The Timekeeper

Time is multi-faceted. Fleeting. It has no beginning. It has no end. Everyone always thinks of time as linear, that you can never move backward. I have a different view. Time goes in circles. It decides when to start a turning of the age and when to end it. For me, it begins with a blank page and ends with halls of pages, leather-bound and filled with detailed stories and rich illustrations. They sit silently like the void, inoffensively, no matter the horrors they contain.

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Unlike myself, they have no opinion, no thoughts, no mind. The end of this age draws near, which means the Variance will appear soon. I wonder who it will be this time.

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As the revolutions grow long, the previous Variance and the destruction they wrought has been forgotten by those below. Typical. The clan leaders, or the Illume Council, as the people of this age refer to them, stop passing the legends down from generation to generation.

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I have seen it in the annals of all the ages I have ever read and recorded, which has been many. The Variance always comes as a surprise to the Realm. Despite the warnings the Celestials pass down at the start of every age to stay vigilant and prepared, the foolish humans stop heeding the advice after a few centuries. They slowly sow doubt amongst the fertile minds, and those with less conviction begin to believe the old texts are a farce, something fanciful, a tale for entertainment but not to be thought serious. Only a few devout remain and maintain a diligent watch for the time.

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I am one of them, but not among them. I have been watching and waiting for the next Variance to come. The One to make nation rise against nation, people against people; a revolution to end the revolutions. What I am waiting for though, is the one Variance who can reset time itself. Who can end its cruel rule over the Realm in its entirety.

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Hidden carefully in my chamber is the oldest tome, the first tome. Its leather is cracked and worn with age; the parchment fragile. Within is a prophecy, protected from time and the Celestials, promising that there will be one who can do it.

 

It’s frustratingly light on details. What prophecy isn’t? What details remain are spotty at best from faded ink, but it does say there is One.

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My hair grays, my skin wrinkles, my back hunches, but still, I watch, I wait, I hope. Every age, I wait. Even with all the revolutions afforded to me, far more than the mortals, I am still racing to beat time.

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My workspace, a huge library lined with polished oak shelving and white marble streaked with black, as though someone took quill ink and spilled it everywhere, and is home to all the written history of time. Other than that one.

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I run my hands over the others lightly now, each one bringing bursts of memories to my mind’s eye as I pass over them. The faint smell of dust, old leather, and old parchment floods my nostrils. I sigh. Some of these stories are delightful, most of them grim.

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My hand pauses, and I freeze, a gasp escaping my lips as I come to a particularly painful point in history. This is Faizu’s age. I recognize the desolation.

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The Realm is laid bare before him. I can smell the burning flesh. Blood bathes the ground, like a canvas painted with rust. Vultures circle overhead in the cloudless sky, their raspy hissing sounds calling for more. They will need an entire kettle of vultures to handle the corpses spread out before the iridescent-skinned man. His hair shifts color with the shifting of the winds. Beautiful man yet so wicked.

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A grisly smile, his teeth far too white for the blood and dirt he is covered in, splits his face. He laughs, a deep, hearty guffaw of derision. Those who have finally managed to capture him, an entire league of magic-wielders of every color, have brought the body of the iridescent man to his knees, but not his spirit. Never his spirit.

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Even to the last moment, when the Black Warrior before him reads his charges, he only smiles. His pride evident, indomitable. Even as the blade comes out, he does not struggle. He stares his captor in the eyes.

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“I will be back,” Faizu declares. His equally iridescent eyes flashing in the sunlight. The blade swings through the air, severing his head from his neck, and his blood sprays, covering the Warrior standing in front of him. Faizu’s body collapses, his eyes finally going black like his soul has recently become.

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“Doubt it,” the Black Warrior states flatly before turning and walking away.

 

I manage to pull my hand away from the painful tale; I don’t need the rest to play out in front of me. I wipe the tears falling off my cheeks. So many lives lost in that age, so many good people.

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I had thought when he was revealed, that Faizu was the One I had been waiting for. Unlike previous Variances, who came in destructive at the outset, he moved quietly amongst the nations. He was politically wise, having been raised amongst the most cunning of nobles. He seemed concerned with the overall well-being of the people, trying to offer them a better life by working with rulers to increase food production, decrease the cost of goods, increase trade…but then. Then.

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I close my eyes at the harrowing memories as if closing my eyes will make them go away any more than taking my hand off his book did. Faizu, like all the rest, proved to be as power-hungry as every other Variance. Under the guise of “best for the Realm,” he slowly took more and more control. Before even I, with my birds-eye view, realized it, he had amassed an incredible amount of power. The kings and queens bowed to him, cowed to him, and if they didn’t, they were forcibly disposed of.

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By this time, the rulers had given him control of the markets and trade. A mistake it turned out; if any of the rulers didn’t accept his demands and stipulations, their people starved. In the end, enough rulers banded together their magic-wielders and eliminated him. Too late. To destroy a Variance was to destroy the Realm. It was effective; it did reset the age, but once again, it was through force and time ticked on…

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I move away from the annals of destruction, hoping distance will relieve me of the ache in my chest.

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Despite my aging body, I amble easily among the light-colored marble halls until I reach the last row of shelves. I pull one of the few remaining sheets of blank parchment and sit at my dark walnut table in front of the large, arched window; double my height and equal in width. Outside, white, fluffy clouds gather, disperse, and swirl around my quarters. Below those clouds is the Realm, the ones to whom I am beholden to pen their stories, their life songs. 

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Using a bony but dexterous hand, I pick up my red-tailed hawk-feather quill, my conductor’s wand in this orchestra of life, which is heading swiftly for its crescendo. Unlike a conductor, however, I am unable to stop or slow this one-man band any more than the mortals are. The clouds part when they sense I am seated and ready. I peer through, scrawling what I see in neat handwriting on the fresh parchment with rich black ink. I anticipate little rest between now and the end of the age for myself or for the transient lives currently blissfully unaware of what is coming…and soon. Time is not on their side, nor mine. I pray this one is the One. The One to fulfill that promise I have kept hidden and tucked away for eons.