Five Immortal Hearts: Harem of Flames

by Savannah Rose

  His whole bearing felt more passive than I expected. I had in mind, even before I knew about the war thing, that he would be louder, and more aggressive — perhaps to the point of obnoxious.

  That first day I met him, he looked like he really wanted to fight those guys coming up the elevator, and was reluctant to let them be. A few days ago, when we were attacked, he felt almost bored, and I took that to mean he didn’t have a challenge to satisfy him. The trike fit my vision of him, but not the way he drove. He kept his speed at the limit, signaled. Hell, he even showed signs of being polite. Twice he stopped at a crosswalk area because someone was standing there, waiting.

  It felt like there were two of him. There wasn’t, of course. Someone would have clued me in, or by this time I would’ve had enough of a connection to feel it myself. Still, he was both more and less than I had previously estimated.

  The ride was fantastic. I opened my jacket to take advantage of the sun, spreading my arms out over the back of the throne-like seat, stretching out my legs.

  Looking out across the Pacific Ocean, with the sun casting diamonds of brilliance on the wavelets, and then back to Raw, I found the amazement of his size didn’t take long to reassert itself.

  Damn, he’s big, was my first thought when my eyes came back to him.

  I smiled, and nearly laughed. It was like a curse of some sort. Or maybe a gauntlet.

  Thinking back to that first day, however, I recalled that his size had changed. With everything else going on, Kane dying and people trying to kill me, oh, and princes in the room who I wasn’t sure weren’t the enemy, I never asked about it — hell, it didn’t seem that remarkable at the time. Didn’t even make the top fifty list.

  “Raw? You can change your size, can’t you?” I asked.

  He shifted a little in his seat, and took a moment to answer, “It… it changes.” His voice was low, and hesitant. Also, his answer implied that his size changing wasn’t exactly under his control.

  The first time I saw him, any of them, was when he came through our hotel door. Fred Davis, my editor, mentor and the closest thing I have to a boss, is fond of saying, ‘There are many things which are too fantastical to believe, but nothing is too weird to have happened.’ I thought then, Fred’s belief in that phrase would have been tested watching Raw duck under, and squeeze sideways through the door that day.

  That first moment, using the door frame as a measuring stick, he had to have been close to ten feet tall. His head was close to the ceiling, which in most US buildings was ten feet — according to OSHA standards.

  According to the same standards, a normal doorway was four feet wide. Handicap needs, extended the width out to five feet to accommodate wheel chairs and other equipment requirements. I recalled that he not only had to duck under the door frame, but also turn sideways to get into the room.

  Raw was nowhere near that size now. Six-eight perhaps. His shoulders could be close to four-feet wide, but generally speaking, the length of our arms from finger tip to finger tip is the same as our height from head to toe. Generally, but if not exact, close. Not off by more than an inch or so. Raw never looked like he wasn’t proportional no matter what his height was — not that day and not today either. In fact, he was notably proportional; it was one of the attractive aspects he possessed.

  That first day, he came in the room believing Kane was dying. He cared about Kane, perhaps more than he cared about the others. Like all of them, he listened to what Ore said, and generally did as Ore or Slate asked, but I felt a deeper connection between him, and Kane. He was angry and wrathful during those first moments. When he saw that Kane was alive, and that I wasn’t hurting, but trying to help, he calmed — and when he left the room to guard the door, he barely had to duck. By the time we changed rooms, to the one across the hall, he didn’t duck at all. Still huge, but not ten feet tall; seven and a half, maybe.

  Strong emotions? Violent emotions? Perhaps, the expectation of violence. The expectation of war?

  That night a few days ago, I didn’t recall him being anything close to ten feet tall, and at that time he had a huge rifle in his hand, and was killing people. Explosions, smoke, rubble. Looked like war to me. Raw was about the same size that night as he was now. This led me to lean more toward his emotional state, rather than his environment. As I recalled, he sounded almost bored that night. Perhaps, frustrated as well, with his comment about C-Source ‘playing’ them.

