Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

An anomaly has occurred, the apocalypse is forthcoming.

Prematurely, the Original Creator has dispersed, ‘His’ will has wavered for the final time.

Within the rapidly deteriorating barrier, high above the planes of the mortal realm, two deities engage in combat, exchanging blows. Neither triumph. Though both have been driven to delirium, conscious minds more insane than not, in ‘Their’ brief moments of lucidity, ‘They’ notice something is awry, the foreboding feeling of foreign bodies entering ‘Their’ domain. ‘They’ are even more desperate to awaken.

Alas, The Lord of Mysteries is fated to bask in everlasting slumber.

The last hope of humanity, the pillar that Earth desperately needed, a failure.

During ‘Their’ last breath, ‘They’ come to a truce, ‘They' will fight to the bitter end, thus, ‘They’ turn to ‘Him’ to carry out ‘Their’ final gambit.

One that places everything on the line.

In the depths of the cosmos, the abominations on the far side stir. Some cast ‘Their’ gaze towards the miniscule, now defenceless planet. Something within all of ‘Them’ burns, the wish for convergence, a carnal desire, one which engulfs ‘Their’ entire beings. ‘Their’ actions governed by ‘Their’ primal instincts.

As prophesied, the moment ‘They’ set ‘Their’ sights upon the Earth, the lands shatter.

Bit, by bit, everything ceases to exist.

Evernight is the first to fall.

Mere moments before, ‘She’ floats motionlessly within ‘Her’ divine kingdom. ‘Her’ figure dons an unwavering black dress adorned with countless resplendent lights. On the terrain beneath ‘Her’, ivory moon flowers and night vanilla dot the landscape of the divine kingdom like the flickering stars in the night sky above ‘Her’. Alongside the flora, weaving through the incandescent flowers of white, flows a stygian river of black. Despite the miasma emanating from it cloaking the ground and all in its vicinity with a stench of death, a certain eternal peace exudes from that which it touches

The air is still, tranquil, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Beyond the sempiternal darkness of the sky above, crevices form and the domain quakes, screeches of madness leak through. The previous serenity is nothing but a memory.

With each crack, ‘She’ readies ‘Herself’. ‘She’ knows it will not be enough.

A single pillar cannot hold up an entire world upon ‘Their’ shoulders.

A pair of arms emerge from ‘Her’ ribs, in hand, an enormous black sickle materialises. The ivory flora begin to rapidly grow, spreading, expanding, consuming the land as far as the eye can see, as if attempting to engulf the very terrain it originates from, hoping to protect with its entire being. Soon, the flowers form a sea of white, humanity's last defence. The river of styx stirs, intertwining evermore with the growing meadow, those from within its depths rouse.

A deceased god rises from the substratum, figure as tall as a mountain, situating ‘Himself’ beside the flourishing night, a giant covered from head to toe in tattered silver armour with nothing but an abyss peeking out from behind the helmet’s visor. In hand, a longsword held at the ready to slice until nothing but dust is left. Other beings long lost to the world also emerge from ‘Their’ slumber, brought back by the waters of purgatory, all for a single goal.

Preservation.

The invaders from above move, the chaos that ensues puts the hell of the Abyss to shame.

The Immortal Voice reaches ‘Her’ first, ravings akin to the indoctrination of the Hidden Sage flood ‘Her’ mind, corruption enough to phase a true god. Simultaneously, something is devouring ‘Her’ kingdom, something large, all consuming, and at the centre of it all, there is a serene mother. From ‘Her’ towering figure, life births. Twisted, grotesque, perverted life. The river of darkness resists, corroding all which it touches, dragging the newfound vitality deep into its bottomless depths.

Flower consumes spawn, spawn decimates flora.

The battlefield continues to rage.

In a fit of desperation, ‘She’ lifts ‘Her’ sickle and cleaves. Slashing across the very essence of the kingdom, no mercy to any in its path. Half the Great Mother is shredded, a cacophony of wails pierces all present. Instantaneously, a wave of misfortune hits all those not favoured by the domain, small mistakes turn fatal as the enemy numbers dwindle ever so slightly. Riding on the previous momentum, ‘She’ throws the bird shaped accessory in one of ‘Her’ hands into the fray. An inferno erupts, a phoenix emerges from the ashes, with it comes a brilliant light of hope.

The tide shifts.

Invaders are gradually warded away.

Yet, as quick as the flames of hope emerged, they are extinguished just as fast.

Something glows within the null space above the kingdom, an ethereal ring. ‘They’ rotate, slowly. Three indistinguishable figures appear on top, switching, running, changing, round and round and round. Something sounds, and the inevitable occurs.

The clock is rewound.

The sickle is back in hand, the brood rejuvenated. Darkness consumes the environment once more. The light cremated, returned to char. Any and all struggle forcibly pushed towards a destiny of otiosity.

‘She’ feels despair hanging over her neck like a noose. ‘She’ attempts to slice once more, alas, ‘Her’ limbs are bound. ‘She’ becomes aware of the decay creeping up ‘Her’ dress, infecting ‘Her’ skin and soul. Porcelain skin turns to onyx, fur disintegrates to ash, galaxy submits to gravity.

The Evernight Goddess has been completely, utterly incapacitated.

The other gods are powerless to help, merely spectators as ‘They’ await ‘Their’ doom, an ever growing Supernova ensuring ‘They’ all meet their destiny in isolation.

‘She’ refuses to give up.

‘She’ struggles.

Yet, bit, by bit, ‘She’ is overwhelmed.

Starry eyes turn dull, hope evades ‘Her’.

Nobody is present to spectate ‘Her’ last moments, ones where ‘She’ mourns.

Mourns ‘Her’ failures, mourns ‘Her’ misfortune, mourns the fate of the planet ‘She’ protected so dearly, and, in her final moments, ‘She’ allows herself to at last mourn a time ‘She’ can never return to.

Alone from the beginning to the bitter end.

A single crystalline tear drops from the vanishing deity, it falls, forming ripples on the surface of the receding lake of the underworld.

Within the brief rotation of a clock’s hand, a goddess is returned to nihility.

Having overcome the primary nuisance, the invaders from above all rejoice. Earth’s fate is sealed, the small planet’s time is up. The remaining gods have little resistance ‘They’ can give. With all but one failing to reach the pinnacle of ‘Their’ divinity.

The Chasm of Storms is next, the Lord sits at the apex of ‘His’ domain. Despite all ‘His’ efforts, neither lightning nor the onslaught of typhoons is able to damage the eldritch bodies of the invaders. Though the struggle is fierce, the Lord of Storms eventually succumbs to ‘Their’ assault. Leodero is no more.

The Land of Perfection follows, a state of excellence one second, utterly desiccated the next. Neither the technology of today, nor that from an epoch ago is able to overcome the overwhelming onslaught of corruption and power the assailants bring forth. The God of Steam and Machinery joins the fate of ‘His’ failed products. Yuggs Stiano perrishes.

Within the next kingdom, a weary elder, the God of Knowledge and Wisdom stands at the edge of ‘His’ domain. Omniscience and omnipotent eyes gaze straight into the intruding abyss. The abyss stares back. ‘Their’ attention is too much for ‘Him’ to handle. Herabergen falls.

