Ehyeh-asher-ehyeh (I am that I am)

A WORLD WITHOUT END

"And there shall be no night there,
and they need no candle,
neither light of the sun;
for the Lord God giveth them light:
and they shall reign for ever and ever."

Revelations 22:5

The Revelation of John

Duran Estancia, near Las Flores, Argentina

April 20, 2013

They spent three weeks in Elena's estancia—hoping, praying, waiting for Zarach to recover—surrounded by the wide-open southern landscape. They'd told their stories to one another, and their narratives filled the air like so many songs from the past. But even as they tried to calm their souls, they knew one by one they should soon move away.

In the estancia, the Onioco family was more than happy to welcome them. Elena's relationship with the Mapuche Indio family called Onioco went back to the time her father, Don Alvaro, had made a pact of mutual help and protection before Elena was even born.

Long summer days passed, and Zarach showed no sign of progress.

“What about our marriage?” Corazón Negro asked Elena. “Now that Lilitu is dead …”
“Her after-effects are still with us,” she answered, shaking her head. “Look at Zarach.” She could remember when Corazón Negro had lain in that very bed in her bedroom, catatonic, like Zarach was now. Maybe all he needed was time. “I was hoping he’d be the one to give the bride away,” she whispered, almost to herself.
Corazón Negro took her hand and kissed it. “Whatever you decide, mi vida. But there is another man to consider.”
They were sitting outside, drinks in hand, watching the water from the marble angel pour into the courtyard fountain of the estancia, exactly as it had for centuries. Now, with this evil taken care of, at last there was a chance the estancia would continue for more centuries.
“There’s always another man to consider where Elena is concerned,” Connor said from where he had come up behind them with his usual silent tread.
Elena turned in her seat and gave him a mock dirty look. Since their alliance against Lilitu, her friendship with the elder Highlander had improved somewhat, but old habits died hard. Studying his face, she decided he was not trying to be insulting, this time. “I mean my husband,” she said, deciding to trust him.
“Husband?” Connor countered, obviously intrigued. He sat in one of the chairs, a glass of tawny port in his hand, and looked up at the moon before settling down to give the couple his full attention.
“I was married in 1863. Duncan knows about him. I thought Gordon had been killed by Hunters, but he was alive as of 1985,” she explained. Alive enough to help her find and get a catatonic Corazón Negro out of Mexico right after Lilitu’s killing on Holy Ground had caused a devastating earthquake.
Connor shrugged. “Call him,” he suggested.
“I have,” she countered, surprising Corazón Negro as well. “He’d like our marriage annulled before I marry someone else. And he’d like to be at our wedding, querido,” she said to the Aztec. “He arrives tomorrow.”
“So … the wedding is on?” Connor asked.
It was an innocent enough question, but Elena knew Connor was always looking for a way to protect his beloved Duncan, and it was a well-known fact that the younger Highlander still loved Elena. “Duncan has agreed also,” Elena stated.
“Did he have a choice?” Connor countered.
“Let us not argue,” Corazón Negro put in. “As long as the Ancient Gathering is here, we might as well marry. I’m sure Zarach would agree, too.”

“Saturday,” she said, standing. “I’ll get the arrangements started–-you let everyone know,” she told her beloved.

====================================

As the estancia was getting ready for the Senorita’s wedding, it was quietly decided that Myrddin would be the one to take Zarach away. No one knew where, though the Mage had promised to inform them as soon as Zarach was protected. After all, Holy Ground was a better place now that Lilitu was finally dead. Even Methos didn't know, though he'd promised to meet the Druid in England as soon as he was finished in Argentina.

All of them had made the promise of never to be isolated from another one so much; from now on, they had ways to find each other, no matter were they might travel. On that vital point everyone had agreed. Even Methos, the loner, the wanderer, had agreed. Nobody wanted to be lost in time again.

And Zarach? Would they see him again? He was still in coma. Would he ever sit with them around a table? Methos had laid eyes upon Zarach many times after that terrible night when he had killed Mother. But the pain had been suffocating, as if his lungs were being dried up. Zarach's body position hadn't changed in several days. He lay as he had had all along, on the bed inside Elena's room. On his side, his hands were slack—the fingers of his left hand touched the sheets lightly, as if with a purpose. The fingers of his right hand were curled, making a little hollow in the palm where the light of the window fell, and that too seemed to have a purpose—but there was none. His face had no expression except for his eyes; two orbs of different colors—the disconcerting blue on the left side, and the brown one on the right—still reflected intelligence as he stared defiantly at infinity.

