Into the Fire
There was a time when they had been called gods. In Kemet, when first they rode together, the people spoke of the Eye of Ra being poured out blood red on the earth, and she brought with her Seker as her second. The people were punished and called out, but there was no answer from the heavens, for the gods themselves were the ones bringing this destruction. In Babylon, they spoke of Anath and Mot putting aside their differences and riding as one. There was a time they raped the city of Lagash, and she bashed the statues in the temple with a blade.
"I behead the gods themselves. I, too, am a goddess," she said. For a half-moment, he expected that they would be punished by the wrath of the gods, spilling their Quickenings across the ruins of the ransacked city, but nothing happened. May be she was right. She observed his shocked expression and then kissed him.
"Methos. If there are gods, they don't punish us. We punish ourselves. All of our deeds have consequences."
"And you?" he asked, incredulously. She lived like a madwoman. What did she think of consequences?
Anna laughed.
"I am strong enough to face any consequence."
Perhaps she was right. He had not known one older. If she did not tell him of those she had known, he would think she had been the first. But she insisted that things had always been this way. She did not know where they had come from, or what they were. And he never knew anyone who cared less about such things. She simply lived.
That had been what she was. Day by day, he watched her return-the old Anna. The one he loved.
Perhaps there was something different about her, though. Once she killed with a smile, and now she killed with blankness. She rode into the thick of a raid, and would stop for no reason as if scenting something on the wind. And she did not merely discipline the men, but made examples of them. Soon, other Immortals joined the camp. She sought them out.
That was her way-a small, mobile unit. Only consisting of the strong.
He did not know that she would rather have Immortals on her side because it hurt her to watch mortals suffer. It hurt her to know them and watch them die. It had built up, over time, and it was the most painful affliction she could imagine.
It was compassion. She had developed a heart, and it was heavy.
*****
She smiled to see that Methos had acquired the art of planning. She thought that he might not have had the patience for it, but he certainly had the mind, and the patience came.
Watching a student develop over time was good. Perhaps the closest thing she would ever have to…She put that thought away. She could try not thinking about raising the boy. Sometimes it would work. Sometimes, it would not.
She did not think about him when they rode. When she felt the reins in her hands, she thought of nothing, she simply felt the wind in her face and looked at the horizon, and felt she could take on the world-Freedom! That was what it was! Sometimes she knew freedom.
But she also knew Methos kept his eye on her. He felt that she was his; that she owed him for picking up the pieces after Uruk. She could not leave him, and so was not truly free.
And being with him meant killing, being what she had been once and thought she left behind her. Being with him meant being with him alone. She would allow no other near her. It was better that way. She did not want others to know what she was inside. She began to build an image for herself. She wore a lion's skin, and braided her hair into tight snakes--the better to keep it from becoming tangled and ugly. She painted her eyes in the manner of the people of Kemet, and wore the clothes of a man. She resembled nothing so much as a horror, but at night she let her hair fly free, and washed herself, and let Methos enjoy her.
It was tolerable.
*****
She untwisted her hair and let it hang in soft ringlets down her neck. The firelight made her wistful, but then many things made her wistful. Over time, so many things bring up memories when there are simply so many memories to choose from. But this night, the way the fire contrasted with the cool distance of the moon made her flash for an instant on the sight of the white glow streaming into the room where she last saw her boy.
Sometimes one doesn't choose one's memories. She wondered if he thought of her. She hoped he could, and be happy. She could only think of him and feel yearning.
Methos put his hand on her shoulder as he knelt to offer her the wineskin. He knew that sometimes she would not sleep unless she drank. She would simply stare into the fire the whole night until it ceased to burn.
He was suspicious, sometimes, of this ability of hers to seem to live without sleep. It gave her day more hours, but to do what? To plot? To think about leaving?
No. She no longer thought of leaving him, he was certain of that. But he couldn't help but wonder what she thought of as she sat there in that trance. Her eyes, all the same, showed a trace of life when she took the skin, raised it to her lips, and drank deeply. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and smiled at him.
"A warm drink for a cool night," she commented, a joke, for it had been so beastly hot of late that it could bring on madness. The men sweated and fought and griped, and she, as usual, had been free with reprimands, reminding them that they were one. They should know no quarrels, as they must live with each other.
He smiled in return, and his hand slipped from her shoulder to her breast. He gave it a squeeze.
"Perhaps you are cold," he said, playfully, as he got the desired response.
She laughed, and took another drink. "Perhaps I am. Would you care to warm me?"
"Just what I had in mind."
Their lips met, and he could taste the wine on her breath, but it meant nothing to him. What he wanted was to feel her legs wrapped around him, and to hear those sounds of pleasure she would make as he ploughed her.
