Brothers
"So, Brother, what does she do up there, alone, like that?" Caspian asked, worried. She had not even spoken to himself for a time, and this made him the more concerned. That she separated herself from them so could not be good.
"She drinks," Methos said, sadly, lowering himself among them before the fire. "She has a wineskin, and she looks at the moon. She seems sad, and I can not reach her. Damn that woman! Why must she be that way?"
"She is old, Brother. Perhaps she can not be so easily understood," Silas said, and for the moment, the other two thought on how right that was. Anath-Sin was old, and her ways had always been different. He hit the mark-she was not easily understood.
"She is old, but I always knew her heart before!" Methos answered. "She is as the stelae of the people before the Flood. I ask questions, and she does not answer. She is contrary to me. She wants to be alone, she says. But still, she claims to love me. And you."
Caspian shook his head. "I have known her myself, and you can not predict her moods. Perhaps this is a part of that time known to every woman. When I had a wife, she would do this thing, and I thought her another person."
Methos thought about this. As well, he had known other women, and their moods. But again, he doubted this counsel.
"Not Anath-Sin! She has always been easy to know! She is not like other women, changeable, but rather, her moods are like the phases of the moon. You can count on her. Now, who can say what she might do?"
"Have you spoken with her, Brother?" Caspian asked.
"I have spoken, and I have talked-until there were no more words, have I spoken. But she has little to say, and I am concerned with this. Never have I known her tongue to be more still."
"Perhaps, then, you should be beside her, and only listen," Silas said, softly, but they did not listen to him, each in their own thoughts about the strange behavior of Anath-Sin.
They looked into the campfire, and thought. Of late, there had been a battle, and instead of the usual charge, where Anath-Sin rode herd over the camp-women and slaves, she chose to ride among them. Something in this seemed to touch her, but none knew what.
And, truthfully, none dared ask directly what it was that shook her so. With the bravery she had shown that day, they dared not think on what might trouble her, even now.
"Perhaps it was that she killed that Immortal. She had told me it had been some time since she had taken a head," Caspian observed. "She was always loath to do this deed, it pleased her not."
"Yes," Methos agreed, "perhaps it was the Quickening that made her so. She told me about this much herself."
He thought on that-she had no belief in the Game. All knew of that. Immortals might take one another's heads if it pleased them-but in this, she would play no part. When she taught Methos of the existence of this sport, she had told him, "The only Game is to endure and preserve your spirit-there is no other." It was advice that kept him alive on many an occasion.
"She fought well enough, though. She did kill him," Silas said. He had marveled at this sight, as he had never witnessed a Quickening before. To know this might happen whenever an Immortal's head was taken was interesting. He did not mind if he would see this again.
"She is no stranger to killing," Methos responded. "You know but the smallest part of what she has done." And this was true enough. There was a time when, before any Immortal who had endured for a time, one might speak the name "Anath-Sin" and that soul would have a tale.
"Brother, partake of this. It is good," Caspian said, suddenly, tapping on the clay vessel. The people who they had recently attacked had known a fine method for the brewing of beer, and Caspian and Silas had already tasted enough to know of its potency.
"Perhaps I should-I might better know her mind if I do," Methos said, and then paused. "I think perhaps the gods gave us beer that we might better know the minds of women."
At this, the others nodded and laughed. Methos could say a true thing in a clever way.
Caspian then shook his head. "It can not hurt. Drink. But do not always expect to understand her. If any woman is a mystery-she even more so."
Methos filled his cup, and thought. "You have never told me how you met-nor did she. I would like to know."
Caspian drained his cup and passed it to Methos to be filled. His eyes seemed shadowed, and his face pensive at the memory of his first knowing Anath-Sin-but it was tied up in thoughts of exile and first death, and so much more.
"I know not the name of the people she rode with-strange-but a mere hundred-odd years has robbed me of that. They no longer exist. They came down upon us as a wolf comes down upon the fold, probably at Anna's training. And she among them-a creature like none I ever saw. And when they were decimated--having underestimated our number, I suppose, she alone was there, alive.