Methos didn't know what Zarach's thoughts were; only that the pain in his own heart seemed unbearable. Finally, when Myrddin suggested that he would take care of Zarach, Methos' pain had been finally loosened, like a moan coming out of him.

Methos was glad when Myrddin and Zarach were gone because it meant that they all would be going as well. Methos didn't care. His sojourn there had been agony, though the first few days after the catastrophe had been the worst. How quickly the bruised silence of the others had given way to endless analysis, as they strained to interpret what they'd seen and felt. How had the thing been transferred exactly?

Methos couldn't bear to listen to them; he couldn't bear their constant, obsessive curiosity: what was it like with Zarach? What was happening inside his silent mind? Methos couldn't get away from them either; he certainly hadn't the will to leave altogether; Methos trembled when he was with them; trembled when he was apart.

How often they had pondered the irony that Zarach had killed Mother in the end. Had any of her survived in Zarach? That was what they kept wondering. They all knew about Dark Quickenings, and several of them had felt them. Had her soul survived, or had it been destroyed at last when her brain was torn loose?

Sometimes in the dark Methos awoke certain Lilitu was right there beside him, no more than an inch from his face; he'd feel her again; her arm around him; he'd see the green glimmer of her eye. He'd grope in the darkness and find nothing.

How could they know? The only truth was they remained Immortals; they remained frightened; they remained anchored to what they can control. Maybe it would all start again; the wheel would turn; they were forever; because there were no others, although the new Ancient Gathering had triumphed.

====================================

Most especially Duncan had met Gordon Powell’s arrival with great curiosity. After all, this was the man who had been married to Elena for one and a half centuries. Duncan wanted to dislike him, but even at first glance he was taken by the slim, scholarly, honest look of the man. The fact that the American Immortal had walked into a house full of potential enemies, most of whom could easily kill him, with total aplomb, impressed the Highlander, although …
“He has no sword,” Duncan whispered to Connor while Gordon was being introduced around.
“Maybe he doesn’t need it, laddie,” Connor answered, smiling inscrutably.
“You’d think, married to Elena, he would need a weapon of some kind,” Amanda had contributed, sotto voce, to the conversation. She, Grace Chandler and Ceirdwyn had arrived the night before and were to be Elena’s bridesmaids. Amanda had also immediately reclaimed Duncan MacLeod’s attentions.
After the introductions, the annulment papers were duly signed, and Elena and Gordon retired to her study for a private conversation.
“You don’t think he’s buffing her, do you?” Amanda said into Duncan’s ear as she eyed the closed door.
“Ach, no!” Duncan replied, horrified, but Connor smiled evilly.

====================================

The night before the wedding, which would take place in the little chapel, all the preparations were made, but Elena had to get away from her adorado tormento, her beloved torment, for a while, so before dinner she, Aylón, Ceirdwyn and Connor had gone out for a night ride.

Grace Chandler sat reading nearby while Duncan played chess with Heru-sa-aset in the library, with Amanda kibitzing. Methos was slowly consuming Elena’s huge library, reading as he did constantly in the leather chair on the terrace, overlooking the courtyard.

"What are you thinking?"

Methos looked up from his book, slowly, just to needle him a little, although he was the most patient of them. Corazón Negro leaned against the frame of the terrace door, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other.

"Nothing in particular," Methos answered. "What about your wedding?"

"I’m not thinking about it.”
“Wise,” Methos said, smiling.
Corazón Negro sighed. He drew a little closer. He put his hands on the back of the chair.
Knowing he wasn’t sighing about his nuptials, Methos turned his head toward him. "It was a foolish dream, wasn't it?" he asked. "It could never have been realized, not even if humankind had proclaimed her the new Goddess and obeyed every command."

"It was insanity," Corazón Negro answered. "Mortal men would have stopped her; destroyed her; more quickly than she ever dreamed." There was a silence. "The world would not have wanted her," he added. "That's what she could never comprehend."

"Do you really think so? Do you really think humankind could have stopped her?" Methos asked wishfully. Still he couldn't say her name.

"No," the Aztec stated after a while. "They could never have stopped her. But I like to think they could."

"Maybe in the end she knew it, when she fought against Zarach, I mean. No place for her in this world anymore; no way for her to have value and be the thing she was. Maybe she knew it when she looked into your eyes inside the Dream and saw the wall there, which she could never breach. Over the millennia, she was so careful with her visitations to do her magic, to implant her cult, choosing places as primitive and changeless as she was herself. The present undid her."

Corazón Negro nodded. "As always, you know the answers to your own questions."

Methos didn't say anything for a while, then he changed the subject to one that still troubled him. "When is Cassandra arriving?" he asked suddenly.

