Why Nicolas in Immortalis Cannot Stop Watching Himself
Nicolas DeSilva, proprietor of Corax Asylum, commands a realm where every corridor gleams with mirrors and every tick of the asylum’s innumerable clocks enforces his dominion. He watches himself ceaselessly, not merely in vanity, but as a ritual of control, a bulwark against the fracture within. This compulsion, woven into the fabric of his existence, reveals the core of his being: a creature divided, obsessed with surveillance, both of others and, most critically, of himself.
The mirrors of Corax are no idle decoration. They form a labyrinth of reflection, a torture chamber where reality warps and inmates confront distorted selves. Nicolas navigates these halls with predatory grace, emerging through glass as if birthed from it. His reflection, Webster, speaks back: refined, spectacled, the rational counterpoint to his chaos. Where Nicolas dances in stringy frenzy, Webster rolls his eyes, cleans his lenses, demands focus. They converse, argue, merge in dual voices, yet Nicolas insists Webster is mere image. This denial belies the truth: he watches to affirm his unity, to silence the dissonance of his split nature.
His Evro, Chester, embodies the primal urge he cannot contain alone. Chester roams with silver chains and silver wings on his hat, a seducer whose flute draws women like beavers to his tune. Nicolas watches Chester’s conquests, feels them, yet resents the independence. The Ad Sex Speculum in Irkalla’s Anubium extends this gaze: six mirrors tracking Immortalis lives, portals for intrusion. Nicolas cloaks his own Evro mirror, hiding Chester even from Behmor. He watches all, but most intently himself, lest the parts escape the whole.
Fear drives this vigilance. Primus split Theaten into Vero and Evro to curb excess; Nicolas, born of betrayal, fears loss above all. Boaca Baer torn from him, Behmor stolen by Lilith’s cult, lovers who reject and die in accidents. Mirrors bind what threatens to splinter. He dresses before them, fangs lengthening, eyes flashing green to brown. “Too damn handsome,” he declares, smirking at Webster’s refinement. Fashion, horology, the asylum’s clanging timepieces: all affirm his form against dissolution.
Yet the gaze betrays him. In the hall of mirrors, Lucia glimpses his multiplicity: Demize, Webster, the Long-Faced Demon. Nicolas snarls, “Run rabbit,” his face elongating in lust and rage. He watches not just to control, but to confront the beast within, the Evro he cannot fully merge or separate. Corax’s filth suits him; cleanliness invites scrutiny. He thrives in distortion, where self and other blur.
Allyra disrupts this. She resists mesmerism, fakes compliance, demands equality. Nicolas drugs her, resets memories, yet she returns, calling him “Nic.” He watches her most obsessively, Ghorab circling, trackers trailing. Her sovereignty threatens his; her love tempts merger. He cannot stop watching himself because to look away risks seeing her slip free, taking his fractured soul with her.
In Immortalis, Nicolas watches to exist. The mirrors hold his multiplicity, the asylum his empire, Allyra his prize. To cease is to unravel.
Immortalis Book One August 2026