Fate is unpredictable

Chapter Text

Hmmm…

“…”

Kotar drummed "His" fingers against the wooden lectern, "His" gaze fixed on the silver-haired man who had not moved a muscle for what felt like an eternity. The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows behind him, granting a luminous glow to his white robe and his curtain of silver hair.

Kotar slighly shifted "His" weight. The man did not so much as blinked. In fact, he hadn’t been blinking for a while now.

This is ridiculous, Kotar thought, "His" bronze fingers stilling. He's not even blinking. How is he not blinking?

The classroom—if one could call it that—was empty save for the two of them. Kotar had been preparing tomorrow's lesson on the fundamental properties of the Spirit World when this parculiar guest had drifted in, settling onto the bench by the window like a ghost claiming its haunt, then proceeded to do absolutely nothing.

He hadn’t even greeted Kotar, or asked a question, or even made some form of request. He was simply sitting there, on that single lone bench, staring at the Dark Demonic Wolf blankly.

Maybe he's dead, Kotar mused, tilting "His" head slightly. The greyish-white fringe of "His" hair slipped across his forehead. Well, "His" Spirit Body Threads are still there…

"He" cleared "His" throat.

Nothing.

Perhaps if I—

"He" shifted again, this time deliberately letting "His" elbow knock against a stack of reference texts on the lectern. The topmost volume wobbled, teetered, and then settled back into place with a soft thump.

The silver-haired man's grey eyes tracked the movement.

That was all.

Wonderful, Kotar sighed internally. He's aware. He just doesn't care.

As if this saint hadn’t already caused enough trouble. Kotar had initally assumed that as this guy named Ouroboros was from a greater faction of Sun God—that he must be well poised, cold, ruthless, cruel and perhaps even annoying and arrogant. While not all of them were wrong, some more “eccentric” one’s were shattered when the guest in question spent hours on end watching ants march across cobblestones. Had apparently read every record in the palace library—twice—and was now working through them a third time. And almost never spoke unless spoken to, and even then, rarely exceeded ten words.

Then again, the Library isn't really impressive… The Fool's sole angel straightened "His" back. Why is he in my class? He doesn't need to be here. He certainly doesn't seem interested in being here.

"He" folded "His" arms across "His" chest, the greyish-white fabric of "His" own attire rustling softly. "His" black hair, fading to that same pale tone on "His" forehead, caught the light as "He" turned to pace a few steps.

The silver-haired man's eyes followed him.

He's like a cat, Kotar realised. Not a friendly one. He reminds me of that black cat that roams the Town some times and simply stare at people. Well at least this guy isn’t wearing some large hat, unlike that black cat. Where did he even got that hat?

Kotar stopped pacing. The man kept watching.

This is absurd. I'm a teacher. I have things to do. I don't have time for—

He trailed off, glancing at the window where the sunlight had shifted noticeably since this whole ordeal began.

How long have we been doing this?

The silver-haired man shifted slightly on the bench, adjusting his posture with a fluid grace that seemed almost rehearsed. His white robe pooled around him like melted snow.

Kotar felt a muscle twitch beneath "His" mole.

Fine. Fine. If he won't speak, I won't speak. This is a battle of wills now.

"He" sat down on the edge of the lectern, crossed his legs, and stared back. The silver-haired man's grey eyes remained fixed on "Him", unblinking and utterly unreadable.

Just then, Finally, the man blinked. Kotar slowly edged forward, "His" expression breaking into amazement.

But then Ouroboros resumed staring.

That's it, Kotar decided, his resolve crumbling like old parchment. I'm done. I'm just a projection! I'm not equipped for this main body!

"He" closed his eyes and tilted "His" head toward the ceiling, "His" fingers finding the small emblem pinned to "His" collar—a pupil-less eye and the controted lines; represnting secrecy and change. "His" consciousness returned to "His" main body in the Historical Void.

The Fool that doesn’t belong to this era;

The Mysterious Ruler above the Gray Fog;

The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck.

Mr. Fool, "He" thought, as clearly as "He" could manage, I don't ask for much. But I'm trapped in a room with the same guest who won't speak, won't leave, and won't stop staring. I've tried patience. I've tried silence. I've tried my dignity.

