Colder than Ice

"Keep moving, idiot! To slow down now would make you die of cold!" she barked, turning her head only slightly that he might hear her words. How quickly over the last few years she had come to show him more and more disrespect-strange to think he once considered her his prize.

Caspian snarled in answer, "You said nothing would kill us-but losing our heads!"

She turned, then, with the suddenness of a snake snapping fast on its prey. She yanked the hood of her cloak back that he might take note of her eyes-they were pale and green, icy as the wind. She fixed him in them, before raising her hand. She unwrapped it from the rags she'd wrapped around the fingers, exposing the skin.

"Not final death-but painful death! Hold out your hand!" she demanded. He acquiesced, placing his hand in hers. Her grip was hard and claw-like; she gripped him all the harder for her digits being numb. His own hands were burning with pain, and she lifted his hand before him. "Behold the leprosy of cold-white like snow, and flakes the same," she said, emotionlessly, running her thumb against his flesh. In horror, he saw the surface of his own skin pull away. She grimaced then. "This is still what we are-men. Winter may still stop your heart. It will again beat-but the mourning-song it will beat to is the saddest of all."

She turned away, and wrapped her hands back up as she trudged forward. Anna-who knew her age? With every day and every mile they traveled she seemed yet older, more distant, stranger, and colder. And in this grim trip she seemed, even stranger for her-crueler. She never seemed a monster before.

"To rub your hands together now would be foolish-simply wrap them. We may find a cave, or cleft in the rock, to rest ourselves. Or else, find what I seek."

"You are certain you'll find this…Methos…here, in these mountains?" he inquired.

"I know him!" was her only answer. He noted, with bitterness, that her feet knew their way over mountain rocks even as well as his own. She pointed at a place in the distance. "There-if I know the ways of goats and caribou…"

He shook his head. A precipice dangerous and difficult to climb-obviously the sort of thing she would consider a safe place to seek rest. He stood still, staring. And then he felt the tug at his arm. First, he knew her as a warrior-her arm was still that strong.

"Move!" she demanded.

****

Not as a man or woman, but a thing known only to itself, he thought, watching her rest against the rock surface. From the time he realized she did not bleed like others, from the time she showed him that he himself was not as other men, she slowly let it be known that she held all weak things in disdain. At the moment, her anger stemmed from holding herself close to that-having shown a weakness.

"Better we should have set forth for this range two moons in advance; then we should not have met up with such cold. I was betrayed by a wet summer and easy autumn. But they-the tribe I believe he stays with-they are nomads, and would still be traveling. It should be better to search out their campfires this way."

She pounded the rock with a small hand, then drew the hand up to look at it. Caspian intuitively reached for it, snatching it between his own. The nail-beds were blue, and her skin now seemed white. She looked into his eyes. Both knew it was not well-they were freezing. She began to speak, but he spoke in her place.

"The tribe with which he stays-the ones that consider him a god-tell me about them."

Speak, she commended herself. Stay awake and focused. Tell a tale, and add moments to your life. She knew to sleep was to die-to remain awake, the better to live. She pulled her hand away from his grasp, and motioned to him to stand further back, towards the wall, and then she crouched down. She peered about, part snow-blind, and part concerned--such a small crevice as a mountain goat might be comfortable in, but she was none such, nor was Caspian. The cold still reached them, and the winds could still be heard-fierce and unfriendly. But if they must freeze to death, here was as secluded and fine a place as any other.

"They ride the horse-the thing you say can not be done," she said, with amusement. "But they do-they have, for a time, and will, forever, I believe. It is natural to them. A more…natural people I scarce know."

She sighed. A young one was always limited by what he'd seen. He had little experience of handling of creatures-as his people kept dogs and sheep, but the nature of the rider was something he'd never known. It would make as little sense to him as his people's methods of consuming the dead would to Methos.

"Horses are swift," she went on. "And the people are sturdy. Men ride, women-they are made content to carry. They have but few who ride-and when the beast is finished, he is…properly treated. Eaten. As they are nomadic, they take little, leave little. And they stay to these…ranges. Methos prefers to stay close to this people as…" She paused, thinking of him, and smiled. "He has learned my lessons better than I myself know them. Better to have a people, than be alone."

"And this is why I am no longer a part of my people?" Caspian looked at her, then glanced away.

