No longer under the disarming gaze of those sapphires, Ambrose began to wonder, why had she suddenly become so nice? A horrible suspicion began to nag at him. Was it all just a diabolically ingenious way to humiliate him? Was she trying to draw him into doing something stupid so that she could tear him down? It seemed logical, but he found that he just couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He didn’t want to, and so far, she had given him no reason to.
Suddenly, a little, green note appeared on his lap, delivered by nimble fingers that retreated just as swiftly as they had come.
“Was he right?” it read, written in elegant cursive. Ambrose weighed his options. If he lied and said no, he would probably ruin his chances with an amazing girl, but if he said yes then she would have written proof to embarrass him with if that was what she was trying to do. A solution came to him. Of course he had to take the risk, no way was he going to let such an opportunity go by. Yet, if the reply was in her handwriting, then maybe he could deny it if she showed people.
“Guilty.” he wrote, carefully labouring to perfectly emulate the style. He waited for what seemed like an eternity until Mr. Josephs finally turned around to push it back to her eager hands.
All her fears left her. What she had known for so long was finally confirmed. As he was the one constant in her life, she was the one in his. He may not have recognised her, but something deep within him still loved her. Nothing would ever change that. Soon, she would tell him who he really was and they would leave the miserable town called Hastings, going somewhere, far away, together. For his part, Ambrose felt something that he had not felt for a long time in Mr. Joseph’s history class. Hope.
Sukses bukanlah khayalan semata
- Aldrista, Indonesia
8
A cluster of boys, on the cusp of manhood, sat on an ancient hill overlooking the green forests of Macedonia. Surrounding them were the remains of an ancient temple. White ionian columns reached for the sky. The ceiling that they had once supported lay in ruins around them, becoming benches for the students that now listened intently as old Aristoteles spoke. The hot Mediterranean sun bore down upon them, but they tried to focus on his words. They knew how fortunate they were to be tutored by the wisest man in all the world.
“...and so, we come to the conclusion that it must be the city that is most important. It is above the family, which is in turn, above the individual. The greater good of the whole will always supersede the good of a single man. For what is a man but a tiny part of the city?” the wise man theorised.
Alexandros, golden-haired prince of Macedon, interrupted his teacher, “But, good Aristoteles, what is a city without its men? If the men suffer for the city’s continued prosperity, eventually the city will become weak regardless. Should not every man strive for his own greatness, and in such a way contribute to the power of the city?”
Before Aristoteles could reply, the olive-skinned son of Amyntoros chimed in, “My Prince, if all the men of Macedon fought for their own good, then it would stand to reason that they would not fight your father’s wars. Then, Athens or Sparta or one of the wild Thracian hill tribes would come to our city and enslave us all. Even those that did not fight for Macedon would be taken. This is the only home that our people have ever known and without it, we have nothing. So the men of Macedon fight for their kingdom and only thus preserve its freedom and their own, the most valuable thing that they have.”
“An excellent point young prince, but an even better retort, Hephaestion. Indeed, freedom is the greatest gift that man can possess. The only way to maintain it is if men sacrifice their own wellbeing for the freedom of their city, which is the guarantor of that of its citizens. Only as a collective can man truly be great,” commented Aristoteles.
Jealous of his friend’s success, Alexandros again attempted to impress his teacher, “The Persians fight as a whole. They have no care for their own wellbeing and gladly throw their lives away in the name of their Emperor, who they deem the King of Kings. Yet the Greeks have crushed them every time their hordes have appeared on the horizon. There is no doubt that they are a collective, but are they truly great?”
