Salvation
She barely seemed alive-she was mute, strange, and distant, like a ghost. He rode on, heading toward the river. She was a mess, blood-covered and wide-eyed, and the best thing for her would be to get the blood and dirt off. She would be more herself then.
He thought to speak to her.
"Anath-Sin, you will be all right."
She slumped up against him, unable to stay upright. He looked over his shoulder. Her eyes had turned up in her head. This would never do. He stopped the horse, and dismounted. He pulled her down, roughly.
"Anath-Sin-Anna!" he then called, sharply, and slapped her face.
She was gone.
And so he dragged her to the river. She was easily led, like a child. And when she was thrown in, she gasped, and he realized she would be fine. She was fighting him, and she began to curse. He held her head under the water as she kicked and struggled.
"Come back...damn...would you..." he gasped. She could be so frustrating-he only meant to do this for her own good.
He let her head come out of the water. She glared at him.
"Methos...I hate you."
"You do not," he answered, and ducked her head back under.
*****
He dragged her from the water, and they were close against each other. She clung to him, tightly, as if she did not dare to let go of him. She shivered, even in the heat, and he stopped, and his embrace grew tighter, and he felt her yield to him. She was also holding him tightly, and he realized how cold, how empty she must be.
"Come on, lay down, dry off," he murmured, and helped her down to the ground.
"I don't...hate you...Methos," she whispered, and her eyes were flooding with tears.
He let himself kneel in the sand beside her, and again was holding her. But she was so weak, so sad. He brushed his fingers over those lips, full, trembling, and was overcome.
He wanted her.
His fingers left her lips and brushed her cheek, and he smoothed back her wet hair, damply glistening in the sun, and soon his hand was cupping the back of her head, and their lips met. Her hands braced themselves on his shoulders, and he tried to convince himself that the hot wetness he felt from her face wasn't tears, but he could taste salt, and feel her shudder, fighting against sobs.
Methos wanted to believe this would make it right, but perhaps nothing would. He kept kissing her, and lay her back against the ground, and her hands no longer gripped his shoulders, but she was pulling him closer to her, and he covered her. She broke off their lips' embrace, and nestled her head against his neck. And he could still feel her tears.
He caressed her hair. "Shh," he whispered trying to soothe her. And his hand cupped one of her breasts, and she seemed to lean harder against him. Her arms held him tighter, and she moved her legs that he might rest more comfortably. All the same, it came as a surprise to her when he entered her, and she gasped.
********
Her breath was coming in gasps, almost gasps of pleasure--how could he know that as he moved against her she looked up at the sky, and it seemed to go on for miles, and she felt small and powerless? She looked at the clouds and felt she was seeing the emptiness of the heavens-the absence of gods and the indifference of fate. The warmth of Methos against her skin was all that tied her to reality, and then it struck her, a strange thing--
He was all she had. She had nothing. He had saved her...and she knew what that meant, and she breathed,
"Methos...stop...I beg you..."
"Anna," he responded, and his lips were against hers again, and was pushing him, trying to stop him. "Just let me..." But he couldn't finish what he was saying...and then he shuddered against her, and it was over.
He rested his head on her shoulder.
"Methos...I...want to go back..."
"Anath-Sin, you know better than anyone that you can not. You have nothing to go back to. You are dead."
She looked up at the sky again. It seemed so endless and so empty. She relaxed, accepting her situation, and then he continued,
"You have nothing but me."
*****
It was one thing to know that Methos had taken charge of her, another thing entirely to hear it from his lips. It was not so long ago that she led, and he rode behind. But there she had it-Methos knew she was his. And that meant he could have what he would of her-a lesson she had learned over and over the hard way: the way of men over women.
"Yes," she answered with a catch in her voice. "I have nothing but you." "And if I only thought you would have some mercy," she thought. He could have her body, her head, anything he wanted of her.
He stood, and looked down at her, thoughtfully.
"Anna..."
"You can have what you would. Say the words. What will it be?"
He reached his hand towards her. "Ride with me. Remember what you were. We had the world. Can't you feel it? It still waits for you. Just come with me."