Sensing the demise of ‘His’ friends and foe, The Eternal Blazing Sun merely waits. Radiant light pervades throughout ‘His’ domain. A futile effort, as the encroaching darkness will soon smother all embers of hope. Aucuses is brought to ‘His’ knees.

Last of the orthodox, lies the Earth Mother. ‘Her’ struggle is fierce. ‘She’ manifests into a mountain range of flesh, where at the peak a thick black fog spews, an endless production of abominations that desire life. ‘Her’ creations intertwine with the spawn of another Mother, something akin to a land of reproduction forms, an amalgamation of desire, a battle to see who reigns supreme. Unfortunately, ‘She’ too is eventually consumed. Lilith is submerged in eternal slumber.

Within the Abyss, the Devil Monarch worries not, for ‘He’ feels the return of ‘His’ mother’s embrace. Similarly, in another isolated space, long lost to the world, a mummy wrapped in decayed straps shifts, a bastardised smile forms on ‘His’ face. ‘He’ has finally received ‘His’ salvation. ‘They’ have both long been lost to corruption.

The Primordial Demoness survives the longest. In ‘Her’ damaged state, ‘She’ closes ‘Her’ eyes, as the tips of ‘Her’ hair shake. ‘She’ stares into the glass. Beyond the mirror lies ‘Her’ but not ‘Her’. Cheek is shattered. ‘They’ return to chaos.

Humanity remains none the wiser, perhaps ignorance is the greatest bliss of them all. Only the most astute of the population, those chained by divinity, yet utterly insignificant within the power struggle between deities are burdened with the knowledge of dread.

The Angels obtain clarity for the longest.

Those within the clergy have mere seconds to mourn the lost connection with their chosen god, before ‘They’ too succumb to the corruption rapidly approaching. ‘Their’ entire beings are weighed down with fear like no other as ‘They’ approach ‘Their’ inevitable fate.

A small, chubby child trips, on ‘His’ place on the ground, ‘He’ gazes into the sky seconds before it shatters. ‘His’ eyes are no longer filled with childlike innocence, instead,’ They’ are pitchblack voids. With a dice in hand, ‘He’ throws it to the floor and prays. ‘He’ rolls a six.

Within the spirit world, a headless figure as tall as a castle donned in a complex grim dress is stagnant. ‘Her’ four heads are frowning. A gold coin is clutched in ‘Her’ hands as ‘She’ brings ‘Her’ heads together and prays.

Hidden within The Star, ‘He’ senses an error gradually forming, a glitch within fate. ‘He’ warns ‘His’ vessel. The act itself is futile.

Abroad a ship surrounded by various mythical items, Queen Mystic closes ‘Her’ eyes and ears to the world. ‘She’ realises that neither of ‘Them’ have awoken, ‘She’ laments the loss of ‘Her’ world. ‘Her’ last moments are spent cradling a crown inlaid with many dark gems.

A descendent of death is situated in front of a desk. ‘He’ is not unfamiliar with the approaching feeling of inevitability, the call of the world beyond. ‘He’ quickly finishes what ‘He’ is writing. Holding the letters in hand, ‘He’ prays.

High up in the sky, countless crows all donned with monocles smile.

Most pitiful of all are the major arcana, ‘They’ know of their gods plight, yet even with ‘Their’ newfound divinity ‘They’ are powerless to assist.

Justice is wandering within the mind world when ‘She’ realises something is awry. Something dark invades, shaking the very core of the subconscious land. ‘She’ is lost to its depths. Audrey Hall vanishes.

The sea rages, The Hanged Man hears the message of the ocean. Simultaneously, ‘He’ feels the creeping of new corruption degrading his vessel. ‘He’ prepares for the worst. It isn’t enough. Alger Wilson succumbs to the decay.

Within the church of The Fool, The Sun is worshipping ‘His’ god. Unlike most prayers, ‘His’ words are met with a single reply. One of warning, of desperation. Nothing is left but void by the time ‘He’ could have replied. Derrick Berg returns to a land untouchable by gods.

The Magician rapidly races across space. ‘She’ is starry eyed, body more translucent than not. Door after door opens, desperation clouds ‘Her’ eyes as ‘She’ tries to find something, anything to assist ‘Her’ god. To awaken The Fool who could save them all. ‘She’ enters a door. Fors Wall meets ‘Her’ end.

The Moon hears the cry of ‘His’ ancestor. ‘He’ is desperate to assist. As a last resort, ‘He’ calls upon ‘His’ door of summoning. Instead of help, ‘He’ beckons ‘His’ doom. Emlyn White is another casualty.

The Hermit blocks ‘Her’ eyes and shuts ‘Her’ ears, spirituality warning ‘Her’ of the approaching onslaught of knowledge that ‘She’ should neither hear nor see. Despite ‘Her’ preparations, the sin of observation has already been committed. Cattleya pays the price.

Judgment senses something awry within ‘Her’ domain. ‘She’ attempts to regain control, to do something, anything to prepare for the oncoming deterioration. Unfortunately, ‘She’ is too slow. Xio Derecha is crushed in the face of absolute authority.

Last of all, The Star. ‘He’ has been warned by The Angel of Time, ‘He’ attempts to conceal ‘Himself’, but the act is futile, ‘He’ has already been spotted. During ‘His’ last moments of clarity, the voice of ‘His’ god pervades through ‘His’ ears. ‘He’ makes out not what is being said before ‘His’ body disappears bit by bit, as if wiped from existence by an eraser. Yet, unlike his fellow major arcana members, instead of an oncoming abyss, ‘His’ vision is met with grey, an expanse of grey fog. Leonard Mitchell approaches an uncertain fate.

One second ‘They’ all exist, the next, ‘They’ are gone.

During Earth's last moments in existence, ‘He’ is writing. Deep within the Chaos Sea, eyes clad in a simple white cloak and adorned with a thick golden beard, ‘His’ silver cross glimmers. Though ‘His’ eyes are usually as clear as a childs, they are clouded. The shadows around ‘His’ figure fluctuate. It's not until ‘He’ hears the roll of a die, the flap of a raven's wings, the mangled voices of two deities in one, the drop of a single crystalline tear onto death, and sees the Angel of Fate in front of ‘Him’ nod, does ‘He’ smile.

Placing the quill down, ‘He’ gazes outwards.

Beyond the outer gods devouring ‘Him’, beyond ‘His’ deteriorating planet.

‘He’ is staring at a star.

A bright, flaming star.

Within an endless void, a figure is falling.

Descending.

Plummeting.

Green eyes are glazed, hollow, the window to the soul reflecting nothing but the all consuming abyss around him. His brows are creased, visage in more pain than not.

Each thought he attempts to form flees faster than the next. Something is hammering against his temple, his skin crawls, veins rupture, a familiar yet unfamiliar murmur pervades through his entire skull. With each second, the mutterings grow louder.

Suddenly, the sound of glass shattering pierces through the null space. The very realm itself warps, a flurry of colour floods into the darkness. Black swirls with grey forming a marble mural, a cacophony of tinted hues. Ebony emptiness attempts to engulf emerald, it fails, a grey haze envelops the falling figure’s body instead, curling around him almost affectionately, protecting him. Gradually, more of the scenery collapses, pieces of reality begin snapping, falling into the void, immediately being replaced by an ever expanding grey fog.

Soon, the darkness has been completely chased away, all that is left is a dull expanse of mist.

