An Immortal Dance

by Alastair Fontaine

  “Yeah, she totally noticed, but didn’t care because your snores were keeping the rest of the class wide awake,” she teased.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad!” he exclaimed, looking at her in utter horror. Did he really snore that loudly? How embarrassing.

  “If you say so…” Courtney giggled as a grey-haired waitress arrived.

  “They’re working on the Paella; it will be here in a bit. In the meantime, would you two like something to drink?” the waitress asked, looking fondly at the young couple.

  “Water’s fine, thanks,” Courtney replied.

  “Hmm… and I’ll have an apple juice please,” Ambrose added.

  “Alright, I’ll be right back,” the waitress said, promptly making her departure.

  “Apple juice? Isn’t that for little kids?” Courtney mocked him.

  “Say what you want but it is amazing.”

  “Mhm. Anyways, let’s talk about something interesting.”

  “You have a way of making anything interesting… even world politics. I am so sorry my dad dragged you into that discussion.”

  “It’s totally fine. I actually found it somewhat interesting.”

  “You definitely stumped my dad on global warming.”

  “To be honest, I don’t think he was very informed on the topic.”

  “I wasn’t really following most of the conversation. I kinda zoned out for the first bit. What do you mean?”

  “Well, he was talking about how India and China keep refusing to sign international treaties to reduce carbon emissions. I don’t see how it’s their fault when Western companies keep sending their manufacturing jobs to them. Also, countries like this one totally prospered on dirty fuel, and they did it pretty cheaply. It’s not fair that so-called ‘developing’ nations have to take a slower and more expensive route to success,” she argued.

  “That totally makes sense.”

  “Yeah, and then we moved on to his problem with charity.”

  “He gave you that speech? I am so sorry.”

  “Actually, I totally agreed. Too many people like to go around touting their charitable donations to the starving children of some distant country. In the end, sure, they feed and clothe a bunch of people. Yes, a few lucky kids get an education-”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. I am saying, though, that it could be better. Think about it. Why give to charity when you can invest in people instead, with the expected return being that they’ll never need to ask for charity again? Your dad’s right. It really is the difference between carrying someone and helping them to stand. If you carry them, you’ll eventually have to drop them.”

  “Oh? Looks like I have a smart girlfriend. Lucky me.” Ambrose chuckled. He looked away, noticing that the cottage was rapidly filling up as more patrons filed steadily in. Her words had triggered a memory. “You know, I actually had the weirdest dream about India last night.”

  “Hmm?” Courtney tried to veil her sudden interest, but she could not hide the glint in her sapphire eyes as he continued.

  “Well, I was this ancient Indian general, Bairam Khan. I won an insane battle: cannons, elephants, horses, you name it. I was fighting on behalf of a boy, Akbar, who was supposed to be some sort of emperor. I was gonna look it up, but it totally slipped my mind,” he rambled, regretting his words as he realized how lame they sounded. At least he’d known enough to spare her the gory details before their meal. To his amazement, she did not awkwardly attempt to move on.

  “Bairam Khan wasn’t technically Indian, silly. He was a warrior from Afghanistan, part of an army that eventually conquered India and formed the Mughal Empire. Akbar was one of their greatest emperors and Bairam Khan was chosen as his regent during his youth. Did you by any chance cut someone’s head off in your dream?”

  “How did you know?” he gasped, astounded.

  “After Bairam Khan won the second battle of Panipat for Akbar, he cut the enemy general’s head off so that he would never threaten the young emperor again.”

  “So I dreamt up a battle that I didn’t even know about…?”

  “Spooky, right? Oh, food’s here!” she observed. The waitress had arrived with the paella at an opportune time. She set down the plate in front of them, and Ambrose forgot his shock. Courtney sighed in relief, the conversation was getting uncomfortably close to the truth.

  “The drinks are coming,” the waitress informed them, and departed again. Quickly, they dug into the sumptuous feast in front of them, once again making short work of it. By the time she returned, it was all gone, leaving the woman dumbfounded. Jeremy hadn’t been kidding when he said those kids ate fast.

  “So, where do you wanna go now?” Ambrose asked, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin as the waitress took their empty plates.

