Chapter 3
"Siroc!" Jacqueline cried out as she tried to rush forward, but Ramon held her back, tears staining his cheeks. D'Artagnan inched his way forward to the inventor's prone form, dropping down to his knees next to it. He pulled the dagger from Siroc's stomach, tossed it aside, then laid a hand on his neck in search of a pulse. Sadly, there was none to be found.
"H-he's gone…" D'Artagnan whispered, on the verge of tears himself.
"Crazy, arrogant, stupid gringo…what the hell were you trying to prove?" Ramon yelled at the corpse, not caring that Siroc could no longer hear him.
"Come on, Ramon," D'Artagnan muttered, slowly rising to his feet. "Let's go grab that other coffin from the barn…at least it'll be good for something…" Nodding, Ramon pulled away from Jacqueline. He and the Gascon started to walk away when, suddenly, a loud gasp came from the inventor's body. They whirled around in time to see Siroc roll over onto his side, coughing and wheezing. Jacqueline went to his side immediately. "Siroc…you're alright…."
"'Course I am. See for yourself." He lifted the bottom of his shirt, revealing smooth, unblemished skin where the dagger had pierced him.
"S-so…it's all true, then?" Ramon stammered. D'Artagnan just stared, mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"Every word. Bernard's immortal, I'm immortal…and so are you, Jacqueline."
"Figures," she muttered. "Should've guessed as much after what you said about the accelerated healing…not to mention your own miraculous recovery."
"Well, not that miraculous, really. It's happened so many times, I've lost count. And you two." He turned to Ramon and D'Artagnan. "You have to promise me that this doesn't go beyond the four of us. Not even Duval. If anyone else were to learn about this…about immortals…Jacqueline and I would be in grave danger. We'd be thought of as witches, or worse, and the chances are pretty good that we'd end up losing our heads over it. Trust me, I've seen it happen. You understand?" They nodded, too shocked to say anything. "Good." Slowly, Siroc climbed to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes as he did. Jacqueline quickly followed suit. Ruefully regarding the bloodstain on his uniform shirt, the inventor muttered something about a miracle stain remover as he pulled off the ruined garment and tossed it aside. He glanced up at the sky, his practiced mind automatically calculating the time based upon the positions of the stars and moon. "Whoa…talk about losing track of the time. Would you guys believe that it's almost three in the morning?"
"How can you tell?" D'Artagnan asked. "You don't have a watch."
"Let's just say I can remember when the mechanical clock was first invented."
D'Artagnan's jaw dropped. "How old are you?"
Siroc shrugged. "Old enough." The Gascon was about to press further, but Ramon stepped in between them. He was holding a small golden pocket watch, one that Siroc was sure held some connection to his family back in Spain.
"He's right, amigos," the Spaniard announced. "It is nearly three. Perhaps we should turn in…figure things out in the morning."
"Probably a good idea. Back to the house, then?" Ramon nodded, as he and D'Artagnan turned and headed inside. A moment later, the Gascon paused, turning towards the immortals. "What's wrong? Aren't you two coming?"
Jacqueline shook her head. "I don't think so. After what happened, it's going to be a very long time before I set foot in there again."
Siroc nodded. "You two go on. Don't worry, I'll personally make sure nothing happens to her."
"Whoa…wait a minute." D'Artagnan strode towards them, and the inventor could see the proverbial green-eyed monster coming forth. "Who the hell died and made you her white knight?"
"Calmas, amigo…"
"Shut up, Ramon. Tell me, Siroc, just what the hell makes you think you're better equipped to protect her than the rest of us?"
"Well, for starters--"
"That's enough!" Jacqueline shouted, hands on her hips. "Listen to yourselves…standing here arguing over who's got the biggest…sword….For your information, I don't need protection--from any of you! I can take care of myself!" With that, she whirled around, running inside the barn and slamming the door behind her. The other three just stood there for several moments in awkward silence. Finally, D'Artagnan started after her, only to be stopped by Siroc's hand on his arm.
"Don't you think you've done enough for one night? You and Ramon go back to the house and get some rest. I'll talk to her."
