I am one of the last remaining Ancients. My skin grows thinner and ever more pale with each passing year, the blue rivers of veins only more visible, as if proclaiming the fact that they have not felt warm blood in a thousand years. My eyes, which were always pale, seem so light these days that they are almost transparent.
I feel as though I am starting to fade.
Marisa assures me that I still look natural, if a little pallid. She advises me to lie in the sun to gain color, but these days I find I cannot endure the feel of direct sunlight on my skin.
So I sit in my room and play my violin and I write poetry which nobody will ever read. And I think of my life, how endless it has been. How full of strife and beauty and rapture. It is almost too much to bear sometimes. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I often wonder why I was blessed with this unwanted gift. I worry I am not living up to it. Marisa has come to view her immortality as an affliction, but I view it as an open road with no end in sight.