She had gone too far, and I was a prideful creature, and I always played the long game. I believed not in retribution, especially not when I had nothing to gain for it. And I refused to show that I cared anymore, though of course I did. But with time, I wouldn’t. I had a rotting limp and I needed to cut it off. It would hurt, but such was the way of things. No regret. I had learned much from her, and there had been good times.

She had lost me. I did not go home that night. Ten raging bulls couldn’t have dragged me there. I went to an abandoned farmstead I knew and slept in a pantry, with all possible precautions. For I was not suicidal. Far from it!

As if nothing had happened, I met up the next day with Michael and played a nice series of games, of which we had one draw. If he knew anything of my problems, then he showed nothing of it. If anything, he was more cheerful and engaging.

No more sword sessions with Raymond. No more hunts with Fetinja. I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands, and I earnestly dove into my old projects. I had not forgotten the Art. I dared longer and longer trips, widening my scope to find more volumes. I bought them fair and square – when I liked the ones selling – through money gathered with petty theft of those who had more than they deserved.

Two weeks passed, in which I had not seen Fetinja at all. We avoided each other. At times, especially when alone, it saddened me deeply. I would have bawled my eyes out had I been mortal. But I convinced myself that the heart of Nightwalkers was cold and undead, and it helped. And I knew that there was many, many delightful, female creatures out there. I bedded a few, but they could not compare to Fetinja.

At a meeting with Michael, when Raymond was not home, I told him I planned to leave. “It is painful to stay,” I told him wearingly, though it was only a half-truth. He didn’t know of my interests in the Art. “I must travel.”

He accepted my decision respectfully, but not without inviting further thought: “We will miss you, and you are always welcome in our fold, but I think this is wise for you. But perhaps it would also be wise to meet her one last time, simply for closure, if nothing else?”

“We have nothing more to say to each other… our positions have been made clear,” I said, trying to sound clear-minded and resolute, and without remorse or bitterness.

Michael nodded. “It is your decision.”

He was right, of course. Simply leaving would feel wrong. So… I sought her out, I turned up on her doorstep one evening, at a time when I knew she would just have awoken. I sensed her opening the lock slowly, and meeting me with a haughty, yet fragile gaze. She invited me inside in silence, and we sat in the pristine, never-used living room.

“I came to say goodbye,” I said quietly, almost unable to meet her eyes.

“You’re leaving,” she whispered, eyes wide and dry, “it is for the best.”

Ah. Damnation. The sentiment that swelled my heart was unbearable. How could we leave each other, when there was so much tenderness between us? “We are not good for each other,” I insisted, swallowing.

“No,” her lip quivered. Could Immortals cry? They could. The corners’ of her eyes were filled with blood.

“Do you really mean that?” I blurted out before thinking, and my vision blurred also, it blurred with darkness.

“You make me unhappy,” she murmured, and the words flowed, “you leave me angry and frustrated, and longing for more. For something else than what you have. You must leave,” her mask broke and her face grimaced into a silent cry, “perhaps in ten years, when you have found peace in yourself, perhaps then, we could… try.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, feeling angry. This had to be final, I refused to walk away thinking of her, longing for the good moments, I needed to be free and hurting, and eventually, to just be free. I wanted a partner who wanted me, who I could trust wholeheartedly. “No, not in ten years, but… I can, and I will… I…” the words failed me, and left me staring into a wall, emptily. I was closed off to her completely, though I felt her mind prodding mine. I was a confused mess, and I didn’t know what she would understand if I pushed my mind into her lap, but I did know one thing: I resented the power she had over me. I needed to be free of it.

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She stared at me, shaking her head, “what are you saying?” I could not respond. She eventually turned away and gestured vaguely, “leave, then.”

I did. I fled into the evening’s cold air. Winter was properly approaching, and the night was black, clouds gathered, and a cold, biting rain threatened. I wandered aimlessly, searching for comfort. And since my will’s strength was spent, I found myself outside of my old home, closer than I had been since leaving it on that fateful night.

