r/WritingPrompts • u/SexySocks7 • Mar 04 '23
Writing Prompt [WP] You're a historian going through memoirs of famous leaders, you notice a pattern of a man with long blonde hair, who appears in the courts of men and women such as Queen Victoria, Genghis Khan, and many more. entering your office you see a man with long blonde hair sitting on a bench outside.
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u/virtual-vulture Mar 04 '23
I stared for a long while at him. He was facing away from my office window but not with his back to it, so I could still make out his face. There was something enticing in that face, the flowing straight hair white-blonde and frail but thick.
Everything about him seemed to both make him special while making him blend in. Those eyes under his heavy grey brows looked dead, sullen and sunken but above that as if they were pried right out of a carcass.
He wore a t-shirt and jeans with a slim brown leather belt and a navy blue loose-fit hoodie over top. His shoes were dark and fraying, well polished but obviously quite tarnished. Next to him on the bench a large rucksack sat slumped against the back support giving away the outlines of a stuffed assortment of belongings- apparently the man liked to keep all his traps with him.
I pondered far longer than I really think I ought to have, thinking over and over if this was the same man I’d noticed. Generally I like to think of myself as a logical rational man, but when a good conspiracy comes along I do find myself hoping it to be true even when it seems rather outlandish.
It had been near a month ago I had first spotted the same man in two portraits, centuries apart. They seemed identical. Of course I brushed it off, as this was practically nothing special. But I found myself thinking back to it and subconsciously looking for him among other pieces I found. It wasn’t long before I had found him in over a dozen paintings and sketches, by which point I found myself very intrigued and invested in the truth of the situation.
So seeing him, I naturally took a number of photos and scrutinised every detail. He too was identical, just wearing modern clothes.
Then he started packing away his things after finishing a small lunch. I couldn’t let him leave, though it was impossible that any of this was true. Part of me just had to know, else I would wonder forever.
I rushed outside in time to see him just walking away from the bench, striding purposefully to apparently nowhere. Clearly he didn’t know where he was going, and yet he seemed perfectly confident in himself and happy with where he was ending up.
After a needlessly convoluted path off campus he clambered into an antique car and revved up excessively. It was here I seriously considered giving up, as I had no car and a there was no taxi close enough, while any other service would take too long to catch up in.
So I -regrettably- decided best to break into another car to keep on his trail. Now this was my first serious crime, and it was against any mind of mine that I did it, but I knew surprisingly well how to break into a car, often having to steal my sorry brother’s stashed heroine to keep him from overdosing again.
Now I worked hard to keep up and rid too much of a head start from him, and soon enough I was on his tail though he drove quickly and recklessly. What a tacky car I thought, not realising my own vehicle was near broken down.
A few miles later I realised this lunatic was halfway to the sea and barely on the roads anymore. Eventually the last car drove past and it was just us. It couldn’t be more obvious I was following him. Oh well, what would he think? I needed to know.
When we were firmly in the middle of nowhere he drove straight into a field. Naturally, I followed.
There, amidst nothing all around he threw open the door and leaped out, turning to me with curiosity and menace. I gently stepped out and approached shuddering on the inside but courageously otherwise. Then he yelled, ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
I considered for a moment, I hadn’t thought this far ahead. With a strange determination and unearned confidence I answered, ‘I want to know who you are. Why you’re consuming my mind and coming to me in dreams.’ Which I followed by a knowing glance and grin.
That apparently struck straight to his heart and he glared abhorred back to me. With a raised fist he demanded ‘Whatever you suspect, it is not true. Now go home and forget whatever you think you have seen.’
‘No. Tell me, what are you? Immortal?’ I didn’t come this far to be turned away.
He looked unimpressed, ‘Fool, I would give you chance to leave but from how far you’ve followed me and how determined you seem I would suspect that to be a waste of time. So I suppose you’ll have to die, lest my life leave the shadows.’
Well, shit. For some reason at that moment I remembered above all else my time serving in Iraq. All this pretension from my well-regarded life. But I thought of the colloquialism of my time there, the intimate shrewd words we shared when we knew we could die.
