beccaelizabeth's dreamwidth journal

Five thousand years alive.
One thousand with brothers, as a horseman.
Four thousand alone.
Immortals stay in one place maybe 10 years unnoticed.
Double that, perhaps, if they love that life enough to risk the questions.
Two hundred different lives.
Married sixty eight times.
One hundred thirty two without a wife.
One life with Byron, once a slave, once a doctor treating them. Then the Watchers, befriending, or being.
One hundred twenty seven without a trace.
Untold teachers, students, lovers, friends, mortal and Immortal...
In the dojo, back away and tell her, "You don't know me."
Hundreds of times true.


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Blood isn’t red, you know.

There is a moment when blood is brightest red, almost a primary colour. The first bright bead of it seeping out a wound is the reddest thing you’ll ever see.

But spill a little more of it and it becomes something else - wine, burgundy, something deeper. Blood in quantity is very dark indeed.

Left to dry it is seldom red at all. Brown perhaps, or even black.

In veins, of course, it can be purple, even blue. No royalty required.

Blue, red, black, my sacrifice changes. Just as the loss of it changes me.