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In my younger years, I had another older brother. I was sixteen back then, and I was attending Tingen Technical School while assembling random spare parts from the road into toy puppets, before I was admitted to Backlund University to study mechanics. That was when my oldest brother Benson and I moved to Backlund.
At Backlund, while I was attending university, a war started. I saw a bomb drop onto my classmates, who had been studying the steam engine that whistled to mark each turn of class. One adorable friend of mine lost her leg—but later, it was mystically healed in the hospital. Another friend I knew died in the blast, and I remember seeing a flash of his entrails on the ground, like everything was unreal. I saw others too, but the memories grow strange and detached, and I remember just running to find Benson at his workplace in the West Borough. I was so scared.
I remember being scared that I would lose another brother.
I remember being scared that I would be all alone again in this world.
I thought to myself many times, sometimes feeling like I was cold to the world and looking at everything analytically after drinking the Savant potion, what would have happened to me if Benson died?
I remember the scenes clearly, after I drank that potion. They are still coated in an emotional blur—the sight of bodies detached as if by a layer of glass—and I feel that I can see them scene by scene through a refractive kaleidoscope lens. The analysis is very logical. The bomb blast was not clean, ripping through flesh. It disintegrated the steam engine, whose parts also shattered and scattered due to the impact, steel fragments landing on the flattened grass or cutting into the lungs or limbs of further students. The wreckage actually caused more casualties than the blast itself. I can see each one. I can see each face. My mind becomes like a precise catalogue, and I can analyze each scene in detail and recall everything that was recorded in my mind. This is the effect of the Savant potion: to remember.
However, I cannot remember the emotions. The emotions are blurred, distant. They feel like they are an infinite distance away as I watch these scenes.
This is how I also feel about Klein.
Klein is my other older brother, who died before Benson and I moved to Tingen. Klein was always a little silly. He forgot things sometimes, but studied very studiously. I had thought at least one hundred thirty four times in my teenage years about how he was overly concerned with feeling a lack of self-worth compared to his noble classmates, always constantly feeling like he needed to catch up, when I thought he would be better off focusing on the content of his studies than his self-esteem.
I was also proud of him when he found a job, completed his studies, and made friends at college too. I was always lecturing him to not spend money very much, because as soon as he started earning money with his job at the Blackthorn Security Company, he spent it overly much. Really! He had quickly adopted the mentality of what I had seen from some friends in Lower Street after earning a salary and had seemed to lose the ability to save.
I had to repeat it many times, because sometimes Klein was very slow on picking up and remembering things. Or rather, it was that he sometimes didn't notice that they were said.
Looking back in the fractal of my memories, however, he had actually become more attentive when he started his new job. He listened somewhat better, and his facial expressions often creased slightly differently, smiling with his mouth.
He changed. I never realized this until I carefully reviewed the memories, and reviewed them many times. At times, I was obsessed with this change. At other times, I felt I needed to let it go.
I feel this distance from my brother. And I feel pain at this distance. I want to feel his memory tighter, but as the days wear on, I am no longer sixteen. I am twenty one now, the same age Klein was when he died. He died five years ago.
So many things have happened in those five years.
Benson was married in those years, and Lucy his wife is quite wonderful. I love seeing them laugh and smile as Benson never tires of his jokes about curly-haired baboons, and my niece is growing up well as well, full of laughter. My heart shines with warmth and smiles when I look at them.
This is reality. This is life.
This is what is important.
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.
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During the days, I work and study. I have become a Beyonder, and I work with machines. The Church of Steam is not very present anymore in Backlund after the war. However, I was able to gain a cooperative deal for the Savant potion from the Church of Evernight. I am told this is somewhat unusual; however, after me, I see other colleagues being offered a similar path.
Praise the Lady!
I have joined the Nighthawks as a civilian support staff member, working on technical inventions. I often also coordinate with the Machinery Hivemind and their resources. In the recent years, despite the tensions from the World War in 1350, the Churches have started working more closely together.
