Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the first Monday of December, 1354. 

Beams of dark crimson light soar to the sky from the grand seats of Sefirah Castle, beckoning the stir of the surrounding gray fog. Dimming, they collect themselves to form eight corporeal human shapes. 

The Major Arcana of the Tarot Club sweep their gazes over each other in familiar greeting, and their excitement, akin to seeing an old friend, slips through the masking fog. However, none of them speak just yet. 

Seated on the left chair by the head of the mottled table, one of the three founding members, Justice, also known as Audrey Hall, pinches the ends of her skirt and leads everyone to a silent stand. They turn to the empty seat to bow. 

Only, the head chair is not empty. 

The seat has risen to the level of the table, and there, perched with a leisurely-swaying tail, sits a cat. Its sleek coat of fur carries the black of night. Gold-rimmed eyes blink slowly at them, its gaze as heavy as one would expect from mountains, seas, and worlds. 

Alarm shoots through the members of the Tarot Club.

If it is not for the fact they are aware that no one may take a step into Sefirah Castle without their Lord’s permission, perhaps, they would have readied themselves for a battle—instead of staring in choked apprehension. 

A Mythical Creature?

Mr. Fool’s pet?

One of his Angels…? 

In a stalemate, the Tarot Club members exchange careful looks, but there is one person whose eyes have never left the unfamiliar creature. Perhaps, it should not be unfamiliar at all. 

The ends of Audrey’s skirt fall through her fingers, her own breath catching in her throat. The green of her eyes reflect the head chair and the figure it seats. 

The cat slides its gaze to Audrey. 

With a hand clutched to her chest, Audrey begins, letting the hope bleed through the facade of a Spectator, “...Mr. Fool?” 

The name rings out like a wish. 

And without opening its mouth, an ethereal voice echoes in reply—one that is all too familiar. One that they know all too well. 

“Hello, Ms. Justice.” 

It is as if a lightning strike has split open the air, leaving a gaping wound in time and space. Breaths hitch. Backs straighten. The hearts of the Tarot Club members nearly leap out of their chests, not sparing the attention to take notice of the smiles taking hold of their faces. 

Mr. Fool is awake! 

Happiness brightens Audrey’s eyes. She hurriedly turns to her fellow members, the latter already reading her intention. 

Audrey pinches the ends of her skirt, and, wearing a smile that was not there before, she leads everyone into a deep bow. However, this time, it isn’t toward an empty throne. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fool!” 

The greeting is echoed seven times over, lined with tangible relief and excitement. 

The cat nods with a lash of its tail. 

As the Tarot Club takes their seats, The Star, Leonard Mitchell, freezes. He swerves his head to the end of the mottled table, eyes wide and hopeful, but the name of his friend dies on his tongue. 

The unoccupied chair stares back. 

Klein…

“The World is still in his slumber.” 

Leonard turns to Mr. Fool before his gaze drops to the table. He purses his lips. “...I see. Thank you, Mr. Fool.”

Silence does not get a chance to speak because The Hermit, Cattleya, goes to ask, “Honorable Mr. Fool, did you only just awaken?”

“Yes,” Mr. Fool answers. “The Gathering must have stirred the fog of Sefirah Castle coincidentally when my slumber was especially shallow.” 

Cattleya nods in understanding. 

“Mr. Fool,” The Magician, Fors Wall, begins, “Is there a reason why you have not adopted your regular form? I am ready to provide an equivalent payment for the answer.” 

The cat merely blinks. The familiar voice echoes, “There’s no need. This form is simply more efficient, as my core consciousness continues to sleep. However, I will return soon.” 

Shock sweeps across the faces of the Tarot Club members. 

“You aren’t staying?” Leonard bursts out, and if it is not for the fact that the question is directed at Mr. Fool, of all deities, he might have been smote on the spot for showing such impudence. 

Praise the Fool! Leonard cannot help but internally mumble by the time his mind catches up to his mouth. 

Once bubbling with joy, dismay seizes The Sun, Derrick Berg. His fists clench in his lap, nails digging into his palm, as he smothers the urge to beg Mr. Fool to stay. Derrick still has so much to do. So much to repay. So much to tell him. In the end, he says nothing, because to him, he has no right to be so bold toward his savior. 

Warm feline eyes take hold of them. The voice is soft as it answers, “I’m afraid not.” 

A somber silence befalls the castle, settling into each and every one of the Tarot Club members’ hearts. 

They naively hoped the clash between Mr. Fool and the unknown deity was coming to an end, hence, why Mr. Fool awakened early, albeit only partly. All of them had been looking forward to a semblance of the lives they once enjoyed: the weekly Gatherings, a world without the threat of an encroaching apocalypse, and living under the grace, gaze, and presence of their infallible deity, Mr. Fool. 

A chuckle sounds out. 

“Do not waste your sorrow.” 

The Tarot Club looks up at Mr. Fool, their words and worries having caught up in their throats. 

The cat’s tail curls. “Although my repose continues, I will awaken periodically, as I have now.” 

In reply, the utter relief that spreads throughout the air is palpable. 

The Hanged Man, Alger Wilson, dips his head. “We will patiently look forward to each and every one of your awakenings.” 