The Aztec looked at his friend. "Tonight. Then all four of the bridesmaids, Amanda, Cassandra, Grace Chandler and Ceirdwyn will be here.”

“And I’m to be your best man. I am flattered, you know.”
“Who better than you?"

Methos shook his head, then stood and moved away, slowly. He walked to the edge of the courtyard and looked past the fence, out at the pampa.

Corazón Negro followed. The Aztec looked at him. There was always something else on his mind. "May I ask you a question? Tell me..." Corazón Negro started, and then he stopped.

"Did I love her?" Methos finished for him. "It that what you want to know? Yes, I loved her. Just as I loved Kronos in another time."

"Tell me about Kronos," Corazón Negro asked. He knew about that particular Immortal, but he wanted to know Methos' side of the story.
 
Methos realized with a shock that the time for the lies was over, forever—and it was a strange feeling, but a great discovery too. "I found him when he was a boy. After he became Immortal, we worked together, fought together, lived together with his family. Then one day, there was a raid. It was centuries before I discovered Mother had ordered the attack. She wanted Kronos at her side, and above all, she wanted revenge against me. Anyway, the slaves were killed, the children and wives taken. Just as Mother had foreseen, Kronos wanted revenge, so we took it. Afterwards, we just kept taking... just as she had planned. Years later, Caspian and Silas came. By then, Kronos had researched into the Immortal legends and he was convinced the one way for us to achieve proper power above the other Immortals was for us to take the Quickening from the ancient ones. That meant we had to locate one of the fabled ancient ones and take his head, thus gaining his powers. Of course, Kronos chose Mother, so we went. Inside one of her caves... inside the cavern, she created the Horsemen... and took control of my soul once more..." Methos made a pause, sighed, and then continued. "Many years later Zarach found Cassandra wandering in the desert—she had just escaped from us, from me. Zarach, bless his heart, came to my rescue one more time, so I left the Horsemen. Kronos didn't want me to go. We fought. I won, but ... I couldn't do it. I couldn't take his head. So I left." He stopped and stared out to the black pampa. "Over the centuries, I hoped I would find that he had changed, that the anger was gone..." He shook his head. "But Mother never left him alone, so the anger never ended. The madness never ceased."
 
"But you had to know Lilitu would come for you one day," Corazón Negro said sadly.

"I tried not to think about it. I hoped someone would kill her someday." Methos' sigh was deep, filling then emptying his chest. "Do you know what it's like, not to carry that burden anymore?" he whispered. "To know now for the first time that I am free?"

Corazón Negro didn't answer, but he could most certainly feel it.

Methos shook his head. Reflecting, he looked up at the stars. "What about you, Dreamer? Are you free too? I wish I understood you."

"You do. You always have."

Methos smiled. "Live, grow stronger, fight another day. In the morning, it will be my honor to be your best man, Son of the Wolf."

====================================

Two days later, the Ancient Gathering found itself standing in a group of people, smiling, saying goodbye, and shaking hands. Many of the gauchos had ridden in, waiting to say farewell—and most had brought their families. Mapuche Indios from scattered homes and tiny hamlets that had been inhabited for hundreds of years, all located within Elena's property, had come to see them off, to see the strange guests of the Señorita. Also present were the horse trainers, the stable boys and girls, the house staff, the farmers, children and adults alike, waving adieu, wishing all of them good luck, desiring them and Godspeed.

Few mortals knew about their Immortality. Regardless, even the parish priest from the nearby village of Veiloso, who had annulled Elena’s marriage to one man and married her to another, had come back and was saying a prayer over them, making the sign of the cross. They drove out in Jeeps, flanked by mortals on either side, and there would be more standing on the streets of Veiloso to wave to them, although most of them didn’t know why. Somehow the word had gotten out; someway, deep in their souls the mortals knew. A great evil had been vanished from the earth, and the strange characters leaving the estancia had taken a heroic part in its destruction.

"See you soon," Corazón Negro said to Methos. "Don't lose your head."

"I won’t," Methos said confidentl, hugging Corazón Negro.

Then the Aztec hugged Connor, Duncan, Heru-sa-aset and Aylón, Grace Chandler, Amanda, Ceirdwyn and left Elena to say her goodbyes.

"Adios," Elena whispered in Aylón' arms. "God be with you," she said.

"We will see each other again," Aylón promised, and then left as the others approached Elena. One by one, they said goodbye.

Heru-sa-aset kissed her forehead. "I will be awaiting you in my fortress, Elena. I still want you as my disciple."

"I'll be honored," Elena answered. “Thank God we have time for such things now.”

“Yes,” he answered.

"Well, Elena," Connor said, "You did well ... for once," he finished smiling.

