He made a very cheerful corpse.
VIII
Emrys Shortmire found that he did not want life any more. He went back to his mansion and he tried to hang himself. But the rope would not cut off his breath. He pointed a ray gun at his head, and although the heat became intolerable, it did not burn him. He swallowed poison and waited. Nothing happened. He threw himself off the roof and landed unhurt upon the pavement below. He went back inside and slashed his wrist and saw the cuts close before his eyes. And as he stared at the unmarked skin, thick fog filled the room, and he heard Uvrei's voice—and it was the greatest ignominy of all that the Morethan's voice should dare to hold compassion.
"Don't you know, Emrys, that an immortal cannot die?"
When Emrys forced himself to look at the ancient one, he saw that the beautiful eyes were filled with an unhallowed pity. "You are an immortal god, son of my spirit. You can destroy anything except one of us—and you are one of us now."
"I'm not one of you. I'm not a god, nor are you. I'm not...." Emrys looked down at his wrists, then back at Uvrei. "But I may be immortal," he acknowledged. "It wasn't just a figure of speech?"
"You will never die, Emrys. You will exist forever, like us, a handful of changelessness in a changing universe."
"Then I won't be dead when you come to Earth?" He had fancied himself out of it, but what exquisite punishment that not until he had tired of life had he found out he was cursed with unwanted life forever. He had not been a good man, but was any man evil enough to deserve this?
"When we come to Earth, you will be waiting for us. But you will look forward to our coming." And Uvrei said once again, "You are one of us, Emrys."