The cat nods. “Regardless,” Mr. Fool starts, “I will answer my prayers as I have done so in the past. There will be no changes that need to be accounted for.” 

After a collective nod, another silence begins, but it is not as somber as the last. Perhaps, it could be called hopeful. Although the Tarot Club has long since expected Mr. Fool’s slumber to span over several years, the possibility of him waking up, even for just a short period of time, is a noteworthy event to look forward to.

After all, the Tarot Club had not realized how spoiled they were until Mr. Fool had gone to sleep. 

“I…”

Audrey, Alger, and company freeze at the hesitant tone.

“...do not have a recollection of the number of years I have spent slumbering.” The cat tips its head up to the sky. It seems to peer past the fog. After a long moment, its eyes drop back down to them. 

Audrey catches the wordless question. “It has been a little over two years in the outside world, Mr. Fool.”

“...I see.” The cat’s swaying tail slows to a stop. “The march of time has always been rather fickle in the realm of dreams.” 

With the brief opening and closing of her mouth, Judgement, Xio Derecha, asks tentatively, “Has it been longer for you, Mr. Fool?”

“I cannot be sure,” the answer comes quickly. “Be it years, decades, or centuries, I sense no distinction. One could say I am rather fortunate in that regard.” 

An ethereal chuckle echoes about the air, but the very sound greatly heavies the hearts of the listeners, an inexplicable sadness washing over them.

Centuries? The Moon, Emlyn White, echoes with widened eyes. In the future, would I be able to fight such a long, tireless battle? But, of course, this is Mr. Fool.  

Alger tries to still his shaking gaze as his thoughts run rampant in his head. After recovering, Mr. Fool had to immediately engage in battle with an unknown deity… 

Is there such a thing as rest for a God? Audrey ponders. She purses her lips. She does not dare ask such a question. 

“I have another commission for you all.” 

The Tarot Club, yanked from the daze of their thoughts, straighten in their seats as they focus on the head of the table. 

Eagerness has Derrick on the edge of his seat. 

The cat’s tail lashes. “Tell me all that I have missed.”

The request echoes like a strange phenomenon without a precedent, and, for a moment, no one answers. 

Emlyn begins with poorly-hidden pride, “Mr. Fool, shortly after you began your slumber, the Rose School of Thought–” 

A soft laugh interrupts him. 

The cat does a slight tilt of its head, curious golden eyes resting upon Emlyn. “You misunderstand me.” 

Heart jumping to his throat, panic itching at his skin, Emlyn freezes. “I—I apologize, Mr. Fool. I was under the presumption that you would like an account of what has transpired involving your interested factions.” 

“Such matters are due for another time,” Mr. Fool responds, unbothered. “I have deemed something else of greater importance.” 

Xio takes the plunge and asks, “May we ask what that is?” 

Although the cat’s expression does not change, they can hear the smile in Mr. Fool’s voice as he answers, “Your lives, of course.” 

It takes a second—perhaps, even two, for the weight of his words to settle into their minds. Shock strikes right through them. It buries into their souls before blooming into warmth—a breath of oxygen—a sense of belonging they cannot put into words, for that would be an injustice. 

Derrick bites his lip to stop himself from crying. 

Mr. Fool elaborates further, “The Tarot Club was meant to be nothing more than an attempt. Nevertheless, I agreed to convene these Gatherings. Through them, I have watched all of you grow as people, as Beyonders, and as Demigods.” 

The pride in his voice is not so easily missed. For them, it is as bright as the dawn. 

They cannot find the words to reply before the cat’s eyes curl, as if in a smile—one that is softer than any they have ever seen on their beloved Mr. Fool. 

“My commission is a request to hear about my dear Tarot Club,” Mr. Fool says, with a kind of humanity unfitting of a deity. 

Derrick is first. He shoots to his feet, followed by Alger, Audrey, Leonard, and the rest of the Tarot Club. Their shock has faded. Their hesitation has too. 

As if there has never been any answer but this, with their hands pressed against their chest, they bow in unison. “Your will is our will!” 

In a world of an approaching end, a foretold destruction, they find solace in this familiar place. They exchange stories. They discuss mysticism. They do as they have done before—under the gaze of this deity they have long trusted with their very lives. 

Perhaps, this is a semblance of the lives they have been looking for. 

Perhaps, this is coming home after a long, exhausting journey. 

The cat lies down on its side, tail sweeping leisurely over the seat, as its golden gaze watches over them. Mr. Fool listens to them retell their past two years. He does not add on to anything. He does not ask anything. He lets their words flow free, perfectly content with listening, as he expressed through his request moments ago. 

Audrey chats enthusiastically about her journey with Susie across the continents, even the seas. A few members tease her of her infamous mistake. She takes the words in stride—for she believes it was one of the best mistakes of her life. 

Alger speaks of his voyage upon the cruel oceans—of the strange islands he's seen, the new enemies he’s faced, and the new comrades he’s fought alongside. He recounts the tales with pride. 

Fors spirals into the details of her novels, incorporating the various sights she has seen while traveling, and Xio chips in about how she asks the former to hitchhike along, more often than not, as if using her as an “anywhere-anytime” carriage. 

Emlyn boasts of his successful pharmaceutical company. As a high-ranking deacon of the Harvest Church, he has more than a few… “subordinates” to aide him in any task he needs done. 

