This is a story I'm not going to try and sell because it's a bit too derivative, but it might amuse someone...
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A Legend of Esgalbar by Kyri Freeman
The Fortress was named Esgalbar. It had lived long, long through the bloody saga of the West, before the sun turned sickly, before all summer ended and travel from other lands ceased. The Darkflood River ran through it, out of the waste that had once been enchanted woods, and through the little green space between the inner and outer walls, the garden that fed Esgalbar, and into waste again. No one left the walls; there was neither gate nor door. Esgalbar was effectively under siege, as it had been for hundreds of years.
There were casements, but they were on the highest towers, and they were heavily barred. Elyhl could stand atop the towers, under the poisoned sun, and see hills still gravestoned with dead trees. For nine months out of the year, the hills were white as bone with snow.
In the world’s youth the elyhl, longeval to many centuries, had not recalled their past lives. Dying, often young, of violence, they lay in the Place of Dust, and forgot, and were reborn renewed. Only doomed and fated heroes recalled who they had been, and how they died.
But something changed in the long centuries of stillness. At first, it was haunting memories, even dread. And then the elyhl began to remember the lives they had lived before.
There was nothing for them in Esgalbar but survival, and the future that would be the same as the past, and the ever-building snowdrift of long memory. They would not die of sickness or of age, and violence was kept outside the walls.
Novelty became sweet water and clean air to them. What more artful novelty than dramatic suicide?
After all, it was not real death: death of the self, of memory.
And for a thousand years, true death was exiled from the halls of Esgalbar.
#
“But,” Elerien protested, “but. . .”
“No,” her mother said.
They were sitting in the sun-room, a room against Esgalbar’s outer wall, high in a tower--that was the measure of her family’s wealth--with glass windows made to magnify warmth and light. The bars on the outside of the windows made patterns on the floor-mats.
“I’m fifteen. Everyone else who is fifteen can go to the Midsummer festival.”
“You are fifteen,” said her mother. “The other fifteens are hundreds of years old.”
They had been telling her this since she could remember. You have no recall. You are newborn.
“I won’t embarrass you!” She pulled a loose thread from the worn linen of her leggings. She did embarrass her kin, she knew, and often. She had no sophistication. “It’s only that. . .in the hall. . .and I know he’ll be there. . .”
Elerien’s mother, Dulas, had lived more than a hundred lives. What could surprise her? So the look of dismay that crossed her face was, Elerien suspected, contrived. “What’s his name?”
“Aimariko of the House of Chamise,” she muttered, picking at a rough spot in the floor-mat that a cousin had woven in some long-ago life.
“Gods save us,” said Dulas. “You’re ashes on the wind of his lives. Give it up.”
She did hear pity in Dulas’ voice, though it was hard to tell, for her elders could mask one emotion with another, and feign what they did not feel. “But I might be. . .a novelty. Might I not?”
“Take my advice,” Dulas said. “Forget him.”
#
Elerien did not attend the Midsummer festival. But in spring, when the ancient cherry trees in the garden between the inner and outer walls straggled forth a bloom or two, she went to watch a duel.
A crowd stood on the little greensward to watch Isvael and Sevnyn fight. “Do you want to make a bet?” someone asked Elerien. “Last lifetime Isvael lost. I think they take turns.”
She shook her head. The duelists stood ten paces apart, pistols in hand, nearly unmoving. She was not here for them.
Aimariko, standing among his Chamise kin: black silk and onyx beads, burnished hair and pale ivory skin.
Behind her, a single shot. One of the duelists, presumably, fell. She did not turn to see which.
Aimariko shone in the wan spring sunlight like a living jewel. Trembling, she edged in amongst his kin, came to his side. For a moment she could not speak, and then she said, “Can we meet? Later?”
She had not been able to meet his eyes, but she heard his silence and blushed, and then he said, “Surely we could.”
They would be mated forever, through life after life. Or why die? It would all be joy.
