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There was no time between the speeches and meetings. Between prayers and orders and inspections. No matter how much was delegated, more continued to fall to his plate. His trust was a limited, tenuous thing, but he was only one man and there was only so much time in a day. He couldn't do it all without assistance.
And some of them saw and tried to alleviate his burdens before he could voice them. Mysterious disappearances and accidental deaths. Brutal torture and murder. But was it faith? Did they believe, truly believe? Or was it something else left entirely unspoken?
-
There was no time as sweat poured from his brow in the tiny, smoke filled forge. The strikes of the hammer fell like thunder, like a metronome. Red hot steel slowly took shape under watchful eyes. A tool of violence and death. An instrument of beauty which would sing arias of mortality in the right hands. A carefully designed commission which he trusted no one else to get right. That no one else would get right.
By the roaring fire, just a touch closer than most would find comfortable, stood another figure who silently waited with fingers flexed in anticipation.
-
There was no time as he poured over documents by the light of a flickering candle. Like a hydra every time he replied to a letter two more seemed to take its place. Even as fingers carded through his hair, as nails scratched at his scalp, he couldn't turn his attention away. Plans wouldn't make themselves— pawns had to be maneuvered, orders had to be given. Promises to make and threats to keep.
He closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, as he relaxed into the touch, before he threw himself back into his work with single-minded focus.
-
There was no time even as the music flowed around him. A seven note melody that felt like needles and broken glass, like a memory. It raised the hairs along his arms even as he desperately tried to grasp the tenuous threads of conversation. It was intolerable— the heat, the humidity, and the vacuous people who surrounded him. He didn't want to be there, but such was the price of business.
Liquid words flowed like poison into expectant ears. Lives bought and bartered. Ended with a smile in exchange for a stack of coins and a glass of fine whiskey.
-
There was no time as he put pen to parchment, even as sleep called with its siren song to lure him toward a bed already occupied.
Rest is for the weak.
Carefully annotated blueprints and schematics were given new life under a steady hand. If it existed it would be improved through meticulous research and careful testing. And if it didn't exist, he would find a way. He would bend the world to his whims, cut away the extraneous pieces and hammer what was left into a shape of his own choosing.
The impossible would become possible in his hands.
-
There was no time as his quarrel slammed through the chest of the scoundrel who thought to double cross him. A slow and painful death in a filthy alley.
Fitting.
There was an irritated grumble behind him; apparently his actions weren't clean enough or his form was sloppy. Or maybe his shadow was merely upset that their assistance wasn't needed. But he was capable of wrapping up his own loose ends. It wasn't often he had to get his own hands dirty, but messages had to be sent. Some lines couldn't be crossed and no one was allowed to forget.
-
There was no time, but he had to be patient. Hurry up and wait. Others demanded his attention on their own schedule, at their own leisure. Others more important than him. For now.
One day, maybe even one day soon, they would be the ones who answered to him. Who listened to his whims, waited at his beck and call. Who spoke with deference and held fear in their eyes. But for now he had to be patient. Be polite. Pleasantries and saccharine smiles.
Yes, sir.
No, sir.
My associate is about to put a knife in your back, sir.
-
There was no time, even as his stomach rumbled, as the acid hunger burned his throat and nausea crept in. Water. Coffee. An endless chain of hand-rolled cigarettes. That was all anyone needed, right?
Right.
At his elbow sat a bowl of cold soup with a thick coagulated film across its surface.
When did that get there?
As he reached for what should have been his last cigarette he instead found six in the small box, each rolled a little tighter than his typical preference and with a little bit too much tobacco. Each clearly made by someone else's hand.
-
There was no time to sleep, to eat, to breathe.
To be.
A machine of perpetual motion fueled by spite and hatred. By a desire to never be seen as weak again. By a desire to prove without a doubt that he was as clever as he had always claimed. The world would be enlightened— unified by his law, his ideals. Nothing breeds unity better than fear. There was room for nothing else. No rest, no kindness, no sentimentality. No gentle hands. Paint the world in stark blacks and whites.
He would bring the light and make the shadows stronger.
-
There was no time, and yet he was so tired. The midnight oil was gone. The candle had been burnt at both ends for far too long. His usual precise handwriting descended rapidly into an unsteady scrawl. The water in his glass trembled in time with his shaking hand. He couldn't remember the last time he ate. The last time he slept.
Exhaustion clung to him like a cloak. Like a ghost. Crept into muscle and sinew and bone and he was so tired. He couldn't keep going like this, but he had to keep going. There was no time.