Immortal Beloved

by C. E. Murphy

  Ghean nodded, letting his hand go and watching him turn into the sun, down between the sandy streets of the tent town. A temporary camp, large enough for commerce because of the construction of the Sphinx nearby, the town remained nameless. The streets were wide, with tents scattered in neat, long rows, enough room between them for men and animals alike to pass through without endangering anyone’s encampment. During the hot days, heat kept the sound down, a weight on words that lifted with the setting sun. In the quick chill of the desert nights, voices carried, making the town more of a community than the days could. Traders, mostly men, kept the town busy in the day, and Methos wove his way through them as he crossed the camp towards Ghean’s mother’s tent. He bowed, a small movement, in greeting to the guard who stood before the tent, scowling benignly. “Would you tell the lady Minyah that Methos is here to see her?”

  “Come in,” a voice called from inside. “I can hear you quite well.”

  Methos’ eyebrows lifted as the guard stepped aside, allowing him to pass into the tent. The woven cloth that made the walls was not unusually thin; Minyah evidently had good hearing, or at least a skill for listening. Methos bowed a second time as the tent flap fell shut behind him, and blinked to adjust his vision to the relative darkness inside.

  Minyah sat at a neatly crafted desk, her head cocked curiously, a stencil in her hand. Beneath her hand was a sheet of thin, quality paper. More of the same was piled around her on the desk, carefully cut edges lined neatly up. Methos’ eyes widened a little at the stuff, and he took an avaricious step forward before catching himself. With an effort, he looked up at Ghean’s mother.

  Even sitting, Minyah was clearly several inches taller than her daughter, and shared the smoky skin and dark hair that typified Atlanteans. Her expression was faintly amused, growing more so as Methos’ eyes fell to the paper again. By the time he looked at her a second time, she was smiling, serene confidence in the expression. “I wondered when you would be bold enough to come by,” she said lightly, and stood. Her robes were fine linen, brightly dyed and finely woven, cut loose to keep cool in the desert heat. A silver pendant shifted between her breasts, catching the light for a moment as she stepped across the room to offer her hand to Methos in greeting. “Ghean calls you her giant. I can see why.”

  Methos took her hand, bowing over it briefly. When he straightened, it was to meet her gaze fully. Minyah’s eyes were gold, flecked with hazel, oddly alien in her dark face. Methos shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, trying to shake off the abrupt feeling that the woman could see through him. Minyah smiled, stepping back. “Would you like water?”

  Methos nodded. “Please. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “I could hardly wait,” Minyah replied as she walked across the tent to pour a cup of water from a jug. “Ghean has spoken of you for months.”

  “Has it been that long?” Methos frowned, accepting the water.

  Minyah settled back down at her desk comfortably, in a rustle of fabrics. “It has. Sit, please.” She waved a hand towards a chair. Methos took the seat while she considered him silently, the disconcerting golden eyes intent. He was tanned, but still paler than any Egyptian or Atlantean might be, thin lines etched away from the corners of his eyes, from too much squinting into the sun. He met her golden gaze a moment, then dropped his eyes, sipping at the water, trying to bleed away the tension he could feel in his shoulders. Minyah twitched a smile. “You are nervous.”

  Methos looked up, startled, and laughed quietly. “A little.”

  Minyah nodded. “That is well. It would not do for you to be too confident.” She cocked her head again. “You love her.”

  The smile that fell onto Methos’ face was genuine, almost silly. “Yes,” he said. “How could I not? She’s so vibrant, so full of life.”

  “Are you really penniless?”

  Methos blinked, opening his mouth to form an answer, but Minyah cut him off with a short gesture. “Nevermind. I am almost certain you are not.” She stood, slipping off her stool again to come around and take his chin in her hand, frowning down into his eyes.

  Methos returned the look, one eyebrow rising quizzically. Minyah held the pose for over a minute, frown growing steadily deeper. Just as Methos was about to speak, Minyah whispered, “Ah,” and released his chin, taking two steps backwards. “You are like him, are you not? Like Aroz. You do not die.”

