He looked at his gold pocket watch. It, like every clock in his possession, was set permanently at five minutes to midnight. Then he gazed at the setting sun in the misty sky. Finally, he inspected the gaping wound across his guts.
"Damn you Time! " he exclaimed. "YOU HAVE DEFEATED ME YET AGAIN! "
Much earlier.
A gold pen scribbled across the paper. He loved gold most of all. It was the untarnishable substance, untouchable by Time.
See candle flames dance,
Like the flicker of angel's wings,
Remembering smoke spiraling and
So many long lost things,
As soldiers at the break of dawn,
Waiting for deep darkness to be torn,
And every soldier half in the past,
Half in a future which cannot last.
He put down his pen and drank more coffee.
Light rain fell on the filthy ground as he finished addressing his men.
"... and remember, time is against us here, so finish your rum and get back to work. "
He was in a foul mood because he had dreamt of Her again. He had dreamt of running through the forest and Time was chasing him. It was sunset and it had always been sunset, and he ran and ran.
He drained his rum and started cleaning his pistol.
Damn you. Time, he thought, over and over again.
Some time later.
The enemy were out there, somewhere amongst the mist and charred stumps of trees. He led his men forward, blindly, into the wasteland.
Damn it. It's the wrong time. We are too late. Either the enemy has fled or they have had time to lay an ambush for us.
We are out of time.
Always, always, out of Time.
They walked forward, silent footsteps muffled by the ash underfoot and the dense, damp air.
He heard the heavy panting of the man behind him. He could almost smell his men's fear. They were not true soldiers, just men forced into the wrong time and place.
He walked on, trying to stand tall, trying to look confident, to inspire his men, as though it was not already far too late for that.
A single shot ran out, echoing in the silent mist.
His men started firing aimlessly. They were panicking.
Damn them. They were not ready for this. It was not their fault. There had not been enough time to train them.
Time had never been on their side.
A few shots turned into a hail of fire. It was a blizzard of bullets. A storm of burning hot lead.
His men were falling dead around him.
He raised his pistol, tried to aim, but he could not see the enemy.
Nothing but smoke and mist and ash. It had always been this way… smoke and fire forever and ever more.
"Take cover men! Behind the stumps!" he shouted.
There was no time for that. It was too late. They were all gone.
Alone in the chaos he knelt behind what had once been the trunk of a tree. He fired a futile, forlorn shot into the nightmare.
Then he felt it. A shot ripped through his guts. No pain, not yet. Just an irresistible force, the space where his entrails used to be, and the hot sticky blood everywhere.
He looked at his gold pocket watch.
It was five minutes to midnight.
