Archive of Our Own

“Deities don’t exist.”

The woman, having heard those words many times, only clutches her son’s hands close. Her sickly skin does well to taint her smile. “Pray anyway.” 

The young boy, having heard those words many times, only squeezes his mother’s hands close. His dark, empty eyes fail to hide the fear. “Yes, mother.” 

And so it goes like this. 

When food fails to find the table, he is told to pray.

When his mother falls sicker due to her frail, gaunt body, he is told to pray once more. 

When he buries her beneath cold soil and is taken in by a family who shares half of his blood, he is told—not to pray—but to thank the deities for his fortune. 

Now, under the shadow of night, the boy stands in front of a burgeoning fire devouring the house he has just barely found a home in. 

The blaze does well to hide the screams crying out from inside.

The boy does not fight this fate. He could. If he wants to, he could run to the river, scoop a bucket full of water, and return too late—return once the fire runs dead and the corpses run cold. 

And so it goes like this.

He does as he has been told. He kneels as he has been taught. He prays to the deity he has been made to honor, wishing for the grace of rain.

Once. Twice. Twenty. He prays until his mind goes numb.

The skies do not answer. 

Roused from their sleep, people begin to crowd around the burning estate, yelling futilely for help, sharing quiet relief that it is not them within the flames, and mumbling amongst themselves—of that mob who has housed themselves on the outskirts of town.

The boy’s hands fall from prayer. He gets to his feet. 

No one stops him when he steals a gun from his neighbor’s shed. No one stops him as he walks down the path leading out of town. No one stops him when he sets his eyes upon the mob’s den. 

The boy did not hold much for the family that took him in. He held as much as what was required of him, because although they did not want him, they provided him with food and shelter. He owes them this.

When the storage room door opens, a man catches sight of the open window just as the boy aims his gun and fires. 

The sound ricochets through the thin walls of the hideout. 

Blood splatters across the floor. The corpse accompanies the red soon enough, crashing with a thump.

And so it goes like this. 

The boy lets the adrenaline drive away his fear. He makes his way through the house, hiding behind doorways, ducking under tables. He pulls the trigger anytime he gets. He flinches at every gunshot. He does not expect to make it past the second man. Somehow, his luck has brought him past four. 

It runs out when a hand grabs the back of his head, slamming him to the floor. The world blanks out. The pain and dizziness follow after. The boy manages to hang onto his consciousness just enough for him to realize he is being dragged by the hair. 

The boy crashes against the floor in the middle of the room, strands of black locks sprawled across his temple as he peels open his eyes, registering angry, haughty voices. They echo around him like a murder of crows. He struggles to his feet, but something slams into his ribs, cutting off his breath. 

The boy rolls onto his back. He stares up at the plain ceiling, pain throbbing through his body, eyes dazed with somber acceptance. 

Four, the boy thinks. 

Four is enough.  

When the cold muzzle of a gun presses against his forehead, the boy does not pray as he has been told to. 

Deities, after all, do not exist. 

Time stands still as the boy waits for the bullet—for death to greet him in the same way it did his mother and his half-bloods. But it does not.

“Oh, what’s this?” 

The voice rings clear like cold water. 

The gun against his forehead has gone eerily stiff, and, realizing the opportunity, the boy grits through the pain as he smacks the armed hand away to spring to his feet, snatching up the pocket knife from his belt to hold it up for one last show of courage. One last show to live. 

The boy’s eyes dart around. He clutches his ribs with one hand, catching his breath as he readies himself to slash at any who approaches.

But no one does.

As the boy’s vision focuses, he realizes each and every one of the men in the room have frozen still as if statues. Their eyes have glazed over. Some of their mouths hang open as if in the middle of speaking, but not a sound escapes them. 

Dread pierces through the boy’s chest. 

There’s a man sitting on the sill of the open window. He has one leg crossed over the other. Resting upon his head is a top hat adorned with brilliant red feathers, and, under the glow of the gas lamps scattered about the room, black hair sways by his dark eyes before spilling down over his tasseled scarf. 

The boy flinches when the man hops to his feet. The corresponding sound echoes like a kneel. 

With a curious tilt of his head, the man smiles as he approaches. “A little birdie seems to have flown into somewhere it shouldn’t be,” he says with a teasing tone. 

The boy backs up against the wall. His eyes dart around, taking in the open door on his right before his gaze settles on the man once again. “Did you do that to them?” 

The man nods. “I did.” 

“How?” 

The light catches the flash of amusement in the man’s eyes. “Magic,” he simply answers.

The boy does not retort—because he has heard of such abilities here and there, whispered in the dark of hallways and under the noise of evening-timed taverns—of creatures that should only belong in fairy tales and of humans that wield powers they should not. His heart slams against his ribs. Nevertheless, he finds the courage to ask, 

“Why?” 

The smile on the man’s face becomes soft as he tilts his head just so. “It is what my Lord commanded of me.” 

The boy’s eyebrows crease at the answer, opening his mouth to question further. 

The man perks up. “Ah, I must introduce myself!” he exclaims, and he pinches the rim of his top hat with one hand as the other presses against his left chest. He bows. “My name is Merlin Hermes, the wandering, wish-granting magician of The Fool!” 

When Merlin rises, he asks with an open hand, “Do you have a wish you would like granted?” 

Apprehension leaves the boy mulling over the question. However, Merlin has not shown him any ill intent and even saved his life moments ago. With a steady gaze, the boy says, “I wish to know which of these men killed my family.” 

Merlin’s smile does not drop. He reaches behind his back and draws out a silver mirror, one’s whose craftsmanship speaks of riches the boy has never known. “What is the answer to that wish?”

Upon its reflective surface, silvery words appear.

Two names reflect in the boy’s eyes, and, following after, are their corresponding appearances. 

The boy immediately turns to the men in question. 

“Ah, ah, ah.”

The boy’s cold gaze cuts its way back to Merlin who seems to take no offense at the hostility. 

Merlin says, “The mirror abides by the rule of equivalent exchange. As it has answered your question, you must answer one in return.” 

After a pause, the boy nods. 

In response, words appear on the surface of the mirror. 

Did you love your family? 

The boy blinks slowly. The response comes easy, as if common sense. “They took me in.” 

Merlin’s watchful gaze does not change, and, whether his response satisfies the mirror or not, the words soon fade only to be replaced with, Thank you for your answer, before vanishing all together. 

The boy looks up at Merlin and asks, “Is that all?” 

Merlin smiles. He gives a slight bow, gesturing to him with an open hand.

His knife catches the glow of the dimming gas lights.

