Chapter Text
Stories.
Stories are what remains of a world long gone by. Stories are what remain of the ideas of dead men. Stories are what remain of life and death. Stories are what remain when the forest is long since burnt. Stories are what will remain of mankind when the ocean rises up to swallow the land, when the cosmos bursts into a million pieces, when humanity tears its own self apart.
Yet, these stories aren’t always past. Sometimes they are the present, weaving the fabric of a new world every second, creating and destroying and making and unmaking as they go. Sometimes they are the future, the dreams of the unknown, the fear of the unfathomable, the dread of the unseeable. Sometimes they are fiction, creation from nothing, entertainment borne from what’s not real, the cradle of hope, the wishes of something you can’t have. But in all of this, the glory of a tale stays, the pleasure of creation stays, the beauty of a symphony made stays.
The tales regaled by humans of love, hatred, scorn, adoration, aren’t always true. Why would they be, for humanity has never truly understood creation. Tales are told of gods and goddesses, of the earth and the sky, of women scorned, of men with ambitions too big for mortality, of death. Stories are told of Zeus’ unfaithfulness, of Hera’s displeasure, of Ares’ thirst of glory, of heroes and their tragic ends, of Persephone’s corruption, of Hades’ monstrous deeds. Yet these are seldom true, for if humanity could understand the truth of immortality, then they wouldn’t seek it, wouldn’t keep looking for the cure to death.
That’s the greatest trick played by Gods, to not let humanity know the truth, to shroud immortality in an attractive veil. To never let humanity know the price to be paid for it.
If the price to immortality was true loneliness, would you pay it?