Chapter Text
velut luna statu variabilis,
semper crescis, aut decrescis;
vita detestabilis
nunc obdurat et tunc curat
ludo mentis aciem,
egestatem,
potestatem
dissolvit ut glaciem
⛌ O FORTUNA ⛌
Note this. It is important,
1: Fortuna brings them together, just to pull them back apart.
Like children picking doomed flies off the pavement, only to rip off their wings and throw them down to the dirt. They are momentarily airborne, raised above their fates—but it is a swift detour, a bashing, before they are flung back down to their rightful places in the muck. Goodbye, fly. Goodbye.
And forgotten just as fast, trampled under the worn-rubber sole of a sparkly pink trainer. Their purpose is met, and they are discarded.
Their purpose. Yes, that is another important thing to note,
2: They have a purpose. They all do.
A fool, you would have to be, to think that a prophecy starts with One. That it names One, dooms One, chooses only One. Nothing comes from nothing. Something comes from something. Somewhere comes from somewhere, also.
That Chosen One came from somewhere, and that somewhere came from somewhere else. So, in one prophecy, is tied together the whole fabric of being. Every act, every useless sacrifice, every wayward smote of dust splitting the universe fractally; all leading down to that final prophesied Happening.
But another important thing to note,
3: It would be dull to write of dust.
So we will start the story in 1959, instead.