Dimitra stood at the edge of a large cliff, looking down into the dark abyss below. Many thoughts ran though her head, the most prevalent of which was her wish to end her existence. As she stood staring down her life flashed before her eyes. Her birth, family, friends, her lover. Her death, rebirth, and the passing of all those she cared about. She had lived nearly eight thousand years, and she was so very tired of her existence. All she knew and loved had been dead and gone long ago.
So it was without regret that Dimitra threw herself from the cliff, plunging downwards, her eyes wide open. She wanted to see the last moments of her life. Her body hit the ground with a sickening crunch, her bones shattering and her organs bursting. Her muscles were torn apart, her raven hair matted with blood and brain matter. But those brilliant green eyes remained bright, watchful, living.
A scream reverberated through the air as a group of hikers came across her broken form a time later. They talked amongst themselves, some wanting to leave her there, others wanting to call the police, thinking it a possible murder. Suddenly one of the girls screamed again, her voice carrying through the forest. She had seen Dimitra blink, had seen her labor for breath.
That cinched it, they couldn't leave her here now that they new she lived. One pulled out a cell phone with a satellite hook-up issued to one hiker out of every group, just in case. He called the closest hospital, and requested an airlift for the girl. Dimitra tried to voice her protest, but her throat had been ripped to shreds by the rocks she landed on. They watched her carefully as they waited, expecting her to die any moment. They thought she was fighting to live, they didn't know that she had jumped.
A good while later they came with a helicopter, ready to carry her out of there, ready to save a life of one who did not want to be saved. The men bore her on stretchers to the craft, loading her in carefully. The hikers were loaded in beside her, so they could be questioned on the events leading to her 'rescue'. Dimitra floated in and out of consciousness, the loss of blood had not been enough to kill her unfortunately, but it was enough to severely weaken her. All the while they were talking in low voices about the 'miracle' of her survival.
When she arrived at the hospital and they brought her inside, all within the vicinity of her body gasped and wondered how she could still live. Once again the resounding thought was that she wanted to live, that her fighting spirit kept her alive. Oh how wrong they were, these foolish mortals.
Some time later Dimitra woke to an annoying beeping sound, constant and rhythmic as her heart. It took her a moment to put two and two together. In a flash her memory came back to her, flooding her mind with images of the previous day. Dimitra took a tentative breath, and then began to work her different muscles, exploring the extent of her injuries. She had already begun to heal, so there was not much the doctors could do. She determined that she could leave that night, no one would be able to see her in the dark, and she would be healed up enough by then. For the time being though, Dimitra decided it would be best to rest a while longer.
She had just started to drift off when a group of people entered the room, waking her again. She was cautious though, keeping her eyes closed and mimicking the slow, steady breathing of deep sleep. She heard the voices of a few of the people who had 'rescued' her and some voices she didn't recognize. Doctors, she assumed, who had come to check on her condition. All of a sudden they went quiet, making Dimitra wonder what had happened. She slowly opened her eyes, and then silently cursed herself for her stupidity. They were all staring straight at her. A few of them gasped when they noticed she was awake, alerting the others. The doctors smiled at her, while she wondered to herself why they had gone quiet. And then she began to remember the extensive damage that had been done to her upper torso and head, which had already healed for the most part. Dimitra began to grow uncomfortable under the gaze of the mortals.
"It is the work of god!" One of her 'rescuers' exclaimed, making her ribs hurt from her attempt to stop herself from giggling. In her head she was thinking that if it had been the will of god she would have died long ago. It was no benevolent god that ensured her eternal suffering in the realm of mortal men. Truly, had god had his way she would have died at the age of nineteen. The doctors began to poke and prod at the various sites where her injuries had once been. There were only small scrapes and cuts left now, she barely bled, her bones had mended properly, and her hair had even started to grow over the old wounds already.
