I made a mental note to ask William what in the world Chris had been talking about, since the emotion it had invoked in our professor led me to the conclusion now was not the right time.
Chris didn’t challenge William any further, but he threw me a side-ways glance that made me squirm. I cringed away from him, shifting as far to the right in my chair as I could.
William strolled to the free-standing chalk-board behind him, snatching up a piece of chalk in one hand and sailing it into his other. “Who can tell me what the two Immortal Principias are?”
Annabelle raised her hand, flailing it about.
“Yes, Annabelle,” William said, his eyes not leaving the chalkboard; he was obviously aware of her enthusiasm. I wondered if he was aware of her enthusiasm for him as well.
She beamed, placing her hands in her lap. “The Inheritor and the Guardian Principia.”
Chris exhaled sharply, looking as if he was focusing every iota of his attention on the sharpened, number two pencil that twirled like a ballerina on speed between his fingers.
“That’s correct.” William wrote in his precise script the two names across the board; drawing a line below each one, before circling the Inheritor Principia. “And what are we?”
“I’ve been told I’m an Inheritor,” Chris sneered.
“That’s correct.” William rested the chalk on the wooden holder, and dusted the powdery chalk from his hands. “You have all been selected, and brought into the strongest Inheritor Alliance in the world. It’s a great honor.”
When I’d been in class and taking in a subject of interest in the past, I would scratch away pages of notes to later reference when my memory needed jogged, but yet another great Immortal wonder was a mind that recalled any and every piece of information that flowed into it. The sharpened pencil and notebook in front of me were unnecessary objects—although they would be welcome distractions when he became too much for me to continue gazing upon.
“Immortal history goes back as far as Mortal history. It’s just a little more . . . unusual.”
“I’ll say. We’re all a bunch of freaks,” Chris muttered under his breath.
William continued on, paying the surly Immortal no notice. “It is said there were two Immortal brothers created after the fall of Adam and Eve, and their exodus from Eden. The brothers disagreed vehemently on why they’d been created. One brother believed he'd been created, and given the gift of Immortality, to be Guardians over mankind—now that they'd been banished from Eden and subject to Mortal plagues. This brother knew it was his existence’s purpose to watch over, and protect these fragile, tortured beings.”
I was trying so hard to focus on the lesson, but it was next to impossible given the teacher that paced back and forth, his hands on his hips, talking with the rich honey voice that undid my best intentions of being an attentive student.
“The other brother disagreed wholeheartedly. He believed they'd been created and given Immortality to defend, and one day inherit, the now abandoned Eden from the fallen Mortals. He believed it to be his sole purpose in life to protect Eden from these Mortals. From the beginning of time, these two beliefs have been held to, causing much unrest in the Immortal community—though the majority of Immortals appreciate the need for the balance that is created by the opposing Principias.”
I raised my hand timidly, feeling odd doing it, but not wanting to interrupt him in the middle of his lecture.
I watched him fight his smile of amusement. “Yes, Bryn.”
“So . . . you’re saying that I, as an Inheritor, am expected to preserve Eden from Mortals?” I hadn’t meant for my voice to sound so dubious, but this—more than any other Immortal information I’d been given—was the most unbelievable.
“Eden isn’t just some obscure, secret garden long disappeared. You see, Inheritors believe that Earth, in its entirety, is Eden, and are therefore called to protect it from the abuse done by Mortals.” His voice never wavered from the knowledge pouring from it, but there was no depth of passion or belief in it.
“How do they protect . . . Eden”—I had a tough time saying the word, but to keep with the lesson plan, I used it—“from the six billion Mortals that inhabit the earth?”
Annabelle shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and Chris gazed at me with mild respect. I must have been bordering on a few lines of taboo.
Our teacher looked perfectly at ease, though. “Inheritor’s are subtle, and extremely strategic in their offensives. Think of the headlines that capture reader’s attention—Natural Disaster, Economic Downturn, Cancer on the Rise, Genocide . . .” William’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally as his lesson continued with all three students eagerly attuned. “These impressive disasters generated in Mortal communities around the world can almost always be traced back to some Alliance, or Alliances, of Inheritors. As time has passed, their tactics have grown more sophisticated. They’ve needed to with population explosions and after the Industrial Revolution.”
“Alliances?” I questioned, this time not bothering to raise my hand. He’d mentioned this term last night, but I’d been too lost in our reunion to care of much other than just being with him. Chris sighed with the kind of exaggeration one would who thought another in their company to be ridiculously slow.