Men in uniforms rush into the hideout with weapons drawn as they order the criminals to turn around and raise their hands in surrender. They comply under a mix of curses and cries. 

Watching from outside, the boy does not ask how they started moving again; Merlin does not ask why he stopped at two. 

Under the new, next day, the boy stands in the mouth of an alley, away from the crowd, as he watches the men line up on the wooden gallows, approaching the death their nooses promise them.

“You’ve come to watch the show, little birdie?”

The boy turns to see Merlin sitting on a crate nearby, a coin rolling between his knuckles absently. 

Casting his gaze forward once more, the boy catches the moment the first criminal falls. Cheers echo the corpse. “...Don’t call me that.” 

Merlin tilts his head and notes, “You don’t seem pleased about this.”

The second neck snaps. 

The boy does not pull his eyes from the swaying corpses. “They were tormenting this town for months,” he starts slowly, “They plundered homes and killed more people than I count, but no one did anything. Like it was fate. Like there was nothing anyone could do—” 

—but pray, is what he does not say. 

“But you did,” Merlin says. 

The boy quiets, the clamor of the crowd falling under the roar of his thoughts. “It wouldn’t have amounted to much if you hadn’t intervened.” 

Merlin laughs. “Still, you were a bit crazy to do that, weren’t you?” 

The boy does not answer that question. Instead, he asks his own. 

“Did… The Fool grant you that power?” 

In the corner of his eye, he catches Merlin’s smile soften at the edges. “‘He’ did. ‘He’ even bestowed upon me a new name when I wished for it,” he says, his voice revealing a quiet reverence. 

‘He’ ... 

The boy does not miss it—the method of address. Far from it. Because its use shakes the ground beneath his feet and the world he knows. Something twists in his chest. It squeezes at his heart like a rope running round and round it. 

The boy thinks of his house up in flames. Then, of the charred corpses his family left behind, his shameless prayers, and the silence they earned him. He shoves down the hope in his chest and whispers, “No deity ever answers.” 

He sees a pair of boots step forward to stand beside him. “Mr. Fool does.”

“Why?”

When the boy turns, Merlin wears a fond, knowing smile on his face. “Because God loves humanity, little birdie.” 

The boy’s eyes tremble along with something deep inside his core. 

Merlin seems to take his expression in stride and opens his mouth to add on. But, he stops. He cranes his head toward the sky, his eyes losing their focus, as if to listen to something.  

“...Mr. Hermes?” the boy asks. 

Merlin blinks down at him, only for a grin to dance upon his lips. He winks. “Say, have you ever met a God before?”

Crimson light swallows him whole. 

“Keep your gaze down,” a voice whispers in his ear by the time he comes to.

The boy nods. He opens his eyes and finds himself standing upon a floor of fog—of a reality far from one he knows. At the top of his vision, he sees the beginnings of a bronze, mottled table. An unnatural sort of silence, one devoid of life and reason, settles around them. 

Merlin stands close. He takes off his hat to bow as he says, reverence ringing from his voice, “Good afternoon, Mr. Fool.”

The boy’s heart goes still inside his chest.

Then, a voice projects itself into the boy’s ears, ethereal and gentle, “I see the detour posed no difficulty."

Merlin does not lift his head. Instead, he continues with a smile, “Of course. It was my pleasure to assist you.” 

A sense of eeriness falls upon the boy as he studies Merlin in the corner of his eye. Hearing him speak with such formality and respect after only knowing the lighthearted side of him… perhaps, this is what it means to serve a deity. 

“What would you like in exchange?” the gentle voice asks. 

The boy nearly stumbles at the question.

But Merlin only answers without hesitation, as if it is normal to be offered compensation by a God, “May I repeat my reward once more, Mr. Fool?” 

A chuckle echoes about the air. “Sure.” 

Although the boy cannot see the deity at the end of the table, he feels the moment ‘His’ gaze settles on him. The silence is ‘His’ prompt. 

The boy puts his right hand to his left chest just as Merlin has done. “It is a great honor to meet you, Mr. Fool. How may I repay your precious grace?” 

It may have been Merlin who saved his life, but Mr. Fool was the one who sent him. Their short exchange proved that so. 

Once the words leave his lips, the boy considers what the deity will say. What possible things will be asked of him. He has never heard ‘His’ name mentioned at all in any of the education he has received, and although Mr. Fool granted him aide, the boy knows the phrase well: 

Believe in the might of the deities, but do not trust their benevolence.

“There’s no need.”

No... need?  

The boy blinks wide. The casual, dismissive tone has him reeling as his thoughts run rampant, and, against Merlin’s words, he lifts his head ever so slightly to catch the other side of the bronze table. 

At the end of it is a human figure, seated casually against a tall, stone throne. The boy does not manage to catch ‘His’ face. 

The boy waits for Mr. Fool to continue. To add on a condition or mention repaying his debt at a later time—the boy does not know what to expect from the God. That includes Mr. Fool’s following silence. 

As the absence of sound strains, the boy continues tentatively, “...Mr. Hermes said he received his power from you.” 

Mr. Fool clasps ‘His’ fingers together. With a tilt of ‘His’ head, ‘He’ laughs and asks, “Is that what he said? I provided the means, but Merlin forged the path with his own hands. He is far from spoon-fed.”

The boy’s eyes widen at the modest admittance, but Merlin does not startle, only preening under the praise. 

“And you?”

The boy’s mind stills as Mr. Fool continues with a smile, “Do you wish for the means?” 

The boy does. He wishes for the strength to pull away from the stagnant world—the one that watches bare dinner tables, early funerals, and charred corpses. The one that has led him indebted to a God. The one that should not have had to. 

But he does not say this. Instead, he says, “You have already saved my life and helped me avenge my family. I cannot ask for more.” 

“Then, do not ask.”

Struggling to find the words, the boy replies quietly, “Honorable Mr. Fool, I have nothing to my name. What little I have to trade cannot possibly have any worth to you.”

The boy sees Mr. Fool tilt ‘His’ head. ‘He’ smiles. “One of my Angels requires some help.”

It takes a second for the words to settle in, but when it does, the boy freezes, his thoughts splintering. “What use am I to an Angel?” he manages thinly. 

Mr. Fool throws ‘His’ hand in a dismissive gesture. “Do not worry. ‘He’ will not ask too much of you.” 

“...Is this something only I can do?” the boy asks. 

Mr. Fool chuckles. “Of course not.”

“Then…”

“You need something to trade, do you not?” 

The boy looks up. 

Mr. Fool looks back. 

