"Carry me where I can float
Because here I'm out of air"
[Zitti e Buoni, Måneskin, translated from Italian]
Shattered.
It rushes to her mind like the tide and fills her lungs like a silent cry. The sea had shattered when her head pierces through it, a grotesque mass of damp black hair and ragged vocal cords; the metal had shattered beforehand at one last, foul push, her waist shifting through the metal like a slug out of his shell; her skin had shattered somehow, as the surface reclaimed her like a welcoming hand, strained muscles reshaped into a form of her own. And even those last drownings, as she floated towards the growing light, felt like a caress. Soon, just a matter of moments – somewhere.
The road is foreign: both in its direction and the material it's made, grey and thick like molten lava. A town she'd seen, at her side as they were used once upon another life, was coated in that material to the brim, and walking on it felt as dreamlike as that day.
She recalls having worn a dress when she was locked up: now all she has to cover up her body are her chest-length hair, tangled in a mess not even her fingers can get through. It still drips of sand on her back and legs, after she rolled into it underneath the stars. The first thing she had touched, mold herself with, felt new and unique and solid and warm.
Quynh was lying in sand when she and Andy had met, and for some brief and sweet moments she can imagine her coming to her for an embrace, a welcoming hand back into the life she was stolen from. It's so sweet – too sweet, and it would probably make her puke if there was food in her to be found.
It's too little and too late. Quynh walks the road barefoot, giving no care to the pebbles and grime mixing up with her still salty skin. Andromache and the rest, the Frenchman and the new girl and Nicky and Joe, are somewhere that isn't there, and they can stay for just a while more if they did so well during the time that has passed. She has to… has to…
A sign stands before her, in a flat and lucid metal she doesn't recognize. Quynh squints to read it, almost tense in excitement: the first words, in five hundred years.
What she finds, "Borehamwood Hospital, one mile", means nothing to her, but she walks to it the same, because you don't throw away what you find, especially when you hadn't had a thing in centuries.
She hadn't thought on what to say when she had met someone. She hadn't thought at all, eyes open and senses pushing to the brim – she had thought a little bit too much in five hundred years. Violence is a constant through history, and ways to hurt a woman and leave her stranded are an abundance; but to browse through them she has to go back to Andy, and those thoughts stay at the bottom of the sea where she was.
Where they left her.
Human sight, so, catches her as a surprise, dampening her senses for a moment and losing track of what she sees and where she is. Particulars come back one by one – the grass, the starry night whose name she still recalls, the distant shape of the tallest building she has ever seen, and to each she clings so desperately she fears her nails may bleed.
The moonlight gives her a petite shape, rushing towards her through the wood – and she could talk to them if she knew what to say. There's no voice in her throat when she attempts a call, but he comes to her anyway, as if attracted by her presence.
The lampposts – as different as the rest, crooked and white and excessively tall – illuminate a petite little thing in ragged white clothes, a shape she hasn't ever seen in any of their travels. And the man underneath stares at her with the eyes of a beast – one brown, one blue, both of them encircled with bags as big as hers. Eyes glowing through the bars of a metal cage, welded around his head and torn at the front.
And his hair are long and black and damp. For a moment Quynh can hardly breathe once more.
Thick ropes of leather dangle from the stranger's arms and legs as he approaches her with tentative steps, and Quynh shifts closer with trembling eagerness. A prisoner like her… if the Inquisition is still at work, there might be who knows how many coffins awaiting her once more. She staggers to a nearby tree, steadying herself on shaken legs.
Those eyes. Quynh sees them through the broken bars of the cage as they eagerly blinks in her direction. An arms stretches towards her, as crooked as a serpent, and its hand is a claw.
A deep, growling voice sounds from his mouth, through blackened and crooked teeth. Quynh shivers but doesn't run, because her feet are stuck to the ground and coated in sweat. An arms stretches towards her, as crooked as a serpent, and its hand is a claw: like that of a wolf or a jackal.
She opens her mouth as she thinks this, and clawed hands reach her throat, as a choked up laugh – or was it a scream it's hard to tell, it all mixes up together like water and sand – sounds from the top of the pit. The last thing she sees is a familiar and faint crackle of bones.