Derrick talks about the Rorsted Archipelago, excitedly mentioning how the citizens of the Forsaken Land of the Gods have grown used to their lives, now living with a new definition of peace. 

Leonard describes his life as an official Beyonder, bringing up interesting missions—the weird ones especially. He pulls out a poem at some point. When he’s done reciting it to them, he does not dare pull out a second. 

Cattleya courteously discusses her identity as one of the Pirate Kings, but her words bleed into worry by the time she brings up her first mate, Frank Lee. Only Derrick has a positive response. 

The trivial things they have not been able to afford to talk about during the monthly Gatherings, lest they waste time, come to light. They laugh. They tease. Perhaps, they have considered each other friends for longer than they have realized.  

“...thinking that I could enroll in a seminar about literary devices. I also wanted to ask Miss Magician if…” 

“...many of our citizens across the continent! They’ve sent so many fascinating souvenirs; I can barely count them…”

“...afraid of sending me updates. How do I tell my Minor Arcana that I’m not that scary?” 

To Xio’s question, Leonard answers with a warm laugh, “You can’t exactly tell a Low-Sequence Beyonder to ignore the fact that you’re a Demigod. That’s like saying…” 

Leonard trails off. 

The gazes that were once on him have slid away, and, confused, he follows their line of sight—to the head of the mottled table. Whatever he planned to say dies on his tongue. 

The cat’s eyes have fallen closed. Its black fur, once glossy, now dull, does not rise nor fall, and its curled-up form looks ever so small in the middle of the cold throne. It appears almost peaceful. 

Seconds pass. Perhaps, eternities as well. The silence only grows colder, like a fresh corpse without the beat of blood, and it might have been forever when someone finally asks, like a child not wanting to face reality, “Mr. Fool?” 

Mr. Fool does not answer. 

Chapter Text

Mr. Fool does not awaken by the next Gathering. Neither the one after that. Nor the one following. 

He keeps his word as he has always done, answering prayers, granting requests, but, perhaps, it would have been better if he never awoke at all. He gave the Tarot Club a glimpse of yore—a taste of familiar warmth. 

Now, the hearth has gone cold again. 

And Derrick… grows used to it. Perhaps, the fastest out of all of them, because this is nothing new—being left in the dark and fated to chase the dimming light. 

“Good morning, Elder Berg!” 

Derrick smiles with a wave. “Good morning!” 

Through the chill of early dawn, Derrick makes his way through the streets in patient steps, gaze drinking in the familiar sights of the New City of Silver. It’s not so new, now. After two years of existence, they have finally begun making their mark into the world, either through their mercenary work, their expansion on the new maps of history, or the spread of Mr. Fool’s Church. 

Derrick is busy most days. He chases after every task and the looming shadow of his ongoing commission, eagerly and diligently, because there’s a certain shame that coincides with standing still in this new world. 

Mr. Fool’s Blessed…  

Derrick mouths the title as he walks, and a rush of excitement fills his chest, putting a slight bounce to his step. He clenches his fists. He steels himself. With a deep breath, the far dream fades as thoughts of digesting his potion replace it, and as he takes a turn into a quiet street, he mulls over that distant pedestal named the status of an Angel. 

The faster he advances, the faster he can learn about the battle above the Sequences. 

And the faster he does that, the faster he… can…

Derrick’s feet come to a stand still. 

His eyes are slow to grow wide, picking up with his heart, the wind, and the dawn.

“Hello, Mr. Sun.” 

The voice echoes in his mind—clear and gentle under the ambience. 

There’s a black cat perched on the paved stone bricks of the streetside garden walls. The amber morning burns its dark fur a rich brown. Its tail sweeps over the edge of the wall, swishing from side to side in a slow oscillation, and within its golden eyes is a warmth not from the watching sun. 

Derrick’s mouth goes dry. “...Mr. Fool?” 

The cat’s head merely nods.

For a moment, Derrick’s mind spins, his shaking eyes a clear window into his mental disarray—but, reeling it in, as if not wanting this dream to pass, he hurriedly presses a shaky hand to his chest and bows. “Congratulations on your awakening, Mr. Fool!”

When he rises, he makes an attempt to restrain the revere in his voice as he continues, “May I ask why you have chosen to descend to the City of Silver?” 

The cat glances to the side. Its gaze carries off to the far streets as Mr. Fool’s voice echoes, “I have come to ensure the conditions of my Anchors. Although I could cast my ‘gaze’, seeing with one’s own eyes is the most optimal in my present state.” 

“I see,” Derrick nods. “Thank you for your answer.” 

With a swish of its tail, the cat turns back to him. “Accompany me through the city; I will reward you for your time.”

Derrick nearly stumbles in place, but it doesn’t take long for a smile to take up his mouth, unbridled joy brightening his expression. “It would be my honor, Mr. Fool!” 

He goes to step forward, but the tip of his foot does not end up leaving the ground. Realization blinks awake in his eyes. “Oh… um, please spare me a moment. I will call a carriage,” he says with haste, after realizing that making his Lord walk through their humble town bare… pawed would be more than negligent on his part. 

But Mr. Fool replies, “There’s no need.” 

