Chapter 1
(Chapter song ’The Immortalist′ by Secession Studios)
SOMETIME IN THE 18TH CENTURY – CORA
The tragedy of life.
Felt by many but understood by few.
The religions of the world will tell you this is a plan set in motion to teach the meanings of life and living. It teaches you to make the time you have as positive as possible before the plan ends.
For some, it’s a tortuous punishment. And they build the belief that the reason they’re alive is through some fault or flaw in their own plan. They believe it’s unfair. They believe there should be more time. It’s never enough. They ask the question, why them? Why not me? They blame themselves for the tragedy that not anyone’s doing, but time. The clock of life is set differently for a reason. Through the grief of it, some can’t see that. So, they blame. They torture themselves. They make it their fault.
Those that deal with death try to help those that don’t understand, but some don’t wish it.
Sometimes, they take matters into their own hands.
For a boy who had no real feeling of love, this is harder to embrace.
The feeling of watching your father slip away in quick decay over days imprints on a young mind. And to add to the tragedy, the feeling of terror by being abandoned by your mother on a street with no way to care for yourself.
This leaves one doubting everything people tell you. And the fear returns.
From the old man who took him home to his wife. Who taught him his skills; taught him how to love for 5 years. The tragedy strikes and he watches their lives be taken by illness and starvation.
From the wars that entered the cities, he watches his friends gunned down in senseless fire. People that he loved dismembered in battles of hatred. He watched as people around him begged for life only to receive death as a result.
Even when people of nobility and standing tried to help the boy, he refused to trust. He turned them away. He had no more desire to see another die. Not even himself.
Often the tragedy of death isn’t the death itself. It’s the pain and senselessness of it. It develops a strong fear that one can build his own war against it. He builds his skills and when he finds the plan...
He acts.
With paints and linen, he builds a wall. He fills his heart with resentment and fear to use as weapons loaded with every color he uses. He brings his plan to life with every brush stroke. The air is thick with linseed oil as he works feverously to avoid the pain that sits in his future. He fills his pallet and loads his brush with the determination to beat what time has set out. He uses his skills to seal the thoughts of winning against the cosmic end for us all.
But he knows not what he does.
Death does not lay silent.
When the boy faces this tragedy again and again through never ending war, disease, and famine; he decides he no longer wishes to take part. He leaves the natural order. He uses the gift that was given to him to make the world a better place; and instead uses it for crueler intentions.
He removes his fear. Removes inevitability. And traps the divine plan. Never to look at it again.
He crosses lines and keeps secrets. Secrets, that if brought to light, would devastate even the most hardened of hearts.
He devises illusions of deceit. He throws a magic curtain over his sin to prevent those from finding out how scared he is of the truth.
The truth of how he avoided death.
As he travels through time with the weight of his secret on his shoulders, he develops the skill of illusion. He develops the skill of more immoral acts. He becomes self-serving. He becomes addicted to it. He uses these to hide from his crimes.
He spends his nights performing magic for people who will never know the tragedy inside. He smiles for the audience that pretends to love him, but he knows the truth. As he plays with ropes and cards. As he performs feats that mesmerize and astound the mind, that blackness grows. The heart of his secret becomes louder. As he satisfies their wants, he dies a little more each night. He never feels whole. Never feels truly loved. He will never be understood in the realm of his fame.
And as his fame grows, the more distant he becomes. The true people in his life fade. They no longer can be part of who he is. The only thing he needs is the illusion.
The audience cheers as he levitates and makes things appear out of thin air, but the heart still beats. It pounds as he removes his top hat and bows. Like a fist of a monster, it bangs on his mind. Demanding to be freed.
It cries to his conscious as the people gather in bigger crowds and his heart turns callous. It scratches and claws as the tickets sell and he signs the autographs of his fame.
It howls as he stares at his own reflection. The makeup of his illusion is wiped away; and he’s left with the reality that his soul will never be the same.
But in his mind, it’s worth the suffrage to avoid the fate that everyone must face. In his mind, the disease isn’t a virus. The disease is allowing it to be had. The disease is not having control. The sickness is embracing a part which should be chosen, not forced.
In his mind, the torture of the monster is worth more than being a slave to it.
In his mind, the magic of living is only done by ridding yourself of the ability to die.
The problem with immorality is you sacrifice the most important part. You sacrifice life.
Even though the weight of death is gone, there’s still an aspect of life that that he thought he could escape. The relationships you make. The loves that come and go. The tragedy that still happens. You think your own immortality would stop you from feeling. It doesn’t. It brings what you fear to more light.
Time tells you. Time shows you. As you move through time, you lose. You watch those around you grow old and die. Over and over. Then you’re no longer lying to the people.
You’re lying to yourself.
The immortality becomes so immortal, you start to long for end. You start to wish to join those who have embraced their fear. You wish to no longer be cowardly and correct the mistake.
But it’s too late.
The boy had already built the House of Black on lies that he can never take back.
The monster that pounds on his heart is angry. It’s full of malice and contempt. It reeks of revenge.
The torture through time has eating away what it once was, and he knows now it’s too late to free it. His punishment now is to spend immortality in suffrage. He can never allow the monster to be revealed. He can never allow it to see the light. He can never tell anyone.
He can never allow it to end.
For if it does end...
The immortal will not only suffer death.
The immortal… will pay for his crimes.
