Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Do you want to hear a secret? A secret you won't have to keep quiet, won't have to hide away inside your mind, fractured — broken — as it is. Won't have to bury underneath emotions you don't understand and the scar tissue of wounds you don't remember bleeding from. You should, of course. Hide it, I mean. Or else what kind of secret would it be?

But you don't have to. Because the one who's attention it might draw, the one who's notice you can't afford — well. He stopped listening a long time ago.

Are you ready? Alright then. Here we go: There once was a boy who faced terrible choices, endured great sacrifices, yet proved his valor in spite of all the hardships life had in store for him. And like far too many children of his generation, he died long before he had the chance to grow up. But before his death or maybe with his death he incurred a favor. A powerful favor owed to him by a force beyond the boy's understanding. And so when the boy died, he did what anyone would have done: he called that favor in.

And see, I'd like to tell you that no one knows where things went wrong — would like to assure you nothing went wrong in the first place — but that wouldn't be true now, would it. Deep down, I think you already know that. There's a reason men shouldn't tangle with gods and whatever else there is above them, my dear child. If you learn nothing else today, remember that much. Because those powers of old, they don't play by the same rules as you and me, don't even play the same game. And what hope does a mortal have of winning when we don't even exist on the plane where the board is being set? No, don't let those old myths and all of humanity's hubris fool you: Men don't win in a deal with gods.

The Fated Day

It's time.

Kawahira glances at the old clock hanging low on the wall behind his cash register — an ancient piece of machinery that ticks too loudly in the ever-present silence that is only rarely interrupted by the arrival of a particularly stubborn customer — and suppresses a sigh. 

The motion is pointless of course. An odd habit Kawahira doesn't remember picking up that his subconsciousness refuses to let go of. There's no such thing as a specific time at which he needs to be ready. Nor would he need a clock to tell him when to go, that’s for sure. 

After all, Kawahira is the last in every sense of the word. The last of his people. The last of his kind. The last guardian of the Trinisette. 

The last one left.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Wasn't supposed to be his burden to carry. It was never supposed to be him. 

Yet here he is, centuries after everything he knows and loves has crumbled into dust. Kawahira hasn't decided yet whether he has been blessed or cursed. Goes back and forth on the topic every few centuries. Because the world changes. Every day, every year, ever decade brings new discoveries and innovations, new experiences Kawahira never dreamed of or imagined and during the good decades he can appreciate, even cherish them for that alone.

Life isn't boring, not really. So long as he remains in touch with the world, hopefully it won't ever be. 

And yet. Days like today have a way of feeling like an old book he’s already read so often, the story no longer holds any of his interest, no matter how often the lead characters are replaced, their names swapped, their stories reimagined. These days sink into Kawahira's skin, slow but steady, like sand trickling through the hourglass of the world. Unchanging and inevitable. Pull him down, slow him down until there's nothing left to do but to watch the same old drama play out yet again. To remember when all Kawahira wants is to forget. 

It’s been so long it's been since he last exchanged words with someone whose opinion mattered. So many years have passed since he has last allowed himself to care for another living being. So many lives have been sacrificed in the name of a system that isn't built to last forever.

Usually, Kawahira is able to brush these depressing thoughts off. To cast aside the memories of what he's lost over his long life because he can't afford to wallow. After all, if he were to sink who is to say that he'd ever resurface? And Kawahira still has a job to do. A job that has to be done, no matter what his own or anyone else's thoughts or opinions are on the matter. Technically it doesn't have to be Kawahira because he is old enough to be intimately familiar with the meaninglessness of his own existence but it has to be someone and Kawahira is the last one left. 

On any other day, Kawahira can pretend otherwise. Can deny the burden resting on his shoulders that increases with every passing hour, has passed 'unbearable' so long ago that the weight of it has lost all meaning.

And if it was never meant to be carried by a single person, well, there’s nothing to be done about that now, is there?

