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cathal hayes
His name does not feel as old as it is -- six hundred years of experience has tainted the name like the rotting wood carving it is. It was not marble - beautiful and aging gracefully. Rather, it was the name as common and as terribly miserable as the man it belonged to. Old, due for withering, and in a permanent state of a saddening enthusiasm. He was selfish, more selfish than he cared to show. He was unnaturally optimistic, a terrible trait despite its influence on his often inspiring rambles. He was old; So old. He need only die.
But dying he could not do. No, dying was a dream he learned to give up about - what was it, now? Five hundred and thirty four years ago? He'd lost count sometime ago. Time meant nothing to him anymore.
And odd wasn't it? This bitter personality, causing him to drink more than he used to be capable of, to damage his skin as if damage would be permanent, was such an odd contrast to the terrifyingly permanent expression of calm and happiness upon his face. He had been revived happy; It was only fitting that he was forced to seem that way for the rest of his -- unforeseeable future.
