Immortal Beloved

by C. E. Murphy

  Karem’s stories had engrossed him more than he wanted to admit. Artifacts of Immortality were a tempting focus of study, even if they didn’t work. If they did, having the knowledge to make them, whether he used it or not, would be priceless.

  It hadn’t been difficult, over the last two weeks, to build a camaraderie with Ragar, the mortal scholar. Methos had slowly convinced him to tell him the stories of Methuselah’s crystal, and then of the other artifacts.

  He’d asked Minyah where the Fleece of House Aries was. She looked at him thoughtfully before bringing him to one of the smaller, unused rooms in the house. It was filled with wool cloaks, dyed through a spectrum of yellows, all hanging on small racks set into the walls. “Can you tell which it is?” she’d asked curiously.

  Methos pursed his lips slightly, walking around the room. His footsteps on the stone floor were muffled by the wool that lined the walls. After several minutes, he returned to Minyah’s side. “Not at all,” he confessed. “It’s a cloak? I was expecting — well, a sheepskin, I suppose.”

  Minyah crossed the room unerringly, to select a mid-length cloak dyed pale gold. “This one.” Folding it over her arm, she presented it to him. Methos took it gingerly, half expecting some sort of backlash.

  It looked, and felt, like a perfectly ordinary cloak. “You’re sure?”

  Minyah nodded. “Quite certain. Somewhat more elegant than flinging a sheepskin over your shoulders, I think. It produces no special feeling, nothing like your sensation that warns of other Immortals?”

  Methos shook his head, inspecting the cloak more carefully. “Nothing. I would never be able to choose it out of a room like this.”

  “I thought not.” Minyah sounded smug. “Our gifts of Immortality are utterly unrelated to yours.”

  Methos looked up from the cloak. “Did you know Methuselah?”

  Minyah nodded. “Certainly. In truth, I never thought to test our cloak, despite knowing his crystal worked. Many of us saw him as something closer to the gods than we were, a protector left from the early days of the island. That the gift could be passed on did not occur to me. Shall we test it?”

  “Test it?” Methos looked skeptical. “How? It won’t work for me. I’m already Immortal.”

  Minyah took the cloak back, slipping it over her shoulders. “It is supposed to protect the wearer from harm.” She nodded at his sword. “Strike at me.”

  Methos’ eyebrows went up in horror. “And if it doesn’t work? I really don’t want to explain to Ghean that I accidentally chopped her mother in half ten days before the wedding!”

  Minyah laughed, extending her hand. “Give me your knife, then. I will test it myself, in the same fashion that you demonstrated your healing ability to Ghean.”

  Reluctantly, Methos unsheathed the little blade and placed it in her palm. “Don’t cut too deep,” he warned. “If it doesn’t work, I’d hate to see you crippled. A scholar needs her hands.”

  Minyah nodded, shifting her grip on the hilt and considering her other palm. “I find this somewhat alarming,” she announced, then took a quick breath and sliced the blade over her palm. A sharp cry of alarm escaped her, and Methos caught her wrist to turn her palm towards him, flinching in anticipation.

  The skin of her palm was whole, not even creased by the blade’s path. Shocked, Methos looked at the knife, which remained unbloodied. “Dear gods.”

  Minyah stared at her palm with as much surprise as Methos. “By the gods,” she agreed. “So it is true. It protects the wearer.”

  “Minyah,” Methos says slowly, “may I try it? Our healing doesn’t stop from happening. It just heals faster. It might work … .”

  Minyah, still looking wide-eyed at her hand, pulled the cloak off and handed it to Methos. He swung it on and took his knife back from Ghean’s mother. With less trepidation than she had shown, he drove the knife towards his palm.

  Both mortal and Immortal startled violently at the sharp crack of the horn blade shattering. Methos lifted it to study the jagged pattern where the tip had broken off, then turned his hand up to gaze at the unbroken skin.

  I could be invincible.

  He shuddered, pulling the cloak off and handing it back to Minyah. “That is not for me,” he said softly, intently. “Not for any of my kind. If it fell into the hands of the wrong Immortal, if he were the last one — destroy it, Minyah, before handing it to an Immortal again. Destroy it.”