Again, Hephaestion countered him, “The Persians are slaves to their emperor. They are not free men, as Aristoteles describes. Why would they fight half as fiercely as us when they have never known freedom, and thus cannot understand what it means to lose it? We, on the other hand, are only bound to the city-”
Alexandros interrupted him, seeing an opportunity, “Precisely! We are bound to the city. How is the city any different from an Emperor? Are we not slaves to the city? Why then, would we fight more fiercely than the Persians? It is simple, we have sharper spears, wiser commanders, better men! We are all slaves, but one fine Greek is superior to four Persians. Did the Spartans not show this at Thermopylae? For every fallen man, they slew many a Persian and could have killed many more had they not been betrayed.” The boys around them watched with interest now. They enjoyed it when Alexandros and Hephaestion sparred. Always, the latter won and left the Prince frustrated, but their friendly rivalry was always an entertaining spectacle to behold. Alexandros had a good argument, they thought. Perhaps he would finally humble Hephaestion.
Yet Hephaestion maintained an annoyingly passive demeanour. He calmly replied, “My prince, a city is very different from an emperor. The Persian emperor calls himself God, and his subjects depend utterly on him to guide them. They know nothing of liberty or self-determination. We, however, fight for a city. Though it is ruled by your father, the city constitutes far more than one man. The city is all of its people, and thus if it is free, we are all free. We can choose not to serve the city, but we are better off as a part of it. It is this element of choice that makes us free men, and thus greater than any Persian who bows down to a mortal man with an overblown sense of self-importance.”
Alexandros was stunned into silence as he considered those words. Yet again, he could think of nothing to counter his friend’s argument. His frustration, however, soon gave way to admiration as Aristoteles congratulated Hephaestion on his rhetoric. He joined the thundering applause for his beaming comrade. With men like Hephaestion by his side, he would be King, despite his father’s best efforts. He would definitely be a far greater King than his father. However, Hephaestion was more than a soldier. Alexandros was a natural leader of men and he knew that far more lay behind that beautiful guise. Some strange power radiated from his friend, and it intoxicated him, stirring a fire in the young prince that even now made itself known to him as he looked into those hickory eyes.
Hephaestion had enjoyed that moment of acclaim, which passed as quickly as it had come when Aristoteles once more began to speak. He was intrigued by the young prince. Hephaestion had convinced old, childless Amyntoros to adopt him as his heir. He had quickly become friends with Alexandros, enjoying a friendly rivalry with a mortal who was almost his equal. Almost. No mortal could defeat him, who possessed the strength of ages, in battle. Nor could they hope to match the wisdom that he had obtained over millennia observing them. Only now did he see what made Alexandros special. Where another prince might have envied him and thus began to hate him, he did not see a trace of malice in Alexandros. He saw admiration. He saw a sharp intelligence at work as the young prince scrutinised him. Alexandros was not his equal, but far greater, for Alexandros loved and inspired the men that surrounded him, causing them to adore him. What were all of Hephaestion’s gifts against an army of such men? Such a host could conquer the world.
Hephaestion recalled the debate from moments past and knew then that his friend was not destined to be a mere hill-king, but the true king of kings. Alexandros was not just a man. He was the city.
Ambrose awoke with a start, feeling Courtney nudge him. He had fallen asleep in class again and Mr. Josephs was looking at him suspiciously. He mouthed a silent thank you as she carefully passed him her notes, trying to avoid drawing more attention to them. He started furiously copying her exquisite letters in his usual scrawl as he hur
ried to catch up.
Courtney had been amused at first when she saw Ambrose begin to nod increasingly slowly, look into the distance and eventually close his eyes. Honestly, she could barely stand listening to the ignorant mortal at the front of the room herself. Perhaps in another life she would have had him flogged, she mused. Yet she had sat there, listening to him drone on and on in a voice that gained an ever more monotone quality as time passed. To pass the time, she had begun to keep a record of the inaccuracies in the man’s lecture. She had lived amongst, and come to love, the Lakota people of the Great Plains and it incensed her to hear him speak of them as mere wildlings. Had they not so utterly crushed Custer on the banks of the Little Bighorn, that arrogant fool would have massacred them mercilessly anyways. If anything, the Americans had been the savages, happy to slaughter a free people for the sake of a bunch of useless, yellow metal. Custer was no hero; he was a greedy little man who had received his just due.
Even as Courtney considered those things, Ambrose had begun to talk. He spoke so softly that she had to strain to understand him.
