Eternity's Potion

You’re dying.

It’s a tumor. The kind that spreads rapidly. The kind that leaves no survivors. You don’t have much time left. But you do have a plan.

You gaze out over the sprawling city, over rings of slums encircling a royal district in the center. There, a tower watches proudly over all, so tall it seems to scrape the stars. That is your destination. That is where life will find you again, or where you will take it for your own.

You trudge through the slums, past children hiding fearfully in the shadows, beggars starving in the corners, buildings threatening to topple beneath a gust of wind. The air reeks of pain. A scent you have become far too familiar with. Glancing around, you can’t help but be reminded of a story your father once told you, back when you were nothing but another kid from the slums; starving, forgotten.

The potion master lived atop a hill outside the village of Ravenwood. She sold potions of love, potions of power, potions of glory. Word of her potions had spread through the land, tales repeated until they became mere figments of the truth. The tales told of commoners gaining the hand of royalty with a bottle of love, of soldiers confronting entire armies with just a sip of power. But these tales only approached reality. In truth, she possessed potions far more unbelievable than the wildest tales deeming them so.

You reach the edge of the royal district, guarded by a towering, brick wall to keep the undesirables out. A gate stands locked between two armored guards. But you’re no fool. Years of thieving taught you the importance of stealth. So you remain in the shadows, circling for a few minutes to find an unguarded section of the wall. You glance around cautiously. No one in sight. You pull the rope out of your bag, on which you have fastened a metal hook.

You take a deep breath.

You toss the hook over the wall, pulling the rope sharply. With a clang, its metal claws grasp the backside of the wall. You grip the rope tightly in your hands and begin to climb.

Deep within the potion master’s shop, away from prying eyes where the light never touches and the dust grows thick, stood an unassuming silver potion. Men less wise than her would have fought wars over its power; men far wiser would have destroyed it. But age had dulled her senses, and the time had come for her to take a drink.

Your hands are bleeding from the rope, your body frail from impending death, yet here you stand, atop the impenetrable wall guarding the royal district. You look out over a picture of opulence—beautiful brick buildings interspersed by gardens. Roads and canals navigate the district, webs of mobility and trade. You can’t help but look behind you and compare it to the slums you once called home. Despite the stark contrast, you almost feel bad for what is coming for the one who rules. Almost.

And so the potion master drank the mysterious potion. Immediately, youth supplanted age. The wrinkles on her skin tightened, once gray hair shined a golden blond. The potion master laughed in delight, but unbeknownst to her, another—one far less joyous—had entered her shop.

A well placed tree provides your route back to the ground. The hook tucked safely in your bag, you walk along the canals towards the tower at the heart of the district. You hide beneath a black cloak and hood. Years of training have rendered you invisible, should any curious eyes be awake at such an hour. Past grand houses and magnificent fountains you walk. The tower looms larger in the sky as you approach your destination. Even the moon cowers behind its splendor. A tower with no windows, a tower with one door. A tower of pure hubris, yet pure fear. Fear that someone, someone like you, may seek what hides inside.

A tall, cloaked figure stood before the potion master, his face obscured by the shadows. Perched atop his skeletal hand was an hourglass. Sand from the nearly empty top trickled persistently down to the bottom. In the other hand, a scythe: taller than him, light from outside reflected off its ebony blade, basking the figure in a dark halo. Death had arrived.

The only way into the tower is through the one door. A swarm of guards buzzes in front of it. Guards decorated with shiny armor. But you have planned for this, trained for this too. You take the hook out of your bag, hefting it, feeling its weight in one hand. Then, you toss it at the wall, close enough to the guards that they can hear it slam against the stone, far enough to force them to leave their post to investigate. They take the bait. Only two guards linger in front of the door. You draw your sword, preparing for a fight. You know you must work quickly, you can’t afford the fight to drag on long enough to give the other guards time to return, or for your weakened muscles to give out. And so, sword held high, you race towards the door.

“I do not take kindly to those who waste their days prolonging them,” said Death. His voice came out a deep, gravelly drawl.

“And yet here you are,” said the potion master. “Despite the fact that I was wise enough to defeat you.”

