Chapter Text
On the first Monday of December, 1354.
Beams of dark crimson light soar to the sky from the grand seats of Sefirah Castle, beckoning the stir of the surrounding gray fog. Dimming, they collect themselves to form eight corporeal human shapes.
The Major Arcana of the Tarot Club sweep their gazes over each other in familiar greeting, and their excitement, akin to seeing an old friend, slips through the masking fog. However, none of them speak just yet.
Seated on the left chair by the head of the mottled table, one of the three founding members, Justice, also known as Audrey Hall, pinches the ends of her skirt and leads everyone to a silent stand. They turn to the empty seat to bow.
Only, the head chair is not empty.
The seat has risen to the level of the table, and there, perched with a leisurely-swaying tail, sits a cat. Its sleek coat of fur carries the black of night. Gold-rimmed eyes blink slowly at them, its gaze as heavy as one would expect from mountains, seas, and worlds.
Alarm shoots through the members of the Tarot Club.
If it is not for the fact they are aware that no one may take a step into Sefirah Castle without their Lord’s permission, perhaps, they would have readied themselves for a battle—instead of staring in choked apprehension.
A Mythical Creature?
Mr. Fool’s pet?
One of his Angels…?
In a stalemate, the Tarot Club members exchange careful looks, but there is one person whose eyes have never left the unfamiliar creature. Perhaps, it should not be unfamiliar at all.
The ends of Audrey’s skirt fall through her fingers, her own breath catching in her throat. The green of her eyes reflect the head chair and the figure it seats.
The cat slides its gaze to Audrey.
With a hand clutched to her chest, Audrey begins, letting the hope bleed through the facade of a Spectator, “...Mr. Fool?”
The name rings out like a wish.
And without opening its mouth, an ethereal voice echoes in reply—one that is all too familiar. One that they know all too well.
“Hello, Ms. Justice.”
It is as if a lightning strike has split open the air, leaving a gaping wound in time and space. Breaths hitch. Backs straighten. The hearts of the Tarot Club members nearly leap out of their chests, not sparing the attention to take notice of the smiles taking hold of their faces.
Mr. Fool is awake!
Happiness brightens Audrey’s eyes. She hurriedly turns to her fellow members, the latter already reading her intention.
Audrey pinches the ends of her skirt, and, wearing a smile that was not there before, she leads everyone into a deep bow. However, this time, it isn’t toward an empty throne.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fool!”
The greeting is echoed seven times over, lined with tangible relief and excitement.
The cat nods with a lash of its tail.
As the Tarot Club takes their seats, The Star, Leonard Mitchell, freezes. He swerves his head to the end of the mottled table, eyes wide and hopeful, but the name of his friend dies on his tongue.
The unoccupied chair stares back.
Klein…
“The World is still in his slumber.”
Leonard turns to Mr. Fool before his gaze drops to the table. He purses his lips. “...I see. Thank you, Mr. Fool.”
Silence does not get a chance to speak because The Hermit, Cattleya, goes to ask, “Honorable Mr. Fool, did you only just awaken?”
“Yes,” Mr. Fool answers. “The Gathering must have stirred the fog of Sefirah Castle coincidentally when my slumber was especially shallow.”
Cattleya nods in understanding.
“Mr. Fool,” The Magician, Fors Wall, begins, “Is there a reason why you have not adopted your regular form? I am ready to provide an equivalent payment for the answer.”
The cat merely blinks. The familiar voice echoes, “There’s no need. This form is simply more efficient, as my core consciousness continues to sleep. However, I will return soon.”
Shock sweeps across the faces of the Tarot Club members.
“You aren’t staying?” Leonard bursts out, and if it is not for the fact that the question is directed at Mr. Fool, of all deities, he might have been smote on the spot for showing such impudence.
Praise the Fool! Leonard cannot help but internally mumble by the time his mind catches up to his mouth.
Once bubbling with joy, dismay seizes The Sun, Derrick Berg. His fists clench in his lap, nails digging into his palm, as he smothers the urge to beg Mr. Fool to stay. Derrick still has so much to do. So much to repay. So much to tell him. In the end, he says nothing, because to him, he has no right to be so bold toward his savior.
