Chapter Text
The world only had ten minutes left if everything went according to plan.
Fatesbringer’s long, red skirt was muddied and soaked; her white frilled shirt was streaked in blood smears from the soldiers she fought trying to prevent her from causing this existence’s expiry date. In one hand, she held the broken shards of the seven weapons of destruction in a pouch, and the other was occupied trying to control her floating astrolabe and tarot cards, the instrument she used to change fate.
The Council of Seven knew Fatesbringer had betrayed them because the Chosen had felt a disturbance in the shackles they had laid on her. The spiked shackle marks around Fatesbringer’s wrists glowed bright neon red, not from her blood, but from contamination - mania . It smouldered off her skin into black smoke, dissipating into the atmosphere. Where the rain touched her skin, it bubbled and evaporated. Her emotions and stress were running high, and the Vessel’s magic would only be able to suppress the shackles from the Chosen for a short time. She had to hurry, or the Vessel's sacrifice would be for naught.
When Fatesbringer closed her eyes, she could still hear the horrid screams of the Vessel as the armoured, masked soldiers came after both of them. Fatesbringer shudders at the thought of the punishment the Vessel will be dealt for her betrayal. "Run, and don't look back," is what the Vessel told her, the image of the woman's tattered dress splattered with blood and hot-red, glowing cuts burning through her skin.
“Emergency. Emergency. Please stay indoors and turn on Purifiers. An S-level threat is wandering through the city, and decontamination is underway. Do not make eye contact with the individual. Emergency. Emergency…”
Sirens and alarms rang in the distance, red and blue lights dancing across the city skyline, intercoms telling civilians to stay indoors because a high-level threat was on the loose. Quite frankly, it wouldn’t matter if they stayed indoors or not. Nothing would change the outcome of Fatesbringer's writing if it saw the light of day.
Everyone feared her now but used to worship her back then. She could rewrite the fates of those she encountered - all it took was a moment of eye contact. And with enough power, without any restrictions, she could rewrite the world's fate. It was a simple three steps: All she had to do was bring the seven broken weapons she and The Vessel had collected to Destiny’s Bluff - a white marble cliff just ahead of her - discard them to the Depths of Fovea, and stare into the eye of the abyss before the Council stopped her.
The astrolabe steadied by her right hand faltered, the glow of the central orb growing brighter by the second with various rings of different sizes spinning faster and faster. She could feel the mania emanating from her body and needed to finish her task before her body's stress led her to corruption. If that happened, she would be unable to control herself, and there were many casualties the last time. The Chosen’s shackles were the only way to return her sanity, and Fatesbringer hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She ran as fast as she could, legs and lungs burning until she reached her final destination.
The wind howls strongly at the white rock precipice, where judgment is served. As Fatesbringer approaches the tall seats, she sighs upon seeing a giant, smokey thundercloud hang over the cliff directly over her. Seven occupied seats rise tall before the ledge that falls into the Depths of Fovea and the eye of the eternal abyss. A familiar burn surges through her veins, and Fatesbringer slowly stops on her knees before the Council of Seven. She tries to fight the order to stop , but whenever she resists or tries to move her legs to get up, a sharp, fiery pain surges through her body.
Too late. Fatesbringer curses. She keels over and hits the solid rock. The shackles were overtaking her body, seizing her in place. Orders she could not deny.
“You will never see the Vessel again for a thousand years,” the Council, seven dark-hooded figures sitting on their skyscraper chairs, say from far above. “We cannot allow another rebellion like this to occur. The Vessel must, at all costs, never come into contact with you again, and we will do whatever we can to prevent this from happening.”
Fatesbringer growls from below; magical shackles in the form of black spikes dig into her neck, wrists and ankles painfully, preventing her from using any of her abilities. Her floating, golden astrolabe spins slowly, tarot cards orbiting the central ball of light floating at the centre of the contraption. “But the Vessel came to me and asked me to bring the world to its end, which I will.”
The Council dismisses her: “The Vessel would never have asked for this,” “The Vessel was not ordered to do so,” “The Vessel only is used for good. You, you traitor - are evil. ”
“How do you know how she feels? The Vessel doesn’t want you to govern the fates at all. It isn’t what she wants.” Fatesbringer scowls, and her brown eyes try to peer beneath each member's mask with no luck. “This isn’t what anyone would want. We should not be deciding the destinies of the world.”