Derrick freezes, before his hands come up to gesture reason, “I couldn’t possibly ask you to walk.” 

“Then, I won’t.” 

The cat stands slowly, and, with a purposeful curl of its tail, a smooth, simple mat of gray cotton manifests upon the garden wall. Without pause, the cat steps onto it, lying down on its side. 

Understanding flashes across Derrick’s expression. He approaches and mumbles, “Please, excuse me,” as he picks up the cat bed by both ends and slowly rotates it to allow the cat to look forward. “Is this alright?” 

“Yes.” 

Nodding, Derrick swallows the lump in his throat and carefully turns on his heel. Now, set on an aimless path, he asks, “Would you like to see your church, Mr. Fool? The morning sermon is starting soon,” knowing that it’d be the best place to check first in regards to his Anchors. 

The cat’s ear twitches. Although Derrick has no knowledge of a cat’s body language, the flick seems awkward. “...I have since visited.” 

Slight disappointment flickers in Derrick’s chest, a part of him having been excited to see Mr. Fool’s reaction and, perhaps, even his verbal approval to the proceedings of his Church. 

With a brief thought, Derrick suggests vibrantly, “Then, would you like to visit the harbor? Many of our citizens have made it a habit to carry out offerings by the sea.” 

Said acts should be a strange phenomenon elsewhere. However, for the citizens of the Forsaken Lands of the Gods, this time of day—when dawn hits the ocean, sending splinters of golden light upon the waves—is a reminder of the lives they have been given. Their thousand-year-old wish. Thus, it is common for the citizens of the New Cities of Silver and Moon to sacrifice offerings to and at the morning. 

Mr. Fool answers, “Sure.” 

Derrick picks up his pace. The journey is made silently through the growing number of people upon the streets, the noise only rising as more and more wake from their slumber to begin their day. He gets a few odd looks here and there. He pays no mind. As he carries the cat bed, the pride swelling in his chest is enough to wash away the surrounding world. 

And it’s then that Derrick recalls Mr. Fool’s words—of his recent commission. 

Derrick opens his mouth. 

He tells Mr. Fool about the buildings they pass. He tells him about the bright colorful houses, the lush flowers planted in their windowsill gardens, and the mushroom paintings that bloom against their surrounding walls. He interweaves the exposition with stories. Those of mundane nature and those not even worth a glance of the deity he accompanies. 

Mr. Fool doesn’t endorse his ramblings. Neither does he disapprove of them, and Derrick has to breathe deeply through his bursting happiness every time he sees the cat tilt its head with quiet curiosity toward a building or area he points out.

It’s almost as if he’s above the gray fog again. Talking about his expeditions. Listening to the combined advice of nine others. Writing down all he can remember and asking questions to receive answers he could not get anywhere else. 

He wants the next month to come as fast as possible. He wants to see them. 

“Elder Berg!” 

Derrick pulls his gaze away from the candy factory he is in the middle of referring to as a group of teenagers approach. 

Derrick’s smile shrinks, but he maintains an amicable expression, albeit reserved. He nods. “Good morning,” he says and receives the reciprocal, respectful greeting. His eyes jump to the equipment in their hands. “Are you heading out?” 

Striding forward, the one at the front, a young man with a mop of brown hair and matching eyes, answers with a grin, “Yeah—gotta catch ‘em while the tide’s low!”

“Clemente’s been craving fresh clams since yesterday,” his friend chips in, stopping beside him. “He decided to drag us out with him at this ungodly hour.” 

Clemente snorts. He points accusingly and someone playfully smacks his hand down as he shouts, “You all like looking at the sunrise anyway!”

Sunrise rolls off his tongue like an unfamiliar word. 

A brief lighthearted argument breaks out between the group, with Clemente standing his ground. It involves a lot of pointing. It involves a lot of laughter and groggy complaints, but it wraps up with someone giving Clemente a noogie, one he tries weakly to escape. But that’s when he sees it. 

Derrick feels his internal organs freeze. 

Oh no. 

Curious, open eyes focus on the cat bed in his hands, and Clemente’s friend lets him go so he can stand up straight. “Elder Berg, you have a cat?” Clemente exclaims, mouth falling open in a gape. “It’s lying so still that I didn’t even notice it.” 

“Ah.” Derrick’s mouth opens as if to answer, but he doesn’t. He can’t answer, because—

If I claim Mr. Fool as my cat, even as a lie, would that be considered blasphemy?! Mr. Hanged Man, what should I do? 

Before Derrick has a chance to respond, Clemente steps close, perhaps, too close, and the cat continues to lie there without any intention of moving. 

Derrick’s eyes widen as a possibility hits him. Is this a test from Mr. Fool?!  

Fingers reach out, wiggling. “Here, kitty, kitty!” 

In one panicked swoop, Derrick lifts the cat bed above his head, feeling its weight shift in surprise. “You can’t!” 

The teenagers stare up at him.

Derrick stares down at them. 

But Clemente doesn’t let that stop him. Frowning, he bends his knees and hops at the cat bed with an outreached hand as he shouts stubbornly, “Let me pet it!”

Derrick continuously swerves the cat bed out of Clemente’s blasphemous hands, simultaneously trying not to jostle the cat. 

