The three words, "I've tried many times," fell into the room and shattered the fragile peace. They were heavier than any monster, more terrifying than any display of supernatural power. Mike's goofy grin was gone, replaced by a pale-faced horror. Sam looked like his logical world had been turned inside out and set on fire. How do you quantify the pain of an immortal wanting to die?
Elara seemed to be sinking into herself, the formidable presence she carried shrinking until she just looked like a profoundly tired woman. She drained the rest of her beer in two long swallows and, without a word, went back to the freezer for another. And then another.
The boys watched in silence as she drank, her movements becoming looser, her guard not just lowered but completely dismantled. Her silver eyes grew distant, unfocused, gazing at memories only she could see. She was no longer drinking for pleasure or habit; she was drinking to forget, or perhaps, to remember. She was high, not in the clumsy, mortal way, but in the deep, melancholic way of a soul drowning in its own history.
It was Leo who finally broke the spell. He couldn't stand the crushing weight of her silent despair.
"What were you?" he asked, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "Before… this?"
Elara turned her head slowly, her ancient eyes struggling to focus on him. For a moment, he thought she would tell him to get out. Instead, a sad, distant look softened her features. Normally she would never tell anyone. It was a story she kept buried under a mountain of centuries and cynicism. But the alcohol had unearthed it.
"Before..." she began, her voice a low, raspy murmur. "Before was green. Everything was green."
The world of the apartment seemed to fade away, her voice painting a new one in its place.
(One Thousand Years Ago)
The world wasn't always concrete and steel and noise. Once, it was rhythm and life. My world was a forest, so vast it was the only country we knew. We called it the Grove of Veridian, the domain of the God of Life. The canopy was a hundred feet high, a cathedral of living wood where the sun didn't shine, but filtered down in gentle, dappled blessings. The air hummed. Not with electricity, but with life itself.
We were the Children of the Grove. My people. We worshipped the God, not with sacrifice and fear, but with joy and cultivation. We tended the forest, and in return, Veridian gave us a gift. A blessing flowed through our blood, drawn from the Grove itself. We were given regeneration.
A cut from a sharp stone would seal itself in seconds. A broken bone would mend by morning. Sickness was a foreign concept. But it was not immortality. That is a curse, not a blessing. We aged, we grew old, we loved, and we died. Our bodies would return to the soil of the Grove, and the God would welcome our spirits. We lived and died in a perfect, sacred cycle. We were human.
My father was the High Priest, a stern but loving man whose hands could coax glowing moss to grow on barren rock. He was the voice of our God. But my mother... she was its heart. She was a kind lady with laughter like the sound of a running stream and hair the colour of rich soil.
And I… I was just a little girl.
The memory is so clear, clearer than yesterday. I see myself, my feet bare and calloused, my hair a wild tangle of black. I am running. The moss beneath my feet is softer than any velvet, still damp with morning dew. The air smells of damp earth, night-blooming jasmine, and the clean scent of rain. Sunlight spears through the leaves, painting shifting patterns on the forest floor.
I am chasing a butterfly with wings like stained glass, its flight an erratic dance. My laughter is high and breathless, a sound I no longer recognize as my own. It echoes through the ancient trees, a sound of pure, untainted joy.
My mother is walking behind me, a basket of herbs on her arm. She isn't trying to keep up. She is just watching, a gentle smile on her face. I trip on an upturned root, scraping my knee on the rough bark. The pain is sharp, surprising. I look down, and already, I can see the skin knitting itself back together, the blood vanishing as if it were a dream.
I look up at my mother, my eyes wide. She just smiles that warm, loving smile. "Be careful, my little sparrow," she calls, her voice the most beautiful song I have ever known.
But I am not afraid. There is no fear in the Grove. I am safe. I am loved. I am home. I scramble back to my feet and continue my chase, my mother's loving gaze on me like a piece of the sun, warming me to my very soul.