Hands of Time

He was being watched. He couldn’t see them, surrounded as he was by the vast crowds around him, but he could feel a pair of eyes staring at him. Sweat trickled down his spine as the hair on his neck stood up. Unthinkingly, he stretched out his hands. The black gloves he wore flexed as he did so, the leather old and worn. He tucked his arms back beneath the folds of his cloak, hands once more hidden from sight. Boot clad feet stepping gingerly over the snow covered cobblestones, he swiveled his head to and fro, seeking for his watcher. His ears strained and eyes peeled, he sought for his observer, however his efforts were foiled.

“Hey! You!” his attention was gained by a call from his right. He turned to see a bearded face smiling at him from behind a wooden cart brimming with steaming sweets. “Would you like to buy some sugarbread fresh from the oven?” The beaming salesman held out a pastry basted in cinnamon, maple syrup, and mounds of sugar. As icy winds soared above them, the glorious scents of the sugary treasures whiffed past his nose. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. Eyeing the treat, indecision warred within him briefly. Idly, he reached for his money pouch on his belt….and then he shook his head. 

“Thank you, but I can’t,” he told the vendor before turning and going on his way. With narrowed eyes he crept through the vast numbers of people crowding the streets of Colomba, shrinking beneath his black cloak. His shoulders hunched down as frozen daggers sliced through his clothes to stab into his flesh. His gloved hands clasped in front of his naval together, as if in prayer. As he walked, he danced around and through the citizenry partaking in the celebrations all around. It was the Winter Festival, lasting the entire week of the Winter Solstice. Vendors lined the sides of the streets, selling anything from cheap trinkets and mementos to warm foods and sweets to various types of drink to be found. The shops were bustling with last minute shoppers, and the bars, taverns, and every other eating establishment were filled to the brim. Lanterns were strung up on wires all across the city, casting their golden glows into the dark winter night, all the while festival goers went about, clad in the warmest garments they had to ward off the cold. His fellow burghers went about in woolen layers whilst the nobility-both native and foreign-went about in fur lined clothing, the finest that coin could buy. Seeing the drunken revelry and hearing the festive music brought a low ache to his heart. Unbidden, he felt a frown grow on his face. His inky black hair dipped low into his face. His gray scarf flapped in the winter wind. Without warning a warm body slammed into him. His boots lost their grip on the iced stone, and he found himself falling onto his side until a pair of long arms grabbed his own and hoisted him up with a grunt. 

“Heeeeeey, watch it man,” the voice of the person who bumped into him slurred. He finally turned and felt the blood drain from his face. His hands once more clasped themselves together in front of his. Before him, a young woman about his age stood, a bottle of drink in a gloved hand. Gray eyes peered out at him from beneath a beaver skin hat. His eyes were drawn to her garment, a great bearskin coat that wrapped itself around a feminine body. A bright red scarf was wrapped around a pale neck. 

“Err, sorry?” he shrugged and made to leave, but before he could a hand reached out and snagged a wrist. The man froze. 

“Where are you-hic-going?” The woman demanded. Past the drunken slur, there was a light burr, he thought, unnoticeable if you were not paying attention. A restless feeling began to rise the longer her hand held him. 

“Uhh, could you, please, let me go?” He asked. A cold shiver ran through him. He was being watched again. At some point he must have lost his pursuer in the crowd, and now he was found. He had to get away. He tugged at his arm, however the intoxicated grip only strengthened. He frowned. 

“Please let me go.” The woman considered his request for less then a second. 

“No.” She spun on her heel and started walking, dragging him as she did so. His hands were pulled apart in the process, and he brought his spare hand to his chest, hand turned into a fist. 

“I do not consent to this,” he said, head turning around. 

“I don’t care,” his captor replied idly, neatly passing through the rabble and dragging him with her. Heat roared in his chest. 

“I don’t want to go with you, so let me go!” Just as he was going to make a break for it, the woman turned her head to stare him dead in the eye. 

“And where are you going off to, if not with me? Going to meet up with friends or family? Or mayhaps a lover,” she mused. She gave him a sardonic smirk. Or maybe you are going home to sit in the dark and drink all by yourself.” Her smirk widened as he hunched low and broke eye contact. Heat rose in his cheeks. 

“Hey,” he looked up. “The names Catelyn, call me Cat.” He gulped and scanned the area one last time. He stepped up close to Catelyn and lowered his head to her ear. 

“My name is Kaltenbrun.” From the corner of his eye he saw her raise an eyebrow at his name. 

