Immortal Beloved

by C. E. Murphy

  Minyah appeared from within the temple, hazel-gold eyes merry. “Ghean tells me that it is time for you to bathe and dress for the ceremony,” she announced.

  Methos shot another glance at the sky, eyebrows lifting. “It’s not for almost two hours,” he protested.

  Minyah nodded solemnly. “True,” she agreed, “but Ghean is certain that you are wearing a path in the stone and that you will trip in the groove you have left when you enter the temple. Such an ignominous entrance would ill suit the husband of a wife of Aries.” The words were delivered with utter sincerity, tone at odds with the smile developing across her face. “Had she realized you would occupy yourself by carving a new riverbed with your feet, she would have given you specific tastsk.” Minyah’s voice gave way to the laughter on her face. “I told her men never know what to do with themselves on the day of the ceremony. I see that age makes no difference, and I was correct.” Minyah looked distinctly smug. “That is always satisfying.”

  Methos threw his head back and laughed. “Minyah, are you ever wrong?”

  The woman smiled. “No,” she said, self-assuredly, “and in the unlikely event I should be, I would not admit it. Go and bathe, Methos. Here.” Minyah stepped forward, holding her hand out, palm up. “This is for you.”

  Curious, Methos lifted the package out of Minyah’s hand, raising an eyebrow for permission to open it. She nodded, stepping back again with a small smile.

  The box was a tiny wooden replica of the one the Book was kept in. Methos studied it a moment, finding the pressure points that slid it open by the faint indentations in the wood. It popped open, revealing a length of soft leather slipped through a silver pendent. Methos picked it up, turning it over in his hand to examine the delicate replica of the House Aries symbol. Sunlight bounced off the etchings that segmented the ram’s horns, and the silver studs that represented the Houses glittered faintly.

  “It is a hair tie,” Minyah explained, gesturing at the short leather strip. “Our House laws only allow necklaces to be worn by those born or adopted into the House, but there are no laws against other versions of the symbols being worn as jewelry. I hoped it might welcome you into Aries properly. Your hair is quite long enough to wear it.” Minyah sounded anxious for the first time since Methos had met her. He looked up with a reassuring smile, reaching out to take her hand.

  “Thank you, Minyah. This is the first time I’ve ever received a gift from a parent who knew the truth. It means a great deal to me.” Methos closed his hand protectively over the piece. “Thank you,” he repeated. “I will treasure it.”

  Minyah clapped her hands together, dismissing sentimentality with the sharp sound. “Excellent,” she said, clearly pleased. “Now you must go and bathe. Take your time,” she advised. “I am certain the priests would appreciate you not returning to wear a rut around their temple.”

  A little while later, Methos closed his eyes, sinking into the bath until only his hair floated on top of the water, a black spider’s web hovering on surface tension. Heat seeped into him slowly, and he drifted in the darkness, listening to the sound of his blood coursing in his ears. Tension slowly ebbed out of his shoulders, and he smiled sleepily into the water. One of the overlooked advantages of Immortality was the ability to submerge himself until all his cares filtered away in the peculiar silence underwater, without ever having to come up for air.

  Atlanteans were the only people he’d ever met who bathed with at least weekly frequency, a habit he found blissfully luxurious. The cleverly-laid pipes that carried both cold and hot water from mountain springs made private, heated bathing extraordinarily easy. Methos wholeheartedly approved. I wonder if I could stay in Atlantis until the rest of the world catches up to its level of civilization. The thought made him grin, and he surged out of the water, laughing, hair streaming over his face.

  “I thought you were never going to come up.”

  “Yagh!” Methos leapt backwards, scrambling half out of the bath in a frantic search for a blade before the voice settled into a familiar place in his mind. Edgily pushing wet hair out of his face, Methos glared at Ragar, who laughed openly at the startled Immortal.

  “I’m sorry,” the mortal scholar said, sounding not in the least repentant. “I’ve been sitting here for at least ten minutes. If I hadn’t believed you before, I’d have to now.”

  Trying to hold on to the scowl, Methos settled back into the hot water, ducking his head under to smooth hair back from his face. “You scared me,” he said accusingly.