"But some swore they had seen her die. One man claimed to have laid his spear to her fine white flesh. He said he did not know how this could be. And as we stood, as she seemed unconscious, we spoke-but then she stirred, and looked about her.
"It was me her gaze fixed upon-me. Of course, she knew what I was, and what I would be. She looked on me, and her eyes were like a prayer, a prayer to me. She pled with me to save her from death. And she was right, for we wondered what to do with such as she--kill her, or claim her for our tribe to make her our spoil.
"And her look emboldened me so that I stepped forward, as none else would. I wanted her, and I knew by her look that she wanted me. I claimed her as my prize for the battle-and I wanted her for a wife, as I had none. And she came to me willingly. She learned our tongue so quickly...and served me well. And all the while, I knew not what she was.
"But I was to learn. Her people knew of swordplay-and my own had only spears and the obsidian blade. She possessed a sword, and some few had been claimed in the skirmish-we would know this art. And so I spoke of it one day, and she-how was I to know she was a master at this? She pulled out her own blade-this she had hidden at great cost to her, as my people did not accept a woman as carrying arms.
"She held it before me, and said that she would teach me, for of this I would know or die. I thought she meant that there were other peoples who might attack us-I did not know she foretold my future! And she drew her blade, and bid me come at her with mine spear-and so I did! But this was beheld by some of my people, and they thought the worst of her.
"They were to put her to death, but by then, I had known her--known her enough to feel love. And so I tried to explain that she was showing me only that which might make us strong, but they would hear it not. Instead, they would have us both perish.
"And she spoke-a determined woman she, never giving up the battle. She said her people were such as would have no blade across their throats, as they must confess their sins before the gods. She would rather we be both disemboweled. This, she said, would be only right-not to offend the gods.
"And my people agreed, and we both met with a blade across the belly and lived. She explained it all to me as I revived-what we were. As we ran, I learned I was Immortal. She explained it to me thus-we were kin. Brother and sister, her and I. And I should never want for kin...for she was there for me. This I know of Anath-Sin.
"She made me to know what I was. She loved me. She tried to spare our lives. And for this, I might always think well on her."
Caspian looked into the fire after finishing the tale, and the others also sat, quietly. It was Anath-Sin's way to love. Strange that she was this way, and also a killer. It seemed that these were the two things she did best.
"How came you to know her then, Brother?" Silas asked of Methos. "You have known her the longest-and the best."
Methos smiled at this. He did not know if he could be said to know her the best at times, but he certainly had known her the longest. But the story of their meeting was not one he wanted to tell.
"It was a long time ago," he said, simply.
"She took you in battle," Caspian said, and Methos glared at him, briefly, and also wondered that Anath-Sin must have told Caspian this, but she told himself nothing of Caspian. He wasn't sure he enjoyed what this made him think of her. But the statement having been made, he was then obliged to tell the rest.
"She did. I was young and barely knew what I was. I fought everything and everyone. For days would I travel in search of something-anything, that seemed familiar." He closed his eyes, deep in memory. "I can see her...the way she was when I first saw her-a thing in motion. I will always see her that way. And I had never seen a more terrible sight than what she had done-she was at the height of her skills that day. She rode with a band of her own choosing-all mortals, though, at the time, who knows where she came across them. And they laid waste...because she wanted me.
"She had heard of me. She did not want my head, she wanted only," and at this he paused. "To this day I am not sure. I was killed by one of her men, and I came to at her feet. And as she looked on me, she said the strangest thing I had ever heard.
"She said that she knew two things about me. The first was that the people called me 'Methos-the dead man'. And the second was that from that moment on I belonged to her, unless I could beat her. I rose to my feet at that. It sounded like a challenge, and I thought to take her head-hers!"
He laughed at that, and the others smiled.
"There was nothing I could do to her. She exhausted me, and she told me I had to improve, and then she took me...well..."
"I know her well, Brother," Caspian said. "I know what she would have done."
Silas looked from one to the other, blankly. It did not occur to him what Anath-Sin wanted from Methos, but then, he had never known her in this way.
