Flash Fiction: Flagon of Time

Rough Draft

Foreward: My first Wattpad post. Hashed out in maybe 30 minutes. Kind of a Horror-Fantasy? Not what I would normally write. But hey, make of it what you will.

On the fifth day of the Christmas celebration, the hall was gathered in a light feast, upon the finish the gentlemen were obliged to dance with the jesters in a charismatic fashion, which normally ended with each noble knight being kicked in the rear. But Timon, the great sorceror, skipped the feast altogether to finish his drink. Indeed, he was taken for a drunkard, and delusional beyond repair, never to be taken seriously by anyone but his grandmother for the many years since the incident upon which he was rumored to have hypnotized his lover, who then threw herself off of a cliff. Unfortunately for the blind Lady Justice, the young sprite of a woman was never found alive to be ordered to testify either way. According to the laws set down by the court, he was not at fault, for there was not a great deal of faith either way regarding whether he was truly capable of performing any feat of magic, as the majority of men considered the practice balderdash, according to the sign of the times, where growing skepticism had been showing its hide all over that part of the continent. Such would happen where the moors are unmoored, the parks paved and trails hardly hiding from the sun by way of leaves overhead, and to hear of fear of spirits and wandering souls was not so inspired by the senses becoming primal by the demands of nature. So this, then, that Timon was set apart from his peers in a manner of a most derogative and inflammatory nature, and together by the odd mannerisms, the swaying of his frame, the physical, actual form in the hither and dither ungracefully, it was not hard for the wisest among them to accuse him of the odd drink, for there were those others who were so compelled as well by a stark lack of temperance, that he would be lumped in with these unworthies.

But actually, "to finish one's drink" meant a different sort of thing to Timon today, who in secret was attempting a recipe for the Flagon of Time, a powerful elixir that grants eternal life. Confined to his study, his work since the time of his lover's death had reached a close. He had produced the drink and gobbled it down, setting then off to the feast.

He walked down the steps of the tower at a pleasant pace. Today was going to go well, for he had hopefully thwarted death. A minute passed and he sped up his step, happy to feel the effects of the Flagon participating in his system. But he didn't reach the feast-hall after an hour, though he did not slow down from there.

The stairs were neverending. Frustrated he punched a brick out of the wall. It was night, for the sky was dark and the moon was illumed. He continued, and the next hour down the steps, he punched the wall again. This time, his hand started to bleed. He saw the sun rising. Immediately, he felt a surging pain in his hand, where the bones were fragmented. A large knife entered the hole he had formed and hacked the dead fist off his arm. He saw it fall through the floor, deep, deep into the tower, with a repetitive "tunk, tunk, tunk" until it landed into water. He felt something move behind him, and screamed. The water had evaporated, and his hand had met the fires of Hell.

The thing behind him lunged into his back and into his arm, and faded as he grew another hand. The lantern on the wall was snuffed out and when it turned back on, he was in the feasting hall.

He knew now that the nightmare was over. He sauntered to his meal more lively than ever, greeted his oldest associates with a smile, a few of whom were glad to see him in such spirits. But huddled at the corner of the table was an adversary, who was suddenly offended by his behavior, and could not contain himself as the feast went on, where eventually, the number of people paying attention to him grew. Ladies doted on him, children showed him doodles, for which he encouraged them. And now, the king was looking on, and was about to gesture to him when the Satan aside reached the peak of his rage.

"You bastard! This knife," which he raised, "was in a pork roast not a minute ago. Now you get yours." He threw it into Timon's chest.

Our hero bled buckets. He cried. He healed. He felt generally horrible after, but he recovered well. His assailant was executed by the severing of his head, which screamed and swore eternally in the name of Timon, the King, every God he had heard of, not to mention an obscure playwright who still goes by the name of L'Muldur. Thus ends my tale.