  Methos’ other eyebrow shot up to join the first, jaw dropping a little in shock. No mortal had ever guessed that, and yet there was no sense at all of the Quickening about Minyah, nothing out of the ordinary. “What are you tal–” he began.

  Minyah shook her head. “Do not lie to me,” she advised. “It is in your eyes. I have seen it in Aroz for a very long time, and I think it is stronger in you.”

  Methos simply stared at her, lost for words. Minyah stepped back to lean against her desk and regard him steadily in return. “Do not,” she repeated, “lie to me. You are like him. Immortal.”

  Methos clung to silence a few more moments, before letting out a slow breath. How could she possibly have guessed? “If … I was like Aroz … what would you do?” The words were carefully measured, an admission without speaking any damning words.

  “Do?” Minyah’s eyebrows rose. “I would do nothing. I am a scholar, Methos. I wish to know, not interfere. I have spent my life pursuing knowledge. If you are like Aroz,” and Minyah’s eyes were shot with laughter as she spoke, politely playing by the rules Methos had dictated, “then you would have great knowledge. That is my interest in you. If I exposed you to other mortals, I would lose that knowledge base to those who are afraid of that which they do not understand. That would not be acceptable.”

  Methos stared at her, silent a while longer, and then he shook his head. “How did you know? About Aroz?”

  Minyah waved a hand, dismissively. “He saved my life when I was a child. I wept over his body, and he rose up again. I thought the gods had answered my prayers, but he told me a different tale. I have seen it in him again since then, and I have come to believe the story he told me was true, and that he cannot die. I have never met another one like him until now.”

  “He can die,” Methos said automatically. “But not unless someone takes his head. How did you know about me?”

  “Ah,” Minyah said again, clasping her hands together. “So Aroz has said, about his death.” She turned, to pour herself a cup of water, before returning her regard to Methos. “So I am right. That is always satisfying. Your eyes are very old,” she answered. “Some mortals have old eyes, the eyes of a soul that has come into the world in many cycles, but there is a different look to your eyes. Different even from a warrior, who has seen much death. Something in your eyes has tasted death, experienced it and survived it. Aroz has the same eyes. Perhaps it marks all of your kind.” She sipped her water. “Perhaps it is only that I know what to look for.”

  Methos shivered in the warm tent. “I hope you are the only mortal I ever meet with that gift,” he murmured.

  “It would be uncomfortable,” Minyah agreed, “for a life built around secrecy to meet too often with those who can see through the secrets. Do you wish to marry her?”

  Methos blinked, hesitating a fraction of a second, and Minyah’s eyebrows lifted. “You do,” she judged, “but there is some doubt in you. Tell me of it.”

  For several moments Methos said nothing at all, staring at the discomfiting woman before him. I don’t remember ever having been so neatly unwrapped. What are you, Minyah? He shook his head, remembering to answer her question. “Marriage … is not lightly undertaken. Not in any case, and especially for my kind. There’s always the problem of … truth. Whether to confess what we are, or to keep it hidden away, to save our lovers pain. This time it’s … more difficult than usual.” He lifted dark eyes to the tent’s ceiling, debating his next words.

  “Has Aroz told you that Ghean has the potential to become Immortal, as we are?”

  Minyah’s eyes widened, lips part
ing in shock. Methos frowned at the floor a moment, nodding. “I didn’t think so. Minyah, your daughter is intelligent and beautiful, and if she were wholly mortal, I would wed her tomorrow. But she isn’t, and I don’t know what to say or do, to either you or to her.” He stood to pace uncomfortably, water cup in hand.

  Minyah remained quiet, eyebrows drawn down in thought. “If she were mortal, you would wed her, and love her for the rest of her life.” The words were quiet, spoken almost to herself. “If she were Immortal now, would you marry her?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why?”

  Methos turned to look at the brightly-clad woman. “If she were to become Immortal today, she would still be terribly young. I wouldn’t want to marry an Immortal in her childhood. I’m not sure I would want to marry an Immortal at all.”

  Minyah’s eyebrows quirked up. “Why?”