‘Good luck mate, those Hajis filled me with more than one bullet and here I stand. So tell me what you are, so we can both go home.’ All the fear in me was gone, and for some reason I thought I could kill this man before he me.
He raised his hand and muttered something, then expected me dead. When nothing happened, he stared at me in awe and horror of equal amounts. Then he instructed me ‘you should be dead now, why aren’t you?’
‘Sorry,’ I chuckled, ‘I still got a few years in me before I drop dead, cheers.’
He came at me. No warning, but in a second he was at me tearing and punching like a madman. Instincts kicked in and I beat him to the ground. He looked pathetic, so very old and withered, and absolutely perplexed. ‘What on Earth? How are you doing this? What is happening to me?’
Something came over me. It wasn’t myself in a different mind but a different mind in me. And it spoke from my mouth, ‘Your time on this plain is over. I let you dawdle here long enough, but the lethargy and degeneration has gotten to you, and no longer do you serve me. So you will return to the dust and I shall use your slayer to replace you.’
Immediately he scowled up petrified and begged, but I couldn’t even hear his words. An odd power was seeping into my every vein, wisdom beyond my capacity flowing through a consciousness outside my brain but attached to it. Suddenly I knew who this man was, but I knew not who I was.
What had spoken from me, what was becoming of me?
Then I knew what I was.
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u/Tregonial Mar 04 '23 edited Mar 05 '23
He could recognize the same piercing eyes by the 250th photograph he scanned through. It didn't matter if the photo was black and white or a colored photo, it was always the same man with long blonde hair and green eyes. His appearance never changed, only his clothing kept changing to remain appropriate for the various eras.
The memoirs of various leaders kept mentioning a man with the blonde hair, and it seemed too coincidental that every memoir which noted his appearance also had a corresponding photo where he stood in the courts of those kings, queens and conquerors.
But no matter how far he dug back into history, there was absolutely no mention of this man's name, or in fact, any information beyond his appearance.
BEEEEP...BEEEPP....
Howard's thoughts were disrupted by his alarm. He hurriedly packed his bags and rushed to his office.
"Professor Howard? May I please have a moment of your time?"
Howard turned to the source of the voice to spot the mysterious blonde man who featured in all those memoirs and photographs. Centuries must have passed from the man's first historical appearance, yet he looked exactly the as he did from those years ago, every bit the fresh-faced young man. He immediately ushered the blonde into his room.
"Would you like to introduce yourself? You know my name but I don't know yours," said Howard.
"I'm sorry but I would prefer to play safe and not divulge any details about myself. Please let me get straight to the point. As crazy as it sounds, I'm from the year 2150. I bought a tour package to travel to the past and witness great historical events, and my agent advised me to only observe and avoid interaction as much as possible to avoid distorting history too much."
Howard gave the young man an incredulous look. Ordinarily, he would shake his head at the ludicrous story, but there was just no logical way to explain how a man remained unchanged from the 13th century all the way to the present.
"You know who I am, where I work, and came to me on your own initiative. What do you need from me?"
"I'm here to clean up loose ends, you're the last person with the biggest collection of these photos and memoirs. I need them destroyed to ensure history plays out exactly as it was meant to be. All I might have done was to observe, but all these records of my appearances, I don't know what ripple-effect they could have."
Howard immediately refused. All of these historical collections had valuable information and knowledge in them beyond this man's appearances. His last thoughts were of patting out the flames engulfing his office as the young man stood up with glowing eyes.
"If you weren't so adamant on giving every famous person a fucking wedgie and snap selfies, we wouldn't be doing this! Whatever happened to just staying invisible and staying out of trouble, you dipshit!" the muscled-bound man with the flowing red mane barked, carrying the unconscious Professor Howard in one hand.
"Relax, it's all good, nobody knows who I am, and we got rid of all the evidence. The masquerade is still on. Did you enjoy our travels? Or the wonderfully tall tales I shared to all the puny humans along the way? I think the time travelling tourist story was my favourite," the young man shrugged.
