#anyway. flowers will die on necromancy’s grave or else i’m going to do something drastic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

melodiouswhite · 4 years

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Live forever - Ch. 01

(A/N: I’ve been obsessed with the historical Dr. Faust lately, so I decided to indulge the urge to create content - I hope you like it. I’ll write about the other members of the alchemist group later on too. ^^)

Johann Georg Faust had been called a lot of things throughout his life.

Charlatan, sorcerer, madman, heretic, liar, necromancer, criminal, hell child, accomplice of the Devil … he had stopped counting all the insults that had been thrown at his ginger-haired head.

Some of them were true, others weren't.

A charlatan? No.

Sure, he was versed in the art of stage magic (and used it more than often), but his magic powers were genuine. They had been since his birth.

Of course he had no idea where they had come from.

He didn't know why he could read minds, foresee the future and perform other things that other people weren't capable of. But it was so, hence he took it and used his abilities to their full potential. This was nothing to dwell on and overthink anyway.

With mixed feelings he stood in front of the grave.

A name and numbers on a tombstone made of the most expensive stone he had been able to afford.

He owed it to her.

Once he had been both grateful and resentful towards her for the drastic things she had done to make sure that he could go to the best schools around.

He had been resentful, because others had called him a bastard and a demon child, had bullied him for always asking questions, had feared him because of his abilities – and for all of this he had blamed her.

He had been grateful, because she had supported him and believed in him through it all, had called him a miracle and a gifted, blessed child, had told him that he was special and meant it.

It was because of her, that he was what he was.

He was a universal genius, a bachelor, physician, philosopher, teacher, alchemist, astrologer, medium … so many things. Yet, it wasn't enough for him, he wanted to learn so much more, more than a human could possibly learn in a single lifetime.

But it was only because of her, that he could even acquire all the knowledge.

That he could even read and write.

With a bitter smile, he placed the flower bouquet onto the grass.

“Hello, mother. I'm sorry I didn't visit you sooner.”

When he was 32 years old, he stumbled over an old, mysterious book.

Being the incorrigible glutton for knowledge he was, he had acquired it immediately.

The book spoke of hidden and forbidden arts and awoke something in him that he had never known was there.

Another kind of hunger.

Until now he had thought that perhaps he could try to be content with being a respected doctor and master of arts, work at a university and help lots of students become another generation of highly educated, arrogant twits, who flaunted their degrees and doctorates. Perhaps he would have married, even though he had never loved in his whole life.

That was out of question now.

Now he wanted something else.

He wanted to become a sorcerer. And if not that, at least the great alchemist of his time.

Oh to be on the same step of so many other great alchemists, perhaps accomplish even more than they did …

He wanted immortality.

Three years later, he hadn't achieved immortality yet.

Sure, he was famous – his name was known in a surprisingly large part of the Holy Roman Empire and it would be known for a very long time.

But metaphorical immortality wasn't enough!

He wanted the real deal!

He wanted to live forever and be forever young! He wanted to make all of his dreams come true, see the world, learn everything there was to learn, maybe write it down and share it with everyone – so many things!

And he would do anything to be able to.

Giving up was not an option. He wasn't like everyone else. And he wouldn't die at fifty or less, like everyone else.

When he was 37 years old, he looked in the mirror and scowled at his own reflection.

He was beginning to show signs of old age; there were bags under his eyes and soft wrinkles around them. And were those frowning wrinkles on his forehead?

From what he had read in the book, the elixir of immortality would stop the ageing process, but it wouldn't make him younger.

He had to find it quickly, before he started to look like some wizened old hermit!

A few weeks after discovering his first wrinkles, he spotted his first grey hair and spiralled into a mental breakdown.

He put more effort into his alchemy and not just once it ended in small explosions.

On top of that, he had to evade authorities, who accused him of the worst crimes and angry mobs that thought he was a witch or possessed.

No wonder I'm already growing old and grey.

When he was 38 years old, he discovered how to make pure gold.

Now he couldn't be that far away from immortality too.

Besides, he could now grow stinking rich.

Sure, he knew how to present himself and often read horoscopes for rich people – then, he was also a surgeon and miracle healer – one of the best, may he add! No false humility!

But if he suddenly became stupid rich, people would ask questions and assume the craziest stuff – or find out his secret. That would get him into trouble with … basically everyone who desperately needed or wanted gold.

“I need to save the gold-making for times, when I really need it”, he mumbled to himself, “And only enough to live fine.”

