EHYEH-ASHER-EHYER (I AM THAT I AM):An Elena Duran/Corazon Negro
Vi Moreau (vmoreau@directvinternet.com)
Fri, 20 Sep 2002 10:06:15 -0400
Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh (I am that I am) 1/34
Julio Cesar divad72@prodigy.net.mx
Vi Moreau vmoreau@directvinternet.com
In what is today Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire, England
At the end of the Dark Ages
It was dark, and at first nothing moved in the knoll. The gray shapes of the
clouds were faceless figures in the mist, moving slowly, as timeless
sentries, misshaped and frozen. It was night, and the shrieks of owls broke
through the silence, the sounds mixing with the blowing wind to create a
wretched cacophony. The grasses waved in the breeze, as if trying to break
free from their roots and escape the hooves of the horse that threatened to
squash them where new shadows were stirring.
In the distance, a small bonfire was visible through the dimness.
The lone rider dismounted, staring about, feeling the protection offered by
Holy Ground. His two-colored eyes were bright, and his face reflected his
enthusiasm, his excitement at being back in this place. He was a man who
loved to explore, to search out all that he had not yet seen, and he lived
for the unknown, even when he, Zarach bal-Tagh, was as ancient as any
civilization that had existed on earth, and there was little that was new to
him. His life had taken him across the face of the planet many times,
teaching him more about it than any other living man could possibly yet hope
to know, even now when the world was changing again, and the old magic and
its ways were no more. Finally, the Catholic Church and its Inquisition were
fading away, in a slow but constant manner. The Renascence provided a new
breed of people and ideologies for humankind, and the old supernatural
things were falling into darkness, perhaps forever.
Well, not all the magic. Zarach closed his eyes, feeling deep inside his
soul the other Immortals waiting for him. At last, the Ancient Gathering.
Grinning, he tied his horse to a post set beside a small camp of skin tents,
were a young boy welcomed him.
"Welcome, milord," the boy said. "The others are waiting for you."
"I know," Zarach responded as he settled for straight ahead. His two sai-his
Chinese trident-like weapons-swung at his side, banging gently against his
leg. For a moment, Zarach stopped to ponder about this place.
Stonehenge and its purpose remained a mystery even now, more than 4,000
years after it was first built. It could have been a temple, an astronomical
calendar, or a guide to the heavens. Despite the fact that mortal men did
not know its purpose for certain, Stonehenge acted as a prehistoric
timepiece, allowing scholars to theorize about its origins and significance.
It was as if it had become an eternal enigma rapped in a timeless riddle. No
one really knew what it had represented during a prehistoric time, and who,
how and why, had built this megalithic wonder.
But Zarach knew better.
Ancient people had decided to build a massive monument using earth, timber
and eventually, stones. The sacred place was as mysterious and holy as it
must have been to the hundreds of people who helped build the site. Under
Zarach's guidance, construction took place in three phases, over twenty-six
generations, between 3000 and 1400 BCE. Most of it had been the result of
human muscle and physical strength and a system of ropes and wooden levers
used to transport the massive stones. Primitive tools, such as red deer
antlers, were used to dig up the chalky countryside, which was then taken
away on ox shoulder blades. The stones of the main monument appeared to form
layers of circles and horseshoe patterns that slowly enclosed the site.
First there were two stone circles, an outer and an inner one. In the center
of the Monument were two pillar stones with the stone on top shaped as a
horseshoe. Surrounded by this was another smaller set of stones, also
positioned in the shape of a horseshoe. But it was a monument made of more
than just rocks. There was the henge, or a ditch and bank, which surrounded
the stone circle. There was also a laneway that extended from the northeast
side of the monument from the open horseshoe to the River Avon, a few
kilometers away. Several stones marked this laneway, just outside the henge
of the monument. Erosion, time and human invasion had worn it down, leaving
many of the stones in stumps similar to a set of baby teeth. Although the
site was not as majestic as it once had been, it still conveyed a sense of
power that seemed to enclose people in its mystery, allowing no one to
escape from the question of its purpose.
It was the truest embodiment of Holy Ground. And tonight, the Standing
Stones were, perhaps, more sacred than ever. The perfect place for the
Ancient Gathering to take place.