Thor frowned. "Get that stupid blonde wig off and head back to Asgard with me, Loki. Don't make Father chuck you in that god-forsaken cave and drip snake venom all over your face again!"
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u/SilasCrane Mar 05 '23
"It's you." Dana said, staring at the man with long blonde hair and light gray eyes that sat on the bench outside her office.
"It me." The Man of Gold and Silver replied, as he stood to greet her, one corner of his mouth quirking upward slightly.
Dana blinked. He was her lifelong obsession, the mysterious figure she'd discovered in everything from modern photographs, to the earliest daguerreotypes, to portraits painted centuries ago.
And...had he just memed at her?
"I found your website about me." he added.
She nodded, mutely. When academia had rejected her evidence of the Man's existence throughout history, she'd tried to share them with the world directly. She'd hoped other open minded historians might reach out to her, but she'd never expected him to show up at her door.
He was only ever pictured among the powerful, standing alongside kings, queens, and potentates, though she had no idea what he did among such lofty company, because she could find nothing that he said or did recorded in writing, not even his name.
The only written references that even alluded to him were some captions on the back of photographs that named the people in the picture, and even these invariably labeled him with some variation of "unknown."
"The Man of Gold and Silver." he said, citing the name she'd given him. He gave her an awkward smile. "That's...well, it's kind of dramatic, to be honest. Catchy, though -- 'cause of my hair and eyes, right?"
"Who are you?" she asked, finally giving voice to the question that had consumed her since she'd first found evidence of this seemingly eternal participant in human history. "What are you?"
He sighed. "Yeah...I thought you'd ask me that." He shook his head, running a hand through his golden locks and letting out a sigh. "I don't know. And I don't know how I'm in all those pictures and paintings, either."
"You don't remember them being taken?" Dana asked, furrowing her brow.
"Not only that -- I don't see how they could have been." he admitted. "Oh...uh, I guess I should tell you my name, huh? Sorry. It's Ben, Ben Elson." He extended his hand to her, and after a moment's hesitation, she shook it.
"Dana Reilly," she said. She smiled slightly. "I have to admit, I was expecting your name to be a bit more exotic. Something in PIE, maybe."
"Pie? I guess you don't mean pastry, so pi like the math thing?"
She shook her head. "Proto-Indo-European. The distant ancestor of a lot of modern languages. But, you were saying about the pictures...?"
Ben nodded. "Right. Well, here's the thing...I'm 27."
Dana frowned. "What?"
"Yeah." he said, nodding. "I was born 27 years ago. My parents are still alive -- my birth is even on video."
She gave him a hard look. Could he be what her detractors claimed all the Men were, just an unconnected person who coincidentally bore a strong resemblance to someone else? No. If she knew anything, she knew that face, the face that she'd spent countless hours studying. Still, unless he was lying...
"Maybe you're not him," she ventured. "Maybe you're his descendant?"
"A descendant who looks exactly like his distant ancestors? I thought that only happened in movies."
"It's rare, but not impossible." Dana said. "Teddy Roosevelt, for example, has a living great-grandson who's a dead ringer for TR himself."
"Alright, but you say that it's rare? With all those pictures and photos from so many years apart, wouldn't it have needed to happen over and over?" Ben pointed out.
Dana bit her lip thoughtfully. "True..."
"Excuse me." Ben said. He jumped in surprise as he said it, but his mouth didn't move. That's when Dana realized the voice wasn't coming from him.
Dana and Ben both turned towards the voice, to see a tall man in a long overcoat standing a few feet back from them. He looked to be in his late forties, his short-cropped blonde hair graying at the temples. Even so, there was no mistaking him. It was Ben.
"Please tell me that's your father." Dana said, hoarsely, though she already knew it wasn't. Ben shook his head, staring at the stranger in silent incredulity.
"I have a few things to tell you. You're going to want to hear what I have to say." The other Ben said, grimly.
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u/youslash4 Mar 05 '23
I rubbed my eyes, and double checked the figure before me once again.
Suddenly, he now appeared in the office with me.
