Prologue: The Empty Ballrooms

Sometimes you could still hear the echoes there, in the rooms. There would be just the slightest movement of the translucent silk curtains and, before you know it, you would be looking behind it for the shadow you could've sworn you've seen. In the quiet moments, if you listen very carefully, you could hear the echoes of laughter, music and, of course, the screams. The desperate wails of the last revellers have long since faded to nothing more than waking dreams, but the looks of shock and horror on their faces as their skin broke into bloody red rash would be something that haunts me forever. The wails may be nothing more than waking dreams, but it's still a reminder.

A reminder of what I've been through.

Years have passed. Or have they? Time is a foreign concept in this new dimension, in this strange... state of being. I am not alive. How can I be? The plague that ravaged my home and my face is something that I could not have survived.

I may not be alive, but the cold embrace of death is something I will never face.

Death is a strange entity. I have never seen their face, nor any scrap of skin. That cloak made sure of that. That twisting, dark material, too rough to be silk, but too soft and smooth to be anything else, dancing in the invisible breeze as though it has a mind of its own. I have felt it before, not on my own bare skin, of course, but the terrible chill that seeped through my dress was enough to tell me that I would not wish for the experience. They never spoke much, even when being shouted at they would just sit or stand there, in silence, never as much as moving an inch. They would only wait for the wronged person to stop, and then leave quietly. At times I would gaze into that dark void of where their face should be and wonder: what right does this scrap of reality hold, to take lives. I was still young then, and new to this duty.

I have not felt that way for years.

They say life is a difficult journey. My parents were especially strict in this regard, always reminding me about how unforgiving life was. But how can they have said that, if they've never met her? She is beautiful. I cannot find any other word for it. Life, or rather, the personification of it, was probably the only woman I have ever met that I would ever describe as beautiful. Life isn't flawless, the slight glint in her eyes always suggested otherwise. Those eyes were always changing colour, from the soft shades of forest green to black tunnels leading to nowhere and everywhere. She always insisted on dressing in greens and blues. But no one could say she didn't favour the metallic colours, there always seems to be some lining of gold or silver adorning her dresses. I couldn't remember much about her features; she never took on a single form either. I suppose the mother should never favour one child over another, and such is life. Fair, but not always kind.

At times, Life could be the gentlest being in the cosmos. Ever so quick to forgive anyone but herself. I loved her most at those times, whatever colour her eyes were, they always shined with compassion with always the softest smile on her lips. Kindness always seemed to come so naturally to her, almost to the point where I became jealous. Beauty, both kinds never came to me naturally. Yes, Life could be amazing, but that is not accounting for her other moods. When she was angry, you could feel her wrath from miles off. Her little pet project, Earth, could become almost hellish, hurricanes and volcanos practically tearing the poor planet apart. Poor Earth, the small blue-eyed girl would always come sobbing into our ballrooms, leaping into the nearest person's arms, be it robotic or some poor imitation of humanity. Life would turn into the nearest corridor, most likely to take out her anger on the nearest entity. When the mood ended, she would always apologise most profusely afterwards, sometimes she wouldn't forgive herself for millennia.

Time doesn't always heal.

I know him, the clockwork-human enigma that calls himself that. Time is a sarcastic one. But when he was thinking hard about some mystery or another, you could literally see the gears turning in his head. His head, the bronze oval on which his face lay, had the top cut off, so that you could see the gears turning in where his brain should've been. They were being propelled by some unknown force of magic, if the glittering aura around them were of any indication. Time was an android made from bronze, if I had to guess, I'd say he was just another broken model left in the corner of the clock smith's storeroom. But who am I to judge, I am just another being, suspended in between life and death. He may be sarcastic, but he only ever means well, at least that's what we think. He was a heartbreaker in his time.

Luna is the real heartbreak.

The moon goddess is possibly the most open out of us all. The honest, all-seeing moon. Maybe it was just because she has seen the outcomes of keeping secrets. Or is it because you have felt it yourself, Luna? Luna is, after all, the wise one, the leading figure out of all of us. Strict, but fair, understanding, but never foolish. She, like me, started out as mortal, maybe it was because of that did she refuse to let go of truth. Luna is a far better person than I will ever be. We have heard rumours of course, about how she was once an astronaut, studying the physical manifestation of the silver dome she now inhabits. But I was once a countess, so I won't be the one to judge her past life.

Luna was more carefree, once, at least that's what they told me. When she was younger and newer to her role, she would journey back to the time in which they still believed in gods and magic, searching for adventure. Maybe she wouldn't've stopped if it weren't for her looks. Dark skin, silver eyes and hair the perfect shade of striking white, it was no wonder that so many mortals fell for her. They say she left because she grew up, I say she left because she couldn't have taken another doomed romance.

Yes indeed, the beings that inhabit this strange space are strange, but that is not accounting from what we have seen from this observatory.

The First Cycle was a violent one. The multiverse was neither stable enough nor ready to experience such a surge of energy. The tears in this fabric have had catastrophic consequences for each of Life's children. Monsters battled against each other; humanity showed their worst depths. Demons were raised from trillions of different hells to fight against the angels from just as many heavens. Gods and other gods clashed; sorcerers rallied on different sides. In the end, the universes perished, leaving only a new canvas to paint upon.

At first, we were afraid, after all, who would want to watch them all destroy each other once again. But in the end, the writers spoke, millions of pens were put to paper and once again, the multiverse exploded with flashes of bright lights. This time, it was even more powerful.

Alternate timelines branched off in almost all of them, some leading to better futures and others leading down dark roads. The same souls were reborn in different times. Time once told me about a universe where a few souls in fact, not only found out about Those Who Watch, but also managed to contact their creator. It is, indeed, a glorious time to be here, but this time is ending. The timer Time has started in the Beginning is counting down to its final years. We have managed to subdue the severity of this Cycle, but unless the magic we have imposed upon the crossroads work, there would be no more hope for us.

The Manor is our last hope, do not let us down.

The variants of this one universe are most possibly the most fascinating, but there is one connecting feature with all of them: they are all killers.

Hi,

This is my first fanfiction. I have read plenty of these before, but I have never written anything. Constructive criticism is welcome!

Thanks for bothering to read this,

Mallory