  “Because there are Rules we live by, and the one truth that we know is that there can be only one.” Methos voice was flat. “I would not want to have to take my wife’s head.” And I would. To survive, I would. Methos knew himself that well, at least.

  Goosebumps lifted on Minyah’s arms, and she let the line of questioning go, looking pensively into her water cup. “When will she die?”

  Methos shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. She could die of old age, or of illness, and the Quickening would never be triggered.” He listened to himself with a faint sense of unreality. I don’t remember ever telling any mortal these things, except one or two wives. “We only become Immortal through violent or untimely death. But how can I marry her, knowing that she might die accidentally and then be married eternally to someone she expected a few decades with?”

  Unromantically, Minyah shrugged. “Lifematings dissolve. Very few people have the temperance to remain with one mate forever, whether words of ceremony have been said over them or not, and whether or not they are mortal or Immortal. Does she know the truth about you?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps you should tell her, and let her choose.”

  “Tell her? About me, or about herself?” Methos shook his head again. “I can’t tell her about herself. It would be interfering. I can’t interfere.”

  Minyah’s eyebrows lifted. “Why not?”

  Methos shrugged. “Those are the Rules.”

  Minyah circled her desk, not sitting. “Who made these rules? Aroz also speaks of them.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve always known them.”

  “Always?”

  Methos sighed, putting his cup on Minyah’s desk, careful not to place it near any of the fine paper she was working with. “As long as I can remember, Minyah.”

  The woman looked up, interested. “And how long is that?”

  Methos was silent a moment. “A very long time,” he said finally. “A thousand years.”

  Minyah’s eyes widened again. “Twenty lifetimes,” she whispered. “More.”

  Methos nodded, a tired motion. “A very long time,” he repeated. “All of which has come down to now, and whether or not to marry your daughter.”

  “She will be very angry, if you do not tell her the truth.”

  “If I tell her the truth, she’ll fling herself off the Sphinx to gain Immortality!”

  Laughter sparked in Minyah’s voice. “Would you not do the same?”

  Methos laughed. “Yes,” he admitted.

  “Do you love her enough to grant her this Immortality?”

  Methos’ smile faded. “I don’t grant it. It’s just the way she was born. I would prefer not to interfere. It’s not how it’s supposed to be done.”

  Minyah, curiously, asked, “And if I told her?”

  “You’d be betraying my trust.”

  “She is my only daughter. Would you not do anything you could for your child, to insure she would live beyond a normal lifespan?”

  “We can’t have children,” Methos replied argumentatively.

  Minyah dismissed the words with another wave of her hand. “That is not what I asked, Methos. If you had a child, what would you do?”

  Methos stared at her, pained. “I don’t know, Minyah,” he said finally. “I don’t know.”

  Minyah looked over her shoulder at her paperwork, then back at Methos. Thoughtfully, she said, “You have my permission to marry, if that is the decision you ultimately reach. Go. Tell her.”

  Methos blinked. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and turned to go, stopping at the door to look back. “Why?”

  Minyah chuckled softly. “I am not the ogre Ghean paints. Atlanteans marry for love, not commerce. Her heart is given to you, not Aroz. Much as I would like to see him truly a part of my family, I cannot set Ghean and her happiness as the price for such a union. And you are honest. Perhaps not reassuring, but honest. Go.” She flapped her fingers at him impatiently, circling back around to sit on her stool. “Go.”

  Methos grinned faintly. “Thank you,” he repeated, and pushed the tent flap aside to step out into the desert again.

  Minyah watched the small clouds of sand settle as the door drifted shut, waiting for the bright afterimage of the sunshine to fade without looking away from the partition of the door flap. When it had faded, she reached for her stylus and ink, and a clean sheet of paper, arranging them before her. With her free hand, she lifted her necklace, turning the pendant so she could see it right-side-up. Neatly, in the upper left-hand corner of the parchment, she began to sketch a copy of the necklace, the ancient symbol of her House: a ram’s head, horns deeply curved, within a circle, thirteen points within the borders of the circle. She waited for the ink to dry, letting the necklace fall again, and then, in smooth print, she began to write.

