Hey guys. I figured that I’ve been around here long enough that I should at least make an attempt to post something. I came up with this a few nights ago, and just recently finalized it; I’d be pleased to know what you all think. Though this story is not AB/DL in nature, it should give you a taste of my… let’s say “style”, for when I do decide to do something a bit more related to this audience.

Without further ado, I give you…


[font=times new roman][size=12pt]My name is Santiago. My last name is not important; all those who bore it are long dead. Not I, however. I was destined for something far different.

I fought under Hernan Cortes, bringing glory to Spain and my God, through the riches of the New World, by any means necessary. The natives did not agree with our methods. I never thought them much of a concern, until I was cornered by that priest. We were looting his filthy pagan shrine, when we found him. He didn’t look like much, but his eyes were terrifying; clouded with the very mists that clung to his people’s holy cities, they gave a glimpse of an immense power. As we led him away to join his followers in damnation, his unnaturally pale eyes locked onto mine, and I felt a demonic aura gather about his wizened body. This aura crashed around me, with a sound blasphemously akin to the thunder which unhorsed the traveling St. Paul . In the cacophony, I heard a voice whisper, “May you know my suffering. May you live to see all you know destroyed.”

That was over 400 years ago. The world I knew passed me by, my loved ones no more than dust and bones. For centuries I wandered Europe, mindless of the world around me, seeking nothing but an end to my unnatural longevity. Many times and by many methods I attempted self-slaughter; blades would cut me, but I would not bleed out. Poisons would sicken me, but I would not succumb. Bullets would pierce me, but I would not be stilled. Each time, I would fall gratefully into what I thought was the shroud of eternity, but was merely a long sleep, from which I would inevitably waken, weakened and starved, but physically unblemished. I soon discovered that, despite being unable to die, I was still very much subject to pain, sickness, and suffering. I also remained dependent on sleep and food; any attempt to go for long without either would render me near-mad, with the pains of hunger or the fever of delusion. In sum, I was still very much a man, but one denied the mercy of a timely death.

My selfish, suicidal travels continued until one day, approximately three centuries after the day of my greatest regret, I heard something that set me on the next phase of my plan. Until this point, I had obsessed over the words of that heathen priest. I had indeed seen all I knew pass away, and yet death eluded me. My entire world was unrecognizable, and still I lived. On that day, I heard of a new and devastating weapon, which broke apart the very fabric of existence and unleashed an unstoppable power, capable of leveling whole cities at once. On that day, I swore that I would use these weapons to bring forth the destruction that the priest had prophesied. In condemning the rest of humanity, I dreamt that I myself would finally know the release of death.

I set forth for many years on this new crusade, traveling the globe, searching for countries with nuclear capability, and a hasty disposition. I would enter their lands, learn their tongue, and offer them my services as an advisor. On account of my formidable military knowledge, gained from countless battles and campaigns, they often accepted. I would inflame their pride, begging them to show the world their power in a rain of nuclear fire. Once, I was almost successful. In Russia in November of 1983, I had very nearly authorized a series of missile launches guaranteed to bring the End of Days, but I was foiled at the last second. My second attempt, however, was more successful.

I forget the date and the location, but I remember all too clearly the sense of anticipation I felt as I saw those missiles arcing through the sky. I eagerly awaited the counterattack, and when it came, I looked into the light of the explosion, and thought I could see the gates of Heaven. I was deaf to the screams and chaos as buildings and people alike burst into flames, knowing that I had finally broken my curse. I fell, for the last time, into the embrace of Eternity.

I woke, and wept bitterly at my failure. All around me was darkness, and the stench of burnt flesh. I could not move; the nearby building had collapsed upon me. I was too weak to move the rubble, and nothing remained to assist me in removing myself. I was trapped, quite fittingly I suppose, in a ruin made of my own foolishness, with nothing but darkness and regret for the rest of my innumerable days.[/size]

Re: Requiescat


Re: Requiescat

Actually, I would too, but I’ve been reading quite a bit of Anne Rice’s “The Vampire Chronicles” lately, and the “cursed immortality” theme was something I wanted to take a whack at. Glad you liked it!