"They say that every story begins with a name. But my name is not my story. Perhaps, if I see fit, I may introduce myself. If I can remember it, that is. For my memory is old, and things are becoming difficult. That is why I give you my story, my tale, before everything is gone.

I was born years ago. So many years now, hundreds, maybe more. I'm not immortal, or ageless. Tales, perhaps, have made me immortal, but this body is only too mortal, and soon I will die. Perhaps I age slower than you do, but there are a great many differences between you and I, and that is, perhaps, the least consequential. No, perhaps it is not the differences, but the similarities, that make my tale so hard to conceive.

Yes, I was born, and I grew up, until my eighteenth birthday, at least. Then, things began to become strange. I began having dreams, horrible dreams, and ones that I have long forgotten. But there is one, the one that has stayed with me for the many years since then.

I stood alone, it didn't matter where, sometimes on the shore of the ocean, where I listened to the comforting beat of the waves, sometimes in a forest, marveling at the beauty of nature. Each time, though, there was something deep inside the Earth, something wrong. Then the footsteps would come.

I wouldn't hear them until the person stood only a few inches away. By then it would be too late, so I would wait. The person was always the same. No matter where I was, he would come. He was tall, taller than any human I'd seen. He was the Dark-Lover, my prince of shadows. The only way to describe him would be 'beautiful'. Ivory skin, Eyes flashing-bright from the shadows, silken black hair, beauty. Each time I saw him, in those dreams, I fell in love.

He loved me too, as well as a dream-creature can. Each night, he'd bring with him nothing but a single goblet, filled with the churning red liquid. Not blood, don't confuse the tale I tell you for some Dracula story. No vampires here, not in the traditional sense. No, what he brought me would be better described as ambrosia, the food and drink of the Gods. It filled me with something I can hardly bear to describe, passion and love, hate, beauty, knowledge. It made me feel that all that I wanted was mine for the taking, but it also showed me the folly of taking all that I wanted. Each night I had this dream, with all the others, but this dream was real.

There was a ritual, one we'd recreate each night, before he'd allow me to drink. He'd ask me if I could know humility enough to drink this, without trying to steal the place of the Gods. He'd ask me if I were willing to wait to spend a life with him. And finally he'd ask me if I could live with the clarity and knowledge that the ambrosia would give me. To each of these questions, I'd answer with as much honesty as I knew. I do not know. For him, that was enough.

A year past, then another, and then another. I had the dream every night, and each morning I'd awaken, alone, with a clearer understanding of the world around me. Often, nearly always, these understandings brought pain. To see how we were abusing the earth, to see how little there was left for us to do, I could barely stand it. I tried my best to stop the downward spiral, but I was alone. There were the people who'd recycle, perhaps, if they remembered, and the people whose only gift to the earth was the fertilizer they would make when they were finally laid to rest. It sounds crude, I know, but it was true. Then there were the people, the few, that saw how we were destroying the earth, and did everything they could. But there were to few of us, and not many people who would be willing to give up these lifestyles, no matter what the consequences would be. After all, they'd be dead before the time the earth died, so what did it matter.

When I saw what was happening, I took the shameful path. I left, retreated into the deepest jungles, to live or die, alone, away from the pain our mother Earth was feeling. I often think back on that, and think that maybe, just maybe, I might have been able to help something, change something. But, like a coward, I fled.

I thought that my dream-love might understand. He didn't. The dreams left me, and never came back. And so I waited, lost and alone, for nearly a hundred years, until the end came.

The end of life, perhaps, but not of mine. The ambrosia was still strong in me, back then. I thought I was ageless, and immortal. When the end came, I was left behind, along with the cockroaches, the rats, and a few other animals, cruelly hurt, but still alive.

The animals that I found were mostly near death, but I knew I had to try and redeem myself to Earth. I took them in, and nursed them back to health, trying to save at least one species, to find something that could thrive again. My island still had plants, in abundance, for the plant kingdom is surely more resilient than our own. I saved a species, a single group of antelope creatures, and helped the group grow. They remain on this island still, proud, strong, and thriving.