I also developed a relationship with Leonard Mitchell, the policeman who had once told me about Klein’s death. He was now apparently a high-ranking member of the Nighthawks, though he refused to tell me how high when we sometimes met and discussed work. He always wore distinctive red gloves.
Leonard Mitchell told me about Klein’s death, and how he had saved Tingen from an evil god’s descent. The evil god was the True Creator, who had been implanted into a pregnant woman’s womb. That pregnant woman had come to the Blackthorn Security Company unexpectedly on the day Klein died, and Klein had been killed after the battle.
I remember listening very quietly that day, absorbing the information and saying nothing.
However, my thoughts and emotions were very active.
I had felt a mix of anger, sadness, and bitterness. How could my brother sacrifice himself for others? How could he save Tingen? Benson and I wanted him to save us! Not others!
Who could I discuss systematic evaluation of decision-making, listing pros and cons, or the examples of such reflections in history with in the night?
Who would tell me ancient tales of Roselle and Solomon when I hung on his arm during his studies, patiently and absentmindedly, before shooing me off, so I brought my own work to study and read with him, developing an interest in mechanics?
Who else would cheer me on when I secretly wanted to purchase a dress, or tease me when I talked of marriage for my brothers too much?
Who would be with me while Benson went and worked for both of us, both of us feeling helpless but determined to pay our oldest brother back one day, doing our part?
Who…
Why did he have to join the Nighthawks!
Many thoughts like these had gone through my mind.
Finally, the last thoughts that ran through my mind included:
Klein feels like a stranger.
Numb, detached, distant, it felt like I suddenly didn't know him at all, and I couldn't accept it.
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.
.
Of course, there were many different emotions at different times. Sometimes, I was full of love. Other times, I was full of anger. Other times, it was a mixture, with unbearable sadness.
I also many times thought, ‘What if.’
‘What if I had noticed earlier.’
‘What if I had become a Beyonder earlier.’
‘What if I was older during that time.’
‘What if I was born a boy.’
Some of the thoughts were silly, and others obsessive, and others reflective.
Sometimes, I also thought:
I miss him.
And the years wore on, and our family grew.
I also drank more potions, rising in sequence.
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.
.
The world was entering an unusual state. There were more Beyonder incidents, more evil cults, and more cooperation between countries and churches.
Leonard Mitchell also looked more and more distant at each meeting. He frequently gazed upwards at the stars, as if lost in thought.
Mr. Mitchell had originally been a vibrant personality. However, he seemed to grow cooler and more lost over time, as if he didn't know what to hold on to. Sometimes, he was accompanied by friends, laughing and talking as they all waved their red-gloved hands, but I always also felt a distance from him, as if he were not truly fully there.
Sometimes, he would turn his attention on me, and it would sometimes be his full attention, as if his green eyes suddenly came fully to life, and he was a full person again. Those moments were always very shocking.
I understood him then, as a person who genuinely cares about Klein, even long after his death.
When Mr. Mitchell looked at me, sometimes, he saw Klein, and his eyes would crease in fondness.
It was because of this that he would also look out for me, promoting the technology I created, testing it himself, and chatting about the specifications sometimes. He was actually very familiar with sealed artifacts and their functions, and always seemed very pleased to have an Artisan on board. He said my work would save more lives of Nighthawks. He said it would help defend them and protect them for the coming days, emphasizing tools that could help stabilize mental states or work best against the desires of the Rose School of Thought.
Mr. Mitchell often fought against the Rose School of Thought and their cults, often going on excursions to the Southern Continent to destroy their outposts. He called them truly evil.
Over the years, Mr. Mitchell would leave more often and for longer, and it was also the same everywhere else with my other colleagues and higher-ups. Everyone was busy, including me.
After some years, I understood.
The Churches were preparing.
The Churches were preparing for a bigger threat.
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.
.
“The Fool that doesn't belong to this era…
“The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog…
“The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck…
“Please. I need your direction.
“I… I miss you.
