Young Writers Society

Chapter 1

To die, to sleep; to sleep - perchance to dream... Isn't that what he had always wished for? To find away to be rid of this permanent awareness? Yet, here he was, the same as always - minus a field mouse or two and some straw. He hadn't changed a bit. Why not? Why hadn't he changed? Was it fear, perhaps? Could it be unwillingness? Did he simply not remember how? Whatever the reason, no matter the cause, today was the day it did change. Today was the day the ticking began – whether he was ready for it or not.

He hadn't noticed it at first, but he should have. The foreign sound should have been known immediately in a place as silent as this. It wasn't until it had grown louder and more persistent that he had recognized something was amiss. With the effort needed to move after endless measurements of time, he managed to lift his head in the direction of the sound.

At first he didn't know what to make of the sound. It was odd, yes, but it certainly didn't seem threatening. It wasn't until he felt something inside of him, just to the left of where his second to top button was placed, that he felt fear. There was no movement outside of time, for movement required time and here there was none. It then occurred to him that sound, and surely ticking could be naught but a sound, required time to travel, to form, to simply be. Nothing could be without time.

Except that he had been for as long as he could remember.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tick, tock.

The Scarecrow couldn't seem to take his focus from the ticking noise. It was unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was the only thing he had every heard before.

One moment, then two passed before his trance was slowly broken. Without realizing it the awestruck being began to wonder if perhaps he, too could make a sound. He hadn't the slightest clue how to do it, but he could remember the beings on other planets creating sound by moving. Only, he hardly knew how to move more than his head - and even that was a stretch.

With these new thoughts whirring in his brain and the movement to the left of his buttons, the ticking sound seemed to grow louder, almost as if it were encouraging him to try. Breathing deeply, “I can do that?” he began to will his arm to move.

At first nothing happened, his arm, both arms, remained motionless in their positions on their pole, but then slowly, oh ever so slowly, one of his fingers twitched. Perhaps he could do this after all.

~-~-~-~

Across the nonexistent existing plane, another being watched as the Scarecrow came to life for the first time. It had taken the creature exactly one hour, forty-six minutes, thirteen seconds, and sixty-eight milliseconds to twitch his fingers. That was one hour, forty-five minutes, sixteen seconds, and forty-two milliseconds too long for this secretive creature’s liking.

Without hesitating the man, rather like a Scarecrow in build himself, stood gracefully and began to cross the field. As he did so it began to change for the first time in a very, very long while.

~-~-~-~

A map skittered on the ground, one foot, then two, before the wind caught it and carried it up into the air. The paper it was printed on was in a sorry state. It was tattered and torn, battered like the city it depicted – like the man it was intercepted by. Jonathan Fornell was running once again. If it wasn’t from the cops, it was from the inmates. If it wasn’t from the inmates it was from the horrors trapped in his mind. If Jonathan Fornell wasn’t running, he was screaming. He wasn’t always heard, though. In a city like this, you could scream in the middle of the street and no one would do anything except put extra space between them and you.

The wind kicked up. It pushed harder against the piece of paper. It whistled and roared. It tor through the thin material of the man’s asylum uniform. Finally it wrenched the map from him, sending it on its way.

If fate were kind that would have been the last obstacle hindering his escape. The men chasing him were not far behind. Fate was not kind, a fact that became obvious when he took his next turn.

Then Jonathan was running again. His lungs were burning. His right knee was nothing but pain. It throbbed in time with his heart, pulsing in time to his terrified thoughts. Nothing was safe. Not a tree, not a shadowed overhang, not a single breath in his lungs. His mind was being held hostage by what he had seen.

Jonathan’s flight led him through the back alleys of the city, through the slums, past the whore houses. He ran past the city’s boundaries into the wood beyond.

He had returned to the city because it was all he had known. He knew the ways of the people, and the sins that hid in the dark. He even knew the false governing system. He had known it all, but now he knew it differently. His city had turned on him. It had stripped him of his title. It had locked him away to rot. The city was dead to him.

The forest was no more kind to him than the city. Roots grabbed at his feet. Branches tore at his hair. Drops of sticky red liquid fell from the trees and stained his uniform.

He saw none of this, felt none of this, as he ran. His mind was in another part of the wood.

Jonathan Fornell, the reaper of death, the bringer of fear. It had been perfect until he had been discovered, dragged away from his experiment and treated like one of the people he had used as a lab rat; he had been thrown from grace.

He had escaped, though. He had escaped and he had run. He ran until he reached the point of the cliff. It was intelligence that had allowed him to get away.

It was fear that pushed him over the cliff's edge.

~-~-~-~

“Scarecrow,” spoke a voice. It was soft like the feeling of dandelion fluff against your fingertips, but it carried like the roar of a lion across an empty plain.