But today isn't any other day. Kawahira may be the oldest being in existence, may be the most powerful mist in the world, the last survivor of a people long forgotten, but in this he is just another wheel in the machine, doomed to turn, to follow his preset course until the very end. 

The Trinisette, after all, is more than a system. It's the system. It’s the order that upholds the world, ensures life as any living being knows it, stabilizes what may well be the entire universe. It may have been invented by his people at one point, but even Kawahira has a hard time recalling what the world looked like before. And for all that the Trinisette hasn't always been — will not always be — it has been in place for a very long time, been filled with powerful forces as close to magic as the world is capable of and as with all great inventions it has become far more than its creators imagined it would be. 

The rest of the world may remain oblivious because humanity has lost touch with their instinctive connection to the powers beyond them many centuries ago and they are unlikely to rediscover it any time soon without anyone to point them into the right direction, to teach them what they have far too easily forsaken — because the ones who could have, would have, used to lead the humans onto these paths are long gone, are dead, buried, forgotten to the point where even tales of their existence have faded from the memory of world and what truer death is there than such complete obscurity? — but Kawahira doesn't have that same luxury.

Not when the Trinisette sings in his veins, reverberates in his bones, saturates the air he breathes. It is all-encompassing and inescapable — and Kawahira is its upholder, its steward, its servant more than he has ever been its warden.

It's time.

There's no sound, no warning sign, not even a specific pattern but Kawahira knows. The Trinisette is both, more stable and more fragile than it appears at first glance. It's built on three pillars for a reason: The system won't fall apart immediately with the loss of one, be it the current Arcobaleno, the mare ring holders or the Vongola ring bearers. Each of them is necessary, but two out of three can substitute the lack of one pillar for a certain amount of time.

If Kawahira is honest, the Trinisette is probably capable of carrying on for a while even after the loss of all three of its pillars, though in that case time will run out much faster, which is why he prefers not to risk it.

So, the Trinisette can survive without the Arcobaleno for a while. Long enough for Kawahira to collect a new generation of sacrifices, although he has been cutting it closer than usual this time. The death of the former generation provided the system with a boost, but even that will only last for so long. It’s why Kawahira prefers to keep the transfers as clean and close together as possible because the longer the Trinisette is upheld by only two of its pillars, the more unpredictable it becomes.

More importantly, although the Trinisette gives him a certain amount of leeway in how quickly each individual pillar has to be replaced, the system itself isn't flexible. For all that the Vindice hate and despise Kawahira with an intensity that transcends death, Kawahira himself hasn’t chosen a sacrifice since long before Bermuda was born.

The Trinisette has. All Kawahira does at this point is listen — and follow its commands. Because the few times he didn't, the few times he tried don't bear thinking about.

Once a sacrifice or a ring bearer has been chosen, they can't be replaced. They aren't exchangeable. It's not up to Kawahira, not really. He helps the process along of course, by gathering the chosen ones, by bringing them together so that they begin to bond and their flames begin to resonate because that makes it easier for the Trinisette to hone in on them, to latch on and start the binding. 

It's the slow process of careful nourishment to ensure that the sacrifices are ready to accept their burden and are capable of carrying the pacifiers that Kawahira takes upon himself to oversee. To deliver the final blow in person because no matter how much humanity tires and occasionally disgusts him, a sacrifice of this magnitude deserves his acknowledgement — even if the ones receiving his regard won't appreciate it.

Which they tend not to do.

Kawahira would feel bad but it's tiring to hate a process you can't change, tiring to hate period and he has outgrown his rage, frustration and desperation centuries ago. Besides there are worse fates than becoming a sacrifice. At least this particular duty only lasts one human lifetime.

Of course the Trinisette was never supposed to be the final answer. As stable as it is now, the system itself is too vulnerable and still relies far too much on outside supervision, if only to deliver the pacifiers at the appropriate moment of time. No. Originally, it was intended as a quick and dirty fix, a temporary solution to a problem that had become too dire to ignore or shrug off.