Scenery turns to white, a majestic crumbled kingdom comes into view, the red gloved figure continues to fall. Right beneath him lies an ancient stone table with chairs adorned on all sides. Hastily, the grey haze condenses, thickening, as if creating a bed. Soon, he lands. Fabric meets cold stone, a flurry of fog explodes. His face is more serene now, the pained expression tamed, almost tranquil. For a few seconds, or perhaps something closer to eternity, he lays there, engulfed by the mist, like a pearl protected by a hard shell. Around him, the environment too shifts, grey fog clarifies, elucidating more of the ruined landscape. Degraded stone pillars, some upright, others nothing but rubble on the floor.

In the centre of it all, lies the poet-like figure. Body draped across the long decrepit table, hair tousled, jade eyes distant once more, neither lucid nor present enough to recognise the scene around him, the familiar smell of the atmosphere.

Slowly, something begins to form within the ruined kingdom.

Grey fog unites, swirling and twisting, coalescing until something more recognisable forms, another joins the fray.

‘His’ shape is less stable.

One second ‘He’ is a mass of black appendages, thrashing all about, the next ‘He’ is a cloaked figure, black gloves on hand, eyes hidden, with nothing but a downturned pale mouth peeking out from within the endless darkness. Despite the discontinuity within ‘His’ existence, ‘He’ pays no mind, simply proceeding in ‘His’ approach to the table. Each step causes the environment to shake, shudder.

From beyond, there is something encroaching upon the serene realm, countless entities setting ‘Their’ gaze upon the sefirot. ‘He’ hastens ‘His’ advance. There seems to be something cloaking ‘His’ morphing figure. An overwhelming fog of anguish, an oppressive curtain of grief.

At last, ‘He’ reaches the table. Tendrils reach towards the other’s face, the miniscule caress conveying the unsaid words hanging above the two.

A promise for next time.

An apology for what is to come.

At the contract, in a brief moment of lucidity, verdant eyes widen. He understands not what he sees, delirium still eating at his mind, clouded thoughts extending all effort to stay within the present moment. Red gloves tremble, reaching forwards hoping to grasp something, anything.

The act causes a laugh to emanate from ‘Him’.

Gloved hands meet, red intertwines with black, onyx tenderly clasps crimson.

‘He’ wishes to perpetuate this scene forever, alas, the grey fog shifts again and ‘His’ attention turns towards the end of the table. This time, revealing ‘Their’ figure.

Like ‘Him’, ‘They’ are everywhere, yet nowhere at once. An amalgamation of tendrils one moment, the next, a smirking figure with naught but long cascading hair leaking out from beneath ‘Their’ outer garment.

At the sight of the other, a sigh permeates out of ‘His’ being. Appendage relinquishing the sanguine hand in ‘His’ grasp. ‘He’ turns to face the other, waiting, unwilling to budge from ‘His’ position. The act causes ‘Them’ to chuckle, ‘They’ move towards him. As ‘They’ encroach upon each other, the domain quakes, and increasingly more unwelcomed gazes lay upon the realm.

No sound, word nor action is shared between the two.

Soon, ‘They’ collide with ‘His’ figure.

‘I am thou, thou art I’

Two figures reduced to one, one now a little more than two.

‘They’ turn ‘Their’ gaze upwards, staring through the quaking grey fog, omnipotent gaze staring directly at the unwelcomed trespassers, warning ‘Them’, challenging ‘Them’, before settling back downwards, a softer look, one towards the unconscious poet sprawled over the table.

As ‘Their’ castle reaches its limit, ‘They’ place ‘Their’ hands on the poet’s forehead. At the same time, ‘Their’ sacred territory is invaded, intruders bursting in front of all dimensions.

Yet the act itself is already futile.

In ‘Their’ last moments, ‘They’ are protecting him.

A clock ticks, and all is rewound.

Chapter Text

He’s floating, or at least, he thinks he is.

Within his body, neurons fire electrical signals in an attempt to contract muscle cells, yet somewhere along the lines the message is lost, his limbs remain stagnant. A sense of estrangement fills him, as if he were nothing but a spectator within his own frame. At the same time, his extremities are heavy yet light, everything and nothing at all is plunged into distress. Regardless if they were words, thoughts or feelings, the moment something attempts to form within his mind, it is submerged right before he can grasp it.

There’s a ringing sound in his ear now. An incessant murmur which coats his thoughts in a murky mist, the more time that passes, the louder these maddening mumblings grow, the thicker the gloom becomes.

Soon, another sound joins the fray.

A distinct shattering pierces straight through his head, it stabs into his temples, travelling down his spinal cord like electricity. His entire body is now tingling, the jolt disturbing the little sensation that he was able to grasp onto. Simultaneously, something is engulfing him, something large, all encompassing. It feels comforting, as if he were a newborn baby being gently nurtured with all the care in the world, the newfound warmth enlightening him of his previous deficiency. The thought of staying like this forever crosses his mind.

Alas, these feelings of contentment are ephemeral, as soon, everything around him begins to dull, sensations numb, and all he’s left with is the feeling of frost gradually encasing him. He grows cold, so cold in fact he feels that he could freeze to death. Yet, soon after even the feelings of ice decay, leaving him with nothing but an uncertain emptiness. Instinctively, he tries mustering the strength to command his limbs to curl in on himself, alas, he finds his body faltering once more.

‘Where am…?’

With that last thought, his icy isolation grows, as does the shell encasing him which removes him evermore from the world he once knew. All he can find consolation in is a thin, translucent image of grey fog gradually forming at the back of his head, the already present murky gloom making way for this new haze. Within the mist, voices begin to circulate his mind, they’re whispering something to him, susurrations indistinguishable, achieving nothing except using their mutterings to caress his conscience, partaking in the precarious act of dancing on the thin rope that was his current slipping sanity.

As he exists in this state of strange purgatory, a lifeline extends down to him, a vague comfort registering at the top of his forehead. Something heavy but heated, something which promised reprieve. Soon, the warmth moves to his cheek, emulating the feeling of an appendage gently cradling his features.

The contact sparks something within him, and he attempts to extend his eyes open, lifting the heavy lids in an effort to view the source of respite. Unfortunately, all he sees is the same, distant grey fog. In a fit of frustration and urgency, he musters the last of his strength to thrash about once more. Pitifully, all his efforts manage to achieve is the protrusion of what he believes to be his hand outwards, an endeavour which hopes to catch something, anything.

And catch something he does.

Soon, his hand is engulfed in warmth. Something intertwines with his finger, cradling them as his frigid nerves are lit with fervour, a feeling that soon grows addicting due to the insular void that was his current perceived existence.

Lamentably, the warmth leaves as soon as it arrives, and once again, he is cast into a limbo of ambivalence.

He doesn’t know how long this state lasts.

At a certain point, it veers on something peaceful.

Thump.

Through the haze, he feels a thud, something close to his chest.

It’s unnoticeable at first, his senses too dulled by the null around him. Yet, as time goes on, the deep tense pounding from the centre of his body gradually grounds him. The steady beat acting as his north star. Soon however, the thing in his chest starts hammering so fast he fears that it will burst out, leaving him once again trapped in a state of inertia.

Thump. Thump.

