An Immortal Dance

by Alastair Fontaine

  Karl VI was celebrating his Ball at Court, an annual gathering of the cream of the aristocracy from across the massive Holy Roman Empire. The wealth and splendour of the city on the Danube made it hard to believe that a few decades before it had almost been reduced to rubble by a colossal force from the East. Belit looked into the hickory eyes of her eternal companion. She had often wondered if he had been a party to that great battle. Who had he fought for? The Ottoman Turk was no less grand than the Germanic princes waltzing around them. The Blue Mosque of Istanbul was no less magnificent than St. Stephen’s Cathedral. Ahmed III too fancied himself the worthy successor to the glory of Rome, and his janissaries were among the most feared men in the Orient. She did not see how her beloved could have possibly picked between them. Now, as they spun gracefully around the polished hardwood floor, she sought to assuage her curiosities.

  “Franks or Ottomans?” she asked, knowing that he would understand.

  “Franks, of course,” he laughed, glancing at their surroundings and winking mischievously at her.

  “Really?”

  “I was not present for the battle. I was busy at the court of the Ottoman Padishah. Oh, if only you had seen it! It was the most incredible place. Even better than this,” he said, remembering it fondly.

  “Then why come here?”

  “Why did you? Did you, at last, grow tired of the Northern tribes?”

  She was silent for a moment, sadness clouding her sapphire eyes. When she spoke, anger pervaded her voice, “They were slaughtered like dogs by the Christians. I was driven out of my home.”

  He saw the longing in her beautiful face and immediately regretted his words. “I am sorry,” he murmured solemnly, but Belit no longer felt like dancing. Abruptly, she walked away from him and the swirling masses. She passed through a gilded door onto a balcony, where she could observe the greater city. A cold wind made itself known to her, but it was nothing to one who had lived on the frozen plains of Norway. Gazing quietly at the Danube, which reflected the starlight as it flowed gently to the South, she sighed as she felt his presence behind her and strong arms enveloped her. Belit could not help but to smile as he buried his cheek in her long, flaxen hair.

  “I go south, to the lands where we were born. Mortals there continue to live in fantastic isolation. I hope to find a new home amongst them,” she spoke at last. “Now, answer my question.”

  He nodded soberly, disappointed. They were to be separated again. “I travelled from distant Delhi to Istanbul, dallying there briefly before moving on to Hungary and eventually finding you here. Now, I go to fulfil a dream long held. I ride to Spain soon, and from there I shall journey to the New World.”

  “Then let us enjoy this brief crossing in the long paths of our lives,” she said, unwilling to waste even a second. She turned to face him and pressed her face against his chest. Holding him close, she led him in a tender dance, spiralling slowly, far away from the rest of the world.

  Belit woke to the sight of that same, beautiful man sitting at her bedside. His dormant figure was only partially visible in the moonlight, but she knew that he had not changed. She, however, was but a glimmer of the woman whom she had seen in her dream. How happily she would give all of the wealth that surrounded her away if she could but briefly return to those bonny years. Nevertheless, she knew that it was not for her to decide. She had never been ill in all her long life and something told her that no mortal efforts could save her. Forces far beyond her had long ago decreed her tragic end, but she was not bitter, for her life had been a good one. She noticed that she was in one of the beautiful rooms of her mansion. Ambrose or Marshall must have asked for her to be discharged from the hospital when the doctors had inevitably realised that there was nothing that they could do for her. She was glad. At least she would die in her home, not on some cold, metal bed surrounded by tubes and prying mortals. She had never finished the design of her new room. Of course, that didn’t matter anymore. Now, all that was left was to look upon the countenance of her beloved until death came for her. She gazed at him fixedly, hour after hour, even as the sun began to rise. Belit could not bring herself to look away even for a moment, for in that face… was love.

  Si pudiera callar, lo que no sé decir. Mostraría con el alma lo que siento por ti.