“This is my poem:
The autumn winds shine.
They blow and blow.
I can't see the endless sight.
Because the rain obscured the wind.
Because it is cold and harsh.
Harsh like the World’s cold mask.
Harsh like the strum of piano keys.
Harsh like the storm.
Harsh like a new embrace.
The World tries to find all,
And in doing so, risks losing himself.
“That is the poem. Is it any good?”
A low chuckle was heard emanating from the stone room.
“Oh, and I need to find the Rose School of Thought’s Eastern base. Well, wish me luck. Sincerely, I need an anti-divination paper angel. I actually planted myself as bait earlier. We already caught the tail, so the divination properties can now be cleansed. Well, if you can't do it, I can also ask the Church. Ha ha, am I being too disrespectful?
“I somehow think you would also chide me for carelessly using your honorific name like this.
“I think, I can sometimes be a little selfish.
“Oh, and your family is doing well.
“Don't worry. I won't tell you any details, so it can't be used against me or you.
“I've at least learned this much by now.”
Finally, the chant and chatter finished. I had quietly hid behind the door, breathing in slowly and trying to not make a sound as my thoughts churned. My curiosity, however, grew sharper and sharper the more I listened.
Heresy!
Mr. Leonard Mitchell, deacon of the Evernight Church, was praying to another god, the god of the Church of the Fool! While they were both Orthodox churches that often worked together, this was still severely frowned upon. This was like acting as a double agent.
Most strikingly, the tone was very odd. Mr. Mitchell lacked the proper respect in speaking to a god. His prayer was very lacking.
In the end, I crept away, but I had a strange feeling of eyes watching behind my back.
.
.
.
Long after this had happened, and I had many silent speculations and theories, Mr. Mitchell finally called me to a coffee shop to speak with me in private. It had been many months since we last spoke. This careful distance could be excused by work and the busy times, but I sensed a deeper truth to this. I came to the coffee shop prepared and clear-minded.
“Melissa,” he said. His lips turned into an awkward smile, but failed. While Mr. Mitchell had become colder and colder, and more distant and lost over the years, his natural state was still not to emulate false emotion.
Finally, Mr. Mitchell gave up, and sighed, sitting at the coffee table chair and kicking up his legs.
The shop owner didn't seem to notice or mind.
I sat down tidily across him, hands in my lap, in a dress that I loved and thought suited me. I had picked it very carefully, and it matched the style of the Loen middle class, discreet, not flashy, but also very practical to move in. It was mine.
That day, Mr. Mitchell told me.
He hinted at the trouble of the evil cults. And he told me about Klein. This time, he also told me about Mr. Fool.
“The truth is… Actually, uh, Klein is still alive. Klein is preparing for this dangerous event, for the world. He didn't die in Tingen. Or rather, he survived. That is—the Fool resurrected him. Or, rather, he is the Fool.”
It was unreal. I even felt the urge to laugh.
“Mr. Mitchell, you have to know that this story is unbelievable, and it is really not funny,” I said firmly.
Mr. Mitchell scratched his cheek. He looked surprised, then pained.
“I know. Normally, you would call this the whisperings of an evil god. But it is really true. Your brother has been in a long battle…”
His words seemed to trail off, and he had no more words to say.
He abruptly stood up, and bowed.
“I'm sorry, Ms. Moretti. Think about it more, and learn about the Church of the Fool.
“We… don't have long now. That event is now only a year away, or less. He's recently made some progress. I wanted to tell you this, because… Well, it is selfish, but I think he needs your support. So I hope you can consider it seriously.
“The Church of the Fool is soon revising Gehrman Sparrow’s image and spreading the new teachings. Gehrman Sparrow was another mask of his. Maybe you can also learn more about him there.”
Leonard Mitchell left the coffee shop.
I felt strange. Surreal. Dizzy. In disbelief and confusion. There were many fragments that made sense with this story, but there was also an absurdity and an impossible scale that made this matter difficult for me to have even conceived of or speculated in even the most rigorous and wild of brainstorming sessions. It was completely out of parameters.
