Chapter Text
June 28, 1349.
From pillars of crimson light, two blurry human figures emerge from underneath. Below a sky of bleak hues, they find themselves standing amidst a sea of gray fog whose waves wash leisurely over their feet as they adjust to the mysterious space.
Noticing the other and their respective confusion, they pause. Their gazes lock through the blur.
Although they may not know it, this is not the first meeting between Alger Wilson and Audrey Hall.
Soon, movement from the corner of their vision breaks the stalemate between them and pulls their eyes to a figure—a man—watching them from a few paces away.
Like themselves, a gray mist shrouds his form and face. However, the blur is not enough to conceal his black hair, the suit he wears, the blatant composure of his stance, or the creature coiled around his neck.
Green scales, dark enough to appear black, climb up its body. Its long tail curls once around the man’s torso, anchored on his hip while golden eyes seem to pierce through the veil of fog, and for as much as it appears to be an ordinary snake, the crown feathers adorning its head speak of a serpent species only spoken in stories.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Audrey manages to ask, “Sir, where is this?”
With his mouth dry, Alger glances over at the lady but soon returns his attention to the man standing in silence.
Simultaneously, Alger and Audrey echo each other’s next question.
“What are you planning on doing?”
A soft chuckle echoes about the air, mirthful, as if laughing at an inside joke. They catch his smile through the mist. “An attempt,” he answers.
Audrey’s heart thumps against her ribs. An attempt? she echoes. If it was appropriate, she might have pinched herself to try to wake from this dream or whatever trouble she has managed to find herself in.
The man studies her with the tilt of his head. As if reading the question on her tongue, he says with ease, “If you make a formal request, you may return this very moment.”
Alger’s eyes immediately narrow. He won’t try to keep us here? Did this attempt entail only our presence?
Relief fills Audrey’s next breath. Gleaning the grace from the mysterious man’s words, she finds herself draining of fear and flooding with confidence, enough to say, “I have always been hoping that something like this would happen. I mean—I like mysteries and supernatural miracles. Sir, what can I do to become a Beyonder?”
The man smiles.
Perhaps, if she was already a Beyonder, she might have caught the fondness in the curl of his lips.
“It’s quite uncomfortable to be standing for a discussion, isn’t it?” he says.
Before Alger or Audrey can respond, the surrounding gray mist seems to stir, and from their depths, stone pillars pierce through and encircle the space to give rise to a dome-like roof. Under its cradle, a long, bronze table forms from fog. Chairs line their sides in a symmetrical arrangement, and as both wonder and fear fill their heads, when Alger and Audrey blink, they find themselves staring at each other from across the table.
They turn to the man sitting in the head chair. He leans back, crossing a leg over the other, as he clasps his fingers. “Regarding your question,” he begins with a tilt of his head, “which of the twenty-two sequences interests you?”
Wide-eyed, Alger breaks away from inspecting the surroundings to looking at the head chair.
…Which of? Alger echoes faintly. She only asked how to become a Beyonder. An answer using the Churches or potions would have been enough. Is he implying that he has access to—or can even provide—all the Sequence Nine formulas?
Audrey deflates, frowning. Faced with the question, she realizes she might have been too hasty with her approach. “I’m… I’m not sure. Could you tell me more about the options?”
The man smiles before turning his head just so, pinning Alger under a knowing gaze. “I have an inkling that Spectator would suit you well.”
Shivers crawl up Alger’s spine. Does he know that I own the Sequence Nine formula? How?
“Spectator…” Audrey repeats with an air of wonder. When the man shows no intention to elaborate, she follows his gaze to the one sitting across from her.
Clenching and unclenching his hands under the table, Alger turns to meet her line of sight. Gathering his voice, he begins, “The Sequence Nine potion, Spectator, enables you to have an exceptionally sharp mind with acute observational theories. I believe you can understand by what ‘spectator’ means from watching operas and plays.” As Alger continues with the explanation of the linguistic origins of the name Spectator, the lady across from him seems to drink up the knowledge with unwavering focus, nodding along without interrupting.
“I-I think I have fallen in love with this feeling,” Audrey replies only when Alger trails off into a silence, “being a spectator.” Perking up, her lips curl in a smile when she stands to curtsy at the head chair as she says graciously, “Thank you—” she pauses, realizing she has yet to learn the name of this gentleman— “um, sir, for your recommendation.”
“There’s no need,” the man brushes off.
He's very easy-going, Audrey notes, her body having long lost the tension of being pulled into this strange place without warning. “Sir, how should we address you?”
Alger nodded in agreement, angling his torso to the head chair, to echo with a steady tone, “Yes, sir, how should we address you?”
The man shows no rush to speak. The space of this mysterious palace seems to quieten, just as how the waves of fog seem to quell, but before their questions fade into nothing, he leans back in his chair and smiles. “You may address me as The Fool.”
However, before his voice can echo, The Fool unclasps his fingers and reaches up to the serpent coiled around his neck, stroking the golden crown feathers of the docile creature. “And this is my Angel of Death," he says with a lilt. "You may address ‘Him’ as... Mr. Death.”