  -Venus, Spain

  18

  Ambrose awoke to the warm glow of the rising sun. Blinking his eyelids a few times to shake the drowsiness away, he became keenly aware of an aching discomfort in his back and limbs. Why had he gone to sleep in a chair? Then, it all came back to him and those thoughts disappeared. The worry and heartache of the past two weeks returned, replacing the pain in his body with an unbearable agony in his soul. He mastered himself, seeing that she too was finally awake and looking fixedly at him. He owed it to her to at least appear in control. He returned her gaze in silence, waiting patiently for her to speak.

  Those sapphire eyes were still as lovely as they had been all those innumerable eons ago when strong, brown arms had held their owner as they had watched an ancient jungle burn. Not a trace of the crippling weakness that consumed her body lay in those brilliant, blue gemstones. Even as she faded, they sparkled with the indomitable fire of youth. Still, Belit knew that even they would dull as the sun that had once given her such life reclaimed her at last. Every breath now came slower than the last, but her essence never waned. Free she had lived and so she would leave the world. She was that naked, brown beauty that had roamed primeval forests, the barbarian queen of the frozen north, the Lakota princess, the wild, inexorable force that had lain in the bosoms of mortal men since the bygone days when the night had been terrible and untamed. Yet, just as the night had been forced into the empty recesses below the earth so long ago, the time had come for her to depart. She had no place in the world, for no longer were men possessed of that savage will, that primordial lawlessness that she had so loved. She had become a relic, hiding beneath the golden trappings of an unfamiliar reality. The world would move on, and only Ambrose would remain. Only when at last dusk fell on the proud nations of mortal men and those monstrous hordes overran the world would he once again join her in their tender dance. Oh sweet Ambrose, who must live on, a remnant of a beautiful people.

  Belit felt her light growing dimmer. She would be with her brethren soon. She would roam exotic jungles with the beautiful faces that had perished on that awful first night. She could already feel the warmth that she had known under the golden sun of those untamed lands. She could almost hear their sweet laughter. Finally, she was going home. No, not yet. There was one last thing to do, even as she wondered if it was truly for the best. Once more, she looked at her beloved Ambrose, the only constant that there had ever been for her. A final brilliance filled her sapphire eyes, akin to that of a dying star. She beckoned him to come closer. Closer, until once more their lips became entwined. For the last time, she was his and he was hers in a space beyond time. As they finally pulled away from one another, her ruby lips parted into a final breath, “Asriel.”

  Those fierce sapphires lost their light, and she fell back as the veil of oblivion gently enshrouded her. In that moment, he remembered. He unleashed a great shout that would forever echo deep in the soul of any who heard it. It was an incoherent cry of inhuman loss amplified by the weight of the ages since that first dawn. As that crushing pain lanced through him, overwhelming him with its sheer brutality, he knew that he was Asriel and the lifeless form before him had been Belit. Now there was only Asriel, alone in all the world.

  Her corpse began to dissolve into golden dust that settled gently on the bed. Tears formed in his eyes as he knelt, gazing intensely upon a face that would never again grace the mortal world, trying to memorise every detail for the eternity to come. Only when her whole body was gone did he carefully collect those resplendent ashes, ensuring that none were left behind. He stood and opened the windows to greet that cruel dawn. He stopped for a moment, and looked down at the treasure in his hands. It was what sh
e would have wanted. He spread his hands, allowing the gentle breeze to take her from him. His Belit flew towards the horizon. She would be free, to wander where she pleased.

  Only then did the tears begin to fall. They rolled down his cheeks in droves as he lost the will to stop them. He crumpled to the ground. In the distance, he heard the door burst open and the clatter of feet as he was quickly surrounded by panicked, alien voices.

  “Ambrose?” they shouted.

  As blackness overtook him, he heard himself faintly whisper, “Asriel.”

