Authors notes: See prologue for full notes & disclaimer.
Lost and Found
Chapter 1
Leningrad, Soviet Union
February 8, 1945
A standard issue Soviet army jeep pulled up to the curb in front of a modest home in Leningrad. Ivan emerged from the driver's side and made his way around to the passenger door. Slowly and carefully he helped the Italian out. His slight form was swathed in heavy blankets and Ivan had to carry him up the few steps into the home. He brought him over to the large sofa in the front room and gently placed him upon it. The brown eyes looked upon him in thanks as he stood and the man below him sighed softly.
"Can I get you anything? I have to go fix up the guest room so you'll be down here alone for a bit while I do that…" he asked. The man shook his head and closed his eyes, seemingly gratified just for the chance to rest on a normal piece of furniture for the first time in years.
Ivan then dashed up the stairs and down the hall to the spare bedroom. Quickly assessing the situation he opened the closet and pulled out some fresh linens and made the bed. He turned on the light on the table beside and ran a glass of water to place next to it. Finally he was off down the hall to the master bedroom. He ran a hand through his hair as he searched the titles on the bookshelf.
'No…not that one…this certainly won't work… I know I have something here somewhere…' he scanned the next shelf and the next… finally he stood with a look of satisfaction. 'This should do nicely…' with a slight smile he placed the books beside the bed and made his way back downstairs.
Giovanni was dozing lightly when he made his way into the room. 'So peaceful… you would never be able to guess the horrors he has seen…' The young man stirred then and gave him a sleepy look.
"May I have a bath?" he asked quietly.
"Of course…" he replied moving to the couch to help the other man up. He had to carry him again, his body still somewhat un-used to and unwilling to perform the exertion it took to climb to the second floor of the house. Ivan ran the bath water as the Italian undressed himself, not at all shy about the appearance of his nude body, the camp had whittled away at him enough that he no longer cared… After that he carefully climbed in and sank deep into the water with a grateful sigh.
"Too warm?" Ivan inquired as he settled next to the tub.
"No, just fine…feels good…" Giovanni let his eyes slip shut partially again as he began to relax once more. Under a hooded gaze he took in the man next to him. "Why do you help me so? What reason is there behind this?" he finally asked. It had been a question he wanted to ask for several days…once his thoughts had finally broken free of the dark stupor from Auschwitz and had been able to focus more on his benefactor. Ivan regarded him a moment before replying slowly.
"I…I am not totally sure actually. You and I are alike for one… you are Immortal as am I."
"Immortal?"
"It's… hard to explain. You will not die, permanently anyway, until someone takes your head. No injury will ever last for very long, your energy heals it almost instantly. Any death, save for loss of your head, you will wake up from later."
"And there are others like us? What…what do we do?"
"Yes there are many – or so I have been told – I have only met a handful myself. As for what we do… For centuries our kind has fought in 'The Game' we use swords to fight to the death. Holy ground is the only safe haven where you cannot be challenged. No one knows why we do this –only that there can be only one in the end. Do not worry though… while we do fight there are many of us that have managed to befriend each other – making more normal relationships, friendship even…" His soft smile faded then and his face grew serious. "There are some of us however I have been told that desire nothing more than power and will not stop to talk – only fight. It is those you must truly look out for."
"How do I know who to trust? How do I even figure out when I am near one of us?"
"When…when I found you the other day I felt a buzzing in the back of my head, a whisper or a voice… Can you feel one right now?" The Italian cocked his head quizzically then nodded. "That is how we know another of our kind. It is called the 'Quickening' it is what the victor receives when he takes another's head. It is the energy – the knowledge and power we have accumulated over the years."
"But…but how did I become like this? Was I born this way? How did this happen?"
'I asked myself that same question…' he thought his memories flitting back…
**** South East of Petrograd Russia 1918****
He jolted awake with a start, awareness centered on the odd tingling sensation in his abdomen – a sensation that moments before had been one of exquisite pain.
