X/1999 Fan Fiction ❯ Timepiece ❯ Timepiece (Chapters 1-4) ( Chapter 4 )

Timepiece

Above the City, looming in the dark sky, the Tower rises, a glass and concrete monolith reflecting darkly the pinpoints of soft light radiating from the City below. Glowing brightly at the height of the Tower, hovering in the sky like a mock moon, is the Face, a brightly illuminated Timepiece of massive proportion that glares down upon the City from four sides, like an omniscient, multifaceted god. The two sharp, distinct hands have almost completed their journey around the clock, and as the shorter hand slides over the solemn X, a chilling silence comes over the whole city, emanating from the clock. Lacking is the mournful howl of brass bells or the tinkling gaiety of silver bells, not even the hectic screaming of bronze bells. A minute crawls by unnoticed and unmarked by frozen hands, hands that command the whole of the City.

The dominion of the Face and its Tower is startlingly silent and still, flooded by the night that has surrounded the denizens who remain in their places, waiting for their Time to continue, waiting for the Face to change, waiting for the bells to sound, but their anticipation goes unheeded. Like a lake in the thrall of deep winter, the City stops, but it is not simply a hesitation in the path of Time. It is a total collapse of the designated pathway. Each and every action or reaction that waits in the wings of life's stage has suddenly fallen cold, and the City becomes a corpse, a dead world fallen of energy or life. Despite this state of inertia, a brooding, ambient energy swells and permeates the atmosphere that is pregnant with the ethereal haze suffocating the vitality and choking the animation of all it touches. It radiates like invisible light or a shadow unseen from the very minds of the people trapped within its static grasp.

This stasis is strange, and incredible to behold if one could even see to marvel at it, but those that would revel in it are paralyzed in the null stillness of Time's death. Would-be witnesses go without beholding the miracles before them: the falling flakes of crisp, newly fallen snow trapped in the night, suspended like stars in midair. The sleek, growling autos prowling the streets have paused startlingly in their tracks, leaving shocks of wet snow caught in the air behind them. Late night pedestrians, bundled in dark clothes, faces chill and paled in the dark, are as if they were painted upon a canvas with the city as a backdrop, all a still life in the flesh, illuminated by the luminescence of the City.

At the foot of the Tower is Tower Square, a large plaza surrounded by empty vendors and darkened stores. Even now, a crowd of shadow-people huddle near a hissing and crackling fire, which illuminates their severe, grim faces as lifeless as the Tower rising above them. Other people are scattered about the square: a young couple is secure in their loving embrace for eternity, preserved indefinitely. A group of elderly citizens occupy a worn, granite table, their frail, gloved hands gently pushing worn chess pieces in a game ground to a halt, their dull eyes locked on the checkered board. All these people-statues are as fixated as the Face above them, with the same indifference and lifelessness.

Beneath the majestic gaze of the Face, all is held revealed, even the lone figure standing in the center of the Tower Square, staring up at the face. An aura surrounds the person, a flow of energy and consciousness that offends and contradicts the lifelessness that inhabits the environment around him. Unlike the other visitors of the Square, this man's chest heaves with thick breath, and a haze of silver mist jets from between his gentle lips, lips that have tasted a thousand breaths and a thousand wines and lips that have tasted blood. Those lips are a robust contrast to the depth of his eyes, for they glimpse his soul, a soul deeply and utterly lost. Deep in his icy, arctic blue eyes lies a realm of pain, sorrow, guilt, and remorse, all embers burning and smoldering. His long, silvery-white hair cascades in a curtain down his shoulders with intermittent braids, framing a pale and youthful face that is the portrait of kindness and gentle beauty, but a thin crescent scar of pale flesh curves around his right eye, the signature of his pain.

Still staring up at the clock, eyes unblinking but startlingly alive, he seems invulnerable to the cold chill sweeping through the city. His clothing is splendid and elegant: he wears a simple, collarless dress shirt of white silk closed by a series of straps, along with a pair of black, casual pants. Over the dress shirt is a black leather jacket done in a gracefully minimal cut, with white, extended under cuffs and an open collar lined with white silk. A low-slung, double-looped belt of white encircles his slim waist, and two long, black leather leg coverings fall to his calves in a draped fashion, held to the belt. Contrasting the dark ensemble is a slim, ornate, sword sheath of silver waiting at his right side, exposing a sleek, swirling basket hilt and a curved pommel. His smooth and richly veined hand rests upon the hilt, while his other hand is tucked quietly into his pocket.

As the Face's vague luminescence radiates down upon him, surrounded by a frozen world, he seems to vibrate with life, and his eyes blink wetly.