And then she's alive once more.
A broken neck was one of her first deaths: the first one with Andy by her side, massaging the back of her skull with the ragged hand of a warrior, but as soft as silk at the same time. She feels herself collapse once more, down and way down into an abyss, sparks of flames into her arms and her heart. The fire of life, so thoroughly missed.
Even the caged man looks at her in awe, shifting back on naked feet. He can probably smell the danger, because he smartly turns the other way, but Quynh's fist reaches him before he can run.
When he falls on the ground he's as helpless as she was, stuck underneath her body and a cavalcade of fists. His clawed hands run through the air a couple times, one grazes her face and rips a strand of hair; there it gets stuck just enough for her to catch his wrists and pull her legs upon his arms. She can feel him twist and strain in her hold, screaming and growling into the night. No one will come, you mad fool. They never do.
She twists his prone body on the ground, turning him over like a turtle, and feels his rage become her own. And when she manages to grab the cage around his head, readying an onslaught of mighty kicks and punches to his soft belly, she has never felt more liberated.
When she finally lets him go, shaking and out of breath, hair stuck to her face, damp once more in warm sweat, muscles quivering, he curls away from her as if she was his own drowning.
I've been back for so little, and the first one I meet is a madman. Covering up her intimacy with her hands, she sits into the grass and rubs her palm into the mud. She had done the same with the sand on the beach, and the strange stoney material the road was made of. Anything that isn't metal and water is as gentle as a kiss.
She stares at him, prone and defeated, helplessly panting to the sky, and strokes the spot where the claws had struck. It healed already.
Lights. As white as those crooked lampposts, shifting through the woods like more eager eyes. A commanding male voice, the creaking of machinery. Wherever she turns, the forest is aglow. The man on the ground covers his caged head with his hands and screams into the mud; like a release, or to forget that his possibly next victim has just released centuries of pain upon his little soft body.
-…the cube…- But what does geometry of all things have to do with it? -…the flare, before he…-
-He assaulted another, poor thing.- They surround them from all corners, and it's hard to see their eyes in the dark. But it's bright enough to see none of them wears a goddamn cross. A sigh of relief escapes her.
-There's a woman with him,- one speaks. -A naked woman, next to the Jackal. He could have…-
But he didn't. The man shakes and pants onto the round and Quynh pays him no more heed. She wipes her sopping mouth and curls up in a ball, searching for features in the lucid hooded faces. A thick black beard calls back to Joe, a glow of pale hands bring back the picture of Nicky. She thanks something they're all male.
-He broke her neck. I saw it.- A new voice from the back. -And then she came back, like nothing. But she's not a ghost, is she? She looks like flesh.-
-Whatever, she doesn't matter now. Bring in the cube before we lose him.-
Three people walk towards her: the one speaking, an aging man holding a cane, points at a woman with glasses not unlike her own. The caged man slithers prone into the glass, holding his chest with the clawed hand, his pale head contorted in what looks like pain. Quynh, instead, curls up with eagerness. Clothes aside, they look just human enough. She can feel her eyes start to sting.
-…no. Not that. No.- The caged man has a thick and brash cockney accent, but in a delicate tenor, like a child not yet grown. -Don't you d-dare touch me.-
-Shut your mouth, you half-beast thing.- The man with the cane spoke just soon enough, for those too familiar words make her her burst as if the pressure was back on her. She watches as the stranger pulls a sword out of his cane and lays the tip on the man's back, pushing his caged face into the ground. -You luck was to run out eventually.-
-I will chew your heart out. You w-will regret it, you wanker. I can kill me a man not unlike any gal.-
-I would disagree on that, seeing the proof. Get him-
Quynh curls up even more so, wiping her brow and the back of her neck. Whatever that man is, she has no business in her attacker. Her body is too heavy to carry the pain of another. Andromache: she wouldn't have let him kill her even once. People in lucid suits of a foreign material and transparent glasses surround the man with the cage on his head and grab him from the back. One holds what looks like a flare – she's seen the making of gunpowder in the old China, an art way older than she – up to his eyes, and the man shrieks like a dog caught in a trap.
