Over the Centuries

Prologue

The world.
It is quite big,
And quite beautiful.
It is hard to see every twig

From above where life is wonderful.
Once the great Nymphs blessed a boy,
Marked him by their tongue.
Immortality is no toy,
Learned the man who sprung.
For he fell in love with immortality's source,
As of yet he did not know,
The power of solitude's force

Or the slaughter that'd be his foe.

The 27th of July, 1517

The pallid sunlight danced through the glass with the grace equivalent to the fingers of a virtuosic pianist, playing the artist's skin with temporary heat before ceasing; teasing with its pleasantness. The room was one of quite extraordinary character; it was round, spacious and open. All the walls were made out of thin glass, designed specifically for the painter's benefit, allowing light to seep through from all angles. Every other glass party was hooked upon hinges, creating exits all around. Two parts stood ajar at the moment, letting the lilac's perfume reach the artist's nostrils and he sighed contentedly where he was laid upon the marble. He was surrounded by several scrolls of parchment, all scattered over the ivory floor. If one were to unroll them, one would find unfathomable talent sketched with skilful strokes over the paper, but for now, they simply laid along their creator in peace, slightly tremulous from the faint breeze. It had been quite recently that the young painter realised his desire for solitude, not feeling the longing for any company other than his own. He stopped painting people around the same time, also realising that a sitter was equivalent to company. Company spoke more often than not, and the topics were tedious more often than not. The young lad did not appreciate this factor. And besides, their faces never seemed to satisfy him; always some subtle feature missing. Frustrating, really.
The reason behind his lying on the floor was simply because of the surprisingly hot weather. And right now, not even the marble could cool his overheated skin. He was at loss of what to do with himself, so he decided to take a walk down to the beach, in hope of having the ocean's chilly wind ruffle his hair. His glass studio was situated on a hill by the English coast and the beach was conveniently within walking distance.
The change of air and scenery was quite refreshing. The crashing waves and the scent of salt attacked the artist's senses unmercifully, but the lad basked in it. He breathed in the sea and accepted it like it accepted him. He used to walk by the sea line when he was younger. Especially after big storms, as they often brought curious objects to the shore. He started to walk along it, reminiscing his youthful self with a small, rueful smile on his face. His father had often taken him to the ocean's edge, before he and the young lad's mother passed away. Life was not easy then. He inherited all the family's riches and was able to build the glass studio... but he'd much rather have a family than wealth. He had to raise himself and learn the world's ways without guidance and that certainly was not something he'd been ready for.
The painter still wished every day that it would've played out differently. He still did not know why the men had barged into their home and slain his loved ones. It was quite some time ago and his memory wasn't all too clear. He remembered crying, and unwashed hands grabbing at his cheeks. It was all very fuzzy and he preferred not to think about it.
The wind blew cold kisses down his exposed neck and he shivered slightly, earlier sweat completely forgotten. The air was crisp and a cloud had slid over the sand's expanse, painting it with its sombre shadow. The artist's mind was soon filled with thoughts of returning to his haven of glass. The grey light provided by a cloud had always been rather fascinating to recreate on a canvas, reckoned he.
Just as the lad was about to turn around, he spotted something odd farther away, half hidden behind a couple of rock boulders. It looked like a piece of a boat but... no boat he'd ever seen had ever had legs. Inquisitive, he hurried over to investigate. When he came closer he was brought upon the realisation that there was a torso attached to the dodgy legs, lying behind the wreckage. And there on the damp sand, with parted lips the colour of crimson and sooty lashes fluttering was the face of a boy. A boy whose facial features all sat in the right places; every plane and curve, every depression and hue. The painter wanted to paint that face, over and over again. Until the sun's rays no longer reflected in his glass walls. He kneeled by the unconscious form and attempted to shake the lad awake; it took some time but eventually his eyes were revealed.
And what brilliant eyes they were. Just as the rest of him, they had their fair share of magnificence with an ounce of secrecy embedded in the forest nuances of his irises.
The odd thing was, instead of becoming wary of the foreign face, he simply smiled, appreciatively.

The love that bloomed between these two lads had the power to stretch over centuries, and overcome petty matters such as death.