Forever

Chapter 2

Chapter 2I found that I loved to hear a voice sing, or watch children at play in the warm glow of a fire after supper. It brought a smile to my face, and made my heart shudder. The hunger filled me and I felt some great pleasure that rivaled the killing itself in the strain of holding myself still and silent and unchanged. I also found that I aged more rapidly when I went without feeding. In my infancy, my mother had counted decades as mortals do months, and the decades since Crenoral had brought Adan had seemed as years. I could, at long last, pass myself off among humanity as a young woman of fourteen or so.

It was then that my heart governed me most. Long nights I would walk alone, unwilling to take human life. I would feed every few nights on wildlife, sparingly. Once or twice fate conspired to leave in my path a wounded or sickly soul, who would not live whether I fed or not. Soon, even that left a bitter taste on my tongue. I would hold them and whisper things they could never understand. I tried to be gentle and take what I needed to survive. When I'd finish, laying them softly back as I had found them, I would cry, sometimes violently, sobbing in an anguish I was unable to put into words. Once or twice, I became overwrought by it and would vomit back what I had taken, leaving them in a puddle of their own blood.

I would hunt animals when the need grew to deafening volumes, falling upon deer, moose, whatever I could to feed the fire. Sometimes I would spot one of the others, watching me. In my most rational moments I knew the time had come to leave the Family all together, but I had yet to do more than think about it. Even then, I knew what my future life would be. Mathis, the old hermit who fancied himself a mystic saw it in me. He would whisper to all who would listen that I was the harbinger of their doom. He said the portents told that my unnatural creation was the omen of the end. Mother and the others had come from superstitious human stock, and easily believed him.

Crenoral, of course, would not listen. I was still, on some level, his beloved daughter, and in his eyes they were merely jealous of his obvious affection. I may have angered and disgusted him, but I was his child, and he would not show me anything but affection in front of them, lest they think him weak and easily influenced. He showed no signs of recognizing that I no longer returned the affection, or of the changes within me.

They knew. They watched me wander aimlessly all night and return no more sated than when I left. They could smell the bloodlust, the hunger I refused to feed. They taunted me; harassed me … tormented me until I wanted to turn all of my needing upon them and feast better than I had in months, even years. Mother knew as well, I think, as mothers sometimes will, but she said nothing. I wanted to be free from them all. How they sickened me … my stomach churning as they talked so trivially of death, to see blood dripping from open mouths as they fed. I hated them, despised them for what they were, what I was because of them … for the ease with which they killed, with no remorse, no regret.

Time passed slowly, and I tried to make some sense of it, of my life. Mankind was growing and began to spread across the open spaces, building towns and villages where once wilderness reigned. I was still so young, so naïve, though my body had matured a great deal. I discovered that I could travel down the dark side of the mountain before the sun had completely set, covered in a heavy cloak and keeping to the shadows, allowing me to travel further away than I ever had before. I found a small village that I had never seen before, grown up several hours from my mountain home. Little stone and mud brick homes with closed roofs, wooden doors and windows clustered around a central gathering space with a fire pit and benches, all nestled in the shadow of the mountain.

There was something familiar in the patterns of their lives, comforting to me in some way. I watched from the shadowed trees as the men returned from hunting and from tending the grain fields and the women scurried children indoors or served dinners. I listened to their language, and learned the words hovering outside their windows. Their women were strong and led the family in their daily chores, while the men saw to the building and filling the needs of their village.

I learned that they had named the mountain on which I had lived my entire life. They called it Arakatz, and on certain nights they celebrated in ceremonies I could not comprehend. They had painted skin and chanted around a fire while one of their number performed some rite that invoked the great strength of the peak that overshadowed them and the grace of their god, Ar. Their lives were simple and I wanted, more than anything, to feel what they felt.

In all I spent a year or more watching them, learning to braid my hair in a style which emulated the women, and styling my clothing after theirs. Garments of wool, dyed brown with pigments found in the earth, the women wore long skirts that protected their legs from the cold, often in layers so that they could carry things and dry their hands on the outermost layer, while still keeping warm.

It was on a celebration night, early in the spring, when the irises and gladioli had not yet put out their first blooms, I stepped out of the shadows and followed the rumbling voices as the chant rose, into the village center where the holy man poured out an offering into a wooden bowl on the shrine. The smells of the wood fire, the sweaty bodies that danced in disarray near the fire, all swirled around me, intoxicatingly. There was expectancy on the air, as they made their pleas to Ar for their coming planting, and the hunt that would follow to supplement the remaining of their winter stores. The emotion was thrilling, and I let it sweep over me, wanting their happiness to be my own.

As the celebration came to an end, I was reluctant to leave. I knelt alone, warming my hands over the remains of a once roaring fire. There I felt calm, the glow of the hot coals bathing my hands in a ruddy color that made them look nearly human. The air around me grew quiet as I knelt there and the villagers scattered to their homes. The pounding of my heart quieted and I breathed deeply of the life that infused that place.