  Minyah folded the cloak over her arm. “The last one,” she repeated. “You battle to the death, but why?”

  “Put the Fleece away,” Methos asked quietly, turning away. “I don’t want to watch you do it.” He shivered again, then replied, “Because there can be only one. Someday, there will be a Gathering. The last of my kind will come together to fight to the end. There’s a prize of some sort, for the last one.”

  He heard her cross the room, shifting cloaks aside as she hung the Fleece. “What is the prize?”

  Methos shook his head, back still turned to her. “I don’t know. It’s said whomever wins the Prize will have the power to rule the world. I don’t know if it’s true.”

  Minyah came back to stand before him, eyes thoughtful. “Do you want it?”

  Methos looked down at her. “I want to live.”

  I want to live. Methos rubbed his eyes again before pushing his stool away from the desk to stand. The Fleece, stored with the dozens of other cloaks, was painfully tempting. More than once Methos had found himself retracing the route to the storage room, only to deliberately walk away when he’d realized his goal. Our Immortality doesn’t work that way, he reminded himself. Using it would encourage complacency, and it would be your undoing, old man. Survival’s a solitary pursuit. You can’t afford to rely on tricks and toys.

  With a quiet sigh, Methos reassembled the papers he’d been going through. After nearly two days of meticulous research, he was certain the histories would not provide him with the details of how to create the artifacts, nor with the location of the mythical book of Aquarius. Still, he would finish reading them in the morning.

  Barefooted, he padded into the bedroom, watching Ghean sleep for a few moments. Relaxed in the moonlight, her hair spilling over the edge of the bed, she looked utterly content. Methos smiled, slipping out again, hesitating only briefly in the main room to blow out candles and pick up his sword before he made his way down towards the city.

  The streets were deserted, the market closed down for the night. Methos glanced absently at the moon and the position of the stars, judging it to be well past midnight, closer to the new dawn than last night’s dusk.

  The city glowed, white stone reflecting moonlight with an eerie, unreal edge, as if lit from within. The shadows were blued, full darkness unwilling to encroach on the city’s streets. It lent an aura of peace to the sleeping town, lulling Methos’ walk into a slow and leisurely pace.

  He’d almost reached the temple at the city center before he realized it was his destination. He paused at the door, considering the blade he still carried, sheathed, in his hand. He knew of no mortal enemies on the island, and Immortal enemies could not fight on holy ground. Nevertheless, Atlantis had no tenements requiring temple-goers to abandon their weapons outside the sanctuary, and after a moment’s debate, Methos stepped inside, sword still in hand.

  The weeks in Atlantis hadn’t afforded him more than a few minutes’ visit to the temple. It had been enough to register fine architecture and artwork, but little else. The wait was worthwhile. The circular building was domed, roof set upon wide pillars at even intervals. Head tilted back to study them, Methos walked further into the temple, coming to the center of the room and placing fingertips on the altar that dominated the building.

  The pillars were carved, each in its own distinct style, as if each of the thirteen had been commissioned by a different artist. The Houses of Atlantis were represented there, beasts and creatures from the stars rendered in white marble to hold up the dome of the sky. Some were stunningly lifelike, the
effect compounded by the shadows cast by the moon’s bright light. Methos turned to find the ram of Aries, whose wide horns supported his section of the ceiling. With a self-mocking smile, Methos bowed to the stone animal, amused at the real respect he felt. Though his own gods, if he’d had any, were long dead, there was still a degree of comfortable familiarity in acknowledging the gods of others.

  Scattered cushions were the only seats in the temple. Atlantis’ religion was more one of contemplation than gathered masses, though the central altar saw sacrifices from each of the Houses, as its constellation grew dominant. Faint, discolored traces of blood stained the stone, rendered innocent by the lighting. Methos withdrew from the altar, fingers sliding off smooth, worn stone, and knelt on a nearby cushion, sword held loosely across his thighs as his eyes drifted shut. Time slipped away, the meditative silence of the temple helping to loosen the restraints of memory.