"Fine," the Gascon snapped, glaring at Siroc. "But this isn't over."
"I didn't think it was. But it can wait until morning, after we've all had a decent night's sleep."
"I agree, amigo," Ramon said, grabbing D'Artagnan's arm. "See you then." The Spaniard escorted the Legend's son back inside the old Roget house. Once they were out of sight, Siroc turned and headed into the barn, where he found Jacqueline sitting once more upon the overturned bucket. Tentatively, he walked up and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Go away, Siroc," she muttered, not even looking at him.
"Jacqueline…"
"I said leave me alone!" She glared at him, shoving his hand away. Undaunted, Siroc shifted positions so that he was directly in front of her and knelt down.
"Look, I know you're upset and, frankly, I don't blame you. D'Artagnan could stand to take a few lessons in sensitivity."
Jacqueline snorted. "And where does that leave you?"
He sighed. "Well, if our comrade hadn't cut me off so rudely, I might've had a chance to explain myself."
"I'm listening…"
"Jacqueline, I…I know it sounded like I was implying that you were weak…that you were just a girl who needed the protection of men. But I swear to you that I meant no such thing."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh really?"
"Come on, Jacqueline. I know damn well that you're more than capable of protecting yourself. Hell, aside from myself and Duval, you're probably the best fencer in the garrison. But, good as you are, there are still some things you just can't handle on your own."
She narrowed her eyes as she looked at the inventor. "Would you be saying this if I really was a man?"
He nodded. "Yes, actually, I would. I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, but our immortality does come with a price. The moment you became one of us, you were entered into what is simply referred to as 'the Game.' Truth be told, though, it's not so much a game as it is a matter of life or death."
She gulped, involuntarily rubbing her throat. "You mean…beheading?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Why?"
Siroc shrugged. "No one knows, really. It's been going on as long as anyone can remember. A challenge is issued, two immortals meet in single combat with edged weapons, and the fight ends when one immortal loses his or her head. When that happens, the quickening--our life force, if you will--is released and absorbed by the victor, augmenting their strength and giving them access to the loser's knowledge, skills, and even memories. According to all the legends, this will go on until there is only one immortal left in the world, and that immortal will receive some sort of prize. No one really knows what that prize is, but if I had to guess, I'd say that, logically, it will be the power of all the immortals who've ever lived--give or take, of course, the ones whose quickenings are lost because there is no immortal nearby to receive them. Even so, I'd wager it would be enough power to rule the world."
"And there's no way out of it?"
"Not unless you want to spend the rest of your life on holy ground, which is the only place we're truly safe. And I mean any sanctified ground, no matter which deity it was consecrated to. Pagan temples, Buddhist sanctuaries, Islamic mosques, Jewish synagogues, cemeteries and, obviously, Christian churches are all good places to go if you're being hunted or just want to get out for awhile."
"Hunted?"
"Another not-so-pleasant part of our lives. Though most immortals--at least, most of the ones I know--choose to live relatively normal lives and only fight when challenged, there are some of us out there who actively seek other immortals. Headhunters, we call them. For the most part, they're obsessed with winning the Prize and want to gather as much power as they can in order to gain an advantage when it comes down to the final few. There are, of course, some who are simply psychotic and take heads just because they can. Hence the need for protection. I know you can best just about any mortal swordsman I could name, but, without proper training, you won't stand a chance against someone who's had centuries to perfect their skills."
"And you're going to train me, I take it?"
"Of course." Nodding, she got up and walked to the other side of the room, rubbing her temples. "You okay, Jacqueline?"
"I don't know, Siroc…I mean, it's all so overwhelming. Just a few hours ago, I was at death's door, and now you're telling me that I'm never going to die unless some lunatic comes along and chops off my head for the sake of some so-called game."
"Yeah, it is a lot to take in. I know I felt the exact same way when I first found out what I was."
"Did you ever ask why…why it was you who was chosen for this and not someone else?"
He nodded. "I did. And the best answer I've gotten came from my old friend Rebecca—who still lives in Paris, by the way."
"So what did this Rebecca have to say?"