“Interesting name,” Catelyn commented idly. “I’ll call you Kalten.” They fell into silence as they walked. After a certain point Kalten noticed they were entering the parts of Colomba known as the Old City, where the majority of the city’s aristocracy lived. Colomba had been founded nearly four centuries ago by Conquistadors from Umanar who had defeated the native Moricanian tribesmen in battle and established a naval fort with which to harass Kearlic and Arcanian shipping. Umanar lost Colomba after a fleet of Kearlic Vikings descended on the city and ransacked it after a month-long siege, during which the Kearls allied with Moricanian insurgents to seize the city. The Kearls would later give the city to the Arcanian Empire as part of the dowry when Princess Grimhilda Karla of Kearlin married the Emperor of the time, Claudius Ryunosuke the Great. A century ago, the Governor of the city revolted against Imperial Rule and declared independence from the Empire and assumed the title of Grand Duke. From then on, Colomba remained an independent city-state, although it was common knowledge that the Arcanian Empire could reconquer the city at any time, and that Colomba’s independence came only at Arcanian leisure. 

Passing through streets filled with finely dressed nobles in their winter finery, Kalten felt apprehension worm its way through his bones. His muscles remained tense as he felt the invisible darts of his stalker follow him. As if to comfort him, Catelyn turned and gave him a grin. 

“Don’t worry, nothing bad is going to happen,” she declared before taking a swing from her bottle. Kalten closed his eyes, despair washing over him. 

“Why would you say that?” He asked, voice quivering. “Now something will happen.” Catelyn snorted and muttered into her scarf. Kalten jerked back in shock. 

“What did you just say?” Catelyn smiled. 

“Oh, nothing,” she replied. Kalten side eyed her. Once more he thought about trying to break free, however by now they had left the parts of the city he was familiar with, and if he tried to leave he would likely get lost (and get found by his stalker). So, with little option, Kalten continued to follow Catelyn, albeit with more wariness. The phrase he had heard continually echoed through his head. 

Eventually, they made their way to an old manor that sat right between the Old Fortress and the harbor. Based on its design and location, it appeared to be an old Umanean villa that had survived the Kearlic sack of the city. From within the brightly lit home, the sounds of music, dancing, and other forms of revelry spilled out into the streets. From within open doors came a wide stream of people in various states of dress and inebriation. Kalten’s anxiety spiked. Ignoring him, Catelyn yanked him up a small staircase that led to a patio and through the open doors, casually shoulder checking several drunkards as she passed. Immediately the two were blanketed in warm air born of the roaring fires that blazed in fireplaces throughout the villa.  In all of the main rooms party goers danced wild jigs to the merry tunes played by colorfully dressed minstrels. Various kinds of meats-from game to livestock to fish-were laid side by side with fresh fruits and other such delicacies, all the while fine drink flowed like water. All over the villa, intricately woven tapestries could be seen along the walls. Gazing at such decadent luxuries, Kalten’s patience evaporated. With a twist he yanked his tensed arm from Catelyn’s grasp and crossed his arms.

“Who the hell are you and why did you bring me here?” He demanded. Catelyn cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“I told you, my name’s Catelyn. And I brought you here to have fun.” She downed the rest of her bottle and set it on a small table laden with cups and glasses. Reaching up to clasp a cloaked shoulder, she steered Kalten through the throngs of people making merry throughout the home. Coming to a side room, Catelyn pulled Kalten towards a table that bore several casks of drink. Snagging two wooden mugs by the handles, she removed her hand to open the taps. As the cups filled up, Catelyn peered up at Kalten.

“So, Kalten,” she began, “Tell me about yourself.” Kalten blinked. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Tell me about yourself.” Catelyn took a mug and thrust it into his hands. Kalten fumbled with the mug, amber fluid sloshing over the rim to land on his gloves. Kalten finally managed to grip the handle, inwardly cursing for his wet gloves. Catelyn noticed and quirked her head. 

“You know you can relax, right?” Kalten shook his head. No, he couldn’t relax. He had to maintain control. He had to leave. He had to to-

A pair of hands on his shoulders shook him out of spiraling thoughts. 

“Snap out of it!” The mug still in his hands was raised to his lips. “Here, drink.” Lacking anything else to do Kalten sipped from the alcoholic drink, tasting honey on his tongue. He stared at Catelyn over the rim. 

“Feeling better?” Wordlessly he nodded. Catelyn gave a smile full of teeth and raised her own vessel. “Good to hear. Cheers!” She took a pull from her cup, sighing as she brought it down. Something across the room caught her eye. Turning to the side, she once more snagged Kalten’s arm and pulled him in her wake. The sudden maneuver caused some of Kalten’s beverage to spill out onto his glove one more. He felt a scowl crinkle along his face. Through yet more people Catelyn pulled him. Having had enough, Kalten made to reclaim his arm, but before he could Catelyn’s yell startled him into submission. 

“Varian you stuck up prick, there you are!” She pulled Kalten over to her side and pointed at him with a half empty mug. “Look what I’ve found for you?” Kalten glared at her, the strain giving him a headache. Inhaling, he tried to organize his thoughts. 

“Err, hello, my name is Kal..ten….brun.” Kalten trailed off as he finally saw who he was talking to. Studying him were a pair of sapphire orbs, set in a golden face framed with fiery curls. Though he stood only half a head taller, Varian managed to tower over Kalten. His magenta robes were embroidered with silver trim, and the collar of his leaf green cloak was lined with rabbit fur. Hanging from a leather belt was a fur hat made in  the Taridian and Arcanian style, nxt to a bejeweled dagger in an olive sheath. Peering down at him, Varian’s lips formed into a smirk. 