"Old man, you've gone too far," The soft, silvery voice of Dacha whispers into the night air, a ghost-shiver "I never thought you would become this desperate." A tear falls from the corner of his eye, tracing around the curve of his scar and down his cheek in a wet trail as he looks up at the sky. His heart yearns to see the stars, to fall up into the deep void and join them, but a blanket of cold gray clouds caging the soul of City with its blank endlessness is holding him down, tormenting him with their grim finality. A deep, subtle part of his mind senses the unnatural origin of the clouds, and links it to the ghostly power invading the city. Dacha has felt this before, but it was never as tangible or alive as it is today, becoming an unfamiliar tingle upon his skin. Dacha reaches up and wipes away the tears with the cuff of his jacket and turns, walking past the nullified vagrants gathered around the glowing trashcan. Passing through the park, moving with a swift, serpentine glide, black gloved hand still resting upon his sword, he waltzes by the two armored guards standing at the gates of Tower Square. For a moment, they are stunned to see the infamous Vandal dashing past them, but quickly they gain their wits and catch up with him. The taller one in the ornate, dark blue Chronos armor places a gauntleted hand on the Vandal's shoulder while his other hand lands on his own sword taking a wary stance. Dacha the Vandal quickly whirls, his gloved hand finally drawing Fenrir from its sheath. The long, silver blue saber curves from its home intently and dartingly with a stinging sound as cutting as its ethereal glow. The Square guard is utterly entranced as Dacha spins from his shocked grasp, wheeling away as the Vandal draws Fenrir's edge across the guard's throat. The guard, eyes wide, thrusts his hands to his throat, dropping his sword and collapsing to his knees, still fixated on the Vandal and his drawn blade with utter horror, fascinated even in Death.

"Know that you are the first to die on my blade, but not the last. Die with honor." Dacha spins to the other guard, in a spider motion, gripping the guard's shoulder and drawing him forward, delicately pressing the edge of Fenrir onto his neck, forcing blood to crawl from beneath the blade. For a moment, the guard is speechless, his stunned eyes filling with a blasted terror that Dacha finds both gratifying yet disgusting.

"You… you drew… Fenrir," the guard whispers, his voice a death rattle. Dacha the Vandal smiles in a manner that quakes the flesh beneath his hand.

"So I did," Dacha replies, his voice sinister. "Don't fear, for I will not kill you. I want you to send Master Chronos a message;" for a moment, there is pure silence, trembling and cold. "Tell him the Vandal is coming for him. Tell him I have drawn Fenrir, and that nothing will stop me. You'll tell him that, won't you?" The Vandal asks, and the guard nods, heart thudding hammer blows despite the moist relief in his eyes. Dacha's blade drops away like a dead leaf, sliding swiftly into its sheath as Dacha turns away, striding from the square, right hand falling back into place upon Fenrir's hilt. Behind him, the guard has knelt down next to his defeated companion, tears falling; not only for his brother, but also for Master Chronos, and all that stands in the Vandal's way, all that will fall to Fenrir.

If one were to trace the mystical energy stunting Time's passage, the source is found to radiate from the minds of the City's citizens, but that is not its true origin. Residing within the Tower, hidden behind the face, is a nest of machinery, a massive, complex system of technology wired directly into the clockworks of the Face. Built into the center of this huge mechanical organism is a single cold, metal chair, and upon this chair lays Master Chronos. The old man, surrounded by gleaming electronics, seems frailer than a porcelain doll, but with the eyes to see, a powerful aura of psyche surrounds him. His appearance, old, wrinkled, thin and weary, his bald palate gleaming, belies his vast mental power that is harnessed and translated by the machine he rests upon. His eyes flash open in surprise as a ripple in the energy flow he controls, a disturbance that echoes of released energy.

"The Vandal?" He whispers in a rattlesnake hoarseness, sandpaper quietly scratching. He is surprised by the Vandal's hidden, untapped energy; he had never suspected such power. Inside his head, he again senses a flare, but this sudden burst of power is massive, and the inexplicable twinge of Fenrir becomes an awareness, a brief extrasensory exposure, then evaporates, leaving a closing hole in his mind, casting a grim and terrified shadow on his face. "He has drawn the blade." Liquid glass slides from his eyes, blinked away as fury and scorn grows. "You bastard. That sword does not belong to you, how dare you use it to kill my men." Within the network of his mind, a coiling power grows, cumulating in his psyche, until his anger is crying for pain, and he launches it into the energy stream, a clot of charged æther streaming towards the Vandal.

"Vandal, you will finally pay. I have been waiting for the day when you would draw that blade. You will suffer like I have, in anguish, then die."

