TIME-ZONE! Civil War Kronicles, Part 8

Time passed, its inexorable onslaught unseen by mere mortals, yet felt in the hearts of all who chose to dwell within its domain. But these domains are not all the same, and time works in a different way in each and every one. And so, as Grant watched the final moments of Jefferson and Hamilton, those beings who were both men and gods, who both harbored some good and evil within their hearts, though the good might have been corrupted, he did not notice as space fragmented around him, as the orb containing all timezones grew and bulged until it could do so no longer and finally burst in an apocalyptic rainbow of fire.
The timezones were scattering, diffusing into the nothingness that surrounded, and one by one ceasing to exist.
The ground began to fade away, and Grant ran, searching desperately for something that would not be swallowed up by the indescribable void filled with creatures lurking beyond the spheres, those others, the old ones, the brethren of Yog-Sothoth. Suddenly he saw it, his timezone. He did not know how he knew, just that he could sense it, but it was shrinking rapidly. He made a leap for it but fell short, just managing to hold onto it with his hand. A rush of sounds, colors, tastes, smells, and feelings filled his mind and disoriented him, some of which he recognized, some of which only served to confuse him more. He was taking in all the time and space of his world, and it was too much for him. Flailing, his other arm struck out at another timezone and managed to grab it. His mind almost overloaded with sensory information, with his last bit of strength he brought the two timezones together and they began to fuse. And then there was nothing. No Grant, no timezones, no space or time as we know of it. All was silent excepting for the shivering bristling of those beyond the spheres.

Grant opened his eyes. The world was a dirty-brownish gray, a vast expanse of drabness blandly stretching on to beiger horizons. Yet there was something familiar in all this, something he could not quite grasp. Suddenly he realized it. He was sitting in his tent. Or rather, was sprawled on the floor of tent. Of course, he thought. How did he not recognize the view he had gazed upon so many times as he lay in a drunken stupor. But the feeling of relief that had run up to greet him with childlike glee just as quickly stopped and made faces at him, mischeviously just out of reach. Something was wrong, and the waves of realization crashed and resounded again for Grant. And as the young man rushed into his tent, Grant knew exactly what he would say: "Sir! We've just taken Vicksburg!" Grant mouthed along with the messenger. How could this be? The endless cycle of timezones had been broken. Why had he gone back in time?
“Um, sir? General Grant? Are you okay?” the young man looked geniunely worried. “I’ll...i’ll go get a nurse for you.” He began to trip his way out of the tent, but Grant grunted, and the messenger stopped.
“There’s no need, son,” said Grant, “I’m fine, I was just resting.”
“On the ground?”
“Yes. It is much softer than my bed,” replied Grant with a look that meant there would be no more questions.
“Oh. Ok. It’s just. I think the men would like a speech.”
Grant knew he had heard those words before. He turned to face his mirror, and his face replied. Well, his face from twenty years ago. But that meant that this was twenty years ago. This was 1863. Grant sat down in a slouch. “Tell the men that I am indisposed at the moment, but I shall talk with them shortly.” He didn’t turn around to see the messenger leave, but just sat there staring in the mirror, waiting for what he knewe would happen next. And like clockwork, the second messenger burst in. He started to speak, but Grant butted in, not even bothering to face the man: “I know what you are going to say. We’ve won at Gettysburg. This is the turning point of the war. Nobody will ever remember Vicksburg. You can go now.”
But the man remained where he was. And Grant felt a true, deep dread within his heart. He stood up to face the man and saw downcast sadness onto which his pallid countenance was weakly gripping.
“No General. There was no battle. The rebels. They’ve razed Washington. They say they’re going to do the same to New York. And.” He paused. But Grant had stopped listening. This wasn’t the true past. He hadn’t fixed anything. It was happening all over again. Goddammit! And then he messenger spoke again, this time so softly that it was as if a soft breeze had become him. “And. And the President is dead. He fell defending the White House. I have more news but. But I’ll leave them here.”
“Yes. Do that,” Grant murmured, as the messenger retreated. He sat on the ground, staring at nothing.

(OP: Nate, March 26 2008)