And perhaps they waited too long, perhaps they underestimated how far things had deteriorated already, perhaps they were searching for a miracle solution that simply doesn't exist. Kawahira doesn't know. All he knows is that in the end, the most knowledgable and wisest of his people died before they found a better way and mankind is a long way off from making the kind of progress that might eventually lead to the discovery of a decent alternative.

With a scoff, Kawahira pushes those thoughts aside. After all, what does it matter? 

For now, there is no other way and Kawahira has neither the skills nor the dedication to invent one. He has lost enough, sacrificed enough and more than anything he is tired of hope. If one day another solution is presented to him, Kawahira will listen — for deep down, buried underneath decades of loss and pain and disappointment, he longs for this cursed circle to end, one way or another, and the truth is that at this point his apathy is all that keeps him from ending the world just to finally be done — but until then, there is nothing to be done but walk down the same downtrodden path he's been stuck on for too many years to count.

It's typical, really, he thinks with a sneer Sephira would mock him for. Nothing drags these old hurts and bitter memories to the forefront of his mind like the Fated Day.

Without conscious thought, Kawahira reaches for the infamous iron hat and checkered mask. He’s not sure what first prompted him to hide his face when delivering the pacifiers. It wasn’t concern for his identity, after all Kawahira is still the strongest mist in the world. There is no single human, dead or alive, that is capable of finding him if Kawahira doesn’t want to be found. 

No, if Kawahira is being honest — which he rarely is — then the mask is less about protecting himself from others and more about protecting himself from what he has to become to fulfill his duty. 

At least that’s how it started. Back when he was younger, softer and ill-prepared for the acts that were necessary to neutralize possible threats to the Trinisette over the years. Nowadays it’s a reminder as much as it is a way to focus people’s attention. The Vindice in particular, but also the current sacrifices.

Too many of them take their fate so very personal.

And if there is a part of Kawahira that invites them to come after him, to make himself the focal point of their fury, who wants to be confronted — to be stopped — well. That’s for him and him alone to know, for there is no one alive in this world that is capable of posing a threat to him. 

The iron hat looks heavier than it feels when Kawahira carefully places it on his head. 

Then again, no hat feels heavy enough to do justice to this particular role of his, so that’s likely just his ever persistent sentiment talking. Next comes the mask, perfectly fitted and carrying a sense of finality the rest of his uniform  lacks. Kawahira can feel the shift happen the moment it slides into place. Can feel himself becoming Checker Face. Can feel the way the tugging sensation of the Trinisette grows sharper and everything unrelated to his mission falls away as unimportant. 

The ever-present hesitation, exhaustion and guilt don’t disappear, but they lose some of their presence, their urgency. It should be alarming, the amount of influence a simple role has over him, but Kawahira would be lying if he said it bothers him. 

He’d be lying if he said it doesn’t scare him too — but that’s not the point. Because the time for his wallowing has passed. 

The Trinisette has chosen. The pacifiers are ready. All the sacrifices are in place.

It’s time.

Checker Face steps into existence on top of a random hill.

That is to say, the fact that he steps into existence on this particular hill is no coincidence. In fact, the hill isn’t random at all. It was carefully selected as the perfect spot for the final step of the next generation of Arcobaleno’s ascension: close enough to the mansion where the latest generation of sacrifices have been staying to be reached within less than two hours by a group of well-trained flame actives, high enough for Checker Face and the carefully placed pacifiers to remain invisible even without the usage of mist flames until the sacrifices are too close for it to matter and otherwise completely uninteresting.

That latter part especially is important. The last thing Checker Face needs is for some hidden flame residue or ley line to act up during the sacrifice due to the high energy release of the sacrifice and interfere with the pacifiers’ transfer. 

But the location itself doesn’t matter. The sacrifice could be completed anywhere at any given time. This hill is simply the most convenient place Checker Face found during his initial scouting.

So here he is.

