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As far as he could recall, he was a nameless orphan in one of Loen’s many colonies.
In the future, he would have the possibility to divine his past, to learn more about himself, but he never would. None of it would matter to him then.
The child that he was grew up seeing all of humanity- the misery of pushing through each day, the ruthlessness required for survival, the senseless cruelty of the powerful. There was goodness amidst all the pain, but it was fleeting.
A sputtering, dying flame.
With that dim outlook, he skitters through alleys, honing his intuition to avoid dangerous people, steals from shops and sleeps wherever there’s shelter.
With that dim outlook, he protects other children from being bullied and hands over his bread to those who couldn’t get even a morsel for the day.
The sea is large and vast, and the further they go into it, losing all sight of land, the more nauseous he feels.
For all of his careful living in seventeen years, here he is, in a smuggler’s ship.
He’s not the only one. There are dozens and dozens of others, some as young as seven and others in their twenties.
He hears the conversations of their captors when they pass by, uncaring of who might hear them. Labour. Dungeon. Death. A lot of terrible fates. And so many names he can't keep straight.
He doesn’t struggle or scream, even when some of those with him weaken and fall ill. It isn’t because he doesn’t know how, but because he knows to wait. Not to risk what could be his only opportunity to escape.
But it never comes, because one day, there’s an explosion. There are struggles and screams from up above, not from where he is, and the crescendo dies down in minutes.
And then there’s a new face below-deck, a man with black hair till his shoulders, dressed in a robe with the most outlandish feathered hat on his head, every moment exaggerated like a performance.
“I’m a wandering magician,” he says with a disarming smile, and the strangeness has all of them listening.
It’s the first time he meets Merlin Hermes.
“I’ll leave you where you wish to be, but before that, would you like to have a wish come true…?”
They’re all wary, but the domino falls when one of the kids gives into it. And then one more and another, and then people start to warm up just a little, almost testing Merlin with the things they ask. He takes it all with the same smile.
The ship in the middle of the sea empties. Life isn't pleasant for much of them, but freedom is the most valuable thing.
In the end, there are only two left.
Merlin tilts his head at a near 90 degree. “You don’t have a wish?”
He considers.
“I wish to see what went on above.”
Merlin is still smiling, but his eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”
He nods.
What's there above most is death. But more than that, his attention is drawn by the fire and ice and a hundred different things that are out of place.
“What did you do?”
“Magic,” Merlin answers simply.
Magic. A person with so much magic. Yet he appeared on this ship, filled with people the world doesn’t care about, and saved them all. Granted wishes even.
“Why?”
“In the name of my Lord.”
That makes him startle. Of all the answers he could have imagined… Merlin is calm though. Serious.
“The Lord I serve is the Fool who doesn’t belong to this era, the mysterious ruler above the grey fog…”
It’s the start of a little sermon and he listens. He has never been interested in religion, but he knows this isn’t one of the orthodox deities and he can't deny his curiosity.
A god who sent ‘His’ follower here… it merits listening, doesn’t it?
When Merlin is done, he breathes, and asks, “Can I learn to do this?”
He doesn’t care for gods. But there were names he heard on this ship. He wonders how many people are still being hurt for their sake.
There’s a flame of goodness in this ruthless world, forever on the verge of dying.
He wants the strength to keep it going.
The Fool is asleep. Has been for epochs, from what Merlin says.
But he sets foot in the gray fog and is drawn into a broken city of another time, nothing but corpses of both man and metal strewn around.
There is another person there, dressed formally, appearance blurred by the fog.
Eyes alight on him, and in a friendly voice– “Hello.”
He already knows who this is. He allows his gaze to fall, down to the clothes and then to the cracked ground, and his body falls to a kneel. Don’t look at God, they say. He knows that much.
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t have one.” He has nicknames but he uses none of them for himself.
There's silence for a few moments.
“Why do you wish to become a Beyonder?”
He briefly wonders what the right answer is, before deciding that in front of a deity, it’s only the truth that matters.
“I want to be stronger.”
“And what will you use that strength for?”
He answers that without a second’s hesitation. “To protect.”
Another silence ensues, longer this time, broken by, “It’s a difficult path. Words aren’t enough to describe the horrors of it.”
Horrors. He thinks about it, what the worst things in life are. He can easily imagine all sorts of tortures, and there’s no doubt many are even worse than could be imagined.