“Cats love me! Trust me!” 

His friends shout at him to call him off, worrying about the disciplinary actions the Elder might take. They don’t know that Derrick has other worries. 

One friend manages to snag the back of Clemente’s shirt to drag him away and the rest of the group rush forward to bow and apologize over and over before practically running off with not even a glance over their shoulders. 

Derrick, still holding the cat bed above his head at a height of at least two and a half meters, watches them leave. He keeps his arms up, as if not wanting to face his fate. Swallowing dryly, he lowers the cat bed. 

The cat has turned to face him. Once smooth, majestic fur appears flat and winded, as if it has been standing in the face of a mighty hurricane, and although Derrick has never heard Mr. Fool issue a complaint—for he should never have to—the quiet gaze of the cat comes eerily close to one. 

But before Derrick can even sputter an apology for his sins, Mr. Fool says with an unusual tone, as if recovering from a good laugh, “...Let’s not waste time, now.” 

The relief that fills Derrick's chest is double-edged. He nods immediately as he starts walking again, albeit faster, and the muscles of his fingers cramp just trying to hold the cat bed as still as possible. 

For being a coastal city, the journey to the harbor is a short one. 

Leaving the residences behind, the world breaks out into blue—both sky and ocean, the horizon extending out as if to eternity. Here, the wind is blunt. Carrying the strong scent of salt and the chilliness of the morning, it zips past with a howl, ruffling Derrick’s hair and the cat’s fur. 

Along the beach are altars. People kneel by them, lighting candles and sacrificing offerings, heads down and hands together. 

Derrick walks up to the row of sea fences, ones built brick by brick. He places the bed down and the cat takes to its feet, stepping off the mat to perch itself directly onto the cold stone. 

It casts its gaze to the beach. To the people. To the altars. But it does not stay for long, opting to settle on the sea—taking in the splintered light and the warmth of dawn. 

The cat’s tail sways slowly. It bathes in the gentle cradle of the sun without a word, and Derrick wonders—

If Mr. Fool was in his human form, what expression would he have on his face? 

“Mom, it’s a cat!” 

At the voice, Derrick turns to his right to see a child wearing a flowery dress approach, followed close behind by her mother. The latter greets him with a warm smile and a bow. 

With big starry eyes, the little girl stares at the cat, barely able to hide her intent, before she looks up to her mother and asks, “Can I pet the cat?” 

Again? Derrick stiffens. 

“You will have to ask Elder Berg,” the mother answers. 

The girl nods. Turning to him, she asks, “Elder Berg, can I pet your cat?” 

Mr. Fool really is a benevolent deity to not strike me down right now… Derrick flounders with his mouth, his heart already pounding against his ribcage. Thoughts race through his mind. Mr. Fool isn’t sitting on the cat bed anymore, and picking him up and running off is not an option. He can't expect Mr. Fool to be so lenient with him. 

The girl’s wide, pleading eyes look up at him. 

Steeling himself, the refusal rises in Derrick’s throat as he opens his mouth to say—

It’s fine.

The familiar, amused voice does not echo through the air, but, instead, directly into Derrick’s head. 

He whirls around to Mr. Fool in surprise. 

"It is…?" he whispers. 

Yes. 

Shoulders falling in relief at the given permission, Derrick quickly turns to smile at the young girl and says, nodding, “You can, but please be very gentle.” 

Joy fills the girl’s expression. “I will!” She nods enthusiastically in response before walking up to the cat and lifting a nervous hand to ghost above its head.

The cat does not flinch away. Neither does it move toward it. 

Derrick holds his breath. 

Ever so slowly, small fingers fall down upon the fur, petting its head as the girl makes sounds of wonder. She glances briefly at her mother and exclaims, “It’s so soft!” 

The girl continues her petting, and, from an outside perspective, the cat seems to be incredibly tolerant to the child’s hand. It does not hiss nor bite. It only closes its eyes under the touch, as if falling asleep. 

Derrick brightens at the scene. He feels awfully silly for thinking Mr. Fool would be angry or displeased at such a minor act, because, after all, this is the city and these are the citizens he chose to save—when all else had abandoned them. Derrick should have never questioned that fact. 

After a few minutes, the mother drops a word about her errands. 

Led forward by her mother’s hand, the little girl walks away, peering over her shoulder to wave. “Bye, kitty!” 

Tail swishing behind it, the cat watches without a word. Derrick follows suit. 

Then, after a moment, the cat turns its head to him, the sunlight setting its eyes aglow. "I will be returning to my slumber." 

"Ah," Derrick begins, eyes widening. A familiar wave of sadness washes over his shoulders and down to his clenching hands. 

"I promised to reward you for your time," Mr. Fool continues. "What would you like in exchange?" 

If such a question was asked of Derrick a few years ago, he would have blurted out his answer immediately. The boy, after all, only had one wish back then. Now, that wish is granted every second of every day. 

Derrick's lips purse in hesitance, but it is not the uncertainty that holds his tongue. It is the frustration of his own helplessness. "...I wish that you will wake up soon, again," he says, almost a whisper under the ocean's roar. 

The swishing tail comes to a stop, still and straight, before it seems to melt, curling by its side. The cat blinks ever slowly at him. "Your wish will be granted." 

