Elixir

A Captivating Fantasy Short Story about Immortality, Creativity, and Life's Meaning

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The block of marble stood in the center of the studio, lit by golden moonlight streaming through stained-glass, floor-to-ceiling windows. Its odd edges—where someone had begun to chip away at them—cast shadows, darkening the stone. Knick-knacks surrounded it, interesting at a glance but serving no purpose beyond distraction. Canvases were scattered about—some half-finished, others with only sketches. The last of the purposeless things was a young man sitting on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, his head resting against them. He had been there for ten days and might remain for another ten—or twenty, or thirty. He had lived long enough for it all to feel the same.

Someone knocked on his door.
“Maxwell!”

“It’s open!” he called back, moving just enough to get his voice out.

The door’s latch clacked, and light steps tapped on the floorboards.
“This place is a mess,” Anita said as she came to a stop beside Maxwell.

“Is that so?” he answered. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Ahh,” she said. “You’re in one of your moods again, I see.” She rustled his hair. “I hope this one doesn’t last a decade like the last. Is that the new project you’re working on?” She stepped toward the stone.

“It’s hardly new anymore.”

“Yes… it has been a while since you started.”

Maxwell glanced up to see what she was doing. She caressed the stone with one hand, holding a silver goblet in the other, swirling it as she studied the marble with her palm, the shadows sweeping over her brown skin. She glanced down at the goblet, then back at Maxwell, swinging her head to move her hair out of her face.

“Is this why you’ve sequestered yourself away? Upset that you’ve only managed to chip the edges of this thing? That shouldn’t concern you. What does it matter how long it takes? All we have is time.” She set the goblet down, then strolled over to Maxwell. Stooping, she worked her arms under Maxwell’s and stood, guiding him up with her.

“I’m having another get-together, and I’m sure everyone would adore seeing you.”

“Another one, hm? You’ve had a thousand before, and there’ll be a thousand after. What if I miss one?”

“See, that right there.” She tapped him on the nose. “You need something to drink, to eat.” She smiled, then kissed him on his cheek. “Someone to give you a kiss or two to get you out of your head. The only thing that comes from that is melancholy.”

Maxwell’s stomach sank at the word. He sighed. “Alright.”

He cleaned up, then stuffed himself into one of his fancy suits he had long since grown tired of wearing: a dark purple overcoat with twirling designs of a slightly lighter purple, and a tail down to the back of his knees; a gold waistcoat beneath that; form-fitting tan trousers tucked into soft leather boots. To finish it off, he pulled his hair into a low tail, tied with a gold ribbon.

He glanced at a standing mirror and touched his cheek, the skin smooth and taut, without a hint of age. He remembered how, long ago, he had dreaded the day he’d first see wrinkles or streaks of gray—but now he wondered how he would look with them. Distinguished, maybe. Anita had already left, and he thought about staying for a moment but sighed. A promise was a promise.

Anita’s manor was filled to the brim—a dazzling display of color and perfume as people swung around each other, their eyes dazed with some substance or another: a wine, a powder, a fungus, something or anything. He navigated the crowd, nodding and smiling at the people who recognized him. “Oh, Maxwell,” they’d say, “I adore your sculptures,” they’d say. At some point, a glass of wine found its way into his palm.

He didn’t sip the ambrosia—a syrup that would slide down his throat, spreading tendrils of warmth, burning his worries away. When he had first tasted the alchemist’s concoction, he had been in a sustained stupor for decades.

Finally, he made it out onto the balcony overlooking the yard. There were people down in the gardens getting more intimate in the shroud of the tall hedges. The centerpiece was a large marble statue of a woman gazing wistfully at the stars, wearing fabric that flowed over supple, curving flesh, seeming as soft as a cloud—but it was a lie. It was stone, cold and hard, and the wear and tear of time made that clear. The features he had carefully carved so long ago were now dulled by erosion, its carefully designed façade disrupted by real fabrics of bright colors and streaks of paint, no doubt thrown on to make it more… stimulating.

“That one has always been my favorite.”

Maxwell glanced at Anita, her curly hair sparkling with golden glitter that matched her dress. Ageless, and as statuesque as when he first pulled her image from the stone.

“Of course,” he said. “All the things that depicted you were your favorite.”

“Weren’t they yours as well?” She leaned against the stone railing, gazing down at the statue and holding a glass of her own.

“Always.” He made to take a sip of his but decided against it.

“I’ve been meaning to reach out to you, you know. I hardly recognize the face anymore.”

“Too much time in the sun and rain.”

“Yes… Maxwell, you’ve been strange lately.”

He scoffed.

“Max… if it’s melancholy—”

“It’s not,” he said quickly, but not sharply. “I’ve just been… waiting.”

“For?”

“Inspiration, Tina. I’ve had that damn block of stone in my studio for decades now, and I haven’t been able to do more than a few chips. I haven’t been able to finish a painting.” His grip tightened on the glass. “I used to be so much more, did so much more, and now… I don’t know.”

“Why have you stopped?”