The doctors began to ask her usual slew of generic questions, such as; what was her name and age, where had she come from, did she have any family, and most important to them; how had she fallen? Dimitra answered the question with either a yes or no answer. Except for her name and age.
"Dimitra is my name. And I'm am nineteen." She told them. Her features had remained unchanging since her subsequent death and rebirth shortly after her nineteenth birthday. The only thing she ever changed was her name.
For years she had gone by Arsinoe, her original name, back when a pale skinned girl was never questioned in the lands of Egypt. But she had been forced to move as ivory skin became a curse rather than a gift. She had moved to Europe and had been taken in by a sweet german family with Russian roots, who had renamed her Geisela. She spent years with the family; they had never once questioned her unchanging appearance. But others in their small town had. They had all been burned at the stake, but Arsinoe/Geisela had not died. Her charred remains had been thrown into the forest with those of the family she had come to love. It took two full days to heal and in that time she took the time to think.
She resolved to never stay connected to any one person or place, for their safety more than for her own. In honor of the woman she had come to think of as a mother, she renamed herself Dimitra. She left Europe with the travelers seeking their fortunes in America. From there she had been picked up by a wealthy British nobleman, who had clamed her as his wife. She spent a comfortable four years with him before moving on. From there she had moved to a different part of the country, a place ruled by the French. Her startling looks once more caught the attention of a nobleman, and she was taken to his home to bride. On their first night together he discovered her secret. She had admired his fencing swords, and he had offered to teach her. She was already schooled in the basics, but had not mastered the finer steps.
And so it was her undeserved self confidence that had led her to goad him, making him lose his concentration. He slipped, cutting her arm deeply. He was frightened for her, and wanted to call for a doctor. But she assured him she would be well. When she had made him promise to tell none of her secret she showed him how she healed. He watched in fascination as her skin mended itself before his eyes, taking only ten minutes. He had promised her he would keep her safe, and that he would love her no less. She thought she could stay with him forever, thought she could break her vow and that she could be happy. And for a time she was happy, and none dared tell of her secret. She met the occasional noble to appease their curiosity about her husbands choice in marriage, but once a year or two had passed he would tell them that she had grown ill, and could not attend any of their courts. She gave him children, three sons and a daughter, which were named after his father and mother, and the two boys she had lost in leaving her previous husband.
But it did not last. As with all mortals her beloved grew old and died. His eldest son, named for his father, took control of the household. All the children knew of their mother's secret, and so it would not have been a problem, save that the young man wished to bride his ever young mother. Dimitra had fled the household that night, taking her youngest sons with her. She knew her daughter would be well, having already been married to a wealthy British lord, but her remaining sons would have been in danger of her eldest's cruel, selfish thoughts. From there she had taken her sons to the land of Canada, where the Métis people accepted her presence without much care. Her sons were still yet young enough to be considered hers without a second glance. All assumed her husband had died on the journey.
She lived peacefully in a small village for a few years, until the Native Americans raided them. Most were slaughtered, including her sons. But she and a few other women were captured, to be traded for goods from the British soldiers. The others were traded, but the Natives kept her, having seen how quickly her cuts healed. They watched her, letting her walk freely, but still within their territories.
Once again tragedy struck in the form of a slaughter. The people who had kept her alive, had so utterly accepted her into their society, and had made her feel as though her curse were a gift, were attacked. Not a soul was left alive, and Dimitra's broken and ruined body was assumed dead by the soldiers who had raided and raped all in the village. When Dimitra healed she moved on, to a different part of Canada. From then on she never stopped moving. Until eventually she found herself in America once more, standing on the cliff ledge.
The doctors asked if she had anyone to call, breaking into her train of thoughts. She shook her head, and then lay back on the pillows, tired from her little trip down memory lane. The doctors and 'rescuers' left, realizing she wanted sleep. Dimitra was grateful for their perceptiveness. Her eyes slowly closed, her tired body welcoming the chance to rest. She always healed faster in her sleep.