  Ragar laughed again. “So I see. I didn’t mean to, but I must say it was worth it. I’ve never seen anyone levitate out of a bathtub before. I got your note. I can’t decide if you’re astonishingly arrogant or painfully humble.”

  “Probably arrogant,” Methos said. “Why?”

  “First you browbeat me into bringing you to Atlantis’ most secret treasure. Then you tell me a story likening yourself to my gods, and when I go away to consider your story, you interrupt my meditations with a note asking me to stand for you in your wedding. The day before the wedding. That is not usual, my friend.”

  “Oh.” Methos took a handful of soap, scrubbing it through his hair. “I didn’t know I was supposed to have someone stand as a witness for me until yesterday morning. You were the only one who came to mind. I don’t make friends particularly easily, Ragar, but I think I’d consider you a friend.”

  “Would you?” Ragar asked curiously. “Can a thousand-year-old man make a mortal friend that quickly?”

  Methos smiled a little wistfully. “A thousand-year-old man has to, Ragar. Taking time to make up my mind could too easily take the rest of your life. I have to decide very quickly if I want to be friends with someone.” He ducked his head again, rinsing his hair. When he surfaced, he added, “If I didn’t consider you a friend, and trustworthy, you can be sure I wouldn’t have told you about myself.”

  “How can you be certain I’m trustworthy?”

  Methos smiled faintly. “Nobody’s pointed at me and started telling stories yet. If you tell people about me, I’ll have to run, and then you’ll never learn the stories I have to tell.”

  Ragar pulled a face. “Sometimes being a scholar is too transparent a calling. You’re right: your secret is safe. But this wedding — ”

  Methos leaned forward. “I’d be honored if you’d stand as my witness, Ragar. I know it’s presumptious to ask, as we’ve only known each other a month and I asked at the last minute, but I would very much appreciate it. It would be the first, and probably the last time that everyone intimately involved with a marriage ceremony knew who and what I really was. That’s something I’d like very much.”

  Ragar pressed his lips closed at the man in the bathtub. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?” he asked. “Nothing else really matters.”

  “Other things matter,” Methos said stiffly.

  “Just not as much.”

  Methos was silent, looking for a way around an honest answer. After a moment he shrugged, and nodded. “Just not as much.”

  “Mmm.” Ragar folded his arms, thinking. “I’ll stand for you,” he said, after deliberation. “But I want to ask something in return.”

  “What?”

  “Remember me,” Ragar said. “In your journal, or however it is that you keep the days and years and centuries straight in your mind. I would like someone, a thousand years from now, to remember Ragar the scholar, even if he never did anything particularly spectacular with his life.”

  “You earned the trust of a thousand-year-old man,” Methos said a little dryly. “That’s not something that happens every day.”

  Ragar shook his head, not to be put off. “That’s what I want in exchange, Methos. Remember me. Remember me, and live, so that I’ll have made some small mark on history, even if it’s through just one man.”

  “I will remember you,” Methos promised softly. He glanced at the water, a small smile reflecting back at him. Out of all the promises he’d made over the last w
eeks, it was the only one he was sure he could keep.

  Ragar nodded, satisfied, then stood energetically. “Well, get out of the water,” he ordered. “You have a wedding to dress for. It’s only an hour away!”

  Butterflies rattled Methos’ stomach, tying themselves into cast-iron knots of nervousness. You’re a thousand years old, he scolded himself. You should be able to handle a little wedding ceremony.

  “Five more minutes,” he mumbled pleadingly, and sank underwater again to the sound of laughter.

  Chapter 17

  Minutes before noon, Methos stepped into the temple, flexing his fingers restlessly. His hair, only just dried, was smoothed back from his face, bound neatly at the base of his neck with Minyah’s gift, silver glinting in direct sunlight as he entered the temple. The tail of hair hung to his shoulderblades, falling over bare skin. A golden sash held cream pants tightly at his waist, a thin double-belt of leather buckled over, hanging down one hip slightly to hold the steel sword he had gained from Aroz.