The smile that comes to Derrick's mouth is small yet a hopeful one. He presses a hand to his chest and bows. "Praise the Fool!"

When he straightens, he catches sight of the growing exhaustion in the cat's drooping eyelids. A sense of conflict brews in Derrick's core—neither wanting to part with Mr. Fool nor hold him any longer than he should. Nevertheless, he asks, “Mr. Fool, have you verified the condition of your Anchors?” 

And when Mr. Fool answers, he doesn’t look at the city. Neither at the spire of his distant church. Nor the altars along the beach. 

The cat stares directly at Derrick—him, and him alone—when Mr. Fool’s voice says softly, with a tone one can hear a fond smile in, “They’re doing well.” 

Chapter Text

“Oh, hey. I just sat a young lady in your section a few minutes ago. Do you mind checking up on her?” 

As the kitchen door swings closed behind her, the waitress looks up before throwing a smile at her co-worker. “Yeah, no problem.” 

Grabbing the small order pad from her uniform’s waistband, the waitress rounds the coffee counter and walks into the dining area, one flush with neatly arranged gardens and various plants. Sunlight pours down graciously through the panes of the greenhouse. Pollen tickles her nose and she bites back a sneeze before finding her table section.

Someone sits in the farthest corner. Surrounded by potted plants of lively greens and delicate whites, a young lady lifts a cup of tea to her lips, a modest sage green dress hanging off her fair skin, and, under the afternoon sun, the falling light bathes the golden hair cascading over her shoulders and back. 

The waitress swallows dryly.

Stiffly walking up to the table, the waitress feels her heart skip a beat when the lady turns to her, emerald eyes warm in their greeting. 

“Good evening, Miss. Have you had a chance to look at our menu?” the waitress says thinly. 

“Yes, I have,” the lady replies, smiling. “May I have two slices of lemon cake and a pumpkin cookie on the side?” 

The waitress nods, noting the order down. “Will that be all for today?” 

Something flashes in the lady’s eyes as her lips part to ask, as if hesitant, “If you don’t mind, could you plate the pastries separately?” 

Taking a moment to register the request, the waitress smiles. “I don’t mind at all. Please excuse me; I will be right back with your order, Miss.” 

With that, the waitress leaves for the pastry case by the front of the café. As promised, she does not take long to return right back, carrying three separate plates in her hands, but as she walks up to the lady, she stops. 

The waitress blinks once. Then, twice, twice as hard. 

Because there’s a black cat sitting on the table. 

The hue of its glossy fur sticks out in the lustrous environment, a shadow stolen from the night plastered to the brightness of the day. Perched elegantly on its paws, it does not spare her a glance, only its ear twitching as she approaches. Its tail lashes leisurely. 

The waitress scurries over, nearly flailing if not for the plates in her hands. “Ah, excuse me, Miss! Unfortunately, we don’t allow pets to dine inside this establishment.”

But the lady only tilts her head, her eyebrows creasing slightly, as she asks, “Pardon?” 

The waitress smiles nervously. “I deeply apologize, but I’ll have to ask you to take your cat outside.” 

“My cat?” 

“Yes, your—” 

The waitress turns to the empty spot on the table. She blinks, owl-eyed. 

The lady asks gently, leaning forward to study her expression, “Are you feeling alright?” 

For a moment, the waitress’ mouth hangs open, going from staring at the table to at the lady, before turning to look around for the missing cat. “But, it was just—did I…?” 

With a small smile, the lady says, a glow to her eyes, “Perhaps you should ask your manager for a small break.”

“You’re right,” the waitress replies suddenly, blinking once. “My apologies for the confusion, Miss. I must have been seeing things,” she says, placing the three plates down in front of the lady before bowing. “I hope you enjoy your meal.” 

One lady, one dog, and one cat watch the waitress leave. 

Audrey turns forward, and when the black cat looks to her, she can read the mild amusement dancing in its golden eyes.

Audrey cannot wait to see Mr. Hanged Man’s reaction when she tells him about this. 

Two months ago, on the first Monday of April, the Tarot Club was called up to the kingdom of fog as per usual. Immediately after opening her eyes, Audrey looked to Mr. Sun. Actually, everyone did. 

It was hard not to considering how he was practically vibrating in his seat. 

Curious on what he had to say, Audrey quickly led the Tarot Club into a deep, silent bow toward the throne—one empty, once again. 

The second they sat down, Mr. Sun exclaimed, “I met Mr. Fool!” 

The words were said so fast, they needed to register them for a moment. 

Astonishment sweeping through, the Tarot Club barraged Mr. Sun with questions of where, when, and why, and the latter answered them all lightning quick, as if he was preparing his answers the whole time since.

Audrey was doused in relief. Its cooling embrace left her breathing easily, and it was a feeling shared amongst the Tarot Club, because Mr. Sun’s encounter is direct, undeniable evidence that Mr. Fool’s first brief awakening was not a fluke—not that they had much doubt. 

And then, the hammer dropped. 

“Mr. Fool let someone pet him?!” 

That was an option?! Audrey thought, catching herself before her jaw could drop to the floor. 

Mr. Sun immediately dove into the story of the little girl. He gestured with his hands animatedly, practically bouncing in his seat, and the grin on his face was bright enough to need a pair of shades.

