During the next few years, time lost all meaning. He went on a voyage of discovery, experiencing the things he had only read about in the scrolls. He learned to ride a horse, to fight with a sword, to sail a ship by the light of the stars.

He took up residence in an abandoned cottage and surrounded himself with animals of every kind - dogs and cats, sheep and goats, pigs and chickens, horses and cattle, ducks and swans - watching them as they bred and bore young, watching the young ones grow to adulthood and repeat the never-ending cycle of life.

He planted flowers and watched them bloom.

He planted a vegetable garden and watched it grow, though he had no use for the food itself.

He ventured into the nearest town and observed the people. Except for his mother, Katlaina, and Markos, he had never interacted with others. He knew nothing of courtship or marriage, nothing of ordinary, day-to-day living.

He lingered in the shadows, listening to the farmers as they talked of crops, of planting and harvesting. He tried to imagine what it would be like to toil in the heat of the noonday sun, to till the ground, to feel the sun-warmed earth in his hands. He watched the women gather their children close as darkness spread her cloak across the face of the land. He heard the lullabies they sang, the stories they told - tales of kings and queens, of enchanted cottages, of demon creatures of the night. He watched the children, marveling at their innocence and their insatiable curiosity, at the way they embraced life without fear.

And always, lurking in the back of his mind like the ache of an old wound, was the memory of his own child. He saw babies learning to walk and lamented the fact that he had not been there to see his own child take its first step. His son would be almost five now. What was he like? Had Katlaina told the boy of his father?

Sometimes, alone in the dark of night, he wept for his own lost youth and innocence, for the learning and experiences that had been denied him. At those times, he cursed the fate that had kept him locked in a cage for the first five-and-twenty years of his life, that had deprived him of a normal childhood.

On a whim, he booked passage on a ship and left the Isle of Mikos. Like a vagabond, he wandered the earth, never at peace, never at rest, a part of his heart always yearning for home.

Try as he might, he could not forget Katlaina, or his son. Twenty-five years later, drawn like the tide to the shore, he returned to Mikos and made his way to Katlaina's village high in the mountains to the north. At dusk, he walked down the narrow dirt road toward Katlaina's cottage.

She was sitting outside, shelling peas. A young woman sat beside her, a dark-haired child suckling at her breast.

Navarrepaused in the shadows, careful to stay out of their sight. Katlaina, still beautiful in spite of the passage of time, in spite of the fine lines that fanned out from her eyes, in spite of the gray in her hair. Katlaina...

His gaze moved to the young woman. Was this Katlaina's daughter? He frowned, trying to find a resemblance, but there was none.

He drew back as the cottage door opened, and a tall, handsome young man with curly black hair and eyes the color of thunderclouds stepped outside. Smiling with pride, the young man ruffled the babe's hair, kissed the young woman, then caressed Katlaina's cheek.

Something deep withinNavarre 's heart cracked as he stared at his son. He opened his mind and let their thoughts flow into his soul, felt his throat grow thick as he sensed the love that bonded them together.

He looked at his son, now over thirty years old and a man grown, at the child in the woman's arms.A grandchild ,Navarre thought, and wondered if the babe was boy or girl.

Tears stung his eyes as his gaze rested on Katlaina's face.Do you ever think of me ? he wondered.Do you know how much I miss you? How much I love you ?

He drew deeper into the shadows as Katlaina's head jerked up and she glanced toward the copse of trees where he stood. Had she seen him?

"What is it, Mother?" the young woman asked.

"I don't know." Katlaina shook her head. "I... thought..."

"Thought what?"

Katlaina smiled up at her son. "I thought I heard your father's voice."

The young man frowned. "My father? Here?" He looked around, his gaze searching the road.

"Just an old woman's fantasies," Katlaina said with a self-conscious smile. Placing the bowl of shelled peas under her arm, she stood up. "Supper will be ready soon."