“The Vessel is not a person,” an individual with a snake mask, Wrathreaver, says. “The Vessel is a tool for us to enact our rules upon the world. The power is not meant for you. The Chosen One dictates where The Vessel is to be deployed.”
Wrathreaver continues. “We forbid you from all contact with the Vessel. Fatebringer, your time has come to an end. We will not kill you here out of mercy - but should you come into contact with The Vessel again, we will come for you. We will end you.”
“The Vessel has a name, ” Fatebringer spits on the white rock beneath her, “and she hates you all.”
“Tools are not meant to have feelings, for they are tools. Tools do not have names.” A man, Pridefall, speaks. His mask, perhaps a helmet, has plumes of fur decorating the outer shell like a mane. “Or have you forgotten your place, Fatebringer? You point people to their destiny. That is your place, as dictated in your contract.” A black flame appears, and a long scroll is summoned from the smoke. “Allowing emotions to override your judgement will make your role harder, so we must discard you.”
“I have a name, ” the dark-haired woman growls. “I am not the Fatebringer or your tool. I will rid the world of this crooked regime and rewrite the destiny of the world.”
“Then remember your name, and remember it well.” A large, dark hand descends from the black clouds above the hooded figures and squeezes Fatesbringer. Smoke fills her breath, lulling her to sleep. She fights to stay conscious for as long as she can, but ultimately, her eyes close—but not for the last time.
Amanda doesn’t even remember who she is supposed to be or why she is cursed to live like this. But unfailingly, every time she is forced into the grievous cycle of reincarnation, she has these golden cuffs upon her wrists that never come off, no matter what she tries—recycled and repurposed, always retaining some matter of the original form. The striking memory of a woman in a tattered, white dress being taken away from her also persists in her many lives. These two things shackle her to whoever she is.
Amanda chases life after life after this vision, trying to grasp the strings of who she was before. Yet, time after time, she can’t bring herself to do the right thing: It turns out that reality is all the same even in another world. She keeps missing her chances; before she knows it, the person she is searching for is gone. It’s like the woman can’t even see her or is taken away before Amanda can interact with her.
How many corpses does Amanda lie upon now? She doesn’t think about it. What persona, destination or mask shall she arrive at? She gives no thought to it. What sort of lie does she want to live this time? It all comes like a prescription handed to her. Amanda has revisited the twilight between life and death too many times. She knows that all these lives she has lived are not truly hers - something in her gut told her so, and she trusted her gut instincts. Perhaps Amanda is just a phony in every dimension, moulded artificially but not nurtured by each setting—a bug within the coding, a disturbance in the force. She chose to exist by her own will but never was noticed by the one she was chasing.
She’s a knight serving the queen of a kingdom in one life, accompanied by the familiar tale of unrequited love. In another life, she’s a hunter of the supernatural, hunting the one she loves who can’t be saved. She's played and acted in many roles in her many lifetimes.
In this life, she is a fortune teller. For someone whose fate cannot be more unclear, Amanda ironically foresees the fortunes of others. But she’s not the typical tarot or orb-scrying fortune teller. She prefers to give her clients physical reminders of their fates yet to come: her fortunes are told through the language of flowers and fed by the magical essence of the individual it is grown from. Only when the prophecies have come true will the flowers wilt. It serves as a lovely parting gift to the clients - and, because most things that fate has written are long-term plans, it serves as a pleasant decoration and reminder of what is to come. If the clients do not want the bouquet, Amanda sells it in her humble flower shop, Floral Dreams. It’s gathered quite a following for the longevity of the bouquets, and naturally, Amanda doesn’t part with her secrets.
The doorbell goes off, signalling a new customer has entered the shop. Amanda quickly leaves her room from the back and comes to the counter. It’s a young person with short brown hair, just cropped below their jawline, wearing a varsity hoodie and jeans. They’re holding a newspaper article in one hand.
“Um,” the lady says, pushing up her glasses, “I’m looking for the Fortune teller?”
“That would be me.” Amanda smiles gently at the potential client, “What sort of fortune are you seeking today?”
“Well,” The woman looks around, embarrassed. There’s no one else in the shop but them. “Relationships. Of the romantic kind.”
Amanda sighs and wonders how this life's story will end and how many more she will have to endure.