She could feel it as if in a dream-distant. She could smell smoke in her nostrils, hear the screams-it was just a taste-a glimpse of what crossed her mind for a moment when she set off for Uruk, and had off and on over these last fifty years. Destruction. Power. Freedom. Seeing not a horizon-but a destination, and a new conquest. Killing without a care, burning-because one could. This was a life she had known for more years than she could count, a life too easy to slip into again.
But it would be lying to say that the world did her any favors and deserved to be spared. Manishtusu took her child, and this was not the first thing anyone had ever taken from her. Maybe in the old ways, she could find a moment's peace, seek the solace of death and drown herself in blood. Why in the name of the Gods not? Was she not a Goddess herself? She took Methos' hand.
"Yes. Wherever you may go...this is what I want. Need."
Methos smiled. She had not forgotten. It would be good for her to return-to be herself, for once. He led her back to the horse.
They would ride.
The Gods help the world if it can't help itself.
*****
As they set off for Methos' camp, she looked at the sky once more, and thought she saw a promise. If the sky seemed empty, she would fill it. She would fill it with smoke.
Let it burn.
*****
Methos snapped her out of her reverie with the object he held before her eyes.
"Do you remember this?"
It was a gold dagger-her dagger, the one she had given him centuries before. She reached out her hand. He made as if to pull it away from her and then let her hold it. She turned it back and forth in her hands, watching the sun glint off of it. Could she remember exactly how long ago it had been?
"I never forgot, Anna," Methos commented. "I always kept in mind what you said."
"Be not just armed, but armed twice-over," she smiled. "How can you trust me with a weapon in my hand?" she asked, but her voice was playful.
"Because, as you always told me, I am not just armed, but armed twice-over. I give you the dagger...and now I have you as my weapon. I will trust you." With that, they rode on in silence, as she gave those words thought.
"I...your weapon, Methos?"
"I remember what you were."
She thought about this, but then wondered if he had any idea what she had been. He had seen her at her best-perhaps he would not have known her at her worst. Her life had meant violence for as long as she had known it.
It had been that way from her very beginning. She could still remember that.
*****
There was nothing darker than the eyes her brother, Tarmok. Nothing. He was younger than she, man who barely had a beard, but already he held her fate in his hands. He was telling her she must do this thing...for the people had spoken.
"Do you know what they say of you, Anna?"
Her eyes were downcast. "No, brother, I do not." This was a lie.
She did know. They said she was a sorceress. They said she was one who the demon seized, because she would dream an evil dream, and because she would speak the words...and things would come to pass. And then, she did not bear, even though she was trained to be the Goddess. That was a thing that could bring a time of calamity on them., and it was rumored that it had. When the time of the sickness came, she did not sicken. For this reason, they believed she brought it on them.
"They say you are the curse-you are the one who has poisoned our people. I know not what you are. I only know one thing. They are right. I would fear you, were I not more afraid for you...but I can not stop this."
Her eyes were not dark. They were the color of old turquoises. She colored, and she spoke--
"Stop this? You brought this to pass! Who else spoke of the rite of the Serpent God? You want my death! You fear my power!"
"You," Tarmok hissed. "You are nothing. You were left on a hillside to die. Did no one ever tell you that? They loved you because you were fair. They did not know you were a demon in child's form. What did you ever do-heal? Speak insanities? The people would have loved you...but now they know better. And if you die...it was the will of the God."
She hung her head down, and wished the words would not come, but they did.
"If you kill me, it is yourself you kill."
His face changed with fear, and he left.
She had done it again.
*****
"How do you remember me, Methos?"
"As a flame."
She tried to imagine how she might have been seen, as she was then-six centuries ago. It had been a long time. Was she the same creature? It was easy to remember Methos, then...a young Immortal so traumatized by his state he could barely recall what he had been before, wandering and unattached to anything. It would be wrong to say she took pity on him-there was no fate on earth more horrible than her pity, more doubtful than her mercy. She didn't take his head because it was worth nothing, but she realized he had something to him she prized, lusted after.
He had the world ahead of him. Seeing the world through his eyes made it new to her. And making him in her own bloodthirsty image...that, too, was a thrill. Perhaps he could see in her even now the monster she was. She had thought it was gone. Could it honestly be that he loved the monster in her?