"They weren't," she said, in the patient voice of one who has explained a thing a thousand times before-in other words, with a trace of impatience. "They would know what you are soon enough-have you learned nothing by being with me?"

He made a sound at that. She shrugged. "I am your people. You are…more like myself than like any one of them. Recall what they were. Think of what you are now."

Caspian thought on that. His village, they knew no way of the sword, but had spears. They were complacent, content to stay as they were-which was why it was so simple for Anna and her warriors to come down the plain and attack. If not for fate-he might well have been her prize-not she, his. He now did see himself different from them-superior. He had what they did not-knowledge, and his long life to look forward to.

"I am your husband," he answered. He smiled at her, lewdly. She returned his look, with pride.

"My student, thanks to a stone blade. You will say no such things in front of Methos." She looked in the direction of the strange light-strange, in that the cold made the sun cast dark shadows on all things. Time itself was bent by such a bitter cold-she could not tell what time of day it was.

"He is what to you?" Caspian demanded. "Another of your students?"

Anna stood. She regarded the * young * man before her. Methos was her student, but older than this boy. She had known Methos long-and wondered at times if he were strong as-if not stronger than-herself. He had less compassion, less conscience.

"He is the god of that people. If I am not a woman-he is not a man. If he tells them you are to die-it will be as he says."

Caspian regarded her in disbelief. Again, association with her could earn him death. She, oblivious to his concern, went on.

"I seek him out as I know full well he would never bring death to me. You-I have little choice about."

****

Little choice. Sitting in the cold, seeing Anna close her eyes, Caspian considered what little choice she'd given him. If he had not cared for her-a foreigner, a demon, and a bad omen, his people might not have chosen them for sacrifice. And yet-it was she who begged them to plunge their blades into their bellies, and not sever head and neck. And she had seen him through the early running, surviving, teaching him what he was. But still he wondered if she were not every bit as much a burden as a gift. Just as his immortality was a burden and a gift. He slid himself along the floor of the cave to be closer to her, but she was still-cold.

"Tell me more," he asked. His voice surprised him, harsh and thick. Even the sound of his voice was affected by the cold.

She opened an eye. Sleepiness was overtaking her, but she knew the cold was doing that. Most of the time, she fought sleep, and required few hours of rest-but now she seemed to feel the weight of her eyelids most profoundly. "Tell you of Methos?"

"Yes."

Her mind wandered. Where to begin? Once, she had been told a teacher makes the man, but she dared not think she'd made him. He was the student that outstripped the teacher-challenged her as no one else ever had. She feared him because he was possibly stronger of mind than herself. And yet, there was something to him-beyond any cruelty he could show. Beyond any of the hardness he'd learned from her. Beyond any killing, any control, any power he'd been shown-

He could appear most human. He had the skill of being, as she was, two things-a man and a god. That made him twice as dangerous. But it would do no good to try and explain all of that to Caspian-simple being that he still was. Caspian, having come from a simple people, would have to make the choice-monster or man. If he were to live long-monster would be easier-the man in him would not survive. To answer his question, though, she fixed on Methos in her mind's eye. The appearance made her smile-it pleased her. She realized she was losing her sanity in the cold.

"He is not blue-he merely paints himself so," she said, and then laughed at her own statement. It should not have seemed so funny to her, were she not conscious of losing consciousness. "He is tall. He might be taller than you. And he's…as would please me," she said.

"A warrior?" Caspian suggested.

"And that, too. A warrior, and pleasing to me." The ways in which she found him pleasing suddenly seemed too intimate for her to voice. Instead of speaking of those virtues, she found herself saying, "He is very intelligent. Wise in the way of men, and keen in skills. I don't believe he would kill you right away-if he were of such a mind."

Such a cozy cave-almost like the one she'd first died in, and like a number she'd seen in her time. She knew it was snowing, and under snow a person could find warmth-it might not be a bad idea to seek her way out to the snow. The cave seemed, moment by moment, less snug, more close, as she considered that. It was a bad thought. No-better to be here-imagine that it were warm…

Caspian tugged at her shoulder. Her eyes had closed again. She was close to dozing, but then she recalled her thought.

"He has a taste for hurting-I think it came from me."

****

Anna's skin was still warm-it was all that was warm in the world, or so Caspian imagined as he drew her tighter. She yielded, at first, and then stiffened.