“No small thanks to you. You are a great esgrimidor, Connor MacLeod, and a good man.”

“Ye think so?” he said in his Scottish burr, all seriousness now.

“Aye, lad,” she answered. “Adios, che,” she added, letting him know his importance to her.

Duncan came. "It was a great adventure, wasn't it?" he asked, holding her tight enough to make her ribs hurt. Amanda hovered but did nothing to interfere.

"Take care, escoces," Elena replied. “I will always love you,” she added, thinking of Duncan's words. Indeed, it had been a great adventure, one that tested men to their limits, but they had prevailed.

“If you ever need anything …” Duncan said, holding her at arm’s length.

“Make sure to come see us,” Amanda finished, taking Duncan’s arm possessively and smiling brightly.
Cassandra was next. “I still won’t teach you the Voice,” she whispered.
“I don’t want to learn it,” Elena said, laughing. “I can’t handle that much power. It’s too much of a curse; you’re stronger than I am,” she said, to which the witch merely smiled enigmatically and moved away with the MacLeods.
Elena had a special hug for Methos. “I will pray for your father every day,” she promised, “and for you as well. When—not if, but when—he is well, let me know, and we will come to him wherever he is to thank him properly. He’s like the soldier who throws himself on the live grenade, and he saved us all.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Methos mused, his spirits obviously lifted by Elena’s contagious optimism.

When they were in the Jeeps, from the crowd came a woman who observed them closely. She was mature and pretty, not older than forty. Her black hair framed her face, and two condor feathers were tied in her hair on the left side of her head. She was dressed in jeans, a multicolored shirt, and riding boots, and wore a trariwe—the Mapuche type of women's belt—around her waist. Her fingernails were long, witnesses to her power and authority. Any other man looking at her would assume she was simply a pureblood native. But not the Ancient Gathering, who knew her.

This woman was the Machi they had seen at the ceremony the night before, the Mapuche priestess, physician, prophet, and seer who had blessed Corazón Negro and Elena’s union. The woman before them was the granddaughter of the Machi killed by Lilitu more than twenty years ago, and the Machi’s power had, according to tradition, passed down to her.

"Josefina," Elena said, hugging the woman and happy she had come to say goodbye. The night before, the priestess had told them about the dream she had had: “I dreamed about the end of one story, and the beginning of another. The darkness was met by the coming of great warriors. Old beliefs clashed against new ones. The Ancient Gathering defeated the bringer of death who opposed you all. The great evil, the dark one, the Kalkuce—devil—terrible and deadly, is no more. Now Pillan Nuke Mapu—the other-world—is in peace," Josefina had said.

Josefina paused looking intensely at them, then spoke in Mapuche. "Kom inciñ kiñe mojfvñgeiñ, peñigeiñ, mapucegeiñ—Now we are of one blood, we are brothers because we are the people of the earth. Now the circle is complete."

"It is," Heru-sa-aset said smiling at her.

"I will pray for your safe journey," Josefina promised.

"And we will always be at your debt for that," Aylón answered as he raised his hand and made the traditional pattern in the air in front of his face. "As-salamu' alaina—may the peace go with you and with all servants of Allah."

After that, the children ran alongside the Jeeps until they were out of sight. Like a gypsy caravan, the Ancient Gathering left Elena's estancia, a parade of shining heroes streaking through the pampa, and into legend one more time.

====================================

Vienna
Watcher's Headquarters

April 23, 2013

Joe Dawson left the elevator in the hall. He moved his wheelchair to the left and headed for the door at the end of the hallway. Beyond it was a room in which he had spent much time over the last days. Once in front of the gate, he moved his wheelchair up to a panel positioned at his eye level beside the door. The screen lit up, registering his presence, and he let it scan his eyes and forehead. A measure to keep out those who shouldn't have access to this chamber. When it cheeped OK he punched in the access code. The security computer cheeped again, confirming he had clearance for that floor, and a moment later the security computer recognized him and the

massive door clicked loudly, and then started to open. In the next days Voice Recognition technology would be added to security.

Then something strange happened. For a brief moment all the lights in the building went out.  Even the little red emergency lights near the floor were gone. Joe blinked in the total darkness. There'd been a few brownouts and even a blackout or two in the city in the last couple of days, but Watcher Headquarters had its own generators. Several of them. In several different places on the grounds. They couldn't all have gone bad, just like that. After a moment, the lights returned as if nothing had happened.

Joe frowned. He wasn't superstitious. Then again, too much had happened in the world the last month.

