Eternally Yours

'He' opens 'His' eyes to the realm of Mysteries.

The grey fog parts in 'His' wake, and blue-black lights revolve around 'Him' as if drawn to their star.

'His' mind is clear yet hazed. Reborn in the heart of Sefirah, 'He' leaves behind everything, retaining only the knowledge of the eternal universe.

Like a child taking their first steps, 'He' totters for an instance as 'He' gets accustomed to being awake.

There are tasks to fulfill, promises 'He' sealed into 'Himself' long ago even though 'He' no longer can recollect the circumstances, and so 'He' makes 'His' way to the hall where the crimson lights surge and recede in perpetuity.

The hall is not as it should be. There are piles of things scattered around, one filled with artifacts but the rest all being papers and books.

A tentacle emerges from under 'His' cloak and reaches out to the nearest sheet. It rests over a random paragraph, scanning the words.

.

...There's a branch of your Church in the Southern Continent. With the lack of reverence to orthodox deities here, it's quickly becoming a popular religion. The Numinous Episcopate was an excellent support in setting it up.

I've decided to try social service, as you advised. My time as a teacher is one of my fondest memories and while I cannot imagine returning to Khoy, I should like to continue that work still.

.

It's a language 'He' vaguely remembers. It is a handwritten script that 'He' should know.

'His' tentacle retracts, pulling the paper into 'His' hand.

...Why did 'He' pick it up?

None of it should be in Sefirah. All of it should be tossed out.

But it is in 'His' hands and 'He' reads it all the same.

.

I had already met the Sun before in Bayam, but the past two weeks I've seen more of your Tarot Club. Two of them have even become angels and are canonised in the Fool's Bible. They're working hard in your name.

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Tarot Club... there was something like that.

The reason for the lit-up constellations in the hall, the eight chairs whose symbols flash and flare.

This place is forbidden to humans. Those chairs aren't supposed to be lit, not by them...

But 'He' is the one who called them here, isn't 'He'?

The images of them come to mind, eight figures so different from each other.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Fool~"

'He'—back then—

...

The symbol on the chair at the head is lit up as well. A pupil-less eye surrounded by contorted lines.

It's only a fraction of 'His' complete authority and yet...

The Fool...

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I was in Backlund the other day and chanced upon your siblings. It was our first time meeting, but it was easy to recognise them from the family semblance.

You have a niece now, your brother's daughter. She's five, a very bright and cheerful child.

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"Da Pool that dun pelong to diz ela..."

Once upon a time, a voice like that came and went.

There are similar chants pulsing from the stars around 'Him', but they aren't the same. Even that voice would have changed in the years...

Still, 'He' tunes into them absentmindedly, the millions of voices calling out with the same title—not the Lord of Mysteries' but familiar still—and continues to read.

One letter, ten, fifteen...

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I visited Utopia. It's a shame I couldn't see it when you built it. I did find some newspaper travel columns from back then that spoke extensively of its culture and delicacies. It's corrupted and broken down now, but I can see traces of the town it used to be. Your planning was thorough.

.

Fate is always pushing us forward... 'His' own voice echoes in 'His' mind, a memory, a letter that 'He' had once sent out, and something strange, lukewarm, sharp surges in 'Him'.

Utopia... There was such a town that 'He' had made, fated to collapse in disaster. It is not a new story, not even for that span of 'His' life alone.

No matter how many of these moments 'He' collects, the days left behind in the past can never be returned to.

Not even a Great Old One can reverse the flow of time.

.

The world is changing as fast now as it did during Emperor Roselle's time. When you return, there will be many things that are new to you, but the people you know will still be waiting...

.

There are many things in Sefirah.

There are folded paper cranes with wishes in them—Happy Birthday. I'm not sending you the same thing every year because I'm bad at gifts like you. It's just that you're the person who needs luck more than me.

There are volumes of stories that 'He' skims, catching familiar phrases and scenes throughout that light up the fog of the past as if 'He' is roaming the Historical Void.

There are volumes of poetry too, and 'He' shouldn't know the literary value for a language 'He' is only now remembering and yet 'He' figures how raw and amateur it is, cobbled together.

How genuine, cobbled together straight from a heart, desperation and effort bleeding through its every beat.

He reads, and feels, confusion to vague understanding to more, till his chest aches from it.

And there are letters still, so many more that he has yet to touch.

He doesn't have to read them one by one. His consciousness is capable of splitting apart and coming together like water, infinitely. It would take less than a thought.

But his hands—not quite as they should be, he realises now, not as he thinks they once were—tighten around the paper. He sees the wrinkles that form, picks out how the strokes of ink have dried.

One by one, he wants to take them in.

.

Eternally your friend and teacher—

"—Mr. Azik," Klein completes softly.

Over and over, the letters end the same.

Over and over, he is reminded.

"You seem to still be asleep, but it doesn't matter. I'll write to tell you about the interesting things that I've encountered..."

There are two letters for every month. Twenty four for a year. Three hundred for thirteen years. Not a single one missed.

The voices from the stars are no longer one monotonous chant. He can finally distinguish the ones most dear to him.

Miss Justice, Mr. Hanged Man, Little Sun...

Miss Magician, Madam Hermit, Miss Judgement...

Emlyn, Leonard...

Melissa, Benson, Mr. Azik...

He closes his eyes and drowns himself in the familiar sounds.

It's (he's) still not right, it's still too far...

But it's enough.

For now, it's enough to have remembered this.