Centuries Away

[Depictions of Historical War]

Centuries Away

Undistinguishable eyes glared at the blond-headed pair, the people behind the 

empty faces forgotten and lost in the vast scapes of memory. 

Bland red and green eyes pierced into the cold one's soul, searching for something. 

Something that didn't exist, that couldn't be found. For a demon's ideals of the world.

Cold blue and gray eyes shook the heart of the winged one, digging into it and clawing at it. Looking to hurt what was already broken, and to deal what had already been dealt.

As if conjoined as one, the pair walked through. The eyes parted like the red seas, the ink silhouettes melting around each other. The atmosphere was tense and otherworldly, skies and floors merely flickering human concepts. Despite the air being non-existent, a thick inky smell covered the players' senses, smothering the two.

Unnamed and lay bare for the godly prospects ahead of them, the two partners continued forth into the void.

Eventually the walking became tougher. The ink substances sucking at their feet started to harden and pull, changing forms as it built itself in the travellers wake. The aether called, and the world responded.

For Unnamed it shone gold, and then there were two.

For Unneeded it shone black,

And then there was one.

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Damionus was born on a cold winter day.

Though in truth, popping into the world a competent seven-year-old was not as traditionalist as most births. But Damionus never was one for tradition. choosing to move as he wished, at whatever pace he decided. Nostalgia was not something he dabbled in, it made sense his existence would not be as celebrated as most.

In truth, not much about Damionus was celebrated.

So he simply existed, mindlessly trailing through the years as civilizations rose and fell, as entire continents crumbled into mindless war and murder, an endless thirst for power, for blood as red as the roses that grew on their graves. And for so long was he alone, wandering the endless earth. The Aztecs worshipped him, the Mayans feared him. It didn’t matter, in the end. They fell as the rest of them did, in an unfathomable cycle of colonization and conquest. 

Ironic was a word to describe it. Grand civilizations fell to dust as their people revolted, old riches turned to nothing more than pebbles beneath their feet. It was convincing, at first. The facade society placed. Religious good and satanic evil, heaven and hell. Concepts of flickering realities, meant to place standards, meant to hold power. Belief in the systems was what made them work.

The pure greed that spread through the lands was work of their own doing, not of some satanic entity that controlled or possessed them. It was their own nature, just as it was Damionus’s to wander, never to stay. Humanity was wretched, it was hurtful and wanting, never satisfied with what they had and only with what they could gain.

Hubris and pride, infecting and addicting in their own rights. Humans ate it up, taking what they could get and then some. They indulged in what they wanted to, no use in obeying the laws if they were destined for purgatory. Poisonous was the only way to describe the parasitic beings, feeding off of their own.

What would be the point in any company, anyway? It would only be his fault once his associate eventually died or left. Or noticed the fact he never seemed to age or die himself. Companions were a waste of time, especially human ones. They were simple objects waiting to expire; what would be the point if he would simply be attending another burial? 

It was just him, trekking the earth over and over.

And then there were two.

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It hadn’t been expected when Damionus found Achilles.

He wasn’t like the others, though. He wasn’t human, wasn’t mortal. He walked the earth like him, understood the world as he did. Achilles was like him, eternal and ever-knowing, familiar as the soil that they walked upon. Achilles was just as he was, immortal. Alone.

The immortal was younger than Damionus, significantly so. His eyes were brighter, the blue clearer. He still seemed to have hope for the mortals around them, still felt pained as Europe -as they called it- fell into religious warfare. Achilles was sharp, though only a few millennia old. Damionus had been glad for the company; somebody who’s funeral he’d never have to attend.

The sixteenth century did not treat the young eternal as well as it treated the elder one. 

It seemed as if Achilles hadn’t learnt the lessons Damionus had; hadn’t learnt how isolated they had to be. Companions came and went, and Achilles grieved for every one of them.

Sometimes Damionus did too. Sometimes he missed the parasites he had become so apathetic to. Sometimes he missed having companionship in more than just one other being. 

The seventeenth century would be better, he told himself. 

It is, decidedly, not.

Sixteen O’ One starts off with another battle, of course. Gaelic aristocracy is driven out of Ireland, and another clan, another piece of history, is destroyed by the English. A famine breaks out not much longer, killing almost a third of Russia. England’s long-ruling monarch dies not long after.

Achilles grieves as he always does, laying his head down as he watches the queen be buried. Damionus stands by his side as he always does. They do not have others to count on, and no matter how foolish the younger may be, Damionus will stand by him as he always has.

It is not until Sixteen Eighteen do things worsen again.

A war starts. In The Holy Roman Empire, still a shrivel of its previous grandeur of power, the “Bohemian Revolt’ begins. Finally, in sixteen twenty, Achilles and Damionus flee Europe, and continue their travels down to the new world. They settle in the (second) colony, Plymouth, they call it. Achilles smiles nostalgically.

They do not pay attention to what happens outside of the new world until seventeen seventy, when a group of colonists fire into a crowd and hit Achilles in the shoulder.

He shouldn’t have survived, obviously. They have to move after that, and the two head down to Georgia. Achilles is restless.

Seven years go by, and Damionus worries. Not an incredibly unusual thing, but this time it’s worth some look into. Achilles argues with him now. He wants to fight for the American Revolution, for the mortals they are meant to leave untouched, meant to leave behind. He tells Achilles as such.

Achilles does not listen.