But what does it matter? Alive or dead, healthy or hurt, he’s just one among the masses. Nothing he does will make that much of a difference, so he might as well go to the very extents of what he can.
It’ll be meaningful that way.
The person laughs, almost tiredly he thinks, and walks off. Not too far, but turned away from him, perhaps having already known the answer.
“Everyone should have a name. Do you have any in mind?”
He shakes his head, but it can’t be seen, so he adds, “No.”
“Gehrman Sparrow,” the figure intones with a touch of amusement. “Will you take it?”
Gehrman… it’s not something he’s ever heard. Nothing comes to his mind when he thinks of it.
It’s just a name.
“I will,” he says.
“Until we meet again,” ‘His’ voice resounds, warm and casual.
The city disappears into the fog, swallowed by the rush of grey.
When it dies down, he’s back in the hall, ancient architecture spreading from underneath his feet. It’s broken too, he notices, but in a way that stems from age, rather than how the ground of that city was torn apart.
Distantly, he wonders how that happened.
Gehrman stands up, swaying slightly. Merlin is standing behind him, posture rigid in a way that would be normal for anyone else but him. He only relaxes when Gehrman looks at him.
“It’s rare to catch ‘His’ interest,” he admits. “In these epochs, there have been very few Blessed by ‘Him’.”
Gehrman does not question that. “What do I do now?”
“Come with me."
Merlin is the one who teaches him everything. He’s rarely around, too busy and too secretive, but they still travel together for three years, in which Gehrman learns to speak five different languages and to wield a gun and fight. Once Merlin thinks he’s ready, he’s handed a Sequence 9 potion. Seer.
The same year, Mr. Fool awakens, and the two of them part ways, though they keep in contact through messengers and the little tasks that Gehrman is asked to handle.
He digests his potion in a year, and it impresses Merlin enough to teach him the acting method.
The next potion takes six months. He feels he should have figured out the principles sooner, except Merlin chides him.
“Most Beyonders spend their lives trying to reach Sequence 7. Don’t take it lightly.”
Sequence 7 takes him only three months.
And that is when he officially meets Mr. Fool, taking his first step into being a Blessed.
The meetings between Mr. Fool’s Blessed are rare but long.
There are only four other than Merlin and himself, none of their appearances hidden—not even Mr. Fool’s—but Gehrman respectfully avoids looking.
“So this is the kid you adopted,” one of them says and Gehrman can feel himself being scanned.
“He’s a natural genius.”
Something catches in Gehrman’s throat. Merlin has always been ridiculously upbeat and encouraging, but to publicly praise him like this…
“So he is,” another person adds, and before Gehrman can catch himself, his eyes drift to the end of the table.
That had come from Mr. Fool.
He sees ‘His’ features clearly for the first time. Dark hair and dark eyes, every line soft in a way that reminds Gehrman of the islanders that claim elven blood. Gehrman himself is likely one of them, though having taken after whoever was his Loenese parent more.
It takes him a moment to realise what he’s done– doing– horrified, but Mr. Fool’s eyes meet his and ‘He’ only smiles.
The meeting continues.
For a month, he takes on the identity of an Aurora Order member, planning to deal a fatal blow to their branch in Tingen.
However, he does not account for a divine descent.
He barely dodges the stabs to his chest, saved by his flexibility, teleports around the room with sparks of fire, but he cannot protect against the raving that drills into his ears. His eyes and nose are bleeding too and the world spins like a ballet. He continues to fight through all of it.
Black threads dash towards him and his Beyonder item can finally be activated, distorting the target to direct the threads around the monstrous being.
Without hesitation, Gehrman tosses out charm after charm from the Sun domain.
There is no more movement.
He can't stay here, he has to leave, but he can't move either…
He slides to the floor with a prayer on his lips and a crimson light surges over him.
When he opens his eyes, he's lying down and a figure hovers near him.
"You were corrupted deeply," he says—'He'—memories rush back—his Clown ability being one of the reasons Gehrman doesn't snap a limb with how quickly he straightens.
And the other reason being the hand on his shoulder.
"My Lord."
Mr. Fool moves away. "You did well."
They're simple words but mean everything.
"Yet…" ‘He’ continues.
Gehrman is prepared. There are a few things he could have done differently, should have, and the price of those mistakes are appallingly obvious.
"Yet… you care little for yourself."
He doesn't mean for the startled sound that escapes his throat.
"It is not weakness to seek aid."
