“ do not form designs, as if you were to live a thousand years. death hangs over you. while you live, while you may, become good. “ ( marcus aurelius’ meditations: book iv, no. 17. c: )
A point bluntly made, it earned a thoughtful smile from the singular entity his doppelganger’s audience of one. He could appreciate the philosophy, and so respectfully listened while keeping silent and still. Not a man to interrupt another. He fanned an air of quietude, as if pensive himself and prompted to consider the words (and he had to some small measure). Politely was the aged book in his palm shut, the eyes torn from its pages to look into those of the speaker. Of course, he would respond. “Somewhat impractical, but…sensible. I should agree with that.” Weightless were his notes, smooth like suede, gentle and refined. His mind was open.
The impracticality he’d suggested stemmed from other personal beliefs. He’d not counter his company. Even if a man were to live for a scant fifty, should he not design what little of his life he could? And with all the more reason, perhaps, if he should know that he will live for only so long! To bring virtue into the matter, however, would complicate it if only a touch.
“Men who are good from the start don’t get their thousand years, or hardly fifty,” it was added through the same quiet calm as before. “Cruel in its irony. Then come those who go on to pursue virtue, and only about half of them serve their term.” He lifted his chin ever so slightly and the hair about the sides of his face fell backward. The changes were hardly perceptible. But it was in the eyes that a strange gleam took root, and something about the warlock’s air turned with the subtle droop of his lids. From behind them he gazed at his mirror image, peering, studying, waiting, perhaps provoking a rejoinder by extension.
“But…it’s wisest to err on the side of caution. Make the most of your time, try not to live aimlessly, avoid the devil—that’s what I’d say.” Rather tongue-in-cheek coming from him, a man who was never out of Hell’s reach either on purpose or by accident. That must have fit nicely into the ideal shared with him. He was not at all sour for it.
