Seventh Hour

Marcus is a fixture in the corner, brooding and playing with fire. No one speaks to him; it is less the witch fire that dances on his fingertips, and more the way he glares, as though he is perfectly willing to put his fist into the face of anyone who looks at him, witch fire and all.

No one looks at him, not even the barmaid who brings him his drink. No one looks, but everyone sees the rows of pinprick scars that line his face. Some of them even know what those scars mean- but it isn't their place to ask what a Priest of the Hours is doing in a run-down tavern in the slums of Ur.

People talk, though. People always talk. Some say he is on the run from something, that he is hiding. Those that recognize the scars and the witch fire only laugh. An Hour Priest has nothing to hide from, nothing to fear. The very idea of it is almost blasphemy.

Others say he is waiting for something, for someone. A woman, maybe; he has that look to him, pain gathered in the corners of his eyes. Those that know the old traditions laugh at that, too; what use does an Hour Priest have for women? Their only loves are the flames and the clock.

A man, then, someone suggests. A friend, an enemy. Death, perhaps- isn't that who we all wait for, at the end of the Lost Hour? That seems more likely, though the Clock hasn't struck in years, and no one remembers anything of the Hours beyond basest superstition.

Marcus sits in the corner and plays with fire, unconcerned by the speculation. If anyone were to ask- not that anyone would dare, not when the witch fire settles in a way that is too familiar for comfort around his hair- he would simply say he is enjoying the drink and the atmosphere. It's as true a lie as any, he thinks.

He knows what he is waiting for. It is neither man nor woman, friend or enemy. It is not death, because he has met death far too often to bother waiting for such a persistent acquaintence.

There is a tiny, barred window in his little corner; it showcases the barest slice of sky. He imagines, on days when he doesn't just come to brood over the fire and the beer, that if he watches the window long enough, he'll see the moon rise.

It never does.
---------

I never write Marcus. Yeesh. In fact, I don't think I've ever done a Marcus fragment before. Seventh Hour doesn't fragment well. (It doesn't, in fact, do anything well, except maybe give me horrible splitting headaches.)

Really, it's unlikely that anyone would recognize him as an Hour Priest by all of his multiple piercing scars...the fact that he can set things on fire with his brain is more of a tip off. Oh, well. There's a reason I've sort of given up on this universe...