Another shot sounded. Elerien saw Sevnyn, the erstwhile victor, fall, the pistol dropping from his hand. He had shot himself. The crowd applauded: this was a novelty.
#
Elerien ran home through the ancient stone corridors of Esgalbar, and changed her clothes for ancient, inherited linen and a necklace of the preserved wood that gave her family its name. Some of them could remember when living white oaks had grown on the hills. Smiling, lightfooted, she walked through Esgalbar’s long passageways to Chamise House.
The guard at the door looked like a child, but his eyes were a thousand years old. “Aimariko. . .?” she asked. Wordlessly, he led her in.
In a hall of black marble and veined turquoise, Aimariko sat among the wolfpack of his friends. “It’s the lady of White Oak,” he said delightedly.
“The young one,” someone else said.
“Go away,” Aimariko said. They strolled off, carrying goblets of mead in their slim hands.
“I,” she said, “I, I want to marry you, Aimariko.”
“To sleep with me?”
“No,” she said. “Yes. To marry you.”
He blinked. “I haven’t married in five lifetimes.”
“I’ve loved you for four years. Since I was twelve.”
“Is that all?” He laughed. She looked up at him. His eyes were like wells of centuries. “How old are you, Elerien?”
“It’s my first life.” Did he not know that? Everyone knew.
“Fascinating.” He took her hands in his, and drew her to him, and kissed her. It was like dreaming fire. “Sleep with me tonight.”
#
At the end of the night she lay on cinnamon satin cushions in Aimariko’s bedchamber, and the night still echoing in her body like a song of joy.
Aimariko sat up in the flood of his dark hair. “Amusing. Well, come back in a life or so. It will be interesting.”
She stared. The song ended. Her skin was cold. “Aimariko. . .”
He stood up and pulled his shirt over his head. “What did you expect? Infant! I told you I don’t marry. It has been amusing. Now go, before I’m bored.”
He left, and she wrapped a sheet around herself and sat for a long time, shaking and ashamed.
It was a test. He was testing her. He wanted novelty. Needed it. She could…
She could die--a pistol, knives, bloodroot--oh, but then she would have to wait. And he would age further. She would never narrow the gap then.
But she could. . .
She put on her clothes and walked through the halls, into the black and azure room where Aimariko was laughing with his friends.
They quieted a little when they saw her standing there. Not much. Aimariko offered his hand, and she came to him. “Oh, do leave now,” he said, lounging elegantly on his cushions. “Do you want to meet my former husband?” He petted the knee of the young man next to him. “He was. But that was long ago. And you, Elerien, are boring me.”
The laughter hissed round again. Aimariko rose, took her flaming face in his hands and smiled at her. “Don’t you understand that I am one of the eldest in Chamise? You’ve had your lesson. Begone.”
“What can I do to show you novelty?” Elerien said.
Aimariko put his chin on his fist as if considering. “Well. You could. . .die. Yes.”
“I will,” she said. Her heart pounded. “But not to return. I will die a true death, without rebirth. I will find a way.”
They fell silent.
“Well,” Aimariko said, “that would be new. . .”
“Only you would have to marry me beforehand,” she said. “It won’t do me much good afterward.”
His friends murmured. “She’s insane,” someone said.
Aimariko gave a wild laugh. His eyes sparkled. “No. The baby bitch has made a wager. And I accept. I will give you. . .say, four years?”
“You will marry me.” Her head felt light, as if she would faint.
“And then you will die. Truly die. By some means. And not plague me in my next life.”
“I swear it.”
Aimariko’s friends applauded. She wanted to smile, or scream. She had attained novelty, for now, at least.
“Let it be so,” Aimariko said.
