chronophobia

He resembled a newborn calf this time, form weak, and nursing damaged flesh.

Blood smeared on cold stone as he leaned against the wall, chest heaving slowly with ragged breath. It would take but a moment for his flesh to restitch itself anew, nothing left behind to remind him of the battles—only frayed coat edges and iron in his nose.

An echo hummed from within them, reaching for his attention.

He never liked when weakness stuck to his form, but he could do nothing more than raise a bloodied gun, bangs framing the shadows painted across his face. “Just the usual,” he said, playfully vacant.

Their meetings were never long. Fear draped itself over his skin, eyes glancing toward the spirals that swirled within the glass, tepid curiosity inked between each lash as he wondered if the rotting of his soul floated in there with the rest.

(Out of kindness, or perhaps malignant pleasure, they tucked it away behind waves of old.)

He held out his palms, orbs glowing brightly with the sins he chose to wear. The guns were clipped securely at his sides, fingers twitching minutely to reclaim them in his grasp. “There a discount for customer loyalty?” he questioned wryly, no longer limping.

If they could have laughed, perhaps they would have.

Instead, tendrils moved past the sands of time, wisps enveloping the orbs; not a second later, the guns were back at home against his palms, frame tense and ready to pull the trigger, however futile it might be.

A charming requiem, they thought.

His nails scraped the last remains of blood off his guns, eyes scanning over their form as he motioned at the devil star.

(Curiosity swam within their hollow chest. They wondered what trial awaited him, but he never answered.

After all, he never expected to come back.)

“Stop.”

The fabric of unity swirled above them.

He closed his hand around the devil star, quiet and defeated. “Don’t. That’s all I ask…” There was no venom in his voice, merely age-old weariness. “Leave them alone.”

They recalled their wisps, the man’s tattered memories left unaltered.

(It had long been said that time healed all wounds.

If only the man would ever let the soothing begin.)

Relief sang from his flesh, and the man offered them a two-finger salute. “Much obliged.” He turned, the clacking of heels ringing in the corridor.

There was never a formal promise to meet again. Never a formal farewell from the man who longed for vengeance and sobbed over rotted remains.

If they could have smiled, perhaps they would have.

In the hidden castle alcove, time stood still for no one—

(The kaleidoscope of youth spun above them, laughter singing behind arches of a bloodied finale.

Soon, the halves would join once more.)

—except one man.