  But the fire kept burning within them

  It overshadowed humanity to this day

  Fire that is burning us alive

  -Manu, India

  19

  A dying sun blazed in the heavens, but none of its warmth seemed to reach the Earth below. Snow had fallen during the day, forming a thin, alabaster layer over his fields. Majestic Eastern White Pines towered around his manor house, a layer of frost covering thin, sharp leaves that refused to yield to the winter cold. He stood on a white marble balcony overlooking his domain. Black leather gloves clasped the ornate balustrade as hickory eyes savoured those final moments before nightfall. In another age, he would have had mortal labourers walk the grounds, igniting torches as they went. Now, flipping a few switches sufficed to illuminate the house, making it a beacon of brilliant, amber light in that otherwise empty vastness.

  Asriel had long lost faith in mortal man. They only fought to decimate, never to build. They breathed only hatred and violence even as their great machines spewed vile filth into the air. Fear had led them astray. Unable to endure the agony of watching all that he had helped to build over the millennia gradually decline, he had built himself a home in the wild Northern reaches of the New World. Even as the rest of the world changed, his estate was a timeless relic of a more elegant era. He would remain there until mortal man either returned to the path of creation or came and destroyed him as well.

  Often, he worried about how the others fared. Especially his beloved Belit. He had not seen her again since those beautiful days that they had spent together under the Indian sun. They had known a rich land and a proud people, subjugated by shiny bayonets and red coats. Now, India clamoured to once again be the master of her own fate. She would no longer be ruled by a faraway isle. He hoped that when independence eventually came, she would not seek to utterly ruin her oppressors, as he had often seen whenever a people succeeded in liberating themselves, but instead treat them with grace and come together to labour for a better, kinder world.

  He wished that Belit would find him. They could spend eternity together, living in luxury, far from the perils of the world. He could only guess where she was living. Likely amongst the primitives that she had always loved, but he did not know if any still remained in the rising tide of modernity. He sighed. If only she would learn to appreciate the finer things in life.

  At a snap of his fingers, an elderly mortal appeared behind him, dressed in a crisp, black suit. Without looking back, Asriel reached a gloved hand behind him. It was promptly filled with a small, crystal tumbler and the servant quietly retreated into the warmth of the house. Asriel looked at its golden contents in satisfaction. There was truly nothing like a good whiskey in the evening. He raised the vessel to his lips, taking a moment to enjoy the sweet promise of its woody scent.

  Then, he dropped it. The glass shattered on the carefully trimmed grass below as Asriel stared, astounded, into the distance. A new figure had appeared on the horizon, silhouetted by the fading sun. That tall, muscular frame was unmistakeable, even from a distance. Asriel smiled in delight. Naharai.

  He rushed into the house, past the bewildered mortal servants and out the heavy oak door to greet his brother.

  “Naharai!” he bellowed.

  No response. Perhaps he had not heard. Asriel waited for him to get closer and again called out, “Naharai!”

  Nothing. As Naharai shuffled towards him, Asriel noticed that his brother was a dishevelled figure, wearing a tattered, white robe stained with crimson blood. The sight shocked Asriel. The man that he knew had always prided himself on his appearance, proud and belligerent, a paragon of war.

  Naharai came closer and the light from the house began to illuminate his features. Asriel noticed empty, bloodshot eyes. Brown like his own, but lacking the lively sparkle that they had once hosted. Now, they seemed more like charcoals, absorbing the light from the house. Horrified, he saw pasty skin, torn and broken. Naharai’s cracked mouth gaped in a wordless scream. What could have done such a thing?

  Asriel gasped, perceiving a grim expression on his brother’s face, akin to that of the primal beasts who had hunted them on primeval nights. There was a murderous intent in those dark eyes. No worldly creature had broken his brother. Somehow, somewhere, madness had entered the immortal warrior’s soul. Asriel felt a sudden surge of hatred for the world, for the mortals, for all that had conspired to at last drive his cherished Naharai to insanity. He steeled himself for what was to come. Naharai’s deranged glare assured him that there would be no reasoning with the madman.