  Courtney began to hum, “Do you want to build a snowman…”

  ***

  “That is the sexiest snowman I have ever seen,” Ambrose observed, admiring his creation.

  “Oh, definitely,” Courtney solemnly agreed. “A real twenty out of ten.”

  Truly, their construct was magnificent, but perhaps not in the way he had originally imagined it. Rather, it looked more like a piece of abstract art. The sphere forming the snowman’s face was misshapen, and their attempts to carve facial features into it with their fingers had left it looking more like the survivor of a plastic surgery gone horribly wrong. Its midsection had proved unable to support the two brittle wooden sticks that acted as its arms. They had simply fallen through its sides, leaving cruel gashes where they had passed. Still, it had been a labour of love, he told himself.

  “You know what would make it better though?” she continued.

  “What?”

  “If it was put to good use!” she cried out, grabbing a piece of the deformed snowman’s shoulder. Before Ambrose could react, she threw it into his shocked face and ran for cover behind a nearby tree.

  “How could you? We put so much work into that,” Ambrose moaned, before he too mutilated his handiwork and dashed towards her, intent on swift vengeance. So they ran, whooping wildly into the morning air and leaving small prints in the thickening snow until, at last, he caught up to her in an open field covered by a splendid layer of white. She squealed in delight as he put his arms around her. Then, she felt a sudden force push them to the ground. Aghast, she turned to look at their attacker.

  “Ronald? What the hell?”

  “I saw him chasing you. Don’t worry, I’m here,” he said, oblivious to her fury. “Stay down, you bastard. No one’s here now and I won’t hold back.”

  “Are you stupid, or just dumb? Did you not see us laughing and throwing snowballs at each other? What the hell is wrong with you?” Courtney stormed. Only now did Ronald realise that perhaps he had misjudged the situation. He fervently hoped that she was just scared and taking it out on him. Then, he stopped thinking as he was tackled to the ground. Ambrose was on him, landing punch after punch all over his scrawny body.

  “Stop! Stop! Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I got it all wrong,” Ronald screamed, but Ambrose was beyond reason. Not only had Ronald ruined a beautiful moment with the girl that he loved, but he had also insinuated that Ambrose would have harmed her. He had gone too far. Again and again Ambrose slammed his fists into him, connecting with soft flesh wherever he could find an opening, enjoying the sounds Ronald made as he began to wail. Only when he felt a soft hand on his shoulder did he finally relent. Shaking, he stood, allowing that ivory hand to lead him away from the stricken figure of Ronald Campbell.

  “Leave. Us. Alone,” he growled, and the couple turned away, leaving Ronald panting, utterly beaten, in the snow. Ronald lay there for a few minutes before the cold forced him to pick himself up. He was sure that his body would be covered with bruises the following day. That was his reward for trying to help a lady. He had seen Ambrose chasing her. It had been an honest mistake. As he began the long, and painful, trek home, he imagi
ned a thousand ways he could have won that fight. Ambrose had gotten lucky. He had sucker punched him while he was making sure the girl was alright. Next time, it would be Ambrose who suffered, he told himself. Courtney as well. First, she had humiliated him and now she had purposely drawn him in so that her boyfriend could beat him up. Ronald Campbell would not be taken for a fool again.

  Humanity is lost.

  Hate was created by humans.

  And it can be destroyed by them.

  The weapon?

  Love toward one another.

  -Muri, Lebanon

  14

  Babylon. There was nothing like it in the world. Alexandros may have had his capital in the hills of Macedon, but Babylon was the crown jewel of the empire. Magnificent Pella, made rich by the conquests of her most favoured son, could not compete with the wonder of Babylon. How he would miss it. Alexandros had given him no choice but to flee. He had to leave his fine palace and his beloved Alexandros. He had to leave and never return. Soon, Hephaestion, Chiliarch of Macedon, would be no more.

  He sat on a bed of furs, knowing that it was the last time in a long while that he would enjoy such comfort. Carefully, he slid a whetstone down the edge of his kopis, sharpening it. The sword had been a faithful friend, riding with Hephaestion to many a savage battle. It had served Alexandros well, cutting down hundreds of his enemies and carving his name into eternity. None could stand against them in those glorious days. Greeks and Persians alike had been cut down by its cruel blade. It had rested at the throats of Kings, ending their bluster and pleas for mercy at the whim of the lord of Macedon.