  The arrogant claim of a few weeks ago came back to him: I am the oldest Immortal.

  He refuted his own claim silently. I haven’t met anyone older than myself. It doesn’t mean I’m the oldest, or the first. The first of us must have made the Rules, and I don’t remember doing that.

  It’s important. I’d think if I’d made them up, I’d remember. It stands to reason that I didn’t, then.

  Memories prompted by centuries of journal-keeping, remembered only because they’d been written down, surfaced. Heads he’d taken, ages of the Immortals who had died. None of them were older than I. But what about the first? There must have been a first. With a heavy breath, Methos let all conscious thought slip away, giving himself up to the flickers of memory.

  The first head, the first Quickening; the night that began his life, as far as waking memory was concerned. The electric thrill still jolted his fingertips, raising hairs on his arms. Power was left, but the man whose head he’d taken was gone, memories of his life swept away in the river of time that was Methos’ life as much as any mortal life might be lost. For an instant, the thick features came into focus: wide nose, heavy cheekbones and wild, wild hair, frantic eyes visible in flashes under it. Methos snatched at the image, trying to follow it to more knowledge, only to watch it dissolve. Hunger and fear, rage and despair, tangled in the power of the Quickening, replaced it, the sensations remembered more in bone and muscle than in mind.

  With thoughtless determination, Methos pursued even those shreds of memory, wading through the grey blur of time. Distantly, he felt the prickle at the back of his neck, warning him of the arrival of another Immortal. Beyond a brief concession to that awareness, he ignored the physical, falling deeper into memory in search of answers.

  Nothing came forward. No faces, no teachers; nothing of the Immortals who had come before him, nothing of how he’d learned about himself or about the Rules. Briefly, the face of an old man, toothless with age and utterly bald, filled Methos’ mind. With the face came a dozen other glimpses of other faces, men and women and children whose presence spoke faintly of family to the ancient Immortal. As quickly as they’d come, they were gone, leaving Methos with a small smile playing at his mouth. He spoke without intending to, voice quiet in the stone temple. “Zethres het’dyan, Nolan.”

  Karem’s voice broke him out of his reverie entirely. “What did you say?”

  Methos opened his eyes to regard the man crouched over a cushion several feet away. “Zethres het’dyan,” he repeated, the words suddenly awkwardin his mouth. “It means … ‘your memory is mine’, roughly. It’s something you say to someone who is dying or leaving, so they’ll know they won’t be forgotten.”

  “Who is Nolan, then?”

  “He was … ” Methos freed one of his hands from around the sword, lifting it to pinch the bridge of his nose. “A friend,” he said finally. “A mortal.”

  “I didn’t recognize the language.”

  Methos dropped his hand to look across the room again. “Neither did I,” he said, with no particular humour. “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same thing.”

  “I was meditating,” Methos said dryly, “until you interrupted me.”

  “With a sword in your hands?”

  Methos shrugged, unfolding himself from the cushion. “We live and die by the sword. Why not pray by it, too? You ask a lot of questions, Karem.”

  Karem smiled easily. “It’s the best way to learn. Have you learned anything else about the Immortality artifacts?”

  “No.” Half a dozen explanations and appendages leapt to mind, and Methos closed his mouth firmly on them. No need to let Karem know I’ve been researching them. Better to let him think I’ve dismissed them entirely.

  Karem remained where he was, crouched over the cushion. “Have you looked?”

  Methos showed half a smile, shaking his head. “No, again, I’m afraid. Maybe in twenty years when they’re used to me.”

  “I want it now.”

  “Why?” Methos paused at the door, looking at the other Immortal. “Is someone dying, or are you anticipating a challenge you can’t win without a crutch?”

  Curious, Karem looked up. “Do you think they’d work for us?”

  Methos shook his head. “Our Immortality doesn’t work that way,” he lied smoothly, then grinned quickly. “What if it turned out to be catastrophic?” What if it did? There was no recompense for trying to stab myself, but I wasn’t in battle with another Immortal. “I wonder if there’s a rule we don’t know about. ‘No using Immortality artifacts.’ Like no fighting on holy ground.”