Over the dark locks that frame ‘His’ face, a black cloak settles over ‘His’ head, casting down ‘His’ shoulders to spill unto the floor below. A thin, gray fog drifts in front of ‘His’ face, concealing ‘His’ gaze but not the amusement painting 'His' expression. 

Merlin’s sharp gaze is the reason the boy realizes his mistake.

The boy immediately drops his eyes, heart pounding in his chest. He swallows dryly. He awaits for his punishment, now hyper-aware of the phrase that prepares himself to be smote: Do not directly look at God. 

“Merlin.” 

The gaze upon him retracts like a blade ripped from flesh, and the boy struggles to stifle his following gasp, grasping at his shirt. 

“Yes, Mr. Fool,” Merlin smiles, dipping his head. 

Mr. Fool lets out a sigh—the sound echoing with a tint of exasperation. Somehow, it soothes the boy’s heart. 

When Mr. Fool does not continue, the boy realizes that ‘He’ is still waiting on his answer, but even then, he cannot find it in himself to respond. After all, Mr. Fool can clearly find anyone else for this task. Yet, ‘He’ is giving him the opportunity instead—he who has nowhere else to go and no one to return to and nothing to give but his insignificant life. 

The first God the boy meets, he learns, is a kind one. 

This realization is his beginning. 

“...Thank you, Mr. Fool,” the boy manages quietly, something clicking in his chest like puzzle pieces, once strewn the width of worlds, slotting together. Courage carries his next words; their implication as well. “I was also informed that you granted Merlin Hermes his name.” 

Mr. Fool merely nods with a knowing smile. 

The boy’s eyes stop at the beginnings of the bronze table, itching upward. “May I ask for the same honor?” 

Mr. Fool tilts ‘His’ head in curiosity and says, “By now, you should have realized I abide by the rule of equivalent exchange. Do you have something to offer?” 

The answer comes like flowing water.

“My servitude."

Silence immediately greets him, weighing onto the atmosphere like the tangible grip of gravity.

As the seconds drag on, his heart pounding in his throat, the boy opens his mouth—not to retract the statement, but to apologize for the impulsivity of assuming his own worth by offering himself up as a servant to a great deity. 

But he does not get the chance to—

—because a laugh echoes about the air, humorous and soft and inexplicably gentle. 

Mr. Fool laughs into ‘His’ hand, leaning back against the throne to tilt ‘His’ head ever so slightly. “You’re quite extreme, aren’t you?” 

The boy does not know how to take the comment. 

Mr. Fool, however, does not wait for him to reply. A smile hangs on ‘His’ lips. “There is a bakery on the seaside of Kolain City. It goes by the name of a native flower. When your journey takes you there, sacrifice one of their pastries to me. I will accept that as your payment.”

The words send a wave of dizziness spiraling through the boy’s head as he attempts to make sense of the nonsensical request. 

Despite the disbelief being far from fading, the boy replies weakly, “Yes, Mr. Fool, I—I thank you for your mercy.”

Nodding, Mr. Fool leans ‘His’ chin on ‘His’ palm, an index finger tapping against ‘His’ face. “The Angel in question has expressed a desire to take ‘His’ travels to the coasts. Thus, you will no doubt be spending much of your journey upon the seas—a separate world of fiends and pirates…”

After a moment of thought, ‘He’ chuckles to ‘Himself’, as if recalling an inside joke. 

“It is settled then. Your name shall be Gehrman Sparrow.” 

The boy recognizes no meaning in the name. Nevertheless, the weight of its bestowment from Mr. Fool settles upon his shoulders like a tangible blanket—an embrace—a Blessing.

It is of a warmth Gehrman has never known. He reaches out to cling to it, anchoring his soul upon it as if to never let go. 

Pressing his right hand to his left chest, Gehrman bows under his new identity. “Thank you, Mr. Fool.” The reverence from his voice bleeds like an open wound. 

Mr. Fool nods. Turning ‘His’ head just so, ‘He’ calls gently, “Merlin.”

By Gehrman’s side, Merlin immediately bows his head as well, devoid of his usual lightheartedness with only the determination to answer his God. “Yes, Mr. Fool?” 

“Take Gehrman to Mr. Azik. You should know where ‘He’ is.” 

“By your will,” Merlin says, stepping forward to grab Gehrman’s shoulder before he can even react.

The last thing Gehrman sees, as he looks up in surprise, is Mr. Fool’s smile—one framed by fog. 

“You’re quite daring, aren’t you, Gehrman?”

As Gehrman adjusts to the real world, he lifts his eyes to see Merlin smiling at him. The sharpness of the latter’s lips kills the words on the tongue.

Gehrman hears the warning all too well.

Because, during the entire exchange, Gehrman thought Mr. Fool was... eerily easy to converse with. Be it however blasphemous, Gehrman wanted nothing more than to meet ‘His’ gaze. 

Mr. Fool did not seem to take offense at the obvious desire. Merlin, on the other hand…

“...I will watch myself in the future,” Gehrman says slowly.

Merlin’s gaze studies him, cutting deep and cold, before he blinks—returning to his same, playful look. “Good.” 

With that, Merlin’s grip on his shoulder tightens once more.

The world shifts under his feet. 

The vertigo takes form in indescribable colors that blot and swirl, churning with shapes and concepts he cannot comprehend. Dizziness permeates through his mind. Pangs of information stab at what little thoughts he hangs onto. 

Then, it stops. 

Cast under the blanket of dark clouds, the deep blue of the ocean spreads out before his eyes, reaching far beyond his scope of vision. The wind is cutting cold. It carries the heavy smell of salt along with the calls of birds. 

Standing on the bricked pathway of the seaside barrier of a city he does not know, Gehrman’s eyes widen. 

Merlin lets go of his shoulder. He smiles down at his  bewildered expression. “What, cat got your tongue?”

Gehrman has never been to the sea. The most water he has ever seen would probably be his old town’s river during early spring. It does not hold a candle to the sight before him. Taking in an indiscernible breath, Gehrman does not reply—instead, opting to take in the landscape as much as he can. 

A laugh pulls him away. 

Gehrman glances at Merlin, whose expression is bright with amusement. “Don’t rush! You’ll have plenty of time to see the world. It is one of the many fortunes that come with being a Blessed of Mr. Fool.” 

Gehrman blinks. “...Blessed?” 

Merlin snickers at his confusion and teases, “I didn’t realize you were so dense! Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it?” 

…That warm feeling? Gehrman’s eyebrows crease as he tries to make sense of why Mr. Fool would bestow such an honor upon him. He has done nothing deserving of it. 

