Prologue



His waxen wings did mount above his reach
And melting, heavens conspired his overthrow.
For, falling to devilish exercise...
He surfeits upon cursed necromancy;
Nothing so sweet as magic to him,
Which he prefers to his cheifest bliss...

Chorus, Doctor Faustus, Act 1, by Christopher Marlow



Sometimes, although we may try with a passion, we cannot resist the influence of the strongest forces in life. War, hatred, lust, greed, death, and, perhaps most importantly, love, pull us into their depths and we can do nothing but be dragged under. Some of us survive, and come up spitting out water as we thankfully embrace the ground. Others of us simply drown, the vortex too strong.

I am sitting at my lover's grave, underneath the bright autumn sun. The leaves are red and the air is crisp and cool. The simple cemetary is completely silent beyond the sound of my own breathing. I light a stick of sandalwood incense atop the flat, dark grave marker.
He always liked the spicey scent, and I can only hope that it reaches him and gives him comfort in whatever hell he is in now. Because I have no doubt that he is suffering an eternity of torture for his actions here on Earth. I cannot say that I wished it upon him, but there is no denying that he probably deserved it.
My lover, although he was beautiful, and talented, was not always the most intelligent person. He had a tendency towards rash behavior, and he would often let his vanity control his decisions. Not that I can say it was a total fault, because it was his vanity that inspired him to excell at all he did, and it was his vanity that led him to me. For that, and that alone, I cannot complain.
Unfortunately, it was also his vanity that caused his death. But... Perhaps it was not so much his vanity as it was the fear of death that hung about his subconscious like a shadow. I shall never truly know, because now he is dead and gone, and I hope, for the sake of my soul, that I will never see him again.