The words pulse through the grand hall like a heart, strong and steady, as the soundwaves stir a storm in Audrey’s and Alger’s own.
For a moment, no one speaks.
…Angel?
‘Him’?
Unperturbed by their silence, the serpent—Mr. Death—raises ‘His’ head from The Fool’s shoulder. Compared from earlier, the close proximity allows ‘His’ sharp, golden pupils to peer through the fog, burying Alger and Audrey under the weight of ‘His’ gaze. However, ‘He’ does not hiss at them. Neither does ‘He’ bare its fangs. Instead, ‘He’ blinks slowly and greets them with a silent nod.
Audrey’s mouth hangs agape, staring wide-eyed at the head chair, before shutting it hastily after realizing the crudeness of her reaction. Her lips twitch helplessly. She stifles the urge to stand from her seat and dance around. Although she had her presumptions, never once did she fathom this encounter to be one with the divine—and for someone who has aspired to involve herself in the mysteries of this world after hearing those fairytales from her elders, this is a dream come true. Having seen the feats of The Fool within the fog, she has not a single doubt of ‘His’ authenticity.
Alger rips his gaze downward. Shakily, his thoughts rush back to recount every instance of his behavior, scouring for anything that might get him smote on the spot. To call two people up to this space without resistance—a place that answers to the will of The Fool as displayed by the effortless construction of this hall—Alger already assumed this mysterious man to be a powerful figure in the real world, capable of feats Alger can only dream of, but—
Only deities can control angels.
The Fool… is a deity?
Alger’s heart drums in his constricting throat, straining as if about to burst into a mess of flesh and vessels.
Could ‘He’ be lying? Alger quickly reasons, before his hands go cold and still in his lap. Wait, ‘He’ knew I have a potion formula for Spectator… can ‘He’ read minds? Past the pulse of his fastening heartbeat, ravings roar to life within his mind, tearing reality from under his feet and spiraling madness into his soul—
“Mr. Fool prefers to be referred to as he, not ‘He.’”
An unfamiliar voice rings out.
Alger lifts his head to meet the serpent’s cold yet gentle eyes, and the second that he does, the noise in his head withers away to a chilling silence like a gunshot to quell a crowd.
His slowing heartbeat is all that remains.
Mr. Death adds on, “I did not need to read your mind. Your expression was plenty.”
The serpent drops ‘His’ head back down to rest on Mr. Fool’s shoulder. The latter gestures ‘His’—no, his —hand out, opening the floor to them. “You may continue.”
Alger and Audrey exchange a look across the table, both of them opening their mouths in search of something to say.
Clearing her throat, Audrey takes a slow breath. “How can I get this potion’s formula?” she asks.
It takes a moment for Alger to respond, still reeling from his close descent into madness, as he answers, low and soft, “I have it.”
Brightening, Audrey leans forward slightly and asks, “What can I use to trade with you for it?”
“The blood of Ghost Sharks—at least one hundred milliliters of it.”
Nodding, Audrey replies, “If I can get it—and I’m saying if—how do I hand it to you? How can you promise me that you can give the potion’s formula to me in return for the Ghost Shark’s blood, as well as the authenticity of the formula?”
Alger opens his mouth to respond before a voice interrupts softly.
“I will be the witness of this trade,” Mr. Death says, blinking slowly. “For the physical transfer, you may ask for Mr. Fool’s grace in this regard. If you sacrifice the blood to him, he will bestow it unto the other party.”
Alger and Audrey turn to Mr. Fool who smiles but does not refute Mr. Death’s words. Through the fog, they exchange a tacit agreement because under the watch and word of an Angel, neither of them believe that the other would risk dishonesty.
"That would be greatly appreciated, Mr. Death," Audrey starts with a small smile. With a moment of thought, she starts tentatively, “How do I sacrifice the blood?”
“Prepare an altar. It does not need to be complicated nor adorned. You need only draw Mr. Fool’s symbol,” Mr. Death answers.
Before she has a chance to ask about the symbol looks like, Audrey watches in fascination as a hovering screen of light appears in front of her. Reflecting in her eyes, the strokes draw a strange pupil-less eye that falls downward into a mix of contorted lines which mirror the symbol on the back of Mr. Fool’s chair.
Once Mr. Death continues explaining the procedure, the words spin in Audrey’s head—mixing and mashing.
It must show on her face because Mr. Death carries amusement in ‘His’ tone as ‘He’ adds, “If you cannot remember, pray to Mr. Fool. Then, you will ‘remember’."
Before Audrey can ask what 'He' means by that, Mr. Death carries on without pause, “His honorific name is as follows:
"The Fool that does not belong to this era.
The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog.
The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck.”
In answer to the echo of Mr. Death's voice, the surrounding fog begins to stir and surge, as if reeling from the divinity sown within the words.
A three-line Honorific Name... Narrowing his eyes, Alger swallows thickly. Although he may not the subject of address, he memorizes the knowledge attentively for future use.