Zarach stepped inside the sacred circle, where, just as he knew, the others
were waiting for him. His gaze encompassed them, and with a little bow, he
saluted them.
"You're late," Aylon, the Old Man of the Mountain said first with an angry
tone.
"Nevertheless, I'm here," Zarach answered looking fearlessly at him. Aylon
was shaggy and unkempt as always. Wearing black Arabian robes that made him
look like an ancient terror from the past, his chiseled eyebrows exhibited
an always-present rage on his bearded face, whose cheeks were decorated with
bizarre ritualistic blue tattoos. He was a huge, fierce-looking man. Zarach
shuddered inwardly as he remembered this Immortal's great powers, his
eternal anger, and the wisdom he seemed to possess.
Aylon's hand moved closer to the hilt of his huge scimitar. For a moment,
Zarach narrowed his gaze. One day, maybe he and Aylon would settle their
differences. But not here, not tonight. "Are we ready?" Zarach asked, trying
to alleviate the situation.
"We are," Nakano answered, moving closer to him. "Put your quarrels aside,
brothers," the Japanese wizard suggested to both of them. "This is Holy
Ground."
Aylon sighed. "Another time then," he said to Zarach.
Zarach's eyes shone mysteriously. "Not until Mother dies."
"So be it," Ramirez spoke for the first time. Over his shoulders was a cloak
of peacocks' feathers, the colors of which flashed in the torchlight. Beside
him, Roderigo Rubio, the Iberian, wearing a shiny crusader's armor, shifted
uncomfortably. He was one of the youngest of the group and felt out of
place-he was only here seconding his master, Ramirez.
Zarach looked briefly at them before his gaze rested on Naema, the only
woman in the group. Dressed in a red Massai dress, she had an elaborately
carved wooden staff in her left hand. Her stance seemed almost regal and the
shadows of the night accentuated her high cheekbones and ruby-red lips. Two
long braids fell along her slim body nearly to her waist. Her honey eyes
blazed with an intense inner fire. With a small grin, she welcomed him. No
words were needed between them. Millennia before they had treated each other
as brother and sister, in a time long gone, in a time before Lilitu's Game.
Zarach then looked over at the Immortals near her. They were Darius, the
warlord who had killed Emrys at the gates of Paris long ago, and Zarach's
own former protege, Kadosh, the one known nowadays as Methos.
"I'm glad to see you again," Darius said with a Germanic accent. By now he
had converted to Christianity. He wore a Catholic priest's robes. Methos,
his long black hair moved by the soft breeze and dressed like a peasant,
said no word. Zarach simply nodded at them.
A small figure moved behind Zarach. "It's been a long time, old one," the
smaller man said, with a strange tone of voice Zarach knew too well. "But
you always fulfill your promises."
Without turning, Zarach smiled openly this time. "Just like you,
Quetzalcohuatl, just like you," he whispered. Slowly, he turned and embraced
the little Immortal known as the Feather Snake. Quetzalcohuatl ethnic
origins obviously hadn't been lost-he was still the quintessential dark
Indio, small, dark-complexioned, with down-sloping brown eyes reflecting
deep intelligence, a strong jaw, long black hair tied back neatly in a
leather cord. The muscles in his shoulders and neck were well-defined, and
he moved with the grace of a dancer. There was much to talk about, and
Zarach hoped that after this campaign they would both have a chance to catch
up on old times.
"Someday, Lilitu is going to try to destroy all Immortals on the earth,"
Myrddin's voice floated over the breeze. He was unguarded and passive as
always, dressed in a white Druid's robe. His ruddy, bearded face shone by
the light reflected from the fire and his long gray hair whipped across his
broad shoulders. His eyes were filled with the light of wisdom. "Maybe not
all of us will be here to face her when the time comes."
"Many have died because of this war so far," Heru-sa-aset, the forgotten
Egyptian demigod-prince, declared softly beside the Druid, as if pondering
his thoughts. Dressed like an oriental king, this Immortal had a strong
chin, hawk-like nose, a shaved head, and skin the color of molten bronze.
His eyes blazed with intelligence.
Zarach looked at the Druid mage and at the Egyptian. "Perhaps, but even if
we don't, others will fight against her." He eyed the Ancient Gathering,
waiting for their answers. "We have traveled from all the corners of the
world to meet here. Promise me, swear to me, that if we die, our disciples
will fight against Mother, no matter the odds."