“I don’t…” He shook his head. “I can’t see.”

“See?”

He glanced at her, then at the dark liquid in his glass. “I once told you,” he said softly, “that the stone would live beyond you, and those who came after would see in it what I saw in you—even long after we were gone.”

She smiled. “I remember. You were quite the romantic once.”

He ignored that. “The stone has eroded, but you are unchanged, and no one has come after because we are the last. All that drove me to create died that day—along with death—and now… now I’ve gone blind.”

“Max… I don’t understand.”

“I can’t see it anymore, Tina. The angels in the stones, the colors in the wind, the songs in the silence. It’s like my soul has gone blind. Deaf, dumb, and… blind.”

“You’ve begun to sound like your friend.”

“My friend?” He gazed up at the moon. “Yes… I have, haven’t I?” Then, looking down at the horizon, he added, “You used to always wonder what lay beyond the horizon, remember? The first time I met you, you were dressed in rough clothes so you could blend into the market and question the merchants about their travels.” He looked at her. “Why did you stop wanting to see the world?”

She watched him for a moment, and for that moment, something danced in her eyes. Then she took another sip of the ambrosia, and it vanished with a daze as she smiled at him.

“I got older,” was all she said. “Old enough to understand how foolish a dream that was.”

Maxwell sighed and looked away. “Yes, I’ve gotten old enough to understand as well.” He thought of what his friend had been trying to tell him so long ago. He kissed Anita’s cheek. “I need to do something.”

She pouted. “Can’t it wait? Everything can wait here.”

He shook his head, then gently stepped from her hold. “Not this. I’ve waited far too long.”

He slipped away from her, then from the affair, and wandered the narrow, winding streets of the city, pulsing with nearly as much revelry. No one was without some drink—that was all the alchemists were used for now: making the drink that, even after thousands of tastes, still had the same intoxicating effect on the senses. The royal family ensured that it flowed, and flowed, and flowed.

Before long, he was in the Old Quarter, the part of the city that was always empty, kept from ruin only because the buildings were used as storehouses, and because no one wanted to be reminded that things decayed. He arrived at one of his own buildings and made his way into the attic, lighting his way with a lamp. The air was still, the walls deathly silent, the whole structure—stasis.

He sat at a desk at the far side, beneath a circular window, running his palm over the wooden surface, remembering the long nights his friend would work there. He opened drawers until he found a leather-bound journal with the initials C.W. pressed into the bottom-right corner of the cover. He turned its pages gently, as though it might turn to dust at any moment.

Most things were hard to remember—the years blending into each other—but those early days were clear. He had first met Cyrus at one of his open galleries, holding this very journal, scribbling with one hand, calculating with the other. Those symbols had been alien to him then. Now, after studying alchemy for several decades, they were familiar.

He smiled at the annotations and scribbles that improved over time, marking the period when Cyrus had been learning to draw from him. Water welled in his eyes when he found the question Cyrus had asked all those years ago: “Wouldn’t he want to live forever?”

He continued searching. Most entries were focused on the creation of the Elixir of Life, until, deep into the journal—long after Cyrus had cracked the formula—he found a different question: “Do I really want to live forever?”

The memory surfaced vividly. Cyrus had been in Maxwell’s studio, lounging on a sofa as Maxwell sketched another canvas when he’d asked the question.

“Of course you do,” Maxwell had said, turning toward him.

Cyrus had looked disheveled—his curly hair a storm, his shirt stained with ink as always. “Don’t we all?”

“I had thought so.” Cyrus sat up. “Have you heard about Maybel?”

“Henry?”

“No, the son. He’s gone quiet too. Catatonic. It’s happening more frequently now. They’ve begun calling it the Melancholy. Not very clever, but I—”

“Hasn’t His Grace already put the alchemists to that matter?” Maxwell interrupted as he turned back to his sketch.

“He has… but what they’re working on—a kind of wine. What sense—”

“It makes perfect sense. What better way to get a man’s mind off his troubles than wine? And I’m sure the wine you lot are making will be something out of myth.”

Cyrus had been quiet for some time after that. “Yes,” he’d said softly. “What better way?”

Maxwell shook the memory away and continued flipping through the pages. The equations and writings had shifted focus toward something else. Then, at the very end, a single word was etched into the page: DEATH.

He put the book down. There it was, all written out. With his understanding of alchemy, he was certain he could replicate it: the thing that had put Cyrus to the sword. The Elixir of Death.

Simply having the knowledge in his head was enough to have him locked away for good. Possessing the book would mean being sealed off in a prison of brick and mortar, forgotten. And obtaining the equipment to brew such a thing would be impossible; since the incident with Cyrus, such things were heavily regulated.

He chuckled darkly. He really was losing his mind, he thought as he put the journal back in the drawer. But he heard a clink. He pulled the drawer out further and found a wooden box behind the journal.

He placed it on the desk and opened it.

His blood froze.

A half-dozen vials. He removed one with a trembling hand, holding it to the firelight. The liquid was as black and opaque as tar, and the glass was ice-cold to the touch.

