Alluvion

[Patricus I]

Whatever Nimeda’s injury, it did not seem to impede her motor skills. The rock was tossed lightly before she tossed herself into the water. Philip winced to catch her before realizing it was a purposeful jump. As it was, he remained on dry land, now-dry hands clasped in front of him as though he held something immensely fragile. When her head reappeared, hair plastered to her cheeks, whimsy tugged at the corners of his mouth. A strange duality existed within Nimeda that aged her roots deep and ancient while simultaneously budded youthful new shoots upon the surface. He liked her in the sort of way that forced paternal protectiveness, and he had to wonder at what danger she described was inflicted upon her while awake.

He liked water. At the Papal Palace of Castel Gandolfo where the Pontiff spent his summers, the grounds were positioned high on a hill above a lake. John Paul II had a pool built at the 400-year old estate to much controversy, but every Pope since him made sure to enjoy the watery escape, Patricus included. “May I show you somewhere, now?” he said. Wetness seeped up the velour of the tracksuit as he stepped ankle-deep into the creek. A smile asked that she trust him in turn, and he offered his hands.

He took a deep breath and when next he knew, bubbles spewed steadily from his lips. He was careful to open his eyes, expecting to find them exposed to submergence. White lines reflecting the presumed dream-light danced on the walls of the pool. Sound was almost fully stifled but to the steady exhalation of aforementioned bubbles. After a few moments of peace, he pushed off from the bottom, breaking the surface face-first.

After climbing from the pool, he was very aware of the suit plastered translucent against his skin. The first time he spoke to Nimeda she asked why a towel was needed, and as then, he let the thought fall away and the comfort of dry clothing returned quite promptly. Just in case, he made sure to avert his gaze from Nimeda’s body should similar virtue be compromised in her appearance.

A garden setting surrounded them. It was almost completely unchanged in seven-hundred years, and while not as old as the previous forest, it remained while the undulating waters of time flowed steadily onward. The pool was pristine blue, the hedges a complex pattern chest-high. Below them was situated Lake Albano and the small town of Castel Gandolfo.

“The oldest parts of this palace date to the thirteenth century,” he glanced at one of the buildings. “The gardens, though, they are much older. They once belonged to Roman Emperor Domitian two-thousand years ago.” He was unsure whether Nimeda appreciated these man-assigned passages of time. It passed so strangely in dreams. Had he slept five minutes or five hours? All he knew was he was unwilling yet to wake from it.

He turned back to Nimeda, fixing the penetration of his gaze upon her eyes alone. “Are you in danger, Nimeda? Tell me what happened to your hand,” she may not wish to speak on it, but Philip’s will was strong.