History

Mark’s story is steeped in sadness, tangled in the weeds of "what ifs" and "if onlys." It is not a tale that fills hearts, but one that tears them apart. And so, it goes.

Born into a family of merchants, Mark was acquainted with the world in all its vastness—its cultures, its wonders, its marvels, and its cruelties. His parents raised him to be an educated man, as refined as one born into royalty. No expense was spared on their son; there was no amount of money they would not spend if it meant he would grow better, if it meant enriching his mind and spirit. And Mark never failed to amaze them, showing his gratitude by surpassing every expectation.

As brilliant as he was, his true talent lay in his hands. There was little he could not do with them—his swordsmanship was flawless, his aim impeccable. But it was his art that truly made people shudder. From the moment he could hold a tool, it was undeniable that God had smiled upon him. Carpentry, sword-making, crafting of any kind, music—nothing resisted him. Everything came as naturally as breathing. And painting... painting was his true calling. At just fourteen, he sold his first portrait, and many more followed. His name spread like wildfire, known to both nobles and commoners alike, until it reached the ears of the woman who would steal his breath—and his heart.

Michaela Forestburg was a beauty and a force to be reckoned with. She spoke her mind, never allowing anyone to guess her thoughts or desires, and Mark admired that. He loved her wit, her laughter, the way her brow arched when she was mocked, or how her nose wrinkled when she was infuriated. But beyond that, she was honest, true to herself in a way he could not help but envy and admire. What he lacked in wit, she had in abundance. Where he had the soul, she had the heart. It was a perfect match, really—one where love was also a friendship. Conversation was never lacking, never boring. Never enough. Their talents were cherished, their flaws forgiven and overlooked. They loved not only who they first fell for, but who they were becoming, too. The young, innocent love evolved into something more mature, something solidified. Before they knew it, they were married. But their happiness, somehow, wasn’t enough.

As the son of successful merchants and business owners, he had everything he needed. As a famous painter, he had everything he wanted. Yet, for someone as talented as him, where was the glory? Even when the court called upon him for a portrait, no one would look at his tiny signature at the bottom. No one would remember his name. So, full of dreams beyond reach and foolish ideas of glory, he enlisted in the army, promising to return in one piece, covered in medals, his name ringing in everyone’s ears—and in History. He promised to live, no matter what. To conquer all.

Little did Mark know that there was no pride in hands covered in blood. Little did he know that true talent was not shared, but hidden away for the pleasure of generals, used to do the dirty work no one dared to speak of. The first kill was the hardest, always wondering who that other man was. Did he have dreams too? Whose son was he? Whose husband? Whose brother? Then one kill turned into ten, ten into a hundred, and sooner than later, he had lost count. And it was too late when he realized that his name would still not be remembered. His efforts hidden, no medals awarded to the dogs who did the kingdom’s dirty work. And that was how Mark MacQuaid lost his soul—for the price of nothing.

By the time he returned home, dismissed and retired, he found solace in the hope that, at least, his family would support him, hold him, until the pieces could be put back together. But he arrived to find corpses claimed by scarlet fever. And that was how Mark MacQuaid lost his heart.

Since then, he has stayed awake—as we said—but not alive.

He sold everything, though he never could bring himself to part with his art supplies or paintings, and started a business as a carpenter in a decent part of London, near the middle class, where his name was already known and everyone was thrilled to get his services. Not so much because of his personality. As a man who feels nothing and cares about nothing, Mark gained a reputation as a respected craftsman. However, his behavior tended to get the best of him—he turned down jobs if they weren’t needed or if he disliked the person. After all, it’s not as though he needed the coin. His expenses were few, with no wife or children, his life simple, his only companion the drink.

With the exception of one prostitute, that is— a friend with whom he found the fleeting pleasure of pretending to be another man. She, in turn, found in him the luxury of being well-treated for her services, like a woman and not a dog.

But do not be fooled. That kindness means nothing.

Mark MacQuaid has no heart. And no soul.