The darkness dissolved, giving way to something else—something that shouldn’t have made sense, yet somehow did. The world twisted like a fever dream, like an artist had started painting, then gave up halfway, smearing wet colors in a frenzied rush. The ground beneath my feet flickered—cobblestones, soft grass, polished marble—each surface changing with every blink, like a deck of shuffled cards. Colors bled together: reds, blues, yellows, all shifting like liquid, swirling and blending like a kaleidoscope caught mid-turn. I felt unmoored, as if gravity itself had loosened its grip on me, like it was merely a suggestion rather than a rule.
I blinked, my senses reeling, and my gaze fixed on a figure poised atop a pile of shattered clocks. The clocks ticked in a maddening, disjointed chorus, each out of sync with the others, creating an orchestra of chaos.
The figure’s attire was a masterpiece of contradiction, crafted from fabrics that shimmered and shift with the light. A long, tailored coat, midnight black, clung to his shoulders with precise cuts and sharp lapels, yet the hem flared out in jagged, untamed edges. Beneath it, a deep crimson vest embroidered with swirling patterns in gold caught the eye, the designs dancing like fire in motion. His shirt, ivory and smooth as moonlight, had a high collar that framed his neck with an almost regal precision, but the cuffs spilled into dramatic, flared ends, untamed and unpredictable.
His trousers were fitted, charcoal grey with faint streaks of iridescent thread running through them, catching hints of green and violet in their wake. High boots of supple leather reached to his knees, each adorned with straps and silver buckles that gleamed like tiny stars. A belt slung loosely at his waist bore intricate carvings of vines and thorns, a blend of nature’s beauty and its menace.
Draped across his shoulders was a half-cape of shadowy fabric, its surface alive with embroidered constellations, the stars flickering in and out of existence with his every step. The edges of the cape were jagged and irregular, torn by the passing of eons. Together, the ensemble made him seem both a noble lord of a forgotten era and a chaotic force of nature, striding effortlessly between worlds of order and madness.
His hair was a halo of unruly blond, framing a face with eyes that didn’t match—one blue, one green—both seeing too much, as if they peered through me and into something deeper. He moved with an unearthly fluidity, his gloved fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air, as though he could pluck notes from the ether and command them to dance. A knowing smile played on his lips, both playful and cruel.
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“Am I… am I dead?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper in the topsy-turvy void.
The figure laughed, a sound like shattered glass catching a golden light—sharp, jagged, strangely beautiful. He tilted his head, studying me like I was something curious that had washed up on an unfamiliar shore.
“Do I look like a cab driver?” he asked, gesturing to his elaborate attire, his voice dripping with dry amusement.
“No, I suppose not,” I muttered, eyeing the sharp lines of his coat and the strange shimmer of his boots. He stepped down from the pile of clocks with a fluid grace, his boots making no sound on the ever-shifting ground beneath us. “No, Jack,” he said, his tone somewhere between bemusement and pity, “you’re not dead yet. Though, not for lack of trying, I’d wager.”
He began to circle me, his gaze appraising, sharp as a scalpel. It wasn’t the kind of look you get from a stranger on the street—it was deeper, like he was peeling back layers, studying what lay beneath my skin. His eyes narrowed, the judgment tempered with a hint of curiosity, like he couldn’t decide if I was a masterpiece or a mistake.
“So, what are you, then?” I asked, meeting his gaze, though the question felt feeble in the face of his presence.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, the clocks surrounding us shuddered, their faces spinning wildly before melting, their metal limbs stretching and twisting into something new. The gears groaned and clicked as they reformed into an arched bridge that climbed into the sky, each step shimmering like polished obsidian under moonlight.
“What is, but a form?” he said finally, his voice layered with something ancient. “A form requires existence. And existence… requires belonging to your world. I do not. So, a better question might be: how am I?”
“Great,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Another cryptic Eternal.”
“Walk with me, Jack,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips.
I didn’t have a choice; the ground shifted beneath me, sweeping me forward. The bridge arched high into the sky, carrying me upward alongside him, with an infinity of realities swirling far below. My stomach twisted violently, the vertigo hitting like a punch.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I muttered, clutching my gut.
He glanced at me, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “If you defend your limits, you’ll always be bound by them, Jack.” He gave me another look. “But perhaps something a touch more… familiar might suit you better.”
And with a blink, the impossible melted away, replaced by reality—or at least, something close enough.