"Woman, I have need of you," he whispered, and his voice was definitely thicker, deeper, full of need and urgency.

Her eyes opened. What need did he have of her? What need did she expect, but the usual? And yet, no part of her was willing. She found that he was pressed against her, and she could feel all of him-his full weight, near her. Her arms, without thought, wrapped around him. His ear was cold against her face-but her face seemed cold against his cheek. Who was colder? She couldn't determine.

"No," was all she could manage, a half-hearted whisper. "We're only dying, is all. Don't fight it-feel it."

She managed her cold, numb hand up to his face. Their eyes met. She had shown him death before-but what was she asking, now?

"Not this-just…close your eyes. I'll hold you-but that is all."

She'd lost sense of feet and legs some time before-how long she wasn't certain. He held her, and it seemed suffocating, but she wasn't sure of where his arms were-or what he imagined they might do. Now it seemed clear-they had one choice. And spring would come-eventually. But in this instant, he might see what she had seen about this awful passage-could she let someone know this?

"Accept the dark-and you'll see something like a light," she began, slowly. "It's something we face all the time."

He clutched her tighter. "No…I want…" His movement against her made his desire clear.

She knew what he imagined he wanted, and she also knew it was not her Caspian, but a madman in her arms. She wrestled herself from his all-enclosing grip…and once her arms were free, she reached to her thigh, where she always carried a knife. She did not wish this last indignity to mar her drifting into sleep-and she knew full well he would not recall her act on waking. She plunged it deep-and his throes took but an instant before he was still.

She regarded his face-it was peaceful. He seemed peaceful in death as he did not when awake. She thought to draw her dagger out-but did not. When she awoke, she would gently pull it lose, and let him know that she did it out of respect…but to draw it out now would be to risk his early waking, to die again of bitter cold, and that she did not desire. Thinking of how she best would wake him, she drifted into the sleep of death-and froze to something colder than ice.

****

Of all ways to awake, a sandal to the throat is the least pleasant, and yet Anna was in no position to highly resent it-waking being waking, as far as she was concerned.

"You always find one, Anna," the voice of her new god said, in deep, insinuating tones. The voice was familiar, and then she thought to look up. Even in the dark/light glow suffusing the cave, she knew Methos' face. He was irritated with her, and had a sword within her viewing. This was not an unusual situation for her-so much as uncomfortable and strange. It took her a moment to recall how she came to be in this spot. One-so he said. One, what?

She turned, ever so slightly. Caspian. Still with a knife in the chest. Poor thing. A terrible introduction. Methos usually was not so terrible to know, but in this particular way. Being his captive was not good.

"I found him much as I found you," she whispered. Both were her students-perhaps Methos would take pity on the woman who first taught him to hate. The sandal was brought away from her throat, and a long arm lifted her up to her feet. Unsteadily, she swayed, wondering what the strange sensation she felt could be. It was warmth. She smelled something like grass on the air. Shocked, she looked down at herself-a sight. And she was wet with condensation, and also certain unpleasant side-effects of long-term death-like sleep.

He grasped her in his arms, firmly, yet with an air of something approaching anger. "Who is he?"

"He is called Caspian-a student of mine…and we…came to find * you *," she managed, through aching lungs and throat.

"I should leave him here to starve…and you to rot," Methos replied, voice choked. She breathed deeply, trying to speed her own recovery, and caressed his face.

"No…draw the dagger out, and learn his worth-what student of mine could be worthless?'

She bent down-Methos making no motion, and drew the blade out. Caspian convulsed, coughed, sputtered. The older Immortals looked on the display, Anna's arm around Methos' waist, and his arms around her. She pressed her lips to his neck for good measure.

"See? At the very least-consider that he might make a fine slave, even as I…have been?" she offered.

Methos looked away. She knew the very words to turn his stomach if not his heart.

"You will come with me...he will serve. I…"

Her lips found him once again. They still seemed cold. But he recalled all that she was to him. He returned her embrace, as Caspian looked on. Unimaginable, that she could cling to such a man as that-and offer himself as a slave, and in so few moments.

The woman was colder than ice. Yet over the years, she had certainly learned to be.

And so a temporary family was made.

Back to the Miscellaneous Short fiction Page