The sound, so foreign to the Scarecrow’s ears, startled him. He had only managed to begin to move his hands, he was not yet ready to face whatever it was that had decided it was time to come for him. Frantically he looked for the source of the noise, only to find that it originated from behind him. Panic began to well in the being’s chest as he struggled to move more quickly, to control his body like the other worldly creatures he had seen so long (not so long?) ago.

“Do resist struggling, it will only hinder your progress further.” It was almost as if the person speaking were amused at his distress, as if they gained joy from his struggle.

If the Scarecrow could have spoken, he would have thrown scathing words of frustration at the man who taunted him. As it were, he could only continue to bring the life back into his limbs at an agonizingly slow rate.

Hardly three seconds had passed before an impatient sigh was heard from behind hind him, followed closely by the soft tread of footsteps.

“You,” came the voice, though it was now attached to a startling pale, yet somehow still attractive, face, “are the slowest being I have ever met in my travels of the various planes, universes, and times that have stricken my fancy.” A smile graced the man’s face revealing perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. It failed to reach his eyes.

Their eyes met briefly, like the grayest smoke meeting the bluest sky, and the scarecrow knew that he was in trouble.

“Allow me to assist you,” the turner offered in a tone that said it wasn’t up for debate.

Before even a breath could be breathed the pale skinned, dark haired male reached out and brushed long fingers over each of the scarecrow’s limbs. At first nothing happened, but then, as if the mysterious man had injected something into his limbs, the scarecrow felt a slight tingling begin spreading throughout him.

As the tingling grew in intensity the ropes binding him to his post seemed to melt away, leaving him to fall to his knees on the dry earth below.

“Give it a minute, you’ll be able to move freely and in full range as soon as the pins and needles feeling fades away.”

The scarecrow nodded his straw filled head and waited. Exactly one minute later, not that the scarecrow knew that, the tingling faded and he found himself able to flex the gloves that served as hands. The second he did so he froze. With a nervous glance to the male still looming over him, he reached over with his left hand and pulled his right glove off. A few stray pieces of straw fluttered to the ground as the fabric was removed, revealing an unmistakably human hand beneath.

“How-“ he began astonished.

“There was a time when you were not a scarecrow, Mr. Zypher. I am very good at retrieving time, be it past or future. Welcome back to the 19th century.”

A moment of silence passed between the two before the scarecrow, now titled as “Mr. Zypher”, gathered his thoughts and pushed himself shakily to his feet.

“Who are you?” The question was hesitant, almost as if he were afraid to know the true answer.

The chemistry in the air changed with the question. The pale man’s expression went from being one of cool and slightly impatient, to excited and child like in milliseconds.

“Oh I love it when they ask that question. That is my favorite question. I love to answer it.” He paused to clear his throat and straighten out his suit coat; Zypher hadn’t even noticed how formally the man was dressed until just then.

“I,” he began in an overenthusiastic tone, “am the keeper of all time. I am the ferry operator of the clock face. I can pass through time like a stone passes through water, and then I can seal it shut so that you couldn’t even hope to follow. I am a being of unlikely creation and astonishing beauty. In short,” he paused to make sure the scarecrow-recently-turned-human was still paying attention, “I am the last remaining Turner.”

“That is… fascinating,” The scarecrow began in a confused tone. “What do I call you, though?”

If a facial expression could mirror heartbreak, the look on the over enthusiastic time lord’s face would be the most convincing version of it.

“All of that, and the only thing you can think of is “What do I call you?” Did my enthusiasm do nothing for you? Are you not entertained by me?” A dangerous note fell into place in the man’s voice causing the human scarecrow to stand very slowly and take a hesitant step backwards.

A moment of pure terror passed through the air as both men stood silently, the turner staring at the scarecrow in anger, the scarecrow trying his best to look as apologetic as possible without whimpering in fear.

“You may call me Azrael,” he said finally, letting his anger go almost as quickly as it had risen. “You,” he added after a moment’s pause, “were called Lucian. Lucian Abraxus Zypher.”

Silence fell between them like a curtain. Lucian stood there marveling at the other man, wondering why he knew so much about who he used to be. Lucian Abraxus Zypher, his name was complex. He loved how it sounded in his head. Azrael didn’t sound too bad either.

A moment passed with Lucian wrapped in his thoughts and Azrael staring off at the empty plains of straw as if remembering something from long ago.

“We must go,” Azrael said softly, offering no explanation as his head suddenly snapped around to face Lucian.

Their eyes locked and an energy passed between them electrifying and energizing, leaving Lucian with nothing to do but nod silently. A small smirk played around the corners of Azrael’s pale lips as he reached out and closed his fingers around the ex-scarecrow’s slim wrist.

“Fleternai,” he said softly. There was a large flash of light, a whirling of wind, and then, just as if they had never existed on this plane, they were gone.