“You are not of our village,” a voice said near me.

I jumped upwards, pulling my hands back away from the fire as if they might somehow give me away. “No. I am … not,” I said haltingly. I was frozen to my place, caught in uncertainty. Some part of me wanted to run, far and fast, and never return. The part of me that was drawn to them, bade me to stay and talk. I did not know what to say, and my grasp of their language was entirely theoretical. “I live … with my family … not far from here.” I was too nervous to consider lying, but neither dare I tell the truth.

He nodded and poked a long stick into the fire. I recognized him as the holy man who spoke at these celebrations and prayed for the people. Up close he seemed much younger than I had anticipated. He had removed his ceremonial headdress and I could see he had short, curly hair that was lighter than most of those in the village, a soft blond-brown that was echoed in his beard.

“What brings you to us?” he asked, his voice clear and pleasant.

I was sure I could never articulate what had brought me to enter that village that night. “We, my family, have no village.” I stopped, struggling for words. “We live alone, up on the mountain. I wanted to see.”

His eyes were dark, but glittered in the dying light of the fire. “What did you see?” he asked.

“My people have no … ceremonies, like yours. It was beautiful.”

“Do you not have gods?” he asked, stirring the coals of the fire.

I shook my head. “No, not as such. My father would not approve.” I tried to imagine Crenoral giving an offering to some faceless god, but could not.

“Where is your father?”

I looked up from the coals, slightly startled. “You are a young woman, and it is well past supper. Won't he worry for your safety?”

I knew I should leave, but couldn't bring my feet to move. I found myself speaking again. “My brothers and sisters are not far away, looking for one of our animals that broke loose. I came with them.”

I was completely enamored of him in those few minutes, his voice, the gentle nature, the concern for my safety. “I am Amara.” I said, almost breathlessly. I had never given my name to a mortal before.

“And I am Adroushan, priest of Ar for the people of this village.”

Nearby I could sense one of the others, probably Arda. “I should go now.” I said, moving away. I paused and turned back. “Could I … come back, another time?” I held my breath.

He smiled and nodded and I exhaled in relief. That began my first friendship among mankind. Once every ten days or so I would appear in the little village in the shadow of Arakatz and seek him out. At first I asked questions, curious about his god, and the people. We would spend the early dark sitting outside his hut while he told me the stories of his people and of the great city more than a week's journey north. He showed me clay tablets with curious symbols on them that he said recorded the stories he taught me. As spring gave way to summer, I brought gifts of wild flowers and shiny stones I sometimes found in the caves. As summer gave way to autumn, I came with shells and smooth stones from the sea. When winter blanketed the valley in white and hunting was scarce, I brought rabbits and deer from parts of the mountain they would never reach in the snow.

I told him little of myself, and what I did say was vague. He seldom questioned me, though he often expressed worry about my traveling alone so often at night. I assured him that I was less alone than he might think. Indeed, I often felt one of them hovering nearby on the nights I tarried there with him, watching me. I didn't understand what drew me there to sit with him, or why I craved his company almost as much as I craved his blood. I knew somehow that it would be sweet, not quite like that of a child, but precious, delicious. Near him, the hunger was cooled, the need appeased by his calming nature.

His voice was almost magical, and the poetry he recited came to life with a beauty I had never experienced. His hands were large, soft. When they touched me, my heart raced and I ached with desires I didn't quite understand. When I saw those hands touch another, an irrational anger filled me. I guess one could say that I loved him, though this was different than the affection I had held for Crenoral or Adan. As we walked through his village, I imagined what it would be like to be a part of his world. Or, to make him a part of mine.

It was late spring of the following year when I arrived shortly after sundown and he took me by the hand, leading me out of the village, through the poplar trees, to a small clearing near a pond that sat still and dark beneath a starry sky. He had spread a woven wool blanket on the ground and prepared a small meal. I was terror struck. I had never eaten human food, and was unsure if I even could eat it. I searched for an excuse, a reason, anything to get me away from him, but the smell of him was strong and he seemed so pleased with himself. I was trapped by my own affection for him. If he noticed my reluctance, my terror, he said nothing. He was warm and gentle as he led me to that blanket and handed me a wooden goblet filled with wine.

I knew I would have to try it, despite my fear. Hesitantly I sipped, expecting to gag upon something that was decidedly not what my body wanted most. Instead, my mouth was filled with a warm, sweet rush of a delicate flavor that went beyond the mere taste. I swallowed quickly, feeling the heat of it flood through me. He smiled again and began setting out the food.

I was like a child tasting sweets for the first time, as he set out a smoky cheese and fruits, bread still warm from baking and roasted duck. I tasted each in turn, savoring each morsel, awakening to each new sensation, every change of texture, aroma, and flavor.