"He" paused.

Send help. Please. Preferably one that doesn't involve more staring.

When "His" consciousness returned to "His" projection, "He" opened "His" eyes to discover that Ouroboros had unsurprisingly not moved.

“…”

Even after a while there was no response. Perhaps even the gods had abandoned Kotar.

"He" clicked "His" tongue, "His" jaw tightening. Just as "He" was about to give up completely and approach the Saint, a faint knock could be heard on the door. Such a sudden change in fate! "He" shifted to look at the door, clearing "His" throat as he spoke audibly. “Come in.”

The door slid open slightly to reveal a young woman peaking her head through. Her black hair fell by the side of her soft features as her eyes roamed the place, before settling on Ouroboros. “Mr. I have been searching for you.”

The Sun God's beloved Saint didn't flinch, prompting the girl to add, “Mister Merlin wishes to see you. He said he has something that might be of interest.”

Kotar blinked a bunch of times before a conclusion dawned in "His" mind. Indeed, Mr. Fool likely intervened by sending Merlin to request this strange creature. "He" let out a mental sigh and prayed to the Fool again as a token of gratitude. “You shouldn’t keep him waiting.” "He" made an off-hand comment, gesturing towards the door while gazing at Ouroboros—now finally feeling like directly addressing him.

Ouroboros continued staring.

Not again… thankfully, it was only a slight mental delay. Ouroboros stood up at once, turning his gaze towards the slowly setting sun on the horizon and then towards Arianna while passing a nod towards Kotar. “Okay”. For some reason, Kotar felt a shiver. Not of fear or anything, perhaps simply hearing "His" voice was an event rare enough to bring an involuntary exclamation from even a being "His" age.

Come to think of it, I have been feeling conscious of age. Is this a side-affect of living with Humans? "He" rubbed his chain, knitted "His" brows and lampooned quietly in "His" head. “Ahh teacher I’ll be going with him. Sorry for not asking before.”

“It is quite alright, Arianna.” "He" assumed a solemn tone. “Please take him away.” Ouroboros turned to "Him" with a slight crack in expression as if offended by that remark.

Once the door was closed and their footsteps had gone far away from his vicinity, Kotar finally relaxed the body of "His" human projection and released a deep sigh, and slumped down on "His" seat. At that moment, a thought coursed through "His" mind.

Come to think of it, I could have probably made use of some clever wish here… "He" was beginning to relax when before "He" felt a sharp pain in his buttocks.

“Ouch.” "He" quickly stood back up, clenching "His" buttocks and gritting "His" teeth. "His" head shot back, looking at "His" seat and a drop of sweat trickle from "His" forehead.

There were small pointy spikes on his seat. Spikes made of pure darkness. Kotar didn’t have to think hard to realise who had made these crude barbs.

It seems "He" has pissed a certain Knight.

…

The door clicked shut behind them, and Kotar's muffled yelp faded into the quiet hum of the classroom.

Arianna walked ahead of the Saint. She did not look back to check if Ouroboros followed—she simply knew She could feel his presence at her heels, tailing the girl; in her mind, knowing for sure he would be lost in this "massive" Town Palace otherwise. The corridor stretched before them, lined with oil lamps that had not yet been lit for the evening, their glass chimneys catching the last threads of daylight.

A few people passed, greeting her and she returned the gesture in politeness. Behind her, Ouroboros's grey eyes swept across the walls, the ceilings, the patterned tiles beneath their feet.

Not talkative , Arianna thought, suppressing a sigh. Mr. Merlin did warn me.

They descended the main staircase of the Palace. As they reached the ground floor, a young page nearly dropped his stack of linens when he saw them.

"Ma'am Arianna," he stammered, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touched his knees.

"At ease," she said in a tone bellowing her age, stepping past him.

The page straightened, his eyes darting to the silver-haired trailing behind her.