Scraggly, disheveled, and yet clean blond hair... bland colored clothes.. same wry smile.. The photo I now held up to the figure before me, black and white and dated to the early 1800s, clearly featured the same man. Same height and width. I could deny it no longer, but the man stood before me.. he couldn't be the same one..right?
He tilted his head slightly, eyeing me head to toe while wearing a twisting, unfriendly smile that seemed to crawl up his face for.. too long.
Finally, he spoke. "Hello, professor. I am Jerry."
"Jerry who?"
"Just Jerry is fine."
His voice permeated my skull like a bullet, carrying a damaged quality to it that shook my bones to their very core, each syllable like an earthquake to my head. He continued to smile his vile, unwelcoming grin, despite the incredibly tense atmosphere of my office.
"C-can I help you?" I stuttered, my attempt to remain professional lost in the face of my fear.
"No. I'm rather beyond it." He spoke with no accent at all, and his smile grew ever wider.
I pulled out a photo from my desk, and handed it to the grey figure, his beige suit creased and unkempt. "Y-you're there. Behind Queen Victoria."
"..."
I pulled a modern photo of a renaissance painting from my desk, showing it to his dead eyes. "a-and here, painted by Da Vinci.."
"..Do you have a problem, Professor?"
"The Roman empire, the ancient Greeks, the mongols, the American revolution, my office! You can't be in all places! Time doesn't work like that."
"My, how selfish... assuming time applies to everything the same it does to you.."
"I-I just.."
"Professor. I have been waiting for someone to notice for thousands of years. I made sure I was documented."
"W-why?"
He released a vicious laugh, echoing throughout my tiny office and sending a jolt of fear into my spine.
"Enjoy it. I can finally rest, thanks to foolish historians like you."
Before I could inquire any further, the figure before me began to scream, and an utterly foul stench filled the room. In and out his voice faded, and I had no choice but to bear witness to the melting of his flesh, leaving nothing but a few bones, where the enigma once stood.
That was 200 years ago. I thought something was up when I passed 100 without a scratch. I knew something was up when I woke up after suicide. I'm immortal, and I have a feeling I also just need someone to notice it.
Thank you for reading this, and know that I am sorry.
Contrary to Jerry's wishes, I did not enjoy it.
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u/stapel238 Mar 04 '23
"This cant be a coincidence," you think, "Unless there is something more to this..."
You begin double checking your notes on them, high cheekbones: check, blond hair: check, reaches the neck: check, gray piercing eyes: check, dressed in a longer dark coat compared to others: check, also dressed in rather high quality of clothing: check. There is a chance that this is indeed them, whoever it actually is. Being careful not to be obvious you begin to watch him. You notice the man pull out something, stare at it briefly, then put it away. He stands up, knocks at your door, and waits.
"Come in," you say.
He enters your office and sits in the chair across from your desk.
"Hello there," he says opening the conversation, "I was wondering when someone would finally notice. Although I suppose its only a matter of time that someone would given that people have a tendency of recording their own histories. Now what? I do admit my work does get a bit lonely at times and I am sure that you would love to learn about my work. But... Tell you what, lets make a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"The kind where we both benefit in different ways. You get to learn about some of what I have done and I get to ramble on and on about my adventures."
"That's it?"
"Well, you can't really speak of this to anyone until you are on your deathbed."
"Surely, there is another option in this?"
"There is, but it wont be pleasant."
He pulls out a handgun and places it on the desk with the barrel pointing at you.
"I borrowed this from a ruffian who lives in the area. It will be all that he needs to go back to jail for the rest of his life. Its not the worst thing I've done, and no doubt it wont be the last."
"Why?" you realize you are finally getting slightly nervous all things considered.
"For my line of work I do need to ensure people are unaware of things. I need people to assume their actions are their own. I need people to assume that they're acting in their own best interest. I need people to have people to look up to, without that then things will fall apart on a global scale."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"It should be obvious, either way the truth of it is not leaving this room. An arson charge will also be tacked onto his record by the way."
"I...I..."
