by A. L. Mengel
The light would come less frequently.
And the phenomenon coincided with meeting Claret, who instructed her on how to properly use her time-traveling abilities. And because she felt drawn to do so, there came the day when Delia met a certain Antoine Nagevesh.
It was a day in the bright hot sunshine of Badulla, Sri Lanka, centuries after the days in Jerusalem. Delia had easily traveled to the time period, after the ancient years when Claret had transformed her with the dark gift of immortality; during those precious days in Badulla, when Antoine had just been a young man, a mortal human being, harvesting coffee in the fields, Delia watched him, as he tilled the soil, his dark, sweaty back muscles glistening against the sun and the searing tropical heat.
Antoine was not yet immortal.
He hadn’t met his maker, a certain Darius Sauvage, an immortal who had been transformed in the Renaissance period in France. Antoine’s ensuing affiliation with Darius had eventually brought Antoine to Lyon in the Southern side of that country, as they lived jointly in Darius’ chateau.
But Delia was called from Jerusalem, found herself in Sri Lanka, and after she broke free from Claret, she felt compelled, despite falling towards the darkness, to complete her calling.
She still had a mission.
And she found herself drawn to Antoine.
She spent her first days in Badulla residing in a halfway house in the center of town, in the middle of the dilapidated, weather-worn construction, amidst muddy streets, cooling tropical rains and swaying palm trees.
But it was farther outside of the city where she would find Antoine.
On that same fateful night that Antoine had been transformed to be an immortal, when Darius, at that point already possessing the dark gift of immortality and darkness, Delia had also been there, watching…and waiting.
The Café, which Antoine frequented as a hustler for tourists, was situated in the middle of a patch of clear fields, and was only open at night. On the particular night that Antoine and Darius had met, the moon had been full, bathing the surrounding fields in pale blue light. Delia stood outside, huddled and shivering, for that evening there had been an unusual chill in the air, out of character for the region. She had waited and watched. Patrons darted in and out of the tiny door, some laughing, others walking briskly in the gravel. And as the warm light filtered through the windows to the cool ground outside below, she heard footsteps approaching the café from across the clearing.
It had to have been Darius, for Antoine was already inside.
Mama had instructed her well. Delia knew what time that she must arrive; for she knew that Darius would be transforming Antoine to the darkness on that very precise evening. And so Mama had told her how to identify the initial event when one would fall into darkness. As Darius approached, she squinted her eyes. He was dressed in a fine blue coat, which hung down to his knees. His brown hair was tied back behind his head. She saw him smooth his hair back as he approached the café door. She ducked behind several bushes, and kept her eyes focused on the door. As the crunching on the gravel became louder, she parted some of the branches. She heard the squeak of the door opening.
There was Darius.
In his heyday.
She got just a glimpse as he entered the door into the warm, yellow light, but that was all she needed.
Tall, slender, ruggedly handsome.
His long, brown hair waved down towards his buttocks, billowing out from the tieback. Her heart skipped a beat as he turned to face her, for a brief instant. She slowly exhaled as he turned back towards the inside.
He was so handsome in his early days. Precise bone structure. She could see dark stubble run across his cheeks and chin. But she dared not speak to him. Calling out to him would destroy her mission. For neither Antoine nor Darius knew that she was there; it was simply to witness their meeting.
And they wouldn’t know.
Darius, at that point in time, would have a keen sense of his surroundings. But he would not have been able to have sensed her – which, she thought, couldn’t explain why her heart skipped a beat when he turned, even if only for an instant, to look her way. Could there have been an inkling of a sense of her presence?
But she did outrank them in power. Both Antoine and Darius. She was able to navigate to the precise moment in time when they met, for it was Antoine and Darius, who became central in the history of the immortals. And her need to witness their first night together had become so essential in her fulfillment of her new mission.
For she was older than they.
And she was more powerful.