  “Are you mad that I hit you?” I asked him.

  “No.”

  Hmm… “Do you get mad?” I asked.

  He shifted a bit. “Yes.”

  “When was the last time? What made you mad?” I pressed.

  This time his right shoulder rolled a bit. “Kane took something of mine.”

  Sure, that would do it, with nearly anyone. The feeling of betrayal being stronger with Kane, than with Quinn perhaps, who he barely noticed that first day.

  “How long ago was that?” I asked.

  His head lowered, giving me the impression he was searching his memory. After a bit he said, “About a hundred and eighty years ago, I guess.”

  This immortal shit was going to take some getting used to.

  “You weren’t angry when you came into the room? When Kane was hurt?” I asked.

  “No, I was wrathful.”

  I felt my eyebrow lift on that one. “Isn’t wrath, just anger juiced up?”

  He seemed to feel he was on firmer ground now, and didn’t hesitate to say, “No. Anger isn’t even a real emotion. It’s generally a response to fear — fear of losing something you have or not getting something you want. It’s a defense, a reflex. A knee-jerk. Someone invades your space, you growl and let them know to beware. Pay attention. Note the territory. Wrath is a state a being. From head to toe. Like love or joy or sorrow or loss. You can’t escape it. The environment can change, but it won’t matter. The invader could leave, apologize, but that won’t matter either. Too late for all that. Wrath is. It just, is.”

  Like love just, is, I thought, understanding his distinction.

  The one you love could hurt you, leave you, cheat on you, but you still love them. You might divorce them, but you still love them. Might even hate them too. No rules about that, not with emotions. No either, or to it at all. No cancellation of one because of the other, no. You get both. Stacked up, and braided.

  Emotions are fucked up.

  ***

  Raw and I stopped in Ensenada, for lunch. Raw’s order, could have fed an army, and I have no doubts about the fact that the vendor was riddled with carpel tunnel after fulfilling our order. But Raw’s a big man. Takes a lot of tacos to fill him up.

  Back on the road, and three hours later we arrived at a modest hotel in Lázaro Cárdena. This was not a five star place. It had rooms. That’s it. Walls, floor, bed, shower. Room. It turned out to be a clean room, and the people were nice. Service was fast. Not bad for 800 pesos.

  This was the first time for me down into Baja. What struck me was the amount of sand. Sand was everywhere. I didn’t think we were close to the beach either. Still, sand. Everywhere. Not white sand, but light. Light enough that people might call it white.

  Everywhere.

  I’ve been to deserts. Lived in deserts. Egypt, the Mohave, the South Sahara. Never have I been so aware of sand before.

  The beds were only full size, and so we got separate rooms, since both of us couldn’t sleep on the same mattress.

  Despite the separate rooms, our time together wasn’t limited. I sat next to Raw, examining him as he examined the expanse in front of him. There’d be another hour before the sun left the sky and the lighting this time of day was more than just beautiful. Partially because of the changing colors, but mostly because I was noticing the difference by the way Raw’s face was illuminated by the sun’s rays.

  “What’s next?” I asked, leaning a little closer into him.

  “You’re not too tired?”

  “Me? No. I thought I would be. Tho
ught I’d at least need a nap by this point, but no, I’m good.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Not particularly, no. That can wait,” and then when I noticed the doubt in his eyes, I added, “I’ll grab some candy bars. I’ll be fine.”

  Considering this for a moment, he nodded and looked West, scanning the horizon, “Then let’s go.”

  He drove us down an unpaved hard-packed road, to what looked like a construction site. Large stacks of lumber, both two-by-fours and six-by-six beams where in rows on long pallets. Hundred pound bags of ready-mix cement under thick sheets of plastic, stacks of tar in barrels, bricks, and red Spanish barrel style ceramic roof tiles, were also present. Excavation for the foundation had already been completed. The earth had been packed and marked. It was going to be a huge hacienda.