Chronos Road reaches into the core of the City, binding the system of lanes and streets together, forming an ornate web of pathways. The æther, swarming amidst the colonies, coalesce along these streams. As Dacha travels through Chronos Road, passing by hundreds of statues dressed like people, he senses the energy, an astral wind caressing his mind, until he feels a rush, a surge in the tide as something approaches. His steps fade, until he is standing still, his wolf-blue eyes alert, and his grip on Fenrir tightens as a massive summation of pain and agony crashes into him, the fright train bearing down on him and grinding its wheels into his brain. He collapses to one knee, cradling his head, a tear escaping from one eye as his hands spasm, his foot slips out from under him, and his mind falls out of consciousness' grasp, floating down into darkness with the grace of a swan feather.

"Hello? Hello, sir, are you okay?" The voice is light, sylvan, snowflakes upon his ears. The thunder in his head, peals of pain, subsides like an ocean calming. He feels her warm, misting breath upon his face, and it tastes sweet, tastes like a sacred candy hidden in a forbidden drawer. For a moment, one precious, still moment in the dark, Dacha's shut eyelids tremble, in fear and anticipation, but instead the curtains are flung aside, and the shutters lift to let in the light. Her eyes, a golden brown, rich and smothering, soothe his soul, and he finds a place in them that he's never seen before. Her pink, rosy skin glows, a peach soaked in velvet, youthful and kind. Soft, full, pale lips, chapped by the cold, tremble with relief at his waking. This portrait of bliss and warmth is framed by a lush, swaying curtain of oak tresses, strands of maple syrup falling about her face. She wears a beige, fleece pullover jacket, one size too big, dwarfing her but radiating warmth. A long, white, pleated skirt hangs in loose folds a few inches above her ankles, delicate ankles resting in a pair of leather slip-ons. Her right arm curls around a paper bag filled with groceries, a bag she has completely forgotten as she admires him complacently.

Realizing he is still lying in the snow, Dacha sits up slowly, dashing away snow from his shoulder with a gloved hand, then looking up at the woman.

"I am now." He tells her warmly, a smile touching his lips, a smile that reads: This smile is for you, and nobody else. Just you.

"Here, let me help you up." She offers him a pink mitten, and he takes it like a courtier before kissing the hand, but instead he comes to his feet. Standing near her standing near him, he could sense her warmth, could feel the tenderness of her very soul, an amber energy radiating. For a moment, in a cocoon of silence, they are perfectly together, alone and absorbed, focused only one each other, surrounded by a world frozen for that moment only, just for them. Then the paper bag drops through her arm, tumbling onto the sidewalk pavement like a naughty child tripped. Apples, peaches, cabbage and cauliflower heads, cans, a carton of milk spill out, and the embers in her cheeks flare up.

"Oh, rats." She murmurs, her voice as red and blushing as her face. Dacha stoops to retrieve the items, and his face brushes her hair as she crouches. He quickly gathers the milk and cabbage in one arm, almost jumping to his feet as she turns her head.

"Oh, you don't need to-"

"I insist." There is silence for a moment as she studies him again, a double take, refocusing his picture, and he smiles again. Seeing for the first time, his fancy garb, the sword at his side, and most sharply the mark, gleaming and silver in the moonlight, all painting a picture, but the subtitle is scratched out. Klaxons in her head ring dully, but the slow wash of amazement floods her fear, like a moth to flame.

"Thank you." She stands, still near him. Again, ringing clear still silence envelopes them, waiting for the words. Against the will of enjoying just being there, Dacha clears his throat to clear the awkwardness, and she almost jumps.

"Excuse me, ma'm, do you need help getting this home?" He asks, gently, and she smiles, letting heaven's light shine down.

"Well, I probably can't carry this all home." She states, concern shrouding her face. "I should be driving home now if it wasn't for this…" She sweeps her arm across the frozen scenery, her voice vexed. She turns to Dacha, a mix of curiosity and realization there. "Say, you're not… stuck, like them."

"No, I'm not." He says simply, and now the process is reversed as he grips the truth of her vitality despite the current stasis state. He senses her aura, a palpable radiation of positive energy, warm and delicious, a hearth in his mind. The power marks one of the Descent, shining a new light upon her, gaining a new facet, mysterious and enigmatic, casting him further into the depths of… something indescribable, a trance inflicted by this woman, reviving something long dead inside. Not lust, not kinship, not empathy. He searches for the word, for the key to unlock the feeling.

"Do you know what's going on?" The question is struck, bringing him outward again.

"Yes, I do." She brightens up with his reply, a lightening in his heart, but with the fell swoop of an icy current, she shivers, eyes falling.

"Could we go inside first? My home is just down the street." The request is gentle, but Dacha could never refuse, even for his life's sake.

"Of course."