Warm feline eyes take hold of them. The voice is soft as it answers, “I’m afraid not.”
A somber silence befalls the castle, settling into each and every one of the Tarot Club members’ hearts.
They naively hoped the clash between Mr. Fool and the unknown deity was coming to an end, hence, why Mr. Fool awakened early, albeit only partly. All of them had been looking forward to a semblance of the lives they once enjoyed: the weekly Gatherings, a world without the threat of an encroaching apocalypse, and living under the grace, gaze, and presence of their infallible deity, Mr. Fool.
A chuckle sounds out.
“Do not waste your sorrow.”
The Tarot Club looks up at Mr. Fool, their words and worries having caught up in their throats.
The cat’s tail curls. “Although my repose continues, I will awaken periodically, as I have now.”
In reply, the utter relief that spreads throughout the air is palpable.
The Hanged Man, Alger Wilson, dips his head. “We will patiently look forward to each and every one of your awakenings.”
The cat nods. “Regardless,” Mr. Fool starts, “I will answer my prayers as I have done so in the past. There will be no changes that need to be accounted for.”
After a collective nod, another silence begins, but it is not as somber as the last. Perhaps, it could be called hopeful. Although the Tarot Club has long since expected Mr. Fool’s slumber to span over several years, the possibility of him waking up, even for just a short period of time, is a noteworthy event to look forward to.
After all, the Tarot Club had not realized how spoiled they were until Mr. Fool had gone to sleep.
“I…”
Audrey, Alger, and company freeze at the hesitant tone.
“...do not have a recollection of the number of years I have spent slumbering.” The cat tips its head up to the sky. It seems to peer past the fog. After a long moment, its eyes drop back down to them.
Audrey catches the wordless question. “It has been a little over two years in the outside world, Mr. Fool.”
“...I see.” The cat’s swaying tail slows to a stop. “The march of time has always been rather fickle in the realm of dreams.”
With the brief opening and closing of her mouth, Judgement, Xio Derecha, asks tentatively, “Has it been longer for you, Mr. Fool?”
“I cannot be sure,” the answer comes quickly. “Be it years, decades, or centuries, I sense no distinction. One could say I am rather fortunate in that regard.”
An ethereal chuckle echoes about the air, but the very sound greatly heavies the hearts of the listeners, an inexplicable sadness washing over them.
Centuries? The Moon, Emlyn White, echoes with widened eyes. In the future, would I be able to fight such a long, tireless battle? But, of course, this is Mr. Fool.
Alger tries to still his shaking gaze as his thoughts run rampant in his head. After recovering, Mr. Fool had to immediately engage in battle with an unknown deity…
Is there such a thing as rest for a God? Audrey ponders. She purses her lips. She does not dare ask such a question.
“I have another commission for you all.”
The Tarot Club, yanked from the daze of their thoughts, straighten in their seats as they focus on the head of the table.
Eagerness has Derrick on the edge of his seat.
The cat’s tail lashes. “Tell me all that I have missed.”
The request echoes like a strange phenomenon without a precedent, and, for a moment, no one answers.
Emlyn begins with poorly-hidden pride, “Mr. Fool, shortly after you began your slumber, the Rose School of Thought–”
A soft laugh interrupts him.
The cat does a slight tilt of its head, curious golden eyes resting upon Emlyn. “You misunderstand me.”
Heart jumping to his throat, panic itching at his skin, Emlyn freezes. “I—I apologize, Mr. Fool. I was under the presumption that you would like an account of what has transpired involving your interested factions.”
“Such matters are due for another time,” Mr. Fool responds, unbothered. “I have deemed something else of greater importance.”
Xio takes the plunge and asks, “May we ask what that is?”
Although the cat’s expression does not change, they can hear the smile in Mr. Fool’s voice as he answers, “Your lives, of course.”
It takes a second—perhaps, even two, for the weight of his words to settle into their minds. Shock strikes right through them. It buries into their souls before blooming into warmth—a breath of oxygen—a sense of belonging they cannot put into words, for that would be an injustice.