His silence must speak enough about his confusion because Merlin soon laughs. “Your head’s going to explode at this rate,” he exclaims. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Trying to understand the reasoning of Gods is far beyond your current capabilities.”

Merlin does not let him mull over the implications of what lies beyond his current capabilities as the magician steps back to gesture toward the city—up the long road that stretches to a distant building. “You will find Mr. Azik in the main hall of the Eastern Isle Library, just a bit away.” 

Gehrman nods. “Alright. What does ‘He’ look like?” 

Merlin smiles. “You’ll know.”

Gehrman opens his mouth to retort, but Merlin merely checks his bare wrist as if to glance at a watch. “Well, I best be going now! Mr. Fool’s will calls!” With the flare of his coat and the dip of his hat, Merlin winks. “It was a pleasure meeting you, junior! Don’t die before I see you again!” 

“Wait—”

The empty space where Merlin stood stares back, the echo of his voice fading with the wind.

Hand dropping to his side, Gehrman sighs. 

Echoing Merlin's words in his head, he takes a breath, turns on his heel, and walks up the road. 

True to what Merlin said, Gehrman knows exactly when he sees Mr. Azik. 

There is no coherent explanation to the tug of Gehrman’s soul when his eyes fall upon the man with black locks and bronze skin, dressed in a neat suit, seated on a chair by a floor-to-ceiling window of the grand library. 

Familiarity. Inherent knowing. Perhaps, the best possible way to put it is that those under the gaze of Mr. Fool share a string tethered to each other. 

“Ah.” Mr. Azik looks up from ‘His’ book once he approaches. ‘He’ smiles warmly. “Mr. Fool only just informed me of your arrival.” 

Gehrman bows. “My name is Gehrman Sparrow. It is an honor to meet you, sir.” 

“Azik Eggers, Mr. Fool’s Angel of Death,” the man says in exchange, rising from ‘His’ seat, “and please. There’s no need to be so formal.” 

Gehrman opens his mouth to object, but he settles with a nod. 

Mr. Azik gestures him to follow as ‘He’ heads to the front counter to drop off ‘His’ book, Gehrman following a step behind, before the two exit the library. 

“Do you know much about the Beyonder world, Gehrman?” Mr. Azik asks. 

Gehrman answers, “I have only heard bits from my family. They had dealings with such factions. My first real encounter was when I met Mr. Hermes.” 

“Mr. Hermes?” Mr. Azik echoes with a laugh. “I would suggest dropping that formality, unless you enjoy being teased.”

“...Thank you for the advice.” 

Mr. Azik’s eyes drop down to look at Gehrman’s clothing—ragged and dusty. “Speaking of Merlin, that boy.” ‘He’ sighs. “Sending you off without any belongings…” 

“That’s alright,” Gehrman says. “My house was recently burned down.”

Mr. Azik blinks down at him, be it because of the ridiculousness of the statement or the bluntness in which it was said. Perhaps, both. “Ah, that is... rather unfortunate.” After a brief awkward moment of thought, ‘He’ continues with a smile, “Well, all the more reason to purchase you some new clothing then. Afterwards, we can begin with why you’re here.” 

Mr. Azik takes him to some clothing stores, helping him pick a few sets of outfits, as well as some travel essentials. The bill racks up high. Mr. Azik merely pays with a word, opting to make casual conversation instead. 

When Gehrman inquires how he can repay the man, Mr. Azik merely laughs, saying how he could not possibly accept money from a child. Gehrman ends up swallowing his retort. After all, the difference between a human child and a human teenager (sixteen, nearing seventeen) is considered nothing in the eyes of an Angel. 

Gehrman settles for swearing to carry out Mr. Azik’s task without fail. 

And so it goes like this. 

Mr. Azik brings him through different cities and towns—upon ships upon the seas. They tour around, trying different foods and seeing different sights that Gehrman has only seen in books and heard in class. 

In the meantime, Mr. Azik introduces him to the world of Beyonders. They first start with theory—the laws—the twenty-two Sequences. After Gehrman grasps those, his grasp of things he realizes he does not know only broadens.

That does not demotivate him. Gehrman greedily drinks up the knowledge, asking questions and making mistakes and inquiring more and more, and Mr. Azik supports him thoroughly through this. ‘He’ makes quite the teacher. Gehrman wonders if 'He' has ever considered becoming one. 

It is… quite strange—remembering Mr. Azik is an entity almost synonymous with divinity. ‘He’ almost seems like a regular human. One who enjoys casual conversation, civil debates, and the call of adventure. Perhaps, such a thought would be incredibly rude if not for Gehrman knowing it would hardly bother Mr. Azik.

'He' does not care about such things.

That is one thing 'He' shares in common with the deity overlooking them both. 

“I had a son,” Mr. Azik admits to him one day. 

The two of them are leaning up against the railing of a ship, watching the waves lap over each other. The sun of spring casts down in scattered shards. They have been at sea for a few days, taking in the new islands and indulging in their respective traditions. 

Gehrman glances at Mr. Azik, waiting patiently. 

Mr. Azik continues, looking back at him, “He actually looked a bit like you, but… your temperament is quite different.” ‘He’ laughs. “Although, you do share the same kind of stubbornness.” 

The past tense has not slipped past him. He dips his head in respect. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Azik.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Azik says with a sad smile. “It was a long time ago, but every time I see you, I cannot help but be reminded of him.” 

Another apology raises onto Gehrman’s tongue, but Mr. Azik reassures, “I did not mean that unkindly. Rather, I meant quite the opposite. I never got the chance to see him grow up…” ‘He’ turns to the sea and chuckles. “I suppose that is one of the reasons why Mr. Fool sent you to me.” 

Gehrman’s gaze lowers. The tail end of 'His' words stay with him and when he lifts his eyes, he asks bluntly, “Mr. Azik, may I ask how I am to assist you?”

The latter only blinks at him. “Assist regarding what?” 

Gehrman continues, gesturing with a hand, “Mr. Fool informed me that you require some assistance. I haven’t brought it up because I assumed it was not time. Is it something regarding the far future?” 

Mr. Azik stares at him in confusion for a moment, a crease between his brows, before ‘He’ realizes something. ‘He’ breaks out into a gentle chuckle. “Ah. That. You need not worry. I would even say you have done well so far.” 

Gehrman stares. “...Pardon?” 

Mr. Azik smiles warmly, worn crow’s feet by his eyes. “You see, I had once expressed my desire for a travel companion to Mr. Fool. I had not meant much by the remark, but it seems ‘He’ thought differently," he says, and, with a light touch of ‘His’ hand to ‘His’ chest, Mr. Azik continues with closed eyes, “Praise The Fool.” 