They emerged from the Palace's eastern gate into Tingen proper. The town had grown into a proper City by now, ever so prospering and ever so larger than before. The main thoroughfare bustled with evening activity. A baker was closing his stall, his apprentice sweeping crumbs from the cobblestones while two urchins debated the merits of stealing a stray loaf versus waiting for the charity distribution at dusk. A blacksmith's hammer rang from somewhere down a side street, its rhythm punctuated by a woman's laughter and a child's shriek of delight.

Arianna stepped around a puddle—leftover from yesterday's rain—and nodded to a fishmonger who was packing his wares into a cart pulled by a donkey with a remarkably patient expression.

"Arianna!" the fishmonger called out. "Will you be needing a cod for the evening meal?"

"Not tonight, Master Herve," she replied. "Perhaps tomorrow."

"Tomorrow it is!"

Behind her, Ouroboros's head turned slightly, tracking a pigeon that had landed on the fishmonger's cart. The bird pecked at a loose scale, then flew off as the donkey flicked its tail.

He watched it until it disappeared over the rooftops.

They passed a group of children playing some game involving a stick and a hoop. One of them—a girl with braids and missing front teeth—waved at Arianna, who waved back.

"The third one," Ouroboros said.

Arianna almost stumbled.

"I'm sorry?"

He did not repeat himself. His grey eyes were fixed on the children, specifically on the smallest boy, who was currently losing the game with spectacular enthusiasm.

"He'll trip," Ouroboros added.

Before Arianna could ask, the boy's foot caught on the hoop. He tumbled forward, rolled once, and landed in a pile of hay that some thoughtful soul had left by the roadside. The other children erupted into laughter. The boy emerged with straw in his hair and a grin on his face, completely unharmed.

Arianna blinked.

Ouroboros had already moved on, his attention now fixed on a woman struggling with a chicken.

The hen—a plump, indignant creature—had apparently decided that its coop was beneath its dignity. It had escaped the woman's grasp and was now darting between the legs of passersby, causing no small amount of chaos. A butcher shouted. A nearby priest stumbled. The chicken, sensing victory, made a break for freedom.

Straight toward Ouroboros.

The Saint did not move neither did he flinch. He glanced towards Arianna’s weary expression and quitely muttered, “It’ll miss.”

The chicken, perhaps sensing something that unnerved even its tiny avian brain or compelled by Fate itself, executed a sharp turn at the last possible moment, launching itself into the air, and sailed clean over Ouroboros's head.

It landed on a cart of cabbages, paused to preen, and was immediately seized by its exasperated owner.

Ouroboros watched the entire sequence with the same expression he might have worn while observing dust motes in a sunbeam.

"Fortunate," he said.

Arianna was stunned too speak. As they walked further, Ouroboros made many predictions on the way—that a woman would come weeping that her husband had been adulterous; a man's mouth getting filled by a flying bird's feces as he chortled; a happy couple suddenly turned hateful as the man stared a little too much at the seamstress's daughter. Though she could see the last one coming, most of these predictions amazed her a little.

Lady Knight can also do something like this… Arianna mused.

The town thinned as they approached its northern edge, the cobblestone shifting into packed earth, the buildings into fields and the marketplace's chatter to the distant lowing of cattle. A few farmers were still toiling the field, their silhouettes dark against the amber sky.

One of them—a broad-shouldered man with arms like tree branches—straightened as they passed and touched the brim of his hat.

"Evening, young Lady."

"Evening, Aldric."

"Who's your friend?" Another nearby asked.

Ouroboros stared at the broad-shouldered farmer, and the latter returned the favour.

After a moment that stretched into awkwardness, Aldric cleared his throat and returned to his ploughing.

"He'll find a prominent silver coin tomorrow," Ouroboros said quietly.

Arianna glanced back at the farmer, then at the Saint. "Is that a prediction or a promise?"

Ouroboros did not answer. His gaze had already drifted to the horizon, where the first hints of evening were beginning to bleed across the sky.

Vanilla flowers, acres of them, swaying in the gentle breeze that swept down from the hills. Their scent was thick and sweet, almost cloying, but not unpleasant. It mixed with the earthiness of the soil and the distant salt tang of the sea.

Arianna breathed deeply, slowing her pace.

