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Description
Spain x Reader
Ephemeral

You heard the approach, and you would answer.

Steam rose in slanted spirals from the spring, concealed from the world in a narrow glen. A crumbling wall of stone cast a shadow across the golden waters as the day wore into the early hours of the afternoon, and a crisp breeze wove its way through the upper branches of the rotten oak, over the base of which water trickled at a downwards slope into the cavern.

You perched atop a boulder with your hand on the oak, and you slid it down the trunk, its bark splintering. You were rubbing the grit between your fingers when he stumbled into the ravine: yet another brash explorer drenched in sweat and grime with his hair plastered to his forehead and his brain forgotten in his native country.

Panting, he knelt, shed his pack, and clamped a filthy hand over his mouth as he tried to catch his breath. He had already folded back his sleeves twice and had begun to fan himself with his hat before he noticed you, and he clapped his hand over his heart when he jumped.

He shifted his jaw. “My lady,” he said, inclining his head as he sat upright, “I can see you must be a person of some note among your people. I, from the depths of my utmost humblest sensibilities, entreat you to—”

“State your name.”

His eyebrows creased slightly, but his head remained bowed. “Antonio Carriedo, my lady.”

“I will be addressed as your grace and nothing less.” Narrowing your eyes, you looked down at him over the curve of your nose. “Announce yourself. Make your intention known.”

Blinking profusely, he wiped his palms on his trousers and stared at the point that the vagrant roots at the base of the boulder intersected with the spring. “I am Antonio Carriedo, your grace, and I am exploring the New World under royal contract with my fellow conquistadors and honourable leader, Ponce de Leon.” He poked his tongue in his cheek before swallowing. “We are to explore the Islands of Benimy. Part of our delay of which is partially my fault; I’m on crew on San Cristobal, the smallest of our ships, and we found ourselves lost for two days. We have discovered this land, La Florida, in their stead.” Antonio sneaked a furtive glance at you before fixing his eyes on the ground. “We’ve anchored in this cape for fresh water and ship repairs. I myself was hoping that we would find gold in addition to the glory, but our men are so uncertain what to do. This territory is so new to us.”

“Gold?” Cocking your head, you repositioned your legs, making a point for the golden fabric to ripple over your bare feet like a brook. “Have you not been successful in finding any?”

“I confess that we have not.” Antonio smiled weakly. “However, you, your grace—since—since such gossamer sheets of gold—I. Er.” He gestured loosely towards your dress. “Where did you—”

“There is no gold in the New World,” you said.

“What?”

“But is that not tolerable?” Breaking your stare, you turned to the bubbling spring. “For gold is not what you truly seek—is it, Antonio?” In a crevice on the side of the cave, a violet flower was beginning to bloom.

Antonio followed your gaze, and his fell on the layer of steam above the waters. His countenance darkened. “Is this the fountain?” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he pushed on his knees to stand. “I swear, if you have been concealing it from me—if you keep me from it—” He fumbled about his person, feeling his pockets and sliding his belt around to the scabbard. “—then, in turn, you are keeping de Leon and the king himself from the most valuable resource in the world.” Antonio was scowling when he brandished a dagger in your direction. “And I assure you, I don’t know if I will be the first one to break your skin for those queuing across all of Spain.”

He shuffled one step forwards, and you outstretched your hand, the palm flat. An ear-splitting sucking sound cut through the air as the sunlight over the ravine channelled into the spring, and the breath caught in his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. By the light in the water, his eyes constricted as you spoke in a low, heavily enunciated voice that was not your own.

“Do not presume to threaten me, Antonio. You cannot harm me however much you try.” Your first two fingers twitched, and a squeak was squeezed out of him as his face faded into a darker shade of red. “I have always been with the fountain.” Parting your lips, you curled your fingers upward to guide his paralysed figure to the spring. “What happens here does not concern de Leon or the crown.”

You removed the steam from under him, and he dropped to the ground at the edge of the water. Gasping, Antonio spluttered and clutched his throat. He checked to ensure he was still wearing his hat and his belt for his scabbard. The dagger lay farther back in the ravine.

“This is between you,” you said, your voice easing back into your own as sunlight flooded the earth again, “and this is between me. I am not here to guard the fountain from you but you from the fountain. You have to understand the costs of drinking the water.”