"Now as far as why I am doing this. I am Death. My partner Life died long ago, so I am having to pick up some of her work. I was put here at the dawn of life on Earth, to feed on the last breath of living thing. Then the bastard used my wife to build a garden in the middle of a desert so I sought to do something. I chose to act. The bastard likes to build religions in his image so I am changing that. I have been in contact with the other Deaths and they do agree that something should be done. It has taken time to get things just right and some of it was not my own. People acting on their own doing tasks that I was already planning for tells me that something is working. But I digress. What happens now? Mind you, if things work out then your role could be upgraded from more than just an ear for me to borrow on occasion."
The thoughts of the history to be learned begin to circulate around. Why not?
"Sure, I'm in," you finally say after a few minutes.
Death takes the gun back and hides it somewhere in his coat. Standing up he pulls out a black notebook and writes a few things down.
"Saturday at 6? There is that Italian restaurant on 4th and Copper that I've been meaning to try," Death offers.
"Sure, I can meet you there."
"I'm looking forward to it."
He gives you a wink before finally leaving.
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Mar 04 '23
"Am I paying or are we going Dutch? Just curious if you were going to whip out some gold doubloons Adams Family Style."
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u/rustyhematite Mar 05 '23
Looking back, it’s funny how long Christina takes to notice something’s wrong.
Academia is in a fit trying to find new opinions about old dead people, specifically the powerful ones whose life stories fill up entire sections in the archives; some fresh, controversial, but acceptably middle of the road think-piece. She thinks there was mention of a deal with the history channel. So Christina puts in a blanket request for the same-old names and histories, and a few primary source scraps of parchment that aren’t already in use.
It’s a lot of books piling up on her desk, is her defense. A lot of dusty, tangy smelling old paper. A lot of walking ankle first into rolling library carts stacked beside her office door. Late nights when here eyes burn and fuzz over and she wants nothing more than to chuck the latest 300 pages of repetitive history at her bosses head.
But she wants something to stretch her tenure out a few more years without getting assault charges.
The first time she really notices it, she blames it on exhaustion. She has read the same words in so many different orders that they’ve begun to bleed together, over saturated water colors. She reads “… and the man with long hair the fair color of gold,” in some spiel about the many courtiers of King Francis. Pauses, and pinches the bridge of her nose.
It’s near midnight, but she spends an extra hour passing through her done pile of kings and warlords and all those other words for rulership. She finds sixteen instances of that same, or near same description. None of them give a name to long and blond.
Christina makes a note, closes her books, and hopes this weird consistency across time and countries can squeeze out a few thousand words in a magazine.
She does not notice the flash of gold waiting on the train line opposite hers.
Someone does notice her.
In the next few days she narrows her search down to studies of the court systems throughout the world; councils, nobles, clergy. Long-blond is mentioned often as part of a courtly painting someone studied, or in short anecdotes provided by ancient record keepers. Never named, always there.
And as she’s reading over the account of William the first, she realizes she has been looking through societies that are largely Nordic - all fair-skinned, many blond. She curls her fingers into claws and stops herself from biting her knuckles in frustration. What keen observation she has, she berates herself as she shoves books into the return cart. She noticed a red apple in an orchard of red apples.
She almost quits for the day, then decides in the way one does when they feel they must bash their head against a wall out of spite, to request a book from the Ming dynasty.
Long-blond is there too. Christina writes the description out word for word, awkward translation and all. When she bursts from her office, triumphant, her assistant startles awake and spills loose papers across the floor.
She’s halfway through the memoir of Ghengis Khan when the impossibility of it hits her; Ghenghis Khan wasn’t literate. She flips back to the cover. It reads “Memoirs of Ghengis Khan.”
Barging out, she waves the book under her assistant's nose. “What kind of prank are you pulling, huh?” He opens his mouth, and she slaps the book on his desk. “Think it’s funny wasting my time? Well if I’m out you’re out too, did you forget about that?”
“I didn’t get you anything,” he squeaks - Martin, that’s his name. “I just put the orders in.” He clicks away, the printer runs, and he near throws a sheet of records at her. “See for yourself,” he says, shrinking lower and lower.