Joe moved his wheelchair and entered the room. For a moment, he scanned the area. It was an impressive chamber; groaning bookshelves covered all four walls. The scrolls and books were the Watcher's chronicles. The thousands of volumes were arranged, as possible, like in any library, by date, and, within each section, by author and character. The smallest of the four walls was devoted to the first fifteen chronicles the Watchers knew about nowadays, with many of the texts in Sumerian or Sanskrit.

Pressing the bottom of his chair, Dawson advanced toward the smallest wall. Once there, he took the scroll of the Seventh Chronicle, the one that had been written in Akkadia. Years before, Don Saltzer and Adam Pierson—alias Methos—had translated the cuneiform volume. Dawson touched the scroll with religious respect, as if afraid to break it out with his touch.

Dawson was still in shock because of the recent events all around the world—and he still didn’t understand all of it. Some words could not be said aloud. Even the thought of them sent disturbing ripples through the world of umbra, the place of magic and legend—no, the Dream—he corrected himself. As far as he knew, such a place had been uttered a few days ago.

From his pocket, he took out the e-mail intercepted by the Watchers in Europe. Dawson fumbled and shivered as if someone were walking upon his grave. He covered the lapse in his thought with a weak fit of coughing, taking the opportunity to gesture for another good will. Someone had poked
the fire back into a more welcoming blaze, sending shadows scurrying for the corners of the room. Chairs were hastily shifted to make room for the storytellers closer to the hearth.

Dawson was having none of it. When he was again suitably fortified against the chill with a long draught, he waved aside their fussing in mock resignation. "Worry a body to death with all this mothering. Haven't needed anyone to wipe my nose for the past seven decades," he murmured.

Dawson could feel the legend rising up against his approach. This was the trickiest part of the whole endeavor. Story, a real story, had to be coaxed, courted, finessed. He had the uncomfortable suspicion that this chronicle—its mysteries included—was lying in wait for him.

Among the Immortals, now he knew, they were still extremely ancient, extremely powerful figures from the past among humankind. Beings like Lilitu; She Who Belonged to the Night had been one of them. Zarach Bal-Tagh, called the Son of the Endless Night, was another. Days ago, for the first

time in more than twelve-thousand years, they were present, in mind and body, fighting against each other to rule the world.

Now Dawson knew there had been many whispered tales but few facts available about the mysterious duo. Many legends spoke of how Lilitu and Zarach unquestionably had walked the earth, but yet none admitted having met either. Dozen of stories circulated about their involvement in the Game, the eternal war waged for control of the human race, but no actual proof of their involvement could be found. There were legends, but no one could separate myths from reality.

According to the storytellers and scholars, the pair had been part—of even the founders—of the group called Ancient Gathering, an assembly of seven Immortals who had ruled the earth twelve-thousand years before from the Garden of Eden, the mythical city of Mach'azareel. But even then, both Lilitu and Zarach had been consumed with the desire to rule the world.

They had been mother and son, master and protégé as well as lovers. That too was part of the legend. Working together, using their powers in concert, they had constituted perhaps the most dangerous Immortals ever to walk the earth.

Lilitu was the schemer, the plotter, and the seducer. The daughter of the king of a vast and prehistoric megapolis, she was in life and then in Immortality the most beautiful woman of the primordial world. Why not? She had been known as Lillake, later as Lilith, first wife of Adam, mother of demonkind in many legends.

Zarach was the hunter. None knew his true age or history, even when some facts pointed him as the mythical Cain from the Bible. Now, thousands of years later, the Son of the Endless Night still roamed the earth.

She Who Belonged to the Night and the Son of the Endless Night, they were among the earliest Immortals, dating from before recorded history, they were gifted with incredible, vast and terrible powers. Ambitious in life, they were no less rapacious in Immortality. No Immortal had been immune from the duo's treachery and duplicity in ancient times.

Lilitu and Zarach—their names were linked forever now in the mythology of the Immortals. Theirs was a love that transcended time. However, such powerful beings, no matter how deep the ties that bound them, could not coexist in harmony. Each dreamt of absolute control of humankind and

Immortals. Lovers became rivals and, over the millennia, rivals became enemies. Afterwards, like so many others of the original Ancient Gathering, with the fall of the Garden of Eden, they vanished into the dark sea of legend.

Dawson sighed. It was not a pleasant thought.

For more than twelve-thousand years, handful members of the Ancient Gathering had been engaged in a struggle for control the world. They called it the Game. But though they controlled forces beyond belief, few ancient ones cared to risk their survival in actual combat.

Instead, they conducted their secret war through pawns. Using their awesome powers, these Immortals had deceived the unsuspecting younger ones into fighting their battles. The Game was a complex, multiplayer chess game with the world as the Prize.