"I… I understand," because that's all he can say.
Climbing plants, once they find a support, wind their way through it, entangled for life. Sunflowers seek the sun, forever turning their faces to bask in its light.
In front of him is a figure who should be as far away as the sun and yet is as close as a climber's support.
"Focus on recuperating," Mr. Fool simply says, and Gehrman is back in his own body.
His wounds remain but he's bleeding far less and his vision is stable. Mr. Fool is greatly limited in what he can do, having only started the process of recovery.
A fire is fed with tinder, shaping the colour and intensity of its light.
Gehrman is fed with a rare kindness, a gentle warmth, and he returns it tenfold.
“They have named themselves the Tarot Club.”
Merlin, as a Grounded Angel, has no interest in matters that only scrape Sequence 7 at most. The same goes for the other Blessed, who are demigods.
“But it’d do you some good,” Merlin says thoughtfully to him.
“Me?”
One after another, more approving voices are added and Gehrman finds himself picking a card from the Major Arcana.
The World faces him.
The last tarot card, symbolising sublimation.
The hall has a single long table with twenty-two seats. At its two ends are the two of them.
In a few seconds, other seats are filled. Justice, Hanged Man, Sun.
Gehrman is measured with his responses. As far as the other three are concerned, he is a member just like them, pulled into the meeting by chance. That pretense won’t last for long, but he doesn’t mean it to. He simply doesn’t want to reveal anything of himself.
At the end of the meeting, it once again becomes only the two of them.
“What did you think of it?” Mr. Fool asks.
Gehrman tries to arrange his words, but it still doesn’t sound good enough.
“There’s no need to restrain yourself.” There’s amusement now in ‘His’ voice.
“...It’s useful.”
The amusement turns into an actual laugh.
Gehrman wonders if he should expand on his words then decides against it. He can’t deny the three members being of varying backgrounds does provide certain channels otherwise unavailable, but being in discussion with demigods and angels tends to skew what one finds valuable. And it’s particularly odd to realise he has the highest Sequence amongst them, when he’s the newest of the Blessed, lagging in knowledge and experience.
“The Tarot Club does take place more often,” Mr. Fool notes. “But yes, their capabilities are currently limited. You may choose to leave whenever you wish, though I would suggest you remain.”
Gehrman does not leave. Every Monday becomes a meeting, with the Tarot Club and then separately with Mr. Fool.
He is in Backlund to find the traces of the True Creator that vanished from Tingen. That is his primary mission.
For that purpose, he investigates every part of the city and gathers informants.
But in the process, he learns of the missing children in East Borough and the past comes back in full force.
Labour. Dungeon. Death.
He has his task, given by Mr. Fool, and it is an important one. Another attempted divine descent, in Loen’s capital of all places, would cause devastating waves.
But he pours whatever time he has left into uncovering the truth of East Borough’s happenings.
“There’s no reason to split yourself like this,” Mr. Fool says when he goes above the gray fog.
He stiffens, awaiting disapproval. Even if he tried not to neglect his mission, he was indeed putting his effort into something else.
“The Aurora Order will remain. Focus on the people you wish to save, here and now,” ‘He’ says and hands Gehrman the Black Emperor card.
He holds it, looks at it, and is reminded once more—
—there are nameless people the world does not care for, but still loved by God.
Shortly after, the legend of the Hero Bandit Dark Emperor is born.
He has never been fond of the sea, but the matters of the world do not care for his likes or dislikes. Even if his mission is vague, the one thing he knows is that it requires him to travel the seas.
Mr. Fool's missions are often like that, born from glimpses of the future. The Blessed need only follow what they're told.
He travels to Bansy, and despite Mr. Fool's gentle warning, he embroils himself in its budding disaster and survives.
He travels to Bayam, a pit stop in the White Agate's journey, and takes a look at a weapon for sale—
An icy force descends on him, wraps around his soul, his eyes flash blue and it is pressuring, subduing—
—except Gehrman has never been one to bow. He holds out against Kalvetua, step after step until he and Danitz reach the hotel.
He is not worried. He has no doubts on what he should do.
He locks the door and prays.
The cold force is replaced by something else, equally cold but not imposing, soothing instead, like a salve on a wound.
He’s in the space above the fog and Mr. Fool is standing in front of him, back to him.
“How dare you,” ‘He’ says in a low voice at whatever ‘He’ faces. The words are ethereal yet cutting, plunging into one's soul. It is followed by thrashing sounds, akin to a child’s tantrum, contained and affecting nothing.