*****
They made love, she drank, they made love again, he slept, and she lay awake. She looked on him as he slept, just the outline of his face visible in what light came through the tent flap. She half-wanted to wake him that they might speak--but no, speaking was not so easy as it once had been between them. It was better that he slept.
The men were restless. They had their needs. Even as Methos had his. Even as she had hers.
In the morning they would set out. A scrawny village of some two hundred souls lay not far away from the encampment. They possessed no riches, but there was food, and the women were fair.
*****
The sun blazed, bright and horrible, down upon them, and the flies were relentless. There was nothing like sweat and horses to get the flies going. A jest was heard, and a rough reply.
They saw the village below, and a line of armed men--pitiful. What swords--useless. And what pitiful spears, knives-they were not going to live long. They must have scouted far enough to see the fires and thought they should raise a defense. That only meant they had the misfortune of knowing what lie ahead. Their resistance only meant the bloodier future.
Methos rode forward some paces, and then swept the air with a cutting motion. At that signal, they swept down, with fierce cries and the thudding of hooves upon the sandy soul.
Anna squinted in the sun, leaned forward, and pitched her heels against her steed's flanks. This was a moment of living-feeling her breath come in shallow gasps and her heart pounding in her chest, and smelling the smoke of the flaming arrows hitting up against the side of mean hovels-the shrieks of women and children, and watching them all scatter. From a distance, it resembled the flight of startled birds. She held her sword down at an angle, and as the first poor pathetic fool stumbled back before her charge, she cleanly dispatched him.
She couldn't resist catching a look at the blade and the sight of dark death-blood painting it. This was but the first.
She searched for Methos through the chaos for a moment, and saw him, dismounting, and directing the men from on foot. This he could do-the best and worst of their defense was already cut through, and already the looting had begun. His own horse stood, immune to the sight of carnage. He'd done a good job on that. Some creatures would not take to this without sprinting off.
Wails pierced the air. She could care less about food or women. She was lost in the middle of this. She was here because she was here. To simply spear some lost soul as he passed was enough for her-why should they continue on? They had nothing, nothing anymore. What would they run to, if they survived? Why should they live, or want to?
But then she heard one distinct wail through the havoc-the sound of a baby's cry rising piteously, a heart-breaking crescendo piercing through the air, and then, abruptly, it ceased. Unthinking, she rode in that direction in a haze.
Approaching, she heard a new sound, one word repeated over and over, just one word.
"Why?"
From the tone it was a woman's voice. She identified it as the mother.
"Why?"
The woman staggered from the tent, the dead babe clutched in her arms. Her eyes were wild, and she held the child so tight that Anna had no question about how it died, and following her, one of the mortals that remained of her crew staggered out, knife sank in his chest-he was of her crew no more. He would be mourned by no one. She almost felt something for the woman who killed him.
A sister.
Anna dismounted, transfixed, her eyes upon the woman, who did not stop her question.
"Why?"
Anath-Sin heard the question, and she also wanted to know. Sometimes she understood things, sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she thought she saw visions, sometimes the world made no sense. Sometimes she remembered she was old, and sometimes she barely understood herself. And when she heard the question, she asked it herself.
"Why?"
The woman's face was upturned, asking the question as if she were asking it of the gods. Anath-Sin stared, half-expecting an answer. But there was no answer. The sun continued to beat down, but then the woman sank to her knees, still holding the dead child. Her eyes closed, and she seemed to whisper it. When she opened her eyes, she looked at Anath-Sin. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of grief and hate.
The question hung in the air between them-Anna, who still walked slowly forward, and the woman, whose look now turned accusingly in her direction. Anna did not know why she continued to come forward; it was as if she could not keep herself from this.
Approaching, she saw the hollows under the woman's eyes, and the haggardness of the woman's face, the lines, and she understood. This child had been the woman's last. It was to be the joy and comfort of her old age, and now, she had no baby and no old age to count on. Seeing the look on the woman's face, she wondered what she must seem, a monster, most likely. Bloody, vicious, and to blame.
"You. How can you do this, and yourself a woman?"
Anath-Sin was startled. She could not imagine the pitiable creature was speaking to her.
Why speak to her? How could she answer? She stood there, numb. In the heat, she felt cold. There were no words she might say. Words failed her. The gods had not answered this woman-and now she expected Anath-Sin to answer?
Was this a question even the gods knew the answer to?
"This is what I do, what I am," Anna began, but it sounded like nothing. What did it mean? Was this all she had ever done? Was this all she ever was? It was not, and she knew it. It was all so stupid. There were no reasons. What needs had she? She desired nothing from this, nothing. It was all a horrible error.
"Why? Can you answer that? Why does this happen? Why do you do this? What have we ever done?" the woman went on.