And Lilitu, in one guise or another, had been participating in the contest for millennia. She had experience manipulating the pieces on the game field. Strangely enough, she also might be a puppet of yet an even more powerful schemers never crossed her mind.

Now she was dead. Or so Dawson hoped. With a deep breath, his gaze flew over the e-mail.

—Original Message—
From: Amy
To: Joe Dawson
Subject: E-mail I told you about

I'm resending to you the strange e-mail we intercepted in Scotland. I don't know if it has some relevance. However, according with your suspicions, I think you're going to find it very interesting. Still want to see me tomorrow?

Amy
—End of Message—

After reading the first part, Dawson sighed even deeply. The pace of events had simply spiraled out of control for the Watchers, now he knew, much of that was his own fault. There was a danger in pulling strings without knowing exactly were they were attached.

He tried to bury such thoughts and stretched his spine. For a moment, he'd though perhaps that he felt the tug of strings of which he was not the master. Then his gaze flew over the next part of the e-mail.

—Intercepted Message—

From: Unknown
To: Unknown
Subject: Beloved

My beloved Zarach Bal-Tagh,

How can I describe to you my feelings upon hearing from you again after so many years? Words are rough clay vessels that tend to crack when filled with such emotions-emotions that run deep and span lifetimes. I had thought you lost to me for all time.

To learn that you are not only alive, but still plotting against me! It is altogether too much to hope for. It is almost better to believe this all some cruel joke or perhaps a cunning trap. Between truth and treachery, the latter is much the more constant mistress. She never strays far from my side

these last nights. I must confess.

But your hatred gives me cause of hope. I had almost forgotten what a fierce and terrible thing your hate is. This is another debt I will have to repay you when we meet. Ah, but what am I saying? We both know that such a meeting is nearly impossible. As you have pointed out, your mere proximity places me in a rather precarious position. You cannot venture so deeply into my

hostile territory. If you were to attempt it, all of my love for you would not be enough to shield you from the consequences.

No, for the present you must lock away your hatred toward me in the secret places of your heart and make fast the door. If you will only keep faith a while longer, I will come to you, whatever the price. You may rely upon it. I am not so vain, however, as to believe you have come all this way-across the intervening oceans of time—merely to look up an old lover. I fear your very presence bodes ill for the doves among us.

Have no fear, your secrets are safe with me. I mention this only in the foolish and sentimental hope that perhaps once you have loosed your hawks, we might arrange a rendezvous under the flag of a parley. You see how eagerly I embrace any pretense that might bring you to me once more. I am
almost shamed by the fierceness of my desire to hold your heart with my hands, literally.

Ah, soon my beloved. Keep your secrets safe a little while longer. What are a mere few days to us, who have measured our loss and longing in millennia? With each passing day, the anticipation of our reunion consumes me. My beloved, every moment we are apart devours me. Why must you torment me so? You know that I have given into your keeping the keys of my dark soul. There is nothing I can deny you. So, if you must come, bringing fire and the sword into the secret places of my heart, come quickly. Better to yield to such arms as yours, than to fend them off.

How anxiously I await your presence, you whose name has so long been carved upon my heart and in the history of mankind; you whose thoughts I know better than the reflection of my own face in the mirror. My greatest fear—which, judging by your angry thoughts seems justified—is that you might mistake my intentions. You must know, though it seems you do not, that I value your courage purely as agent of verisimilitude, that through your feelings I might believe myself closer to your soul and, by extension, to your Quickening. You have got to discern, though you hurl your accusations at me, that it is the wolves at the door—the Ancient Gathering—not I, baying for more. They, even among your own esteemed lineage, are the ingrates, the feckless purveyors of incaution. You should recognize that I, above all others, wish to see you come to no harm at the hands of the Ancient Gathering.

Rest assured that I bear you no ill will despite the injuries inflicted upon me and mine. Doubtless they arose from misunderstanding, for does not jealousy flourish when Immortal hearts are separated from the heads? Know that I forgive your every transgression, that I hold you still in as high esteem as any cherished son or dear pet.

I find your war in good order and commend you for being alive after so many sunsets. There is no step I tread, no sight I behold, that does not usher though of you to my mind. Fear not that you will lack reward for your sojourn among the infidels. No good deed goes unpunished, or so the wits are not wont to say. For now, however, I languish in your absence, wishing only that I might lay hands upon you. I wonder, in the end, which of us is going to win? Never mind, either way, our bonds cannot be destroyed. Is not so, my beloved son?

