It was time, that he was certain of. It was the moment of which he had chosen, when the moon was at it's zenith, when the stars were properly aligned. When the blood had flowed as far as it could, and each and every body was empty. As empty as the soul that he had, void of feeling, void of emotion. Void of everything. Well, everything normal, at least. The emotions that roiled through there like oil on water were stolen. Stolen from the victims that littered the ground around him, stolen by a thief in the night.

Time, that was his focus tonight. Time and space, and ripping the entire holy fuck out of the both of them, to put it bluntly. To put it eloquently, it was time for him to leave this realm of time and space, and return to a more modern time in the world he had left so long ago. This place, this realm, it bored him so, now. There was nothing left here for him now. It was time to move on. It was time to move back. Back in time, back to the future, back to his home.

"Tempo. Aprirsi per me. Spazio. Parte prima di me. Tempo, spazio, curvatura e rip alla mia molto volontà. Tempo. Spazio. Sono il vostro supervisore e parte per me." The words left lips long since dead, only having the illusion of being alive for the stolen blood flowing through his decayed veins. Repeatedly those words left his lips, floating out into the air, soaking up the power he had gathered, stealing the souls he had sent on their way to the afterlife from the loving embrace of some god, or the damning torture of another, and twisted the essence of the souls to the spell that was being wrought.

It was time.

Time for time and space to be broken like the maidenhead of a girl in love, abused by said man, and forgotten when what was wanted was gotten. Left to mend and heal by itself. Regan cared not for the well-being of the universe, and he never did. Nor would he ever. It was just not in his scope of what mattered.

And so all of those in this realm, sleeping or waking, living or dying, they would feel it. The immense power. The ripping if reality itself. The molding of such an immense power. The unholiness of it all. This spot, well off into the forest, it would never be the same again. There would be stories for times to come, of ghosts, of ancient whispers, of a pale man with pale hair, dancing in the moonlight. A man that had been there once, and had moved on.

Before that pale man, truly there on that evening, not the echo that would haunt the glade for centuries to come, opened a portal that was not a portal. It was a rip in the fabric of the universe, the wall of the realm that seperated it from chaos, the chaos and void which seperated this realm from others. And in that swirling miasma of everything and nothing, the pathway formed. It formed by the souls that were sacrificed and kept here to be forever taken out of the cycle of life. Such were the demands of this unholy power, and such was he glad to pay the price with life not his own.

The souls meshed together, all screaming in unison against the binding power, and formed a bridge. A bridge across the chaos, protection from its careless touch. A touch that could kill even him. The man that had cheated death for so long, and would continue to do so. He stole life, and lived off of that ill-gotten gain. And he was good at it, so very good.

From this world, he stepped through the rent of reality, and onto the bridge. His eyes of keen mercury were kept focused far ahead, at the reality he was to travel to. At the reality he belonged in. And so he walked forward, onto the bridge, and along it. He stepped upon the essence of the souls of the people he had killed, all of them screaming for his death. The death that would never come, the soul that would never be collected by the universal reaper. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever.

With every step, the archaic clothes, or clothes that would be considered archaic in the reality he was moving towards, changed. They changed into clothes that would be more fitting. The loose poet's shirt of virginal white changed to a button-up shirt of dark, midnight blue, left open. The edges were tugged at by the winds of chaos, the tails flowing behind him as he walked. The pants changed to leather pants, hugging tight at his angular hips. The worn boots became modern steel-toed boots. And his hair, once silver, faded to it's original color, that of a dark chocolate brown. The power that had once wrought it to the fine silver strands wore out, tuckered away of all it's strength. But his eyes, those remained the flashing, searching silver. Nothing would ever change that.

And so he walked on. Walked on to the future. To his future.

With a few more steps taken across infinity and the void of nothing, he came to the wall of this new reality, and his hands raised before his chest, moving forward. Fingers long and pale, gaunt and strong, plunged violently through the wall of life itself, piercing through with a blood-curdling bout of silence. And then he ripped. And then he tore. And then he parted the gaping wound, the wound that bled not blood, but the essence of reality.

He stepped through, and he gazed upon the world he had left so long ago.

"I am home."

::December 22, 2002 10:13 AM

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