Fortunately, such a thing never comes to pass, and slowly, strings of thought come together to form words, these words manifest sentences, and sentences begin to form coherent ideas. With lucidity comes vigilance, and with vigilance, comes panic. His surroundings, as if trying to drown this newfound clarity, begin to magnify. The steady thudding now lost amongst the thunderous ravings around him, He wants to scream but there’s something stifling his throat—does he still have a throat?—his face itches, his forehead burns, his skin feels like it’s being lit aflame.

All of a sudden, the fog in front of him begins dissipating. Everything halts to a stop. Slowly, his thoughts turn pristine, as though a switch has been flipped in his body, all previous stimuli are muted, and, in their place, new sensations enter. Ones more grounded in reality. As if only now penetrable, light floods into his eyes. Though the environment around him is dim, the sudden onslaught of visual information stuns him, and he finds the page below him grow increasingly difficult to read.

‘...’

‘Page?’

‘Why am I reading?’

The more he tries to focus, the more distant the words grow. Words begin breaking down into letters, and letters turn to swirling black stains of ink, ones which he can’t for the life of him register, as if the flecks of colour were being absorbed then refracted right out of his eyes before hitting his retinas. He squeezes his eyes shut, he wants the newfound sensations to stop.

Subconsciously, his hand clutches his head, fingernails digging into his scalp, hair being tugged at the roots, as if triggering something, awareness returns to his limbs the next second, and suddenly, he finds himself falling. A groan escapes his throat as his buckling body parts mercilessly slam into the floor under him, the dull impact stunning as well as waking him. Though the murmurs in the background have faded, there is now an entirely new environment to comprehend. The air is cold, stagnant, with a faint odour of gas diffusing through the air. There’s something hard propped against his back, a painful reminder that he was now positioned within a tangible landscape. Strands of hair escape his grip. Next to return is auditory information, he hears various panicked voices to his left.

Out of the blue, a heavy weight falls onto his right shoulder, and with it, a deep, gentle voice sounds.

“Leonard.”

At the tenor of the other, his eyes shoot open, emerald green finally regaining their light. Before he’s able to register his own actions, as if exercising their own volition, his mouth moves and his vocal cords vibrate.

“...Captain?”

With that, the fog clouding Leonard’s mind parts. He can’t tell if his words or the setting around him unsettled him more.

Crouching under the crimson moonlight, mere inches away from his face, is a man in his thirties dressed in a black and white chequered uniform, peak cap on head. If one were to look from the sides, they would be able to see the receding hairline hiding beneath the cap. Even further downwards, lies a pair of deep grey eyes staring directly at him.

The sight almost causes him to choke on his own breath as slowly everything begins to set in.

‘What- Why is Captain here?’

In a way, the serene voice of Dunn Smith acts as an anchor, his subconscious obtaining something to tether to, something familiar within the torrential tempest of the unknown. Alas, these blissful feelings of stability are but the calm before the storm, lasting mere seconds before reality sinks its claws back into him, dragging him into its depths.

Contrary to his carefree attitude, Leonard had gotten to a point in his life where he would describe himself as a seasoned veteran when it came to abnormal phenomena with roots in mythicism. In most of these situations, the key was to remain clear headed and calm, keeping your mind stable before the surroundings caused you to lose it. Well, that’s what he would like to say to himself, if the predicament he found himself in wasn’t so, irregular.

Regrettably, he has little time to ponder these thoughts as he has bigger problems, namely attempting to navigate the situation in front of him.

For a brief moment, Leonard sardonically questions if perhaps he had up and lost control in his sleep, pathetically returning to the goddess’ embrace. The little solace that he had initially offered himself was that this was a dream. He knows dreams, better than most, at least. He knows how they feel, how they look, understands the extent of control that they have over him. Unfortunately, this mastery also allows him to assess the situation quickly, and he didn’t like the conclusion he had arrived at, not at all.

‘Real. This is real, how?’ He thinks to himself, mind racing.

Dreams were places that could mimic reality, this was a fact.

Sensory touch, visual stimuli, auditory waves, for the average person and the untrained, they could even feel like reality. Not for Leonard. Dreams didn’t disorient him, they didn’t throw his senses into disarray, light his nerves on fire nor cause him to relinquish the control he has over his limbs. They didn’t emulate the feeling of cheap fabric on his arms, the cold hard wood digging into his sides, the weight of a peak cap on his head.

Even in his own dreams, he could never truly emulate that which he dearly yearned for, and this.

The stoic image of Dunn Smith staring at him, body moving slightly with each breath, face so clearly full of life.

‘This was one of those things.’

This wasn’t a dream.

Somehow, in some way, this was reality.

In one last desperate attempt, Leonard moves to draw upon the familiar texture of the dreamscape, grasping towards power which he had grown to rely on and use as much as he did breathing. Alas, where he was previously a tailor and the reality of dreams nothing but fluid fabric at his disposal to manipulate, currently, his hands were unable to even feel the threads, his eyes no longer privy to view the garment the cloth composed.

Panic grips him.

‘Perhaps this is a ploy by one of the outer deiti-’

Before Leonard’s even able to finish his thought, a tension suddenly fills his spirit, an alertness that comes from a piercing, scrutinising gaze locking in on him from afar. His thoughts. His thoughts grow stagnant. His mind grows erratic. Panic builds. Something is growing. Morphing. His skin is hot. Something is trying to pierce through. His mouth is moving. It wants to speak. To say more. To share knowledge. Knowledge that would doom everyone in the vicinity. To, to—

“Think not of the sights shown to you by the notebook.”

A deep, ancient voice reverberates through his head, stopping his thoughts in their tracks. The spiritual presence of another only now registering. It’s familiar.

With that, everything turns calm once more.

‘Old Man? Okay, the Old Man is here…That makes things more complicated than they already are.’

Interrupting his thoughts once more, the figure in front of him speaks again.

“Leonard, how do you feel?” Dunn asks, voice carefully level, an underlying concern weighing down his words.

He has little time to contemplate the presence of the Old Man before his attention is back on Captain. It takes all of Leonard’s efforts to prevent a grimace from sliding onto his face.

“I’m, yes, I’m fine now…Captain.” He replies, voice hoarse, dripping with hesitation.

Truly, this was the most uncertain he has felt about a predicament in years. Despite everything, despite his vigilance towards the unknown situation he has found himself in, despite all the thoughts rapidly shooting through his mind. Methods for disengaging, escaping, ways of rendering all present immobile. He can’t help but feel a sense of absolute loss when he hears Dunn Smith’s voice, sees the other’s face. The concerned cadence emanating from the profound voice, the stress lines around his eyes, the serenity which exudes from his figure. No amount of self deceit could reduce the sentimental value he undeniably had attached to this person. This person which he thought he would never hear nor see again.

Utterly unaware of the true nature of Leonard’s turmoil, intense eyes continue to stare at him, expression relieved at the other’s relatively coherent reply. Now however, the gaze also carries a hint of cautious calculation.

‘There are too many variables, I just need to calm down.’

Leonard’s mind is still reeling from all the realisations. He needs to think of something, and fast. The silence between the two was growing heavy. Coughing into his hand, an involuntary groan escapes his throat as the action itself shakes his body causing him to bump into the frame behind him, the action irritating the bruise that had begun forming on his back.

Leonard clears his throat, plastering a smile on his face that looked closer to a wince before abruptly replying, “Ah, ahem, it seems that I’m still a bit disoriented, care to remind me where we are?”