"Hold your tongue, woman," Anna found herself saying. If only she would stop asking these questions.
"You have no answers, you murderer! You killer! Just tell me why! Why?" She cradled the dead thing closer to her chest. Although she seemed to be aware that the child was gone, she held it so fiercely. Her head bowed down. "Why? It is a simple question. You should know. Why is my child dead? Why did you ever come?"
"Hold your tongue," Anna repeated, a lump in her throat. She was raising the sword.
"No!" the woman answered defiantly.
Anna strode forward, and grabbed the woman by the hair. The woman lost her hold on the still bundle she had held, and it spilled on the ground. With a jerk, Anna had the woman on her feet, and pulled her back into the hut.
She did not want to do this thing before the light of that blazing sun, staring down, judging her for everything occurring around her. She roughly threw the woman to the dirt floor. The place was poor, but it had been a home. She could see that it had once been a home.
As they had entered, a blazing arrow hit the roof, and it burned. Anath-Sin could smell the smoke, but did not care.
The woman could see the flames eating a hole in the thatch roof above, letting in smoke and glimpse of sky, and she screeched. Her eyes pled with Anath-Sin for a moment, and when she realized that this woman was deranged, she began her questions again.
"Now you won't kill me? Are you not a killer?"
A flaming piece fell behind Anath-Sin. She did not heed it, she only stared at the woman. Her face was no longer a human face. It was the face of a monster, an ageless monster who looked on without understanding. A curtain had dropped between herself and this woman. She would not hear. She would only do what she had to.
"You are right, I am," she said. She did not recognize the sound of her own voice. She was unused to the feel of murder. This felt like murder. But this woman must die. What had she to live for? Was it not more merciful that she fall to Anath-Sin's blade, than meet shame under the body of one of the men before her death?
"You still have not told me...."
Another piece fell. The space was flooding with smoke, and Anna could taste it in her mouth, and feel the tightness in her chest. And then another piece--it struck Anna's face, and she brushed it off. Her skin puckered, red.
The woman screamed at what she saw.
"What are you?" For now she knew she wasn't looking at a woman, but something else.
Something terrible.
"Death."
"Why me? Why? Why?"
Anna sunk the blade of her sword into the woman's chest, and twisted. Blood trickled from the woman's mouth, black, and Anna stood there. She understood. She knew the answer now. Everything was fragmenting, going dark, but she knew the answer.
"Because you were born. Because you were..."
And then everything went black.
*****
"Damn, you, Anath-Sin," Methos cursed.
He was rescuing the idiot woman again. In the middle of a fire, she has to do these things-staring as if she had never killed before. How did she ever live this long?
Part of her hair had been spoiled, but her face was almost itself. And her hair would grow back after all.
Her eyes fluttered, and she looked up at Methos, and his face seemed dark. She realized it was soot, and that he'd gone in after her while it was still burning, and now she was remembering the pain, and the realization hit her that she was still alive. Even after four thousand years, it was still a surprise when she lived through something that should have killed her, as if every impulse she had still told her it was possible to die.
Then, a second thing hit her. She killed that woman, and it had been horrible. Unlike any other death she had ever induced. Part of her felt revulsion-she never wanted to do that again.
Another part could take it, the older, wiser part. The part that realized it was a mercy-a gift that she had given that woman, who was miserable beyond understanding.
Death.
*****
She felt Methos' face, and he touched her hair, and she looked down-half of it seemed burnt, the ends were black...and if she thought she had looked a sight before, she knew she must look one now. But that was vanity. She was a killer and vanity only mattered to whores.
"What did you think you were doing?" Methos asked softly, not angry anymore, just confused.
"She wouldn't stop asking questions. She kept making me think. She wouldn't be quiet, so I..."
"It used to be easy for you," Methos answered, and his face seemed so sad. Had she let him down? It seemed funny, but perhaps she had. Maybe he couldn't stand what was happening to her, even more than she couldn't stand it herself. She wondered if he would ever get to this point-where the killing felt personal. Maybe one day, he would feel he was too old for this.
The sun was setting. She didn't know how long she had been out, but it was easier to face with the sun going down, no longer making her head feel hot, and glaring at her.
She brushed her hand at the streaks on his face, and kissed him. He seemed to want to resist her, and be cold to her, but he couldn't.
"Methos, I will get used to it again-it was the heat, that was all."
"I want to believe you."
She had no answer. She wanted to believe as well. He held her. She didn't cry-she thought she would, but it was as if she had no tears. The moment was fading. What had she whispered?
You were born.
And every man, woman and child was born, and they all died. It was perfectly natural, acceptable, and easier to live through than pain. Maybe there was something after--she didn't know. Imhotep once told her there was, but then, her teacher was a crazy old bastard. But what if there was? That woman was with her child again-perhaps.
