Disclaimer: Being Human characters belong to Toby Whithouse. This being said, nothing prevents scholars to search the realm of "what if". W Herrick claim his kin has spoken to Pharaohs as their equals. What if indeed, how History would be written; knowing what we know and what we shall never know. Homage.
She runs. She runs as fast as she can. She runs like her life depends on it. She runs even if she is normally not a runner. She has never been trained to run. She does not run because she walks graciously, she walks aloof; she is even known to walk angry. But running is not something she does…normally. Since "they" came back, since "they" returned, she has changed her appearance. She is now dressed like everybody, her hair is cut short; she has painted tattoos on her arms to cover her telling-tale ones. She is like everybody now, she is just a nobody. Nobody to tell who she is really; nothing to give her away. She knows that the very second they know who she is, they will kill her. The orders are clear, if "they" find her or any people like her, they are to be killed. Immediately, not interrogated, not transported. Killed on the spot.
They knew retribution would be coming from overseas. As soon as their headquarters would be informed of their uprising; they would make sure the rebellion would be crushed down forever. Even someone like her, just a trainee, just an apprentice would be a target. She knew too much; she was the living memory of her people. People without memory are easy to conquer, easy to lead. Cattle… She is the Memory; she is a lot of things. A healer, a scholar. Poems and battle cries are read by her; the courses of stars are explained by her and her memory. Her memories; the memory of the elders and her own. The memory she would have passed on to others like her…
She runs. She runs up ward, to the North. The North is savage, wild, but it is free. "They" fear the North; they can invade so much. They have to stop somewhere. Somewhere toward the North. That is why she runs up North, to Freedom. To pass her memory to those Northerners. Those free men. The memory of her people will become a part of the Northerners history. She is not afraid of their reputation of savagery. Firstly, she is a poet and poets have nothing to fear from swords. Those Southerners, now, they have killed so many people, so many readers, poets, healers. So many soldiers, warriors, women and children, all lost souls for sheer stupid conquests. The Northerners respect her People; she will obey their own readers, their own memory carriers. She smiles, she is fearless. She has seen in the stars her way and her way has replied her memory will not be lost. But it will not come easy. Such is life. Life is not easy.
By now, she should have heard or seen some other runners. The runners who started with her, running in every direction to distract "them". The ones who willingly sacrificed their lives so she could live and transmit the memory. Silence in the woods. She knows they are gone. Gone, missed, but not forgotten. She knows how to call them back. The stars have taught her which day, which night are good to call the spirits back. "They" call them ghosts. Pitiful Southern Bastards. They are simply gone behind the veil; they are alive…in the mist. They are hidden, but they are alive and she knows how to summon them. For they are kind. They are not to be feared. They are not lamiae or ghouls. Now ghouls and lamiae are what you get when you are evil, when your heart is black. Blacker than an anvil!
She is alone, but she carries on running. Legs are hurting, but she has picked up along the way the plants to strengthen her heart, the fruits to fight the cramps, the leaves to gladden her soul. For she has reasons to weep. Deep inside, she knows that her people, all her people are dead. Dead the elders, dead her parents and brothers, her friends. Dead is not her heart; fiery is her soul. She will live; she will tell and share her memory. Her people are going to live forever. The Northerners will make sure "they" cannot cross over the rivers and the vales. The forests are going to be deadly and that will not be because of the wolves and the "other" creatures of the night. Yesterday was a full moon, an advantage "they" have taken to track her people down, her tired exhausted people. Her people were not involved in the rebellion, but they are like the rebels. Hence they have to die. They had to die. Their stories had to die. Their story will not die. Her hand grasps the long dagger. No one will humiliate, capture or kill her. If she goes, it will be her way, her choice…
She goes, she runs deeper in the forest. The North is very far. How is she going to reach its border without help? She needs help. Help, now. She hears the birds; she hears the silence of the birds. The wild boar which path she has crossed is her ally, so is the wild bull. The powerful animals are going to get in the way of her pursuers. They know her heart; they know she has never spilt blood and that she worships the great spirits of Nature. "They" are going to be delayed, hindered by the sacrifice of the beasts. Beasts who are not, which beasts are not, but who, now, for the time being, are the bodies of her lost people. "They" think themselves civilized; they think her people are nothing but savages. They know nothing. They do not read the stars which tell of the coming anger of the mountain of fire in less than twenty years; they do not even know of the Western Great Isle…
She runs. She is tired, all her body aches; but she runs. She prays. Somewhere, somehow in this forest, there must be someone to help her out. Before she runs out, before she is captured. Before she kills herself to avoid capture. Because she will not share her memory, because she will not tolerate to see her memory, the memory of her people soiled by "them". Because Death is sometimes the most honourable way out. Because courted Death can be like a lovely maiden eager to run toward her bridegroom arms. Chosen Death is a way to protect her people. From dishonour, from a fate worse than Death.
