ELOISE: A Reason for Living

The Year of our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Fifty Three

The Twenty Eighth day of the Month of May

In the darkness, the noise is incredible: men shouting orders; horses whinnying and occasionally screaming in pain and fear; the clash of steel; the whoop of arrows. And above all the call of the dying. Red flames light up the sky, and through this dim scarlet half-light, I can see Malik, carving a path through the melee. He briefly turns to me, and I see the smile on his face. The smile of life: I wear it myself.

My heart is light as I wheel my horse about and follow Malik: he has an uncanny knack for the action, and action is what I want. I fear nothing except boredom; I need to see, to feel, to do: not just to watch as history passes me by. I am not prepared to merely sit and watch anymore.

We had headed east a century before, drained by what we had seen, to try and rediscover life. But life was slow to come: so many people died of the blue fever that society seemed to have been changed in one fell swoop. But gradually, cities began to thrive again, and the trade-routes reopened, and the wars restarted, and the slow thread of time continued.

We worked as mercenaries for whomever would pay us enough. We did not come cheap. Over a century of intense practice had honed my blade-skills, and Malik had not only these skills, but seems a natural commander of men, encouraging and rallying them when needed; lambasting and working them othertimes.

Long ago, in the house of Alayash, Malik had told me that I had to learn my sword until it felt like an extension of my arm: until using it was as natural as using my fingers, and I didn't believe that such could be possible. He gave me my sword then, that I hold now: an arabian long sword of such craftsmanship that it beggars belief: the blade is long and slender made from carefully worked steel, unadorned except for decoration just below the hilt; the hilt itself is ivory, delicately carved but strong; the pommel wrapped in kid leather for grip.

Malik was right: as I swing my sword downwards, it is as natural to me as eating or drinking, and I don't even flinch when it cleanly takes the head of a soldier. I make a mental note to try and stay on my horse.

It was only natural, I suppose, that we ended up fighting for the armies of the Turks. Malik and I could slip naturally into their ways, as there were many islamic warriors there looking for the jihad. We were even here before, over twenty years ago now, but that time we lost. This time, we shall win.

And here, now, I can almost sense in the air that the end is in sight. The besieged are becoming desparate, after this long, terrible year, and, apart from the too brief skirmishes, we sit and talk, wait and pray. How peculiar it must seem for those behind the city walls to listen to the noise below, then hear above it all the wailing call of the muezzins, calling us to prayer.

Malik and I ride back together to our camp, to the north of the city, followed by the men on foot. My sword is still unsheathed and I hold it loosely to one side as the blood dries along its inner edge. I am tired, weary, but still exhilarated from the melee. I can tell Malik feels the same, and we enter our tent, and enter each others arms, Malik's lips kissing me furiously as we pull off our outer, bloodstained clothes and give in to our passions. Everything is forgotten in that wild moment except each other; self is lost in the bonding; all cares dissipate.

We lie back in each other's arms, and smile at each other, before I rise. The moment passed, I have things to do before I sleep any more: to clean, sharpen and oil my sword, care for the horses, check the watchmen. I stand grooming my horse - an arab stallion - as the first rays of the dawn sun begin to appear, colouring the horizon in deep shades of gold, orange and scarlet, then sit in the entrance to the tent, carefully stroking the blood from, and the edge back to, my sword.

I am sitting there as the stranger approaches. He is dressed in the uniform of the Turkish army, though I do not recognise him, and as he nears me, I know, instinctively that he is one of us. I call back into the tent for Malik, who is still sleeping, and by the time he reaches us, Malik is standing behind me, pulling his shirt on, and belting his scabbard to his waist.

"Greetings, Mehmet Malik ibn Abdullah. I've finally found you." The stranger says, his voice barely above a whisper. "It has been a long time."

Malik pauses, and I guess why, though I cannot say anything from fear, then, finally, replies.

"Greetings, Ibrahim. Salaam."

I suppose that it is natural to make enemies when you are one such as us: wandering the world, you cannot help but fight, even if you try and avoid it, and, though Malik rarely challenged he had not and did not hide from potential challengers. He told me he thought it a miracle from Allah that he had not made more enemies, but the one he had was bad enough.

Malik was still a relatively callow youth, and had taken few heads when he had met, and fell in love with a young girl, living in the far lands of Persia. As he described her, I even felt a pang of jealousy - until I realised she had probably been dead over three hundred years - for Malik described long, black hair like spun silk, deep mystical eyes, flawless skin, a perfect body, though perhaps memory faded over time, and he remembered the ideal rather than the reality. Still, he said he loved her, and she loved him. And so they maintained an illicit romance for over a year, for a normal courtship was out of the question, as her family would never accept an unlanded foreigner as her bridegroom.

Then one day, his love told him she could not see him anymore, for her brother was returning from a long trip, and would find out and surely kill him, but Malik was hardly going to be afraid, and insisted on staying, persisting until she once more began to see him. And, as she had feared, her brother did find out, and challenged Malik to a fight to the death. Malik went alone, and met the brother and his companion in the woods beyond the young woman's home. Immediately, he knew that not only was the brother an immortal, but the companion was too, and for the first time began to fear for his neck. But the brother was true to our rules and he and Malik fought alone until Malik finally took the young man's head.