“I don’t understand,” Gehrman says, frowning. “What I have been trading for priceless and indispensable knowledge… has been my company?” 

Mr. Azik laughs. “Yes, if you put it that way.” 

Gehrman’s lips part, trying to find the words to explain his lack of understanding. He settles on, “How is this an equivalent exchange?” The disbelief makes it clear in his voice. 

Mr. Azik gives him a fond, knowing look. Gehrman cannot help but find it similar to the one Merlin once gave him. “If ‘He’ has not expressed reason for ‘His’ additional favor, you need only accept it.” 

Gehrman purses his lips indiscernibly. 

Mr. Azik seems to catch wind of the inner turmoil inside him and says, “You will find that Mr. Fool does not align with the common predispositions people have of deities. ‘He’ has always held a strong grasp on ‘His’ humanity.”

Patting him on the shoulder, Mr. Azik glances away, seemingly to redirect the conversation to something more lighthearted. 

“And if I still want to repay 'His' grace?” 

The words are spoken under the roar of the ocean, but Mr. Azik hears it all the same.

When ‘He’ turns back, Gehrman takes in ‘His’ gentle smile. “You cannot do anything without strength.” 

Half a year into their journey, under Mr. Azik’s recommendation, Gehrman receives the Seer potion. 

Under the spilling sunlight through the store window, a young man dressed in a long coat and gold-rimmed glasses glares at a selection of goods.

An older man in the top hat watches him in amusement. ‘He’ gestures his hand in aide. 

When the young man concedes, the older points to one of the items on the shelves and it does not take long for the former to take it up in hand and pay for it with a handful of bills. 

That night, the young man sets up an altar. 

He chants within the room, hands held in prayer of his own volition, and waits for a response. He receives one.

A bright, illusory gate forms within the space before him. The door swings open to reveal a place akin to the abyss, one of moving shadows and intangible knowledge. 

The offerings before the altar—pastries from a seaside bakery, one represented by a native flower—disappear as if stolen away. 

The seas begin to carry the name of a new danger. It is neither the threat of an incoming storm nor the threat of an unnamed island.

It is the threat of a young man of neat black hair and brown eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. Someone who shoots first. Someone who does not even ask second. Who cashes in bounties faster than one can do crime and makes all those with wanted posters pray to never come across him, lest they have a death wish. 

It is a fortune that most of those prayers go unanswered. 

The young man's, however, never do.

With the acting method, Gehrman speeds through Seer—Clown not long after. Magician has been… proving to be quite the challenge. Cunning as he may be, plans have never been his strong suit—preparations even less so. 

It helps that Mr. Azik is always there to lend a helping hand if something goes wrong. Gehrman tries not to rely on ‘Him’. He owes enough debts as is, but it is comforting to have such a reliable person backing him—a person Gehrman can and will trust with his life.

Perhaps, that is why he is taken aback when, two years after falling under the grace of a God, Mr. Azik tells him that they must part ways. 

Under quiet question, Mr. Azik speaks of a state of slumber. A life of sixty-so-years he repeats over and over, waking and sleeping, living and dying. 

Gehrman does not know what his expression looks like when Mr. Azik tells him this and neither does he reach for the abilities of Clown to control it. 

Whatever emotions show on his face, Gehrman gains an inkling when Mr. Azik smiles sadly at him. 

“Find me when I wake,” Mr. Azik tells him. “And—if you could be so kind—remind me of our journey together. ” 

Gehrman promises. 

He has not made many in his life. He will ensure he keeps this one. 

Under the crimson moon, Gehrman studies the warehouse from a far rooftop with a quiet gaze before a chuckle tears him out of his concentration.

The muzzle of his gun snaps up to press against Merlin’s forehead. 

Throwing up his hands in surrender, Merlin smiles and chirps, “Oh, so scary! And what’s that old thing going to do?” 

Gehrman stares at him. “You’re late.” Then, he drops his gun with a sigh. “And this old thing is a Beyonder weapon.” 

“I know,” Merlin says, twirling a lock of his hair, “but it won’t hold a candle to High-Sequence Beyonders. Perhaps, if you pray to Mr. Fool, ‘He’ will grant you one deserving of you.”

The dim moonlight captures Gehrman’s confusion.

Merlin laughs as he walks along the rooftop tiles before settling down with a thump. He sighs in feigned exasperation. “My junior is growing so fast… None of us expected you to reach Sequence Four within six years.”

“Maybe you’re just slow.”

Merlin shoots him a glare, one more mirthful than anything. “Is that how you should be treating your senior?” 

“Act like a senior then.”

“Are your Faceless abilities malfunctioning?” Merlin tilts his head. “You have some… disdain on your face.” 

Gehrman opens his mouth to retort, but the two of them stiffen—their spiritual intuition going off like a kneel as they turn their eyes to the warehouse. 

They exchange a look. 

Gehrman asks, “Have you—”

“Oh, please. For someone who took the longest to digest Magician, albeit relatively, you should not be nagging me of all people about preparations.” Merlin chuckles before disappearing in a breath of fire. 

Gehrman watches him go without a word. Once he double-checks his equipment, he turns to the distant warehouse and presses a hand to his chest. He bows and whispers in soulful reverence, “By Mr. Fool’s will.”

He follows Merlin into the flame. 

“What would you like in exchange?” Mr. Fool asks.

Merlin dips his head and asks with a smile, “May I have my previous reward?” 

Gehrman responds, “May I hold onto mine?”

Mr. Fool sighs, resting ‘His’ chin on ‘His’ palm, as he says, “While I emphasize that you may request anything that matches the equivalence of your mission’s success, are you two truly satisfied with this?” 

The two nod, one enthusiastically and the other solemnly. 

"Very well, then." 

Gehrman expects to be dismissed immediately after, but, even with his lowered eyes, he can tell the exact moment Mr. Fool’s gaze lands upon him, sending shivers down his back. 

Mr. Fool snaps ‘His’ fingers. 

A black revolver shimmers into existence upon the edge of the bronze, mottled table. 

“That is to be yours, Gehrman.” 

Gehrman blinks, eyes widening in confusion. “But—”

Mr. Fool waves a hand as ‘He’ crosses ‘His’ legs. “It’s a gift. You need not worry about the negative effects, as I have long since sealed them,” 'He' says. With a tilt of ‘His’ head, ‘He' continues, “Will you take it?”

Gehrman's lips part in hesitance. Thoughts run rampant in his head before they soon come to a quiet. He manages a nod. “Yes, Mr. Fool... Thank you.” 

Mr. Fool smiles. “Good.” 