He wakes up. Again. Again someone has been killed, somewhere. If it is some wild beast, it is not a problem. But if it is a human, somewhere people are in tears. Because of him. That is why he has retired far, deep in the forest. To put no people at risk. To put anymore people at risk. The elders say it is not one's fault to be scratched. The elders said. Because there are no more elders. His people have been discarded, erased. Not by him, this is the only blessing of this new life. "They" have destroyed his people, killed every and each of his people; including the readers, the poets. His people were not angry at him; they accepted the spirit of the wolf in him. He would be a berserker, and when the moon would near fullness as a woman ready to give birth, he would go deep in the forest or be driven to a cave until next morning they would roll out the big stones and free him. His people are dead, the reader is dead and so is the memory of his people. Only he survives…because of the Wolf spirit.
This is ironic. Some old crone was killed by a wolf. A posse of hunters was sent to clear the woods from the wolves pack and they found …a wolf indeed. They killed him, naturally. Too late they realized it was a man-wolf; that was when he got scratched. The curse was on him; but the elders were not worried. To have a wolf warrior is not a bad thing; especially in those troubled times when the Southerners are coming like locusts! When "they" came, he has fought along his friends. All his people, his parents, his friends have been slaughtered; a few had hoped for slavery; but even that was refused to the children. Not that they would have survived long in the mines.
Only he has been spared. Would not have been spared if the dark man in the gaudy dress and robes had not whispered in their leader ears about him. He knows it was about him as the leader was inclined at first to say NAY. He should not have been spared; he should have died, by his friends' side. That was honourable; he would have been remembered as a warrior, not as a man-wolf. A shape-shifter. A berserker. All was more honourable than…this. He was charged with chains, put into a ridiculously small cage on wheels and rolled out. "They" had washed their hands from him. He expected to become another temporary event in their big rings. A fighter against other fighters. Though from the beginning, he could feel something was wrong with the heavily tanned man.
He knows now there are tanned people and dark people. His people do not know the people of the great Southern continent. But he knows; he has met others, like him. He has seen one ring and what the dark man with the dark eyes does; the dark people with the black orbs and the long fangs. Running slaves armed with a single dagger against men-wolves. Poor slaves, poor brothers. He had seen it all; tomorrow was going to be his big day. The black eyed ones had told him he was to go along another like him and slaughter a few humans; to spice it up they were going to add a bear from the German forests. He was not going to give in. the other men-wolves had agreed. They would not hurt any humans anymore. If blood was going to be spilled, it would be the blood of the black-orbs people. Those monsters are strong, but they are no match to the warriors of his country. Fair enough many, about all were killed, but he has managed to escape.
He is free and he has the memory of his people. If only he could meet a reader, he could transmit the knowledge. But then every full moon, he would carry on being a monster. Better be lost in the deep forest, far from humanity; better disappear than put people lives at risk from him. The fanged ones have tried to run after him; they were laughable attempts. He runs fast, he knows the forest. They call him savage, they were savages, breaking branches, noisy hunters, revealing more about themselves than their game would ever reveal about him.
He is free and he is lonely. Alone. No maiden to share his couch, no more children to look forward to, one day. No more story, no more people, no nothing…
Too bad, too bad and frustrating. He is not happy, he is very unhappy. He had it all planned and those stupid thick barbarians have spoilt his plans. Since his own country has been invaded by those barely educated "barbaroi" and that includes those mincing Greeks, he and his people have been obliged to start it all over again. Mixing with the powerful, bending their backs to hide their eyes, smiling with hands covering barred fangs, climbing back to power against all odds behind the Emperor, the power behind the curtains. Managing fun games and Seth knows how those Romans like their games. Now the Greeks, the Egyptians they never ever favoured the type of games he likes. The Romans uncouth as they are, favour venationes. Since he has visited Rome, he has helped to and helped himself to those games. He chooses who dies in the arena, and he keeps for him the dogs. My, my, who knew there are so many dogs in the barbaroi forests? They call them wolf-warriors. Silly buggers…
He let the Romans have their gladiator games; he has his own ring with healthy young dogs, mostly males which is curious. Seth decides; Seth, blessed Him, knows better than him. Seth knows all. Seth, whose realm was almost destroyed by the lunatic believer in Aton. That Pharaoh was …evil. He made sure Seth temples were closed. Among those of Ra and Amon; but the target was Seth. Akhenaton is dead. Caesar rules now. The name of the ruler has changed. He is still there.