It goes on for a while longer then stops with a screech.
In the corner of Gehrman’s eyes, clothing swishes. He kneels.
“My Lord.”
“Are you fine?” There are still notes of anger in ‘His’ voice.
The grey fog curls around Gehrman’s limbs, washing away any remnant influences. He nods in response.
No questions are asked of him. He asks nothing in return.
Quietly, he is returned to the real world.
Though Mr. Fool only has a fraction of 'His' power, it is enough to push Kalvetua over the cliff.
Bayam goes into a frenzy, perhaps knowing that their "god" verges on death.
Pulled into the matter against his own wishes, Gehrman wants to see it through no matter what he needs to do. He performs a ritual to summon Kalvetua, sends a link back, and follows through to find where he hides.
What he obtains from it is a staff born of Kalvetua's Beyonder characteristics, at least Sequence 3.
He prays to Mr. Fool and is brought above the gray fog, where he kneels and offers the staff.
'He' takes it, and Gehrman freezes as their hands brush. It couldn't have been a tremor he felt, right?
Mr. Fool was a deity, far above—
"Oh, Cohinem," 'He' says, soft, with the undercurrent of pain and grief, and Gehrman feels this is a moment he shouldn't be here for.
He remains still, not even daring to breathe.
And then he hears words he never expected to–
"Thank you, Gehrman."
It takes him a while to learn that Cohinem is the name of the queen of elves, back in the Second Epoch. It takes him longer to learn that Mr. Fool was a god allied with the elves, who couldn't prevent their destruction.
Gehrman will never forget the tone of 'His' voice.
Even for a Faceless, especially for a Faceless, there is a need to remember their original appearance. No matter how much Gehrman changes his features, in his mind, there is a solid image of himself.
He is twenty-three, looking into the mirror, when he realises how his features have changed over the years.
He can recognise himself still, from teenage to adulthood, but there’s something else there too, in the line of his jaw and the set of his eyes.
It’s not an unfamiliar face.
It’s one he’s avoided looking at, but has still caught glimpses of.
When Gehrman learns the formula of Sequence 3, for all his pathway's abilities in maintaining expressions, he knows from the others' sympathy that his face has darkened.
"Three hundred years?"
There's barely two decades left for the apocalypse. What use will a Sequence 4 like him be as it approaches?
"You can try switching to the Door or Error pathways," Dantès suggests.
All of them know the difficulty of that. Amon is Mr. Fool's enemy number one, seeking to supplant the other's authority and willing to do whatever it takes. Meanwhile, the Abraham family controls the Door pathway, Mr. Door is a looming matter and the cosmos are dangerous to traverse.
Merlin sighs. "The lower Sequences were understandable, but who would expect to see Sequence 4 being breezed through?"
"There is another option," Mr. Fool suggests.
Merlin stiffens at that. Gehrman doesn't understand.
"My Lord, the purpose of the advancement ritual…"
"It will be a hundred times more difficult," Mr. Fool agrees with Merlin. Despite that, there's no hesitation or doubt in 'His' voice. It's a calm offer.
Rarely does Gehrman choose to look at ‘Him’. But he does now and he can fathom what lies ahead…
And still he trusts.
"I'll do it."
With a searing pain, his consciousness fragments, a hundred thousand memories grasping them. Pinpricks of light scattered through history and he too scatters with it.
And then a force tugs—"Gehrman," softly—and far far beyond to a history he's never seen for himself but knows, this long-lost city that he can't forget.
New memories grip him, elves, dragons, war—not his, he can't lose himself in them—they clash and pull back and again, assailing him alongside the scenes of his own past.
His body breaks into worms, a converging force ensues to keep him together, a cycle repeats though he can't remember where he is and what even is going on, again and again, the voice from before becoming an insistent hum that anchors him, until at last he starts to adjust to the rapid changes.
The shards of different visions coalesce into one, smells, sounds, thoughts, and he breaks from the sensory input but drags himself through it—he can't not, he has to.
He is trusted.
And finally, the world becomes perceivable in human manner.
The surroundings are quiet and empty, and it gives him a breath of relief. There is exactly one living being though… His teenage self, dressed in castoffs, kneeling.
It's only been six years since then, but it feels like a lifetime.
Hopes and dreams, wishes and desires, he can't forget them.
