When Mary passed, I couldn't bear the whispers anymore. Half the village thought I was a demon, the other half thought I was Mary's boy toy. Neither was true. Both were exhausting.
So I left. Packed what little I had, some bread, a rusty dagger, and a head full of questions, and walked until the hills turned into cobblestones.
The city was a monster. Loud, dirty, alive. Merchants shouting, beggars tugging at sleeves, horses dropping gifts on the street. I tried to blend in, but apparently, I stuck out.
"Hey, lad!" a butcher yelled as I passed. "You look strong! Want a job chopping meat?"
I shook my head. "Sorry, I faint at the sight of sausages."
The butcher blinked, muttered something about useless youths, and went back to yelling.
Later, I stopped at a tavern. Ordered ale. The innkeeper squinted at me.
"Got coin?"
I dropped a small pouch on the counter. He opened it, frowned.
"These coins are two hundred years out of date."
I coughed. "Ah, collector's items. Very valuable in the Highlands."
He shrugged. "Fair enough." Poured me ale.
At the table, a group of young men waved me over. "Oi, fresh face! Sit with us!"
I sat, grateful. Then one asked, "So, where you from, stranger?"
"Highlands," I said.
"Highlands, eh?" another grinned. "And how old are you?"
"Fifty."
They roared with laughter. "Fifty! Aye, and I'm the King of France!"
"No, truly," I insisted.
One of them leaned closer. "All right then, old man. What's the secret of looking twenty at fifty?"
I sipped my ale and muttered, "Suffering."
They laughed harder, slapped my back, bought me another drink. And just like that, I was part of their circle. For that night at least.
But as the weeks went on, I realized the city wasn't kinder than the village. People still stared. Girls flirted shamelessly, then recoiled when they found out I had children older than them. Once, a drunk widow tried to hire me as her apprentice husband. I didn't even know what that meant.
And I learned something else: I wasn't untouchable. I caught a fever once. Laid in bed shivering, sweating, hearing the neighbors already planning my funeral. They even argued about who'd get my boots. But three days later, I sat up, starving but alive, while the rest of the sickhouse lay silent under sheets.
Another time, a thief stabbed me in an alley for my "collector's coins." The wound burned like fire. I thought my guts would spill out and I'd finally die. Instead, weeks later, after endless pain and bandages soaked in wine, I was walking again. The thief had been hanged for killing me. Imagine their surprise if they saw me alive.
I wasn't immortal in the way of legends. I still bled, still ached, still prayed for relief. The only difference was this: everyone else died. I didn't.
And that, I began to realize, wasn't a gift at all.
---
It happened one spring. I'd just barely recovered from that alley stabbing, still walking with a limp, ribs bound so tight I squeaked when I sneezed, when the rumors started.
"Devil's blood," they whispered. "Wounded last month, yet he walks. Never dies."
One afternoon, I was dragged from the tavern by guards. My new friends scattered like pigeons. The captain pointed at me with his gauntlet.
"Witchcraft," he declared. "Only sorcery keeps a man alive after such wounds."
"Or good bandages," I muttered. Nobody laughed.
By evening, a crowd gathered in the square. They tied my hands, shoved me to my knees. A priest shouted verses, the crowd booed, children threw turnips. One old woman yelled, "Cut off his head!"
That got too much cheering for my taste.
The executioner arrived, mask and all, dragging an axe. He looked at me curiously. "Any last words, lad?"
"Yes," I said quickly. "I bruise easily."
The crowd howled. He raised the axe. My stomach dropped. My lungs screamed. My ribs were still cracked, my bandages hidden under my shirt.
Then, miracle, or comedy, when the executioner swung, his foot slipped on horse dung. The axe missed my neck entirely and landed squarely on my shoulder.
I screamed like a banshee. The crowd gasped. Blood everywhere. My arm half-dead. I toppled over, twitching.
"See!" someone cried. "The devil bleeds!"
The priest leaned down, checked my pulse, then raised his hands. "The Lord has punished him already! No need for more blood!"
The executioner shrugged, disappointed, while the crowd murmured and slowly dispersed.
They tossed me in a ditch, half-dead, forgotten. For weeks I lay there, feverish, rotting, sure this time it was over. But slowly, agonizingly, the wound closed. Bones knit. Skin sealed. By midsummer, I was on my feet again.
The city believed I'd been struck down by God. In truth, I'd just been too stubborn to die.
And still, I had no idea what it actually took to kill me.
—
The crowd was buzzing, waiting for my head to roll.
"Witch!" someone spat.
"Devil's spawn!" another yelled.
Honestly, I just wanted a drink.
They tied me to the block, my cheek pressed against wood that smelled of every other poor soul before me. The executioner raised his axe, and I thought, Well, this is it. Curtain call.
The blade came down,
THUNK!
…And the world went black.
No pearly gates. No angels. Just… nothing. Like an ale nap gone wrong.
---
When I opened my eyes, it wasn't heaven. It was… the same damned scaffold. My head felt like it had been cracked open like a walnut, blood everywhere, people screaming. The executioner was white as a sheet, holding his axe like it had betrayed him.
"Wh-what in God's name, he's still alive?!" someone shrieked.
I tried to sit up. Bad idea. My neck screamed like fire, half my vision went dark again. Still, I was moving. Breathing.
The crowd scattered, some crossing themselves, some running like the devil was chasing them. The priest dropped his Bible. Even the executioner bolted.
Me? I just lay there, bleeding, muttering:
"…Well, that didn't work."
Then darkness took me again.
---
I woke again to the sound of… wood. Close. Too close. My forehead bumped something solid. My elbows too.
Darkness. Tight. Smelled like pine and dirt.
"Oh, bloody hell."
I tried to stretch. No room. Tried to breathe. Air was thin. Then it hit me.
"They buried me? Already?! I was just napping!"
I banged my fist against the lid. Thud, thud, thud. No answer. Just muffled silence. Either everyone had gone home… or I was six feet under.
"Brilliant, Ewan. Immortal, aye. But still claustrophobic as a mouse in a beer barrel."
My heart pounded. Sweat dripped. The thought of centuries spent stuck underground… not exactly the glorious afterlife I imagined.
So I screamed. Loud. Hoarse.
"HEY! I'M NOT DEAD YET!"
Nothing. Only dirt shifting above me.
Out of sheer panic, I punched the lid again. This time harder, knuckles cracking. Wood splintered. My hand broke through, grabbing… soil. Cold, wet, heavy soil.
I dug. Like a lunatic mole. Nails tearing, lungs burning. Each scoop felt like a year. But finally, finally, a speck of moonlight cut through.
I crawled out of my grave, coughing, gasping, filthy head to toe.
The graveyard was empty. Silent. Only owls and shadows to welcome me back.
I stood there, clothes ripped, covered in mud, hair sticking like a scarecrow, and muttered,
"…Aye, definitely a curse."
---