  The sword had caused hours of debate. Atlantean males traditionally went unarmed to their wedding cerimonies, though the other men of the party were expected to bear arms. Methos flatly refused to go unarmed when others would bear weapons, holy ground or not. Ghean eventually relented, her revenge being a six hour modeling session while the women squabbled about how best to arrange ceremonial robes over an inconvienent sword. Methos stood through it stoically, preferring the wait to being caught without a blade. Eventually a discreet slit was decided on, and Methos was given strict instructions on how to move to make certain the sword wouldn’t cause the robe to fall in an ungainly fashion.

  For the moment, though, it was irrelevant, and he could stand as he liked. He’d entered the temple shirtless. Donning the robe was a significant part of the ceremony itself, symbolically enfolding the new husband into the House after the vows were made.

  The floor was warm under his bare feet as he moved to take his place at the back of the temple, facing the altar and beyond it, the door. For a moment, Methos frowned at his toes, then glanced to the side to see if others were unshod as well.

  Minyah was, at least. Standing to his left, near the door, she wore a sleeveless dress the same cream as Methos’ pants, belted at the waist with an identical golden sash. Her heavy silver pendent hung to below her breastbone, on a glittering silver chain instead of its usual leather thong. Her hair was bound up in a delicate golden headdress, curls falling loose down her back over a golden cloak, a few shades lighter than the sash.

  Methos smiled briefly at her, glancing away before his attention snapped back to the slender woman. The cloak she wore was mid-length, lightweight, and he suddenly suspected he’d seen it before. His eyebrows rose questioniongly, and Minyah winked, very deliberately, before looking away.

  Methos nearly laughed aloud, glancing to the other side of the temple for the Immortal he knew Ghean had invited. Karem stood, arms folded over his chest. Out of all the temple’s occupants, he was the only one who didn’t wear any of the deep gold that was the color of House Aries. His tunic and pants were dark green, emphasizing his eyes, and the only belt he wore was to support the blade at his hip. Methos nodded a greeting, letting the day itself be an excuse for the smile he couldn’t stop. One of the precious Immortality artifacts right under his nose, and he’ll never know. Methos’ grin grew wider, and he finished looking around the room.

  Next to Karem, directly across from Minyah, Aroz looked as though he were trying very hard to look pleasant. It resulted in a somewhat alarming glower, confused by his mouth turning up when he remembered to smile. Dressed in the cream of the wedding party, a golden robe already over his shoulders, he made a striking contrast to the green-clad Immortal beside him. Like the other men, Aroz wore a sword, though his was sheathed across his back, dark leather of the harness a black streak across the golden robe and all but blending in against his bare chest.

  He looked, Methos concluded, decidedly dangerous. For a moment, Methos cast his eyes to the pillars that supported the temple dome, offering brief and remarkably sincere thanks to the gods represented that he stood on holy ground.

  He was left grinning at the temple gods. Someone had climbed up among them and left wreathes of wildflowers tangled about the creatures portrayed. Aries’ ram was crowned in the gold worn by all the House members, the flowers rakishly hanging over one eye, barely kept in place by the curve of a horn. It gave the carving a mischevious air, and Methos smiled again before examining the rest of the temple.

  Sunlight spilled between the pillars, highlighting the flower-braided ropes that held in place sheets of brilliantly colored wildflowers cascading down the temple’s inner walls. Woven with unfathomable patience, the symbols of Atlantis were splashed in white against the vivid rainbow of flowers. Each was minutely detailed with a myriad of tiny, pale flowers. Different shades picked out eyes and nostrils on the animals, or shaded the curve of a jug to render the illusion of three dimensions. Methos rocked back on bare heels, inspecting the weavings with admiration. It’s absolutely impossible that Minyah and Ghean did all thirteen of the weavings themselves this morning. I’ll have to ask, later, who did them, and compliment the crafter.

  Ragar, last of the wedding party to arrive, save Ghean, took his place at Methos’ left as well, closer to Methos than Minyah stood. The stout scholar had a pleased grin plastered across his face, and he, too, wore a sash of gold over the deep blue robes that placed his House as Taurus. The sword and belt were purely ceremonial; Methos doubted Ragar did any more than cut met in his general use of edged weapons. Still, tradition demanded he go armed, and so he wore a blade, bumping his arm awkwardly against the hilt when he moved.