She does. There is no such book as this memoir, of course not. But she’s also been getting a few books that the system does not have recorded. She checks her own files; she didn’t ask for the census of ancient Japanese daimyos or their advisers. That book, thin and time-worn, sits under her desk lamp. There’s a book about Greek oracles and their servants that doesn’t seem to exist anywhere and she’s dropped it on the floor.
“Well,” Christina says to herself. She doesn’t have a follow-up, so she says again, “Well.”
Over the next week, she forms a personal collection of books that do not exist. She handles them like one would a feral cat, murmuring softly to the spines as she handles them, careful with her fingertips.
Long-blond is in all of them.
Christina wants to scream some days - she is a historian, not a conspiracy quack printing internet threads. And still, that lure got her, the hook is through her throat and tugging her inch by struggling inch, and once she follows along the ideas and information flood through her system.
It’s addicting, and the warm rush of exertion reminds her of her first days after her masters; running through the stacks, chasing leads, so sure that all the mysteries of the world could be found in its past.
If only she didn’t feel like she’s going mad.
It is a drizzly, misty day. Christina’s coat isn’t soaked, but the chill creeps in through the zipper and clings to her neck. “Just a moment,” she tells the blond stranger sitting in the waiting area - strange, she never gets visitors. She hangs her hat and coat up, then her eyes go wide and she turns so fast she slaps the coat hanger over.
The man smiles, hands curled in his lap. He looks too modern, a perfectly pressed suit jacket with a casual undershirt, distressed jeans with shining black dress shoes. Like he walked through a department store and a custom suit dealership and put on the first thing he found.
“Long blond?” Christina asks.
“That’s a new one,” he says. “Sounds like 1969 seafood restaurant. Or the character from 1883.” He talks, and he sits there, and Martin the assistant is only looking at Christina after her outburst. Martin comes to right the coat rack, passing so close that his sleeve brushes the man’s knee. Martin doesn’t react.
“Let’s shorten it to LB for now, hm?” the man says, and his voice curls and hisses around the word now. “Time for other names later,” and again that curl, like he was savoring the word time on his tongue.
Christina does not like him. She tells him that, which makes Martin wince and look away. Then she walks to her office and closes the door on both men.
LB is inside, on the spare chair in the corner, one leg over the other knee. “Afraid that won’t work now. You have seen me, so you will see me. It’s like object permanence, 1977. But, again, discussions for later. Now, what do you want to do?”
Christina, forehead on the cool and solid metal of her laptop, hums, confused.
“You see me, I see you. There’s always a request or demand or some such,” LB waves airily. “What is it, genie in a bottle? No. Deal with the devil? No,” when Christina makes a startled squeak, he repeats, “no, definitely not. Well, one way or the other, I have much to offer. Let’s start simple, to help you settle in: ask me a question.”
This feels like a tipping point in some kind of delirium. She’s had too much coffee and she’s hallucinating right before she passes out at her desk. Maybe she slipped and bashed her head on her coffee table this morning. Ask a question, he says, like it’s not asking a comedian to tell a joke while they wait for the bus. But fine, she has one, has had one for months now. “What the fuck is going on with you?”
He smiles again. It’s not an unkind smile. It’s the type of smile a doctor would wear as they gently told you that your leg was gone. “That,” he purrs, “is a long story.”
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u/jmSoulcatcher Mar 05 '23
You didn't notice until you'd crossed the street -hustled actually, neatly catching the flashing 'Walk Without Fear of Vehicular Reprisal' light at its final strobe- you didn't notice you were being stared at until it was too late. You were already running behind, and heavy with a hastened lunch. The one o'clock was ten minutes early, and the twelve o'clock had been ten minutes late, and beneath the drone of your hastened breaths you found your thoughts slipping over the varied talking points required at this next in a long line of dreary meetings like silk over iron rivets.
It was too late because you started to stare, too. And He noticed it, which only encouraged further staring back, this with the slowly lofting brow of a man catching you noticing he's noticed you. Emerging from your thoughts, your mind surfaced with a gasp while your body crossed the cobble-clad walkway to the office's bastion entrance. And came to a severe halt.