The cheese smelled and tasted of age, mellowed by smoke and lightly flavored. It crumbled on my tongue and stuck to my teeth as I chewed. There was a round fruit that seemed soft and fuzzy on the outside. When he cut it open, the inside was orange and juicy. The taste was somewhat tart, but not unpleasant. It was soft to the bite and the juices burned as they ran down my throat before I could swallow. He cut into the rind of a small melon, then broke it over his knee, scooping out the seeds before handing me half of the white flesh. This too was juicy, running down my chin as I devoured the soft, tenderly flavored meat.

Even the duck, the very thought of which turned my stomach, was truly delicious. Somehow the taste transcended even my hunger for the blood, cooling the fire without slaking it, and arousing me. He watched as I ate, sipping on his wine, smiling at the obviously unexpected pleasure I found in each rapturous bite. I was aroused by his nearness, by the flavors, by the feeling of filling and heat that the food produced. It was more than I had ever felt, more so than even the killing had ever produced in me. I was hungry for more, so much more. My appetite had only whetted upon the mortal food.

Adroushan touched my face in obvious affection and I could smell him, his life beating in those veins just beneath the skin. I turned to it, brushing my lips across the flesh, tasting the exquisite saltiness of his skin. He moaned and his arm slipped around me, bringing me in close as he kissed me. I knew I should resist, but the fire of his lips on mine burned away my resistance. I melted into him, my body hot with the wine and food and desire.

Somewhere deep inside I could hear my own voice warning me, cautioning my passion, but I paid it no heed. I wanted him, in more ways than that which he was offering. His kisses and touches were dizzying, as hungry as my own, or more so. Frantically, we pulled at each other, lost in lust and passion, consummating our friendship in hasty desire. I never felt the coming of the Change, never realized my own error, until it was too late to recover. His heart roared in my ears, speaking to me as his poetry did, pulling at me. The hot touch of him upon my tongue was unlike anything I had ever tasted, so beautiful, so … much … more … I was breathless and full, and he lay beneath me, naked and dead, one jagged wound in his neck. His blood coursed through me beside the fever of the food and I howled into the night in anguish.

I could hear the others, Arda and Vahe and the rest, laughing from the trees. They had been watching, knowing my long restrained hunger would bring this to an ugly conclusion. I flew at them in a rage, lashing out at them in anger at myself, at my inability to control my desires. They allowed me to vent my emotion, circling me and letting me spend the remainder of my energy before they gathered me up and took me home.

Crenoral paced around me, Mother hovering nearby as they relayed the incident, from the moment I had met Adroushan through that very night. I knelt where they had deposited me, on the floor of his room, still naked and shaking. It was silent a long while before he ushered them out.

“Do you see, Little One, what becomes of you? Do you see now?”

I didn't answer, just huddled further into myself.

He came to kneel beside me. His anger and disappointment hung in the air around me. “They are not pets. They are vulgar, vile beings. They are not like us. They are mortal, cattle … nothing more. When will you accept this?”

He sighed and stood to resume his pacing. “I'm tempted to lock you in your room for the next two hundred years, see if that brings you back to your senses. I don't know, Illari, what do we do with her?”

Mother moved forward for the first time, her face paler than normal. Her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder and her dark eyes seemed to shimmer in the low light of the torches that lined the room. One hand lifted my chin almost gently and those eyes peered deeply into mine. It was more intimate than she had been with me in many years, though what she saw in my eyes I could not begin to know. So much about her was a mystery to me.

“Hmmm … She is weak yet. So much of her is still like her father.” Something in her voice made me realize she meant the mortal man who had been her husband before Crenoral had called her. This seemed to anger Crenoral further. “Do not hold it against her, Love. She will come around. So much of her is like me as well. It is the mortal heart in her that holds her to them.”

At that instant, that mortal heart seemed to be thundering with a life of its own, I could smell the humanity with me, the very essence that each of us in the Family craves. Crenoral turned, a strange look on his face. “That can be remedied,” he said, his voice low and menacing. The Change came upon him quickly and he flew at us. The air reverberated with his sudden fury. Mother stepped quickly between us, the Change taking what little humanity remained upon her face.

“No!” They stood, locked in a stare that might have melted any mortal and filled the room with a sense of dread. I was afraid to move, lest I precipitate some further argument. They stayed that way from a long, long time. “You took that from me, Crenoral. I'll not let you take that from her as well.”

“Step aside, Illari.”

“Not this time. Remember that she was not offered a choice in what she is. You and I made that choice for her on the night you made me. If she chooses to hold on to what remains of who I once was before you, it is her right. If you wish to rip it from her, you will do so at the cost of losing me forever.”

For a while longer, they stood in a silent battle of wills, but for once in her life, Mother was the stronger. His need for her companionship must have exceeded his anger that night. So suddenly that the room itself seemed to sigh, he gave in and stormed away. She hung her head, as if the confrontation had taken all her strength, then turned to me and smiled. In that moment she was more maternal than I can recall her having been before or since.

“Mother?” I said softly, reaching a hand out to her. She came, kneeling beside me and taking my hand. I didn't understand what had just happened.

“Dovan was here,” she said, as if that explained everything. She touched my cheek and smiled, then the moment was over. She stood and was once more the cold, distant stranger.