  Another thirteen men and women, representing each of the Houses, filed in, to take up places in front of the wildflower weaving that symbolized their House. They stood, Ghean had explained to him, not as men and women witnessing the marriage, but as the gods of each House, so that the gods might watch and bless the ceremony through them. The priest, an imposing bald man, followed them, and the temple became expectantly quiet.

  Methos flexed his fingers again, watching the open doors eagerly. The nervous motion stilled as Ghean padded into the temple from the glare of the noonday sun. For a few brief seconds, the dazzling light created a halo around the tiny woman, glowing warmly before fading as she stepped further into the temple. Her steps were dainty, the dress just long enough that a more normal stride would cause her to step on the hem. Bare toes peeked out from under the gown as she came forward around the altar to Methos’ right.

  Unlike any of the others, Ghean wore red, the gown a deep crimson, darker than blood. The sash at her waist was the gold of Aries, and trailed down in back to blend with a wide slash of gold inset into the skirt. The back of the dress was cowled, crimson warm against the smooth olive tones of her skin. Hip-length hair was bouned up in a perfectly smooth bun, surrounded by a delicate tiara of gold, the symbol of Aries worked into the metal at the crown of her head. A length of thick black hair was left to swing free, washing down over the back of the tiara, creating a glittering mark where gold suddenly flashed through. Smiling shyly, Ghean offered her hand to Methos, over-full sleeves of the dress falling away to expose her fingertips.

  “You are positively radiant,” Methos whispered as he took her hand. Ghean’s smile exploded with pride. They knelt together as the priest circled the altar to stand in front of them. Golden House symbols, all thirteen of them, were embroidered at the hem of his white robe. Methos grinned at the needlework while the priest gestured Minyah and Aroz forward.

  “Do you have the robe this man is to wear?” the priest boomed out. Methos blinked up, startled, to look out the door beyond altar and priest alike. A crowd was gathered there, well-wishers for the newly-weds who were not to enter the temple during the ceremony, according to Atlantean traditions. Evidently the priesthood was well trained in allowing those relegated to the outside to hear what was going on.

 
Aroz, standing for Ghean’s father, began to unfold the robe as he and Minyah came forward. “We do,” he replied, neither as loudly nor as grandiosly as the priest had.

  In fact, Methos thought irreverantly, I might call his tone sour. He really should learn to lie more believably.

  For a moment, Methos thought the sharp crack was the sound of the robe being shaken out. A deep rumble of stone shifting followed it, and the earth trembled, correcting his belief. As the walls groaned, Methos jumped to his feet, pulling Ghean against his chest protectively.

  “Earthquake,” Minyah explained, voice astonishingly calm next to the alarm Methos felt. “It will pass in a moment.”

  For long seconds the rumbles continued, settling down into silence as the Atlanteans looked patiently bored. Ghean took a step back, grinning up at her husband-to-be. “They’re not so bad,” she assured him. “You’ll get used to them.”

  Methos let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “I’d rather not,” he said dryly. “Is it over?”

  Silence fell over the temple for a moment, and then Ragar nodded. “I think so,” he said. “Shall we go on?”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Minyah replied, turning to Aroz, who held Methos’ ceremonial robe loose in his hands.

  “We do,” he repeated, and then hissed, “Kneel,” at Methos. Reminded, Methos dropped back down to his knees, only to fall forward, bracing himself with his hands as another jolt, much harder than the first, shook the temple. Ghean, kneeling as well, also fell, and beside them Ragar dropped too, surprise clear on his face.

  Minyah gave a sharp cry, reaching a hand out to catch herself a moment too late. The earth’s shaking knocked her feet out from under her, and she fell back, a hand flailing for balance. Methos pushed himself to his feet on the rattling temple floor, able to see before she hit that the fall would shatter Minyah’s wrist.

  “A doctor — ” he began, as Minyah bounced off the stone slabs, unharmed. She rolled into a sitting position, staring at her arm in astonishment before tentatively prodding at it with her other hand. Hazel-gold eyes widened, and she looked up at Methos, touching the shoulder of the golden cloak she wore.