'What is this? I should be dead… I was dying…the saber wound…' His hand went to his stomach. The tear in his shirt – still there, still stained with his blood. But below that… below the tattered fabric his skin was healed over, pink and new. A scar had formed.
Disorientation took over. He glanced around the battlefield, his fellow soldiers laying dead or dying around him. 'We lost…I remember that…I was stabbed, I DIED why am I now alive? How is it that I healed but the others have not?'
He stumbled to his feet… he felt nothing of his previous wounds, no cuts, no bruises. He felt fully healthy. Slowly he began stumbling over bodies, walking away from the battlefield, walking into an unknown future.
****Present****
"No…no you were not born this way exactly." He said shaking his head to clear it. "Those who will become Immortal are born normal, as any other child, but within us is the potential to become Immortal. When we die the first time, usually in a violent manner, then we become Immortal." He paused somewhat afraid of broaching the subject. "Sometime… while you were in the camp… did you…did you think you died, only to be alive when you awoke?"
"Many times," came the soft reply. Ivan reached out a hand and gently caressed his cheek in a gesture of comfort.
"It will be all right… I will teach you all you need to know, and I will take care of you until you are ready to stand on your own." Ivan smiled softly as Giovanni raised his eyes to meet his in gratitude.
****
A half-hour later Ivan folded himself onto a chair in his room and sighed deeply. Giovanni had finished his bath and gone to bed. 'Sleep is what he needs… rest and healing… then after he is better we will train. I will teach him as Sergei taught me.'
**** North of Omsk, Siberia 1919****
He was not sure how long he had been walking…it seemed like forever. Crossing the Urals had been the worst part of the journey. Though they were not as high as the Caucasus in the south, their dense foliage made travel quite difficult on foot. Luckily he had managed to snag transportation on a train before he could see whether or not he could die of hypothermia.
Now the vast openness of Siberia lay before him. 'Criminals were and probably still are sent here.' He mused as he walked down a dirt road.
"My luck I will run into a prisoner of the Tsar who will recognize me and try to kill me…" he muttered to himself. He was dressed in his army uniform, still bearing its rank mark – that of Major-General in the Royal Army. Though now it was no longer as grand as it once was, stitches and patches dotted it now, it had seen many battles and much hardship. It seemed to be an outward manifestation of the feelings within him – torn, patched, fraying… He had also allowed a beard to grow – something he never would have done before.
'Mother would not even recognize me…' he thought, though he did not allow himself to tarry on that thread of reasoning. He knew, or rather was almost certain, that his parents were no longer alive. They were too close, too supportive of the Tsar for the Bolsheviks to let them live.
'It is just as well, how could I explain this to them?' he thought darkly. 'Dying then returning to life it is the stuff of…'
He stopped short. A wave of nausea hit him and a buzzing sounded in his head. A tall imposing man stepped out of a shack up ahead of him, glancing around, looking for something; 'or someone…' It was then that Ivan was spotted.
"Greetings Tovarich," the other man said smiling. His accent was odd to Ivan. It was unlike any he had heard in Saint Petersburg or Moscow, and it also was unlike any he had heard so far in the Urals and east of them. He was native to the country, of that Ivan was sure – but he could not place him to any region.
"Have we met before? If you do not know who I am how do you know I am a friend? I could just be here to kill you, or perhaps rob you." The tall man laughed and stepped closer.
"Ah, you have a sharp tongue and a good head on your shoulders, let us hope we can keep it there." Ivan's hand had strayed to his gun as the man neared him. "Caution…good." His hands raised-a sign that he was unarmed. "I am Sergei Primov; I was born nearly 2000 years ago in the Novgorod area. Like you must have recently I was killed in battle, only to be reborn hours later. I am Immortal. You now too are Immortal. Come inside, I shall explain more." Reluctantly Ivan did so.