There’s no sense of urgency now that he has arrived. The Trinisette’s restlessness has eased into something more subtle, though no less intrusive. A low-simmering anticipation that is being built up so slowly, Checker Face barely notices it slipping underneath his skin when he doesn’t consciously focus on it. 

A quick check on one of his mist spies confirms that the sacrifices are on their way. Not that Checker Face had any doubts. Even without Luce, the last of Sephira’s line, carefully leading them down the correct path, by now the Trinisette itself is calling them. And it takes more than stubbornness and willpower to resist the call of a system beyond human comprehension. 

Still, the confirmation soothes what little unrest remains and Checker Face allows himself to unwind just a bit, let some of the tension between his shoulder blades go. Things are moving along as they should. All is well.

Not that Checker Face has any reason to doubt that this Fated Day will differ from any of the many, many iterations that came before this day, of course. They never do.

And yet.

There’s something there. Niggling at him. It’s not concern or worry per se, nothing so concrete. The sensation is fleeting and all the more difficult to pin down because of it. Nothing more than a faint sense of unease with no clear cause.

Checker Face checks on the state of the sacrifices again, but all is progressing as it should. That said, Checker Face hasn’t lived hundreds of human lifespans without learning to trust his instincts. And if there is a cause for— discomfort, well, the humans are the most likely reason for it. Because the pacifiers are as ready as they’ll ever be and the Trinisette would let him know, would scrape against his senses like nails scratching over a chalkboard if there was anything wrong with it.

But humans have a way of making things messy. Only there isn’t much to be messed up now, not at this stage. Short of murder or suicide, it’s already too late for this generation. They’ve been chosen. There’s no escaping their fate now, not while they still draw breath.

So why does Checker Face feel like he’s reassuring himself rather than fixing the underlying issue?

With a suppressed sigh — why do mortals always have to complicate things — Checker Face hones in on the group’s steadily approaching flame signatures. But even a long, hard glance through the eyes of one of his favorite little spies doesn’t provide him with the answers he seeks. As far as Checker Face can tell, everything seems to be in order. 

Granted, he hasn’t been as involved with the sacrifices as he used to be. Has only checked in on the state of their flames every so often and left the management of the group up to Sephira’s young descendant. 

Perhaps that has been a mistake.

Luce is a strong sky and her gift of foresight makes her a valuable ally, but for all that Checker Face has kept to the shadows and largely removed himself from the situation, not at all eager to spend more time than necessary with the next handful of people whose flames he’ll bind, he has picked up on the tensions that have been rising within the group over the past few weeks just fine. 

That by itself is not a bad thing. The Arcobaleno have always been united by the shared tragedy of their fate, but only a few generations ever managed to build strong personal bonds beyond that. Especially once the sacrifice has taken place. And the few that have have always proven themselves the most troublesome, so it’s not like Checker Face goes out of his way to encourage it. 

He doesn’t sabotage those relationships either but then that’s rarely necessary. Strong flames come with strong wills and even stronger personalities. Sticking them into close quarters for a couple of months tends not to bring out the best in people — never mind that the mafia doesn’t cultivate "good", friendly people in the first place. Without a sky to smooth things over, things tend to deteriorate fast.

In that sense, the current set of sacrifices is an exception. Unlike many of their predecessors they haven’t begun to build secondary bonds with the sky while reluctantly tolerating the other elements’ presence. If anything it’s the other way around: The elements have begun to build stronger bonds among themselves than one would expect, especially when considering that they aren’t courting the same sky. That they’ve largely done this by bonding together against said sky.

If Checker Face was attempting to create a harmony, that would be a serious issue. As harmony isn’t required, isn’t even desired for the sacrifice to work as intended, he hasn’t seen any reason to interfere. But maybe he should have. At the very least, he should have probably figured out what causes this much tension within the group, if only to keep an eye on eventual fractures between them. Instead Checker Face had been too relieved because introducing the sky early on is always a gamble. On the one hand, elements are drawn in by the prospect of harmony, are hardwired to be attracted to a sky strong enough to hold them. On the other hand, even when the sky is in the know and perfectly aware of the risks like Luce has been from the start, there’s a very real chance that actual guardian bonds are formed. 