And Claret, her maker, passed several gifts to her, the time travel being one of them. And so she felt the need to guide them, both of them. But Delia continued her mission throughout the years, remaining close to Antoine and his closest friends, with the other immortals, Darius, Antoine and others…completely unaware of who she really was.
Still, there were times that Delia found herself in the years when Antoine had been alive, back in his youth in Sri Lanka, and later, as an immortal, with the dark gift, in modern-day Miami and also in France. She took special care, and with great determination, not to interact with Antoine, until they had a long established relationship while living in Miami, after centuries of living as an immortal.
Throughout the years, Antoine had risen among the immortals to a leadership role; he had been tasked with opening a club, called Sacrafice. Delia was there during all of those times, but she did not interact with Antoine until after Darius had lost his immortality, and had become mortal once again. During those years, Antoine was serving time in his coffin as Darius aged rapidly.
After Antoine was resurrected, it was Antoine that knew, probably long before the others, that Darius was about to die. It was during the days after they had returned to France from Miami that Antoine had seen the deterioration in his partner’s demeanor: there were days that Darius could not even get out of bed, despite Antoine’s efforts to open the windows, and let the summer breeze in. Antoine would wash and dress Darius, offered to prop him up in the chair by the window, but Darius always declined.
They didn’t bother with doctors, because Darius had a quite unique condition which reached far beyond medical science: how could one explain a birthdate hundreds of years earlier to a general practitioner? Rapid aging? Had there even been a condition? And if so, could there have even been a cure besides death?
And so Antoine and Darius stayed at the chateau in France together, alone, except for their loyal houseman Giovanni, their blind, loyal servant, who ran into town and fetched supplies, and food, and anything else they might need, despite his disability.
The mornings became a ritual.
Antoine typically slept in the rocking chair at the foot of the bed and kept watch over Darius, who struggled to breathe and would frequently wake up in coughing fits throughout the night. In the morning, Antoine would assist Darius from the bed to the bathroom, and on some mornings, Darius would not be able to rise from the bed at all.
“Get me the bedpan, Gio,” Antoine said. “And a pan of soapy water. And some fresh sheets. He has wet the bed again.”
Antoine sighed as he looked down at Darius. His eyes were closed and he still appeared to be sleeping. Antoine took a wet washcloth and smoothed it gently over Darius’ cheek. His eyes fluttered as Antoine lowered his arm and leaned back.
“You awake?”
Antoine placed the washcloth in the bassinette and walked over to the rocking chair. As he sat, the runner emitted a creak, and he watched, waiting for Darius to reply. He was hovering under the covers, but his legs raised under the sheets as he shifted.
“Yes, I’m awake,” Darius whispered. “Thank you for washing me. And changing my sheets. I know Giovanni is fetching them. I heard you.”
Antoine didn’t answer.
He looked over at the window and watched the curtains blow in the morning breeze as he felt tears well up in his eyes.
But there was a time w
hen Antoine accepted Darius’ fate.
For Darius had accepted his own fate long before Antoine. And Antoine discovered that he had no choice in the matter. This was not the type of coffin sentence that he had been condemned to; now, Darius was mortal. He no longer possessed the gift.
His time was coming to a close.
Giovanni returned with fresh sheets a few minutes later. “We can move him to one side of the bed as we change the sheets on the other.”
Antoine nodded but said nothing.
Giovanni placed the sheets on the dresser and slowly turned around. He faced Antoine, and Antoine looked at Giovanni for a moment, studying his face. The white towel wrapped around his head, covering the ghastly holes underneath, where his eyes had once been, stood out brilliantly against the dull, grey interior of the chateau. “We are falling apart,” Antoine said, grabbing one of the sheets and walking over to the bed. “Darius is dying, you have no eyes. Where did we go wrong?”
Giovanni shook his head and helped Antoine shift Darius to one side of the bed. Antoine continued as they unfolded a giant, white sheet.
“We immortals have endured so much,” Antoine said. “Haven’t we?”