****Present****
As the memories let go he glanced around the sparse room and quirked a brow. 'I wonder how long it will be before I am reprimanded for taking off as I did… Might be time for Nickolai Mikhailov to pass on…'
In all reality the adoption of a new identity would not be difficult. The Leningrad house was under his father's name still and he hadn't been to the city for almost three decades… 'No one knows Nickolai and most have forgotten Ivan… I will speak with Alexandr tomorrow…' He rose from the chair and began preparing for bed.
****
"No…no, please no… not again…" Giovanni was tossing in the bed, a sweat broke out on his forehead and his face contorted in pain. "We didn't do anything, why are you taking us? Where are you taking us? Please… Mother! Mother no..." his cries became louder and soon Ivan bolted into the room concern etched on his face.
"What is happening? Giovanni…Giovanni what is wrong?" he stood over the bed a moment. "Dreaming…" he sat on the edge then, tried to grab the thrashing limbs… "Giovanni wake up…" Brown eyes snapped open in horror and with a small shout Giovanni tried to back away from Ivan.
"No! Do not hurt me! Please…keep away…" his eyes were wide in fear.
"I am not here to hurt you Giovanni, I am here to help you. You are no longer at the camp, you are safe. Remember? This is Ivan… I saved you, you are safe now." The eyes slowly became aware of the surroundings, aware of Ivan… and he broke into tears. Great heaving sobs shook his still slight form as he choked out an apology.
"F…forgive me friend, I...I…forgot. It...it was so real…" Gently Ivan ran his hand over Giovanni's cheek wiping away some of the tears. He pulled the other man close to him and held him rubbing his hand over his back and murmuring soothing words.
"It's okay… it's all right…" he said quietly as the Italian sobbed into his shoulder, clinging onto him for dear life. He had to suppress a grimace as his hand rubbed over the too bony back. 'The physical problems are easy enough to see, easy enough to deal with… but these dreams… the emotional scars…' for the first time he wondered what he had gotten himself into, and how he could possibly hope to help this man.
****
The next day Ivan rose early, showered, and dressed in civilian clothing for the first time in years. He prepared himself a small breakfast and then went to check on Giovanni. The Italian was sleeping, exhaustion still showing on his features. He took small comfort in the fact that the lines were not as vivid as they had been when he first found the young man. Leaving a note, more water and some bread out for him he set out into the cold Russian winter.
He looked at few people as he walked down the quiet streets of Leningrad. It had been decades since he had seen his birth city but not much had changed in the intervening years. 'Outwardly at least' he mused as he turned onto a side street. There was a small apartment complex at the end of it, and that was his destination. Stepping inside the building he ruffled his hair to remove the snow and then buzzed one apartment. The door opened slowly and Ivan broke into a grin upon seeing the person at it.
"Ivan Alexeivich, do my eyes deceive me? Welcome! Come in come in…" Alexandr Falipov an old man of nearly seventy said his gray eyes sparkling brightly as he pulled the Immortal into a warm hug. "What brings you home so early? Did you have an "accident"?"
"No Old Friend, but there is much I wish to tell you…" he replied moving easily into the small apartment.
****
"Death Camps? Dear lord… We heard rumors but… that's all we thought them. Rumor, hearsay… just something to rally to the cause." Alexandr shook his head as he poured some coffee for the other man.
"No…they were all too real I am afraid… and I found another of my kind in one." Alexandr's expression was pained as Ivan told of his finding Giovanni.
"Do not worry, I can prepare papers for you both," he said when the Immortal finished. "And Sofi would be more than glad to help you out with caring for him.
He smiled warmly at his old friend, "Thank you, Sasha."
"You haven't called me that in years..." the old man's eyes watered slightly as he gripped the Immortal's hand. "I've missed you, your family. Things just aren't the same. Ganya and Svetlana do not mind the way it is now but they do not know... they do not remember the glory..."
Ivan simply nodded along as Alexandr spoke. He did remember the past and to him it was still too painful to dwell on or speak of. But he could not help but appreciate the way the old man's eyes lit up as he spoke of it; and so, for a little while, he let his guard down and remembered with him.