An outcome that Checker Face does his best to avoid for two reasons: One, if a bond is formed before the sacrifice takes place, there’s a chance that the perceived betrayal of the sky will send an element into discord, which tends to shorten their lifespan. Massively. And two, even if the bond survives the sacrifice itself, the sky is the weakest, most often replaced piece of the set and guardians rarely survive the loss of their sky for long. Particularly among strong flame users. 

Having the sky be aware of the risks has helped mitigate the dangers somewhat. Luce has forged other guardian bonds before ever coming into contact with the other sacrifices, thus limiting the chances of her forming a spontaneous bond. She’s also been careful to spend as little time as possible with the elements without arousing suspicions. Checker Face hadn’t considered that those actions might negatively impact her standing within the group but even if he had, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Avoiding any involuntary guardian bonds takes precedence over some hurt egos.

And well. Once Checker Face had ascertained that the forming of such a bond would be extremely unlikely, thanks to the odd group dynamics the elementals developed among themselves, he’d stopped paying attention.

It didn’t used to be like this. Back in the early decades of the Trinisette’s existence, when the system hadn’t yet made the choice itself, when sacrifices had still presented themselves for the selection out of their own free will for the greater good of the world, being a sacrifice was an honor. Choosing them had been a challenge, not because you had to herd them to the right place but because you had to evaluate the volunteers and decide who among them was worthy. 

But those days are long gone and over time Checker Face has spent less and less effort on getting to know the sacrifices, on evaluating them and testing them. Once the Trinisette began to make the choice on its own, his opinion was no longer required — and if he’s honest, he’s grown tired of getting to know people he’s going to watch wither away and die within a couple of decades. Humans are so short-lived that caring about any of them comes with more heartache than their company is worth.

These days, Checker Face barely remembers the names of the current set, never mind the last one. And while he certainly doesn’t regret that, perhaps his own distance towards the sacrifices is what unsettles him now. Is what will work against him, should anything unforeseen happen.

Perhaps it’s time to take a more active role in the shaping of the future Arcobaleno’s once more. 

Yes, Checker Face decides and lets his latest mist spy dissipate after one final glance at the tense group working its way up the chosen hill. I have allowed myself to grow far too distant from my duty. The next generation I will collect myself.

The decision doesn’t fully settle the uneasy itch in the back of his mind, but Checker Face hasn’t expected it to. That sense of trepidation won’t dissipate until the sacrifice has been completed, that he knows from experience. Despite that he feels no need to hurry things along, not when everything is progressing according to the plan. There’s no need to rush now. All the pieces are moving as expected, are following along the steps of a greater plan they aren’t even aware exists. 

There’s an elegance to this encompassing inevitability that humbles Checker Face. A reassurance that he is on the right path, that this next part is no more up to him than any of the previous steps he’s taken.

Is this not the true measure of greatness? To take part in something far beyond you, something so much greater than yourself you can barely comprehend it?

The sacrifices are close now, so close that Checker Face can feel their flame signatures with grating clarity. The system has chosen wisely, he must admit. If anyone other than him were listening, he would swear that the pacifiers begin to hum in delighted greed. Vibrate faintly with need at having their chosen sacrifice within their vicinity, almost if not quite yet close enough.

All Arcobaleno are strong by definition, but this generation is impressive even by the high standard the Trinisette has set over the centuries. The strongest among them are the sky and the sun, with the storm falling not far behind. The mist too is one whose skill Checker Face appreciates, if only because despite their not inconsiderable flame strength it’s actually their ingenuity that makes them stand out. The rain and the lightening are also of acceptable power and skill, though nothing Checker Face hasn’t seen before.

