The day appeared to be of the usual monotony to a lone man sitting on his porch. Moss grew on the cracked wood of his deck and foliage claimed the front rim of his thatched roof. It hung over the edge like how his skin hung on his face- listless and sagging under faded eyes. He had seated himself in a rudely crafted chair, while in a drab over worn tunic and trousers. He was barefoot and the left arm-hole of his tunic was empty.

His gaze fell on a puddle as it rested on the road before him. It reflected the sun peering through the clouds perfectly, like polished steel; like a blade. Memories were welling up in his mind, but the puddle splashed as a small boy was stomping through it and his thoughts scattered. The boy’s mom beside him reached over and swatted him for getting water on her dress. It was bright and green unlike the dark pine trees that always loomed over their homes. Her hair shone lustrously in the sun which also shined on her smooth skin and vibrant lips. Her eyes appeared to be bright and warm even as she scolded the boy. There was a certain grace to her that he could not describe; could not have- only remember. She took the boy’s hand and they continued up the road. He expelled a hoarse sigh and settled back into his chair.

Oh well.

He picked up a bottle of bourbon by his leg. His eyes swept over the village, over crude small houses along a narrow dirt trail they called “The road”, until he found the watchman. The watchman was young, clad in chain mail with a steel sword on his waist and, through his helmet, looked into a telescope. He was watching the sky. He would stare at this young watchman any day he stood at his post atop the roof of the inn.

How many battles had this young man seen? How many people had this young man slain? Suddenly, it was darker- he looked up and saw the clouds had overcome the sun. What if it happened, what if It came today?  Maybe It… Maybe It would… A strident blare intruded and scattered his mind.

The watchman was blowing into his horn. The mother grabbed her son and dashed back down the road for her home, scrambling for shelter with the other villagers. However, he remained where he was, for the years had made him wise. He knew what happens when It comes. The mother was shoved out of the way and crashed to the ground with her child. They were bathed in a stream of flame from above. They burned together, the mother still embracing her child in her arms.

It screamed a shrill piercing cry and hot blood ran down from all of their ears. He took a drink. A house was crushed to wreckage under Its weight as it landed. An elderly man stood paralyzed, pale-faced, he had looked directly at It. He was taken and ripped apart in an instant. Blood painted the road. The watchman charged at Its flank sword in hand, but Its tail snapped at him. His body crumpled into the dirt. Several homes were lit ablaze and soon screams were audible from outside. Some made it out of their burning homes and scurried about the road like rodents. They were washed away in a great torrent of flame.

The fires raged into an inferno as they devoured the village. Smoke rose above the feast, melding into the cloud darkened sky. The village, built with the devoted labor of the villagers; built for the inherent sake of survival and prosperity; built for the purpose of delivering breath into the vacuum of existence; now was purposelessly immolating on the primal terms of a desireless god. The trees caught fire, but there would be other trees. The clouds would still pass and the sun would still shine. All of the voices were silenced, the only sound was the crackling of the fires as they feed on the village.

He was still on his porch.

His house had been built separate from the others. He still remained in his chair. And though his bourbon was gone, he waited patiently. He was still, watching the fire, until It came before him. The stench of sulfur filled his nose, moist with sweat. Smoke emitted from It and danced around his face. Its image was mostly concealed in shadow, though some of Its scales glistened from the incandescence of the flames. He was taken captive, however, by Its eyes. They were green burning orbs with a sharp chasm of darkness down the center. He was lost in this darkness searching for meaning; for a soul, but saw only an abyss. He shot up from his chair with his fist clenched. A vein on his head tightened and sweat was beading down from his scowling brow. His voice came hoarse and loud out of his trembling throat.

“Do it!” He commanded.

It was still.

“Do it, damn you!” He screamed.

It remained still.

Then, there was rain. It hissed, then unfurled Its leathery wings. They spanned over his home adorning vibrant and intricate designs, like two enormous stained glass windows, as they glistened iridescently in the flame. With a single stroke of Its wings it was airborne and a great gust of wind whirled underneath It. He watched It disappear beyond the light of the fires, a shadow melding into a dark sky. The fires died under the rain, leaving ash to float aimlessly. He expelled a hoarse sigh and settled back into his chair. The road, blood painted, was littered with scorched corpses, flesh torn asunder and disembodied limbs. Rain washed away the blood from the road and maggots began to feed. It could come tomorrow; It could have came yesterday.