But tell me something I cannot see inside your heart: when you are alone, in the middle of the night, does not it ever shake you the thought that someday, the world will know about you? About me? About all of us? And that maybe the mortals will come for you? Of course, I feel a great swell of pity for the poor bastard who comes for you looking for trouble. But then again, this is a war, I hope you realize. But make no mistake, my beloved; this is not a war against me, my child. It never was against me. Stop looking for hope, my son. There is none left. This has been always our world, not theirs.

 
I remain your humble and gracious master for all eternity. Black kisses.

Naamah-Zmargad-Aisling-Lillake-Lilitu

—End of Message—
Neglected, the e-mail fluttered loosely in Joe's hand. His gaze was distant, staring at some imaginary point in the distance. A strange feeling crossed his heart. Somehow, he knew it wasn't over. He needed some answers. But no Watcher had written of what went on either in the so-called island of Nod or in Elena Duran's estancia, much to Dawson's disgust. For all the efforts of the Watchers, there would always be holes in the Chronicles, so long as they remained in secret, held themselves aloof, they would never be entirely successful. But it came with the territory.

But maybe he was lucky, he realized suddenly; he could always ask Duncan what had happened the last days. If the younger Highlander was so inclined, he might even tell him. He had some interesting conversation in front of him, Dawson thought. Taking the phone, the Tribune dialed Duncan's number.

A sharp ring broke the silence of the room.

"Enter," Joe called putting the phone aside, allowing his displeasure not to be apparent in his voice. The ring shouldn't have come.

Amy stepped demurely into the room. She was a mature woman now whose features still betrayed the torment of knowing the man in front her was her natural father. "Hello, Joe."

"Please," Joe said, his voice calm now. "Sit."

"Did you read the e-mail I sent you?"

"Just now," Joe handed the letter back to Amy. "Doesn't look like these Lilitu and Zarach get along very well—got along very well. There seems to be a mocking tone in it. We can't mistake it for true affection. I think is not anything else than pure spite."

"Not surprising," Amy said. "From all we know about these two now, they don't exactly inspire intimacy."

"True. Apparently with good reason."

"How'd the Watchers take it?" Amy asked, unable to resist anymore.

"As always," Joe quickly responded.

Amy chuckled but didn't torment her father further. Then she grew serious. "I know you pulled back our lines as tight as you can make them. These last days, the Immortals, I mean, they were for real, right? Their Game, I mean."

Joe was looking over some notes, a list of patrons. Several of the names were recently crossed off. "I don't know for sure."

"Oh, I see," Amy said.

Joe studied the list more closely, tallying the numerous crossed-off names, and counting the few that remained. Many of those marked out, he knew, had already fallen. Some had likely seen an opportunity to save themselves and stolen off into the night. How many? It was impossible to know for sure.

"This time was close, wasn't it?" Amy asked again, reaching for a cigarette.

"We knew from the start that someday it would be," Joe answered still looking at the list.

"You'd been planning on having the Macleods available to help, hadn't you?" Amy asked, and then lit up, took a deep breath, then shrugged.

"Plans change," Joe responded. "We'll do what we can. It's all about timing. We need to find this Zarach. How about things on your end?"

Amy nodded. "Everything is prepared."

Joe nodded solemnly. "Good. Because if things weren't ready... well, there wasn't any point thinking about that right now. However, we need to know. Apparently, we Watchers know just the barest inkling of the truth about the Immortals. Their deepest secrets are still hidden, and I want to know."

Amy jiggled gravely this time. "It shall be as you say. Don't worry, we will know the truth soon. You can count on that."

====================================

Western Argentina, near the Andes foothills

April 25, 2013
The light had started to die like a heavenly mantle. Soon it would be night. The clouds had completely covered the mountains.
They were standing at the east side of a long hill, with knee high grass, and the cliffs extended westward to the cloudy horizon. The dying sun projected shadows above the earth. In the north rose a group of mountains, high as the sky, and wide valleys flourished around the creation. The valley was a land of epic beauty. Green mountains sat beneath a glowering cloudy sky fringed with pink and purple, as if the clouds were too small for the earth under them.
Maybe tonight wouldn't be a serenade of stars, singing white inside the silence of an endless black firmament, but that didn't matter to them. Like Gods' monuments, Elena and Corazón Negro watched the valley below them.
Today they watched the sunset with new eyes. Even when the setting sun seemed to die, even when the sky seemed to be bleeding, they weren't afraid, because for the first time in so many sunsets, the black curtain of the night wasn't a promise of dark creatures and hidden agendas. There was no more reason to fear the darkness, not anymore. The world was at peace, and a

soft breeze caressed Elena and Corazón Negro's hair. The Aztec's eyes sought Elena's single eye and held it in silence for a while...