He looked over at Giovanni, who was stripping the pillows and tossing the pillowcases on the floor. Antoine focused back on Darius, whose eyes were closed once again. “Now we are dealing with this? With members of our community dying unexplained deaths?”
*****
In the days after Darius had died, Antoine and Giovanni sat on a bench in the middle of Les Enfantes, the cemetery closest to their Chateau in Lyon, waiting for the sun to set.
Giovanni held a small, bejeweled handheld mirror, which he held in his lap for a few minutes. And then every few moments, he picked it up and examined his face. He placed a pudgy finger just below his eye as Antoine look at him. Antoine raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been examining yourself the entire time we’ve been sitting here.”
Giovanni turned to face Antoine. “My eyes were once ghastly holes,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders as he gingerly placed the mirror on the bench. “Can I not help but stare?”
Antoine smiled wanly, but his face was otherwise without expression. He faced forward again. “Do you remember when she took your eyes?”
Giovanni had received a new pair of eyes later that same year in Paris. Antoine had remembered when he saw Giovanni laying in the hospital bed with a wrapping of gauze covering his eyes. “Oh, to see again! I cannot wait. I cannot contain myself!” Giovanni paused and moved his head around a few moments. Some beeps from the monitoring equipment broke the silence. “Antoine?”
“I am here,” Antoine said, rising from the chair he had been sitting in next to the bed. The light from the day waned, and Antoine took place at the side of the bed. Giovanni grinned. “They tell me I get this off on Tuesday!” He had exclaimed, just hours after the operation. “She took my eyes. These are from a killer. At least that’s what I was told. But I don’t care. At least I will be able to see again.”
Antoine smiled. “At least you aren’t walking around with that hideous handkerchief tied around your head anymore.”
“Yes.” He smiled and shifted his head up towards Antoine’s voice. “Now I have gauze.”
“But the gauze will be removed. And you will be able to see. Just think of what you remember. Of the world that you left behind so many years ago. Of all the beauty of it that you will be able to see again.” Antoine returned to the chair and looked over at the bed. Giovanni lay motionless, his head facing the ceiling.
He was drumming his fingers on his stomach.
Antoine finally broke the silence. “How long have you been serving us?”
Giovanni took a breath and exhaled. “I – I’m not sure dear Antoine. I know it’s been many, many years, though, dear sir.”
He paused for a long while. “A great many years, I would imagine. Saw a lot of history with the two of you.” Antoine looked up and could tell that Giovanni was shaking his head back and forth.
“What is it, Giovanni?”
He stopped moving his head back and forth. “I cannot remember. No matter how hard I try.”
“Cannot remember? You can, Gio. I know you can. When you were transformed. You have to try. Wait a few hours, maybe? For the anesthesia to wear off? But certainly you haven’t forgotten about when you lost your sight.”
Giovanni shifted in the hospital bed as Antoine directed his gaze out the window to the fading Paris winter light.
*****
Antoine and Giovanni had returned from Paris to Lyon and stayed at the Chateau. It wasn’t until The Inspiriti had met in Rome to decipher the cause of Darius’ death, that Antoine had pressed Giovanni to have the operation to receive a new pair of eyes.
And the inquiries in Rome continued.
Darius was among many immortals who lost their immortality, became mortal once again, and died a final death. The Inspiriti High Council spearheaded the investigation of a mythical figure, once known in the immortal community as The Hooded Man.
Antoine ignored the happenings in Rome and insisted Giovanni go and get the procedure for his eye transplant, for the trial would still go on, no matter what they did, and Monsignor Harrison, the leader of the immortals, would be calling on Antoine at some point for questioning. But in the meantime, why would Giovanni not want to see?
Darius had already been dead and buried at that point, and Antoine felt that a short trip to Paris was in order. There were too many memories floating around the Chateau in Lyon.
