13th century

He tapped his fingers upon his desk, the funnel dripping deep purple liquid into the bubbling cooling spiral below, rolling down into the large container next to his feet. Its constant sparking and bubbling annoyed him immensely, but he refused to stop watching the potion as it slowly rose the liquid turning silver. He had to keep watching and notes as it formed. But for the past two hours the mixture had done nothing but turn silver and blinded him as it steamed up his glasses. Nicholas Flamel took them off again with a sigh, turning them clear again, the potion laboratory becoming blurry. The lab was dimly lit by the stubby candle, whittling down into nothing but pools of wax. It consisted of three work benches all lined up with muggle equipment, everything they could provide. And it still wouldn't be enough. He had tried to explain several times, escaping death was impossible, if no wizard that ever done it, how could he even attempt with muggle equipment. Granted they had provided everything he had asked for. He shifted on his stool, wincing as he worked his healing legs. He shouldn't think of his captors of helpers, he was a prisoner and they were doing nothing out of kindness. He put his glasses on his nose and looked back down at the container, still no change. He looked at the jail door, if he still had his wand he could break it, but that was the point he didn't. they had taken it and burnt it, the feeling of wandlessness made him feel more sorrow than any physical damage they could do. At least they hadn't deprived him of his potions, just his legs. He rubbed his forehead, tired from the gruelling hours pushing himself around the dark room, his legs chained together, yet it made no different, he couldn't move them. They had instead given him a wheeled chair by order of the king. He glared at the solitary window high above. Fuck the King. The work room was suddenly silent, he looked down at the mixture, it looked like molten silver, sloshing in the wooden casket. He reached down, wincing as he moved his broken legs and pulled the casket onto the work bench. He groaned and he pushed himself towards the behind him, pushing off the bench he was beside. He collected the burner and stand he required before turning and pushing away again. He pushed away too hard his legs hitting the bench painfully, he cried out, biting his tongue, not wanting anyone to hear his weakness. He gasped once the pain was bearable, swearing to himself. He continued to reel from the sickening feeling of bone on bone as he set up the equipment and pulled his notes closer to him and noting the time and detailed the liquids colour as it boiled steadily. He was so close now, if it had all been for nothing then then what? He had prayed his wife, maybe even his aging father may come to save him, but all they had known was that he had disappear. It was foolish to dwell. He stared at the liquid and it evaporated filling the lab with foul smelling steam. The candles were flickering away into nothing when, as he had predicted, the liquid had produced a small shiny stone like compound. He had not expected it to be glowing red, nor oozing the silver liquid. He watched it, waiting for it to cool, yet the stone refused to stop pussing the liquid. Was this what he was looking from? He wrote down the strange occurrence as the liquid fell over the side of the casket. He dabbed his finger in the silver. It smelt of nothing. He stared up again at the darkening sky before licking it. Pain. Nothing but pain. He screamed, grabbed at his hair, tearing it from his scalp as the pain continued to course through him. He could feel his skin burning, his lungs melting and his lower organs twisting and breaking. He stood up in surprise, his legs buckling, the bones sliding, cutting his muscle as the sharp tip of his broken bones pressed against them. He fell to the floor and in his surprise he foolishly flailed his hands over the desk knowing over the delicate equipment still filled with steams liquids. As his head hit the floor, the potions above him exploded as they collided in unmeasurable amounts, dripping over the sides as they burned and exploded above him. All he could do was watch as his creation became his first failure and destroyed his inside when he screamed himself hoarse.

"So." He sat up suddenly. He was alive. He looked around, he was in a small cell, guards at his door and between them staring in was King Edward, with long thin brown hair and a pointed chin. He smirked down at Nicholas, the subtle condescending look made Nicholas scrunched his nose in disgust. He clearly wasn't going to be alive for long. "you couldn't make it." He pushed himself up with his hands, wincing at his stiff muscles, though no longer in complete pain.

"As I have told you before, if you allowed me to return to my own lab-"

"Ah of course, let you go and you will be sure to return." Edward laughed silently before turning to the guard on the right.

"Take him to the courtyard,"

"Yes your majesty," they said dully as the king walked away. He didn't even fight it, he let himself be dragged down the corridor and out into the blinding sunlight. He had failed. When the king had captured him, he had promised to let him go if he could make the king immortal. And he had failed. They tied him to the stake, the kindle wood beneath him, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. He was a failure, he would be remembered as nothing more than crazed man who, believed he could defeat death, in both the muggle world and wizarding world. He started to care a bit more, when the fire started burning away at his trousers and feet. If only he still had his wand. If only he had looked over his notes again, maybe he would know where he had gone wrong. If, if, IF. Of course there were many things he could have done. And yet he was still here, burning, his final creation a failure.

"Nicholas!" he jerked up at the sound of his wife's voice. She was sat over him, big brown eyes moist with tears, their tracks shining on her sallow and red cheeks.

"You're alive," she whispered disbelievingly, he himself was finding it hard to believe as well as. He had been burning at the state, screaming at the pain, though never in fear. Yet he was unharmed in his bed. Had it all been a dream? At the logical thought, he felt his heart fall, had his notes and experiment been none but dreamlike chaos.

"they said you were dead!" he grabbed his wife's shoulders.

"Who said that? Tell me what happened?"

"The Circle heard of your death, they tricked the muggles into delivering your…" she broke off then, shuddering, fresh tears running down her face. He stroked her shoulders, secretly frustrated at her waving simple emotions. "they deliver you in a coffin! But you were…healing," he straightened in the bed,

"Healing? How so?"

"you were regrowing,"

He shuddered and smile, mouth open. It had worked, nothing had failed, of course he hadn't failed. He had beaten the oldest foe.

"We need to leave."

"Yes," he whispered, no longer listening as his wife as she wittered on about her worries. It had worked. And if his calculation were correct, which they usually were, he was immortal. He should never have doubted himself.

Thanks for reading!