"That was how it was between us. She taught me everything, everything. She tested me every day in some new fashion-pushed me. And always held it up to me, that she did this that I would survive. She said she saw something in me that was like herself-she knew I would endure."
"I think, perhaps, she may love you the best," Caspian admitted. "She always has." It was an easy thing to admit-he had given up on the idea that they would be much more than brother and sister. And it was also the truth.
"I think...I will have more of this," Methos said suddenly, and rose to fill the cup again.
"With me, I once thought she might speak of anything, but Methos, I know there is one thing she does not speak of," Caspian began, carefully. "She hides this sorrow close to her, but it is known. It is something I never saw in her before and so I know the pain is recent."
He drew a drink from his cup, and looked at Methos-who knew her so well. "What is this thing she does not speak of? What could have hurt her so? In those years that she did not ride you knew of her. And she would have given her confidence to you."
Methos did not care for the speaking of that which Anna was loath to speak of, for he did not know if he understood what she had done, himself. But he understood at least this-one event seemed to have touched her-to have made her both glad and miserable. The only time he had ever known her to be weak was after this.
"She adopted a child to raise as her own."
"A child?" Silas asked. He had been quiet for a time, and they were almost startled by his voice.
Methos nodded. "He would be Immortal. This was why she wanted him. For seven years, she had him, and loved him."
"But the way we live...what did she think?" Caspian asked.
"Who knows what she thought. He was taken from her by the man she named as his father. And this thing drove her mad. She went to Uruk. When I heard of this, I followed her there. But it was too late-she had revealed her true nature, and shed the blood of the people of that city. And so they put her to death-stoning.
"But I know she still mourns that boy. Something about this changed her soul. And she was more prone to weeping, to silence, to dreams, and to wakefulness, ever since.
"But I do not believe this to be the sorrow that claims her now."
"Brother, then, I say go to her again. She should not be up there like that, knowing whatever thought she has, alone. She told me when I suffered, that I should not be alone-nor should she," Caspian then said.
"I have tried."
"Have you tried as she would?" Silas then asked. It was strange, at times, how he seemed slow of wit, but then might say a thing that made him seem sharp. "She is one who seems," and here he hesitated for words, "...she does not know giving up."
Methos stopped, considering. This was right, if nothing else was. She did not know defeat. She let go of nothing-this was what gave her bravery, and caused her the greatest pain. He knew then what he should do.
"I will go to her again, then. And I will say nothing if this is how she would have it. I will..."
"Say no speeches," Caspian said. "Only go."
*****
He came up behind her, and lowered himself to the ground, simply putting his arms around her, holding her. She smiled, and leaned back against him, appreciating the warmth he provided and his solid presence. For some time, they sat like this, him only holding her, and saying nothing, and then, she spoke.
"Have you heard of the name 'Jude of Larsa'?"
Methos thought on this. "No. That name is unknown to me. Should I know this man?"
"That was the name of the Immortal I slew today. He came from his house as if it was for him we came-we four. He said his name to me-Jude of Larsa-as if I should know this name. Perhaps there had been a time when his name was known. But then I saw the house he came from-a temple."
"He dwelt on Holy Ground?"
"He hid on Holy Ground as I did at Nippur. And he hid for so long, his name had become unknown. He had no fame and I had no cause to take his head. I did not want it.
"But I knew my name-and this is the way of the Game-is it not? He gave his name, and so I told him of myself that he knew by whom he was being slain. I told him-I have been called Lion of the Valley. I have been called after the goddesses Anath and Sekhmet. I have been known as Anna. But I am most commonly known as the Whore. And I told him it was Anath-Sin who would slay him, and his eyes grew large. He knew my name. He knew me. My name is still one to conjure with.
"I killed him, not as one kills in the heat of battle, but after the manner of those that follow the Game. We fought one another for no purpose other than the Quickening-I hungered after it! And when I got it-disaster. His thoughts, and his life, made for an instant known to me. What a life-what a waste. I do not regret that, only..." And at this she broke, and she wept.