Klein was still alive? Klein was a god? Klein was fighting against what sounded like a doomsday?
Why did he leave us?
Had it been ten years ago? Those sweet summer days in Tingen, studying with both Benson and Klein and I, when I was still just sixteen?
Had he left us for over ten years, without ever letting us know he was alive?
Or was Leonard Mitchell caught in a delusion or lie? Was he himself lying for some unknown reason or cause, to try to promote his heresy of the Fool? Why wasn't he smited on the spot, for smearing the name of both Evernight and the Fool?
This also contradicted what Mr. Mitchell had told me several years ago, when he explained how Klein had died. Why would he reveal it now? The situation had changed? He needs my support?
My mind was full of these confusions, and I tried to sort it systematically one by one. Despite the emotional turmoil, my logical mind was like a well-oiled machine, computing courses of action and the likelihood of different possibilities, stacking evidence in favor of each theory, analyzing self-consistency of evidence.
The results were shocking and strange.
I was also left unsure, as there was no definitive evidence.
However, there was enough possibility that I needed to learn more.
I did my research, and visited the Church of the Fool.
.
.
.
Visiting the Church and seeing the murals of Gehrman Sparrow, the ‘Angel of Redemption’ was very strange.
I couldn't match the image of the cold but warm Gehrman Sparrow with my old memory of Klein, who was sometimes a little silly but also serious.
He seemed like a different person.
The mask, if it was a mask, was too deep.
Time had blunted and worn away the hurt. I realized that I no longer knew Klein, and my life was in a very different place from back then. Thinking that he might be alive, I began to wonder what kind of person he might have become, and if we would still get along like we used to, or if time had created an unbridgeable gap, and we were now two very different people again.
There was a distance, and I grew more and more curious.
I had grieved many times over the years. Sometimes, I was hit with sadness over what could have been when I gazed at my niece and my sister-in-law at family gatherings. I imagined sometimes another set of faces too, of my brother Klein more grown up with a wife and a child too, all smiling happily, as our family grew bigger and bigger, and we could all live together in a big house, laughing sometimes, and other times buried in books. We would have found our success and happiness all together, freed from the chains of the past.
This had been a fantasy that I couldn't pay much attention to. Reality was far crueler, not gentle in her lessons, and our lives bore loss. Our neighbors also bore loss, and so did our neighbors’ neighbors. My colleagues as well, as well as my friends I chatted with, and even Selena back in Tingen also bore loss from the difficult times and recent years, when I went there sometimes to visit.
The world was growing harsher, and sometimes, people even acted more exaggeratedly.
Klein was alive.
Klein was alive.
Somehow, I grew to accept this thought.
I studied the Church of the Fool’s scriptures. I grew curious about what he had done these ten years, and his years of ‘sleep’ that the scriptures sometimes implied, and that Mr. Mitchell began talking of more openly. Mr. Mitchell’s expression now wore relief when he often talked with me, a tired relief, as he could open a world he had needed to keep secret to me. He talked and talked to me about Klein, and I was amazed at how much he knew and thought of my brother, despite keeping it secret all these years. Recently, my brother and Mr. Mitchell’s team had accomplished a big revenge of the past as well.
Then I wondered,
Why hasn't Klein contacted me yet?
It was strange. Mr. Mitchell seemed to sense this, and explained that his state still wasn't very good, and he was not yet fully awakened. Mr. Fool could only act in a limited capacity.
‘Mr. Fool’. Not Klein…
This saddened me, and I began to understand the weight my brother must be carrying.
I imagined a lot. I projected a lot. I hoped for a lot. Sometimes, I wanted to explain and explain. Other times, I simply felt calm, and instead turned my focus to life and what was. Other times, I simply focused on work and preparing for the future, acting and digesting my potion in the way Mr. Mitchell had taught.
I needed to prepare. I sensed it on the horizon—an eerie tension.