  I walked beside him, up to the stacks of building supplies. He handed me a pistol. I knew this weapon from my Navy training. The Beretta M9. Semiautomatic, the M9 is the designation for the Beretta 92FS semi-automatic pistol, used as the official service pistol by all branches of the United States Armed Forces. Out of habit, I checked it over, pulled the clip, checked the rounds, slammed it home and set the safety.

  Coming up to one of the stacks of Spanish roof tiles, he pulled back the plastic and took a stack of five from the top. Without a word he tossed one into the air, sending it up twenty-five feet and rising before I could think. When my thought did arrive, I reacted, aimed the pistol, thumbed off the safety and fired three rounds. The tile shattered.

  With no sign of approval or disapproval, he sent another up, and then another in the other direction. I fired three rounds at each, shattering both.

  “So, they did teach you more than how to swim,” he said.

  “Yes,” I smiled.

  “Could you do it with one round?” he asked.

  “Doubt it,” I told him.

  He approved of my answer, reached into his jacket and then handed me five full clips.

  “Am I going to need these?” I asked, changing the one in the M9, and then putting the others in my back pockets. “I’m not big on killing, Raw.”

  “Neither am I,” he told me.

  I lifted an eyebrow at him, and when he didn’t come clean, I sighed. “I don’t know much about you and your brothers, but I’m learning. I’m sure you have depths I couldn’t begin to fathom. However, I do know that you are considered to be the Dragon of War.”

  “War is my aspect, yes,” he agreed.

  “A lot of people are killed during a war, Raw.”

  He nodded, and tossed a roofing tile straight up. I fired my three round burst, and watched it shatter, but I wasn’t at all distracted. Instead of going straight at him, however, I altered my stance. “You feel like more of a hands on type of guy. How do you feel about this challenge, with me, this arrangement?”

  After glancing sideways at me, he tossed two more tiles, one north, the other south. After they shattered from my shots, he said, “I’m the one that suggested it, and laid out the rules of engagement.”

  I recalled Inanna saying, ‘They chose this method of war long ago. They did it in the spirit that men used to decide wars through single combat… heroes fought instead of armies…’

  Of course it was him. He was the Dragon of War. The professional, in the realm of combat… except that…

  “I don’t get it,” I told him. “Did I miss something? I thought I made the choice, but in the way of choosing a husband. There’s no war here. You can’t win through battle — or even threat, right? Or do you challenge the one I choose to single combat?”

  He tossed another tile, but this time I didn’t even watch it go, so he turned to face me as it crashed on the ground.

  “No, there is no combat. You’ve been told everything,” he said. “Kane’s strong, but do you really think he could take me?”

  “You love Kane, more than the others. I don’t think you would challenge him,” I answered.

  It was the first time I saw him grin. It wasn’t a smile, but closer to a fox’s expression. “Nice shot.”

  The expression looked good on him.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re probably right, there,” he said, turning and picking up two more tiles, but then he lifted his face to the sky, “I like peace. You can’t bomb a populous into loving you, or believing in your god.” He turned and faced me. “When I saw the direction we were headed, I looked across this world, into the eyes and hearts of every soul, and couldn’t bear to be the one standing at the end of our war. It’s not a forgone conclusion. I’m strong, but so is Ore, and Quinn. Slate is no slacker, and as you pointed out, I would be at a disadvantage with Kane. Any two of them forming a temporary alliance would likely win. Still, what I saw then, I didn’t want and wouldn’t want to be a part of.”

  He looked down at the roof tiles, “Inanna, the Sumerian, she was our first. But she was a Power as well. We chose her because of this, and the fact that she was already close to Gaia. She told us that she would only choose someone who could best her in battle.”

  I looked up to him. “So, it was you?”

  He smiled this time, and there was a nostalgic quality to his expression. “No. She beat the crap out of me. Quinn and Slate too.”

  “Kane? He was the first?” I asked.

  “No. Kane saw what she did to me and the others, and bowed out, laughing. No, Ore took her down.”

  “Ore? Little Ore?” I gasped.

