#commentary
I wrote him as someone who had the talent and discipline to descend into the blackest depths of forbidden knowledge, but at some point stopped himself from going any further because, beneath all resentment and heartbreak, there was a sense of duty which kept him rooted and relatively sane. To be fair, his becoming the person behind the mask warped many of his ideals and, to a large extent, purged empathy from his being. Aware of this, he often second-guesses himself, wondering whether he'd do the same terrible things if he were still able to feel as he used to. He wonders if he was left diminished, and secretly strives to restore an emotional core that was, once, human. He can still hear the echoes of these emotions, they're just barely out of reach -- and the resulting frustration may be the only thing capable of making a dent in Lazarus's usually formal, collected demeanor. The twist to his story, which I will never write, is that, upon unveiling the final mystery of alchemy and using it to mend and reconcile himself with his lost humanity, not only does old Lazarus rediscover empathy, but also the most dangerous and corrosive element of the soul -- conscience. Thus, the ultimate question, for him, is not whether he is better off whole or not, but -- following his restoration -- whether he can live with himself.