****
Brown eyes opened slowly, squinting against the mid-morning light. For a moment he was a bit disoriented - how did I get here? Where is here? For a moment he even did not remember the camp - his home for the last three years - but only for a moment. Reality came back to Giovanni quickly enough, slamming into his consciousness like a freight train... he closed his eyes again, willing the memories away.
After a bit, he felt well enough to look around at his new room. The previous night he had been too tired from the journey to take note of the surroundings and now after some rest his curiosity kicked in. His gaze landed on a note on the table beside the bed. Neat penmanship was marred somewhat by a few crossed out words - obviously wrong turns in translating from Russian to Italian.
Giovanni,
I have had to step out to run a few errands, they should not take me very long but I felt it best to leave this note so you would not worry. Get more rest, try not to move around too much yet, your body has more healing to do. There is water beside the bed as well as a few books in case you wish to read. The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left. I left some food for you along with the water if you feel up to eating. If not I will fix up something when I return.
Ivan
Someone cared... it was such an odd concept after so many years of being treated like nothing. He reached over and sipped at the water, marveling at its cleanness, its purity. Setting the glass down, he picked up the books beside it. One was what school children must have used in learning proper Russian Grammar. He thumbed through it a bit, looking on at the complexity of the language, the alphabet. It was so different from what he had seen, what he was used to. The second book was somewhat familiar... La divina commedia by Dante. A tiny smile graced his lips as he opened the old book. It was in Italian.... He could read it. Such a simple thing, a small joy he had been deprived of.
He held the book up to his nose, inhaling deeply the scent of the paper and ink. It smelled wonderful...everything smelled wonderful now. No longer could he smell nothing but death and fear, pain and anguish. With something akin to reverence he set the books back onto the table and picked up some bread. It too was sniffed gently before he bit into it. Slowly he chewed letting the bread move over his taste buds. Rye bread... the taste was both unfamiliar and wonderful, the rough texture pleasing to him. He ate with a relish, quickly devouring the rest of the first slice and another along with it. More cool crisp water followed and he closed his eyes with a pleased sigh.
The bread and water invigorated him and he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He would no longer be an invalid - he would take a look around his new home. Standing was difficult at first, his legs grumbling as even his slight weight was placed fully on them. It was hard, but he noticed he felt better standing now in this strange house than he had for over a year. 'Is this the healing of the Quickening as Ivan said? Will I recover my strength so soon?' Pushing those thoughts aside he padded out of the room.
The hallway, he noted, was lined with large paintings. Some portraits of what appeared to be nobles, others landscapes. He happened to notice with some curiosity that the same signature appeared on each painting, Nastya Osipova. 'I wonder who she is...' he mused as he continued down the hallway glancing over each picture with an appreciative eye. 'Very talented...'
He stopped at a dresser midway down the hall and picked up a silver photo frame. A black and white picture of a large group of people was in it. Narrowing his eyes a bit at one of the men in back he made out what he thought to be the last Tsar of Russia, Nicholas II. 'He knew the Tsar... just how old is he?' He turned around and spied the bathroom, suddenly realizing that he needed to relieve himself.
He was washing his hands when his gaze flitted to the ornate mirror above this sink... He stopped moving; just stared in shock at the reflection facing him. He did not recognize himself. Had he changed so much in so short a time? Where had the lines come from? The sunken cheeks, the pallor... He felt wetness on his cheek and realized he was crying, but he could not remember ever starting.
It was almost painful to look at, his changed reflection, but he found he could not tear his gaze away. Could any amount of rest and healing change him back? Would he ever be normal again?'Why did they do this?' he asked himself. A wave of dizziness hit him then and he sank to the cool tiled floor pulling his knees under his chin. Flesh and bones... that was all he was now... His head started to ring and he placed his hands over his ears, shutting his eyes tightly, blocking the images and the sounds...
That was how Ivan found him fifteen minutes later, huddled in the corner of the bathroom.
