Aging On Gor, By Arealius of Port Olni
This Gorean Fan Fiction and Images were generated using Microsoft Copilot.
Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman
Journal of Arealius of Port Olni
Written in the quiet hours before dawn, in my painting room overlooking the orchards of the Olni River
The lamp burns low tonight, its flame wavering as though uncertain whether to cling to life or surrender to the dark. I understand the feeling. Age has settled upon me like a long winter, slow and relentless, creeping into the joints, the breath, the memory. I have lived far beyond the span of most men on Gor — not through the regular discipline of the Physicians’ rejuvenation regimen, but through a stubborn refusal to yield, and the occasional treatment taken only when necessity forced my hand.
I see the truth of my years in the mirror: the silver in my beard, the lines etched deep around my eyes, the stiffness in my fingers when I hold a quill too long. A Gorean of my age should be a rarity, a curiosity, perhaps even a burden. Yet I remain — not untouched by time, but unbroken by it.
And still, despite all this, I find myself grateful.
For when I turn from the mirror, I see her.
Lady Sorana.
My companion. My equal. My solace.
She moves through the villa with a grace that time has not diminished. The Physicians say she ages well because she keeps her mind sharp and her spirit engaged, and perhaps because she has taken her treatments more faithfully than I. But I know the truth: she ages beautifully because she lives beautifully. Her laughter warms the rooms more than any brazier. Her presence steadies me more than any staff.
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Tonight she brought me black wine, steaming and fragrant, her hands steady as always. She looked at me with those calm, discerning eyes — the eyes of a Scribe who sees everything and records even what is left unsaid.
“You are awake too late again,” she murmured.
I told her I was writing. She smiled, the way she does when she knows I am lying to myself.
The truth is that I was thinking of age — mine, hers, and the strange way time moves differently for those who devote their lives to knowledge. Warriors burn bright and die young. Peasants endure long but hard years. Slaves age quickly under the yoke. But Scribes… we linger. We accumulate years the way we accumulate scrolls: carefully, deliberately, and with a certain stubborn pride.
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Yet even among Scribes, I am old.
Older than I appear, and older still than I admit.
The rejuvenation serums I took in my youth were sporadic, taken only when travel or injury demanded it. I never submitted to the regular schedule the Physicians recommend. I feared — perhaps foolishly — that too much intervention would dull the authenticity of my years, that I would become a man preserved rather than a man who lived.
And so I wear my age honestly. My hair is slate-grey. My scared hands tremble when I paint. My knees ache when the rains come. I am no longer the young river‑scribe who wandered the Vosk with a pack of scrolls and a heart full of questions.
But Sorana… she looks at me as though none of that matters.
Tonight, as she poured the black wine, her fingers brushed mine. Warm. Steady. Alive. I felt, for a moment, not old, but simply human — a man with a companion who sees him clearly and chooses him still.
If age is a burden, then love is the counterweight.
I sometimes wonder how many more years the Priest‑Kings will grant me. Ten? Twenty? More? I do not fear death. I have seen too much of it to fear it. What I fear — quietly, privately — is leaving her behind.
But she would scold me for such thoughts. She would remind me that a Scribe’s duty is to record, not to despair. And so I write this now, not as a lament, but as a testament:
I have lived long. I have aged honestly. And I have loved deeply.
If the years ahead are few or many, they will be enough. For each morning, when Sorana enters my study with black wine and a knowing smile, I am reminded that even an old man can feel young for a moment.
And that is a gift greater than any rejuvenation serum.
— Arealius of Port Olni Scribe, Historian, Companion to Lady Sorana A man who has lived long enough to understand the value of each dawn.
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Editor's Note:
Journal of Arealius of Port Olni
Written aboard the riverboat Scribe’s Oath, anchored at dusk along the Lower Vosk
The light fades early on the river this season. The Vosk runs slow, heavy with silt, as though the weight of the world’s memories drags upon its current. Perhaps that is why my thoughts turn tonight to the matter of death — not in sorrow, but in the sober manner of a scribe who has watched too many men meet their end in too many ways.
It is said by some foreigners that Goreans die violently because they are violent. That is a shallow reading. Goreans die as they live: plainly, without pretense, and in accordance with the demands of their caste, their Home Stone, and the harshness of the world that shaped them. A Warrior dies with steel in hand. A Merchant dies on the road or the deck of a ship. A Peasant dies in his fields, often with the same quiet dignity with which he lived. Even slaves die as property, their passing noted in ledgers rather than in lamentations.
But what interests me more — what I set quill to parchment to consider — is not merely how Goreans die, but how they age, for aging on Gor is its own kind of death, slow and revealing.
On the Aging of Goreans
Goreans age as humans do, but the meaning of aging differs sharply from city to city and caste to caste.