After the procedure, months later, when Antoine and Giovanni sat on the bench in the cemetery, Giovanni nodded, moments after Antoine had asked him, again, about having a killer’s eyes. “We’re all just killers anyway, aren’t we? I mean, faced with the situation. Of survival. It’s kill or be killed, right?”
Antoine paused for a moment. “Do you remember when she gouged your eyes out? Do you remember when I asked you in your hospital room? When you couldn’t remember the specifics?”
Giovanni nodded.
“So the memory returned?”
Giovanni sighed and looked out at the tombstones.
The clouds moved in and filtered the moonlight, giving a greyish hue to the markers. “I’ve never forgotten,” he said. “It was the anesthesia, wasn’t it?” He snapped his head and looked at Antoine, who fidgeted for a moment and looked back at Giovanni.
“So you blocked it? From your mind?”
Giovanni looked forward and closed his eyes. He then hung his head down, shaking his head. “I can still remember the gleam from the blade. The light had caught it. Reflected it back to me. That was the last thing I saw. And then she scooped them out. I saw the blade come closer to my eye, and then it was darkness. It wasn’t the searing pain from the blade as it cut through my iris – but I did scream in pain. I did. But what tormented me so much was the darkness that followed. I heard her laughing afterwards as I lay on the floor. That sinister laugh that Claret always had. Like she was straight from hades. And I could feel the warmth of the blood gushing down my cheeks. I could feel it pooling on the floor. I felt its warmth through my toes. But I didn’t hear her footsteps. I couldn’t tell if she was still there. And you know how she can appear and disappear.”
Antoine nodded. “Well, at least you can see again.”
Giovanni looked up and around at the cemetery. It was the middle of the night.
The gravestones reflected on the pale blue moonlight. And the night was still and silent. “Yes,” he said. “The tombstones are so beautiful. Each one representing a life lived. All at different times, different places. Just because one them had been buried here, it doesn’t always mean they were born here. Nor even lived here.”
“Or they lived here at the end of their life.”
“Correct,” Giovanni said.
They stopped talking as they heard the approach of footsteps in the gravel.
Neither could see in the darkness to whom the footsteps belonged,
but they were expecting him. Without even having sight, they knew who it was. And when the footsteps stopped, they focused on the Italian leather boots, the blue tinted moonlight highlighting the leather in light pastel.
And then they looked up.
A pair of faded jeans.
And a black button down shirt.
But it was the long, flowing blonde hair, which had reached halfway down the back, and chiseled face, where it had been confirmed. “Tramos!” Giovanni exclaimed. “You actually came?”
He smiled, nodded and sat next to them on the edge of the bench. “Of course I did. You all are in torment. How many of you are left now?”
Antoine raised his head and Tramos looked directly back at him. “Not many, Tramos. Not many. We’re severely injured. Almost gone. Darius was one of the first in my sector. And it just catapulted from there. It was like an infection. Like a virus.”
Tramos nodded and looked around the cemetery. “Yes,” he said. “The Hooded Man. What ever became of him?”
“We defeated him,” Antoine said. “He is gone now. Forever. At least that is what we believe. But he left a trail of death.”
Tramos took a seat next to them. He looked over at them, perplexed. “You defeated him? How?”
Antoine swallowed and placed his hands on his thighs. “You know of Claret? Claret Atarah?”
Tramos nodded.
“I know all. Continue.”
Antoine nodded. “Well, when she was discovered to have orchestrated this assault on the immortals, she was tried and crucified for her crimes against her own kind.”
Tramos leaned on his knee with his elbow. “And this ‘hooded man’? Who was he?”
Antoine continued. “He was a puppet.”
Tramos looked down and closed his eyes. He shook his head. “Oh, dear, oh dear. Whatever has become of my kind?”
Giovanni snapped his head over towards Tramos and grabbed his arm. “She took my eyes!” His eyes were wide as Tramos shifted his face and his mouth dropped open. “She gouged them out with a knife! She was evil!”