  Now, it served only Hephaestion. No, not Hephaestion. He would have to find a new name. He would have to travel West, out of Alexandros’ reach. The unknown wilderness of the Occident awaited him, far removed from the fertile, prosperous lands of the East. He knew that he could not return to Mesopotamia as long as the golden sun of Macedon flew over its cities. Regardless, he found himself hoping that Macedon would forever stand as a strong bastion of civilization in the human world. Though he might disappear, Hephaestion would live on with Alexandros in the histories of the empire that they had built. He only wished that he could have stayed with his beloved sovereign until the end. Just a few more decades, to see his reign through.

  The luxurious palace of the Chiliarch of Macedon was gone. He found himself holding his kopis, standing beside his beloved in a circle of grim, armoured figures. It was nearing dusk. Long grass surrounded the occasional short tree with long branches supporting an unkempt green mess. A thin trail of smoke came from the centre of a huddle of wooden cottages far away. Cattle roamed the pasture, oblivious to the scene that had sent their owners bolting towards their homes.

  “My lord Chiliarch, we beg of you, come with us. The Basileus is distraught at your absence and would have you return. Our liege forgives your desertion. Furthermore, he is willing to allow the girl to live and go her own way,” appealed their leader, an officer wearing a bronze helmet with red plumes protruding in a crescent around the top.

  “Leave us. We have tolerated you thus far, out of pity and the love that he whom you call Hephaestion bears for you. No more. Press us further and you shall awake a wrath not seen since the days when you were but hairless apes,” she growled. Her words radiated pure venom. Her sapphire eyes flashed with rage as she surveyed the soldiers, showing no fear as they levelled their spears.

  The officer ignored her, addressing him directly, “Would you leave your friend and monarch, who loves you so, for a girl? Would you die for her? Think man. You are our Chiliarch and we would see you back in your rightful place at the Basileus’ side. You have led us to many a victory. You are a hero to our children and a legend throughout the empire. Please do not force us to harm you. If you resist, she will die.”

  “You are Peithon, son of Mitron?” he who had once been Hephaestion asked.

  “Yes, my lord. I am humbled that you recognise me.”

  “My dear Peithon, we will not be going back. Please, I do not wish to harm you. Go back to Alexandros and tell him that you did not see us. I beg of you,” he implored.

  “I am sorry. I cannot do that. My loyalty is to the Basileus and his orders were clear.”

  A crimson haze came over them. He saw flashing spears and dying men, fear and anger still on their faces as they drew their final breaths. Around him, the vile smell of carnage pervaded the air and the cries of the fallen formed a doleful melody. He looked at his hands, stained with the blood of the sons of Macedon. His eyes met the sapphires that he so loved, now filled with a deadly rage. She grinned viciously as she whirled amongst their attackers, shedding blood wherever she went. Suddenly, he realised that she was not alone. He too had been partaking in that deadly dance. The golden hilt of his kopis protruded from the breast of Peithon, son of Mitron. He looked into the eyes of a man who had once admired him, and perhaps still did. He pulled the sword from the body of the officer, seeing that familiar mixture of fury and shock as life deserted him. He heard his last gasp, a vain struggle for air as he fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. Then, his soul was once again claimed by a berserk wrath.

  When he returned to his senses, only his beloved still stood. Broken forms littered the field. He looked at men who had once been brothers to him, now just corpses to be buried by strangers. Grief engulfed him as the full realisation of what he had done dawned on him. He looked at her, seeking a reason to justify the massacre. Her rage had subsided, and now she held him close, reflecting his sorrow in her own eyes.

  “I am truly sorry, my love. I wish it had not turned out like this,” she said.

  “Alexandros’ jealousy knows no bounds. He sent these men to their deaths. He knows what I am capable of,” he lamented, disgust and misery mingling in his heart.

  “That is why we had to leave. He would never have let us be. You know that I would have stayed in Babylon for you, but even we cannot stand against all of his armies. He would have sent dozens more to be slaughtered, and then hundreds more, until at last, they overwhelmed us.”