Blinking in confusion, Audrey scrambles to collect her thoughts, reciting the name over and over to remember rather than put meaning to it, but does not hesitate to rise from her seat to curtsy at the head chair once more. “Thank you, Mr. Fool and Mr. Death, for your help. I-I hope my ignorance is not a bother.”
Mr. Death replies gently, “It is not.”
Warmed by the reassurance, Audrey sighs inexplicably as she makes a note to repay their grace.
The question is how.
The answer comes fast.
Turning back to the head chair, Audrey asks with sparkling eyes, “Honorable Mr. Fool, would you mind making a few more ‘attempts’ like this?”
Without hesitation, Alger echoes, “Mr. Fool, the person across me is obviously a young lady of lofty stature. I also have my unique set of experience, insights, mediums, and resources. Although your powers exceed our imaginations, perhaps there will come a day when both of us can help you complete something trivial that might be inconvenient for you.”
Although Alger knows that many indescribable horrors may come with the attention of a deity, on the other hand, earning the protection of one is priceless. In addition, Mr. Fool has shown a consistently amiable nature—a fact Alger has come to glean having witnessed the extent of Mr. Fool’s and his Angel’s tolerance of them. The lady’s suggestion of subsequent gatherings cannot help but be tempting.
Mr. Fool hums, rapping his finger on the table leisurely, as he contemplates the proposal. Soon, his tapping ceases. “Sure. I am someone who likes a fair and equal exchange. Your help will not go unrewarded.”
As Audrey and Alger surge with excitement and relief respectively, Mr. Fool continues, “We will recur these gatherings every Monday at three in the afternoon. If you cannot attend, pray to me for a leave of absence.”
Practically bouncing her knee, Audrey asks, “Then, shall we give ourselves call signs? After all, we can’t use our real names for conversation.”
Mr. Fool nods. “Good idea,” he replies with ease.
With a moment of contemplation, Audrey perks up and reasons aloud, “You are Mr. Fool which is derived from tarot cards. Thus, I’ll also choose one of the Major Arcana.” A smile takes hold of her face as she exclaims, “I’ve decided. My designation shall be ‘Justice!’”
When she turns to Alger, the latter has already fallen in thought. He lifts his head following a second and says, “I will be The Hanged Man.”
“Alright, then we can be considered as the founding members of the Tarot Club!” Audrey proclaims, bubbling with glee, before she freezes, struck with realization. Shrinking, she looks at the head chair. “Will that be alright, Mr. Fool?”
Mr. Fool returns her smile softly. “I quite like that name.”
Audrey lets loose both a breath and her shoulders in relief.
Glancing at the two of them, Mr. Fool opens a hand to the table and says gently, "Besides the purpose of conducting trade, perhaps these gatherings can be used to share knowledge."
"What a wonderful idea!" Audrey exclaims, smiling.
He didn't mention sharing knowledge only between us. Is he implying that he may impart upon us some valuable information? Alger looks at the head chair and bows his head. "We thank you for your generosity."
Humming quietly, Audrey's thoughts trail off into another curiosity of hers before she says to Mr. Hanged Man, “I heard that tarot cards were invented by Emperor Roselle as a game. In fact, doesn’t it come equipped with the power to divine the future?”
“No. Most of the time, divination stems from one’s self,” Alger replies, going into a spiral about spirituality. Carefully watching his words, he resists letting out a breath of relief when neither Mr. Fool nor Mr. Death refute his words once he finishes his explanation.
Under Audrey’s further inquiry, Alger straightens in his seat and continues, “It is said that Emperor Roselle had seen the Blasphemy Slate and that set of paper cards contain the profound mysteries of the twenty-two paths of the divine.”
“Twenty-two paths of the divine…” Audrey echoes, recalling Mr. Fool’s first question to her at their introduction. However, rather than address him, she turns to ask Mr. Death but ends up holding her tongue at the last second.
I’ve already asked them so many questions… Audrey worries, pursing her lips. Mr. Death said it wasn’t a bother, though. Should I ask?
The serpent whose eyes had closed in slumber opens them in light of Audrey’s silence and blatant curiosity. 'He' turns to Mr. Fool in quiet question.
Mr. Fool turns his chin just so, smiling down at 'Him'.
Nodding, Mr. Death raises ‘His’ head and says, “They also go by another name: the Cards of Blasphemy. They are as obscure as they are due to the high-level anti-prophecy and anti-divination abilities embedded within each.”
Alger’s thoughts come to a standstill at the information. However, they stir back into motion as his heart fastens in his chest. I knew it! Through these gatherings, I’ll be able to ask for highly-coveted information.
Audrey’s lips part in wonder. Her mind narrows down on one of Mr. Death’s words as she probes further, her brows knitting, “Why blasphemy?”
Without opening ‘His’ mouth, Mr. Death’s chuckle resounds through the empty air, and as Mr. Fool smiles in turn, lifting a hand to stroke the serpent’s head, Mr. Death closes ‘His’ eyes against the gentle touch. “Is it not blasphemous to want to replace the Gods?