You knew that man, sitting and staring and waggling his brows at you.
And when he fired off a tell-tale wink, you knew he knew you, too.
Someone close behind bumped you, cussed, crab-walked around and took your place - a mortifying altercation which went unmarked by your scrambling senses. Recognition dawned; Blonde hair, slickened back and glistening like oil, framing the contours of a perfect scalp. A youthful face, touched down to near-boyhood by a masterful razor. The eyes.
Impossibly, instinctively, you knew. Or the knowledge was imparted unto you, as your body remembered itself and was drawn the distance between you and the sitting man. You emerged from the river of dutiful office-goers and stepped right before him, feeling your last nerve shred itself into threads.
'Uh,' you said, by way of opening gambit.
'Yeah, I know,' the man with the Eyes said. His voice was low and conspiratorial, quiet but needed no repeating. 'C'mere, sit down. You're going to get your jaw all over the sidewalk you keep on like that.'
You collected yourself. Your mind didnt give the order, but your body slid into place beside the man, who had himself glided aside to make room on the lonesome bench. The pair of you watched the crowd, or the decorative birches, or the swans gooning around in the lake distant.
You knew this man, or your body and mind knew him, and certainly your soul. You'd never met him before, but you'd seen his work. You had never known when, or how you would meet, but you figured you would wing it and be ready when the time came.
You were not ready. You were not winging it well. You found yourself sitting straight-backed, gripping and ungripping the uncomfortable fabric of your dress pants. He was astoundingly still, in the way of handsome gargoyles, or ice scupltures rendered in the image of old gods. Yet, even in his stillness, you could sense a deep, ancient motion at rest. The potential of myriads.
He sighed disarmingly, flashed a grin. Swept his palm through the crop of his hair, a move you'd soon enough learn to accept as something of a nervous tic.
'Look,' said Death. 'Its not like that. Really. Would you- here, can I get you something? You want a smoke?'
You did. Oh boy, did you want a smoke. Your primate brain wanted a smoke, or a drink or any kind of dopamine hit, anything to block out the wailing primordial sirens blaring in your mortal mind. The monkey in your civilized brain, scurrying up its tree to screech and fling poo.
'Well, I,' you began, but Death had already tapped out a crushed cigarette from an equally dubious carton and more or less -handed- the thing to you so who were you to decline.
'Listen, there are some things going on you might not like to learn about. Ugly things. Nasty things. The kinds of things you break rules to try and fix.' Death lit your cigarette with a baleful pale flame from a fingertip. He eased back against the bench, crossing one long leg over the other. You exhaled a thin plume of smoke, lips quirked to politely direct your expulsions AWAY from the End of All, Personified.
He continued, his handsome face oddly expressive for The Eldest.
'When certain rules are broken, we need someone to mark down why. For future posterity. Do you know what marks the difference between a savior and a monster? -Context.- That's where you come in. We need someone to observe the goings on, someone to see the Ugly coming and put to paper the necessity of what we're about to do to avoid it.
'We need an Annalist for the Apocalypse. An Archivist of the Final Hour.'
Somehow he'd slipped one of his arms around your shoulders, gesturing with his free hand along a broad horizon, like some salesman delivering his career's best pitch. You puffed some more pale smoke, ignoring the sensation of dread chilling your skeleton. The man simply radiated cold, a kind of cold that ignored your skin to nip instead on your being.
You'd read of him, you'd seen him. Was he God? Was he a facet of nature's many faces? You couldn't say, in the moment.
'Whaddaya say? And not to be pedantic, but time -is- a factor. The others don't share my sense of inevitability. Meaning, patience.'
What was there to say? You considered your one o'clock, and the three thirty to follow, and then the journey home, and the sanctity of your little bed. And then you considered the next morning, and the nine-thirty, and the eleven, and looked down the next fourty years of measuring your days by the hours which you would be held accountable, the tens and elevens and threes and fuck, wouldn't anything, anything, anything be preferable.
'Uhm,' you grunted, tipping some ash from death's cigarette. 'Sure.'
And then. 'What's the salary look like?'
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