"So be it," Nakano said. "If we die, our apprentices will fight in our
stead."
"I swear to fight against her personally," Aylon declared with low tones. "I
have to see her dead with my own eyes."
"The same goes for me," Heru-sa-aset said. "Me and no other. No matter the
odds."
Naema smiled, her white teeth flashing in the night. "I'll be there too, at
the final Gathering."
Myrddin lowered his gaze. "I pray to the Gods never to have to fight her,
but if it comes to that, I will."
Ramirez looked at Roderigo. "I swear it too. And if I die, Roderigo here
will take my place." The proud looking Iberian nodded, but he didn't seem
too happy. However, Zarach knew to trust both Ramirez and his student.
Darius seemed sad when Zarach looked at him. "You know me. After that awful
night long ago at the gates of Paris, I abandoned the warpath." For a
moment, the priest lowered his gaze, as if recollecting his inner thoughts.
"But if the time comes, I will take up my sword again against Lilitu. I
swear it."
Then Zarach looked over at Methos. Their eyes met without blinking. "You
already know the answer, old man," Methos simply said.
Zarach sighed. He knew some of them would die before Lilitu's Endgame.
Trying to find hope, he raised his gaze toward the sky. Above Stonehenge,
the clouds moved, and for a brief moment, moonlight illuminated the faces of
the Ancient Gathering.
========
THE CRIMSON SUNRISE
"And I saw another sign in heaven,
great and marvelous,
seven angels having the seven last plagues;
For in them is filled up the wrath of God."
Revelations 15: 1
The Revelation of John
Island of Nod
Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean
March 26, 2013
"I am that I am! There is no God but I! I am the messenger of Time! I am
that I am!"
The chant resounded all around the cliff. The night was almost gone.
Moments later, Lilitu had completed her prayers, and as new day was dawning,
the sky was light but the sun had not yet crested the horizon. For the
Ancient Gathering it was a time of beginning, of emerging from the eternal
night of the Immortals; for her, it was a time of contemplation, of
banishment from light. But that was her will: that she would never again
feel the warmth of life or see the bands, the rays of color, strips of a
rainbow after the storm; that just as the spider eats the buzzing insects,
and the sparrows the spider, and the hawk the sparrows, she would rid the
earth of the creatures that walked among the world of the mortals.
"May the power of the Dream cause all their prayers to descend on my being!
Now eternity is open to me! May black powers and the wrath of nightmares be
with me!"
The words of her prayers usually soothed Lilitu, usually led her calmly into
the rest that was not sleep, but this morning the wrath of hell seemed far
away, like a stranger traveling distant roads. Only recently had the winds
shifted in the Dream and blown storm clouds over the horizon; only days ago
her wrath had again laid open the demand of her soul, that all Immortals on
earth should die. There can be only one. Herself.
"The time has come! My Endgame is at hand!"
She could not achieve peace, even though she could control the Dream almost
at will. That which she had known was borrowed, stolen. Now her masters
reclaimed it. Not just one master but three: Quickening, Game and Hate. Each
one jealous of the other, each all-consuming. Internally, she fumed and
cursed that anything should hold her back, that anything should interfere.
Somewhere above her, the sun burned, waiting for its chance to reclaim life
from the earth. A whirlwind seemed to open before her, and she could see the
Dream open in front her. "I am your Master!" she yelled at the hole in the
air that eyed her. "You're my Slave! I know Thee!" But the twister closed
the mouth of the Dream one more time.
Lilitu frowned as her gaze rose toward the sky. "Do you think you have won?
You did not! The only thing you won was time!" But there was no response.
At last, her patience at an end, Lilitu rose and sat upright. She reached
out and took hold of her ancient sword, which was never far from her hand.
There was no light to reflect from the blade, but she didn't need sight to
know every inch of her weapon's curves. She held the blade flat between her
palms, feeling the cool bronze against her skin. Then she took the handle in
one hand and pressed the blade against the tip of her other middle finger.
The keen edge sliced easily through her flesh, down smoothly until it struck
bone. Lilitu smiled but did not stop. Slowly, she rolled the blade along the
length of its curve so that it sliced downward along her finger, across the
palm, and to the heel of her palm. She kept her inner power from rushing to
the wound, kept it from healing nerve and muscle, kept it from denying her
pain and pleasure.