“It’s so simple,” Antonio said, shifting into a kneeling position, “I’m young forever. I am no longer mortal and cannot die.” His head snapped sideways to look at you. “Is that not what the Fountain of Youth implies?” The waters lapped at the shoreline, stopping just inches from his knees.

“Do not touch it,” you said from the boulder, “If you do, it scalds.”

“Then how am I to drink from it?” Antonio hunched over to stare at his determined reflection.

You raised an eyebrow. “You bring water to your lips and swallow.”

“No, no—I meant—ah,” he said, dismissing the thought with a wave.

“You and your company have travelled months to find the fountain, and yet you lie motionless at its mouth.” You wiggled your toes against the cold stone. “What was your plan for when you first saw it?”

“Everyone’s was different,” he said, digging around in a pouch attached to his belt, “Mine was to drink of it in this goblet.” He tossed you a battered, wooden goblet with what was probably a depiction of the Garden of Eden carved rather poorly into its grain.

Sucking in through your teeth, you rolled the feeble stem between your palms. “Not exactly the Holy Grail, but it’s acceptable.”

“I really don’t wish to be reminded of that.”

“If you drank from the fountain,” you said, “you would have an eternity of that failure in your mind.”

“What?”

“Come, Antonio. What are your views on immortality? What would you do?” Shielding your eyes from the sun, you tilted your head back to stare into the treetops.

“I would live the duration of my first life, this life, quietly,” he said without hesitation, “I would make frugal decisions, invest in land—that is, if de Leon distributes any of it—or back home in Spain, but I am not yet wealthy enough to do that. But I could be. I will be. I’ll accumulate wealth towards the end of my natural lifespan and invest that to—yes. From that point on, I would go about the first few centuries accumulating wealth and—I could serve the church forever! I could, I—” He scratched at the dirt on his cheek. “I could make ascend through the ranks. The things I could see. The places I could go.” His eyes glazed over as he dragged his hand down his neck and pulled at his collar. “The entire, complete scope of human history and—and beyond that. Money. Fame. Power. Knowledge. I could learn anything. Rule the world,” he finished softly. He stared at his wavering reflection in the spring, the waves washing quietly onto the shore. “I would have unlimited sunrises.”

On the highest branches in the treetop, budding leaves were swaying in the wind. “That’s true,” you said, pressing your hand against the tree trunk.

Antonio shook himself, and he was grinning when he turned towards you. “Not to mention having this physique until the end of time. Check out my muscles,” he said, flexing, “These arms, forever. Would not eternal youth be worth it?”

What muscles might have been there were obscured by bulky fabric. “I suppose.” You stretched out your legs to slide down the boulder, the goblet scraping against the stone, and you moved to sit next to him on the shore. Dipping your hand in the water, you hear the sizzle as tiny, silver fish swarm around your fingers. Antonio frowned at you, but you ignored him. “Tell me about your life back home.”

“I, er. It’s fairly simple and, to be honest, a little cliché,” he said, popping his knuckles, “I’m the second son of gentry. I’m not going to inherit much of anything. I’ve always been second best to my brother, but that’s all right, I guess. It’s not like I have a complex about it, or anything.” He struggled to pop a select joint. “I have a girl back home.” He paused. “We might get married. I’m not certain. Is this part of the proving I’m worthy test?”

“What about your expeditions thus far?” One of the silver fish nibbled at your thumb. “Have you done what is, to say in the words of man, necessary to survive?”

Antonio looked at the cave and back at you. “I think? Yes. I’m going to say yes.”

You nodded. “Have you taken risks? Gotten your hands dirty?”

“I think that’s fairly clear.”

“Bloodstained?”

“Oh.” Sighing, he shifted to his elbows to get a better view of the fish. “I…I may have done something along those lines.”

“Tell me, Antonio: are you religious? You mentioned the church.”

“I did. I am. I’m Catholic,” he said, “Through and through. Though I don’t understand what Martin Luther and those—those Protestants are so distraught about; I for one do not see anything wrong about—”

“What would happen if you died?” You let the water drip from your hand before flicking the rest of it away.

“I would—”

“Wouldn’t you, at some point, have to confront the souls of the persons you’ve killed?” you asked, setting the goblet upright to your side. “Immortality would be an opportunity to avoid that horror.”