During the telling, Mr. Hanged Man went stiff. It was easy for Audrey to read the unspoken words off his expression: Mr. Fool doesn’t mind people petting him? His face fell into deeper thought, his eyes darting toward the throne, before a realization seemed to strike him, leading him to yank his gaze down and straighten in his seat, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

Audrey fought down a laugh.

Mr. Hanged Man was definitely thinking about petting Mr. Fool: the Cat. 

Although Audrey was surprised at first, it makes sense to her that if there is any God out there who would allow themselves to be pet by human hands, it would be Mr. Fool.

Their Lord has always been rather lenient with them. Blessing them with protection, enlightening them on approaching calamities, and answering their prayers each and every time before his slumber…

It’s a warm feeling—being cherished by a deity. 

After sliding the plated pumpkin cookie to her left where Susie sits, Audrey looks to the cat and asks, smiling, “Mr. Fool, if your current form is inconvenient to eat in, would you like me to cut up your slice?” 

The cat blinks slowly with a nod. 

Pleased to assist, Audrey picks up her utensils to cut the lemon cake into small cubes. 

Once finished, Audrey slides the plate in front of the cat. “Please, enjoy.” 

Glancing down, the cat dips its head to bite into one of the cubes and pulls back up, chewing with its tiny, little cheeks—

Audrey, no! Bad! 

Taking in an indiscernible breath, Audrey says, “I hope it is to your liking. This café is famous for their pastries."

The cat finishes chewing, its tail lashing behind it. “It is adequate,” Mr. Fool’s voice settles into the air before the cat leans down to lick at its tea. Soon after, a sugar cube disappears from a nearby sugar bowl. 

Watching with wide eyes, Audrey cannot help but think, I did not expect Mr. Fool to have a sweet tooth—perhaps, this is a method of preserving his humanity? So he has always had an inclination toward pastries of some sort…?

Audrey feels her eyes strain. 

Mr. Fool eats so elegantly… If he happens to get some whipped cream on his fur, should I offer to—no, Audrey! You cannot be reckless! Do not think of his cute, long whiskers—

The cat looks at her. 

Audrey freezes, thoughts coming to a stop, as she realizes she’s been staring at the cat unabashed. Immediately dropping her eyes—

Does looking at Mr. Fool’s cat form count as directly looking at God? Haven’t I—no, we been doing that too frequently? He has not said anything… Perhaps, not then. 

Audrey sees the cat tilt its head as Mr. Fool says, “Speak your mind.” 

Lips parting, Audrey begins tentatively, “I wasn’t aware you liked sweets, Mr. Fool.” 

A gentle chuckle reaches her ears. "I’ve always had a sweet tooth.” 

The surprise that leaps to life in Audrey’s chest is not because she turns out to be right, but because of Mr. Fool’s plain admittance. It is a fairly reasonable reaction. Throughout the years the Tarot Club has been under his grace and gaze, Mr. Fool has always kept some distance between them—a distance one would expect between a God and their believers. 

Warmth soon follows the surprise—

—like becoming closer with a far star. 

Audrey smiles softly, pressing her hand to her chest in a promise, “Then, I will make sure to offer you pastries from my travels.” 

The cat’s eyes do not exactly curl, but Audrey reads the smile off of them all the same. “Very well.” 

Settling into a silence, Audrey begin digging into her own slice of lemon cake, keeping her gaze from drifting off to the cat lest she thinks of blasphemous thoughts, before she notices Susie hesitating to eat her pumpkin cookie. 

Oh, Susie—I’m so, so sorry. 

Putting her fork down, Audrey starts, “Mr. Fool, may I have a moment?” 

The cat lifts its head from the plate. “You may.” 

With a slight bow, Audrey wears a bright, fond smile as she partly angles herself to her left, “I would like to introduce my dear friend and Minor Arcana, Susie.” 

Without pause, the cat turns to Susie. 

Audrey sees Susie’s hunches rise, an animal’s instinctual reaction to danger, but she believes she knows Mr. Fool well enough to recognize that he is merely looking at Susie in mild curiosity, not in divine assessment. 

Susie straightens, tail going eerily still. Shrinking under the heavy, golden gaze of a God, she presses her right paw to her left chest and lowers her head. “It is the greatest honor to meet you, Mr. Fool. I humbly thank you for your preceding grace.” 

“You need not be so formal,” Mr. Fool replies with a chuckle, the sound echoing. 

Susie slowly raises her head. “Y-Yes, Mr. Fool.” She shows no intention of expanding on the conversation by the way she keeps her gaze lowered.

The cat turns back to Audrey, amusement and—if Audrey is not mistaken—pride dancing in its eyes. 

“The Minor Arcana…” Mr. Fool begins, leaning down to take a sip of tea, “What an interesting card you have decided to put into play.” 

Audrey feels her heart still in her chest. Then, as if reeling from a blow, it begins to pound—

—because, although she cannot claim full credit, the creation of the Minor Arcana was mostly her idea. She has always felt a stronger belonging to the Tarot Club than most. She is plagued by that rather embarrassing moment of advocating for a hand signal to identify other members before being shut down by Mr. Hanged Man. 

