You are the oldest young person I’ve ever met! And coming from an immortal, that’s saying something.
You are so fragile, you mortals, such things of skin and air. Such things of the past. The future belongs to the strong, to the immortal races, to me and my kind.
Please do not fear for me. I have no fear myself. The old monsters are gone. The old curses have echoed to silence. And if my immortal soul is lost to me, something yet remains. I remain.
Do you not yet comprehend the wicked secret of the immortal? All age and die, save you. All rot and fall to dust, save you. Any child you bear becomes a crone and perishes before your eyes. Any lover withers and shrinks into incontinence and bent, toothless senility. While you, only you, never age. Never tire. Never fade. Alone. But after a time you’ll lose the desire for passion entirely, for connection with anyone. Like a muscle that atrophies from lack of use. And one day you’ll realize you’ve become like them. Beautiful and dead. You have become a perfect, unchanging portrait of yourself.