.
Mark just didn't know he felt that way because Marcus throttled and drowned him.
Esca is more complicated. Marcus has a lot of confusing emotions about him, and Mark can't pick through them fast enough. They well inside him, are all piled against one and other, many conflicting, want torn with should. Kinship. Disparity. Loyalty. Betrayal. Respect. Caution. Friendship. Duty.
Then it's deeper and more uncertain, and the emotions take an edge of longing. Mark can taste desire and fear and regret. Marcus doesn't like to feel how he feels. Like it might betray not only Esca, but some inner principals. It's Mark who sees that Rome and Slavery yawn a precipice between them that is a chasm neither man can cross, no matter how both might reach.
The sessions leave him drained. Each one lessens the pressure and he can sleep. His leg doesn't hurt any more. Marcus's world is past, and each time he dips into it, it some how feels more restful. More like he could let it go.
Except Esca.
He suspected what must have been down the embankment months ago. The reason why Marcus and Esca never managed to cross the divide, or even acknowledge how much they wanted to could only have been demise. Mark doesn't want to see it, does not want to see Esca's death ripple before his eyes, but he can't not see this thing through to the conclusion.
"What is the end?" Cindra asked him and he is amongst the fighting once again, and the sounds he has heard so often play like a familiar soundtrack whose notable components he can anticipate. He still evades the same obstacles, still dispatches the men, replaying the scene from it's start in the same footfalls as before. Yet, this time when his feet are tumbling down the hill, sending dirt up in sprays like water he is ready to know.
Esca is there, little and vicious, fighting with a snarl. Heat blooms in Marcus' chest when he sees his friend alive and kicking. And stabbing. He doesn't really remember who they are fighting, or why, except for a vague sensation that he is responsible for their presence. They're just shadows of the past. He works his way over, shoving and hacking. He sees when Esca sees him. A part of a smile, a twitch of the wry mouth. They are back-to-back.
"Are you alright?" He shouts over the sound. Or, at least, it was something that meant that. Not in English. Mark doesn't know the language. Latin, he supposes, but he knows what Marcus meant.
Esca is fine. Maybe a little banged up, but nothing that wouldn't mend. He's sunburned, but that's the climate.
Marcus suggests they leave. Quickly. His leg is hurting.
They decide the best route to do it in a warrior's short-hand of phrases, all the while combat washes over them. They can't win, Marcus knows that. He's a trained warrior, but he's crippled, and Esca, as cagey and lithe as he is, is no match for numbers. Marcus is not going to see him suffer here, when he has sacrificed so much.
He isn't sure what happens, then. It was too quick. He just knows that in a moment he senses danger and he shifts to cover Esca's body with his own. It's not something he thinks about. He just does it.
The pain rips through him, and Mark and Marcus must have yelled together because Cindra's distant voice meshes with Esca's cry as she tells him to step back, to step away, not to be Marcus anymore, to step out of his skin, but he can't. Not yet. It's so real.
In his mind the frantic action continues, and he's falling, falling. Pain shatters down his torso, worse than his leg. Worse than anything. And he can see Esca. He looks devastated, and Marcus knows.
He can see the Briton turn his fury to the attacker and another body falls, spouting blood like a fountain from the throat into the dust.
"Marcus!" It's muted, the yell. Far away. "No, Marcus, don't you dare! Stay with me!" There's a curse Esca's native language, and something that is pleading. Esca's hands are pressing, pushing to stop the bleeding, his face knotted anguish in as he sees the extent of it. Marcus winces when hands lay over bare tissue
Blood thickens in his throat. He has to tell Esca. In a moment it will be too late. He chokes the name, and raises his hand to cup his friends cheek, leaving stark red smears. Esca grasps it in his own calloused grip and squeezes the fingers. It's anchoring.
Mark feels it then. Feels it all so sharply that he wonders it doesn't cut down into his soul, because he is Marcus at the same time as he is not. Esca is inside his heart. Even with Rome staring down on him, Marcus can't care any more. He wants to tell Esca what is inside of him, before it is too late. It will be too late. His vision is swimming and the pain is so beyond pain that he almost can't feel it. He tries to form the name, just the name on his lips, and he spits up something hideous tasting.
"Marcus! Stay with me!" Wide blue eyes. Wild blue eyes.
Esca can't see the shadows approaching behind him, he's too fixated on staunching a wound never to be closed, but Marcus' dwindling vision can. His confession dies to a warning. Not Esca, please Mithras, not Esca! Do not let him have killed Esca!
Then it is too late. He can't see any more, and no words have left his lips.
"...Come out Mark, it's time to leave Marcus. Esca is safe, Mark, just like you are safe. We're going up the stairs now, Mark..."
He isn't ashamed about crying this time.