#
Weddings were rare, and so half the populace of Esgalbar crowded into the little green space between the walls, drinking and singing and making bets. Elerien, in her white linen and wooden beads, put her hand in Aimariko’s. He was resplendent in unfaded black and a white-gold necklace that had come from the Time before Winter. He did not laugh at her. He smiled, and spoke the vow. The Darkflood’s current gleamed with the reflection of torches, with lights and the brilliant colors of Esgalbar’s great Houses. Dulas, Elerien’s mother, smiled from one side. She almost looked surprised.
Everyone knew the wager’s terms; Elerien could hear them whispering about it. She was creative. She was tragic. They might as well, she thought to herself, enjoy it while they could, the four short years. But really, on this night, how could she imagine she would die? What would stop her from rebirth? Only the gods; and where were they?
Then someone was standing among the wedding guests. He came in a breastplate and round helmet of battered metal. He came with an arquebus of ancient fashion over his shoulder. He came with a cloak of sanguine on his back.
Aimariko jumped up from his seat with a horrified look. Elerien stood and took his hand. Her heart fluttered in her chest like dying wings.
Their guest walked closer. A long since faded sun had bronzed his skin. His eyes were the color of lost woods.
“Begone!” Aimariko cried.
“I am the Seventh God,” the guest replied. “Am I not witness to your wager? You did not ask my help, but shall I not give it?”
Aimariko, many-lived, was not taken aback for long. “If you are the Doomsayer, who holds the portals of death and rebirth, then why not let her die in the customary fashion of elyhl?”
Through fear and fascination, Elerien thought, So he does not truly wish me dead.
“Yet I am lonely in the Place of Dust,” the Doomsayer said. “For hear me: you wardens of Esgalbar are the last elyhl alive on earth. And you stay with me briefly, and are reborn. She vowed true death, without return. Shall I not honor this bargain?”
In the terrible silence the Doomsayer walked forward, blood-cloaked, and held out his hand to Elerien. She took it. Pride would not let her choose. She closed her eyes, for if the many-lived had a terrifyingly ancient gaze, what would be in the stare of a god?
But Death kissed the back of her hand, and his lips were warm, and his hand was warm as life. “In four years,” he said, “I shall greet you again.”
Then he stepped away. He did not vanish, and yet he was no longer there. Aimariko’s damp icy hand clutched hers. She sank onto her cushions, and Aimariko bent over her. The faces around them looked shocked. No one applauded.
“It is true,” someone said. “No trick.”
“Chamise’s fault,” someone else muttered, and in that chill, the crowd eddied from the green space, seeking doors and walls.
At Chamise, Aimariko ordered, “Lock the doors. Bar them. Arm the guards,” and that had not been done in hundreds of years. His hand was cold in Elerien’s.
“Sir,” she said, “are you satisfied?”
He did not reply.
#
One night, as they dreamed, Aimariko cried out and sat up, waking. Alarmed, she reached for him. On his face in the dim light were tracks of tears. “Trees,” he said.
After that she thought she understood his mockery.
#
“I love you,” he said once, two years on. “Damn you. I love you. You, of all elyhl. You, who will die in truth.”
“You only love me because you will lose me,” she said.
“No,” Aimariko said. “Damn you.”
#
And three years and a season passed. As usual, elyhl killed themselves, but since, no matter how inventive their demise, they had not the Doomsayer’s promise of finality, they were not novelties and no one cared.
#
“It’s almost over,” Aimariko said, pacing. His face was pale.
“You will lose something beyond recovery,” she said. “That should liven up your long life.”
“Don’t. I regret the bargain. I never would have made it if I knew what we’d invoke. I don’t want you to die.”
“Too late.”
“I love you.”
It made her smile, but time was too short for anything but truth. “Aimariko, whatever you feel for me, what troubles you now is fear. What is it? The Doomsayer will release you, when you come to him, if you do. I am the one who will stay in the Place of Dust forever. What are you afraid of?”
“Weariness,” Aimariko said, and then, “No, no, nothing.” But shadows lay thick under his eyes.