"Behold my blood! I am that I am!"
There would be pain. There would always be pain. To see the pain served as a
spur to open the Dream. To ensure that she would survive and prosper-that
there was a purpose worth serving, and Lilitu did so in her own name. To see
that all Immortals vanished from the face of the earth-that too was a noble
purpose, one that she served in her own name. But she knew that in the end,
she would find no greater or more worthy purpose. Pure self-gratification,
which she enjoyed more than anything else.
Now she laid the flat of her blade against her cheek. The selfish feelings,
the rage, would vanish with the destruction of the objects of its obsession.
All Immortals would depart this life.
"There is no God but I! I am that I am!"
Lilitu traced a curve across her forehead, pressed with just enough pressure
to leave a red crescent. The tip of her sword slid lightly over her
cheekbone to her nose and followed the low route to the soft tissue at the
corner of her eye.
"Reveal yourself to me! I am your Master! You are my Slave!"
The tip of the sword pressed against the white of her eye, slipping easily
through the membrane. She needed to see the Dream. She would banish doubt
and confusion. Through force of will, she would defeat the new Dreamer and
the Ancient Gathering, just as now it was through sheer force of will that
she kept her eyes open while she picked and punctured at one of them.
Relentlessly, she applied more pressure to the blade, sinking it deeper into
the orbital socket. She would rule her own mind and heart, through constant
vigilance, unceasing dedication. She would rule the Dream.
A slight flick, and the blade did its work. The eyeball came free, hanging
by its nerves from the socket. With a quick flick of her weapon, she severed
the nerve, and the eyeball fell softly to her feet. A great pleasure
overcame Lilitu. She was all power, all will. The sun was high overhead
when, in front of her and through her delirium, the Dream opened again, for
her. But that troubled her not at all. She could not begrudge herself her
own existence.
The future was hers; the Dream was her pawn. With an icy smile, she
commanded her body to be fully repaired, and at that moment, Lilitu's
orbital socket flashed a blue light, and then her eye was completely healed,
regrown within a few instants. With new sight and a calm heart, she looked
out at the Dream.
She brushed her hair back from her face. In the motion of the air, she could
feel the suddenly active spirits, guardians and servants of the Dream. They
whistled past her, obscuring her laugh. With a blinding flash, a streak of
lightning hung in the sky as if frozen. then lowered slowly to the earth,
taking on the form of the Goddess.
The whirlwind around her became shadows. Strange figures danced in front of
her as the darkness felt onto the island. Lilitu's eyes were lit from
within, a soft red circling halo surrounded her pupils, and the dimness of
the Dream was revealed to her as if it were daylight.
"I am that I am! I am the darkness! I am the beginning and the end! And hell
is coming with me!" she yelled one last time as she stepped inside the
Dream. In there, she would find not peace, but the power to control the
storms, to command the shadows, and every other tool she would need to
vanish the Ancient Gathering, forever. Slowly, she went into darkness.
========
Watcher Headquarters
Vienna, Austria
March 26, 2013
The light shone from the desk lamp, although the bulb flickered. A sharp
blow to the lamp set the matter right, but the insular path of the light was
considerably dimmed.
Darkness crowded around the seated figure. His fingers turned a page, and
then another. A raspy, disconnected sigh accompanied the rattle of paper.
Silence. Stillness.
Then Joe Dawson's fingers reached for the printed e-mail on the desk and,
with surprising deftness, seated in his wheelchair, he began to read.
-Original Message-
From: Lori Wright
To: Joe Dawson
Subject: Update
Hope you're ready for this. Duncan MacLeod was caught in a fight against
what looked a bunch of crazy Berserkers in Glenfinnan. Yes, you read this
correctly: Berserkers. Can you believe that? Connor MacLeod was in the fight
too, along with Cassandra. But that wasn't the strangest thing. A group of
Immortals came to help them, Elena Duran and Corazon Negro among them. At
night, Methos and another Immortal came to Connor's house. As for the
others, let me tell you that no record exists in our database about them.
I'm going to follow Duncan. What's happening?
Lori Wright
-End of Message-
========