The movement of his tongue feels unnatural, the control over his limbs even less so. The more present he becomes, the more foreign he feels in his own body. Fortunately, and regrettably, he already has some thoughts about where he is. The small, slightly derelict yet loved quaint apartment evokes a sense of familiarity, one that appears in tainted bitter memories, he hopes he’s incorrect.

Captain stares at him for a couple moments before carefully articulating in a manner not too dissimilar to coaxing a cornered animal, “We are currently in the Moretti residence, a terrace apartment located on Iron Cross Street.”

‘No, surely not.’

With each word spoken by the other, Leonard feels an inexplicable sense of horror begin to wrap around his neck.

“You, Frye, and myself are investigating a Beyonder incident involving the Antigonus Notebook.”

‘This doesn’t make any sense.’

“We are at the Moretti Apartment to examine Klein Moretti, a…”

The rest of Dunn’s words fall deaf upon Leonard’s ears.

‘Klein Moretti.’

‘Klein is also here.’

Klein where he had just entered the world of beyonders. Klein before the events of Megose, before he became something larger, something more encompassing. Something that Leonard could only observe and admire from afar as he watched the World grow increasingly all consuming.

“Date!” He all but shouts out, his hands shooting out to grip Dunn’s shoulders, the quick movement causing his muscles to scream out in protest. “Date, what’s the date?”

Despite the outburst, Dunn’s face remains calm. As a seasoned Nighthawk, he knew making careless moves to restrain a disoriented beyonder could be more detrimental than beneficial. If anything, he was relieved that Leonard displayed no physical signs of losing control. Confusion and deteriorated memories were much preferred over insanity.

“June 28, 1349.”

Dunn’s words pierce through Leonard as if a stake had been driven through his heart. Since he had arrived in this strange world, timeline, whatever and whenever he was, he had had his suspicions, but the other’s words are the final nail in the coffin. Hysteria threatens to burst out of his throat, he feels an inclination to laugh.

‘A decade. An entire decade into the past. This, how?’

The magnitude of the situation barely sets in, his mind begins rushing with countless questions, explanations, theories and ideas, any and everything to try and rationalise his current plight.

Leonard’s eyes avert from the Captain’s gaze, the other too much for him to handle right now, instead, they fall down to his body. Involuntarily, he lifts his hand to his face. He realises now that they are embellished not in his signature red gloves, but standard black ones. It’s strange, being without his crimson gloves. He becomes acutely aware of the unfamiliar weight on his hands.

As he continues to gradually take in his surroundings, he frowns, as he finds that all his memories are hazy.

“What is the last thing I remember?”

Sitting at his desk, church documents in front of him. Something, static? The panicked voice of the Old Man. Another voice. This one is more distant. Stronger. A sudden feeling of dread. Everything is turning grey. Grey fog. A warm feeling on his forehead? The caress…caress of something.

‘Grey fog…’ He thinks, ‘Is this the Fool’s doing?’

The act of recalling causes something to recoil in his mind, a headache brings his thoughts to their knees.

‘No use. I’ll sort through everything when it’s more convenient. Present, just focus on the present.’ Inwardly, he humorlessly laughs at the irony of the statement.

“Thank you Captain, it seems that the words on the notebook had some traces of corruption.” Leonard finally replies, breaking the silence between the two. This was a reasonable explanation.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Dunn moves away from Leonard, knees cracking as he stands up. “You were out of it for a couple of minutes. After the mission head over to the church for an inspection.”

“Yes, Captain.” Leonard replies without much thought, more preoccupied with the act of standing up, uncrumpling himself from his position and stretching out his limbs. He winces slightly. The gradually forming contusions on his body being irritated by his movement. Now upright, he has a higher vantage of the room.

Slowly, he walks around, the room is quite cramped. Behind him is a double bunk bed where he presumes he was previously collapsed against, directly across is a table with various papers and books situated on it, to the left is a gas pipe attached to a light, on the floor there’s a fallen chair. Slowly, his eyes gravitate to the window in front of the study, a familiar crimson moonlight shining through. It brings him a feeling akin to comfort, something consistent in a reality of uncertainty. After his brief scan, he realises how empty the room is.

Turning to Captain, he asks, “Where are Mr Klein and the others?”

“As soon as you showed signs of abnormality, I had Frye move them into the hall under the guise of a thorough inspection. Mr Klein was quite against it.”

“Right, well now that everything is back in order let us check back on them.”

Without giving Captain another glance, Leonard strides towards the door, as he moves he feels the gaze of the other on the back of his head. He knows that he’s acting strange, or at least, he thinks he is. Thinking back to how he used to act, the Leonard of a decade ago wouldn’t have been this calm. Whenever he encountered something beyond his understanding, he would instantly cower, attempting to find a way to remove himself from the situation just so he could get the Old Man’s intervention.

‘I really was such a slacker, deluded to think I had all the time in the world.’ The thought brings a bitter smile to his face, a familiar routine of musings threatening to begin their rounds in his head.

This however, was not the time for self pity.

Objectively speaking, the correct course of action would be to remain passive. Let Captain lead the rest of the night, observe any and all abnormalities from the side, and then return to the safety of an isolated home environment to set his thoughts straight. The building pressure in his chest however said otherwise. A pressure stemming from erratic feelings of ecstasy, of excitement. Euphoria that bubbles in the face of expectations, possibilities.

Perhaps some part of him still held onto the wish that he could rewrite his own story. A wish he thought he had long let go of, buried under the bodies and dreams of the countless casualties who fell victim to the pointless violent acts of battle and destruction caused by the conflicts between divinity and man.

Pushing aside all these thoughts, his hands move to clasp onto the cold mental of the door, as he pushes open, the sight of various individuals cramped into a small hallway greet him. At the front is a pale man with black hair and blue eyes, facial expression cold, yet at the sight of Leonard, he gives a nod, action betraying something warmer from beneath the monotone exterior.

‘Frye…He looks so young.’ The image of the other causes Leonard to soften slightly, he hadn’t been able to see the Tingen Nighthawk Captain much over the years. The lack of interaction was for the best, as if he were to get involved with something occurring in Tingen, it spelt nothing but misfortune for all parties.

Next is a tall inspector with a disgruntled expression, Leonard recognises him not and thus pays him no mind. His point of interest was behind the two investigators, as behind the two officials, a thinly built scholarly man with black hair, brown eyes, and a body full of tension stands.

‘It really is him.’

The sight is peculiar. It has been a long, long time since he had last seen Klein look like this. So unsure of himself, reserved. Nowhere in sight were any of the identities which would soon sprout from the singular man in front of him, one which would soon become as grand as The World itself. There was no crazy adventurer, no cold calculating detective, nor the whimsical and lofty wandering magician.

It was simply, Klein Moretti. A newly graduate who lives with his siblings, one who has yet to bear the weight of the world.

‘Or is he? Could he perhaps have also come back?’ At the thought, Leonard decides to test the waters.

“Apologies for the wait gentlemen, fortunately we have wrapped up our investigations for the night, we just have a last couple questions to ask.”

Throughout this, Dunn remains silent, simply allowing Leonard to take the lead, regardless how peculiar it was.

“Mr Klein, have you experienced any more abnormalities since you left the room?” He asks, staring directly at Klein, green eyes searching for something within brown hues, alas, all his gaze receives is a look of confusion and apprehension. No recognition in sight.