-DON'T TOUCH- NO! NOOO!-
She'd not need any of that. Yet she didn't come. She gave up, or found herself someone new. Or simply decided it wasn't worth it, and that even the greatest warriors can fail: and someone else has to bear the pain of their failure, for ages and ages and ages.
So she turns the other way as the man is grabbed by the wrists, waist and cage, arms stretched behind the back as if he was forced to hold onto himself, short legs helplessly kicking into the air, screeching in to the night for no one to hear – except his tormentors, and the one who defeated him. Let it happen: it's a far-off spectacle and no more than that.
-…my arms! DON'T DO IT! NO! I WON'T…-
The man with the cane: he must be the leader, so that's where her eyes lay. The nobles of her age would sometimes carry canes like those to display her status. He's not wearing any crown, but exudes authority all the same: he turns to her and smiles as if Quynh's shivering body, unkempt hair and scowling face were the most attractive sights in all of earth.
-She's an Immortal. They do exist after all.-
They shouldn't know: Quynh steps backwards, raising her fist as if they too were to lunge at her. So Andy and the group have let the world know, and she's no longer an anomaly at last. Even that, apparently, wasn't enough to spare her the sea. She scoffs at the mere thought.
-I read about your kind. You mustn't hide any secret from me. I'm honored to come in your contact, gentle maiden. We mean no harm. What is your name?-
The man with the cane walks to her like an old friend, offering her a free gloved hand, She doesn't touch it: she instead shifts backwards as if that hand was a snake.
-Do you speak English, dear girl?- the noble asks, and turns to the woman. -What century is she from anyway?-
-We mean no harm,- the other man says. -We're actually indebted with you, miss. I'm indebted with you. Don't be scared. We're the ones that should be scared, actually.-
-Dennis.- The man with the cane raises a gloved hand. -Shut up. Let me…-
But she hears no more of his words – her mind is stuck at don't be scared, as if it could mean anything in a foreign world. She defeated the caged man, but what if more were to come? In her previous fights she wasn't all alone. Every face is a blow to her own, memories twisting and turning and resurfacing in a way that isn't painless, not this time.
She rubs at her eyes and looks at the hole in the mud where she had pulled her attacker, the Jackal man. Sparks of adrenaline still pulsate within her, filling up her skin, and the distant glow of Venus is a watchful, motherly eye.
Your god be damned, I'm free.
-Quynh,- she gargles out. -My name is Q-Quynh.-
It feels so strange to hear it again, from a voice that isn't her own, but could pass for it with just enough tries. Not that they'd know anyway.
-Quynh.- The man with the cane savors every letter as he speaks her name. -Nice to meet you, immortal Quynh. I am Cyrus Kritikos, and those kind fellows are my associates.-
-I'm Dennis,- the other man says. -You look cold, you do…-
He takes off his surcoat, a thick thing as wide as a cape, and offers it to her: she wraps herself in it like a friendly embrace, giving barely a glance to the foreign and soft fabric. The warmth almost makes her cry.
-What year is this?-
-2001,- the man says again. -And we're still alive.-
Five hundred years… Quynh falls back to her knees, wrapping herself in her own arms and the newly gifted cloth. She should be screaming, but her throat is as coarse as a stone.
And Andromache… she shakes her head, hair now stuck to the face, and allows herself a bite into the fabric. Her giver doesn't even look at her.
-Can you walk?- he asks instead
-She can fight, of course she can walk. Let's go before someone sees us.-
Quynh staggers back to her feet and closes the buttons on the garment she was given. She pulls herself to her feet and nods once. Walking was her introduction to freedom, after all. Maybe she will be able to walk more, feel some fiber upon herself.
-Come with us, Immortal Quynh.- Cyrus Kritikos says. -Give her a hand, Kalina. She may prefer the company of a lady.-
The woman, who hasn't spoken a word, giver her an arm to cling to. It isn't muscular, and Quynh is glad.
She sees him again at the bottom of the cliff: he's in a transparent glass cube, scratching at the walls with his strange claw-like hands, and the mismatched eyes seem to glow in the dim light
-I'LL TEAR YOU ALL TO SHREDS, YOU DICKEADS! LEMME OUT!-
Kalina helps Quynh sit into a fabric chair and offers her a scarf. She holds it to herself, rubbing her fingers on her head. Five hundred years: she'd scream more if she wasn't so tired.