"What in this can you regret? This is what we do," Methos asked, softly. "You taught me this is what we must do. It is not new."
"What is new," she began, trying to explain, when perhaps there were no words for what she felt, "what is new is that I only have a name for one thing-killing. I, if legend remembers me for anything, will be remembered as a killer. I have done nothing good. Nothing to be well thought on. Nothing." And at this she wept anew.
"Nothing? Anna, how call you your life 'nothing'? How can I explain what you are?" Methos asked, and when she turned to him, her look was one almost of surprise.
"Not for nothing-not for killing. I will remember you for love."
"Love?" she asked in disbelief, but all it took was a look into Methos' eyes to know this was what he believed, and what he would remember. But it seemed so absurd to her, after her lifetime of crimes, so she repeated it, "Love?"
"Yes. You loved me," he answered, and she looked at his face-oh her heart broke-because he seemed almost wounded by her doubt. She turned fully, and embraced him.
"You are right-I loved you. I always will. In this life-perhaps even into the next. But do you not see? I made you as myself-a killer. Methos, do you know how I, a woman, have lived this long?"
"I know, Anna."
"No. I have had to be vicious. I have had to be hard, cruel, a monster. Men were always stronger-always. So I had to have the one edge I could claim-my passion. Rage. And yes, love sometimes went along with my passions. But, can you not see? I never lived as a woman lives. I always was running. Fighting. And so I taught you the same-to run and to fight.
"The same thing with Caspian...he knows nothing but killing-it was all I knew to teach. And the same with Silas-he lives among us and knows our ways, the ways of death. All I have ever done is kill and make killers!"
Methos held her. It was true, but he and Caspian made their choices-it was not her fault alone that they were as they were. Both had tried to live without killing and it did not work. Simply enough, they were Immortals and what she taught them was right for them to know. And as for Silas-what else might he learn? She was taking this too hard. It could not be helped.
"Anna, you have done what you had to do. We will endure because of you. It can not be undone, and should not be. We will think well on you."
She shook her head. "No. You will go on after my death, but you will not speak of me, because I will cause you pain by remembering. None of you will speak of me, and my name will most likely fade away. And perhaps that would be for the best.
The sound of that shook him. She had never spoken of her death before. It was as if she had never thought she might die, and he wondered what made her speak of it, now. It frightened him to the core to think of a world she did not inhabit.
"No, no, that can't be. No," he whispered.
"I have not done one thing that I could not have done a better way. So much of my life has been one regret after the other, one mistake after the other. How can history be kind?"
He wondered if he should speak of this with her, for she still sometimes seemed sad over this, but he knew that it would touch her, and pull her off of this thread. There was one thing she did, after all. One thing she might not see as a total failure.
"You may have put an Immortal on the throne of Agade. If he rules well, then you have done one good thing by which history would judge you well. This, the most powerful kingdom known-and this, because of you."
Her face became wistful, as if she was seeing into the future-as if she dreamed. There was a thought that had not made her sad, and so Methos was pleased with himself. That feeling was not to last.
"This I have done-lined up one of my own, although undiscovered, to sit on the throne I helped arrange for Sargon. If ever I was to leave you, Methos, it would be to see this through."
"To leave? Anna?"
She smiled the saddest smile he had ever seen. "I have unfinished business with the house of Agade. I put him in line-but what happens when he discovers his nature? Theirs is a people of war. He will awake after the twist of a short blade in a matter of time. And still, he must learn."
"Your Naram-Sin-you would leave us to train him?"
"Yes. Someone must show him what he is. And for all my faults, perhaps I will do it right this time. Perhaps I will not make another killer, like myself, but show him something of good. I can only hope."
Methos knew it was folly, but let it rest. She had been so dark of mind lately that this seemed an improvement-at least she could dream. But one thing struck him-a thing that would not have occurred to Anna. At her age, she no longer had a grasp of years.
"He would no longer be a boy. Now, he would be nearly a man."
"A man?" she whispered. "He would be a man?"
Her mind began to make itself up. There might be one good thing she could do. But time was growing short.