On July 1st, Achilles disappears. Damionus does not bother looking for him. If Achilles did not want to be found, then he wouldn’t be found.

He looks for decades, for the rest of his existence. 

He finds nothing.

The seventeenth century passes, and the eighteenth century begins anew. Damiomus does not notice, nor does he care. The world will not care either, for they do not know him. For he is alone.

And then there was one.

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Achilles met Damionus in March of Fourteen Eighty-Four.

He hadn’t known that there were others like him; he’d only been around for a hundred years, after all. He wasn’t prepared for a life that stretched on for eternity.

Damionus was everything. He was tall, almost a foot taller than Achilles, he was older than Achilles, centuries older, and he knew just about all there was to know of the world around them.

He greeted him with endless stories of the younger world; of when the British Empire was simply known as Albion, of when even China was as young as any other Empire or Colony. He told Achilles what he needed to know about the world. How to handle their own fates.

But most of all, Damionus was kind.

The elder immortal was cold at first. He was about as stubborn and unchanging as every human there was, and twice as judgemental. 

But he accompanied Achilles to every funeral he went to. He helped him through every mistake, taught him every rhyme and rhythm. Damionus didn’t say a word as he introduced him to mortal after mortal, treating them with distant respect until the day they either departed or died. It was a patience that Achilles wanted to have.

While he didn’t always agree with Damionus’s ideals, he sought to learn about them, to understand them. Achilles wanted to know Damionus like Damionus knew him, wanted to appreciate what Damionus appreciated. He wanted to know everything about his only friend, the only one he’d ever truly have.

They walked forwards together. Isolated, but not alone.

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If he had to mark a date where everything went wrong, it would be during the seventeenth century, May of Sixteen Eighteen. The Bohemian Revolt started the Thirty Year War, though they didn’t stick around for it.

Not even two full years later, Achilles and Damionus hurriedly leave England and flee to the New World, hoping to be as far away from the war as possible. Achilles is anxious. He missed England.

Damionus, however, looks resigned to the move, as if the immortal were expecting it. Achilles wishes he could have seen it coming, wishes he could have noticed all the signs that war brought. But there was no changing the past; it was that that he knew, if anything. 

Achilles understood the dangers the war brought. Even if it were just among the mortals, they were impacted just the same. Dying was not something they could experience, but pain was. Getting shot or stabbed during a battle-scarred, and even caused health problems for the two. Damionus walked with a limp from a war long since passed. It was proof of their fraying threads of humanity.

(Achilles loved it.)

Landing in the New World had been rough at first. 

The cold winters in Europe hadn’t compared to the freezing temperatures without fireplaces or animal fur in sight. Food was just as scarce as the heat was; the animals hibernate during the winter, and those who didn’t froze over. They pulled through, of course. They always did, one way or another. 

They always would.

(Achilles hated it.)

But there was peace. It took many years, as a majority of things did, but cities were built. Homes were constructed, jobs were assigned, and resources were shipped. The wars in Europe continued, and the New World was quiet.

Neither isolated nor alone.

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And then the Seven-Years war started.

Seventeen Fifty-Six doesn’t start with another war in Europe, as most years do. No, the only war Achilles hears about, the only one he cares about, starts in May. An unusual time for war, surely.

Unusual or not, the war persists. Except this time they are not fighting over religion, or what sea belongs to who. No, this time they are fighting over land. Land in the New World; land in the Colonies.

The British Empire fights France for New World land. They wanted to expand their territory, wanted the resources the soil could give them. 

The Colonies were worried. The French-Indian war had left France without major land power. Damionus wore the same look he always did when burdened with the news of war; understanding, anger, and resignation. He knew, of course he did. 

Achilles wished the other countries wouldn’t drag the New World into their battles. They did anyway, they always did. They had no choice but to do so if they wanted more land, and they were greedy. Just as he was.

The Seven-Years war did not worry Damionus. 

It did worry Achilles.

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Damionus doesn’t want to assist the American Revolution.

It was a shock, at first. The immortal always seemed so- bored. Yet when excitement, when something that meant something, came around, he ignored it, with the same affronted coldness Achilles used to know.

Sometimes he felt like it was more a shadow than an old friend.

Sometimes he felt like he still knew it.

Eventually, Achilles accepted the fact that if he went to fight in the Revolutionary war, he’d be going without his friend. Without the only person he could ever really know. The only person he could trust.

The choice should have been easy, truly. Leave behind ideals of the war and continue out ‘life’ as unchanged as it could be, stay close to the only one like him. It should have been truly easy.

And yet he could not. Achilles could not stand by and do nothing, could not look at the people around him and stand still as the world around him moved. Could not leave yet another unfinished symphony dancing away in the wind.

Damionus would not go.

They had argued, as they did. Their view often conflicted, especially with mortals, and certainly with war. So they fought, and he told Achilles to stay put. Damionus was stubborn; Damionus would not go.

Achilles could not wait for the other immortal to come around. He’d already spent three years arguing, he could not afford to wait any longer. Not while people struggled, while the lands lay unchanged. Not while the battle continued. 

It shouldn’t have ended like it did.

He left in the middle of the night, giving his other no warning to his departure, no closure to their centuries of partnership. No peace.

The nights' wind howled, blowing the hot air forth. The warmth of that night did nothing to thaw the feeling of dread Achilles felt, the one that crept up his back like ice.

Achilles did not look back.