Chapter Text
He was lying on his stomach, face turned, cheek on his palm. The drowsy morning light shone into his eyes and blinded him. He groaned and clenched them shut— and paused in that moment, inhaling till his chest expanded, then he exhaled deeply and went to sit up.
The delicate arm around his waist didn’t budge.
He turned a little and cast a glance over his shoulder at the head of dark blond hair rested against him, its dark, short strands prickling his bare back.
“Camilla, wake up.”
Camilla gave no response or indication of awareness, but he knew from the way she breathed that she was awake. A moment later, she yawned and rolled onto her back, stretching her long, lithe body. Henry sat up, freed, and watched the angled contours of her form as she rolled out of her languid dreams.
She was like an idol, a marble body, carved to perfection….as if moulded by Rodin himself.
She watched him watching her and smiled.
He leaned forward to tuck a strand of her soft hair behind her ear. “It’s gotten longer, hasn’t it?” He asked quietly, resting beside her on his elbow.
“I thought I’d grow it out.” She said, her green eyes shining brilliantly in the sunlight as she walked her fingers up his broad chest, “Do you like it?”
Henry said nothing. He just leaned down and pushed his lips against hers.
The Adirondacks were everything a man like him could’ve ever dreamed of— at least, at the moment. He knew, even when he’d first arrived and was relatively more charmed to a change in environment, that he wouldn’t stay here for too long. Part of him liked to think of it as a cleansing process. He wasn’t just cloaked here from the world and its people, both from which he now needed a very long break, it was more than just putting himself out of touch and reach of practically everybody (with the exception of a select few)— he saw this as a journey towards something greater.
And indeed, a journey it was proving to be. In the 3 years that had marched on with the never-stopping tide of time, Henry had already begun building his empire. Using a pseudonym (inspired by Homer, of course), he had already made waves in the literary community. He was nowhere near where he wanted to be, yet, of course, and admittedly Julian’s connections played a big part in promoting his works, but the work itself was of merit. A few chapters of translations, the best ones thus far, some articles of severe yet sophisticated critique…..he was not afraid to make enemies. And this had made him, ironically, some ‘friends’, though he remained faceless and unknown to them.
It was his works that he wanted to be popular, his translations that he wanted to win praise through, he didn’t much care for fame or royalties. Money was not an issue. He didn’t need much of it, anyway, not from these mere articles or, most importantly, from his father.
He earned his bread himself— a small job in the town a few miles down. The locals were mostly older people or very young children, and all of them took to him quickly, and he to them. However, they remained at a distance that Henry meant to maintain forever, since they were all acquaintances (good ones, at that) at best. And in any case, Henry didn’t need friends.
He already had all that he needed, right here…..
He was thinking exactly this, exactly about her, at the exact moment she stepped into the small, wooden cabin they’d come to call home.
Henry was seated at the modest dining table set by the wall of the lounge that the front door opened up to. She hadn’t seen him yet, as her back was to him, but she caught sight of him on her way to the kitchen. They smiled at each other. She went inside.
“Lunch is ready, if you want.” He said to her. He didn’t need to be very loud, the space inside the cabin was cramped and cozy, and with the peace and quiet that always pervaded in these parts, one only had to stand outside the front door and murmur to be heard by someone deep inside the cabin.
“I am starving.” Came the reply. “You haven’t eaten since Friday either, have you?”
“What, you too?”
Camilla laughed, her soft voice emanated from the kitchen, spilling like sugar. “Are you fasting?”
He swiveled his head to look at her through the intricately latticed wood of the kitchen wall, which was a small, more-decorative-than-functional room divider.
“Are you?”
She came out of the kitchen, her bare feet padding against the warm wood, with two plates of hot pasta in her hands. She set one down beside Henry’s book and took a seat across him, on the only other chair around the dining table.
“I’m not fasting. I suppose I just….forgot.” She murmured to her food with a knowing smile.
“Ah, likewise. But one could hardly blame us— we’ve been quite….busy lately.”
She gave him a knowing look, her eyes shining as they always did, with something deliciously sinister.
A moment later, after Henry had put his books away and also begun eating his meal, Camilla made a noise of appreciation.
