He was dying.

He was old, so that made sense. He hadn’t expected to live this long in the first place. He had expected to die of old age though, as lucky as he’d been with the dangers of the world. Vidvan hadn’t been waiting for some unnatural cause to claim him. Now here he sat in the cell, knowing no one could come from him, and feeling the magic eating away at his life.

He was dying. Really unfair. Mainly, he felt indignant that his research would be taken and completely messed up. If only he could have sent it away. He would be better off burning it. On the other hand, destroying his notes… He couldn’t do it.

He sighed and closed his eyes. Opened them. Closed them. Couldn’t open them again.

And then, he had.

When he realized he wasn’t dead, or that the afterlife was very similar to how he had felt fifty years before, he was almost put out. Vidvan picked himself off the floor. He looked down at his not dead body and, satisfied it functioned better than it had before, decided that maybe he could get his notes out after all.

He rattled the bars to claim that someone had thrown him in here accidentally. No one would know how, but he certainly didn’t look like Vidvan now.


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