#calling this ashes to dust because i am unoriginal and also it fits :3

[spottedenchants]

for @flashhwing and this heart-hurting community-generated au

~

Twelve minutes. The sun shines, as it never does, here.

The sun shines, as it always does, now. Eleven minutes. The funny thing about history, that humorless thing, is how it repeats.

This once was meant as a statement on the folly of those arrogant enough to dissociate themselves from their pasts.

This, Caleb thought. This, he reminded himself.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Ten minutes. The procession proceeds, the ceremony continues.

One step, two steps, three steps, four steps, six steps, twelve steps.

Two banners down, the carrier will skid their foot and their flag will sway out of line- there. Nine minutes. Individual lifelines may tangle, part, snarl, knot, end.

But the world continues on.

It’s supposed to continue on.

It’s supposed to continue. Eight minutes. The acting mage breaks rank to approach the center.

Left, right, left, right, settle, turn, shift between feet and settle once more. Same rhythm.

Caleb doesn’t bother listening to the accusations. Old news. Seven minutes. For one unforgivable, it is not enough to relive the worst of oneself in nightmare.

No, that punishment is served by the cycle of history, tasting of bitter ash on the tongue, dry as his eyes, cheeks, lips, throat. Six minutes. The accused is paraded, dressed up in jewelry and chain as though allowed to retain dignity and defiance.

Caleb does not let his heart catch. Not now. Now, he focuses.

Speech goes on. Five minutes. Ah, there’s the tell, right on cue. An earring sways with the faintest twitch.

The only hint of plain terror. Four minutes. The rest of the accused’s mask rests stainless. It won’t hold through the pain.

It never does. Three minutes. Caleb wishes he could lose count of each line folded into that grimace, then shoves the thought away.

Sentiments are for later. Two minutes. Now, he observes, collects, remembers. One minute. Every last shift in the air, every last echo of footsteps, every last uncaring snuffle and bird call and shuffle of fabric. Thirty seconds. The position and momentum of every person, plant, creature, mote of current dust. Ten seconds. Maybe there will be a difference.

Maybe this will make a difference, next time.

Remembering everything has to be enough. Five seconds. The incantation begins. Two seconds. Caleb grips crescent nails to unfeeling flesh in this instant; Counterspell will be counterproductive to this study. One second. Lodestones make magnets make compasses mark direction mark guidance.

A lodestar does much the same, though loftily, detached.

For what does sunlight care about life? And, in sunlight, Essek dies. The screamed breeze paints its fractal of dust, the same pattern it always does, and it is over. The crowd disperses, as it does. Caleb stays, as he has. Now, he watches, he watches, he watches. Night returns. The final countdown ticks: twelve hours left to remember, and then the day begins again.