He wasn't quite 44 years old, when he achieved his goal by accident.

Once he had made gold, but forgot to empty the containers with the gold-making substances afterwards – it had been late and he had been overtired from lack of sleep.

When he had discovered his mistake the next morning, he opened the vials to clean them of the gooey substances.

But as he scraped the remains off the glass, he found something in one of the vials.

His blue-grey eyes widened.

It was a small, red stone.

At first he thought it was a ruby and considered selling it to the next jeweller.

But as he held it into the light, it began to shine in rainbow colours and the light revealed thin golden veins within the red material.

This was something new!

Deciding that he wanted a better look, he put it in a bowl of water to wash the dirt off.

The water turned purple.

He quickly opened his book about hidden alchemy to make sure that this was what he thought it was.

And sure enough …

“Eureka!”, he whispered.

He had found the Philosophers' Stone!

After drinking the purple water – which had tasted horrible, by the way – he found the next morning, that his wrinkles were gone.

Sure, the bags under his eyes were still there – but he knew that they had little to do with his age anyway.

He had finally achieved his goal.

Overwhelmed with joy, he threw his head back and laughed and cried with sheer happiness.

This is the best day of my life!

When he was 51 years old, he realised that he wouldn't be able to hide his agelessness for much longer.

So far it was still easy to do so, as he wandered from place to place and no one knew how old he really was. Those were strangers, people he'd meet once and then never again.

But he was naturally a flashy and showy person with a remarkable appearance and a lot of people had at least heard of him.

Sooner or later, some elderly person, who had met him or heard of him before, would recognise him and question, why he looked so young after so many years.

I guess I will fake my death as soon as enough people ask me about my age.

He was 70 years old, when he decided that it was time to get lost.

Just a few days before, a little child in a nearby village had asked him to cure her sick grandfather and he had done so. Unfortunately, the old man had remembered meeting him 30 years before and had recognised him immediately. He had tried to convince the old man, that he was the son of the famous Doctor (of himself), but the other hadn't bought it and instead accused him of necromancy and devil worship, or witchcraft, as the inquisition and the common folk called it.

Technically, the old peasant was right. He was, by all standards, a necromancer, just as much as he was an alchemist, astrologer and surgeon.

Still, he couldn't help but take offence. He wasn't a worshipper of Satan!

“How dare you!”, he shouted in outrage, “I cure you for free out of goodness of my heart and this is how you thank me! The audacity! The gall to attack my honour like this! Had I known that I would be insulted like this, I wouldn't even have come here! Accused of witchcraft by a peasant I just cured, Jesus and Maria! Never have I been so mortified in my entire life! Oh, I have half a mind to go to court for this injury, but this isn't even worth it!”

Then he had rushed off, ere he did something he'd regret. The little girl had apologised for her grandfather's behaviour and thanked him for the help, but he had left the village the very same day.

Now he was sitting in a shoddy hotel room and contemplating on how he was to go about it.

He couldn't just vanish into thin air, that would raise suspicion.

“They need to think me dead.”

It was in 1541 – five years later – when he finally had all the things he needed for his plan.

Somehow he had managed to make a dummy that looked like him, without anyone noticing.

He bought a real hair wig, some old clothes and posed with that outfit in front of the mirror in his hotel room in Staufen. Good. He didn't look like himself at all.

Of course he could just have turned into an animal – by now he was capable of that – but the superstitious folks in the area tended to notice the sudden appearance of black animals rather than strangers coming and going.

Now he just had to choose which explosive he wanted to use.

He left a generous tip to the landlord as compensation for the room he was about to destroy.

Then he dressed the dummy in his own clothes, mixed the chemicals together and climbed out of the window over a wall, before they blew up.

The explosion was deafening, he saw debris and parts of his dummy flying over the wall and faintly heard the screams of the people in the hotel.

Just as he was about to bail, he heard someone exclaim: “The Devil himself has finally got him!”

He fumed, but swallowed his irritation. There was no time for losing his temper right now.

No one even took notice of him, as he left the borough, dressed as a poor citizen.

A few years later, he found that he had become something of a folk legend.

That amused him not just a little - and perhaps it flattered him too. It meant he had left enough of an impression for the people to still talk about him after his “death” - they often forgot about people quickly, once they were gone. But he would be remembered.

They would tell stories about him for a long time.

He was now immortal both literally and metaphorically.

#dr faustus #johann georg faust #it's not certain when he was born #they say either 1480 or 1466 #i decided to go with the latter

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