James awoke suddenly, his eyes blinking against the bright sunlight streaming in through the open window. For a moment he was disoriented, unsure of where he was or what year it might be. But as his gaze fell on the familiar old wooden furniture and stone walls of his bedchamber, it came back to him. The year was 1689 and he was in his family’s country estate just outside of London.
With a groan, James sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He rubbed his bearded face with both hands, scrubbing away the last remnants of sleep. How long had he slept this time? Weeks? Months? It was impossible to keep track. Time slipped away so easily when you had an eternity of it.
Standing up slowly, James crossed the room to pour water from a pitcher into a basin and splash some on his face. As he caught his reflection in the mirror above the washstand, he grimaced. The face staring back at him looked to be about thirty years old, still in the prime of life, but James knew better. He had passed his 150th birthday decades ago.
James had stopped aging normally sometime around his 30th year. At first it had seemed a miracle, a gift. While his friends and family grew old and died around him, James stayed young. But what had felt like a blessing soon became a curse. He was forced to constantly move around, change identities, hide his nature as an immortal…