“No investigator, I still can’t recall anything and nothing strange has occurred…” The young scholar trails off slightly, as if the others' thoughts had suddenly come across something, a brief apprehension flickers on his face. Leonard writes down a mental note of the occurrence.

‘It’s too early to make assumptions.’

An uneasy air settles and silence consumes the corridor once more.

“Well, Mr Klein, thank you for your cooperation. An expert will come within the next few days to help you recall your lost memories. We advise you’d better not leave Tingen for the coming days. If you have to, please notify Inspector Mountbatten, or you’ll become a fugitive.” Dunn thanks, as well as warns.

The statement causes Klein’s face to twitch slightly.

‘Fear? Confusion? Or perhaps, annoyance?’ Leonard silently ponders.

“That won’t be an issue.” He replies, voice light, betraying none of the previously displayed emotions on his face.

With that, Dunn, Frye, and the investigator all take their leave, walking down the hallway towards the exit one by one. Leonard on the other hand trails behind, surprisingly, he finds himself able to recall the words he had said to Klein the first time he had encountered him in these very same circumstances.

“It’s really nice. Very lucky.”
“What?”
“Generally speaking, the norm is for all the involved parties to die in such an event. We are very glad and fortunate to see you still alive.”

“You guys will protect me, right?”
“I know! You’ll do that!”

Back then, Leonard had paid no mind to the panicked shouts of the scholar as they descended the building. Though at the time Klein was still a suspect, it couldn’t have hurt to provide the man with a little comfort, looking back now he sees that his attitude had been quite blasé, perhaps not the best way to comfort a victim. He contemplates altering his approach this time, the one thing preventing him from doing so immediately being a concern that had lingered at the back of his mind since Captain told him the date. A concern which questions the ramifications of making any changes, both miniscule and large to his past actions.

Time is a capricious mistress, if he were truly in the past, all the changes he made could have dire consequences.

He stands in the middle of the corridor, body frozen as his mind runs in circles, at last, he turns back after he has made his decision.

“You were very lucky.” He says, voice deceptively light, as the weight behind his words almost pressured him into retracting them entirely. He was speaking to Klein, for the first time in what he believes to be seven or so years since The Fool went to sleep as did The World.

“What?” Klein replies, face puzzled once more, completely unaware of the significance that this one interaction has to the strange poet-like person in front of him.

“Generally speaking, it’s the norm for all the involved parties to die in such an event. We are very glad and fortunate to see you still alive.” Words mirroring that of the past, yet he doesn’t stop, the script is deviated.

“Don’t worry, we’ll work to the best of our abilities to ensure that you and your family stay safe.” He concludes, the warmest smile he could muster plastered on his face. Though the other is oblivious to the true magnitude of his words, he says it as much for himself as he does to comfort Klein, submitting to his selfish desire to announce his wishes to the world.

‘I’ll make sure of it this time.’

Though the other’s face was one of anxiety and horror at first, by the end, a cautious relief had settled on his expression. “Thank you, officer.” Klein’s voice is still doused in scepticism, but it makes their first interaction relatively more positive.

Unbeknownst to the two interacting parties, this singular exchange causes a small, insignificant ripple, the first of countless.

At that, Leonard turns around to leave, joining up with the rest of the group. Seeing him trail behind, all Dunn does is lift an eyebrow before returning to his conversation with the inspector regarding the direction of the investigation. During their descent, he could feel Frye’s gaze searing into the side of his head.

As they enter the dim moonlit streets, with the gasoline lamps on the sidewalk the only light save for the crimson glow steadily shining down on them all, the inspector bids them farewell.

“Thank you for your work today.”

“The pleasure was ours.”

With the tip of a hat, the other departs, leaving the three beyonders standing under the flickering street lights.

“Change of plans tonight, Frye, stay here to monitor the situation, I’ll take Leonard to the church.” Captain states, voice breaking the silence between the three, at the same time, he takes out his pocket watch and frowns. “The church will be closed by now, we’ll have to go through the underground path.”

Leonard ponders Dunn’s words momentarily, vague memories of the plan surfacing in his mind, initially he was on standby in case something went off with Dunn’s dream interrogation.

“No, Captain, it’s okay, we can proceed as planned.” He decides to rebut. While being on the mission had its own downsides, namely the uncertain nature of his own state of wellbeing since regressing, the idea of going to the church comforted whilst simultaneously scared him more. Though being under the protection of the Evernight Goddess would prevent external uncontrolled variables from influencing him, he still knew too little about his circumstances to make a definitive decision about his course of action and his stance towards the gods.

Believe in the might of deities but do not trust ‘Their’ benevolence. The previous words of the Old Man echo in his memories.

At his opposition, Dunn frowns. “Your state is not fit to continue carrying out the mission, safety first and foremost, we can do the dream interrogation tomorrow.”

Suddenly, another concern enters Leonard’s mind, one which pertains to ensuring he made as little changes as possible before he gathered his thoughts. Moving the interrogation to the next day would certainly have a major impact. He knew Captain was right, from their perspective, he had just been exposed to traces of unknown origins which influenced his mental state and control over himself. If anything, he would be more of a hindrance during the mission. It was ironic, if it were the him of the past, he would have happily gone to the Church, skipping out on the mission. Yet now, he’s desperately trying to come up with an excuse to not have the mission delayed.

Leonard refuses to back down, “I understand your concerns over my state but I am feeling unharmed, on our way down I’ve been periodically entering cognition checking myself, there is nothing wrong. The mission should take precedence as important information could be gained from interrogating Mr Klein now, plus, Madam Daly is already in position.” He reasons, pulling on all his buried memories of the mission to try and bring it back on track.

Dunn shoots him a strange look, Leonard curses his past self for his complacency, he almost never questioned the Captain’s decisions.

As Captain opens his mouth to rebut once more, the cold voice of Frye interrupts the two. “Captain, swap my role with Leonard’s. I’ll carry out the mission with you while Leonard goes to the church.”

Leonard watches as a look of contemplation washes over Captain’s face, as if he were contemplating the risk of the situation, at the same time, he silently thanks Frye.

“It’s okay Captain, I feel more fatigued than mentally disturbed, I’ll wait until morning to go pray it was just a momentary shock. I even feel good enough to write some prose about this tragedy.” He attempts to reassure, he desperately wants to get somewhere to get his thoughts straight.

Captain shoots him a thinly veiled incredulous look, before letting out a sigh, “Okay Leonard, I trust you. If you feel anything abnormal go to the church immediately.”

“Worry not my companions, I wish you the best for the rest of the mission.” He reassures, patting the two on the shoulder before making his way down the street, pleased that he was able to get the mission back on track.

In front of the apartment entrance, Dunn and Frye watch as the poet slowly departs out of sight.

“Frye, remind me tomorrow to check in on Leonard.”

“Okay Captain.”

‘Walking through Tingen again is quite strange.’ Leonard muses as he strolls through West Borough, hands in his pockets. It hasn’t been long since he left Captain and Frye.

‘I wonder if Captain has begun interrogating Klein yet.’