“I remember when you’d make the simplest of meals— they weren’t bad, but they would always be so….simple,” She paused momentarily to brush a few strands out of her mouth mid-chew, a persistent problem she’d picked up ever since she’d grown it out, “Now, you cook food that’s more….well…”
“Digestible?” He smiled at her.
“It’s always been digestible,” she said with no hesitance, “Just never this….gourmet?”
Henry was thoroughly amused, his cheeks turned a slight red even though he wasn’t necessarily embarrassed. He shook his head, “You flatter.”
“I mean it, Henry, look at how fancy it looks, how good it tastes,” she said, and just then she bit into a spaghetto that was not fully boiled. “….well, maybe gourmet level is an exaggeration. But you’re getting there.”
Henry was just about to ask if, perhaps, he should give up his literary empire and just build a culinary career instead when a loud, shrill shrieking began to rattle from the hallway down the kitchen. Camilla, as per her personal protocol, immediately covered her ears. Henry wiped his hands and mouth with the napkin and stood up, not quite displeased. How could he be displeased when he already knew who was calling?
He walked into the hallway and answered the dastardly old phone.
“Hello.”
“Henry, dear boy. How are you?”
Henry’s lips curved up. “It’s good to hear from you, old friend. I was beginning to wonder where you’d gone.”
“Ah,” the distant voice crackled, “I really am so sorry about that. I’ve just returned from Paris.... I thought to inform you before I left, but my, the rush I was in!” The voice chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe the state I left my own home in.”
He hadn’t heard from him in a while, and he had worried, but Henry didn’t mind.
“How was Paris?”
“I’d love to tell you in person.”
“Of course. When can you come?”
A pause.
“Well, I’d rather you come to me this time, old friend.”
Henry raised a brow. “Julian..." he began slowly, "I want to keep away from the world’s influence just a while longer.”
Julian could be heard inhaling and exhaling deeply, “Henry, my dearest friend, there is no defined time period for such things. And stepping into this world won’t undo the effects you’ve accumulated so far in your self-exile.”
“We can’t be sure of that, can we? I feel they would,” But that sounded a tad petulant, so Henry moved on with a swift breath, “Besides, you’ve come here before. It’s not so awful that you wouldn’t want to visit again.”
“It’s hardly about it being awful— I actually quite like it.”
“Then?”
Another short silence.
“I can’t come, Henry, but I desperately need you here. I…there’s….”
Henry frowned.
He felt Camilla come up next to him in the narrow hallway. She leaned against the wall with her arms behind her back and watched him.
“Julian, what’s wrong?”
It was beginning to really concern Henry, the unusual tonal shift, the heavy pauses that were devoid of the familiarity that usually existed in their shared moments of silence.
“Julian?”
“I’m….well, oh dear,” Julian sighed. “I’m in a bit of a bind….I….”
“A bind?” Henry stood up a straighter. “What kind? Are you in trouble?”
“Not yet,” Julian said gravely, “But…”
Henry leaned forward as if it would push Julian to just speak, to tell him everything, as if he only had to talk to Henry for this predicament— whatever it was— to go away. He was gripping the received so tight that the old wood creaked pitifully.
“Won’t you come to me, Henry?”
Henry glanced at Camilla. She had pushed off the wall and her eyes were sticking to his every expression.
He looked back at the kitchen, the hallway, their bedroom…..
“Fine, I’ll be there,” he said slowly, already regretting the loss of peace and solitude, “Where are you?”
“Oh, I’m quite close— New York. I’m staying at the Intercontinental.”
Henry was thinking about the old bookstore he worked at, or the distant neighbors who relied on him to cut their trees or bring in some wood, or the trees that climbed over this little sanctuary of his, or the mornings (and the many nights) he’d get to spend with her, all alone—-
“What’s the problem, Julian?”
But his mentor, his dearest friend, was in an hour of need. The more Henry thought about it that way, the less he needed to obsess over the loss of his refuge. Even in the myths of legends and the tales of Gods….nothing ever went according to plan.
“I’ll tell you everything when you get here, my friend,” Julian said. In the near distance, around Julian, a door opened and closed, and immediately the man was distracted. “Alright…alright, Henry. I will see you soon.”
“Yes. Goodbye.”
“Oh, how could I forget— Henry? Is our lovely Camilla still with you? You’d best bring her along too. I would suggest the two of you pack up everything— you’ll be here a while.”