Travelers of the Ages, a Supernatural fanfic

Summary: Creatures of the night, and travelers throughout the ages. However, their immortality is unnatural, and offends Time itself. A twisted path leads from light to darkness, with no hope of escape.

Warning: Will have slightly-graphic horror scenes, some suggestive areas, and and overrall rawness.

This is a new reach for me - I'm trying for something darker, morbid, and genuinely horrid. Like I said, 'rawness'. Something that's been ripped from the guts of my creative side and forced onto the page kicking and screaming. Not to say it's bad - just not all happy and nice. But plesae give it a chance, because there will be some humor - my trademark.

Please review if you read. Comments, ideas, suggestions, and helpful criticism welcome.

She didn’t know what had come over her, prompting her to draw so urgently, but was rather pleased at the outcome by the time she had completed the portrait. Sitting back in her chair, the sixteen year-old gazed at the picture in surprise, not having realized what she had drawn. The white paper was almost completely blacked with charcoal out except for some edges, outlining the two people who stared back at her. It was devoid of any color except black, yet seemed to have been colored in like most portraits. A man, with rather plain but pleasing features, gazed at her with ancient-looking eyes, while a young woman with an expression of despair seemed to plead for release.

A little disturbed by how real they seemed to look, Diane went to place the paper into a desk drawer, but something stopped her from opening the drawer. Frowning to herself, she silently pinned it to her wall, observing it for a moment before turning her head as someone knocked on her door.

“Can I come in?” her mother called.

“Yeah,” she replied, and her eyes flickered back to the people as her mother came in. Even though they were in the same drawing, they didn’t seem to fit together, and gave the impression they had ended up in the same portrait by accident.

“My goodness, that’s a rather ghastly picture, Diane,” her mother said, a bit startled at the bleakness of the drawing. “Are you feeling all right? You don’t usually draw things this…depressing.”

“No, it just came to me,” Diane shrugged. “Inspiration, I guess.”

“From what? Dracula?” the tall woman asked, but shook her head. “All right, if you say so. It’s well done, just so – they both look like they want to cry,” she commented, and Diane took another look. Indeed, you could almost see the young woman’s tears overflowing, and the man hiding his face in his hands. “Very lifelike,” her mother said quietly, a bit shaken. “Anyway, dinner’s ready, so come on and eat something. You can finish drawing after. Did you finish all your homework?”

“Yes, I did,” the girl nodded. She turned her back to the drawing as she followed her mother out of her bedroom, rolled her shoulders when an uncomfortable pricking grew between her shoulder blades.

Two days passed quietly, without anything out of the ordinary happening to Diane. On the third day the teenager found herself bidding them a good-bye when she left for school that morning, and had greeted the people when she returned before she could help herself. She also realized she had wished them a good night before she turned the lights off that night, and a shiver had run down her spine at the thought. She had gotten herself out of bed and attempted to remove the drawing from the wall, but the air seemed to become thick when she reached for it, stopping her progress cold. After several tries she had given up, attributing the strange phenomena to her tired mind, and gone to bed.

On the fourth day, Diane had caught herself daydreaming of the two figures, wondering who they were and what kind of lives they had lived. Both faces suggested they had seen more than they would have liked too, and much more than any normal being could ever hope to experience. To the teenager, the man’s face seemed to suggest a certain cynicism of the whole business of life, as one who had given up on trying to understand it or have it make any sense whatsoever to him. However, the woman wore the expression of one who had experienced more sorrow than anyone should have to, one who had lived lifetimes of suffering and had only grown brittle and eventually broken under the weight of living.

On the fifth day, she had been finishing up her schoolwork when she glanced up at the paper, only to see that it seemed to have aged years, the white edges yellowed and crinkling. The black charcoal had darkened even further, but had lost its sheen and was a dull pitch color to her eyes.

Diane had rubbed her eyes and gratefully let her father come in, hoping it was just a trick of the light.

“Oh, I see you tried that aging process I told you about,” he commented, going over her schoolwork, and she looked at him in surprise.

“Hm?”

“It looks very good. Like a real old portrait, you know? You could probably sell it for quite a bit of money – that’s some talent you have,” he told her, grinning proudly. He glanced again at the drawing, and his smile faltered a bit. “Except…maybe the next one, you could…not have it so…quite so gothic. I’m sure there’s a market for things like that, but…it’s fairly disturbing to look at. Like they’d rather no one see ‘em.”

Diane had stared hard at the drawing after her father had left, but could see no signs that her brother had tampered with it during the day. The aged appearance seemed entirely natural – except there was no possible way, considering not that much time had passed.

“I wonder if I trapped a soul inside?” Diane wondered late that night, having heard the superstition that taking someone’s picture could trap their soul inside. The portrait had grown more lifelike with each passing day, and she found it hard to believe she had drawn it, knowing she wasn’t that good yet. Growing sleepy, she began to fancy that tormented souls had visited her in her dreams, and she had anchored them to this world by drawing their likenesses in a portrait.