The moon is high in the sky now, shining its crimson rays down on everything below. The streets of Tingen bring a sense of nostalgia, like he’s returning home to a city he has long departed from. The gothic architecture which resembles the buildings in Backlund—though on a smaller scale with more humble designs—the occasional carriage which drove past him, it was the City of Tingen which he knew and loved. If the circumstances weren’t so strange, he could delude himself into thinking that he was simply visiting between duties at the church.

Alas, things could never be that simple.

The night air is cool on his skin, a slight breeze blows through his hair. Some part of him is worried that he won’t be able to locate his old residence, the one which he had abandoned as soon as he had been transferred to the Red Gloves and into Backlund. Fortunately, as he turns the corner and enters onto Dandelion Street, a familiar terrace comes into view. Like most terraces in Tingen, the building had a multifaceted hipped roof with the exterior painted grayish blue. On the top, a chimney stands. There are little to no decorations on the outside of the building, the curtains are closed and no light peaks through from within. If someone were to come across this house, they would be inclined to believe that nobody lived within it.

At the sight of his previous place of dwelling, Leonard can’t help but criticise his housing choices.

‘Honestly, a bungalow would have been enough, was I really so careless with my spending that I wished to waste my money on a terrace?’

Over the years, despite reaching a high rank in the church and having amassed a sizable wealth, the cost of beyonder materials and items became an eternal weight that loomed over his shoulder whenever he made purchases.

‘I’ll need to start saving now.’ He thinks, trying to recall the state of his current finances.

As he reaches the door, he fumbles with his pockets for a couple of seconds before managing to procure his keys, he slots the metal in and the door opens. The moment that Leonard closes the door behind him, a single thought pervades through his mind.

‘I’m a decade in the past.’

The thought causes the floodgates of his mind to gush open, the previously constructed dam finally crumbling under the pressure of his thoughts. The wind is knocked out of him, his hands grow clammy, he feels his breath begin to shake like a leaf, and for the second time today—though not due to the influence of unknown origins—his legs falter and he finds himself on the floor, body sliding down against the wall until he hits the ground. Clouded emerald eyes stare at the ceiling as the back of his head leans against the frame, scenes of the past flickering through his mind. Events which he believed he had long buried rearing their heads once more. Old wounds begin to reemerge, as if the stitches holding them together were forcibly ripped out from their roots, scar tissue decimated leaving nothing but a bloodied mess of memories.

Leonard doesn’t know how long he spends lying there against the door, replaying events of the past like a movie reel he continuously rewinds, refusing to let end.

Suddenly, a sharp pain pierces his hand followed by a dull thudding. Casting his gaze downwards towards the source, he realises that at some point his gloves have found their way to the floor and his hands had begun destroying the beds and sides of his fingernails. Crimson blood drips from the wound.

Something closer to surprise causes him to stare as the liquid drops. It’s almost mesmerising, seeing himself bleed. Really, ever since being promoted after the war he stopped encountering injury outside of beyonder battles, only now that he has regressed in sequence, does he realise truly how the mundane parts of his humanity had begun slowly slipping from him as an angel.

As he continues to watch the vermillion fluid trickle, he feels his throat grow parched. Perhaps something akin to a mental defence mechanism activating in response to his current turmoil, an old vice attempts to arise. He swallows the lump that has formed in his throat in an attempt to cleanse his thoughts. Shaking his head, he busies himself looking around the room.

The house wasn’t decrepit by any means, right through the front door there was a living room with a couple couches and a fireplace to the left, to the right there was a desk with what he assumes are failed products of poetry. Next to the desk is a bookshelf filled to the brim with books of literature which he had half heartedly bought in order to act the part of the poet. As all the curtains in the house are drawn, little to no moonlight illuminates the room.

Within the dim space, nothing except Leonard’s breath floats through the silence.

‘I wonder what the Old Man is thinking right now.’

Besides the interference at the start, the other had remained quiet for the entire evening, simply spectating the strange actions of the host he resides in.

‘We weren’t particularly close by this point in time,’ Leonard muses. The Old Man was probably waiting for him to initiate the conversation, after all, he was still in a damaged state, he probably doesn’t want to contend with the possibility of getting infected by another deities’ corruption more than necessary.

“Hey, Old Man.” He whispers, breaking the silence of the room.

After a brief pause, a subdued, ancient voice echoes through his head.

“What is it?”

“Did you notice anything strange about my actions today?” He asks, a mirthless smile on his face, the question is redundant, they both know it, but he asks it regardless.

“I think the better question would be what wasn’t strange about your actions today?” The Old Man replies, this evokes a chuckle out of Leonard, some part of him still doesn’t believe that this is real. He wouldn’t describe the others tone as cautious, though it’s present, there’s something else embedded in his voice, something that veers on curiosity.

“Would you believe me if I said I’m not the Leonard you know?”

At the statement, his entire body tenses, a premonition of danger washes over him.

“What are you implying?” The Old Man replies, undoubtedly letting some of his true presence leak into his words as the pressure on Leonard’s existence increases, his survival instincts are screaming at him to quickly diffuse the situation.

He ignores them, continuing to push, “Would you believe me if I said I’m from the future?”

The bomb has been dropped, all the previous tension dissipates, silence once again fills the room, Leonard wonders if the Old man thinks he’s finally gone insane from his delusions.

“...What?”

“Somehow I’ve been thrown a decade into the past, or perhaps the world itself has regressed, I’m not too sure.”

Even though he’s unable to see the other’s face, he can feel his bewilderment. Pallez was most likely attempting to deduce whether this was some kind of elaborate joke, or perhaps Leonard had really gotten influenced by a deity and lost control in a manner most convoluted. The moment that he heard the Old Man’s voice, he had long given up on the idea of hiding his predicament from him. Though they were practically strangers currently, three years spent together and little to no trust between the two, he not only had faith in the future relationship they would form, but he also doubted his ability to hide his state from an angel residing within his body, especially one of the Error pathway.

Seeing that the other wasn’t saying anything, Leonard decides to strike while the iron is hot, he imparts information that the current him would never be able to obtain.

“I know you’re an angel from the Fourth Epoch, your name is Pallez Zoroast, you’re currently sequence 1 Worm of Time from the Error pathway, you’re in a weakened state and need to absorb more characteristics-”

“Stop, that’s enough, speaking too much might attract unwanted attention to you.”

After a brief moment of disorientation at his stolen words, the first genuine smile since his arrival slides onto Leonard’s face.

“So you did care about me during this period of time! You know, you should really be more truthful when interacting with me.” As if attempting to grasp at anything that felt familiar, he finds himself falling into a learned routine of banter with the Old Man, teasing him, “Most of the information was relatively harmless.”

The deafening silence which follows leaves him wincing at the awkwardness.

“It seems that you’ve grown more self-assured over the years.” The Old Man scoffs.

The joke is awkward, and the delivery feels forced, yet the others attempt at matching his banter does cause warmth to bloom in his chest.

A comfortable silence follows the two, both parties needing some time to digest the information that was just shared and relinquished respectively.

“What happened before you found yourself here?”

“I don’t know, I was, I can’t remember what I was doing all my memories are hazy, perhaps I’ll try reconstructing them in a dream-” Leonard stops himself mid sentence. “Nevermind, it seems I forget I am currently only a measly Midnight Poet.”

“How far ahead is the future you come from?” Though he attempts to remain nonchalant, Leonard can hear the investment in his tone.

The question causes his mood to dampen once more, the elephant in the room finally being addressed.

