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She had just stepped off the train and into a world she could never have
imagined in her wildest dreams. It was wild and dark and light and calm and
something else that could be summed up in a single word: magical; she had just
stepped off the train of her past and was now looking towards a hopeful new future.
Her eyes were dark, not wicked or evil; they were, rather, as though she had seen
the whole world at her tender age; all of its beauties and all of its horrors; her eyes
seemed wise and empty. They were green like the darkest forest of her native
home, of her dearest Scotland. She was thin and ackward to look at; only eleven
years old, she possessed something in her soul that made her look ageless, like a fire
burning deep, deep down. Her skin was icy white and met her black robes like the
white mist of the ocean as it hurled itself against the black cliffs of her homeland;
the only colour that she seemed to possess was in her hair; fire was her hair and all
who saw it stared at her as though she were not of this world; and indeed she was
not for she belonged to a world so lost to time, quite forgotten, that she hid the
past under the hood of her black cloak and with it her fiery hair seemingly burnt
out. Submissively she bowed her head and walked forward to a waiting boat and
stepped in; all others kept their distance as this immortal maiden in her mourner’s
cloak sat alone at the bow misted in thought, seemingly unreal and not really there.
At each breath of wind as they sailed onward the hood of her cloak seemed
to echo the keel of the water below them. The maiden’s eyes were shut loosely as
though remembering a painful memory and she clutched the hood tightly about her
and huddled into a loose ball. Sooner rather than later the boat ran aground and
slid smoothly ashore, held fast in darkened sands. The girl did not move nor did
she open her eyes. The others clambered out and hurried up the path to a
foreboding castle that had emerged from the mist as though it were Avalon and the
passengers were travelling to greet King Arthur. One of the passengers, the guide
to this mysterious Avalon, turned to see her still in her vessel and gentle paced
towards her and held out his hand. Her empty eyes turned to look up at him and
she took it; the guide felt an unearthly shiver flow down his spin and a sickening pit
of fear form in the bottom of his stomach. Effortlessly she slid out of the boat
alighting an icy white foot down upon the blackened sands and soon it was followed
by a second icy foot. Her form seemed perfectly carved, as though the sea itself
had given birth to her. She stood a moment and looked into the man’s eyes before
her, almost as though she were searching his soul for answers to a world far beyond
the scope of mortals; this unsettled the man even more and she quickly turned her
eyes downcast and replaced her hood, which had been disturbed, over her flaming
hair and ghostlike features. Without uttering a word, she glided towards the castle
and slipped through the large oak doors and into the Entrance Hall.
Not a soul spoke to her, but she had very little use for words at this
moment; carefully she followed a procession of those not older than herself, into a
large hall. What seemed to be hundreds of eager faces each feasted hungry eyes on
these humans of their eleventh year. A severe looking woman stood on the
opposite side of a stool upon which sat an old and delapatated hat.The Immortal