"I'll help you," the young woman said, but Katlaina shook her head.

"No, daughter, I'd rather be alone, just now. Enjoy the quiet of the evening with your husband and child. I'll call you when it's time to set the table."

Oblivious to the tears that dampened his cheeks,Navarre watched her disappear into the house and close the door behind her.

For a moment, he thought of following her, of pulling her into his arms, of crushing her body to his. The memories of the nights they had shared crowded his mind, vividly reminding him of the sweetness of her lips, the supple feminine flesh that had teased and tantalized him with every touch, every caress. He longed to inhale the fragrance of her hair, speak her name, tell her that he had never forgotten her, that he loved her, would always love her.

But she had a husband now. The thought knifed through him. And how would he explain his presence to his son? How would he explain the fact that he had not aged in the last five-and-twenty years, that he looked like his son's younger brother, not his father?

When Katlaina called them in to dinner, he crept around the side of the house and peered through the window. They sat at a small round table, talking quietly as they shared a simple meal. The scent of candles and fresh-baked bread filled the room.

He imprinted the image on his heart and mind and then, unable to watch any longer, he disappeared into the shadows.

Painful as it was, he went back to the village in the mountains every year. Young Navarre fathered eight healthy children - five sons and three daughters. He built a new house close to Katlaina's cottage so he could care for his aging mother.

Time and again,Navarre was tempted to reveal himself to his son, and yet something, some instinct, warned him that it would be folly to do so.

In the dark of night, when his son's family lay peacefully sleeping, he walked through the house on silent feet, gazing down at his grandchildren, feeling a sense of pride as he saw his likeness in their faces. Dark of hair and skin, they all bore the unmistakable stamp of his lineage.

And always, he lingered in Katlaina's room. Her husband had died long since, and now she lived in the cottage alone, with only a mangy yellow cat for company.

His grandchildren were all grown, his son showing his age, the nightNavarre heard Katlaina weeping. Silent as a drifting shadow, he listened to her cries and then, as if a heavy weight had suddenly descended on him, he knew she was dying, knew that it was a secret she had kept to herself. Knew, deep in his soul, that she would be gone before the morning's light.

Katlaina.

He heard the gasp of her indrawn breath as she sat up, her face wet with tears. "Navarre, are you there?"

And because he loved her, because he could not bear the thought of her dying alone, he went to her.

"Are you real?" she whispered, "or only a ghost conjured from my imagination?"

"Real enough," he replied softly. "If you want me to be."

She stared up at him, trying to see his face in the darkness.

"Light a candle," she said. "I want to see you."

Reluctantly, he did as she asked. He saw the wonder in her eyes, the trepidation, the curiosity.

"How is it possible?" she murmured.

She stared at her hands, the skin wrinkled with age, yet he had not changed at all. More than fifty years had passed since she sent him away, and yet he was as tall as she remembered. His shoulders were still broad, his back unbowed by the passage of time. His hair was thick and black, his skin smooth and unlined.

She shook her head in disbelief. "How?" she asked again. "How is it possible that I have aged a lifetime, and you have not aged a day?"

"A gift," he replied, "from the goddess Shaylyn."

"The devil's gift," Katlaina exclaimed, awed by the unearthly miracle that stood before her.

Navarregrunted softly. It was the devil's gift, indeed, he thought bitterly, to stay forever young when all you loved withered and died. He could scarce stand the pain of looking at Katlaina. Her beautiful green eyes were faded and dulled by time. Her hair, once as black as his own, had gone completely gray. The skin he had loved to touch, skin that had once been smooth and clear, was now careworn and lined.

As if sensing his thoughts, she looked away. "Why are you here?"

"I've come every year," he admitted. "To see you, to see my son and his family."

"Every year," she said, her voice edged with pain. "Every year, and only now have you made your presence known."

"You sent me away, Katlaina, remember?"

"I remember."

He heard the regret in her voice, the harsh rasp of her breathing as she sought to draw air into her lungs.

