This is a one-shot, sort of prologue-y thing that I might make a story of. It's not really supposed to make sense, so if you're confused that's fine X). The quality probably isn't too good, since I just randomly started writing anything I thought of and didn't stop 'till the end, but tell me what you think!
She is running.
She isn't quite sure why, just that she is running. Forward, looking straight ahead (never back, because, oh, that hurts), her booted feet hitting the ground in a frantic rhythm thump thump thump and she can hear her heartbeat in her ears, so loud, and it feels absolutely brilliant.
She laughs, carefree in a way that she knows she hasn't felt in a while, so unrestrained and free, wild. She should be scared, but she isn't. There isn't time to feel afraid, to even think beyond the pounding beat of her footsteps, of the drumbeat of her heart, of the screams and whispers that sang and screeched within her head.
And beneath it all, there it is. The clock, the ever counting clock, ticking and tocking away, heedless of the rest of existence. The world, the worlds, are moving, round and round beneath her feet.
She can see it all, can feel it all, Can see lives and death sand the dying of a star and the birth of a species, all there, echoing and yelling in her mind, demanding attention listen to me! I'm important! Me!
It is amazing and terrifying and so so lonely, and she is sobbing, broken and heavy under the weight of all that is real and unreal. No one else, no one will understand or can understand. There is no one there, anyway, no one except the billions screaming behind her eyes.
She is grinning then, moods switching and shifting between bliss and the deepest sadness, burning anger and joyful happiness. Because that is what she is, the Watcher, always there, always seeing knowing and being, forever and ever and ever.
And is should be terrible, but it isn't. Because everything she once was is gone and dead, but then again, it never really began, did it? Just one lonely girl and her destiny that she fought and denied, until the very end.
Then it changed. They were stupid, oh so stupid, those silly Wizards and their silly war. She found them, the ring and the cloak and the wand, but she did not save them. You are pathetic, she thinks, save yourselves.
But they didn't. They cried and begged and scorned and raged, but she would not fight for them.
A last attempt, a trick by a defeated old man and his defeated little army. They gave her power (and she already had so much, too much), with their silly spell that would allow her to destroy their enemy (not hers) and it worked, but it didn't work.
Too much, too much power too many lives and oh, I can see them. Billions of threads, of lives and deaths all in front of her, vibrant golds separated by the Black. Maybe if they'd stopped there, it would've been fine.
But they didn't.
And then she saw Time, and Time saw her, and Death sang and Life cried and the universe was destroyed without anyone (anything anywhere) even realizing what was happening.
And she was gone.
They all die, eventually. Empires and scavengers, heroes and villains, planets and stars, everything and everyone and everywhere that ever was or ever will be will eventually be gone, less than echoes in time. They think they're so important, so vital. They think they'll live forever, immortalized in the memories of those who come after, that, after everything else is gone, they will continue, until the very end.
But they won't. They aren't important, nor vital or needed. The universe will not stop for them, will not grieve their passing. And they will join the whispers, one day.
She won't. No, she will keep going, for she is. There is no not her, only her. She is more than fact, more than legend or idea or thought or instinct. She is more than a constant, more than time and space and everything that is. And when kingdoms have crumbled and the world is ripped apart at the seems, she will be there. Watching and listening.
Listening to the Shattered Whispers.