Disclaimer: Not mine in any way.
Notes: This story was written as a "first kiss" challenge response for Unovis. It is set in November of 885 when Vikings lay siege to Paris. Original formatting may not transfer correctly here. You may also read the story at the Highlander Fanfiction Archive or my LJ. Finally, Kathmandu is called "Yen" in Nepal Bhasa, the language of the Newars.

East Wind

A bitter wind nips at Darius through his cassock and cloak. Winters here remind him of his youth and the time before he knew of Immortality. A time when he was ignorant of so many things in this wide, wide world. He might go so far as to call the young man from those days innocent, but he is not so much a liar as that.

"You are leaving?"

"I did not intend to stay this long. You should come with me. There is an ill wind, Dareios. The mortal Northmen know nothing of the Game and have no respect for holy ground."

He rubs his hands together and sees fingers not his own -- long fine-boned hands of agile strength. It has been six months since Mataios left, bedroll slung across his shoulders and a sword riding his hip. How far away would they be now if he had said yes? How far from the siege?

"I see no value in sacrificing my head for the ideals of love and forgiveness. The longships will come whether you be here or not. Is it not a better thing to withdraw and live to fight another day?"

"I fight no more, Mataios. There is nothing in it but blood and pain."

"On that, if nothing else, we are in perfect agreement."

Darius moves quietly among the injured mortals giving what comfort he may. Each day a few more die. Each night new bodies replace the old. The Vikings, unable to destroy the bridges swiftly, have come ashore to entrench and provision. He understands the tactics they use. In the past they were his own. In those days he relished the pain and fear he caused; now he feels sorrow tinged with a combination of guilt and regret.

"Tell me, how will you spread the message of peace when your tongue is taken from your mouth? Will your God be served by the loss of your quickening? They will come to siege and slaughter. They will burn and pillage and rape. They will take all of value and may your God have mercy on those who stand between them and their goal."

"You think I do not know this?"

"Then hear me, man, and come away! They will die one way or another; you cannot save them. You may only stand over their graves or die with them!"

There is an air of mystery that clings to his sometimes-friend -- one of secrets hidden behind shrewd eyes and cunning tongue. It is easy to dismiss him, wearing as he does the mask of youth, but Mataios is most certainly very old. How old Darius is unsure though he catches signs and portents of ancient ways in glimpses of scratches on paper or from comments made in passing. It comes also from address. Mataios uses the archaic Greek pronunciation for the Great Darius, King of Persia and Egyptian Pharaoh, when he speaks the name.

"There are things in this world, Dareios: people and cultures; philosophies and mysteries; medicines and knowledge lost and regained and lost again. I have seen magnificent structures built from the wood of a single tree that have stood for a thousand years; sand cover over monuments that took centuries to build; water rise to cover over land and fall back again. I have heard men speculate on more things in heaven than you know of, and Christ is not the only one to preach the cause of peace. Think of what you might learn -- might discover and share with these mortals you care for so much -- and ask yourself if remaining here in the midst of this petty squabble between warlords will truly serve the greater good."

The sun is long down when he sinks onto his bed; a pallet in a small cell of the hospice attached to the damaged basilica where he says Mass. It is a far cry from the luxury of his past as a conqueror and ruler of men. They shared this space for four nights and the smell of him had lingered until Darius, out of frustration, changed out the straw and beat the blankets in the sun a week later. Now, in the darkness, a part of him longs for the comfort of that lingering scent; a body next to his. It is a carnal wish in every sense.

"What you say seems reasonable and logical, but it is based in a belief I do not share. You believe that no one man may change the world; that the individual is of no consequence. Each life is important, Mataios. If I withdraw, if I do not try to help these people, who will remain?"

"General, I thought you had left your days of vanity and pride behind you. One man may change the world? You think you can be the One?"

"I think only God knows the answer to that question."

He replays their conversation in his mind and wonders if they will meet again. Until their parting he had never before thought of Mataios in such a way -- had never looked at him and considered the refinement of his features, noticed the peculiar color of his eyes, or felt the unexpected surge of attraction that radiated between them -- and now that he is gone it seems that all Darius can do is think of those eyes and how they shifted to a stormy green flecked with gold.

"Will you leave holy ground to help them?"

"Perhaps."

"Then come with me. Learn and help others instead."

"Mataios…"

"Damn you, man, do you not see? You are too important to lose!"

"First you chide me for vanity and now you play upon my ego?"

"You are such a fool! Not them, Dareios, to me! You are too important to me!"

When he wakes in the icy chill of the pre-dawn air, his breath forming small barely visible puffs of white, he can still feel the softness of Mataios' lips on his own. Was it a gambit designed to coax him away, or had the man really meant his frustrated declaration of feeling? Not since Grayson has Darius called another Immortal brother in the manner he has Mataios. It has been just as long since he has felt such deep desire and kinship for another. As the cock crows out the rising of the sun, Darius feels restless need. He is sick at heart. All this war and death for naught. The Vikings may destroy the bridges or the Franks may hold the Seine. It makes no difference.

He makes no difference.

"Be my brother."

"I am your brother."

"Then let me be your sword and shield. Your companion."

"Tell me, Mataios, where could we go that is any different than this place?"

"East. Over the mountains to Yen."

"So far?"

"Greece is no longer safe and I know of no other place I might call home."

"Could this not be your home?"

His lips move, forming the words of morning office, as he lies prostrate against stone. Ice numbs his cheek where weeks ago Mataios held his face -- warm and cradled in long-fingered, sword-calloused hands -- while they kissed. Behind closed lids he does not see the figure of Christ on the cross this morning. Instead, the silhouette of a melancholy Immortal in the arch of a doorway fills his mind. How he longs now for some sign his friend is safe.

"Peace with you, Mataios."

"And also with you, my brother. I hope, for your sake, your God will grant it."

Lonely but full of hope, Darius offers up a prayer on the east wind for Mataios' return. The flicker of these mortal lives extinguishes like the guttering flame of an oilless lantern leaving behind little more than crumbling edifices, but each soul is a soul worth saving. Darius knows his friend may be right -- perhaps he cannot change the world himself -- but he can try. That, and love, is all any man can ever do, mortal or Immortal. He would tell Mataios that if he could.

oO0Oo