Ouroboros matched her, his white robe brushing against the flower stalks. A few petals clung to the fabric. He had only ever been here once. They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of grass and the occasional call of a bird settling in for the night. The crimson slowly rose from the horizons long abandoned by the sun.

Arianna stopped and turned towards Ourobors. Her fingers pointed a simple structure only a couple of meters away—a wooden house. Completely ordinary in its appearance, yet it had a sort of pristine, a sign of good maintenance and of love. The single chimney was currently puffing thin trails of smoke into the evening air. A vegetable plot to one side. A well to the other. A unlit lantern hanging by the door.

"We are here. He must be waiting for you at the back." she said, unnecessarily.

Ouroboros stood beside her, his silver hair catching traces of crimson light. He said nothing and simply nodded. “It is getting dark, I think you can make your way back to Town?” He nodded again. Arianna released a deep sigh. “Then I’ll be taking my leave." She bowed to the man and waved her goodbye.

Ouroboros only watched her briefly mix in the dark of night before turning and walking around the house. She was right. There on the wooden bench that overlooked a small garden, sat a man. His attire was strange—a mixture of colour that was hard to describe for Ouroboros, only the red scarf draped around his neck and the hat adorned with red feathers held in his hands could Ouroboros fully perceive.

Merlin carried a faint smile on his face. His dark eyes watched the twinkling stars with curious interest as if attempting to decipher the secret of Ancient existences. Ouroboros walked towards but before the ascetic man could utter a word, Merlin spoke first humbly. “I carry the word of God to you.”

At once, Ouroboros posture straightened. His emotionless, cold face turned into a mixture of solemnity and curiosity. “When you peered into the shadow of the fates linking the Twin Uniqueness and their Kingdom of Order and Disorder, what revelation did you receive then?”

Without missing a beat, Ouroboros answered. “It will be a place that would later result in the climax of the century. But ultimately, none of the factions involved would truly suffer from its result—not immediately.”

Merlin nodded along as Ouroboros recited his revelation and chuckled to himself. “Indeed not now. Even the greatest Seer couldn’t truly see the Future and all its arrangements. The Wheel of Fortune isn’t just the Fate pathway, it is the highest authority of Divination itself. I wonder why? Is it because every event that could ever happen has been written in the Chaos of Fate? Wouldn't that make Fate, the Creator's…?” Finally, the Greatest magician of this era stood from his seat and rested his hat on his head. He presented a simple bow and turned.

“Then God Speaks: Now is Time.”

Merlin waved his hand. Suddenly from the shoot of Vanilla, a colourless liquid began to flow in the land. Ouroboros peered into it: Fate. The River whose currents carried every possibility, every weal and woe, of whose intensity determined the order and disorder of cosmos itself, of whose chaos reigned the most unpredictable. A pure viscous mass of mercury covered in countless tiny symbols and patterns detached from the River.

It flew in the air and contained itself into an small illusory vase in the hands of Ouroboros. The Chaoswalker calmly watched all this occur. He gazed back at Merlin, the magician head tilted, carrying a gentle smile. “You shall succeed.”

Authority over Fate? Ouroboros choose not to ponder and not to hesitate for he had no doubt in God’s word. He raised the vase to his mouth—

and drank the Soothsayer's potion.

…

“Halt.”

And so they did. The Red Angel casually stopped “His” stroll, the White angel keenly turned around, the Wind angel appeared rather stern—expecting a bad omen. The Dark Angel Sasrir didn’t addressed "Their" query. “He” simply stared empty at the ground below, as if listening to something.

“Rejoice. The Angel of Fate has declared a Prophecy. We must hurry to the corpse cathedral and pack our bags.”

Angel? The trio picked up the title as Aucuses, still carrying his cross, spoke, “Will the pilgrimage be lengthy"

“That would be an understatment.” Sasrir resumed "His" walk, gazing over Medici that had already begin walking, utterly unbothered in the machinations of fate. “We will now be taking some… detours. Yes. It will be more arduous. We must hurry to the Corpse Cathedral. As per the previous word of God and this new prophecy:

“We shall Delhiver the Holy Artifact of Knowledge to this world. This world shall know in full, what its creator truly left in the slate of chaos.”