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A chill wind blew through St Germain's coat and for the second time this (hour, minute, day) he had to make the unaccustomed gesture of wrapping it more closely around him, though it made no real difference at all. It was always cold now.
He had to admit, as he paced in endless rounds around the clock tower, he was impressed. He could see all the flow of time, cause and effect interplaying in pre-destined motion, but he had still been taken quite unawares by that monk's cleverness. Though now that he had seen the method he wasn't as surprised as he had been. Zead was as far out of time as he himself was.
The endless winter was what had really tipped him off. The greenery shrunk and hiding, the stone made sharp and chill...all very obvious. Spring would bring life and decay, but for as long as he was here it would stay frozen forever at the height of glory, before it had all fallen to rust and disrepair. He almost appreciated the irony.
He turned the corner, and started walking along the southward side, which he had affectionately named summer. Around and around like the hands of a clock, counting away the seasons in endless winter. It was thirty-two footsteps to a side if he paced it out carefully and slowly along the outside, much less if he walked with his accustomed speed, and none at all to slide along the ground at will.
St. Germain walked in unaccustomed silence. He wasn't unused to speaking to himself, but it was almost too quiet to do that now. The only sounds were the endless grinding and ticking of the tower and the quieter counterpoint of his footsteps shaving off seconds of eternity. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two and around to fall.
He had wanted to just stop by this time and see what he could. It was one of the more interesting battles, with several unknown factors and parts he couldn't see even in the perfect sight of retrospect. Isaac, Hector, Zead, and the constantly looming curse...their destinies were all somewhat murky. To observe was to change, but if the change occurred in the past then it was as it had always been, then the observation canceled. Possibly. But it was all over and done with and fallen to dust anyway.
Winter again and the wind blew in recognition, ruffling his coattails. A cane would've been nice here, tapping out an extra staccato against the ground in a counting rhythm, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, back in time and forward again. He had wanted to see Dracula as well; the man was still well-admired among his folk back home. Though not many knew of what he had become. Cronqvist the Wise was spoken of as a pioneer, Cronqvist the Mad in whispers in the dark, and Cronqvist the Devil not at all. He had been forced to go back quite a bit in time to make the connection himself.
Thirty-two, turn, one and into spring, thirty-two more across cold and broken stone. Still, it wasn't too bad. Saint Germain liked to think of himself as a fundamental optimist, even knowing all he did. Faith in the morrow was a tricky thing when you could see it stretching forward just the same as today, but he tried his best. And in the end there was some comfort in inevitability. The hands would sweep away cobwebs and the spiders would make more, Dracula would rise and fight the Belmonts and fall again, people would live and people would die and it would all come around again.
Some found it depressing. St. Germain was not one of them.
Around the corner and summer again, and with the wind blowing at his back he could almost think he wasn't cold. Heat of the passion of summer and sometimes he feared there would be too much in the man and he was too late. After all, Hector hadn't listened to any of his warnings. He slipped his pocketwatch out and checked the time, twenty-two footsteps and ten more to fall but the hands already pointed to Too Late. He tilted his head and checked the other one, though he didn't expect it to have changed; the minute hand was almost to the millennium hand but the eon hand was still far away. And then it was over and he was in fall.
The sky was overcast, but neither rain nor snow fell. Always winter and never Christmas, always the full moon and never the new, shining in thirty-two skies. Nothing changed here. It might have been nice if there was someone else around, being out of the time-stream had advantages. All the examples of cause and effect and stepping on butterflies faded away, and things were real again. If they had ever been there in the first place. He was forbidden more by habit and caution than any evidence, but that was no reason to go around messing things up. The universe wasn't something you could put back in order after breaking it.
He finished tapping his way around fall and back into winter, the first side and the renewal of the year, if they ever got there. St. Germain stopped and rested against the wall, tired of walking around and around for the who knows how many-th time this (minute, day, hour). Something would happen, though not even he could see what yet. He had picked up patience somewhere along the line, and this was an opportunity to use it, at last. He settled himself more comfortably and listened to the hands of the clock chip off more and more seconds from the endless now. He could wait.