Immortals: Slovenia

Zan

My name is Zan, and I am immortal. I have lived for more than four thousand years, and I have seen the rise and fall of civilizations, the birth and death of empires, the glory and horror of wars, the beauty and ugliness of humanity. I have traveled the world, learned many languages, cultures, and arts, but I have never found the answer to the question that haunts me: why am I immortal?

I was born in the Bronze Age, in a small village near the river Sava, in what is now Slovenia. My people were farmers and herders, living in harmony with nature and the gods. We worshipped the sun, the moon, the earth, and the water, and we celebrated the seasons with festivals and rituals. We were happy and peaceful, until the day they came.

They came from the east, riding horses and chariots, wielding swords and spears, wearing helmets and armor. They were the Illyrians, a fierce and warlike people who wanted to conquer and plunder our lands. They attacked our village without warning, killing, burning, and looting everything in their path. I was only a boy then, barely twelve years old, and I was terrified. I ran to my home, hoping to find my family, but I was too late. They were all dead, lying in pools of blood, their bodies mutilated and desecrated. I cried out in grief and rage, and then I saw him.

He was one of the invaders, a tall and muscular man with a long beard and a scarred face. He had a sword in his hand, stained with the blood of my kin. He saw me and grinned, a wicked and cruel smile that chilled my soul. He raised his sword and charged at me, intending to finish me off. I had no weapon, no defense, no hope. I closed my eyes and waited for the end.

But it never came.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest, and then nothing. I opened my eyes and saw him lying on the ground, his sword still embedded in my heart. He was dead, his eyes wide open in shock and disbelief. I looked at myself and saw the wound, but I felt no pain, no weakness, no fear. I felt nothing. I pulled out the sword and threw it away, and then I saw the miracle. The wound healed itself, leaving no scar, no trace, no sign of injury. I was alive, and I was immortal.

I did not understand what had happened, what it meant, what it implied. I was too young, too naive, too innocent. I thought it was a gift from the gods, a reward for my bravery, a blessing for my survival. I did not know it was a curse, a burden, a punishment. I did not know the price I had to pay, the loneliness I had to endure, the sorrow I had to bear.

I left my village, my home, my past, and I wandered the world, looking for answers, for meaning, for purpose. I met many people, some good, some bad, some indifferent. I made friends, enemies, lovers, but I never stayed long, never got attached, never revealed my secret. I learned to adapt, to blend in, to change. I witnessed history, but I never made it. I was a spectator, not a participant, a shadow, not a light.

I have seen the best and the worst of humanity, the heights and the depths of civilization, the wonders and the horrors of the world. I have seen the rise and fall of Rome, the birth and death of Christ, the glory and decay of Byzantium, the crusades and the jihad, the renaissance and the reformation, the enlightenment and the revolution, the industrialization and the globalization, the wars and the peace, the progress and the regression, the hope and the despair. I have seen it all, and I have learned nothing.

Now I live in Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia, a modern and beautiful city that stands on the ruins of my ancient homeland. I live in a small apartment, with a fake name, a fake identity, a fake life. I have a job, a hobby, a routine, but I have no passion, no joy, no meaning. I have no friends, no family, no love. I have nothing.

I am immortal, and I am tired.

I am Zan, and this is my story.