  Karem glanced around the temple. “What happens if we fight on holy ground, O Oldest Immortal?”

  Methos spread his hand. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried. Good night, Karem.” He stepped through the temple doors, letting them swing shut silently behind him. Outside, he stopped a moment, looking down the broad avenue that lead through the city. Who taught me we couldn’t fight on holy ground?

  After a few seconds, he let the question go, along with the other half-remembered memories of the night. Whomever it was, whomever I once was, are lost to time. Methos walked down the steps and back into the city, leaving the questions behind in the sanctuary of the Atlantean temple.

  “What’re you doing in the temple?”

  Methos glanced down a side street, eyebrows elevated, to see Ghean’s young friend, Ertros leaning against a wall. “What are you doing up this early?” he asked in return, then smiled. “Praying, I suppose. Something like it. Good morning, Ertros.”

  Ertros folded his arms across his chest, suspiciously, and squinted up at Methos. “Good morning,” he said, without a great deal of courtesy. “My mother runs a tavern,” he replied. “I always start the fire just before dawn so the cooking can get done. Atlanteans,” he accused, “don’t pray in the middle of the night.”

  Methos lifted his eyebrows, crossing to lean against the alley wall opposite Ertros. “I’m not Atlantean,” he pointed out. “Too tall and too pale, I think is what you said? Your mother must appreciate your help a great deal.”

  “So how come you’re here, if you don’t belong here?” the boy asked resentfully. “Coming from the outlands to marry Ghean. She should marry an Atlantean.”

  Methos slid down against the wall to make himself a little smaller than the boy. “I met her in Egypt,” he said. “She went there to study how they were building the Sphinx.”

  Ertros nodded impatiently. “I know. I didn’t want her to go away.” He scowled at Methos. “What were you doing in Egypt?”

  “Studying their language and the stories they have written down. I’ve been studying stories a long time. Ghean told me that you worked in the library yourself.”

  Ertros straightened up a little, clearly proud of himself. “They don’t let most kids my age work there because they’re not careful enough. I’m real careful.”

  Methos smiled. “You must be. Even I get nervous going through the old manuscripts. I suppose if you’ve been around them your whole life you’re more confident with the
m.”

  The boy thawed visibly, almost smiling with pride. “If I keep doing well I’ll be able to study the very oldest Atlantean histories when I’m grown up. I might even join a House, if I can.” He glared at Methos suddenly. “I was gonna marry Ghean.”

  Methos half smiled. “She’s almost eleven years older than you are, Ertros. Maybe you could marry our daughter someday, instead.”

  Ertros’ eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Are you having a daughter?”

  “Someday, I hope so.” Methos held back the sigh, spreading his hands. “By the time she’s old enough to marry you’ll have gained all sorts of knowledge.”

  Ertros scowled again. “Maybe,” he agreed. “That might be all right. Then I could tell our kids about Atlantis’ history.”

  Methos grinned, nodding. “You’ve got a head start on Ghean and I. Ghean’s studied architecture, not history, and me–well, I’m a newcomer to the island. I’m trying to find the oldest histories of Atlantis to read them now, but maybe outlanders don’t get to read them. I can’t find the very oldest. Y– ”

  “What,” Ertros asked curiously, “Like the Book of Aquarius?”

  Methos broke off, blinking in surprise. “I’ve heard of that,” he admitted, “but it doesn’t seem to exist.”

  “I haven’t seen it either,” Ertros said, “but the kids say it’s under the temple.” He grinned. “We always look for it in the summer. A couple years ago I tried chopping a hole in the temple floor. I’ve never seen the priests so angry.”

  Methos laughed. “I imagine.” He glanced back up the street towards the temple, then at the horizon, greying with dawn. “Let me know if you ever find it,” he said wryly. “Right now you’d better go start the hearth in your mother’s tavern.”

  Ertros looked towards the horizon as well, and nodded, then grinned again. “Maybe I should try chopping another hole in the middle of the night.”

  “The priests,” Methos warned, “will be very angry.”

  Ertros grinned and headed down the street. “Not if they don’t catch me!”