“A decade.” He whispers, words heavy as they leave his mouth, his situation articulated for the first time. Though to the Old Man a decade might pass in the blink of an eye, to Leonard, that was a little under a third of his life rewound, he can’t help with how jarring everything feels.

“I see.” Though the news was shocking, the Old Man shows no signs of surprise, simply a voice full of curiosity and heavy contemplation.

Leonard doesn’t think he could stand it if they fell back into silence, so he continues offering information.

“You know, I managed to make it to sequence 2 ten years from now, unbelievable, right?” He attempts to interject humour into his voice, but the execution is flat, his words are shaky.

“It’s a miracle you got there before getting killed by saying or seeing something you weren’t supposed to with how careless you’re acting.” The Old Man dryly replies.

The statement causes certain memories to resurface in his mind, the misfortune of others much more worthy than him.

“Yeah,” he hoarsely replies after a pause, “I was lucky.”

A wave of melancholy washes over him. It really was a miracle that he had made it so far. Though he learned how to pull his weight eventually, through much trial and error, the initial him, before the events in Tingen, or really, anytime before he had established himself in the Tarot Club and the Church, he had been completely and utterly reliant on the Old Man to help him navigate through everything.

The lack of response from the other causes his thoughts to drift once more. To those who possessed capabilities much greater than his own who had passed to the next kingdom. He thinks of Dunn, thinks back to how he looked when they parted at the entrance to the apartment. How, under the artificial glow of the electrical lamp, just how worn out Captain looked. Pale yellow shining down on short brown hair, wrinkles emphasised by the shadows. Having now been placed ten years in the past, he recognises that he never really understood the burden that Captain had on his shoulders. Only now, with another decade of experience under his belt with more losses than he could count on his hands, does he start to understand the story Captain’s stress lines and receding hairline tell.

At the thought, Leonard lets out a sigh whilst muttering, “The path of a beyonder is truly miserable.” This night was becoming more melancholic than he wished it would be. Turning back to his conversation, he asks the question that had been resting at the back of his mind since the interaction had started.

“Have you ever encountered time travel before Old Man?”

“No, or at least, not to this extent, this is an unprecedented occurrence. The domain of fate and time is a mysterious one, even at my prime, my control over time was negligible compared to this instance.”

Leonard hums, he attempts to dip into his own knowledge on the domain of fate which the higher sequences of the darkness pathway got access to, but finds himself faltering. That same headache pierced through his temples.

“Strange, I can’t seem to recall many details about knowledge I shouldn’t be privy to currently without reaching a mental block.”

“I sense a loophole within your mind, you are in a state of simultaneously knowing yet not, so until you reach a certain threshold you won’t be able to access the information. Whether this was done to protect or restrict is currently unknown.”

The other’s words cause Leonard to frown, he suddenly fears that he has once again become a chess piece being dictated by powers greater than his own.

Deciding not to focus on that, he asks another question which had been weighing on his mind. “Why did you believe me so readily?”

Honestly speaking, he didn’t expect the reveal to go so smoothly, calm acceptance had been one of the best outcomes, with the worst being his existence being taken over on the spot by Pallez, resulting in a battle he was sure to lose.

“I felt the residuals of an error after I stole your thoughts.” He mutters, begrudgingly.

Though he had expected such an answer, the response still evoked intrigue. “You said that before I came back as well.” He says off handedly, the words spilling out of his mouth unknowingly, as if the memory was suddenly unlocked. As a look of surprise coats his face, his hands move to his chin as he enters deep thought.

“What?”

“You said that you “sensed an error forming”, you sounded more panicked than the times when we had been cornered by ‘H-” Pallez realises Leonard’s mistake before he does, the words are instantly stolen out of his mouth.

“Speak not.” His tone is firm, a hint of strain in his words.

Shame and regret instantly bloom in his chest, that was almost disastrous, how could he be so inattentive with his words? “Sorry, I got careless.”

Huffing, the Old Man replies,“I really chose quite the troublesome vessel to parasitise. Your state is not stable, get some rest and adjust.” Despite how sharp his words are, there is some lingering begrudging affection buried within them.

Leonard himself knew that he wasn’t entirely in the right state of mind. Though he had accepted his reality, his mind was still reeling, a small part of him still believing that this was some convoluted dream, that he would wake up the next day and feel nothing but an emptiness reminiscing over the sights of the past he saw today. But it was exactly because he had mostly accepted his reality that he couldn’t waste any more time than he already had.

“I can’t, I need to plan my next course of action.” Plans, contingency plans, plans in case those contingency plans failed, everything he could think of, or at least could currently access, he needed to write them down.

“You plan to take fate into your own hands?” The Old Man’s tone is neither condescending nor encouraging, no, it resembles something closer to commiseration, as if he were sympathising with a man who wished to fight against destiny itself.

“I want to stop the tragedies from occurring in front of me. I know I can’t do anything within the battle of deities and angels, especially in my current state, but I do have the knowledge to try to prevent certain events from transpiring.” Leonard knows how bold this statement is, the weight which it had, yet still, he has to do this. He doesn’t think he could be at peace with his soul if he was given this opportunity and didn’t act upon it. He doesn’t know why he was sent back, perhaps he has just become another pawn in a deities chess match, even still, he would do everything he could to rectify even one mistake, save one more person, fulfil regrets he thought he’d never get the chance to fix.

The other pauses, letting the statement hang in the air before replying.

“Fate is a fickle thing to fight against.” Contrary to what Leonard expected, the other’s voice is filled with pity. Somehow it makes him feel worse.

“I have to try.”

“I hope you don’t regret your decision.”

“I might, but I’ll make the same decision if given another chance.”

Though ending on a somber note, Leonard decides that he has spent enough time lamenting on the floor. Standing up, he dusts off his legs and walks over towards the cluttered desk. Pushing scraps of paper to the side, he lights the lamp to his left and takes out a quill, ink, and paper from the drawers below. Having acquired all the materials, he starts to write.

He writes, and he writes, and he doesn’t know when he’ll stop.

All throughout the night, the scratching sound of a quill on parchment pervades through the air, with the occasional mutterings of an idealistic insane poet talking to himself and the other within him.

Most of his memories of the past beyond that pertaining to his time in Tingen are hazy. He stops while he’s ahead and decides to focus entirely on what’s in front of him. Old Neil losing control, the death of Kenley, Dunn’s slow deterioration, stopping Lanevus while he’s ahead, and, most importantly, preventing the disaster which took the life of Dunn, and the first of Klein, the plot of the True Creator.

Before he knows it, the sun rises and the next day arrives, rays of light peeking through the curtains, shining down on a particular poet’s collapsed head on a desk, frantic notes and papers strewn all around him.

Soon, the door to the terrace house opens, revealing a poet-like figure dressed ready for work, jade green eyes reflecting the new day’s light.

‘I can fix things.’

He reiterates to himself, whilst walking to Zouteland street, the memory of Old Neil’s closed casket funeral flickering through his mind.

‘I can fix things.’

He reassures himself, Black Thorn Security Company coming into sight. The haunting image of the building destroyed, Dunn and Klein’s body collapsed on the ground, surrounded by rubble, grotesque wounds on the left sides of their chests imprinting itself on his retinas.

‘I will fix things.’

He promises, hand moving to open the door as determination fills his entire body.