Immortal Mine (30 page)

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she accuses. I
consider pretending I have no idea what she’s talking about, but
decide right then that I won’t lie to her anymore. Anything she
asks, I’ll answer.

“I should have,” I say. “Honestly, I felt it
was her—”

“Don’t you dare say it was her story to
tell,” she says angrily, pushing harshly away from me as she slides
off my lap.

I have no defense, so I don’t even try. She
glares at me, wiping her tears away.

“I’ll answer any questions you have, Niahm.
No more lies, no more secrets.” She narrows her eyes in disbelief.
“Starting with this,” I say, swiping my green contacts from my
eyes. Her own widen in disbelief as she stares at my eyes, so like
her own, only with a much smaller rim of green instead of gold.

“How...” she breathes. She shakes her head,
scooting further from me. “Does that mean I...?”

I shake my head. “Not necessarily. It can be
an indication, but it’s not a guarantee. Eyes like ours are passed
down through our genes. Without them, we know there’s no
possibility. With them, we know that it
is
a possibility,
but no more than that.”

Her face reflects her dismay at this
information. I can’t really blame her. I can practically watch her
thoughts flit through her expression, shock and horror at this
information. Her fists clench and she squeezes her eyes shut,
taking deep, deliberate breaths. After a few moments, she clears
her throat, that admirable courage coming through once again as she
keeps herself together. I think if it were me I’d be freaking
out.

“So,” she begins, her still-hoarse voice
shaking a bit, “when would someone know, then?”

“Only when something happens to cause their
mortal death. If they wake, then they know.”

“But sometimes someone with eyes like…
this
... might just die?”

“Yes.”

“What if it happens when you’re old? Would
you be old forever?”

“No. If something doesn’t happen before your
fifty-third birthday to cause your mortal death, then you won’t
become immortal. "

"Why fifty three?"

"No one knows for certain, though there are
several theories. In numerology, the first number, or five,
represents man. A star has five points which represents a man
standing arms and legs out. It was the fifth day of creation in
which God created man. Adam, the first man, was immortal until he
fell. It's also a number which ends in itself when raised by its
own power, making it a circular number. A circle is endless, or
eternal."

"Huh," Niahm says. "I didn't know any of
that. What about the three?"

"Well, the number three is considered to be
the first true number and has heavy meaning in magic. It represents
the past, present, and future. In geometry it’s the first number of
sides on a shape which creates an enclosure—as in a triangle—making
three sides also endless or eternal. It also represents the
beginning, the middle, and the end."

"Kind of freaky," Niahm says, sounding
absolutely fascinated.

"If you add them together," I say, "you get
eight. Of course the number eight turned on its side is the symbol
for eternity. It also represents regeneration or rebirth. The
eighth day of the week is the new beginning, or the revival of the
week."

"You've spent some time studying this?" she
asks with a small upturn at one corner of her mouth.

I shrug. "I was curious. No one has ever
known of an immortal that changed after that age." I glance at her.
"Immortals tend to look younger than their mortal age, anyway.”

“
Immortal
,” Niahm mutters, looking at
the stream as it flows by. “I can’t believe I’m having this
conversation.” A thought strikes her and her eyes fly back to mine.
“Is that why you’ve been with me? Because you saw my eyes and knew
I might be like you?”

“No,” I quickly negate. “I didn’t really see
your eyes until that day in the barn? Remember?” I watch as the
memory comes to her.

“But do you think on some subconscious level
you recognized that I might be?”

“No. Not that. But there is something
else.”

Her eyes turn wary as she weighs whether she
wants to know or not. Finally, beaten, she mutters, “What?”

“As an immortal, on rare occasion you meet a
mortal that you become bound to.”

“Bound to? What does that mean?”

I try to find the words to explain while
making sure she doesn’t doubt that my love is true. “Uh, basically,
you meet the person and you feel this pull toward them. As time
goes on, if you spend more time with them, the feeling intensifies,
until it becomes impossible to leave them—unless they ask you to.
If you go away when you first feel it, sometimes you can walk away
and avoid the binding, but not always.”

She swallows loudly, and I don’t need to
hold her hand to know what she’s thinking.

“So you are bound to me?” she asks in a
small voice.

“Yes,” I say honestly. “But it’s different
with you.”

“Different how?” she asks skeptically.

“I won’t deny the initial pull I felt with
you,” I begin. “But I’ve never had it become so intense so quickly.
It wasn’t long at all before I knew I couldn’t go.”

She turns her face away, but not before I
see the hurt in her eyes.

“Niahm,” I say gently, but she refuses to
look my way. “Being bound and being in love are two separate
things.” Now she looks at me, bewildered. “An immortal can be bound
to men or women, and it’s almost always just a deep, protective
instinct. It’s kind of hard to explain. It’s an inescapable need to
watch over them, and keep them safe. We usually try to befriend the
person, because it makes it easier to stay near them.” I scoot
closer to her, and reach out to touch her arm. “I’ve never been in
love with someone I’m bound to. Until now.”

Tears form in her eyes again, but she blinks
them back.

“Are you lying to me?” Her voice is barely
above a whisper.

I smile. “That’s another thing about being
bound. Once it’s taken firm hold, it becomes impossible to lie to
the mortal. That can be rather inconvenient at times.”

“But you did lie to me,” she says. “You
didn’t tell me what you are, or what Jean is.”

“Had you asked, I couldn’t have lied. I can
withhold information, but I can’t straight up lie.”

Niahm shakes her head again. “So you can
lie, just not when you’re directly answering a question.”

