Dresden Files / Bob / #24. Indifference
Title: Test of Time
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, young Harry
Prompt: 24. Indifference
Word Count: 373
Rating: G
Summary: What does Time mean to a dead and damned sorcerer?
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
After the first three centuries, Time held very little meaning for Hrothbert of Bainbridge. Its passage was just another burden that he must bear with the curse that bound him to his desiccated skull. He long ago ceased marking the hours, days, and years as such. They were simply currents in a vast river and he a sunken stone, immovable even as the ebb and flow swept over and beyond him.
If he noted its passing at all it was only with regard to events that directly affected the succession of masters that he served. Wizard feuds and duels, shifts of power within the High Council , and conflicts with the vampire and Fairy courts were like seasons in and of themselves; ever shifting but always destined to come full circle and repeat themselves. So it went and would ever be.
Or so he had thought.
Standing before the high windows, the ghost looked through the double leaded glass at the garden beyond. Summer's green had long since given way to the amber and russet of autumn, turning oak and elm into gaily attired ladies enjoying one last fling before the dark drear of winter.
Just when he was certain that Time held no more surprises, Fate set out to prove him wrong. Having already endured eight hundred years of hell as a glorified magical artifact, Hrothbert was suddenly acutely aware of the passing of every season, every day, every hour.
It was the twenty-second day of November. Without once glancing at the grandfather clock in the room behind him, he knew it to be twelve minutes past the hour. He had, in fact, been waiting all day for this very moment.
The distant thud of a slamming door and the hurried slap of soft-soled shoes on hardwood brought a fleeting smile to the spectral sorcerer's pale, lean features.
"Bob!" exclaimed a breathless voice from the study doorway. "I'm sorry I'm-"
"-twelve minutes late," he concluded sternly. He heard a shift in the clock's monotonous ticking and amended, "Correction. Thirteen minutes. I presume you have another excellent reason for your tardiness." Hrothbert turned to confront the teenager who, all unknowing, had converted Time into something precious. "Was she blonde or brunette?"
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, young Harry
Prompt: 24. Indifference
Word Count: 373
Rating: G
Summary: What does Time mean to a dead and damned sorcerer?
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
After the first three centuries, Time held very little meaning for Hrothbert of Bainbridge. Its passage was just another burden that he must bear with the curse that bound him to his desiccated skull. He long ago ceased marking the hours, days, and years as such. They were simply currents in a vast river and he a sunken stone, immovable even as the ebb and flow swept over and beyond him.
If he noted its passing at all it was only with regard to events that directly affected the succession of masters that he served. Wizard feuds and duels, shifts of power within the High Council , and conflicts with the vampire and Fairy courts were like seasons in and of themselves; ever shifting but always destined to come full circle and repeat themselves. So it went and would ever be.
Or so he had thought.
Standing before the high windows, the ghost looked through the double leaded glass at the garden beyond. Summer's green had long since given way to the amber and russet of autumn, turning oak and elm into gaily attired ladies enjoying one last fling before the dark drear of winter.
Just when he was certain that Time held no more surprises, Fate set out to prove him wrong. Having already endured eight hundred years of hell as a glorified magical artifact, Hrothbert was suddenly acutely aware of the passing of every season, every day, every hour.
It was the twenty-second day of November. Without once glancing at the grandfather clock in the room behind him, he knew it to be twelve minutes past the hour. He had, in fact, been waiting all day for this very moment.
The distant thud of a slamming door and the hurried slap of soft-soled shoes on hardwood brought a fleeting smile to the spectral sorcerer's pale, lean features.
"Bob!" exclaimed a breathless voice from the study doorway. "I'm sorry I'm-"
"-twelve minutes late," he concluded sternly. He heard a shift in the clock's monotonous ticking and amended, "Correction. Thirteen minutes. I presume you have another excellent reason for your tardiness." Hrothbert turned to confront the teenager who, all unknowing, had converted Time into something precious. "Was she blonde or brunette?"