The dogs fight, they kill the slaves. They are strong; but they do not like it. Since when his people should pay attention to the like and dislikes of dogs…
Some Western barbaroi having dared to revolt against the might of Rome, soldiers were sent to quell the rebellion. He does not like boats; he does not like the Roman navy. Boats are dangerous, tempests happen then nothing is found ever. Many vampires have launched a well planned silent invasion of those isles and never to be seen again. The Greeks say it is because of the mermaids. Do sea people exist? Why not! He exists. Seth would like the idea of sentient fish! Sobek exists, why not Sirens!
He survived the crossing; a lot better than the Gaul crossing. So many dogs, that was interesting. Too many dogs, that was dangerous. The human Gauls are sullen, they do not like Romans, they do not care for vampires and they like their dogs. They hunt their own dogs to be fair; but it is them who are the hunters, for they hunt also vampires and "things happen, Sir". They also like forests, though not as badly as the Germans. Since he has set foot in Ostia, he cannot believe it. This continent is teaming with dogs. Which is fascinating and his last papyrus has clearly advised his coven to gather their belongings and move in with the new kid on the block.
Vampires like him, love the cities. They do not like the dark forests. Forests which are full of dogs. He is making, thus, an exception. It has got his attention that dogs are to be found in the wilderness. The generals have been sent to calm down the Britons, those damned Iceni, that red headed bitch Boadi…whatever outlandish name it is, she is now no more. At the same time, the legions have settled some scores and sorted out a few tribes who just happened to be in the way on the very angry Romans. "They" had seen what the rebel tribes had done to the colons settled around Londinium and decided to avenge the Eagles. That is how he found this luscious Briton dog. The dog had rejoined his likes in the kennel. But the dogs had decided to rebel also. This island was teeming with undutiful slaves. Result: all the dogs carefully selected dead, and his last acquisition on the run. Try and find a needle in those forests…
No choices but go along as special councillor to the Tribune and try and find other dogs. Meanwhile have fun and enjoy the way the Roman Tribune got rid of the rebel tribes and their druids. Funny priests. Male and female alike. No temple, though. They do not worship Seth; that would be a miracle. They pray trees or water springs; they pray boars or bulls like Apis. They have a gold sickle, they have an amazing memory. A memory much better than his own! All their tribe history is enclosed in their heads; and they are doctors, poets, astronomers. They see the future, they speak to the dead; they see the dead and they know him for who he is. The Roman Senate, the Emperor, they are damn well right; let's kill all those nosey druids!
Stupid human, stupid druid or is it druidess? The woman has escaped the legionaries. She is running, he is running after her. He was peckish with that exercise; he had despatched the 3 human soldiers who were with him. If there is blood on his robes, he can plead the onslaught of rebellious Britons. He must find the woman, the girl and sort her out before she informs the other tribes, the humans. He is too deep in the forest, too deep in the Island. If she makes it and informs the tribes…he knows he will not survive. He barely survived Gaul because he boarded in time the naval onslaught. No Briton must know he is a vampire, no Briton dog must know he is alone without the protection of the Roman Legion. He runs after the human; he has found her track; the smell of her blood is unmistakable. She must have scratched her fair skin when she fell over that stone. This is the end of the game. His fangs are out, he is not afraid of showing his black orbs…
She runs, she is exhausted. The last straw was when she fell and cut her cheek on the big stone. She runs because she has to, because she must. Her heart is ready to give out. She runs but she is short, she is going to fall soon. Her hand grasps the dagger, the dagger gives her strength. The birds do not sing, the forest is silent. She knows the Romans are on her; or rather one of them is on her. The others are dead since a long time. She does not understand why the tanned man has killed them, but she knows he is evil. She knows because she is a druid, she speaks to the people on the other side of the Sidh, she rejoices at Samhain; she sees and speaks to the Dead. Her pursuer is an Un-Dead. She has heard of his kind. She must warn the Northern Tribes. Men-wolves are one thing; those people are human most of the time and they are happy to be buried alive when comes the full moon. They are noisy , they are bloody brutes and killers, then the next morning , they are found sleeping like babies and they are good and strong warriors too. Mostly they are human; if they are cursed it is not their fault. It is the Gods decision to have made berserkers. She runs; she could do with the protection of such a warrior.
