The Spring morning broke bright and clear. The deep blue vault of heaven lay brushed with billowings of the purest white. The streams and rivers swelled with the melting mountain snows. Dandelions burned gold across the pastures, feeding the bees and hummingbirds. Everywhere the air was fresh and sweet and the land shone green, as though the world itself had drawn a fresh breath.

  Upon one such morn, a ragged man appeared, strolling through Gruen’s gate. The folk drew aside, uneased, for he was not clad in any peasant tunic nor craftsman’s coat, but a pelt of thick fur from some uncommon beast, rough and weathered by long years. In his hand he bore a polished staff, fashioned from a long white bone. His hide sandals were crudely fashioned, knotted and tied with sinew. His face was neither old nor young, his long beard and hair the color of damp bark. His eyes were dark, fiery yet not menacing. His hair and skin and face were clean and clear and his flesh bore no ink of crime or oath.

  He passed without haste into the heart of the city and seated himself beside the fountain to rest. And rumor leapt from tongue to tongue like fire in dry grass. Men and women gathered round, then children, then the old, till the plaza filled with bodies and whispers, all come to behold the strange sojourner with their own eyes.

  “Who art thou?” voices cried.

  “Might one of ye share your water?” the stranger asked.

  A woman stepped forth and offered her costrel. He drank long and deeply.

  “I pray thou art not some wizard come to bind us with spells?” she said as he drank.

  He inclined his head in thanks and returned the vessel. Then rose, and the murmur died away.

  “Who art thou?” they asked again.

  The ragged man scanned their eyes and each one he looked upon felt as though he peered directly into their souls, and they were discomforted.

  “Name thyself!”

  Sol shone full. The birds gathered still upon the high eaves. A cool breath of air passed through the plaza. Utter silence took hold.

  “I am called Azarius,” He said at last, “…and many other names besides.”

  A thunder of voices rolled through the crowd. Some gestured. Some scoffed. Some prayed.

  One cried out, “He is a southern spy!” Then another shouted, “Seize Him!”

  Yet no hand rose against Him.

  “I have come a long road to speak with Kethu the Aeonite. Wouldst thou lead me to him?”

  A young girl approached and again the crowd fell silent.

  “If thou beest Azarius,” she asked, “where art thine antlers? My father sayeth Azarius is a faun of the forest.”

  Azarius bowed his head before her. “Thou seest I have none. I am but a man, not unlike your father.”

  She reached out and felt His head, then the fur of His garment. “What hide is this? It is strange.”

  “It is cut from the hide of a mastodon.”

  “Didst thou slay it?”

  “No, little one. I found it long after it had passed. Though its remains were yet a banquet for many birds and wolves, and I had to wait my turn.”

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  She touched the staff. “And this?”

  “I fashioned it from that same beast’s bone.”

  “It is also strange.”

  “Aye,” He answered softly. “Yet strange things often serve one well.”

  Her father pulled her back. “Prove thou art the Immortal Prophet! Cast thyself from the wall and rise again!”

  “I may not murder myself,” Azarius replied. “That is forbidden. Yet any among you who must see me rise with thine own eyes may step forth to slay me, and then bear witness.”

  But no man dared.

  Then a warden pressed through the crowd. “Who dost thou claim to be?”

  “I said I am Azarius. I have come to speak with Kethu.”

  “Come with me,” he ordered. “Make way for us!”

  He was led through the plaza and down the cobbled way to the sept, followed by craftsmen, wives, children, and others curious. Word ran ahead of them, and more gathered at their doors and corners to glimpse the man in hides who named himself Immortal.

  At last, they arrived at the sept and entered through its tall oaken doors. Azarius was left to stand before the altar before the high priestess came.

  “They tell me thou sayest thou art Azarius. How can we know this true?”

  “Though my word should suffice,” He answered, “there is but one way to know for certain.”

  “Resurrection.”

  “Aye.”

  “And what manner of death dost thou prefer?”

  “One that is swift, for though I am immortal, I yet feel pain. And I would keep my body whole, that my remaking be not long delayed.”

  “Poison, then?”

  “So be it,” He answered.

  Yet no Hemlock could be found and thus they chose drowning.

  They led Azarius to the courtyard where a large trough for watering horses had been filled.

  “There,” said the priestess, “shall that basin serve?”

  “Aye. It will suffice,” He answered. “Yet two men must hold me under, for though my spirit is willing, my flesh will resist.”

  Two constables brought Azarius to the basin where He removed His hide and stepped into the water to lay Himself beneath its surface. And with a nod of the priestess, the constables held Him under.

  A minute passed. His body tensed. Then thrashed. The constables held His limbs while He strained. His chest heaved and legs kicked, splashing and spilling.

  Finally, the struggling ceased and the water stilled.

  They held Him longer, yet He stirred not. Though his eyes were open, His face appeared at peace, and no hint of terror gleamed in His lifeless eyes.

  At last, they pulled Him out and carried the body to the sept where it was dried and laid in a corner of the floor with His staff.

  A sentry was posted, and the body was guarded for three days. But no breath of life returned.

  “It is a fraud,” deemed the priestess at last. “A vagrant seeking a famed death.”

  The clouds gathered that morning, and the body was taken from the sept and carted in a small wagon beneath the gloom and drizzle. None gathered for the procession, save for the little girl, for the spectacle was deemed a hoax. Yet her face filled with sadness as the laborers pulled the small wagon through the gate, headed for the burial-field.

  The body was laid in a shallow pit. His hands were crossed upon His chest. His bone staff laid at His side. A copper coin was placed over each eye. The drizzle thickened. Distant thunder rumbled. Prayers were muttered.

  Yet just as the laborers were set to pile the dirt and stones, they noticed a stirring in the mud. Then all manner of crawling and slithering of small creatures and roots emerged in the hole. They stared in wonder as the worms and tendrils enveloped and encased the body.

  One dropped his shovel and fled to the gate.

  “Follow me!” he shouted as he neared it. “Something is happening. Come!”

  Upon hearing this, the constable and several peasants hastened for the grave. The drizzle had ceased, and the clouds had parted with Sol’s rays shining down on the barrows. The two laborers yet there stood with mouths agape and eyes filled with astonishment. At their feet, a living hand emerged from the pit. And then the other. Terror and wonder seized them all as the face of Azarius, masked in mud and worms and roots, arose from the earth. They watched, frozen in fear as the Immortal pulled himself out of the pit and stood before them, wiping away the worms and roots and mud from His skin.

  He gave one copper coin to each laborer who stood by the hole. Then he spoke, “Does anyone have any water? I thirst.”