“Alexandros,” he mumbled. Alexandros of Macedon? It had to be. She recalled that vain princeling, who had thought he could conquer the world. It was not a fond memory. She began to ponder the situation. The memories were clearly there, but they were contained in some dark compartment of his immortal mind. Perhaps it would not be wise to unlock it so soon. Perhaps it would be best to let him think that he was a mortal, to let him forget all of the things that had happened so long ago, both joyous and ugly. As mortals, they could start anew. Eventually, she would tell him the truth. By then, she hoped that the mortal love that they would enjoy could give way to an eternity together, as had been destined from that first time when he had held her in his arms and the world was theirs.
Her beauty you could never miss.
Her sweetness you could see from across the skies
Like a rainbow’s pride.
None could miss this beauty.
None has ever missed it.
-For Varsha, India
9
Ambrose and Courtney strolled down the hallway to the economics room in spirited discussion of their shared antipathy towards Augustine Josephs and the subject that he taught. Ambrose was amazed to discover that her course schedule perfectly coincided with his. It was almost like she had done it on purpose. He quickly discarded the thought. He couldn’t possibly be that lucky. Suddenly, he spotted Finn strutting towards them. His portly figure was easily distinguishable even in the throng of students that surrounded them. A sly thought began to form as he remembered how Finn had taunted him during the ride home the previous day.
Quickly, he pulled her into a side passage, earning himself a questioning glance. He winked at her and whispered, “Trust me, this is going to be fun.”
Courtney had seen that look before, and she couldn’t help but grin at the sudden mischief that lit up his features. She nodded, wondering what had triggered it. Ambrose strolled out into the main corridor, trying his best to hide a treacherous smile.
“Hey Finn,” he greeted his friend, trying to sound depressed. As he had expected, Finn’s eyes began to sparkle with an impish joy.
“Ambrose! How are you? Doing Good? Doing Great? I heard your girlfriend’s coming to school now. Oh wait...” he began. He saw Ambrose’s lips begin to twitch, but thought nothing of it. It was a clever tactic, trying to make him think something was up, but it would not save him from the abuse he had planned ever since he’d heard that Courtney Rossborough had enrolled in Hastings High. “I’m sorry Ambrose. Can we hug it out? You can pretend it’s her, just don’t get too creepy on me,” he continued, spreading his arms and walking towards his friend.
“Nah, it’s fine bro,” Ambrose replied, fighting now to maintain a melancholy demeanour.
Finn began to suspect something really was going on. Ambrose’s face had begun to twist with the strain of holding back some sort of emotion. He wondered if he had gone too far, maybe it was too soon? “Are you alright? I’m sorry man, I didn’t think you cared that much,” he offered.
“Nah buddy, it’s all good. There’s someone I’d like you to meet actually.” He looked at Courtney, who sighed in exasperated amusement. As their eyes met, he finally cracked. It started with a low chuckle and gradually, he started to howl as wave after wave of explosive laughter passed through him. Finn experienced a sinking feeling as he realised something had not gone to plan. That sentiment was confirmed as, to Finn’s utter horror, Courtney Rossborough walked up beside Ambrose and extended her elegant hand in greeting. Suddenly, he could feel his cheeks begin to turn a distinct shade of red.
“Hey!” She smiled innocently, as if she had not heard anything. Quickly, he took her hand, shaking it faintly before retreating. He didn’t know how his friend had pulled it off, but he knew that he wouldn’t be coming back from it in a while.
“How are you, Finn? Doing Good? Doing Great?” Ambrose asked, a glint of savage pleasure in his hickory eyes leaving Finn in no doubt that it was just the beginning.
“Fine, ok. I get it. Gotta go to class. See you around. Nice to meet you Courtney!” he conceded the victory to his friend and scuttled off to French, swiftly disappearing into the crowd. Though annoyed at how beautifully Ambrose had outplayed him, he couldn’t help but to admire it. More importantly though, he had always felt a strange sadness in Ambrose, one that he had never been able to explain. He had not wanted to ask, fearing that it would be too personal. With her by his side though, it had been seemingly dispelled. That alone was enough for Courtney Rossborough to gain his approval. Banter aside, he was truly happy for his friend.
