Fate and Destiny

The tarot cards had been a welcome opportunity to blend in after he gained the target's bodyguards' attention, nothing more. While the sunset painted the Moroccan sky above him orange and pink, he'd had his palm read by the fortune-teller, who then insisted on letting her tarot cards guide his way.

Under normal circumstances, he would've politely declined and moved on, but the bodyguard had been watching them, so he'd feigned enthusiasm and picked three cards, for the beginning, middle, and end of the path ahead.

Knight of Cups. Page of Wands. Two of Cups.

The fortune-teller had spent almost twenty minutes explaining their meaning to him, and he'd somewhat paid attention between Diana's commentary in his ear and his duty of keeping an eye on the target's movements.

Still, he'd think back to that moment a lot in the following years, retroactively finding meaning in grubby cards on a colourful bazaar, as if his life wasn't more complex than that.

He'd spent all his life as someone else's weapon to wield. The last thing he needed was another layer of lack of agency or free will, poorly disguised as fate.

Then why did those cards matter to him, years later? Why couldn't he forget them and their meaning?

Knight of Cups. Fervour, zeal, moodiness, illumination. Superstition, nothing more.

Page of Wands. Enthusiasm, eagerness, confidence, validation, affirmation. He didn't need cards to tell him what to do.

Two of Cups. Union, attraction, combination, affection. Words that meant nothing to him.

Until they did. Until that changed.

After his brother had injected him with the antidote to the devilish substance that'd locked him out of his memories and emotions for as long as he could remember, everything changed. Not all at once, of course. It was as if his brain had to remember how to remember, and his soul had to get a feeling for how to feel.

The worst memories came back first, and with them the worst emotions. He could get used to it, maybe, if he just learned how to push through. It wasn't easy to be confronted with strong emotions after a lifetime without any at all, apart from ever-present fear and a dull sense of loneliness, and the gratefulness and loyalty he felt towards Diana, which turned out to be so much more than just that, now that he could feel it all.

It wasn't easy to handle this. He had never learned how, he had no reference points, so everything he felt for Diana was so intense he feared it might crush him. She couldn't know about this; he had to keep his fervour a secret if he didn't want to lose her. She'd cut ties with him, without a doubt, should she ever find out that his feelings towards her had changed, evolved, grown into something he couldn't control, didn't even want to control if he knew how. He loved her, and she could never know.

47 grew moody over this, torn between wanting to spend time with her and wanting to stay as far away from her as possible, wanting to hear her voice and wishing she would stop living in his head all the time. It had been easier before, when the only thing he felt towards her was gratefulness and loyalty and something he couldn't put his finger on, back then; like a very bright light that could illuminate his entire world, but it was dulled down by the curse that kept him in check for all those years.

Now the veil was lifted, the clouds disappeared, and the light was too strong for him to handle; instead of illuminating his world, it kept drowning everything out, taking away the colours and the nuance, erasing everything else but her. She was the only one he could see, the only one he could think about, the only one he wanted, and it was scary, because he knew she didn't feel the same for him.