His body rebuilds itself until he is whole, wavering but mostly stable, until past and present face each other, though his younger self sees nothing.
Once his existence settles, the city and the moment vanish into the fog again, becoming a distant light of the Historical Void, far across the horizon.
Mr. Fool is there in that fog.
"My Lord," he says, kneeling, and it's like an echo of the past.
"Good," 'He' says after a moment. "Remember to stabilize yourself."
"The seven deities have acquiesced to it."
Equal parts of helplessness and frustration well in Gehrman. The man who perpetrated the calamities in Loen will climb up the ladder and benefit, while even the names of the dead won't be remembered. It's another reminder of how unfair the world is.
He can't abide by it.
"Have you?" he asks, knowing in that instant how rude his words are but uncaring of it.
Mr. Fool smiles, ever unbothered. "Does it matter?"
He gazes at the table. The honest answer... "No."
And 'He' laughs. There is almost relief in it.
"Go on," 'He' says. "Do not deny your heart."
Gehrman will not think of it then, but he will realise later, how Emperor Roselle would die once and for all if a new Black Emperor appeared. He will recall how Mr. Fool collected the diary pages not for some arcane knowledge, but to know the other's life.
'He' is the person who would most want the Emperor to live, and yet made no requests of 'His' Blessed, awaiting Gehrman's choice.
"I wouldn't mind making you my Blessed."
Gehrman does not say a word.
"Do you think you can trust your Mr. Fool? Even with the fate 'He' plans for you?"
"Kill me."
"You're no fun," Amon says though 'He' is smiling still.
For days, they travel with 'Him' making most of the conversation. Gehrman does tire fighting against 'Him' in a sliver of hope, he does wonder about the lack of response in all this while…
"How pitifully naive," Amon laments. "Do you think 'He' cares for you as much as you do for 'Him'?"
It doesn't matter. He will not waver.
Gehrman devotes himself not to an ideal or a pedestal. He expects neither omniscience nor omnipotence.
He will always remember the Sea God Staff—even deities cannot save everyone.
Undoubtedly there will be sacrifices.
If it is decided that he is one of them, then so be it. What he knows is that Mr. Fool cares for the world—all of it. That is what matters most.
And so he lives, suffers, until they come across a strange building in the middle of the nothingness. Until a surge of red washes over him and his consciousness is finally set free from his body.
"You've done enough. Rest," a familiar voice sounds, wings of light wrapping around him, an angel's embrace, a deity's embrace, and he knows nothing more.
In the physical world, a giant's corpse moves with intent at the same time that Gehrman's eyes darken, illusory tentacles emerging from him and lashing out at Amon.
The City of Silver leaves the Forsaken Land of the Gods, and the Historical Void lights up with the forgotten history that returns to its present.
As the golden rays of sunlight fall upon the ship travelling to Bayam, Gehrman takes his potion.
At last, he is at the same level as Merlin, at a level that allows him to know the secrets of the universe they live in. He learns about the cosmos, about Outer Deities—things he had once known in the Forsaken Land but had to forget because they were too much for him then.
Merlin meets him in Midseashire and smiles with pride, before something about his expression quickly wanes.
Gehrman could let it go, but he doesn’t, instead meeting the other’s eyes. There’s a challenge and a question.
Merlin sighs.
“You really are the most similar to ‘Him’,” he says, then his smile takes on a bittersweet tint. “It is both a blessing and a curse.”
He knows. They all know. But blessings and curses are subjective, and as a Blessed, anything from Mr. Fool is a blessing.
From a meaningless existence, he was given the chance to create the justice he wished for.
It’s enough to have had this chance. It’s fine to burn out once he’s done.
The Major Arcana is the journey of the Fool that ends with the World.
“The Fool who doesn’t belong to this era;
The mysterious ruler above the grey fog;
The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck.”
There are three candles on the altar. The two representing the deity flicker, enlarging and taking on a dark hue. He closes his eyes, head bowed, and completes—
“Your devoted believer prays for your coming;
I am willing to offer my body as a vessel to bear the burden of your great will.”
The grey fog reaches out to him, enveloping him in its embrace. His thoughts scatter and grow fainter.
There’s a cool hand on his jaw, raising his face up. He knows that touch. He follows the motion without resistance.
Is this death? Soft and gentle?
Arms move around him, just as cold, steadily sapping away his heat. It's familiar, soothing. He leans into it.
The flames dim and wink out of existence.