Derrick bites his lip to stop himself from crying.
Mr. Fool elaborates further, “The Tarot Club was meant to be nothing more than an attempt. Nevertheless, I agreed to convene these Gatherings. Through them, I have watched all of you grow as people, as Beyonders, and as Demigods.”
The pride in his voice is not so easily missed. For them, it is as bright as the dawn.
They cannot find the words to reply before the cat’s eyes curl, as if in a smile—one that is softer than any they have ever seen on their beloved Mr. Fool.
“My commission is a request to hear about my dear Tarot Club,” Mr. Fool says, with a kind of humanity unfitting of a deity.
Derrick is first. He shoots to his feet, followed by Alger, Audrey, Leonard, and the rest of the Tarot Club. Their shock has faded. Their hesitation has too.
As if there has never been any answer but this, with their hands pressed against their chest, they bow in unison. “Your will is our will!”
In a world of an approaching end, a foretold destruction, they find solace in this familiar place. They exchange stories. They discuss mysticism. They do as they have done before—under the gaze of this deity they have long trusted with their very lives.
Perhaps, this is a semblance of the lives they have been looking for.
Perhaps, this is coming home after a long, exhausting journey.
The cat lies down on its side, tail sweeping leisurely over the seat, as its golden gaze watches over them. Mr. Fool listens to them retell their past two years. He does not add on to anything. He does not ask anything. He lets their words flow free, perfectly content with listening, as he expressed through his request moments ago.
Audrey chats enthusiastically about her journey with Susie across the continents, even the seas. A few members tease her of her infamous mistake. She takes the words in stride—for she believes it was one of the best mistakes of her life.
Alger speaks of his voyage upon the cruel oceans—of the strange islands he's seen, the new enemies he’s faced, and the new comrades he’s fought alongside. He recounts the tales with pride.
Fors spirals into the details of her novels, incorporating the various sights she has seen while traveling, and Xio chips in about how she asks the former to hitchhike along, more often than not, as if using her as an “anywhere-anytime” carriage.
Emlyn boasts of his successful pharmaceutical company. As a high-ranking deacon of the Harvest Church, he has more than a few… “subordinates” to aide him in any task he needs done.
Derrick talks about the Rorsted Archipelago, excitedly mentioning how the citizens of the Forsaken Land of the Gods have grown used to their lives, now living with a new definition of peace.
Leonard describes his life as an official Beyonder, bringing up interesting missions—the weird ones especially. He pulls out a poem at some point. When he’s done reciting it to them, he does not dare pull out a second.
Cattleya courteously discusses her identity as one of the Pirate Kings, but her words bleed into worry by the time she brings up her first mate, Frank Lee. Only Derrick has a positive response.
The trivial things they have not been able to afford to talk about during the monthly Gatherings, lest they waste time, come to light. They laugh. They tease. Perhaps, they have considered each other friends for longer than they have realized.
“...thinking that I could enroll in a seminar about literary devices. I also wanted to ask Miss Magician if…”
“...many of our citizens across the continent! They’ve sent so many fascinating souvenirs; I can barely count them…”
“...afraid of sending me updates. How do I tell my Minor Arcana that I’m not that scary?”
To Xio’s question, Leonard answers with a warm laugh, “You can’t exactly tell a Low-Sequence Beyonder to ignore the fact that you’re a Demigod. That’s like saying…”
Leonard trails off.
The gazes that were once on him have slid away, and, confused, he follows their line of sight—to the head of the mottled table. Whatever he planned to say dies on his tongue.
The cat’s eyes have fallen closed. Its black fur, once glossy, now dull, does not rise nor fall, and its curled-up form looks ever so small in the middle of the cold throne. It appears almost peaceful.
Seconds pass. Perhaps, eternities as well. The silence only grows colder, like a fresh corpse without the beat of blood, and it might have been forever when someone finally asks, like a child not wanting to face reality, “Mr. Fool?”
Mr. Fool does not answer.