Focus: the reality. The new me, whatever she may want. The Jackal man, now doubly caged, has shifted to punching the walls, and the noise is a headache.
-Who's that man?- she whispers.
-This,- Cyrus points at the glass cage, where the imprisoned man twitches and cries. -This is our Jackal. A one of a kind little thing.-
Golden dog, that's what they're called. But there's nothing aglow in the trembling little man, scattered black hair around the pale face, long ragged claws uselessly scrambling on the crystalline wall. Quynh turns the other way and faces his captor. -He looks human to me.-
-That's what his victims thought,- Dennis says. Quynh shifts away from the glass,
-He murdered six before he brought himself in. Or seven, whether you choose to make that one count.-
-It doesn't matter. No living being should be,..-
-Well, then it truly doesn't matter. He's a ghost.-
The scarf slips off Quynh's hand, now as slippery as the mud she has fought on. It was way too obvious, if deathless can exist… yet she finds more air after more seconds, shaking on her strange seat. People aren't that pale, immortal or not, and that cage…
-Ghosts.- She slips off the chair on the ground, relishing in the humidity of the grass. More sparks of life, and more after that. -Ghosts do exist.-
-And this one is quite a remarkable one.- Kalina gives a tired shrug. -You're quite incredible at taking him on your own. Where do you come from, Immortal Quynh?-
-Banished.- She grants herself a second to breathe before answering the question: who knows what her homeland is called nowadays. -For centuries. This is England, is it not?-
-Scum of the world, rotten carcass of civility. This is England 'aight.- the Jackal man's voice sounds. -And my name is Ryan.-
-Be quiet, you mongrel.- Cyrus strikes the cage with his cane, and the caged specter staggers to the opposite wall. Even through the glass, the creaking of his teeth sounds loud and clear. -I will teach this dog some manners when the time comes. But mind him not, dear Quynh. You must be in need of assistance.-
-…assistance. Yes, yes.- It's all she can manage to say, her eyes darting wildly from one to the other, anywhere except the glass. It's too good to be true. If these people know, they won't hurt her by mistake as that priest had done; and if Cyrus is a noble of the new world, he can help her come back to her feet. Nobles are all about pleasure, after all, and she has missed it for so long.
-You can come with us, then,- Cyrus continues. -I will provide for you. You will be housed, sheltered, clothed and refurnished with anything you may want. Just a word, and any wish of yours will be made reality. You have a lot to catch up to, don't you?-
She gives a quiet nod, as if she felt shame at this harsh truth. She wears the scarf properly and gives a quiet nod of thanks. Her eyelids are starting to heave, her mouth is way too dry for her memories, and the watchful eye of Venus glows bright and clear.
-Dennis and Kalina,- Cyrus orders, -bring the Jackal to the plane.-
-My name is Ryan, you wretched snake! LET ME OUT!-
Cyrus groans. -And put a blanket on the glass. Make it dark. This dog could use some discipline.-
When the Jackal – Ryan's – cries have gone quiet in the distance, Quynh allows herself a sigh of relief. Cyrus sits in front of her as nobles do, holding his cane upon his leg and whistling to himself as if he didn't even see her. She doesn't mind, clinging instead to his words: clothed, furnished, housed. As people deserve and do.
-Are you hungry, Immortal Quynh?- Cyrus asks, and it's a jump back to the world of the living. -We have food and water for all your needs.-
-I've had quite enough water, thank you very much. It's quite an absurd story. But I do fancy food.-
The more helpless she looks, the more she'll be safe: a truth she had come to accept when her supposed danger was sealed away from them all. Andromache is the world knows where and won't share that meal with her: she had imagined it plenty of times, drowning and dreaming and screaming in search for whatever slid of joy there could be down below. She'd offer her sweets and fruit and honey and kisses, and it wouldn't hurt, it'd be easy and welcoming like when they've met…
She pushes herself up to follow Cyrus towards a tent, one fist behind her back and steps as slow as time itself. Andy is not her problem, no one is except herself. She has gone on that way for five centuries: some day more won't hurt.