  “And I will follow you into the cold forests beyond Scythia, my princess. I will forsake civilisation so that we may be together, just as I forsook these men. I loved them, and I love Alexandros, but know this: I am bound to you in ways that they cannot hope to understand. Neither time nor distance will ever truly separate us. I would murder thousands more of my brothers in arms, tear down the empire and yes, even destroy Alexandros, if they stood in the way of our union,” he declared, his voice reverberating with passion. Tears began to fall in streams down his olive cheeks and he dropped to the floor. She followed him, taking him in her arms and pressing her cheek to his chestnut hair. Long they sat there, while he wept for a life that was forever lost to him, two immortals in the midst of the dead.

  When they finally stood, it was with steel in their eyes. Never again would he weep for Babylon or the blood of his brothers. They looked to the West, where a new life waited. She would teach him to love the wildlings outside the borders of wealthy Macedon. They would wander those new lands where tribes lived rough lives, but were free of the yoke of empire. Most importantly, they could be together there, safe from those who would try to force them apart. They began to walk towards the horizon.

  “Stop! Please,” croaked a voice behind them. One of the soldiers. He sported a long gash on his side, but had managed to drag himself on top of a dead comrade. He raised a trembling hand in their direction. “Please, send me to my brothers. I have seen now that you must be Gods. Please, have mercy, divine majesties. Grant me swift passage to Hades.”

  The wounded soldier had seen his entire company decimated by the Chiliarch and his woman. He thought that they were Gods. Yet he still had the courage to ask them for a quick death. He who had once been Hephaestion was touched by the man’s valour. He unsheathed his kopis once more, preparing to fulfil the last request of an old comrade. The soldier closed his eyes, bracing for the final blow that would send him to Elysium. />
  “Thank you, my Chiliarch.” His voice was almost a whisper.

  The kopis rose high into the air, catching the last rays of sunlight. Its owner steeled himself and it began its swift descent.

  “WAIT!” a shout rang out. The blade stopped a few inches from the soldier’s neck.

  “My love?” he looked at her imploringly.

  “What is your name, soldier?” she asked, her voice full of divine authority.

  “Archelaos, my lady.”

  “Archelaos, you shall live this day. You shall return to your wife and watch your children grow old.” She cut a long piece of cloth from the tunic of a nearby corpse and tied it around the wounded soldier, stemming the bleeding. “Wait here for the villagers to come. They will surely arrive to investigate when they see that we have left. Recover. When you are well enough, you will go back to Alexandros and tell him that we are dead. You will not speak a word of what you have seen. Disobey me and only Tartarus will await you in the afterlife, understood?”

  Under that fierce, blue gaze, he could only nod meekly, “Yes, my lady.”

  “Come now. Let us leave this place.” She turned away from the wounded mortal and took the hand of her beloved. He took one last look at a man who had once been his brother, and allowed her to lead him away. It had been clever of her, for now Alexandros would stop chasing them. He wondered if the soldier would take credit for their supposed deaths. Probably. The poor man would expect a reward. Instead, he suspected that Alexandros would kill the fool out of grief. He sighed. Alexandros had offered him a love that few would refuse. With Alexandros, there had lain a chance to write history. However, he could not help his irrational heart. His place was next to those wild, sapphire eyes, as it had always been. Hand in hand, they walked towards the horizon once more. Neither of them looked back.

  The scene dissolved, and he found himself in another world, a different man. A great, wooden longship waited at a crude dock. Her curved prow rose towards the radiant sky, tipped with a proud serpent’s head that faced the eternal sea in furious defiance. She had weathered many great storms and brutal battles, but not once did she ever falter in her duty to the warriors that entrusted their lives to her. Fifteen oars protruded from each side, resting gently on calm waves. A gentle breeze blew against a single, square sail attached to a tall mast and carried the scent of the sea towards the onlookers on the shore. The sail was white but for a golden star painted on its centre and made from rough, wool cloth. A fitting design for the day. Midsumarblot had finally arrived, the day when the sun reigned supreme in the heavens and night cowered far beyond the horizon. On that day, the Víkingr celebrated Baldr, son of Odin, the King of the Gods. According to legend, Baldr was the God of purity, innocence and joy, a radiant favourite in the divine court of Valhöll. They loved him dearly in the cold, Northern lands, for he was beauty, a rarity in their rough lives.