  Raw’s smile widened, as he nodded his head. “Yep, he was our first, and then began an eon of peace and wealth, not to be accomplished again until Genghis Khan.”

  “How the hell did Ore win?” I asked, not able to put the two images together in my mind.

  “He said something to her, that none of us could hear, and then he kissed her, and she fell to her knees, declaring she loved him. And that was that. We all parted, to explore the world, and those two went to Inanna’s temple. Except it didn’t work out. Well, it did, but Inanna was immortal and a Power. She had her own needs and desires. Her own life. A life beyond us and even beyond this world. The Sumerians too were not satisfied any longer with where they were, and wanted to seek new places.”

  I nodded, keeping his gaze as I waited for him to carry on.

  “Inanna said she was leaving, but understood the importance of our challenge, and our beings. She didn’t want us to fall into war. There should always be an Inanna for us to find, and she would be the one to choose the ruling dragon. Inanna declared that from that time forward, our wife would always be a mortal. That this mortal would be infused with her essence, and that would be how we would find her, and how she would be able to stand beside the one she chose.”

  “What does that mean? Be able to?”

  He looked into my eyes. “We’re dragons. It’s not just a name, Misty or a title. We are dragons.”

  I stepped back from him. I saw it in his eyes. But then he grew and changed. Power flowed around him, building him into a larger, and then even larger creature.

  He was a dragon! A fucking dragon. A massive beast with red hide thicker than an elephant’s and talons that could rend mountains into valleys. A creature who could conjure meteors to strike the earth, and wipe out life as I knew it — an immortal being.

  Oh my god…

  Oh, my fucking god…

  Rawness

  Raw stood as tall as a four-level building taking up a city block. His wings were three times his body length. With a single stroke of them, he shot up into the sky at least three hundred feet, and then hung there as if the air were solid. There he roared, and thunder answered from the clear blue, with lightning flashing around him, as if happy he had come home. Then swirls and energy formed around him, compressing him down. He fell, landing , knees bent, hand out stretched to maintain balance, creating a two foot impact crater.

  He rose, as a man, Raw. Red hair, thick beard, eyes of deep blue oceans.

  In myths there is sometimes a term used — dragon fear. I underst
ood that term now.

  Whether it was my years as a reporter, or the essence I carried as Inanna, who had seen and done all of this before, I found myself walking slowly around him, examining him in his human shape.

  “Where did it all go?” I asked. I looked up, but didn’t see any clouds of pixie dust or twinkling stars. “That’s a lot of mass, Raw. Where is it?”

  “E = MC2,” he told me.

  “What?”

  “The amount of energy always equals the amount of compressed mass, squared. In other words, energy and matter are the same, but for activity and compression. Any energy, compressed becomes matter. Any matter, excited, becomes energy,” he explained — and that sort of made sense to me.

  “Are you saying, that you’re always a dragon, and always that size, except that right now ninety percent of you is energy?” I asked.

  “Not sure about the percentage, but yes, that’s the way of it, basically,” he agreed, picking up a small stack of roof tiles. “Look, you have a long life ahead of you, and plenty of time for questions, and Ore would be so much better at answering them. Can we get back to training?”

  “Training? I told you, I don’t want to kill anyone, Raw.” I looked down at the gun in my hand.

  “The only way that’s going to happen, is if you get better at shooting,” he told me. “Try, two shots, instead of three.” Then he threw two tiles in the same direction.

  I missed both.

  My military instructor taught me that the mind is more powerful and observant than we think, and does more than we know. This was the logic behind the three shots being the norm. The first is a line up. The second and third are adjustments. I was taught not to aim the gun, but to keep my eye where I wanted the bullet to go — on the target — and was told my hand would follow my brain, and adjust my aim. Apparently, my instructor believed I could see bullets flying out of my gun. Arguing with the results, however, was difficult.

  I’ve never shot anyone. Never wanted to shoot anyone. I’ve never pointed my weapon at a person before. I’m hell on paper and clay roof tiles, though. I’ll fuck those up. No guilt at all. No mercy. Nothing left but shatters and tatters.