Out of all of them, the cloud is the most interesting one. Going by flame volume alone, the cloud should have been the strongest of the set because of the sheer amount of flames their body holds and is capable of multiplying. But potential isn’t everything and what the cloud lacks more than any other sacrifice — what would have disqualified them if Checker Face were the one to make the call — is their low flame density. Their inability to use those flames, to consciously focus and strengthen them. It’s not a rare predicament in general, but seeing it in a cloud definitely is. Clouds, after all, rarely survive long enough to grow into their power if they lack motivation or willpower. The fact that this one has speaks for its resilience if nothing else.

In any case, the Trinisette has chosen. And at least this particular cloud is unlikely to go berserker on him any time soon. Checker Face will take what he can get. Particularly where it concerns clouds — the element designed to give his headaches headaches.

The sun — self-appointed leader and protector of the group — is the first to reach the top of the hill.

Checker Face doesn’t give the sacrifice time to notice the strategically placed pacifiers or his own presence, doesn’t allow himself a moment of hesitation. The other elements are close enough behind that their distance won’t matter now, not with how eager the Trinisette is and the time for hesitance has long passed.

There’s no ritual. No words. No gestures.

All Checker Face does is close his eyes and with a bone-deep certainty that it’s time, he lets go.

The transfer is over in a matter of seconds. It’s less of a slow acclimatization and more of a rubber band that’s been pulled taunt almost to the point of tearing over the last couple of months and now that it’s finally released, it immediately, forcefully snaps back into place.

From what Checker Face has observed and been told on numerous occasions, it’s a disorienting experience that leaves the sacrifices stunned for minutes at a time, sometimes even renders them unconscious. But that’s the aftermath, the time it takes the human body to adjust to a burden it isn’t equipped to carry. By that point, the transfer itself is already over and done with. It’s a quick process. Far too fast for any flame user, no matter how talented, to put up any kind of fight, especially when they aren’t expecting it.

Usually, that is.

Checker Face blinks in surprise. The sacrifices are frozen in place when they should’ve already fallen over because the transfer — stalls.

It hangs in the air, is everywhere around them but doesn’t fully connect. Something is blocking — no, fighting it. Rejecting it.

It’s not strictly speaking the first time this has happened. But it is rare and Checker Face cannot help but think that this is what his subconsciousness has picked up on, even if his conscious mind couldn’t make sense of it.

For some innate reason, he’s not surprised in the least that the cause of this slight hitch in the proceedings is the cloud. 

Fucking clouds, seriously.

But it’s only when it dawns on Checker Face how much time has already passed for him to contemplate all this, how the clock is still ticking that his head snaps around and for perhaps the first time he really looks at the cloud in question.

Because. A normal human, an extraordinary human, any human should not be able to put up a fight for this long. 

And yet, Checker Face sees it happen right in front of his eyes. Sees the way previously weak, fragmented cloud flames condense and solidify with a vicious furor unlike anything he has ever seen. Sees the way the Trinisette tries to counter, to swallow, to submerge. And although the outcome of this unforeseen battle of wills is a foregone conclusion — for no one flame active, no matter how determined, can withstand a centuries’ old system — Checker Face can’t help but think with no small amount of hysteria: If there’s one thing cloud flames aren’t known for, it’s for submitting.

One minute passes. Then another.

Checker Face feels breathless as he watches the battle continue, as neither side appears to gain any ground. He knows, he knows how this is going to end and yet. No one has ever come so close, lasted so long. And there’s a part of him that he’s tried to bury over the years but has never fully forgotten that knows no system lasts forever.

It’s when a third minute passes that Checker Face realizes he’s actually breathless. That the weight of the Trinisette is pressing down on him with more force than ever before, is crashing into him like a huge wave of water that has loomed over his head for so long he forgot the threat it posed until it finally broke. Sweat is running down his temples and his upper arms and his heart beats unnaturally loud against his ribcage.