“That’s—I hadn’t thought of that. That’s nice,” he said, as he pushed back his hair, and the drying sweat made it stick up foolishly.

“You wouldn’t have to face age, feel death, or to suffer physical defects. You could be the most courageous, most daring conquistador in history, throwing himself into dangerous situations but always, somehow, coming out alive—fame. Fortune. Helping people with impossible tasks that you now can do. Charity. You would have all the time in the world to do whatever you wish. We have established this,” you said, and you moved to lie on your stomach as well. “I want you to list some negative sides of immortality. I need you to be able to think properly before you make your decision.”

Antonio did not say anything for a minute, and then he said, “I suppose. I suppose I would live much longer than all of my friends. I would share with them the glory initially, that I know, but then—then I would watch them die. And when I didn’t die of the same causes they did, I would be hunted. Hunted for my immortality and thus have to go into hiding. Or else reinvent myself every century or so.”

“Do you think you can do that?”

He shrugged. “I…maybe. Maybe I’d grow immune to the lonely pangs. Yes,” he said, nodding, “Yes, I could do that.”

“Speaking of immune, you could still fall ill. You would survive the disease, of course, but imagine walking around with the scars of smallpox for eternity,” you said, “Like the thought of that? Keep going.”

“I,” he said, biting his lip, “I could still feel pain. Suffer injury.”

“That’s also true,” you said, reaching for the water again, “but what about worse things? You might marry her, eh? You’d outlive her and any children. You’d outlive complete societies. Spain could diminish, and you would still be here, fighting until your proverbial last breath to defend its honour. Do you have any pets?”

“I won’t, now.”

“And the worst thing? Think small. Think personal. You would eventually have no motivation, rendering you an empty shell of a person with no true objective besides the hollow call of wealth and fame and the promises of glory.” Scooping up a handful of pebbles, you let them plop back into the spring one by one. “But we’re not forgetting: you’ll forget. You’re only human. You won’t remember everything that you do. You can hardly remember the days of your childhood when you were just learning about the world; what makes you think you will recall thousands of years’ worth of information? Bear in mind: the fountain consumes. The fountain devours. But that’s the cost,” you said, tossing the rest of them in and sitting up, “We haven’t mentioned a price.”

Slow to react, he asked, “A price?”

Gripping his shoulder, you smiled down at him. “For drinking out of the fountain. You can’t get something for nothing, obviously.” You snatched his hat off of his head and began to examine it. “Even though you think you act among the native peoples without consequence, you, if not your descendants, will know your price.”

Antonio grunted as he forced himself upright. “Your grace, what’s the penalty for drinking of the fountain?”

“It might be the ability to see colour,” you said, “Or it might be your entire sense of humour. I’ll check, if you want me to.”

Antonio fell silent as he watched a bright yellow butterfly alight on the violet. It fluttered for a second and went rigid, staying firmly on the flower as the wind bent the stem. Steam twisted and curled around the bottoms of tree trunks and circumferences of stones, brushing against them like a tardigrade cat, and it rose to the fresh verdure in the forest canopy. Towards the eastern edge, the waters were overflowing the spring with its fish swimming in the opposite direction, and what did not seep into the earth dribbled into the mouth of the cavern, reminiscent of a babbling brook.

Cautiously, he broke his silence. “What is my price?”

Sweeping back the hair the wind had ruffled, you inched over to kneel before him in the spring. “Allow me, good sir,” you said with no conviction. Antonio was gawking at your perfectly dry clothes, but you, avoiding dirt, gripped his chin to force him to look at you. Tilting his head to each side, you saw a filthy, thoughtless Spaniard with no clue what he was doing. And he believed himself to be special. He had the same, desperate glint in his eyes as everyone whom you let find your fountain. Same intentions, same desires—although, the sunrise part was different. But who cared; that did not matter.

Grimacing, you pressed your palm against his forehead and slid your fingers into his sweaty bangs to push them out of the way. Antonio jolted when you did so, and you half-smiled. “You will want to close your eyes.”

He nodded with his brow furrowed, and squinting, you inhaled sharply, drawing in steam as you did so. You breathed it out again with a ts, holding out the syllable until the vapour condensed into a thin, white trail, circling the two of you before trying to entwine itself around your fingers. With a squelch, your hand was suctioned to his forehead, and you began.