When the dark starlight swallows him whole, the floor falling beneath his feet, Gehrman finds himself back inside his hotel room. On the desk lies his gift.

Gehrman picks up the revolver in hand, does a quick divination on its abilities, and wanders outside in search of a shooting range. 

Dwayne often reminds Gehrman of his impulsiveness. While it comes with decisiveness and confidence, it is still a double-edged blade. It cuts both the wielder and the wounded. 

The moment he is summoned into the kingdom of fog, Gehrman kneels, bowing his head to the floor. Blood drips from his wounds. Its red color splatters to the floor where the mist churns around it before devouring the liquid flesh.

He feels the gazes of his fellow Blessed. They fall away under the presence of his God’s. 

From the very top of his vision, he sees the figure of Mr. Fool.

An indifferent, ethereal voice rings out into the air, settling around his neck like a death sentence, “You will not be given missions until I deem you capable.” 

An icy cold stake drives through Gehrman’s soul. His mouth goes dry. A faint buzz fills his ears. “Mr. Fool, I—” he hurriedly says, not daring to raise his head, “I cannot make up for my mistake if I—”

“Gehrman,” Mr. Fool interrupts sternly. “It is not wise for you to continue as is.” 

It was one small slip-up. One small mistake to an important mission, one that required nearly all of Mr. Fool’s Blessed, and Gehrman does not know if his life is enough to make up for it.

He just wanted—he just wanted to repay Mr. Fool’s grace. Perhaps, now, he will never be able to.

The world wavers under his feet, distant voices brewing into ravings that clog Gehrman’s mind like a landslide. He feels things—alien things sprout from his skin and flesh. They bloom and writhe. White, hot pain surges through him, and Gehrman slams his head against the floor, fingers tearing into his skull as he tries to pull away from the agony.

Oh, Gehrman realizes distantly. I’m losing control in front of Mr. Fool.

Someone is screaming. The sound comes from some distant place as much as it comes from somewhere close. It drowns the ringing and raving. Vibrations billow through his lungs, tearing at his throat.

Footsteps echo like a knell.

“—hrman.”

Through the pain and through the madness, Gehrman knows not to lift his head, keeping it down as if to bury the shame. Too scared to face his fate. Too pitiful to raise his head. Too dirty for dishonoring the name of ‘His’ Blessed. Something pulls from inside his chest—his core—his soul, expanding as if to tear him open from the inside out—

A cold, gentle touch to his jaw. 

“My dear Sparrow, will you not look at me?”

Gehrman wakes up from the dream—pulled out of the daze like a drowned from the water. His ravings fade. His vision focuses. The quiet has never seemed more deafening. 

Slowly, he lifts his head.

Under the shroud of ‘His’ cloak, Mr. Fool stares down upon him, and for a moment, the gray fog parts to shed a single glimpse of ‘His’ eyes—ones carrying a soft kindness unbefitting of a deity. 

“I’ve always cherished your devotion,” Mr. Fool says softly, “but not at the cost of yourself.”

Gehrman’s expression crumbles. “My mistake—”

“You have been pushing yourself too far and too fast,” Mr. Fool replies. “It was bound to happen at some point.” 

“But, the apocalypse...”

Mr. Fool chuckles with a tilt of ‘His’ head. “Let me worry about that.” 

Gehrman’s breath stutters in his chest, holding Mr. Fool’s gaze before dropping his eyes—as if undeserving. 

“This is not a punishment,” Mr. Fool continues, rising to let 'His' hand fall from his face. Gehrman almost lurches forward to chase the touch. “It is a wish of mine for you to catch your breath.”

“Your wish?” Gehrman echoes faintly. 

Mr. Fool nods with a smile. “Yes. Will you grant it?”

Gehrman wants to reverse time to save the breath Mr. Fool spent to say those words, because there is no conceivable world in which he would refuse a wish of his God. But he does not say this. Instead, swallowing the lump in his throat, Gehrman nods mutely, not trusting his own voice. 

Content with his answer, Mr. Fool sweeps ‘His’ gaze to Gehrman’s fellow Blessed. "Need I remind you all as well?”

In unison, ‘His’ Blessed bow their heads. “No, Mr. Fool.”

The smile that graces Mr. Fool’s lips is a kind one, the gray fog returning to conceal ‘His’ gaze. “Good,” ‘He’ says. 

It takes a full year before Mr. Fool gives him another mission. 

Gehrman is determined to make up the lost time.

Gehrman opens his eyes to a familiar world of fog, but instead of the usual throne and table, he finds himself under the raining blossoms of pink-petaled trees—ones he has never seen before. It floods the barren kingdom of gray with its bright hue. One turn of his heel tells Gehrman that the forest extends to eternity. 

Something catches his eye.

Gehrman stops as he sees Mr. Fool parting through the blossoms with leisure steps, ‘His’ black cloak draped over ‘Him’. ‘He’, however, is not alone.

There is a human figure by ‘His’ side, dressed in an outfit akin to a butler: a long-sleeved white shirt, paired with a black vest and matching pants. Silver hair, tied in a ponytail, rests in the crook of their neck. 

Gehrman walks up to them. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fool, Arrodes," he says, bowing to them respectively. 

Mr. Fool nods with a smile.

Arrodes exclaims with a wave, silver eyes bright, “Greetings, Mr. Blessed! Do you have a question in need of answering?”

“Yes,” Gehrman nods. “However, if I may, could I direct it to you, Mr. Fool?”

“Very well,” Mr. Fool replies. 

Arrodes deflates, but when Mr. Fool casts a look upon them, they bow before their human body collapses into a swell of fog, one that collects itself into the form of a mirror as it settles into the crook of Mr. Fool’s arm. 

“What troubles you, Gehrman?” Mr. Fool asks. 

“I wish to know how to bypass the ritual of Scholar of Yore,” Gehrman says.

“Ah, that.” Mr. Fool turns just so to catch a falling petal. The fog over ‘His’ eyes fail to cover ‘His’ melancholic smile as ‘He’ replies, “You've just returned, haven’t you?”

Gehrman pauses. “...I only wish to be of use to you, my Lord.”

“Your faith is of great use to me,” Mr. Fool says dismissively as ‘He’ lets the petal fall through 'His' fingers. “There is no need to push yourself for my sake.”

When Gehrman opens his mouth to protest, Mr. Fool seems to read his next words and asks, “Do you doubt me?”

Gehrman replies, “Of course not, Mr. Fool.” 

Amused by his immediate response, Mr. Fool smiles and gestures with a hand. “Walk with me, Gehrman.”

He does. 