Ambrose fought a rebellious smile that only seemed to be getting wider as he continued to savour the utter rout of his friend. Shaking his head at Courtney’s mystified expression, he looked into those sapphires once more, silently imploring her to join in his merriment. His euphoria was so infectious, so irresistible that she couldn’t help but to grace it with her own, brilliant, smile. He had not changed, she reflected, resulting in a burst of joy that widened her grin until she looked just as stupid as Ambrose. Gingerly, he reached out and took her hand, interlocking her soft, ivory fingers with his own. No words had to be spoken to recognise the moment. A miracle had happened for Ambrose d’Artois. She had picked him out almost immediately amongst all others. If it was all an elaborate set up, he was certain that it would be the best bit of cruelty in high school history. He pushed that worry away. For now, things seemed to be genuinely going his way and all he could do was hope that it was real. So they walked to economics, hand in hand, past those whirling masses of lonely people. He felt a sudden warmth begin to stir, deep in his soul. It was so potent that he was sure that she could feel it radiating from within him. He didn’t care. For the first time since he had awakened, Ambrose d’Artois felt at home.
His kindness and love he gave to her
Her soul and vulnerability she gave to him
They gave each-other pieces of themselves
They were joined by flaws and bits of each-other
-Sheyla, United Kingdom
10
“Finally! I swear if I hear one more thing about Euler or de Moivre in the next day, let alone the next hour, someone dies. Who the hell cares! Why will this ever be useful? Why do they even bother teaching us this?” Courtney raged as she and Ambrose left the Math room. It had been a particularly boring class. That old woman, Mrs. Wilson, had droned on and on about some sort of proof until Courtney had simply given up pretending to care. The woman’s horrid, screechy voice didn’t help matters. Courtney had tried to start a game of “chopsticks” with Ambrose under the table, but he actually seemed interested in Mrs. Wilson’s theorems. He seemed to be understanding them, nodding as he stared intently at the blackboard. She hoped that it was just a passing interest that he had picked up in the preceding months. Courtney did not think that she would be able to stand an immortal version of Mrs. Wilson.
&
nbsp; “Well, to be honest, I think it’s pretty cool. Come on, complex numbers are pretty mind blowing. Besides I’m sure you can do some amazing stuff with them later on in life,” Ambrose argued. They were walking down the hallway now, and he was acutely aware of various pairs of eyes staring at them. Some, he noticed, were kind. Others, jealous. Most however, just curious. He reached for her hand again, feeling a flash of embarrassment when he didn’t immediately feel its warmth. It was soon replaced by relief and then delight as he felt her arm circle around his waist. Quickly, he put his own arm around her, gripping her shoulder. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable way to walk, but that didn’t matter. He wanted the world to know that she was his and he was hers. He loved holding her so close, so that the scent of her sweet perfume filled his nostrils with each breath.
“Nerd,” she snorted.
“Can’t deny it! Nerdy and proud,” he declared.
“That is so sad.” She stuck her tongue out at him playfully.
“Well Ms. Rossborough, what is it that you like? It seems that we’ve been talking an awful lot about me recently,” he asked, genuinely interested.
“Well, for one thing, not math!”
“Yes, I think that has been pretty well established,” he laughed, “but surely you must have something that you actually like?”
“I was getting to it! I just wanted to reinforce that you’re a total loser,” she giggled, seeing him roll his eyes. “I love the red roses, pink chrysanthemums, purple orchids, white magnolias and blue water lilies that decorate my gardens. I delight in cooking fine foods with sweet herbs and exotic spices. I enjoy the oil paintings that grace my halls and the music, both merry and melancholy, that fills them during the day. It’s in works of art that I think people are truly free. When people can create their own beauty, they leave an eternal mark on anyone who experiences it.”
An Immortal Dance Page 6