between life and death

prolouge

It was the winter of 1294 when George died. He was twenty-one years old, born from the lonely desperation of serfdom and starvation. The English sky was gray and foreboding. It's a fitting day for death. It was welcoming in a way.

It had been extremely foolish of him to think the ice would still be strong enough to hold him in early April. But he was stubborn, and at the time it had seemed to be the best shortcut home. The water was cold and dark and unfortunately George had never learned to swim. He dies almost immediately, trapped alone beneath the ice.

But then he's alive again, paralyzed and still submerged, but alive. His fingertips twitch and his muscles spasm. Somehow, a current in the still water propels him upwards, and he has just enough strength to claw his way onto the ice. He vomits blood and lake water until he can breathe again, convulsing and staining the clear ice with a murky vermilion.

He lays in the snow and tries to make sense of it. He's disoriented and frazzled, but that's not why it doesn't make sense. It never will. Even when it becomes clear that he's stopped aging, it still won't make sense.

George straightens his wet coat and picks his satchel up from the ice, where it miraculously had landed when he fell. He's pretty sure he just died, but the rolls he stole from the baker are still warm and soft, and he's not looking to eat them on a half-frozen lake.

He had always been scared of death. Absolutely terrified. But it was at this time that he felt comforted — and slightly confused — by the situation. Well, that was until he found out he would be immortal for the rest of his life.

303 words
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