He stood there in front of a mirror that was attached to the wall in a sad excuse for a hole in the wall motel room. Wearing nothing but his black pants and near black hair going down to his waist he looked at his reflection and remembered. His first death and afterwards. For a thousand years he roamed this earth, doing the only thing he knew how to do, kill. Looking for every battle, hoping somebody would look at him the wrong way. Even before he died he was called blood thirsty by those he grew up with. He never saw why people saw it as such a bad thing. The Gods or God, he really didn't care he stopped believing in a higher power ages ago, made him this way. So who were they to judge him?
And judge him they did after his first death. The people he knew his entire life at that point tried to burn him at the stake when he tried to return. So he had to fight his way out just to live, and he had no problem cutting down his comrades to do so. But still it took thirty years of wandering before another immortal found him and explained what he was. A point that was quickly proven when Kronos impaled himself on his sword and lived to tear it out of his hands. It was very hard not to take him seriously after that. And listened he did, because this Immortal knew more about war than anybody he had ever met. He also did the impossible and taught him the value of patience. To wait for just the right moment before lashing out and doing whatever it took to defeat your enemy. And that was something he always excelled at.
He felt he had to leave Kronos's teachings when he revealed he was one of the mythical Four Horseman, and he had been causing mayhem and destruction for millennia. And people thought he was crazy. The first opportunity he saw he got away from him. But those teaching had never left him, he may have been slightly more patient now but in battle he never stopped once he smelled blood. And what battles he found once he started fighting other immortals. His first Quickening was almost too beautiful to imagine as he absorbed the dead immortals' power. This was way more satisfying than just simply killing a man in the field of battle. So he made it his mission to take every immortal head he came across.
He shifted his gaze to the body of the woman he picked up off the street. Her chest was bleeding under the sheet that covered her. He stabbed her himself, because he knew. He just had to wait. Her cry of anguish awakened another memory in him, one he didn't mind reliving again and again. That short cry of his fallen mortal opponent gave out, that realization that they were going to die at his hands. He lived for that moment in battle, when he was mortal it was his reason for living. He looked for it in every battle, every war and every conflict he found himself in. It didn't matter who side he was on, just as long as he as he got to look whoever it was in the eyes as he killed them.
The woman behind him breathed in hard as she came back to life. That was quicker than he thought. Perhaps she was stronger than he originally thought. Clutching the sheet to her chest she looked around and panicked as he continued to look at the mirror. Then she held her head like she was in pain. "What... what did you do to me?" she demanded, but fear was still evident in her voice.
"It wasn't what I did to you," he said calmly as he stroked the leather trench coat on the dresser below the mirror. "It's what you already were. I just helped you wake up."
"What the fuck are you talking about?", she said starting to feel a little braver. "You fucking tried to kill me? I'm calling Ron."
"You are not going to call anybody," he informed her. "And I didn't try to kill you. I did kill you." He looked at her from the mirror, "Don't believe me, then check for yourself." He watched as she looked underneath the sheet. He stabbed her between the breast and right in the heart. He knew she felt the cold blade pierce her skin. She was at a lose for words when the wound was gone, the blood remaining the only way to know it happened. Then she found the knife he used laying beside her, still covered in her blood. He actually prided himself in holding back, the temptation to continue cutting after she died was almost too great to pass up.
"What is going on Michel?"
"Think of it as being part of an exclusive club," he explained. "One where you can see all the wonders man can come up and look exactly as you do now, no matter how old you are."
"You're not making any sense."
"Fine, I'll dumb it down for you," stupid bitch, no wonder she was so cheap. "You are now immortal."
"Wait," she said as she crawled toward him, while still holding the sheet to her chest, "so I can't die? I can like get shot, fall off a building or burn my brain out of drugs and still come back?"
"That is the gist of it yes."
"How did you know?"
"That thing you're feeling right now, that's how we know who is an Immortal from the regular peons out there. You learn everything soon enough."
"You're," she gulped, "you're going to show me what's like to be an immortal?"
"I was, I have before when the mood strikes me." While he talked she didn't see him reach into the trench coat. Michael pulled out a sword that had a hilt shaped like a skull and demon wing. The blade itself was red, an old sword given to him by Kronos, who said the blood lust of the blade matched his own. "Then I changed my mind." He turned around quickly with a maniacal grin on his face and almost satanic glee in his eyes. With one motion her head went flying as her body fell to the side. Patience had its limits and it had been a long time since he'd taken a head.
Michel closed his eyes as her Quickening hit him. The lights in the room started to flicker before exploding as the energy flowed around the room. He grunted as it grew stronger and quickly faded away. Looking at the body he let the disgust he was feeling show. "I should have known, you were a lousy fuck and a lousier Quickening. Stupid fucking bitch." Looking through her things and taking his money back and then some he got dressed: combat boots, along with a black metal shirt and those studded gloves of his, and left the room. If things went right he'd be out of town before the body was discovered. But the mortals usually had a habit of popping up when you didn't want them too. Or being stupider than you expected, because went down to the street and found that his car had been stolen.