"She told me that it was destiny…that some higher power--God, Zeus, Jupiter, Allah, Yaweh…whoever it is you believe in--decided to grant certain individuals this gift--"
"You mean curse--"
"Matter of perspective. Anyway…point is, we were both born into this because some omnipotent being or other decided that's how it should be. Now, I don't pretend to be any sort of expert on theology--hell, I barely even listened to our gods, and they preferred the direct approach-- but I'm pretty sure that there's a passage somewhere in your Bible that says something to the effect of 'God doesn't give us more than we can handle.' So you being immortal must mean that someone up there thinks you're ready and able to deal with what's to come. And, with a little help from me, I'm sure you'll be around for a very long time. But I'm not going to lie to you and say it'll be easy, 'cause it won't be. And I'm not just talking about the Game. As an immortal, sooner or later you'll be faced with the reality of watching those you care about grow old and die while you remain forever frozen in time, so to speak. And that's not something even I can prepare you for…I mean, there really is no way to possibly prepare yourself to deal with that sort of loss…parents, spouses, friends, adopted children…"
"Adopted?"
He looked her in the eye. "That's the other catch. Because we possess true immortality, there's no need for us to create any sort of lineage. Thus, we are unable to father or bear children."
"Oh….So I'll never be a mother? Not that I'm really sure I want children, but I would've at least liked to have had the choice."
Siroc sighed. "Actually, you never did. Even pre-immortals are barren…our bodies' way of preparing for the inevitable, I suppose. I'm sorry."
She laughed harshly. "You say that as if this is your fault…which reminds me…there is something that's been bothering me ever since you first brought this all up."
"What's that?"
"Well, you said that one has to die in order to become immortal, right?"
"That's true. Why?"
"The last thing I remember before waking up is you putting my head in your lap and telling me to go ahead and sleep. Tell me the truth, Siroc. Did… did you…kill me?"
"Yes." She stalked over to where he knelt, hauled him to his feet, and slapped him hard enough to turn his head.
"You knew what would happen, didn't you?"
He nodded. "Since the moment you first walked into the garrison and challenged D'Artagnan."
"And you still did it…without even asking me if this was what I wanted?"
"You were already dying, Jacqueline, but the process was so slow I feared it would be too much like natural death to trigger your immortality. I hardly had any time for explanations, so I simply told you I had a way to save you, and asked you if you'd like me to try. You didn't want to die, so you agreed. Tell me…even if you did know what I was doing and what would happen after, would your answer have been any different?"
She stayed silent for several moments, considering his words, before finally shaking her head. "Probably not. But that's beside the point. You lied to me, Siroc."
"I didn't lie…I just didn't tell you the whole truth."
"As the Holy Fathers say, a lie of omission is still a lie. You should've said something, Siroc…given me a real choice instead of essentially taking the decision out of my hands. I'm not some helpless woman without a mind of her own, you know."
"I know…and you're right. I'm sorry…I just wasn't ready to lose you…"
"I appreciate that, Siroc, and I am grateful to you for saving me…I'm just not sure I'll ever be able to forgive you for your deception." With that, Jacqueline turned and headed towards the barn doors. Quickly, Siroc ran up and gently grabbed her arm.
"Look…it's late, and we're all pretty tired. Why don't you just try and get some sleep…maybe you'll feel differently in the morning."
"I've had enough 'sleep' for one day, thank you. What I need is to take a walk…clear my head a bit."
"That's not a good idea, Jacqueline. Bernard could still be out there, and if he catches you alone and unarmed…"
"What would you suggest then?" she asked, glaring.
"The barn is all yours…I'll just sleep outside. Would hardly be the first time…" Not waiting for a response, he slipped through the doors himself, closing them behind him. Minutes later, the strange sensation in the back of her head faded as well. Finally alone, she wandered over to an old, broken-down stall that, years ago, had been home to her very first pony--Lancelot. Jacqueline briefly flashed back to that happier time, but soon the memories slipped away and the present came roaring back full-force. She curled up in a pile of worn-out horse blankets piled in the rear corner and finally let the tears come, eventually crying herself to a dreamless sleep.