She was dying. She had no reason to fear him now, he thought bitterly.

"Navarre." Just his name, but it held a lifetime of yearning, coupled with the knowledge that she would never see him again.

Gently, he drew her into his arms and cradled her to his chest. Tenderly, he stroked her cheek, and once again he saw the beautiful young girl who had taken him to her bed and her heart.

"I love you," she whispered. "I never stopped."

He nodded, unable to speak. She was dying. The thought struck him again, harder this time.

"Kiss me," she begged. "One kiss, to warm me through eternity."

He recognized the words, the same words he had spoken to her so long ago. Tears stung his eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips were warm and dry and unbelievably sweet. Even now, when he knew she was dying, she tasted of life and sunshine.

He kissed her with all the love in his heart, and for a moment, he was young again, mortal again. Tears burned his eyes as her strength ebbed and her lifeforce slipped away. One last kiss, and her last breath mingled with his, the warm radiance of her spirit illuminating the darkness of his own for one brief moment before her soul freed itself from the bonds of mortality.

"Katlaina." He hugged her to him, holding her close until her body grew cool, until the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon.

Only then did he release her. Never before had be felt so completely, irrevocably, alone.

A last look, a last caress, and then he ran out of the house and into the woods, pursued by memories, and by the relentless, unforgiving light of the sun.

Interlude

He never went back to the mountains of Mikos. The thought of watching his son grow old and die was too painful.

He spent the next two hundred years on a small tropical island pretending to be an ancient god of war come back to life.

He dwelt in a temple hewn of red stone. It stood atop a lush green hill, surrounded by trees and brightly colored wildflowers. The villagers brought him live animal sacrifices to assuage his hunger, showered him with finely wrought gifts of gold and silver, of fine-twined linen and costly furs. They provided him with whatever he desired and asked nothing in return, save that he slake his horrible thirst on the blood of beasts and let the people of the island live in peace.

When the burden of his existence grew too great, he slept deep in the earth, rising when the people of the village called his name.

After two hundred years, he wearied of being an object of worship. Gathering up the myriad riches the villagers had bestowed upon him over the centuries, he left the temple in the dead of night and caught passage on another ship.

For a time, he wandered aimlessly, not caring where he was. He kept aloof from the people around him, afraid they would look into his eyes and see that he was not one of them, afraid he would be hunted and destroyed, as those believed to be witches were hunted and destroyed.

And time passed, and the world changed.

He went toFrance . It was there, in a dark cafe, that he met others of his kind. The Undead. They had sensed his presence in the cafe immediately, and he realized that they all seemed to have the ability to detect the presence of others who possessed the Dark Gift, as did he. It manifested itself in a sudden tensing of his muscles, a subtle tingling along his spine.

It was there, in that same dark cafe, that he learned that vampires had existed as long as humankind. The world of the Undead was a world filled with mystery and suspicion, a closed world where secrecy was essential to survival, where the slightest whisper of the word "vampire" could incite mortals to rise up in fear.

No vampire ever trusted another of his kind. The Undead could be found in every city and clime thoroughout the world, each one jealously guarding his hunting ground. The elders often killed their younger counterparts. There was a vague sense of brotherhood, but no sense of loyalty except, perhaps, between a master and his fledgling.

He learned that he could initiate a mortal and that, once initiated, that mortal would serve him for as long as the mortal lived. If he wished, the mortal would hunt for him, kill for him, dispose of the remains. He learned that he had the power to pass the Dark Gift to others. With age, came an increase in physical strength and mental abilities.

He thought of Shaylyn, who had lived for thousands of years. Were there others even older than she? What powers did they possess?

It was inParis that he saw his first revenant - a brute neither human nor vampire, neither alive nor dead. It was little more than a walking corpse, its putrid flesh rotting from its skeleton. It was by far the most frightening, most foul-smelling creatureNavarre had ever seen.