All evening they lay together on the cinnamon satin cushions. “I love you,” he whispered, and he gave her a goblet of mead to drink.
Love-mazed, she did not feel at once the cold that crept up her extremities. Then she tried to rise, but she could not. She lay unmoving and watched him walk to the door and whisper to a friend outside. “Take her! The time is near enough. Take her--I cannot bear it.”
“Are you sure. . .”
“I see the Doomsayer in every shadow. I hear his voice. He wants me to decide--tempts me--I can’t stand it. Take her.”
#
High on the tallest tower, they laid her down. Stars glared. Bodies were sky-buried here, by ancient custom, though since there were no longer any birds, they had to be burned. She thought that she could smell the ash.
In time, she found that she could move again. In mocking wind and barren dark, she staggered to her feet.
A shadow stood on the parapet, crowned by stars.
“He feared my face enough to poison you,” the Doomsayer said.
She looked at him.
“You are all afraid. Afraid, and overstayed your time. You know it, in your hearts.”
“Yes,” she said. “The world has died around us, and we are dead inside.”
The Doomsayer stepped into the dim light of a distant torch. His helmet was gone. A smear of blood-red warpaint stained his brow. He held out a hand. “Aimariko knows it. And yet he refuses to see.” His eyes were young. She had thought they would be ancient beyond days. They were as young as hers had been, before she thought to marry. “There has to be a way out,” the Doomsayer said. “There has to be rest for the weary. After a thousand lifetimes, is a short sojourn in the Place of Dust enough? No. Time to go.”
“How will you kill me?” she asked.
“Wait,” the Doomsayer said. “Look.”
She turned. Aimariko stood there. His face was bloodless in the flickering light. “Let her go,” he said. “I was wrong. I love her. Let her go.”
“That is not what you want,” said the Doomsayer.
“It is! Stop--Don’t speak to me! Let her go!” Aimariko’s fingers clawed the air, as if a cloud surrounded him.
“I made a bargain,” Elerien said. “I will keep it. Will you not come with me, Aimariko? Will you not be free?”
“No,” Aimariko cried. “No!”
She heard his fleeing footsteps retreat over the tower roof.
“Fear yet overmasters hope,” Death said, and sighed as if with an age of weariness. But when she looked at him, his eyes were young.
“Do not make me wait,” Elerien said.
“No,” said the Doomsayer, and he took her hand. Gentleman, he assisted her to the parapet’s edge.
It was like flying.
#
“Think about it,” Isvael said to Sevnyn. Sevnyn was a woman in this life. They were siblings, friends. It was a change. They were sitting on top of the highest tower. It was a popular promenade now, since Elerien’s creative death, a hundred years before. Parasols had been set up, to shield elyhl from the sickly sun. Most sojourners there preferred not to look at the boneyard of trees that was the view. “Look at him.”
Sevnyn turned her head to watch Aimariko, who paced along the parapet some distance away.
“Pathetic,” Isvael said. “He hasn’t been any fun since that unfortunate matter of the White Oak girl.”
“Dull,” Sevnyn said.
“Hmm,” Isvael said. “Look, standing on the parapet edge. That would be a new one.”
“I hardly think so. He never suicides. I think he’s afraid.”
“Want to bet?” Isvael said.
Aimariko stood on the edge. The cold air from below lashed at his dark hair. A small crowd gathered, expecting no real entertainment from him.
“Please,” he said, but not to them. “I was wrong. I am so weary. Can I choose again?”
Later, some said that a voice sounded on the air, and some said that it made them think of summer, though there was no summer any more, and that it made them weep.
Maybe it said, “Come. You may always choose. And all of you. Come home.”
Maybe another voice echoed it, a woman’s voice, and it said, “Love, be free.”
But Aimariko turned his back on the crowd; turned his face outward, and looked out over the dead world beyond Esgalbar’s walls.
“Yes,” he said, and stepped into the air.
They thought they saw him smiling as he fell.