Soon enough, though, they no longer needed me. And I felt a longing I didn't believe I'd ever feel again. I needed my own kind, humans to talk to. My dream-love had once been enough, but now, even he was gone. So I left my island, and I traveled to the mainland.

The mainland, at that time, was a nightmare vision, a flattened, twisted parody of the place I once called home. I had little hope that I'd find any life on that barren soil, but I soon learned the truth.

There was life in that place, if it could be called life. A meager group of humans lived there, trying only to survive, not concentrating on thriving. I took them under my control, back to my island. They followed like so many half-starved dogs. I began to wish I'd never found them, for they were worse to talk to than the rats and antelope. Even the roaches seemed more intelligent, at times. But once they returned to a safer location, where they had more of a chance to survive, they began to become human, again. They treated me like a Goddess, but that wasn't what I wanted. I just wanted someone to talk to.

Eventually they noticed that I wasn't aging. Many of them feared me, as they grew old, most hated me, but one man loved me. My Rom never cared that I was ever-young. He loved me, and he stayed by my side, until the day he died. He was eighty-one. I was nearly two hundred and twenty years old, or nineteen. There was no difference.

When he died, I pulled myself form the society, and let the people grow without me. I couldn't get close to anyone else, only to have them die of old age, in my arms. I tried so many ways to die, but it was a futile cause. Eventually, I was so deep in despair that I put myself into a coma, of sorts, and slept out my years.

Awaking nearly three hundred years later was a shock I'd never wish to repeat. The village was a city, huge, covering the island. The people still knew tales of my existence, but I disguised my identity, and began to travel among them again. I was a normal human, for a while, looking nearly thirty, now. The older I grew, the faster I aged. After my five-hundredth year, I was aging a year per decade, and at a thousand I was aging at a normal rate. I am now one thousand and eight years old, or ninety-eight. I'm going to see my dream-love, soon, in the next world, if he hasn't forsaken me. One more glimpse of him, and I'll be satisfied. One more glimpse..."

The Ancient-One broke off, now that her tale was over, and looked up at the empty chair. Her cataract-ridden eyes stared blindly, and she stood. Regen stood quietly, ready to help her if she needed it, but she motioned him away.

"Beloved?" she whispered, almost to herself. She smiled faintly, and for a moment it seemed she was not the ancient woman, but a young girl, full of life. She started to shimmer, and he blinked, trying to clear his eyes. No, she was truly shimmering. The wrinkles on her face and arms faded, and the stooped back straightened. Her eyes cleared, and her hair darkened, until it was a shining black. She was truly young, truly beautiful. Now there was not one, but two figures. A tall, beautiful man, and the shimmering girl. Their hands joined, and they faded.

Regen sat utterly still, not sure of anything, anymore. Had there ever been a woman? The people around him were shaking there heads, murmuring wondering comments about what had happened. The woman beside him was asking why she was there at all.

he began to wonder, himself. Why was he there? Surely he'd been doing something...

But that night, in his dreams, it all came clear. And then came the final dream, one he'd never forget.

He was alone, in a clearing, amidst the oaks. A creek passed through the center of the glade, and above the creek floated a goblet, golden and beautiful. As he watched it, they appeared. The man and the girl. He remembered them, now. They were incredible. He gazed at them, as the man lifted the goblet, and offered it to the girl. She shook her head, mutely, and gestured towards Regen, who stood in amazement.

"Regen, drink. You will not become immortal, and you will not become a god. You will remember, though, the tale you have heard tonight. Take this knowledge, for the history is fading, and your people forget. Teach them to love the Earth, and to take care of her, for she is all you have. Drink, and remember. And return to your people. You are chosen, and you must do this. Know that the world thanks you, even when they claim to hate you. We thank you, child, and so does the mother."

And he took the goblet, and drank.