She let herself draw away from Methos, and stood on her own two feet. She was Anath-Sin, and she was a warrior, and she had made rivers turn red, and dispatched a thousand or so souls to-whatever. This was the reality of it all. She had no answers, but she knew who she was. She had her soul, she had her head, she had a life she could live with. Some were not so lucky.
"Methos, let us return to camp, and I will wash the dirt from your face, and-" She paused. "Am I so horrible?" she asked, twisting the blackened end of one tendril in her hand.
He shook his head. "No, not horrible. It will grow."
"Should I sleep outside of your tent?" Her eyes danced. It was over. She would stop this stupid, senseless pity. She was Anath-Sin. She knew her mind.
He laughed. He rose, and took her hand.
"If you do, I will."
"Then let the stars watch us, and weep."
*****
The night had taken a turn for the cooler, and the fires were set up, and there were no quarrels between the men, for many were too tired to quarrel, and some few others had taken spoils. Eight women had joined the camp. Anath-Sin wondered if any would still be alive at year's end. Some would take their own lives. Some would fall ill, unused to this life. And some would be killed. Walking past them, she would not meet their eyes. Why should she? She knew what she seemed to them-How could she forget?
She was not a woman. She was something else, something other. They might wonder how she got here, but she knew how she did. By living. By fighting, and yes, even by killing. This was a thing she did more times than she could count. It was over, it was done-she would no longer feel pity for anything that was not strong, even herself.
They had encamped close to a small stream-a very small stream, as the heat and summer sun had been drying it up. But as the air changed, and she had been hot and over-done, and so she saw fit to wash.
She unclothed herself as she headed towards the stream. She was not ashamed of her nakedness, her people had no taboo against the body. She displayed her charms freely and also the two small blue tattoos on the small of her back: two lightning bolts--like a Quickening.
She knelt in the cold water and began to wash it all away: the sweat, the soot, the dirt, the memory. She wet the sepia ends of her still-long red curls. She would go on. And then she felt it-the presence. Who of the camp was to join her?
"Not all of your hair was singed."
Methos. And if he approached, no other would, for it was known they were inseparable. Who could come between Methos and Anath-Sin? She smiled.
"Lord Seker of the Fatal Air, get your ass into the water you filthy beast!"
He smiled in return, then shook his head. "I like the dirt."
"That is what the shepherd stepped in," she responded. "You've been hot, dirty, brave, and I will make it worth your while."
He looked around suddenly, as he always did. His people must have been a culture that had a taboo on the body, he seemed nervous-or perhaps it was just that he'd be separated from his sword, who knew? But he stripped off his bloodstained things, and allowed her to run her wet hands over his naked body.
"It is like you have returned, Anath-Sin. It is like you were on a long journey, but have come back to me."
She smiled. He believed in her once more.
"I have come back. It may take time, but I will be as I was. For you. For myself."
"For me."
She smiled wickedly. They cleansed one another, running their hands over each other, but it was a cool night, and they were drawing close, instinctively. Methos shivered.
"Do you not think we should retire to the tent?"
Anath-Sin grinned wickedly. She was herself, and there was nothing she would not dare.
"No, Methos, I would have you here. In the water."
He frowned, appalled. "But it is cold, Anath-Sin. A man can't--"
"You will."
She was Anath-Sin. She knew her own mind. She was a warrior, a whore and a Goddess. There was nothing she might not do.
He would. He realized he would, for as long as she would have him, and kissed her, and placed his hands over her tattoos. He was no longer sure if she was his woman, or he her man. And it didn't matter.
She had come back.
*****
She was not a woman, but something else, Methos thought, appreciatively, looking over her prostrate form. She lay, dead asleep, the deepest and purest sleep he could imagine, the first time he could imagine her falling so.
Anath-Sin...he thought, and wondered. She had been sick, today, bewildered, but she was now herself. He wondered what it was that polluted her mind before, but, looking at her, he knew it to be over. How important could it have been? She was in the here and now...she lay with him, and even spoke with him-as it was of old...that was enough.
She slept, but he felt full of wakefulness, and stared into the fire. What had she seen there? Did she simply remember her past, or was there more to it? What had it meant to her? She had whispered something to him, but he didn't understand it.
She said, "Never get too old."
He didn't understand that.
She was old. Did she think he would be, someday, too old? Too old-what could that mean? Did she believe that there was some limit? That at some point, there was too much life?
The thought was impossible. There was always room for more life, more experience...more love, and more power. She had taught him that, hadn't she? And she must have believed it herself, or she would not be lying here. She loved him, and accepted him.
He knew that much.
What else mattered?