It was unthinkable.
*****
They had lit the torches, and stood there, staring and waiting. It was as if they did not know her-some of these people had known her for her entire life. She could smell the anticipation, the smoke, and the desire to see death. They were here to see her die. They knew her well, and wanted to watch her die.
Karn placed the cord around her neck, and kissed her on each cheek, warmly. Tarmok stood back, his face cruel in the glow from the fire, and his eyes were evil. Did she ever think before that his eyes were evil?
The old hymn was struck up, and she knew it was time to step down into the pit and meet her fate. Anna lifted the hem of her robe, and made her descent. At first, she could not see the snake. Could it be that there was none? Was she somehow spared?
Then, she did see it, as it reared its head up, and hissed, and she caught a glint of light cast off its soul-less eyes and sleek skin. It moved slowly, lazily. Not threatening at all...but then, why did her heart pound like a drum? Why did she feel sick to her stomach? She felt like she was outside of herself for a moment and that she stood there among the others, but then, the snake slithered, faster than she could imagine, to her right, and she lunged left. It was a dance.
The hymn stopped as the singers forgot the words. Now, they only watched.
Anna knew she should not make a sudden move, but must approach slowly. She breathed deeply a few times, and, painfully, painfully, stepped forward.
One step.
Two.
Three.
She reached out her hand. She fixed her gaze on the mouth of the snake. It was important to avoid that. She spoke to herself: "Keep your head, keep your head..." Losing her nerve would mean death. Even if doing this deed meant death.
She was almost there. She was almost grasping the snake.
*****
"A flame," she said to herself, softly. And she leaned her head against Methos' back, and wondered. She could not see herself that way. Like a flame.
Methos smiled as he felt the weight of her head resting against him. She would come around; he knew that. When he first saw her, she was riding. He always saw her that way-in motion. She had been complacent for too long, and it was bound to catch up with her sooner or later. He felt bad about what she had gone through...but it wasn't unexpected.
And now she was back where she belonged. There had been a time, after all...a good time. A time when she wasn't hiding or trying to be something she wasn't. It would be good to see her that way again.
*****
She had done it, but it was no time for a sigh of relief as yet. She had it in one hand, just below where the hood fanned out from the sides of its head, and she held it in a death-grip. Her knuckles were turning white, and veins stood out in her arm as the thing twisted and hissed. Sweat poured down her temples and beaded on her lip. She eased her thumb up over its head, and squeezed a bit tighter. She didn't know if she could hold on.
Her eyes were fixated on the fangs of the snake. They dripped. She could smell something foul. Was there any chance of doing this and surviving? Tears welled up. Would it not have been better to be exiled? To face her death in the wilderness, than before so many eyes?
She licked the sweat from her lips. The rite was to kiss the serpent. And the idea was that it couldn't be done. Her fingers continued to inch up to clamp down on the snake's jaws. Her lips pursed together.
Tarmok gasped. The woman had done it. No one else could have. No one else would have. She had done it to spite him, he could tell by the defiant look she had in her eyes.
"I have overcome the rite, Tarmok. You must allow me that," she said, and cast the snake away from her. She reached for Karn, who was about to lift her out of the pit.
But then...disaster.
She had not cast the snake far enough away from her, and it was very fast. Her eyes widened. It burned. Oh by the gods, it burned like fire. She thought being bitten would sting, but it did not-it burned. Karn let go of her hand, and she almost thought she read a gloating look on Tarmok's face. She was slipping.
So, she thought. I die after all.
In some way, she was not surprised.
*****
The burning seemed to be a moving thing, like a second serpent snaking up her leg. Her heart was pounding out of control, and she groaned, and then bit her lip. Her gaze at Tarmok was still defiant, but her vision was blurring.
"It burns...please...someone..." she cried.
"How long, Karn? How long do you imagine?" Tarmok asked, trying to sound concerned.
He was, but not for her comfort. He wanted to know if she might recover. She was strong, she would recover if it would hurt him.
"Have you no heart?" Karn asked. He leaped into the pit and speared the snake, and then tried to separate it from her heel. She collapsed. She could not see. But she could hear them.
"How long, Karn?" Tarmok repeated.