He started walking, because he had no use for the police, even if he did the body would have been found by the time they arrived and he'd be right there to point out. He needed to walk more anyway, like he did when he was younger. Seeing how things are nowadays it was no wonder the newer Immortals were so weak, they had machines to do just about everything for them. After a few hours it was getting dark and he found himself passing a cemetery when he felt the buzz. Hand going for his sword immediately he looked around for his next challenge.
Standing in one of the entry ways of the cemetery he saw a man who looked liked he was in his fifties, his hair in a ponytail and wearing a jacket and kilt. Looking smug he said, "And how strong to you think you're going to get if you keep settling for those newborn Quickenings?"
"Mind your own business old man," Michel told while continuing on, cursing the fact he was on holy ground.
"Now that's funny" he said through the metal fence between them as he walked with him, "you calling me old when you have a few centuries on me. You should know better than anybody that looks can be deceiving."
"Is there a point to this?", Michel asked. "Or are you finally going to step off of holy ground and face me?"
"I don't think you're worth it yet," he answered. That was always his answered. Michel was convinced part of his strategy was to one day shock him by saying yes then take his head while he momentarily distracted. "I was an important man back in the day, the head of my clan. I don't want to sully myself by fighting just anybody."
Michel stopped and faced him, "I think you're just scared. That's why you never leave holy ground. You're so afraid to die you won't take a battle unless you have absolutely no choice."
"Everybody is afraid to die Michel, humans are just unlucky enough to realize they are going to die," the old man told him. "Death comes for everybody, it just that some of us have a longer life span than others. Tell me Michael, what would you do if you knew you were about to die today."
"Unless I come across an immortal with the fucking balls to fight I don't think I have anything to worry about today."
They reached another gate and the look on the old man face changed slightly, "Be careful for what you wish for Michel." He stepped out in the road, away from holy ground. Michel raised an eyebrow in suspicion as he watched the other man reach into his coat. Pulling out a Scottish claymore he held it before him. "You never know when you're going to get it."
"Finally," Michel grinned as he drew his sword. "I waited a long time for this Malcolm."
To his credit he didn't look fazed at the sight of his blade. "I know you have, let's hope you're up to it."
Michel charged in swinging his sword. Malcolm blocked and backed up several steps as the ring of the clash echoed in the air. Michel swung high, low, at his sides with everything he had, trying to break the other man down. Again he gave Malcolm credit because he was able to parry or avoid each one. "Not bad old man", he said through his teeth as their swords met and didn't budge.
Way to calmly Malcolm said, "Just because you don't think I like to fight doesn't mean I've been in my fair share." They pushed away, Michel being caught off guard momentarily by Malcolm sudden aggressiveness. Swords clanged and sparks flew off of them as the sun got lower and lower in the sky. Malcolm was able to force his sword into the fence and nailed him with an elbow to the face and there was a loud crack and his blood started to flow. Michel held his nose as he kicked the other man in the gut. Taking the moment he created to snap his nose back into place he continued his onslaught. He caught the other Immortal with a slash across the chest and that maniacal grinned returned to his face, he smelt blood.
Malcolm didn't panic, in fact he was even calmer know than when the fight first started. No matter, it just meant he had that much more pride to break before he started taking body parts. Michel came in with an overhead slash. Malcolm surprised him by sidestepping instead of blocking. He grabbed the other Immortal by the hair and swung his sword. Michel fell foreword suddenly and he immediately checked his neck. His head was still in place, but his hair now hung to his shoulders. "You fucking bastard!"
"Next time I'll take more than your hair Michel," Malcolm said as he dropped the hair to the ground and walked back into the cemetery. In a fit of rage and embarrassment he ran after Malcolm with his sword ready to strike. The moment he entered the cemetery the other Immortal simply said, "Holy ground Dijkhuizen."
Michel was forced to stop despite his rage. He was right there yet that fucking taboo that was forced into him stayed his hand. His rage had to go somewhere, so he screamed and took the head off a nearby angel statue. Pointing at the other man back he shouted, "One of these days McAllister!"
"I did you a favor Michel," Malcolm said leaning on a tombstone. "The police will be looking for a man with hair down to his ass. You just got a brief respite despite the fact you'll match the rest of the description. Besides you needed a haircut anyway. I ought to take more for you desecrating a grave"
"One of these days you won't be were you can run to holy ground with your tail between your legs!"
"Tell yourself whatever you need to Michel, just be happy I was in a generous mood today." He turned away and walked further into the cemetery. "Although if you're that hungry for McAllister blood, I do believe I have a family member you might want to be interested in. After I make sure we are blood related that is."
"And how in the fuck am I suppose to know when you do or not?", Michael demanded.
"Do not curse in a cemetery," Malcolm said showing the first signs of anger in the encounter. Regaining some of his composer he said, "I'll let you know when I found out. One of the beauties of the modern age," he held up a cell phone, "we're all connected no matter where we go. I'll be in touch."
Michel fumed as he stared at the red metal of his blade. "After I take care of this supposed family of yours I'm coming after your head next you fucking Scottish bastard."