As they make their way through the path of trees, Mr. Fool begins distantly, a nostalgic undertone to ‘His’ voice, “These are trees from my hometown—from when I was human. During springtime, they would fill the streets with waves and waves of petals, enough for you to practically drown on them..." 'He' chuckles. "They have long since become extinct, but, fortunately, I have no trouble conjuring them.” 

Mr. Fool continues talking about small things—little things, from ‘His’ old life, and Gehrman listens without interruption, stifling the thrill of hearing about his God. 

“I place great importance on preserving my humanity, Gehrman,” Mr. Fool says at some point. ‘He’ turns to him, a gray fog hovering over ‘His’ eyes. “You and my other Blessed have aided me tremendously in that regard; your belief in your own worth is quite inaccurate.” 

Gehrman purses his lips. Taking a breath, he says softly, “...Thank you. I will keep that in mind, Mr. Fool.”

“Good.” Mr. Fool smiles. 

Lips parting in hesitance, Gehrman asks, “Do you miss being human?” 

Mr. Fool does not directly answer. ‘He’ chuckles, casting ‘His’ gaze to somewhere far beyond the forest. “If I could shed these chains of divinity, I would. That, perhaps, would be my greatest wish. However, I do not trust the hands I would put the world in if I did so.”

The admittance tugs at Gehrman’s soul in a way he cannot explain.

Mr. Fool turns to him. “You need not worry about reaching Sequence Three, Gehrman. You have done plenty. But… if you wish to, despite that, I will aid you. You need only ask.” 

When Mr. Fool smiles at him, it is the same gentle smile of ‘His’.

Ah, Gehrman thinks distantly with shaking eyes. 

How could I ever repay Mr. Fool’s kindness?  

There was a point in Gehrman’s life when he did not believe in deities. 

He was a young boy, tired of being told to pray and leave his fate in the hands of those who do not answer—who do not refuse—who only respond with silence.

It was waiting for death. Sitting in the low tide and staying till the high of the waves. 

Now, Gehrman does nothing but strive for the gaze of his God. 

For ‘His’ will, he takes up every task. Every mission. Every request. He volunteers for more and more, bleeding himself dry and running himself ragged.

The breaks he is ordered to take are the only reason he rests. 

He becomes corrupted, once. Stolen to the kingdom above the fog, Mr. Fool only lets out an exasperated yet fond sigh as ‘He’ reaches out to touch Gehrman’s face, purging the corruption like a warm breath to snow, and Gehrman finds himself falling further and further into faith.

He could drown in it for all he cares. 

“You’re running as if there’s fire at your heels, kid,” Dwayne tells him. 

Gehrman checks the corpses. Drawing back up, the crimson moonlight shines upon the Beyonder Characteristics in his hand. 

Slow down, he hears the man say. 

He cannot. 

“It’s not a good thing—advancing so fast,” Merlin tells him.

Gehrman polishes his black revolver, lowering it to say with a smirk, “Afraid I’ll catch up?”

Merlin does not smile. “Yes," he says.

"I'll take it." 

Brief silence takes hold of the fog above the spirit realm. 

A concerned gaze—perhaps, more than one, more than a few—slides over to him, accompanied by the tentative words, "It's best if someone else—"

"I'll take it," Gehrman reiterates sternly. 

The figure at the end of the bronze, mottled table stares with an indecipherable gaze. 

"...Very well," 'He' says. 

Eight years are what it takes for Gehrman to find a way to repay his debt. 

Eight years too long. 

Mr. Fool is a God with more humanity than most humans themselves. ‘He’ may not bleed mortal blood, but ‘He’ bleeds kindness in the way that can only paint ‘Him’ mortal. 

‘He’ will lose it all if ‘He’ ascends further—if ‘He’ regains ‘His’ full authority and power and rises to the level of a Great Old One, losing the humanity ‘He’ loves to save that very same humanity. 

Gehrman cannot let that happen. 

Gehrman cannot let ‘Him’ ascend. 

There is no other way to repay ‘Him’ and ‘His’ benevolence. 

To fulfill 'His' greatest wish. 

“Gehr… man?”

The dream breaks open at the soft-spoken question. 

There is a wooden stake in Gehrman’s hand, clenched around his fingers with a force that has him stiff, and there’s the weight of a body dropping against him, weakened and frail. Mortal blood drips down into the void of history. 

When Mr. Fool turns to peer over ‘His’ shoulder, the gray fog that has always clung to ‘His’ face vanishes like the drop of a curtain—the finale of an act.

Gehrman does not know what he has done. 

He expects the silver lightning of Sefirah Castle to rain upon him—smite him to ash or atoms, but it never comes. 

In the old metropolis before the First Epoch, Gehrman watches as the surprise in Mr. Fool’s eyes bleeds into another emotion—one far from anger or anything akin. ‘His’ eyes crinkle in acceptance.

Gentle, incomprehensible acceptance.

Gehrman feels something inside him crack. 

When the corpse cathedral appears, Gehrman finds himself expelled from the Fog of History, cast from the consequences of what he has just done—who he has just betrayed.

He stands, still, in an empty field. Grasslands, fresh from spring, expand far beyond his vision, and an ocean breeze carries on from nearby and not far, cold and sharp, salty and not sweet. 

Gehrman collapses onto the grass. He neither looks at the blood on his hands nor tries to wipe it off, but the weight of its presence is an anchor dragging him to the bottom of the sea. He lets himself drown. 

The days pass, the sun rising and the moon sinking and otherwise.

Neither hunger nor thirst find him within his stupor—neither do Merlin or the rest of Mr. Fool’s Blessed as he expects. 

Gehrman does not know if that relieves or saddens him. He wonders what kind of repentance would suit him best. 

Time slides past him like water, running and running with no friction to cling onto, and it is only until he blinks awake to a human figure standing before him, stopped a few meters away as if they cannot bear to step closer, that he wakes up. 

When Gehrman registers their face, his heart pounds to life in a way it has not for days, as if cold water has been poured down his back.

“Arrodes," he murmurs. 

Arrodes does not move. The expression on their face, once always enthusiastic to see him, carries the cutting edge of frostbite. “Hello, Gehrman Sparrow.”

The method of address sinks Gehrman’s heart to the bottom of his stomach. Dread builds up in his throat. 

Gehrman swallows dryly, eyes wide and shaking. “Is Mr. Fool alright?”

The seaside wind blows at their gray hair, carrying off the black ribbon. Arrodes’ livid eyes cut deep into his skin as they answer, “‘He’ has regained his full authority.” 