  Asriel glanced back at his stately home, admiring it once more. Slowly, he exhaled and turned to face the coming danger. Calmly, he began to walk towards Naharai. Insane or not, he would not be the first to raise a hand against his brother. As the distance between them closed, Naharai finally recognized his fellow immortal. His lips curled into a sinister smile and he cocked his head to the side. He stopped walking, allowing Asriel to approach him, moving further and further away from the light. At last, Asriel stood toe to toe with his brother. Gingerly, he placed a hand on Naharai’s face.

  Then, a sudden pain shot through him as that gentle hand was shoved aside and a heavy fist crashed into his chest. Asriel staggered back, only to be tackled to the frosty ground. Rough hands gripped his throat with crazed strength, slowly but surely crushing the life out of him. The painful sensation took away his shock and millennia of experience came to him in an instant. He jabbed four stiff fingers into Naharai’s larynx, right below the Adam’s apple. While his opponent choked, Asriel launched a ferocious knee at his groin and pressed vicious thumbs into those insane eyes, causing their owner to cry out and release him. Then, he thrust the revenant off of him and hurried to stand before Naharai recovered and charged at him.

  They brutalized each other for almost an hour, engaging in a struggle never before seen in all the ages of the world. As they fought, they continued to stray further and further from the illuminated house. That demonic smile had not left Naharai’s face but to unleash pained howls when Asriel’s blows found their marks. Eventually, they arrived at a river far beyond where the light could reach. They brawled on its banks, occasionally feeling the splash of icy water, black in the darkness. Chilling noises, unheard for millennia, raged in his ears as he defended himself from one who had been his brother. Asriel began to see hungry eyes, long vanquished, now appear around them. Stygian shades swirled around the duelling pair, filling the air with dismal moans and raving laments.

  “Naharai! We have strayed from the light. The enemy is upon us!” Asriel roared, suddenly aware of the greater menace creeping upon them. Sensing no response, Asriel beseeched him once more, “Naharai! Awaken, I beg of you. Awaken if gloom has not wholly gripped your soul. My brother, stand with me now against our primordial foe.” A hint of confusion appeared in those demented eyes. For a brief second, a glint of understanding seemed to pass through them. Then, the merciless assault continued unabated as the bestial shadows approached. As desperation seized him, Asriel stopped fighting. He let Naharai pummel him in the hope that his brother would kill him before the darkness reached them. As he fell, defeated, to the ground he saw the shadows begin to envelop them. He heard the sounds of gnashing fangs and tearing claws surround him as he prepared for the inevitable end. Asriel closed his eyes. Let it be over quickly.

  “AWAY,” a powerful voice boomed. Light pressed against Asriel’s eyelids and a wild hope assailed
him. He opened his hickory orbs. Instead of a bloodied revenant, Asriel saw Naharai, his Naharai. His brother glowed with an otherworldly brilliance. With powerful fists of pure radiance, he fought the hordes of the night. It was as if the mighty sun itself had risen to fight at his side. Asriel smiled fiercely at the miracle and leapt to his feet, ready to join Naharai in a final stand.

  “BROTHER, NO!” the voice screamed, contorting in pain, and Asriel was thrown violently towards the river. As he flew through the air, he witnessed flames erupt from the shining figure and envelop the entire, writhing mass. He heard the dying screams of monsters and Naharai’s savage laughter as they burned. Then, his body hit the cold water with a tremendous impact and they were gone.

  20

  A beautiful sun.

  A sorrowful night.

  A savage Eden.

  Fire!

  Some choose to build.

  Others to burn.

  Shining cities rise from dust.

  To stand the test of time.

  Or to be torn down in fire and blood.

  The sword strikes down the unarmed man.

  The horse tramples the footman.

  The rifle brings down the horseman.

  The bomb ends all.

  Monuments rise for an ancient king.

  Temples are built for the glory of God.

  Houses are made for the common man.

  Art flourishes.

  A little man.