Chapter 204: There Was Once a Man Who Could Not Die (IV)

Chapter 204: There Was Once a Man Who Could Not Die (IV)

Chapter 204

There Was Once a Man Who Could Not Die (IV)

There was once a man who could not die, his wings of infinity unfurled before the cosmos. And the man dreaded life as he dreaded sleep, for eternity of time was a blend of elysian nothing. Death was but a passenger in his journey, a handheld child in awe of what and who defied it. Though others did exist who could defy death, be it through the heart of their own or the Voyagers will, there was something different about him. His undying journey began with the Voyager, with the will beyond his own but he, for so long now, had been writing his own immortality.

There was once a boy who could not die, too, his eyes obsidian black, his gaze terrifying. Cold. Indifferent. Broken. And the boy beheld time that passed like the tides, day in and out, night by night, for the boy was not a Voyager. He was not beholden to the cosmos, to the forces that shape all that is, was, and will be. The boy was a human, in a sense, too. Perhaps not human as the world knew them today, but human enough. And in the cold vestiges of everything that wished the boy dead, he prevailed. But while the boys body held on, his mind cracked. Like a vase made of glass tossed into the wall, a thousand shards lay strewn in the thoughts that once were pure.

There was once a time the boy believed the man would crack. He observed the lost human stumbling blind through time, thoughtless in all his actions, akin to a moronic drunk. But no matter how far the man fell, he never lost hope. Was it her that held him up? No. The boy had her too. He had her for much longer. And she desperately tried to unbreak him, too. But there is no might, mortal or otherwise, that can heal an unwilling mind. What is broken needs to want healing in the first place. Or, at least, have enough to itself to receive it in full.

The boy sighed, his breath akin to rot. There was little life left in himeach breath counted down seconds. He had perhaps thirty left, and he just wasted one on frustration. But, at least, his heart felt an ounce of something once again. It was faintnot even a feeling, not truly. Just a notion that there ought to be feeling. Like a scratch at the back of the throat. He knew that something was wrong with the order of things, with how everything played out, but he could not in good reason figure out what and why.

Another flash of lightning. The mans arm flew off, blood spraying out. But there was a smile of conviction upon his lips. There was light in his eyes, there was fire that the boy never quite had. Not even when his journey first began. Was that fire all that he lacked? No. Fire alone cannot sustain anythingit is destructive in nature and the longer it burns the fainter it gets before finally vanishing.

It is never just one thing, the boy knew. It is many things, as many as there are stars in the vast cosmos. Endless threads knitting a tapestry that weaves the story from its beginning to the end. And everyones tapestry is different, even if the threads that knit it are the same.

The man fell to his knees, bleeding profusely, dying. His last heart fizzled out like the candlelight, and his breath grew shallow. But he looked up, defiance against the cosmos in his gaze. In that gaze, endless stories unravelled. Tales that would bury most, if not everyone else. Boy himself included. He wanted to reach out, wanted to ask the man: how? How did he do it? But he didnt. Not because he feared the answer, not because he felt it beneath him, but for the simple reason that he already knew what the man would reply.

There was once a boy who lived in a small village near a small lake. Every day, that boy woke up to the song of firebirds and the light of kindled dawn. And every day he would watch his father go into the woods to hunt and every evening he would watch him come back with some game. The boy longed for the simplicity of that life. Living every day as though it would be the final. Loving every love as though it would be the last. Eating every knead of bread as though he would never eat another. Laughing every time as though the laughter would permanently cease. Such was the boys life, and such were the boys thoughts. Simple though it may be, all things that mattered in life were in equal measure simple. Those who can love ought to love freely. Those who can laugh ought to laugh roaringly. Those who can weep ought to weep fearlessly. Those who can die ought to die peacefully.