His eyelashes fluttered during the process, dotted with golden flecks, and he had to bite his lower lip to keep his chin from quivering. For the first few minutes, Antonio rubbed the indentions on his scabbard in a slow, methodical manner.

The yellow butterfly flew east and left a shaking violet behind.

The sound of bubbling waters screeched to a stop when Antonio’s eyes snapped open, bright light pouring out of them, and the waves freeze in their arcs before they can wash over pebbles. Overheating, you struggled to wrench your hand from his forehead, but your palm, steam rising from underneath it with a shrill whistling, is bonded against his burning skin until the memory process is finished.

You, chest heaving, hunched over to rest your head on his shoulder and tenderly kneaded the exposed tendons in your hand.

“Your—your grace,” Antonio said, panting and digging his nails into his thighs, “Is that supposed to happen?”

“I should not be doing this,” you said, frowning into the fabric of his shirt, “I really, really shouldn’t be doing this.” Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to sit upright, at a slight distance from him to look him directly in the eyes, but the smoke rising from his forehead drew you more. “I’ve never done this before, but I have to tell you.” The same smoke came from your hand. “If you choose to drink, to become immortal, in the eighteenth century—” Swallowing, you paused. “In the eighteenth century, you will meet a young man in Italy.”

Nodding, Antonio slowly opened his mouth before changing his mind and closing it.

Scrunching up your face and sticking out your jaw, you continued, staring at a spot just beyond his ear. “He is more than a friend. You will create the most—most magnificent things, go the most wonderful places.” You tried to force yourself to relax, managing to drop the determined expression but failing to cease your heavy breathing. “He is pivotal to Spain, and he is pivotal to you, if you drink. He is the most important person in your life,” you said, pulling on your earlobe and averting your gaze when he looked your way, “but at the end of his life, you will watch him shrivel and die, and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” You coughed, taken aback by the steam.

The waters sprung to life again, a couple of silver fish bumping into your legs as water pooled around them, and a chunk of rock crumbled off of the deteriorating wall into the spring with a delayed splash.

Antonio scratched the back of his neck. “And that is my price?”

You glanced at his face and then at his lap. “No. Your price is all of the feeling in your right hand down to your elbow.” Temporarily rolling onto your side, you shuffled backwards to sit beside him. “I—I needed to warn you of your greatest friendship and greatest heartbreak.”

“How could I make such a decision?”

You draw your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them, inching the fabric of your skirts up enough so that you could see your toes in the water. You could not feel the wet. “Look at the fish,” you said, “Fish always are in the fountain, but these won’t always be. But while they’re here, with the little time that they have, they eat and pursue their fishy lives in ignorance of the fact that they will not be pursuing their cherished but cavalier ambitions forever, that their quest for their fullest life will end sooner than they think. I am sad for them.” You laid your chin on your knees, and as you sighed, as you smushed your cheek against one of your knees, steam began to rise from the spring again.

Silence permeated the glen before a softly smiling Antonio reached over and gently ran a knuckle down the side of your bare arm, raising his brows in offering as his light touch elicited goosebumps.

Scowling, you swatted him away, and you stood in a rush, your hands in fists at your sides. Hardening, you lifted your chin as you glared down at him and eluded his grasp when you waded out into the shallows, your skirts billowing with the crackle and spit of the spring fizzing behind you.

“You would never be able to tell Ponce de Leon, nor anyone else, that you found the fountain,” you said as you spun around to face him, “You would be burdened with the most coveted secret in the world—forever.” You grabbed a handful of steam, wriggling in your grip, and you shot it towards shore to seize the wooden goblet. “You must return to your company and act as if nothing has happened, as if you have been wandering in the woods, lost, for the past hour. You will live a great life,” you said, wrapping your fingers around its stem, “A life of lies and secrets to conceal your nature.” The goblet levitated, supported by swirling mist, and you summoned the stream of water to fill it to its brim: just enough, lest it overflow. “My fountain is due to be in India by twilight. My time here is fleeting, but don’t let that rush your decision.” You were grinning when you held out the goblet to Antonio; the fire in your eyes held him more than the churning blend of steam, wind, and smoke. “You might have an eternity.”