Gehrman chokes on a broken sound. The noise tears itself out of his chest like a wounded animal. His eyes well up, straining with the emotions he could not face, as he hangs his head in relief, croaking out, “Thank you. Thank you.”

The ravings in his ears become louder and louder, building up in intensity as if to shatter his skull. 

Then, for a moment, they stop.

In the brief silence, one not built on peace, Gehrman says quietly, “It’s your turn.”

Arrodes' words fire like bullets ready in the chamber:

“Why did you do it?” 

The question cuts deep through flesh and soul, but silence is Gehrman's answer. 

This is the one thing they can agree on. 

Arrodes grits their teeth, fists clenching by their sides, as the clouds swirl on from above before a bolt of silver lightning crackles down—accompanied by a deafening roar of thunder. 

Gehrman does not pray. 

He receives an answer anyway. 

The second the lightning reaches him, it is stolen away—its sound and light cutting out like strings to scissors.

Eyes widening, Gehrman immediately cranes his head toward the sky. His expression crumples. 

Arrodes flinches, dipping their head in respect as if hearing a voice in their ears. “Great Master, I was just...! Y-Yes, I apologize—I was only trying to… ah. Yes, I... I understand.”

When Arrodes lifts their gaze, Gehrman finds the same fury staring back at him before the Sealed Artifact vanishes in a swell of fog—of a familiar hue that he cannot help but crave. That he cannot help but miss. 

But Gehrman is soon reminded—as he has always been—of the mercy of his God, one more human than any other. 

Crimson light swallows him whole. 

“What did you wish for?” 

Mr. Fool’s quiet voice carries through the kingdom of fog, echoing toward eternity. ‘He’ sits in ‘His’ throne. Tentacles arise from under the cloak, squirming eerily, and the presence that exudes from ‘His’ body is incomparable to ‘His’ past form.

Gehrman kneels on the ground before ‘Him’. Guilt freezes his body still as he struggles to begin. “Mr. Fool, it was Adam who—”

“That is not what I asked.”

Gehrman’s mouth dries, cold stakes piercing through his heart at ‘His’ tone. He dips his head lower, his black locks falling to block his vision. From here, all he can focus on are his hands—ones still stained with the blood of his God. It sickens him to the core. 

Mr. Fool’s voice continues, “Adam corrupted you, but, while I had not reclaimed all of my power then, my protection would have offset it enough for you to defy ‘His’ cue.” 

“Mr. Fool..."

“Adam amplified an existing desire in your heart,” Mr. Fool says. “Your action against me, even if unwanted, was built upon something you did want.” 

The ravings in Gehrman's ears grow louder. His vision swims. His slow descent into madness seems to come to be in the same manner as it did before—as a consequence of a debt he can never seem to repay. 

He hears something shift. 

A hand—fair-skinned and delicate—drifts to his jaw, tilting it upward as it has always done—as Gehrman has craved.

Unobscured by the cloak and fog, a soft, kind gaze meets his own, and Gehrman, eyes wide in wonder at the unconcealed face of his God, finds him struggling for words.

Black locks dust by ‘His’ brown eyes gilded with bits of starlight. Gentle curves shape 'His' face. Pale lips mouth something Gehrman does not catch, because, as his consciousness clears, he learns his God has managed to remain more human than he could have ever fathomed. 

Mr. Fool says quietly, “You can tell me. I won’t get mad.” 

And it is because Gehrman has served under Mr. Fool for so long—for his entire life, that he knows ‘He’ would not lie.

Under a gentle gaze he does not deserve, Gehrman feels his walls collapse. “I—” he begins or near chokes. “I wanted… I just wanted to repay you, Mr. Fool, I—” His breaths fasten, thin and short, as his hand claws into his shirt. 

“Breathe, my Blessed,” Mr. Fool soothes. ‘His’ hand rises to gently brush his hair like a cradle, and Gehrman suddenly grabs at it, holding it tightly as if scared it will leave. 

'His' Blessed. 

'His' Blessed... 

Hearing those words shakes Gehrman to the very core. He never thought he would be called that again and it is like giving a starving man a bite of food. He craves for another. 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Gehrman takes a long, shuddering breath under the gaze of his God, who watches him patiently. Slowly, he begins in a near whisper, “You frequently remind us that we may refuse your missions if we wish.” 

Mr. Fool nods, caressing his cheek. 

Gehrman croaks out, eyes aflame with emotion, “But I—I felt obligated. Obligated to repay your grace, so I never dared to. I pledged to be your sword, your bullet, whatever you wished me to be, but,” he tightens his grip on Mr. Fool’s hand, but ‘He’ does not pull away, ”But you never wished for anything more from me. You kept giving and giving, and I felt undeserving. So, I wished to grant your greatest wish—for you to retain your humanity, but Adam must have corrupted that desire because I did not—I would never harm you of my own accord, Mr. Fool. Please, please, you have to believe me.”  

A tear slips down his cheek. 

But it does not make it far, interrupted by the thumb that comes to wipe it away.

“I’m sorry,” Gehrman chokes out in a sob. “I’m sorry—” 

“Gehrman.” 

“Please—please, forgive me,” Gehrman’s vision fogs up, tears falling. “I will repent, even if it takes my death to appease you.” 

It is selfish of him. To ask to die by his God’s hand, rather than being abandoned. 

Mr. Fool’s eyes study him carefully, incomprehensible thoughts flashing in ‘His’ divine gaze, and Gehrman wonders if this is how he will go: directly looking at his God. He would not mind. It would be his honor. 

But whatever punishment he expects does not come, neither corruption, a bolt of lightning, nor the collapse of his atoms. Instead, what comes is something infallible: 

“Thank you, Gehrman." Mr. Fool smiles sadly. “Thank you... for trying to save me from this fate." 

Before he realizes, Gehrman finds himself being pulled into an embrace, a cold one that seems warmer than any midday of spring. He stiffens in ‘His’ arms. 

A hand runs through his hair, careful and kind, and when Mr. Fool chuckles, Gehrman feels the vibration through his very bones. Mr. Fool says quietly, “Your acting hides your soft heart well, my dear Sparrow.” 

A breath hitches in Gehrman's chest. Hesitant at first, hesitant to dirty his God, his bloodied hands rise to cling lightly to Mr. Fool, before his fingers scrunch up in ‘His’ cloak as he buries his face into his God’s shoulder with no intention of letting go. 

His body trembles as he is held, another apology bubbling up in his throat.

"Mr. Fool, I—"

“There’s no need,” Mr. Fool reassures, a delicate hand anchoring on the back of his neck. The truth 'He' speaks next is a gentle one. “I forgave you a long time ago.”