Amidst the pressure that bears down on him, it takes Checker Face a moment to notice the added drain. And a few more seconds to process what it means — that the system is drawing strength from him, is draining him in its efforts to overwhelm the cloud.  

There’s something like terror clawing at his chest at the realization but that might just be the lack of oxygen.

Checker Face sways. His body feels too small, too fragile to withstand this onslaught for long. How is the cloud still conscious?

The pressure rises further, becomes unbearable, a high-pitched noise that cuts through flesh and bones, pierces every wall and shield and the cloud screams. Their body seizes with the force of their flames as they ignite, dance across skin in a macabre echo of a protective shell that inevitably cracks. 

For a long moment, the body remains suspended in the air, upheld by nothing but flames, and the entire world — or maybe that’s just Checker Face — seems to hold its breath. 

Then something snaps.

The force of it sends Checker Face staggering backwards. Pacifiers and sacrifices alike go flying as the backlash of an impossible battle crashes through every layer of the world and forces it comply, to adapt, to realign. As though a hole has been punched through reality itself, something shifts in a place at the core of the world so deeply hidden, so fundamental, it causes the entire planet to go off-course for a single moment, to wobble on its path through the cosmos just that bit and. 

The cloud crumbles but Checker Face barely notices.

Even if he had, he couldn’t have cared less. Because Checker Face is the first to shake off the momentary disorientation, the odd sensation that you’ve taken two steps to the left without noticing your movement and now everything around you isn’t any different but it’s not quite in the place you expected it to be. Because the world is far more flexible than humanity gives it credit for and so it doesn’t break, doesn’t even pause, simply reorients itself and proceeds to go on as usual. 

But Checker Face isn’t human, isn’t blind to everything beyond their senses and so he knows immediately. He doesn’t understand how it’s even possible, can’t hope to explain it, has no idea what it means, but he knows.

The Trinisette is flexible too but it is also fragile and was never meant to endure centuries, to become the be all, end all solution. And for the first time that Checker Face, that Kawahira can remember, when he prods at it, at the layer that surrounds everything there is, the system doesn’t respond.

"What have you done?!" he chokes out past the painful dryness of his throat.

The cloud lying motionless in the grass next to a shattered, empty pacifier doesn’t answer. 

No, my dear child. Holding the favor of a god is no simple thing and to call in a favor of such magnitude has consequences far beyond our understanding. See, when the boy called his favor in, his request appeared to be simple: he wished to be loved.

But you have to understand, even the gods have rules to adhere to, for all that we may not know or understand them. And what the boy asked for wasn’t something they could give. But because he had called his favor in, the god in question was obligated to answer him and since they were unable to fulfill his wish, they did the next best thing: they gave the boy what he’d earned.

Now, you might think that’s a good thing and perhaps it was even intended to be. But what you have to remember is that the gods may be all-knowing, but they aren’t human. They don’t think the way we do and there are certain things, certain losses they cannot understand any more than we can understand what it truly means to exist forever. And so the boy was graced with a great gift the true scope of it even he was not aware of because the gods only ever do things in the kind of extremes that rarely mean anything good for us mere mortals and he was sent back to live another life in the hope that it would give him what his heart truly sought.

What that gift was, you ask? I have to admit, it was one of the greatest gifts they could have bestowed on a mortal: the god gifted the boy his freedom.

My, is that disappointment I see on your face? Oh sweetling, have you already forgotten? 

A god’s gift is never simple or straight-forward and true freedom is a luxury few mortals ever know. The shackles of destiny are harder to shake than you might believe and the Fates have their ways of moving things along precisely as they want them to. We, all of us, are mere figurines in their game and a gift like that might seem unimpressive to you now but believe me, properly utilized it could reshape the entire board.

But what am I saying, you’re far too young yet to listen to this old woman prattling on and on. Run along now, Vanya, I’ve already delayed you far longer than I meant to. Your mother must be wondering where you are by now. Don’t worry, child, we’ll finish this story another time.