  I am a Watcher. I, alone, know of a race of men who walk among us, men who cannot die. They are Immortals. Every day, they fight among themselves, the winner taking the loser’s head. It is my job to observe and record the histories of these men, but never to interfere … .

  Chapter 7

  “Your accent — I can’t quite place it.”

  Ghean smiled a little. Try as she might, she couldn’t erase the faint traces of Atlantis from her voice. At first the fact had been a source of chagrin, but she’d come to be quietly amused at having a singularly unique accent in all the world. “I’m from the Mediterranean,” she explained easily. “My family moved a great deal when I was a child.”

  The lie came easily after more than a decade of living in the twentieth century. At first she’d stuttered and mumbled useless explanations, certain her secret would be revealed. The frightened voice often resurfaced in those times, screaming out its horror of being found out. The other, infinitely patient, waited until the frightened one had yelled itself out before interfering.

  They have no reason to suspect you, it pointed out. Write out your new history and study it. Make it simple, and there will be no flaws. Be confident. They cannot possibly suspect us.

  And they didn’t. Ghean knew the exact moment when she’d begun to think of mortals as ‘they’, as creatures different from herself. It had taken years, years in which she grew accustomed to the new world she was in. She learned languages, Egyptian first, from the young guide who’d told her how much time had passed. Two years with him was not enough to feel the difference between herself and mortals, nor were the following handful of years while she learned English and German from archaeologists robbing the magnificent temples and crypts the Egpytian pharohs had left behind.

  The illusion that she was the same as she had been, as mortal as those around her, ended with a car crash. Her teacher, a skinny American, sped around a corner and into a cart pulled by oxen. He, the oxen, and two of the three in the cart died; Ghean jerked awake minutes after the crash, shattered skull stitching itself back together while a handful of terrified onlookers stared. A woman screamed, naming her a witch, and ran for the authorities.

  The war has ended, the patient one advised. The gods are telling us it is time to leave Egypt and search for our enemy. G
hean pulled herself from the wreck and sold the last of her stash of hair for passage on a boat going to America.

  “I do not understand this Prohibition,” she went on. “Nowhere that I have been would such a thing be thought of.”

  The boy next to her smiled, waving his hand. “Only in America,” he agreed. “It doesn’t work very well, does it?” Another waves of his hand encompassed the dark little tavern — speakeasy, Ghean reminded herself — where they, and dozens of others, were congregated.

  Ghean shook her head, about to speak when a headache rocketed through the back of her head, the abrupt wash of pain hard enough to feel as though it would come out her eyes. As quickly as it came, it passed, and she was left gripping the edge of the bar. After a few seconds she lifted her head, looking beyond the boy, frowning with concern.

  A tall woman, dark hair bobbed and curled in permanent waves, stood just inside the door, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. In a moment, her gaze fixed on Ghean and she nodded slightly before making her way to the other side of the bar. Ghean watched her sit, then excused herself to the boy, and followed the other woman, coming to a stop a few feet away from her table.

  The woman looked up, eyebrows arched. “I’m not looking for a fight,” she said without preamble. “If you aren’t either, have a seat.”

  Ghean sat, tentatively. “You gave me that headache,” she half asked. The woman’s eyebrows went up again, and sympathy suddenly washed across her face.

  “You don’t know what you are, do you?”

  Ghean hesitated a moment. Tell her no! the patient one ordered. We need to learn to fight. She may help us, but how would we explain knowing what Immortals were and yet being unable to fight? “No,” she said slowly. “I was in an automobile accident in Egypt and … . ”

  The woman’s mouth twisted in a smile of acknowledgement. “And you got up from a fatal injury.” Her voice was soft. “Maybe it’s happened again since then. Maybe not. It will, though.” She lifted her head, catching the bartender’s eye and lifting two fingers. He nodded, and a minute later a pretty young woman delivered two drinks to the table. “Thanks,” the Immortal woman said, and paid, pushing one drink across the table to Ghean. After the waitress was gone, she said, “I’m guessing that was the first headache like that you’ve felt.”