“Hello there,” silken butter washed over Kalten. Blood rushed to his cheeks as warmth grew beneath his cloak. He rubbed his gloved hands together, looking everywhere but in front of him. The cool touch of bare skin chilled his body as they brought him face to face with an arrogant visage. Varian brought him closer, closer than was appropriate. 

“Has anyone ever told you what  beautiful eyes you have?” He purred, his breath ghosting across Kalten’s countenance. In the back of Kalten’s eyes a young woman leaned down with a tearful expression. In his ears he dimly recalled the last words he heard from her. “You have such beautiful eyes.” The mug he was holding suddenly dropped from nerveless fingers to spill onto the tiled floor. With a jerk of his head Kalten broke contact and in a single fluid motion turned on his heel and walked towards the door. Behind him he vaguely heard Varian and Catelyn arguing, however he did not care. He had tarried long enough. 

Sliding through the vast hordes of people, he swiftly left the villa and returned to a world of cold, snow, and darkness. His eyes scanned the area, seeking out the least drunk citizens in the crowd. Alas, with everyone at some level of drunk, he found himself creeping through the sides of the city streets, leaving the Old City behind to enter the harbor. By now the merchants and sundry had either retired or gone to partake of the city festivities, leaving the harbor area bereft of people. That was not a good thing, in hindsight. 

“Hands up.” A light poke with cold steel to his neck halted Kalten in his tracks. Slowly, he brought his hands up. Warm breath bathed the back of his scarf clad neck in warm air that was soon blown away by the night’s wind. 

“Those are some nice clothes you have there, for a burgher. Must be nice having coin to spare on good clothes.” His assailant’s breath reeked of wine. Kalten tensed as he felt a rough hand reach beneath his cloak to caress his side. Klaten shivered at the touch. His attacker leaned in closer. “You know, you could do something for me for making me follow you all day.” Kalten’s heart skipped a beat. The knife came closer to his neck. Without warning the other hand whipped out and snatched Kalten’s wrist. 

“Let me see that hand,” the rogue demanded. He dragged Kalten over to a wall and pinned Kalten between him and the wall. He removed the knife just to use both hands to restrain Kalten’s arm and snake over to his hand. Kalten lost his breath. He thrashed about, trying to break free, but he was no match for his attacker’s greater bulk. His blood turned to ice when he felt his glove being removed. 

“No, stop!” Kalten begged, forming a fist to try to stop his garment being removed from his hand. It was in vain, however, for the glove was swiftly removed and cast aside in short order. Tears beaded in his eyes. 

“You don’t know what you are doing!” Kalten cried. His attacker chuckled and brought Kalten’s hand closer to him. The burgher could only watch in horror as his hand was brought to a hooded face. When his pale appendage met rough and patchy skin, Kalten closed his eyes, wishing he could shut his ears. All too well he knew what came next. 

“Huh? What's this?” His attacker wondered, confused. Kalten grimaced as a warm, tingly sensation formed, first in his fingers, then slowly spreading to his palm, then going up his arm and into his chest. Beneath closed eyelids Kalten cried, as his captor stilled and stumbled away from him. The moment he was free Kalten blinked his eyes open, dropping to his knees to find his other glove. After spying it in a small pile of snow, Kalten snatched it and pulled it on, heedless of its condition. A still form lying nearby caught his eyes. Hypnotized,  Kalten haltingly stepped forward and knelt down beside the figure. Their clothes were raggedly and mothworn, worn down by time. Peering up at him was a face wrinkled and wearied, white strands waving in the cold wind. The figure coughed and looked up at him. 

“Your hands,” his attacker whispered in an aged state. “So soft, but so cold.” He stilled, and then his head rolled to the side, eyes sightless. His chest stopped moving at that point. Kalten stayed there, unmoving, blinking away tears. Sorrow and regret turned to anger and fury boiled out with a cry. 

“Damn you, you bastard!” Kalten screamed. Standing up he punched the snow covered ground and glared at the aged corpse. “Damn you, for ignoring me and making me do this to you, damn Catelyn for making me go to that fucking party and damn me for being born!” he fell to his knees. “Damn it all!” 

“Who are you damning again?” Varian’s accented question caused Kalten to spin around in shock. Varian stood next to the deceased man, cloak wrapped around him and hat hiding his curls. Varian pointed at the corpse. 

“And for that matter, what the shit did you do?” Kalten swallowed. His eyes meeting the foreigner’s, Kalten found himself answering truthfully for the first time in years. 

“If I touch something or someone with all five fingers, I can age them prematurely. I can’t control it” Varian’s lower jaw dropped in shock. He then seemed to rally.  

“Do you want to come to the Arcanian Empire and learn to control your power?”

Kalten thought it over. 

“Yes.”