Though she could not see his eyes, the potion master could feel death gazing at her, gazing into her, reading the pages of her soul.

“I bring a warning,” said Death. “I will defeat you yet. So I offer an escape. Join me now, else, you simply postpone the inevitable.”

The potion master laughed. “I am the one wise enough to escape you! My time is not yet up.”

Death stood for a moment in silence.

“I am not an obstacle to be overcome. Rich or poor, wise or foolish, I come for all sooner or later. Your days are numbered; this gives them importance, purpose. Extend them at your own peril. So live well, potion master. Because I will return soon enough. And I will not be defeated.”

And with that, Death vanished.

Your sword comes down in a crushing arc on the first guard before he even has time to yelp.

“Intruder!” cries the second guard, drawing his sword as his comrade crumbles to the ground beside him. Footsteps echo behind you. The second guard lunges at you with his sword, but you flick his strike away effortlessly with the ease of one who has practiced countless hours, and fought far more. Before he can react, you’re on him like a snake, your sword finding a gap within his armor. Blood puddles on the stone as you wrench your sword free. Wasting no time, you drag the heavy door open.

“Stop him!” a voice cries from behind you. But you do not so much as glance back. You sprint into the tower, towards your goal, towards your prize.

But the potion master did not heed Death’s warnings. Right away, she set out to brew more potions of youth. And for many years she lived as such, locked within her shop, running from Death by embracing youth. But in her avoidance of Death, she had sacrificed life. To live in fear is to die early. To live locked in your own house, alone, purposeless, is to not live at all. And so fear continued to hold her hostage. Meanwhile, whispers of an immortal woman began to trickle across the land, falling on the ears of those eager to possess the power for themselves.

You outrun the guards with ease, their heavy metal armor slowing them down. You lose them in the winding corridors. Your body throbs with pain, your coughs thick with blood, but you continue onwards, towards salvation. You make your way through ornate rooms, complete with vaulted ceilings and glass chandeliers, displays of wealth and power, until at last you arrive at your destination. You stand before a throne, a throne of gold and jewels. A throne of oppression, and hubris. A throne hidden from the world; a throne of fear.

The villagers of Ravenwood cowered in their homes as a grand army marched through. Hundreds of soldiers on horseback, in full armor, brandishing the colors of the Kingdom. Before them was the king. He marched his army towards the little shop atop the hill, and the hundreds of soldiers surrounded it, engulfing it within a wall of men. His sword at the ready, the king broke the door down and entered the shop. Ignoring the simple potions of love and healing on display, he tore through the house, searching for something far greater. In the bedroom, asleep, he found a young woman, by her bed a silvery potion, and he asked: “Are you the potion master?”

You approach the throne, when a commanding voice calls out from behind you.

“Leave.”

You turn around to face the king. He looks the same as he once did, not a day older than the fateful one in which he entered the potion master’s shop all those years ago. All except his eyes, for the veil of youth cannot conceal the mind that has seen all things.

And the potion master drank a potion of power, filling her with the strength of a hundred men. She fought valiantly, a storm of fury. But alas, even she could not defeat the king’s entire army, and so she lay dying on the hill while the king marched away, silver vials in hand.

“I’m here for the potion of eternity,” you say. At this, the king retreats in fear, and perhaps even shame, but you lodge your sword through his heart before you can be sure. And so he topples to the floor, mortal, like any other man. Any other man but you. And you search until you find a few remaining vials of the wispy, silver potion. Drinking them immediately eases your pain, soothes your soul. You hold Death himself at bay.

Death stood before the dying potion master, scythe held high. In that moment she finally saw his eyes, and knew true eternity.

“I warned you, none can escape me forever. So, I ask: was it worth it? Was it worth sacrificing life for mere existence?”

Tears welled within the potion master’s eyes, and Death’s scythe came down upon her. Afterwards, darkness.

Once more you think back to the story your father told you, a story of a potion master and her regrets. But is life not different than simple stories? So you slip the potions into your bag, sneak your way past the guards, out of the tower. Into the night, into eternal life.

But as the rumors spread of the immortal king’s demise, those elsewhere make their plans to steal his power for their very own.

And so I ask you the same question I once asked the potion master: was it worth it?