William’s patience didn’t waver. “Inheritors and Guardians alike, have separate Alliances, created to govern and guide smaller parties of the whole. Each Alliance is governed by a Council of seven Immortals selected for their seniority, wisdom, and commitment to their calling. A High Council, consisting of four Guardians and four Inheritors, was created thousands of years back in an attempt to create balance, although their influence in the Immortal world is no where close to what it once was.” He shrugged, looking through one of the stained-glass windows. “I suppose you could compare it to the royal family in England. They’re still an important piece of the country’s history, but have very little power governing it.” He glanced over at me, familiar enough with my inquisitive mind and the expressions that accompanied this. “What else, Bryn?”
“What about the . . . Guardians?” The word sounded strange coming from my mouth, like I was trying to fake knowledge for which I had very little. “What is their duty in this eternal life . . . if it’s not Mortal mayhem?”
William had to fight back another smile before he answered, “As a new Immortal, I’m sure your Mortal memories are quite fresh in your mind. Can you think of an instance where you would have called something a miracle, or perhaps you’ve heard the stories of people claiming something like an angel appeared, saving them from something or assisting them in some way—”
He continued, but I was too deep in thought to listen further. I had, as a Mortal, experienced both of these—miracle and an angel appearing—and both instances had involved him.
“By Mortal standards, Guardians are the good . . . the miracles, in their world, and Inheritors are the evil and the tragedies. In our world, either one can be good or evil, it just depends on your perspective,” he finished.
“Bryn?” his perfect voice drew me from my musings. “Have I answered your question?”
I paused before answering. “Yes, you have.”
“Good, let’s move on then,” he said, sounding more like a muse than a professor. “There are several universal codes all Immortals must follow, regardless of which Principia you adhere to.”
William flipped the chalkboard around, and on the other side, was a list written out in his handwriting; identifiable from the tail of his a’s sweeping into the next letter, and the way the words made me smile.
“Basic enough you can see—No interacting with Mortals,” he said, reading off number one of the Immortal code of conduct. “Of course, we must interact at times with Mortals in our missions, but the crux of this rule is that we cannot form bonds that would . . .”—he drug his voice out as his fist tapped number two on the list—“Do anything to threaten our anonymity. One way we can do this is by transferring every ten years or so. We can’t allow Mortals to become suspicious when the passage of time doesn’t change our physicality.”
“So you’re saying I’ll have to leave Townsend Manor in ten years?” Chris asked, dropping the pencil that had been in constant motion for the past thirty minutes.
“That’s correct,” William answered. “Although you may be assigned elsewhere after your training is complete, depending upon what Station you are tasked with.”
“Station?” Annabelle questioned, and I was happy it was her this time interrupting our professor instead of me.
“Every Immortal is commissioned with a certain Station, taking their individual gift into consideration. There is a degree of hierarchy involved, so, as young Immortals, you will likely be tasked with elementary stations, but as you mature, so will your Stations.”
William turned his attention on Chris, who was surveying the exquisite room around us, and guessed at what Chris was thinking. “Don’t worry. John’s got plenty more estates to keep everyone comfortable.”
My eyes skipped to the next code before he could read it. I already didn’t like it before he read it off. “No bonds of any kind can be forged between Immortals of the opposing gender.”
I scowled at the words, wishing I could make them disappear from Immortal folklore forever if I screamed at them with my eyes long enough.
“Just what are bonds of any kind considered?” Annabelle asked, her voice sounding the gravest I’d heard it.
I’d not seen William fidget before, but the piece of chalk in his hand was currently spinning in a frenzy. As a fidgeting fanatic, I could spot someone else’s nervous energy from twenty paces—one hundred paces now with my Immortal eyes.
“Bonds of any kind are defined as any kind of intimate ties or touch that are experienced without the consent of your Alliance’s Council.”
“Any kind of ties or touch?” Annabelle repeated, sounding as if someone had just told her she had one minute to live.
“That’s correct,” William said, his own gravity nearly surpassing Annabelle’s.
“Yikes,” Annabelle whispered to herself. I was screaming the same thing in my mind.
William interrupted both our shock, by pointing at the final code listed on the board. “Immortals must follow their commission with dedication and devotion.” He turned from the board and gazed at Chris and Annabelle, but could not meet my eyes. I guessed it was still due to number three on the board, and our obvious shunning of it. “This is why we are not allowed to form bonds of love that would compromise this code. We are called first and foremost to our duties as Immortals, putting our own wants and desires aside,” he finished, finally meeting my gaze. He smiled shyly, causing my heart to react not so shyly.
This whole Immortal thing was noble enough, and I had to admit I liked the power and—new as I was to it—the sense of belonging I felt in this new world. I felt more at home here than I’d ever felt in my Mortal life. Yet despite all this, if I couldn’t be with William, I’d take all my putrid Mortality back if it meant being with him for a limited number of years, as opposed to an infinite number without him.