Tired and aching, Malik received the Quickening, and then fell to his knees, his head rushing. He did not need to turn around to feel the companion behind him, looming, his quickening registering upon Malik's heightened senses. Nor did he need to think before he rolled over to the left as the blow came, missing him so closely that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Malik was reinfused with energy, anger burning strong, and the fight was short but brutal, both men sustaining injury, until Malik forced the stranger backwards and he slipped and ended lying on the ground, looking up the blade of Malik's sword, as its tip rested against his thoat.

"I should let you die now, but you are too much a coward. Learn my name, then go away and learn enough bravery to challenge me to my face. I am Mehmet Malik ibn Abdullah", and slashed a deep cut across the man's throat.

As he left, Malik heard the man call out, his voice cracked and broken,

"And I am Ibrahim, and I will hunt you and have your head."

Malik should have let him die then, but he didn't because Malik still has some sense of honour, which occasionally overrules his common sense. And so Ibrahim is here, at last, and the two will fight.

In the dawn light we three walk through the encampment, towards a small wood further north where we will not be disturbed. I lag behind the other two, who walk side by side grimly. From behind they almost look like friends or comrades, but their faces tell the tale of hundreds of years of enmity. I cannot believe this is happening, not now. Malik has faced challengers before and taken their heads for the trouble, but something in the pit of my stomach tells me that Ibrahim will not be so easily defeated.

Within the wood, we find a small clearing and I stand some distance away, behind a tree, silently watching. At first they circle each other, each reckoning the other's strengths and potential weaknesses and then make the first tentative strikes, easily repulsed. Gradually, the pace and the ferocity increase, and I don't think I've ever seen Malik so evenly matched: his best blows are parried, the drops of moisture begin to form on his forehead and the top of his lip. Both he and Ibrahim are breathing more heavily now, their breaths coming is rough pants as the sheer exertion wears them both down. But Malik seems to be winning, though the feeling in the pit of my stomach is not lessened. And I am frozen there as Ibrahim reaches into his robe, and pulls something out.

What happened next seemed as though it were in slow motion, though I could not speak, nor even scream to warn Malik, nor could I move. I froze there, unable to help, as Ibrahim smashed a small bottle of liquid into Malik's face and eyes, and as Malik staggered back, though only briefly, his left hand shielding his blinded eyes, Ibrahim took his chance, swung his sword and severed Malik's head.

Before the quickening comes it is like the silence before a storm: the air charge with power, heavy and almost tangible; the skies darken; everything around falls silent. And then it comes, coursing into the body, the great lightning sears through to the very soul. And then silence again.

I am sitting there, and my face is wet with tears.

Malik and I were blood bonded, closer than any but family can be: and we had no other family alive, indeed I had had the last of my brother's line die in my arms. We had been in a tavern in Greece, getting drunk on cheap wine and a harsh clear spirit - that would surely have damaged our insides, were our insides capable of damage - laughing and joking. I cannot remember what about but suddenly Malik steadied himself, became calm, and looked into my eyes and suggested it.

So, two hundred years ago, on a high outcrop, overlooking the Aegean sea, the salt air coating our hair and clothes, the wind whipping us, and the gulls crying noisly, we cut our hands deeply and mingled the blood. Actually, we had a couple of attempts before we both managed deep cuts that didn't seal before we managed, in our state, to move our hands together, but eventually we coincided, and are hands touched, and we were bonded, forever.

And Malik is gone, like the scent of the sea on the wind, and I am alone again. And Ibrahim, his nemesis stands panting and gloating in the clearing, watching me as I slowly move to Malik's poor body. Suddenly, this bright morning, I have lost everything that has kept me alive since Peter died all those years ago. All that was Malik is lost to that man, and I feel the anger building inside.

"I see you did not learn any honour in all these years." I whisper to him, uncaring of the consequences. He sneers, his sword still at his side, Malik's blood still crimson wet on its blade.

"And I see you are as foolish as your mentor." His words are almost lost as he rushes me, his sword raised to take me too. And for a split second I am minded to stay and let him do as he will, let me die at last, but something within me stirs, and I roll off, drawing my sword as I stand. And we oppose each other: Ibrahim still smirking, his movement lax, and my anger burns cold, and all thought of allowing this man to take my head is gone, and I move to him.

I had seen him fight Malik, and know both that he is tired, and what moves and combinations he prefers, and so can hold my own, much to his surprise and he becomes more and more angry and frustrated, trying foolish shots to attempt to forshorten the fight. But I simply defend, wearing him down, waiting for a move foolish enough, while attempting to keep my nerve. And within me the cold white fire burns. And finally, exhausted, I am able to slash a deep, wide wound across his midriff, and as he bends in an involuntary spasm, I raise my sword and bring it down sharply upon his neck, severing his head.

The city has fallen: the last of its defences dying as I fought Ibrahim, and so, as the sun sets, staining the water a deep red, I walk along the harbour front. Everything is quiet, a town of ghosts, the people all either dead or hiding from their invaders. I am quiet, and I am a ghost ship. Peter; the memory of Jean; those of my family who perished in the Blue Fever; all the people I have met and have died: I carry them with me, my memories their only link to this mortal coil.

And Malik. I carry him inside me. When the Quickening came, I could feel as they entered me: the essence of those that both Malik and Ibrahim had taken, then Ibrahim, a dark smudge of nothing, then lastly Malik. All that is left of him, his memories, his spirit, his quickening are within this vulnerable vessel. And I know that I must, and I will continue.

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