1. The Warrior’s Decline
A Warrior’s life is measured not in years but in the sharpness of his reflexes and the steadiness of his sword‑arm. A man of the scarlet caste may live to sixty or more, but few do. Most fall long before age can claim them. Those who survive into their later years often retire to training halls, becoming instructors, or they take up administrative roles within their caste.
A Warrior who grows old is respected, but also pitied — for age steals from him the very thing that defined him.
2. The Scribe’s Longevity
We of the blue caste age differently. Our hands may tremble, our eyes may dim, but our worth increases with each passing year. Knowledge accumulates like layers of lacquer on a Pani bowl. A Scribe of seventy is not rare; a Scribe of eighty is not unheard of. Some say the mind, when devoted to order and study, resists decay longer than the body.
I have seen old Scribes whose backs were bent like river reeds, yet whose memories were sharp enough to recite the lineage of every Ubar of Ar for a thousand years.
3. The Peasant’s Endurance
Peasants age hard but long. Their bodies are shaped by labor, their lives by routine. Many live into their sixties, some into their seventies. They die as they lived — in the soil, under the open sky, surrounded by family and the simple dignity of honest work.
4. The High Castes and the Privileged
Physicians, Initiates, Builders, and Merchants often live the longest. Access to skilled medical care, good food, and safe environments allows them to reach ages that would surprise an outsider. A Physician of eighty is a treasure; a Merchant of ninety is a legend.
5. Slaves and Outlaws
Slaves age quickly. Hard labor, poor food, and the dangers of their duties shorten their lives. A slave of forty is considered old. Outlaws fare worse. Few live past thirty-five. The forest and the law take their toll.
The Gorean View of Aging
What is most striking is that Goreans do not fear aging. They fear uselessness.
A Warrior fears the day he cannot lift his sword. A Merchant fears the day he cannot reckon accounts. A Scribe fears the day his memory falters. A Peasant fears the day he cannot till his fields.
Aging is not a tragedy; it is a revelation. It strips away illusions and leaves only the truth of a man’s life.
On Death, Again
Tonight, as the river darkens, I think of the many ways I have seen men die:
by the sword
by the sleen
by the cold
by the slow rot of infection
by the swift justice of a city’s laws
by the quiet surrender of old age
And I realize that the manner of death matters less than the life that preceded it.
A Gorean does not ask, “How did he die?” He asks, “How did he live?”
For in the end, death is merely the final line of a man’s ledger, the last entry in a long account. And it is the task of men like me — Scribes of the blue caste — to record it faithfully, without embellishment, without fear.
The river calls me to sleep. Tomorrow I continue downstream, toward Port Cos, where rumor says a Warrior of great renown has died peacefully in his bed. I find myself curious to see how his city will honor such an unusual passing.
🧪 How Often Are Rejuvenation Serums Taken on Gor? (Canon Explanation)
Norman never states an exact interval like “every 5 years,” but the text makes three things absolutely clear:
1. Rejuvenation is meant to be taken on a regular schedule
Physicians emphasize that the treatment works best when administered periodically, not sporadically. Characters who follow the schedule:
maintain youthful appearance
retain physical vigor
show minimal signs of aging
This is why many Goreans — especially High Caste members — appear younger than their true age.
2. The interval is long, not frequent
Rejuvenation is not a monthly or yearly treatment. It is described as something done:
every several years, or
at major stages of life, or
when the effects of aging begin to reappear
The implication is that a Gorean who follows the regimen might take it every 5–10 years, possibly longer, depending on caste, lifestyle, and access to Physicians.
This is consistent with how Norman frames the treatment: powerful, long‑lasting, and not casually administered.
3. Skipping treatments causes visible aging
This is explicitly canon.
Characters who do not take the serum regularly:
age normally
show wrinkles, grey hair, stiffness, and other signs of time
may require more extensive treatment later
sometimes cannot fully reverse the effects
This is exactly the situation you’ve given Arealius — a man who has lived long, taken the serum only when necessary, and therefore carries the marks of his years honestly.
🧬 So what is the best lore‑accurate summary?
Goreans are meant to take rejuvenation treatments every several years, on a long but consistent schedule. Those who follow it remain youthful for decades. Those who do not — like Arealius — age visibly and naturally.
1975 - 1979, Served on a fleet ballistic missile submarine, North Atlantic. Made 5 nuclear deterrent patrols during the Cold War.
A beautiful look and what's important in our lives. Well done!
ReplyDeleteThank you Lady Jessie. Your work as a scribe historian is amazing as well. https://thegoreanmeasure.blogspot.com/
DeleteWe should all be so fortunate to find what you and Sorana have *wistful sigh*
ReplyDelete