He heard of bizarre rituals that were believed to ensure that a body would stay dead. In the Balkans andGreece , stakes were hammered into the chests of corpses to pin the body to the grave; nails were inserted in the hands and feet and hair, symbolically attaching the corpse to the earth to ensure eternal rest. In some parts ofEastern Europe , peasants would not use the word owl for fear the nocturnal bird might be a transformed vampire hunting the night for blood.

He spent but a short time inFrance . The presence of the other vampires made him uncomfortable. He was an interloper, an outsider, and he found himself constantly looking over his shoulder, fearing that they might try to destroy him. He leftFrance without a word of farewell.

There followed long years of loneliness and darkness, a sense of being lost. He had been close to only a few people in his life; all those he had known - his mother, Katlaina, his son - had died long ago.

Filled with bitterness, he wandered the world, watching the changes take place. Rulers fought their way to power, and then were destroyed. Boundaries changed. Gods changed. People changed, while he remained the same.

There were endless wars and revolutions.

There was poverty and hunger.

Plagues and floods and earthquakes decimated cities.

But, sprinkled amid the ruin and destruction, were scattered beacons of light.

He read the works of Shakespeare and Poe, Dickens and Browning, Dumas and Disraeli.

Great composers influenced the masses with their music: Brahms, Haydn, Beethoven, Handel, Paganini.

Great artists made their mark upon the world: Degas, Whistler, Monet, Cezanne, Renoir, Picasso, Raphael. Rodin and Michelangelo sculpted masterful works. Charles Gamier designed the Paris Opera and the casino atMonte Carlo .

AndNavarre was there to see and hear it all. He was atCovent Garden to see Handel'sAlcina . He was inVienna when Mozart's first opera was performed. He saw the first paved sidewalk laid inWestminster . He walked the corridors of the Louvre when it was new, rode one of the first velocipedes down the streets ofParis .

He sat in the sacred silences of the great cathedrals, absorbing the scent of incense and candles. It was there that he was most aware of the vast gulf that stretched between himself and the rest of humanity. It was there, amid the silent statues of the saints, that he felt the weight of eternity, the bitterness of damnation.

He indulged himself in the world of opera, went to the ballet inFrance andEngland andItaly . He toured the Paris Opera House, knelt in Notre Dame, admired the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.

In the dark of night, he wandered through the museums and art galleries of the world, his keen eyesight making it possible to view ancient wonders and works of art.

He saw the invention of miraculous machines. Gas lights replaced candles; electric lights replaced the softer, more romantic gas lights; automobiles replaced the horse and buggy; washing machines replaced scrub boards.

Silent movies became the rage, only to be replaced by movies with sound and brilliant color. Minstrels were replaced by radios. The printed page replaced handwritten manuscripts and scrolls, making it possible for the written word to be available to everyone and not just the rich. He had always loved to read, and now he devoured books and plays and the dissertations of great men, but the deep, inner loneliness never left him.

And always the question, why me? Why had the Dark Gift been bequeathed to one such as he? He had no great wisdom to pass on to the world, no God-given gift of music or poetry or art. Better that the gift of eternal life had been bestowed on one such as Mozart or Aristotle or a hundred other more deserving men than he.

And when the questions became too many, when the loneliness grew overwhelming, he went to ground, sometimes for a decade, sometimes longer, sleeping deep in the bowels of the earth. But even in his death-like sleep, he was aware of the changes going on around him.

Voices seeped into his mind, their faint whispers telling him of the latest invention, the latest war, the latest plague. He was aware of new fads, new countries, new kings and new presidents.

Cocooned in the dark bosom of the earth, he slept through the wars and the plagues, emerging during times of peace to discover, first hand, the changes that had come to pass while he rested.

"Time," Thoreau had said, "is but the stream I go fishing in."

ForNavarre , blessed with the gift of eternity, no truer words had ever been spoken.

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