“Nor when I’m volunteering information,” I
say. She looks doubtful. “I didn’t expect to love you, Niahm. I
knew I was bound tightly, especially since it was so fast. Love,
though, should never have come into the equation. I personally
don’t know any other immortals who have loved their bind, though
there are some who are rumored to. Even if I weren’t bound to you,
Niahm, I would still love you.”

She sighs.

“This is all so weird and confusing.”

“I know,” I say. “Imagine being me, thinking
I was dead, then thinking it was a miracle that I was alive, never
suspecting what I had become. Eventually it became impossible not
to notice that I was not aging, even as my wife grew old.”

“What?” Niahm shoots to her feet, at the
same time I realize what I’ve said. “You’re
married
?”

I quickly gain my feet, mentally beating
myself for my usual stupidity.

“Of course not,” I say then qualify, “Not
anymore.”

“What does
that
mean?” she demands,
hands on hips.

I remind myself of my newfound resolution to
not withhold information from her, no matter how much I’d rather
not share this with her.

“Can we sit down again?” I say, indicating
the grass. She seems about to refuse, so I say, “It’s a long
story.”

She debates internally—it’s as if I can
watch the entire argument she has with herself while I wait.
Finally, she drops back down. I slowly join her, take a breath, and
begin.

Ireland, 1563

Sorley Ó Clúmháin swung his axe down in a
final, powerful arc. The blade remained buried in the stump as the
two smaller pieces of wood fell evenly to the side. He rubbed his
bicep before bending to retrieve the pieces. He added them to the
rest, tying the twine tightly before hefting the entire bunch over
his right shoulder. He leaned forward against the weight, hoping it
would be enough to keep her while he was gone.

When he arrived at their small hut, he
neatly arranged the wood against it. He went inside to see her as
she squatted in front of the fire, stirring the pot of soup. She
turned as he entered, a wide smile lighting her face.

“
A ghra mo
chroí
, Padraig,” she said as he pulled her into
his arms for a thorough kiss. She was the only one who called him
by his middle name.

“I’ll miss ye, wife.”

“As I’ll miss ye,” she said. “At least ye
won’ hafta worra’ for me as I wi’ worra for ye.”

Sorley shook his head sadly. He wanted nothing
more than to stay in their little hut, raising babies—though he was
beginning to wonder if that was a possibility. They’d been wed two
years, and still no
bairn
had blessed
them.

“Go now,” she commanded, “before I refuse to
let ye.”

He scooped up his small pack and slung it
over his shoulder, the weight much less than his previous load.
With his sword strapped to his side, and his battle axe in hand, he
began the long walk, glancing back once at the edge of the forest.
He had the sudden feeling he might never see this place—or his
beloved wife—again.

“
Go dté tú slán
,
” she
called. Sorley swallowed over the lump that had formed in his
throat as he lifted his axe in farewell.



The battle had been raging for nearly half a
year. Sorley was cold, wet, hungry, and exhausted beyond what any
man should have to withstand. The fact that every man within
eyesight shared the same misery stayed his tongue from complaint.
At least he wasn’t wounded—much. He dipped the filthy rag into the
water that wasn’t much cleaner and retied it around his thigh, not
looking too closely at the slash the English scum had put into him
three days prior.

He downed a mug of brew, cringing at the
bitter taste. He hadn’t had anything of substance to fill his belly
for too long. Weakness dragged at him.

“
Deifir
!
Deifir
!
Siad ag
teacht
!”

Sorley jumped to his feet at the warning cry
and bolted from the thatched hut housing the wounded before the
words had really registered. His sword had been lost a fortnight
past, so he ran toward the fray, axe raised high as the first
Englishman came into view. With a cry upon his lips, he swung his
weapon down.



Pain, deep within his side, roused Sorley
from his sleep. He didn’t remember laying down. He got his fists
beneath him and pushed himself slowly away from the icy wet ground.
He must’ve been exhausted as he didn’t even have his thin blanket
over him. When he gained his knees, he lifted his head and froze at
the sight before him.

Men lay slaughtered as far as the eye could
see, the ground stained red. Not just men—Irishmen. Men he’d been
fighting side-by-side with for so long. He glanced to his right to
see FitzGerald, his closest mate, lying with his eyes wide, the
gash in his neck telling why. Sorley’s stomach heaved at the sight,
his empty stomach having nothing to expel, his gut wrenching sobs
and loud wailing cries reaching for the heavens.

He pushed away from FitzGerald, stumbling
over the dead man to his left. He refused to look and see who it
was. He stumbled across the massive field, his anguish growing at
each man he passed, their numbers seemingly endless.

Three days later he crested the hill above
his thatched hut. He dropped to his knees at the sight of the thin
tendril of smoke rising from the chimney. It felt like lifetimes
since he’d last crested this ridge. Overcome with emotion, he
couldn’t move, couldn’t stand and make the last three hundred
meters it would take to put him back into her arms.

The door to the hut pushed open from within
and Sorley’s stomach lurched at the sight of her walking out into
the yard with a bucket. She walked over to the edge of the river,
dumping the contents, then refilling it with clean water. She
turned back toward the hut, stopping to stretch her back before
picking the bucket up again. The flatness of her belly was obvious
even from this distance, and Sorley was suffused with a mixture of
both regret and relief.

As she walked back to the hut she glanced up
to where Sorley knelt. In panic she dropped the bucket and ran
inside. He painfully pushed himself to his feet and began the long
walk toward his home. Moments later she emerged again, axe raised
high. Sorley groaned with a mixture of amusement and exasperation
as she came his way. Did she really think her questionable skills
with the heavy weapon would protect her?