Master of the Loop

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 Voyager’s 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 boy’s 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 day that the skies were split open, and the braving sun was eclipsed. Darkness unfolded like a carpet and it covered the world. The darkness was full of anger, full of longing, full of wrath that had been buried for far too long. And from that darkness rained blood, crimson-dyed tears longing for a release. But the burden of infinity was heavy and draining and would not be cleansed easily.

There now stood a boy, no taller than four feet, black-eyed and haired, his skin as pale as snow, body seemingly void of blood. He seemed sickly and wane, both young and ancient at the same time. There was heaviness to him, one that contradicted his appearance. And in the boy’s eyes there was a motif of nothing–for the eyes were reflections of the soul that had long since died. His heart, buried in the aeons of everafter, would be still for all eternity. He was certain. But his heart was moved. There was a twine to it, a tinge, a pulse, as though its last whimper before dying. The last outcry of injustice.

The boy pondered why he could not be like the man–why the death felt so suffocating, so unfair, so demented. Why, each time he died, a piece of him went away that he could never get back. He, too, once loved. And he, too, once raged. And cried. And laughed. And felt all the things that living ought to feel. There was once more to his roar than volume. But now… it was all gone. No, not now. It has been gone for so long it was pointless to recount the years.

There was once an old man that he met who feared death. He chased any and all rumours that spoke of immortality–herbs, sacrifices, liquids, fruits, animals. He ate and drank whatever he could in that desperate bid to stave the death off. But all things come to an end, as did the old man. He lived for ninety-eight years, a fairly lengthy life by all accounts. And yet, his last words were, just before he’d draw the last breath, ‘one more day’. The boy never understood the longing–life was suffering. Inability to die… was beyond terrifying. He hated the man’s ignorance–for he could not die, and all he wanted was to die.

A flash of thunder blinded him for a moment–two men poised to end the temporary tale that would soon be forgotten by the cosmos barreled into one another, ravaged with laughter and joy. One welcoming the release of the accursed life, and the other welcoming the end of a hollow tale. One swung the sword with all his might, not holding anything back, and the other willed nature to compress to his whims. All of it was barren to the boy. The fight was pointless. Its outcome was written before the man even arrived unto this world. Even now, both men know how the fight will end. So, the boy enviously pondered, how? How can they still enjoy it?

Nothing mattered in the long line of history. All events, no matter how memorable, will be forgotten. All the heroes, all the villains, all the empires and kingdoms and prophets and messiahs, all the names and all the dates and all the lives and deaths, it would all eventually voyage into oblivion. All that would remain was entropy, unchanging and eternal. The boy longed for entropy. Longed to join the unchanging, thoughtless, indifferent nothing. Longed to forget, to erase the suffering. And thus he pondered…

How can a man destined for eternity not despair? He longed to find a whisper to replace him, but he never thought it would remain. She was a Voyager–a thought born from a formless idea. And he was a mortal man, damned to suffer in infinity until his mind cracked, just like the boy’s. What was the difference between the two of them? Why could the man endure all the pain, all the suffering, all the ails and ills of life… and the boy could not? The man was weaker, as in mind so in body. He was lesser, reedy, more cowardly, more arrogant, he was all things undone… but he did not crack.

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 him–each 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 faint–not 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 man’s 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 anything–it 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 everyone’s 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 didn’t. 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 boy’s life, and such were the boy’s 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.