"I have seen a man bide a day, but the agony...he died in agony. Also, have I seen a man live."
Her teeth were grit in pain.
"She suffers," Tarmok said. "I would have her put out of her misery. She is my sister, and my wife. I would not have her suffer so. It would be inhumane."
Karn held the spear that had freshly killed the cobra, and hesitated. She had been young, and she had been good. He had not believed she was a sorceress. But she had been born under an unlucky star.
"If you will not, old man, I will do this myself. Your sympathy does her no good. She perishes the same. Show her the mercy."
And with that, Karn saw he had no choice. The act was done, and Anna was dead. He bent as if to lift her, but was stopped.
"Do not. Let her lie, as she is. In the morning, I would have this cave sealed. I can not bear what has been done this day." Tarmok covered his face, as if in sorrow, but in truth, this was as he would have it. It was his will.
*****
"The camp lies ahead," Methos told her, gesturing in the distance. She could make out the small collection of tents. She had not known that he rode with a company, the last she had known he was among the mountain people of the north, but things do change. "I told them I had gone to fetch my woman."
"Your woman," Anath-Sin repeated, letting it sink in. This was to be her new role, then. She was Methos' woman. She was unused to the idea. It had been a long time since she had been anyone's woman. She had tried to be her own.
"Yes. You belong to me."
She could then imagine this to be a company of men. She had lived like this before, but it had been a time, a long time. But she would do what she had to do.
She could imagine a worse fate.
The men were what she had expected-the usual band of killers and thieves...human refuse. They might have been good at their task, but there was not a single Immortal among them. She half-wondered where Methos gathered this lot from. They rode right through the middle of the encampment, right to the place where the campfire burned, and the horse was stopped, and they let the company gather around them.
Anath-Sin surveyed them. She would weed the weak ones out if Methos would let her. She had no use for the weak. Only the strong would be permitted to ride with her. She would not have Methos accept less.
*****
She awoke. It was dark, but the moon was bright, and she wondered. Was it a dream? Had the ordeal not occurred? But it was real: she had died, and there was nothing she would remember more clearly. Now she lived. She breathed. And she did not stop to wonder long at what had happened. If the goddess would allow her to live, it could only be for one purpose--
Revenge. Tarmok had made this thing come to pass. And so he should die. She rose, stood on her own two feet, and looked out into the night sky. It bore a promise. She might do many a thing, on a night like this.
*****
The men gathered about them, and Anath-Sin dismounted, standing in the center of them as they looked on her. This was Methos' woman. They did not know what to make of this creature. She was not a graceful thing, only roughly beautiful, but with such wild eyes--
"Methos, this is your bitch?" one man called. "How does she serve you? Will she serve the rest of us?" He laughed, roughly, and Anath-Sin colored. She was not a weakling who suffered insult, nor would she allow the insult to her man. Even now she saw him as her man.
She grabbed the rough creature by the wrist and twisted it behind his back, and held the dagger to his throat. This would not be borne: insubordination. Disrespect.
"I serve Methos well, and I serve him alone," she said, holding the blade to the man's throat and drawing blood. "I would kill for him, if he asked. Methos," and at this, she looked at him. "Would you suffer this insult?"
*****
Tarmok felt the hand over his mouth, and was looking into the torch-lit eyes of Anna, his dead wife, his dead sister. Her look was evil. She was not a ghost. A ghost can not give one pain.
"Brother," she breathed. "You die. In my death, you have sealed your own fate."
She slit his throat. He died, strangling on his own blood. This was a crime the whole tribe shared. Would his blood alone suffice?
It must be all. The Goddess gave her the means. She would do what must be done.
And so the village burned.
*****
Methos looked on her, and smiled. She was back to her old ways-she was herself. He nodded to her.
"This insults myself, and you. This must not be."
And she knew then, that the man she threatened was not well liked, and his death would only cause the men to realize that Methos was the one who controlled things. She sliced cleanly-a sacrifice, as were so many of the deaths she had dealt. Her lips moved in prayer as she shed his blood, but this was how it must be.
And, that night, as she lay beside Methos, she thought of the killing, and she thought of her child. But she had learned to weep silently, and none knew of her sorrow.