It has started by a faint noise, which has steadily grown noisier. Broken branches, halted running, hesitating steps, panting, running, panting. He can almost hear the heart. It is human, yet it is like an exhausted outrun doe. Or a terrified mare. Fighting but outrun. What is the blasted woman doing in the woods? There are wolves, real wolves. If she persists in running deeper toward him, he has no choice but meeting her to protect the stupid girl from the real danger. Thanks to the Gods, he is human today; yesterday he would have killed her… He walks quietly toward her; she is so exhausted she is almost turning into a circle. What is she doing? She is crazy…or suicidal. His ears have picked up the other noises, the other broken branches and he freezes. He knows that noise; that was the noise of a black orbs creature. Is he going to be hunted again? The fanged one is not after him; he is after the human doe. That settles it for him.
He can accept to be a berserker, he can accept to go to the caves every full moon, and howl like a demonic beast. He has killed no human yet, he will not. He will not accept to see a human killed by the fanged ones. The Romans are fools, they have brought back from their Egyptian colony vampires and vampires are going to spread all over the Celtic world, the Germanic world, Gaul, Britain. Where will it stop? Today, it will stop here; he picks up his spears, his axes and his sword. He does not know if it is going to help, but he is not going to see any woman of his country be slaughtered again by any bloody foreigner.
He is almost on her. He will drink her precious blood. Possibly he will get her magic, her knowledge. Imagine how powerful he could be if the powers of the female druid were his, he could summon the deads and the un-deads. He could turn her, but nothing proves she will be thankful; for all he knows, she may decide to stake him and herself. Recruits have been known to be resentful; recruits have been known to kill their sire. Kill is going to be the right decision, beside he is hungry…
She is almost gone, she cannot run anymore. She cannot almost walk, anymore. She can only hope…he has heard her. She knows he is there somewhere in the forest. She has tried to be the noisiest of prey, the stupidest too, running into circles to let the monster come closer. To accept the danger till the danger stops being. She knows that if the berserker hears her, he is bound to come to her rescue. She knows because she is a reader, she knows because the stars told her. She knows because she is a bit of a witch…Not that she is a witch; she simply reads the signs, reads the stars, better than the Roman Emperor astrologers…
All goes now very quick. She has ended up in a meadow, she barely walks, and she stumbles. The Gods? What is their decision? They like games, they like rolling dices. She knows how to read the dices; but she is not the one who rolls them. There is a shadow. Her head turns; it is the dark eyed monster. He is going to kill her…
...not!
The Briton warrior sword is swift. The vampire has heard the 2 hearts; overwhelmed by his blood lust, he has callously dismissed the second heart ignoring the stronger heartbeat. The vampire head rolls among the wild flowers; the monster is now properly dead. All is left in the meadow is the woman and the warrior, the human and the monster. The innocent and the man-wolf, the were-wolf. The druid, the sorceress and the man.
He has saved her; but does it change a thing to the curse? He has saved her and it gives her hope to reach safe and sound the Picts; there safe with the Northern Tribes, she will inform people how to beware of the Romans. The memory of her people is safe too; she will find other readers, other children like her a long time ago, a happy time ago. The berserker wants to leave. He is leaving, when a hand on his tattooed arm tells him to stop. Since when a woman tells a warrior to stop? Since readers have precedence over warriors. The North road is this way; see the bark of the oak tree. He does not want to come. To show his shame to more people. He has to come for she fears other vampires. Other tribes will know her, she does not fear Britons. Will against will. The blond short hair woman and the tall warrior.
- "What if I scratch you? I will not risk it…"
- "Since when human scratches alter the course of the stars? Pray, do come. I need protection"
- "What if you become…like me…"
- "Then it will be the decision of the Gods. There is nothing to fear from them…"
- "I am a werewolf, I am damned"
" I am a shaman, I have nothing to fear from a shape-shifter"
The meadow is now empty. A long time ago, a man and a woman have left, going up North to warn the other tribes the Romans were planning a full invasion of the Isle. The Picts are going to make sure no Roman crosses a somewhat horizontal line just above the Western lakes; the Egyptian vampires will think twice before trying to invade Britain.
Meanwhile every full moon, while the berserker howls to the Moon, the witch keeps her vigil by the cave. Both are safe in the knowledge he cannot hurt her. It is not perfect as far as anything more is forbidden; but it is good enough for them. She keeps both tribes memories alive; he protects her for even a druid safety is not guaranteed in the wilderness. After the full moon, when he awakes, he knows that she is there. Not perfect, but better than nothing…
The meadow is empty, except for the decaying head with the long fangs. This is not perfect at all, and there is nothing he can do. For Eternity, he is stuck in that skull, his body is almost rotten. Nobody is going to resurrect him. All he has to do is waiting till his people finally cross again the sea and find him. The druid priestess and the warrior have long gone; they are dead probably now. They have had a long life, a happy life of some sort. Not perfect, but a lot better than being alive and thinking and stuck into that nothingness of a dried up skull…