“Not possible,” he muttered. “They had… all of these destroyed.”

He hadn’t so much as touched this desk in hundreds of years. Had it been here all this time?

He gulped and replaced everything the way it was, but before closing the drawer, he took one vial from the box and slid it into his coat.

Back in his studio, the last thing he did was remove the vial from his pocket. Even then, he didn’t look at it, averting his eyes, as though doing so would make it unreal. He pressed his eyes shut, steeled himself, then held the vial high. He remembered what he had felt when Cyrus first brought it to him, how his heart had raced—the same way it was racing now. All it would take was a sip, and the effects of the Elixir of Life would be undone. Time would finally catch up with him. After a thousand years, he would be dust in a moment. He was sure of it.

So long… so long of nothing. So long since he had been able to see, to feel. Finally… He placed his hand on his chest, savoring his racing heart. He might have forgotten he even had one. He undid the cork, and the liquid hissed. He was ready. He had been ready for one hundred years.

He brought the vial to his lips, then paused as he glanced at the block of marble and the unfinished canvases. For the first time in years, he could see.

“It would be a shame,” he said softly, “to leave all this unfinished.”

He hid the vial in the bathroom, then approached the marble. Touching it softly, he felt the stone’s flat surface beneath his palm. And yet, he could also feel the curves in the stone, the sleeping face, the shroud—he saw it all.

“Thank you for waiting.”

He grabbed his chisel and got to work.

Maxwell worked and worked, only vaguely aware of the cycle of day and night. He could not step away for longer than a moment, and when he did, it was to work on the unfinished paintings.

Finally, it was done. He stood back, tears streaming down his face. His mind wandered to the vial hidden in the bathroom.

“Not yet,” he murmured before rushing to freshen himself.

He took to the streets, walking at a fast pace until he reached Anita’s manor. He stole through the gate and, instead of approaching the front door, went to the side of the house. There, he climbed a tangle of vines to her bedroom window, tapping lightly until she answered.

Her eyes were wide, her mouth gaping. “What are you doing?” she hissed. The moonlight touched her softly, and he did too, tracing his fingers from her cheek to her chin.

“Remember, long ago, when we were young? I would steal through your window just like this.”

“That’s because my father would have had you gutted at the door—a pauper-painter calling on his daughter. But you’re welcome here now. There’s no reason for this.” Her voice softened, the edge of surprise gone.

For the first time in what seemed like eons, his heart raced at the sight of her, fire sparking where her stray locks, swaying in the nighttime air, touched his skin.

“There’s all the reason in the world for this.”

He climbed through the window.

“I can see again,” he said softly. “I know why I had gone blind, and now I can see.”

“I can tell. I can’t remember the last time you looked at me like that.”

“I have a favor to ask of you. I’ve finished my projects, and I want to show them off. If a gallery is organized by you, I’m sure it will attract everyone. And it’s something everyone must see.”

She smiled brightly. “Of course. It’s been far too long.”

On the day of the gallery, the city was empty. Everyone had gone to see the grand unveiling, but Maxwell did not go.

Instead, once again, he stole away to Anita’s manor and waited in her room. He stood by the window, gazing out into the day, at the horizon, and smiled.

They would be unveiling the sculpture now. He closed his eyes and could see it as clearly as if he were there.

A marble figure with the face of Cyrus—the face they all associated with death—biting into a fruit he had painted black. Everyone alive, no matter how young, would know precisely what it meant. The Crown did not take such symbols lightly.

Soon, Anita stormed into her room, frantic, jumping when she saw him.

“You!” she cried. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The King has sent the guards searching for you! Why would you do such a thing?” Tears glistened in her eyes.

“I told you. I had found the cure for my blindness, and I simply decided to share it with everyone.”

“I don’t understand.”

He held her close. “You do. I could see it in every sip of the wine you took.” He turned away from her and strolled to the window, gazing out, far into the horizon once again. “You know, I thought what I had left to do was finish my work. Then I’d be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“But then I looked out at the horizon and realized—I have never seen the world, have I? It would be a shame to leave without seeing everything it has to offer. I can’t believe that even after all this time, the thought had never occurred to me. Though I know it has occurred to you.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out an ice-cold vial of black liquid, placing it in her hand. She went pale at the sight of it, but he only smiled. “There are more. I’ve buried the box of them beneath the feet of the statue in your garden. I know I couldn’t leave them in my storehouse. They’re probably ripping it apart as we speak.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He kissed her. “Because it’s time for us all to finally start living. I’m leaving this place tonight. I trust you to do what you will.”

“You’re a fool, Maxwell,” her voice was shaking. “They’ll never forgive you. No one likes to be forced awake from a painless sleep.”

He paused at the door and shook his head. “Some may yet, Tina. And they are the ones who will come looking for what I’ve given you.” He stepped forward and began to close the door. “We may see each other again,” he said, smiling. “Or we may not. And that’s the beauty my soul had been longing to see.”

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—B. H. Schafer