They slept soundly, upstairs. My parents and my little brother, who I had shared bedroom with. What must they not think of me? Distracted as I had been in the last two months by a future full of more possibilities than I had ever imagined for me, the son of a mundane carpenter, there had still been guilt and regret for not doing right by them.

I kept my distance for their safety, I told myself. So that they had nothing to hide from the priests’ inquisitions. But had I given them a choice… they would have preferred to know, despite the danger. They were no simple minds. They used to say, I had the heart of my mother and the head of my dad. That was simply because I took after my father in the way I talked yet I had my mother’s temper.

She was a keen, strong-willed woman and my father was a man of principle with a heart of gold. I wondered if they would know what I had become when they saw me.

Like a ghost, I pulled open the shutters of the first floor with my thin, strong nails, and slipped inside. The living room, which held the kitchen also, was as I remembered it. Practical, solid furniture, the pride of my dad, and then everything had my mum’s clever, stylish touch. We were well-off, but she made our small home seem rich in elegance. Two doors led to two rooms.

The floor did not creak under my light steps, as I remembered it did. In protest, I pressed my weight on the oak and enjoyed the familiar, comforting sound. The door naturally squeaked. My brother slept soundlessly on his side, ravelled into a grey, woollen blanket. He was fourteen now, and his hair was lighter than mine, he was bit thinner also, both in form and in shoulders, but nearly as tall now. His breathing was even and steady, and he seemed healthy. I sat down on the chest in the corner and cried, overwhelmed with nostalgia.

It took me a long time to gather my bearing and venture into my parents’ bedroom. I knew they were sleeping too. My father was lightly snoring, lying naked on his stomach, his thick hair was dark and curled, and he was shorter and broader than I. We were relaxed regarding nudity. My dad said it was our Frankish roots. We were once the barbarians who had conquered old Gaul from the Roman Empire. He was friends with one of the count’s scribes and knew much of the sort.

My mother lied next to him, blanket pulled all up to her chin, she was hugging it and lied half naked also. She was beautiful, long and slender, with wide hips and shoulders. An older, female version of myself, except my hips were masculine and lean. Important to precise. Her hair was much lighter, and I knew her eyes were blue. If she woke up now…, how would she look at me?

I was at her side, and my hand almost touched her shoulder. She would be shocked, she would scream. My face had blood smear all over it from crying. A small dose of quiet, ironic amusement drew at my lips. Also, she could not see as I did, so of course, a shadow in the night would frighten her when she found it leaning over her menacingly.

My mind was set. Something had to be done to start making things right. It was so simple, once I put myself to it. They could not read the letter but my father’s scribe friend could. I raided his place for pen, ink and paper, and wrote a long letter explaining a sudden opportunity, and that I had come into great wealth, but was still traveling the south of France. I would be home soon, in no more than a month’s time, and with many gifts.

I wrapped the letter and took it with me, and the next evening, in Reims, I spent the first hours of the evening to find a trading caravan headed through Epernay, and asked the leader to make this letter reach the scribe. Charles, was his name. He would bring it to them and read it for them.

I would send more. In the next letter, I would perhaps describe how I had learned to read, and the sudden young flame who had captivated me for the last few months. I would call her… Maria. Knowing her real name would do them no good.

It lifted another weight from my chest. I left on an enclosed, tightly built carriage without windows. I limited my mercantile visits to the evening and drove to the middle of nowhere early in the night to study and read, and sleep the day away in a reinforced, locked carriage. I resumed my efforts in scurrying the land for volumes on the Art, readily throwing coin after them. I kept only the most important volumes with me, stuffing them into my carriage’s collection.

But I missed my swordsmanship sessions, so I sought out reputed swordsmen, and mercenaries, and knights to ask them for lessons, which I paid handsomely for. It was a strange affaire, however, for they were so slow and weak, despite their skill.

“You’re very stiff,” one of them told me patiently, “you must relax, liberate your movement. You need only flex in the last moment before your blade connects.” I nodded mirthfully to him. My movements were indeed carefully measured to the human scale.

Thus, I travelled as a butterfly, fluttering around to whatever caught my interest.