The living imagine that eternal existence must be magnificent. They picture endless feasts, limitless power, and the opportunity to observe history unfolding across centuries. According to popular imagination, an immortal being spends eternity contemplating grand philosophical truths.
This belief is charming.
In reality, immortality contains an alarming amount of boredom.
One might assume that losing one’s body would reduce the capacity for observation. I am pleased to report that the opposite is true. When one has been reduced to a head resting on a gramophone, the world becomes remarkably entertaining. The position offers an excellent vantage point for observing the behaviour of individuals who believe themselves important.
There are many such individuals in the Deep.
Kings believe their crowns grant them authority. Priests believe their rituals grant them wisdom. Scholars believe their books grant them understanding. All of them seem convinced that their institutions will survive indefinitely.
This confidence is admirable but misguided.
History has a peculiar sense of humour. Civilisations collapse for reasons that would embarrass a competent administrator. Entire kingdoms disappear because someone misread a message, trusted the wrong ally, or decided to build a fleet of ships using anchors that behave unpredictably.
From my perspective, the universe operates with a distinct appreciation for satire.
This is particularly evident in the behaviour of the Immortalis. Mortals describe them as monsters, gods, tyrants, or forces of supernatural horror. Each description contains a fragment of truth. None of them capture the entire picture.
The Immortalis are not simply powerful. They are theatrical.
Power alone is rarely interesting. Power becomes entertaining when it interacts with personality. One ruler governs through rigid nobility. Another rules through primal instinct. The third approaches authority as though it were an elaborate performance designed to test the patience of the entire world.
You may guess which one I observe most closely.
Nicolas DeSilva possesses many qualities that critics of horror fiction would find fascinating. He is intelligent, unpredictable, and completely unconcerned with the expectations of polite society. His greatest weakness, however, is not cruelty or arrogance.
It is enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm is dangerous in an immortal.
When someone with unlimited time becomes interested in a subject, the consequences can be remarkable. A passing curiosity about architecture becomes a labyrinth of mirrors and corridors. A brief fascination with psychological tension becomes an entire asylum devoted to experimentation. A mild interest in theatre becomes a plan to convert a chapel into a stage.
The rest of us must simply observe.
Observers occupy an important role in the structure of gothic horror. Stories require witnesses who can recognise the absurdity unfolding around them. Without such witnesses the narrative risks becoming excessively serious, and excessive seriousness is a dreadful condition.
Satire provides balance.
Consider the political structure of the Deep. Noble houses govern territories that were once controlled by entirely different powers. Priests attempt to maintain traditions that no longer correspond with reality. Scholars write explanations for events that everyone else recognises as accidents.
The situation would be tragic if it were not so entertaining.
Dark fantasy thrives in precisely this environment. The genre allows writers to explore the instability of power without the burden of pretending that history is sensible. A kingdom can collapse because a messenger delivered the wrong warning. A pirate fleet can vanish due to a misunderstanding. A djinn can complain about aardvarks ruining his business prospects.
Readers recognise the pattern.
Modern audiences of horror books rarely seek simple narratives where the world behaves logically. They prefer stories that acknowledge the strange mixture of terror and absurdity that characterises genuine history. Gothic horror offers this mixture elegantly. Dark fantasy expands it into entire worlds where unpredictability becomes the natural state of affairs.
The Deep excels at producing such stories.
Every port contains rumours. Every forest hides creatures whose intentions remain unclear. Every institution claims authority while quietly adapting to forces it cannot control. The result is a landscape where satire and horror coexist with remarkable ease.
Naturally, immortals must adapt to this environment as well.
The difficulty with immortality is that one eventually recognises patterns repeating themselves. Ambitious leaders rise and fall. Prophecies appear and fail. Heroes attempt to defeat ancient powers only to discover that the rules have changed since the prophecy was written.
After several centuries, the cycle becomes quite familiar.
This familiarity produces a certain philosophical detachment. One begins to appreciate the absurdity of the entire enterprise. Mortals speak about destiny as though it were inevitable. In reality destiny resembles a poorly organised stage production where half the actors have forgotten their lines.
Fortunately, the performance remains entertaining.
From my position on the gramophone I am able to observe each new act as it unfolds. Occasionally the players change. A new Immoless appears. A new rumour spreads across the Deep. A new scheme emerges from someone who believes they have finally understood the rules.
They rarely have.
Immortality teaches one essential lesson above all others. The universe does not respect anyone’s plan. It simply continues producing events that combine horror, comedy, ambition, and disaster in equal measure.
For an observer with a sense of humour, it is quite a remarkable spectacle.
Immortalis is a new horror book out August 2026. Watch this space.