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.
.
It was over. The apocalypse was over.
It had already been happening, and I didn't even know it. I had simply been locked in a dream, along with all others, while our planet was destroyed and then reborn.
My brother, Mr. Fool, had fought alongside the other deities. Some Churches announced they were being absorbed by others. It was a time of celebration, cheer, sadness, and also great change. New Churches were also arising as if to mark the change of times, and many cults were permanently destroyed.
Doomsday had come and gone, and we could all learn the truth of it finally. Many of us had seen snatches of strange comets and phenomena, and at the critical moments, the world had then become like a stuttering screen fragmenting apart, and we all understood fear.
Then it patched together, and we were back to our ordinary lives and places, and with a strange clarity like waking up.
We had survived. I had survived. The world was strangely unmarked by loss this time. Very few had died in the war of the gods against the stars.
Mr. Mitchell said this was thanks to my brother. He valued humanity very much.
He also said my brother had received some damage, and that he would be able to walk the earth again like a human being again in some years.
What he had left unexplained was that my brother had also paid some big unknown price to do this.
I felt it was very strange.
But finally, I grew to accept it, living in this strange new world with Benson, Lucy, and my niece.
I didn’t know my brother very well anymore, but I wanted to know him again.
One day, I chanted in Ancient Hermes,
“The Fool that doesn't belong to this era…
“The mysterious ruler above the gray fog…
“The King of yellow and black who wields good luck…”
And detailed my many thoughts over the years. It was like a letter, spoken to the air. I hoped he received it well. I also hoped from the bottom of my heart that he was well, despite all my doubts and worries.
At first, there was simply silence. Then a letter dropped to the ground from the air, dropping from a star-filled spiraling blue door filled with mysterious symbols that had suddenly opened in front of me. The door then disappeared in a wink.
I picked it up, and opened the ancient-looking letter carefully and with trepidation.
The letter was full of my dead brother's careful handwriting.
Dear Melissa,...
Tears welled in my eyes.
I took to chanting this name sometimes frequently. I would exchange letters with my brother, who was the Fool, and would somehow manage to respond instantly and with care.
In this way, a god accepted my feelings, and I accepted his. He missed me very much, and said I was an important anchor, and he was very sorry to have left me for so long. I replied that was what the little girl Melissa had wanted to hear, and that I was an adult now. Sometimes, I also even expressed my anger and worry for all the missing years. Still, I smiled, and wrote and spoke, feeling something within me heal.
I told him he should also meet the rest of his family too.
He agreed finally, and we practiced a few times.
Later, I took my niece to go meet her uncle as well, opening the curtains to the kitchen to be nice and bright and full of life.
I taught her the incantation, and she lagged behind me step by step, blurring the words eagerly. She was very cute and wonderful, full of life.
We chanted it together after I prepared everything.
“The Fool that doesn’t belong to this era…”
“Da Pool that dun pelong to diz ela…” my niece little Alice chanted.
“The mysterious ruler above the gray fog…”
“Da Mesterwes luler apove the gway pog…”
“The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck…”
The flames flickered on the ritual altar, and this time, rather than a door, a slippery illusory tentacle filled with mysterious symbols emerged. My niece was at first scared, and so was Klein, who had still somehow written letters carefully in this form, but finally, they both eased their fears.
In the sunlight of the kitchen, brimming with warmth and smells, a little hand touched that illusory palm.
When I revisit this memory again and again in my precise catalogue, I think of life, hope, and the strange twists of fate. The surreal and the real combine, becoming more real each day. I was no longer sixteen, and this was reality, not fantasy. My niece was here, meeting my brother for the first time, touching hands. The emotions were clear and rich, shining brightly and fully without reserve, not at all distant or disconnected.
The moment was captured forever in my mind, like in a crystal glass: Family met family again, growing bigger in unexpected ways. While time had passed on and blunted both memories and wounds, we could once again begin anew.
This is what I remember, from this scene:
We have a future, and we have hope.