“I’m just being silly,” she shrugged, her dirty-blond hair just hanging over her shoulders while her gray eyes tried to avoid looking at them. She believed in spirits and things like that, but didn’t really think anything of her drawing except that it was eerily realistic. She sat up in her bed and reached over to turn off the light when the paper suddenly moved, and she froze in shock. Knowing there was no breeze, the teenager remained still, her gaze locked on the drawing. The man in the portrait slowly seemed to grow and shift somehow, and appeared on the rug before the drawing, one moment on paper and the next a rather-tall lifelike figure.

His figure was as human as her own, and his hair faded to white as his eyes became a bright amber color. His face was the same, somehow appearing to be rather young despite his hair and the look in his eyes, and he looked around for a moment before turning to the picture, which now was only of the young woman. His clothing was like nothing Diane had ever seen before, appearing to be of a timeless fashion, yet not of any period in particular.

“Hmm…that was a rather good likeness of myself, if I must say so,” he said quietly, as if speaking to himself. His voice seemed to flow over Diane, full of wisdom and age but sounding nothing like the old men’s voices she had ever heard. “And a very accurate portrait of Charlotte, unfortunately,” he sighed, and then turned to Diane when a frightened squeak escaped her.

“Wha…”

“Oh, I apologize for frightening you,” he said quickly, bowing slightly to her. “I am Time.”

“T-Time?” Diane repeated incredulously, leaning forward despite herself.

“Yes, and I would appreciate it if you refrained from calling me ‘Father’ Time,” the figure informed her, a slight frown creasing his brow. “I am not the father of anything, and it’s the stupidest name I’ve ever had the misfortune of being attributed to me. I’ve heard that song from Charlotte’s Web as well, and I can assure you that I have never met ‘Mother Earth’, assuming she even exists.”

“You’re…really Time?” Diane asked weakly, overcome with shock. “I mean…the picture…you…”

“Ah, yes, I appreciate you doing such a good job on me,” he nodded. “Most artists seem to prefer portraying me as a senile, bearded old man. Hmph.”

“But…I drew…”

“Yes, I implanted that thought inside your head,” Time said, nodding once more at the picture as if in respect. “I can do more than be Time, you know. But I can only appear as a human like you, in a fashion, if I have a physical intermediary, so I had you draw this picture for me. And the fact that you drew Charlotte confirms the reason I am here.”

“Reason?” Diane managed, slowly lowering the blankets she had raised as a shield and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, wearing a tank top and pajama pants. The idea that Time was real, and was in her bedroom, was beyond unbelievable, but everything seemed to happen so quickly she never really had a chance to not accept it was real.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself – I’ll come to you,” he told her, noticing her movements, and waved his hand absently. Before she had time to process his words, he was sitting beside her. His palms rested on his knees steadily, but his gaze continued to observe the portrait.

“Okay…so you’re Time…”

“I’m quite glad you’re not one of those silly little girls,” he said suddenly, smiling tightly. Although he seemed solid enough, like other human beings, something in his aura wasn’t quite right, like a photograph that become slightly blurred in development. “The others have become quite frightened and I had to leave before I could even introduce myself.”

“Others?”

“I think that comes later,” he mused, and then sighed.

“So…why are you here? I mean, why have me draw some picture. And who’s Charlotte?” Diane asked, the words tumbling out of her mouth so fast her tongue could barely keep up.

“I am here to tell you a story, actually,” Time confided, and smiled again at her blank look. “Yes, I know, it sounds preposterous, but for now, it can only be the story. When I’m finished I can tell you the entire reason I’m here.”

“What about Charlotte?” the girl persisted, and a dark look crossed his face momentarily before it turned blank, like a poker player who realizes he has a bad hand and decides to bluff his way to a win.

“Your other two questions will be answered in the story, Diane,” the apparition assured her. “Although, who Charlotte is will be much sooner than why I’m sitting here telling you this story.”

“Is it about Charlotte, then?” Diane guessed, and he paused before nodding slightly.

“Yes…I suppose it is. She’s in it, at least. Although, there are many important persons in this tale.”

“It’s real, isn’t it?” she stated. “I mean, it’s not just some story – whatever you’re going to tell me, it really happened.”

“And still is, in a way,” Time agreed, and laughed awkwardly at her confused expression. “Forgive me – being Time has a strange effect on my…perception of events, you know. But this is a very long story, believe me, and it’ll take some time to tell.”

“But, you’re Time, so…”

“I could just manipulate our Time, yes, but that has far-reaching consequences,” he told her. “It’s much more complicated than the stories make it seem to be – whatever bastards thought them up really do deserve to be trapped in time like their stupid stories are. That would teach them.”

Diane stared at the figure, unsure what to say, but he continued after a brief pause as if he hadn’t had said anything at all.

“Well, I suppose I should begin, right,” he agreed with himself, nodding firmly and turning a bit to face her. “This story begins in…let me think for a minute…in your time, approximately 1320, after Christ years. The day, though…I remember the day quite well. It was March fifth…”

Please review!

Return to Top