Elena smiled at him. "What?" she asked seeing his leopard eyes. "What are you thinking?"
"About you, of course," he said softly.
"We are finally married," she whispered in soft voice, pressing her body against him. "Are you happy?"
"I am. I love to sleep with you, my love, just sleep, lying beside you. I love your warmth, your softness, and often I hope morning never comes ..."
"What's next, my love?" Elena liked the sound of his voice, calm, passive, new.
He looked toward the horizon, and saw the black clouds gathering, looming, and roiling in the distance. "A storm is coming, but we'll live day by day," Corazón Negro whispered in her ear.
Elena pressed harder on him, enjoying his touch. "Yes ... many storms will come. But those are new stories, and we are at the end of this one."
"And the beginning of another?"
She hugged him. "Yes, oh yes," she whispered into his grasp, and kissed him, deeply, passionately. "My love?" she asked instants later.
"Tell me."
After a long silence, Elena raised her eye to him and finally spoke, searching his face with love. "When we were inside the Dream, what did Lilitu mean when she said to us that we have lost?"
Corazón Negro shook his head. "Lilitu spoke of an ancient foretelling ... that great evil will come, always, under many shapes." He made a pause, as if hearing something Elena couldn't. "I heard a similar story from Quetzalcóhuatl, more than a millennium ago. Such prophecy still chills my blood."
"Do you think we Immortals will learn someday?" Elena inquired, looking for hope.
He sighed softly. "Why not? We are fantastic beings, my love. We are capable of imagining wondrous dreams, and we are able to conceive the worst nightmares. Now the era of Aquarius is beginning and the Dream is finally closed, even for me ... for us." He paused, took a deep breath, and then continued. "The future depends on us. We Immortals must cling to the light. The light is our strength and our ally. With the light of the Dream we will stand forever. We must remember where there is light, there can be no darkness. I just hope that one day we can understand that we don't need to kill each other for the Game ... let's pray our race remains, never to disappear ..." Corazón Negro ran his fingers through Elena's hair, feeling its softness.
"Years ago, when we buried Quetzalcóhuatl, you said something like that," Elena whispered, raising her eye to his face, listening to him, and enjoying Corazón Negro's hand caressing her hair. "You said that maybe someday there wouldn't be anything left to show the world that we Immortals ever existed."
"Yes, I did," he said smiling. "But maybe I was wrong. Maybe one day mortal men will know about our race."
"Or maybe not," Elena commented sadly. "Even now that Lilitu is finally dead, the damage has been done. Her Game still exists. I have the feeling that too many Immortals will always believe that in the end, there can be only one. I fear the carnage will endure. Lilitu drove us inside a ceaseless fight to survive, and it's lasted too many centuries. Her battle was a struggle that knew no boundary of time or place. Maybe in the end, she triumphed after all."
Corazón Negro nodded and then smiled openly this time. "No, it's not a mindless, indifferent, blind universe, Curi-Rayen. It never was. Lilitu lost; she failed in the end. There's still life everywhere, in heaven and on earth, in the sea and in the stars, even in the darkest part of our Immortal souls. And I know it is there that the Dream burns brightest. For the moment, nothing else matters."
Elena smiled and kissed him, long, tenderly, with warmth.
"Netzyoltilana cihuatl," Corazón Negro said to her in Náhuatl.
Elena knew that phrase. "I love you too," she responded. "Forever." Then they both turned to see the twilight. For an evanescent instant, looking into the horizon, they thought they saw faces dancing in the black clouds—Darius, Quetzalcóhuatl, Nakano, Ramirez, Roderigo Rubio and other faces neither of them recognized.
"Look at them," Corazón Negro whispered. "They are the witnesses of this new world without end."
Elena's eye narrowed, trying to hear what the shapes were saying; they were ephemeral, and spoke only to the shadows of the sky, and then disappeared altogether.
"In otin ihuan in tonáltin nican tzonquíca—here end the roads and the days," Corazón Negro whispered gently, making a deep bow toward the firmament.
It made Elena a momentarily sad but then Corazón Negro took her hand, taking her back close to him, back into their circle of love. What was to become of them? She didn't know. But one thing was clear in her soul: new challenges were ahead. Life with Corazón Negro would never be dull. But there would be no trouble today and certainly not tomorrow—God was at least that merciful. He kissed her again, and the world around them ceased to exist. Yes, she decided, they loved each other, and they would enjoy their love as long as they could.
Nevertheless, above Elena and Corazón Negro, in the not-so-distant horizon—in the near future in fact—a new tempest was taking form. But whatever troubles, even tragedies, might lie ahead, they were part of another story.
THE END

March 3—September 9, 2002

Florida-Mexico

The new saga begins  in THE SYMBOL OF THE GAME

====================================