Even so, Audrey has never stopped trying to improve the Tarot Club. 

With their addition, the Minor Arcana can be handed smaller, secretive tasks that a Major Arcana—or more specifically, a Saint—would not be able to do, lest they attract some rather dangerous attention.

The tacit praise in Mr. Fool's words has her fighting down a smile, her lips helplessly curling upwards.

And Audrey realizes:

This is all an imitation of Mr. Fool. 

The way they treat their Minor Arcana is the exact same way Mr. Fool treats them, by granting grace and knowledge and opportunity, and, staring at the black cat in front of her, Audrey cannot help but ask herself, 

Is it blasphemous to imitate the benevolence of a God? 

Oddly, she does not feel unease. 

When the waitress comes by, Audrey does not hesitate to cue them away, and the three of them do not exchange many words, opting to enjoy their refreshments at their own pace. An amicable silence settles upon the room as the soft clinks of utensils can be heard. 

The sunlight wanes as a cloud passes by. 

“Mr. Fool?”

“Yes, Ms. Justice?” 

Looking down at the reflection in her tea, Audrey asks softly, “Is… Mr. World well?” 

It's a question Audrey already has the answer to, because if he was, perhaps, it would be Mr. World sitting across the table beside Mr. Fool. It would be the four of them sharing stories and lemon cake slices. 

Yet still, she asks—this question not worth the time of day, especially when it is directed at a God, but Mr. Fool is not just any God. 

Mr. Fool does not greet her words with amusement. The cat looks at her with an inexplicable expression as a soft voice answers, “He is improving.”

The relief, albeit only a spark, is enough to make Audrey smile. 

She opens her mouth to thank Mr. Fool for his answer, before the voice interrupts her with a specific tone that makes her freeze, but surely it is just her Spectator abilities malfunctioning, because how could a deity sound so—

“My Blessed is quite shy,” Mr. Fool begins. The cat glances out of the greenhouse, angled just enough away for Audrey to lose sight of whatever spirals in its eyes. “He never quite had the courage to say it, but he wanted me to tell you that he enjoyed your company.” 

Audrey’s lips part. 

When the cat turns back to her, her breath hitches in her chest, stunted. “More than you know.” 

Susie does not cast a Placate on her and neither does she cast one on herself. Instead, she sinks into this grief. The sorrow. The wish to see her friend again—to tell him, face-to-face, that the feeling is reciprocated just as much or perhaps even more than he knows. 

But, that wish cannot be granted. Not just yet. 

Softly, Audrey asks with shaking eyes and a shaking smile, “Could you tell him I feel the same?” 

The cat casts her a gentle look, its tail slowing to a stop. “Sure."

Audrey lets out a breath, letting her shoulders fall, before she asks, a bit embarrassed at showing Mr. Fool such a state, “What would you like in return?” 

Mr. Fool chuckles. “There’s no need for that. I’m quite used to being a messenger.” 

Audrey blinks in surprise. She stares for a second—two, perhaps three, before a laugh escapes her lips—quieting the sorrow in her heart, but immediately after, she slaps her hands over her mouth. 

Did—did Mr. Fool just make a joke? 

Audrey coughs, straightening her posture, as Susie casts a Placate on her. Mr. Fool does not comment. The knowing look in the cat’s eyes is enough of a reply. 

As Susie and Mr. Fool finish eating their pastries, Audrey refills the three tea cups, remembering to add one sugar cube to Mr. Fool's. 

But before long, the cat perches itself straight before stretching, its tail arched high. Without a word, it settles back down onto the table to curl up, and, as its eyes begin to blink slowly, heavy with weight, Audrey knows that it is time for farewell and, hopefully, let us meet again. 

Watching the cat’s breathing slow, Mr. Sun’s voice echoes from some distant space, and, somehow, the decision comes easy. 

Fingers slide across soft, smooth fur. They brush across the cat’s head, lulling it toward its inevitably long and deep slumber, and, even after the cat takes its last breath, Audrey's hand lingers there—like a ghost not ready to say goodbye.

When the waitress returns, their cue removed, they find three lonely cups on the table.

Two empty.

One full.

Chapter Text

“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.

“I pray for your help. 

“I pray for your loving grace.” 

“I pray for your protection against the corruption of the cosmos.” 

Upon the quiet waves of the night, the words whisper within the dimming room, set fairly aglow by the three candles upon the altar on the desk, their wax beginning to melt without scent. The essential oils and extracts offer theirs. 

As the Honorific Name leaves her lips, Cattleya opens her eyes but does not lift her head. Cast against the reflection of glasses, the trio of flames flicker, shrink, then burgeon—as if tasting a rush of oxygen. From the wooden panels of the room swells a gray fog. Rolling and receding like the waves The Future sails upon, it spills across the floor to surround her, and it is not fear of a deity that she feels in that moment, but the shelter of one. 

Cattleya’s shoulders fall in relief. 

Although Mr. Fool is capable of hearing prayers within his slumber, there is a possibility that he may not answer. Not yet an Angel nor privy to what battles wait beyond the Sequences, Cattleya has never considered this to be unreasonable, but it would be a lie to say she does not feel apprehensive when waiting for a response. 

Because Mr. Fool was someone who always answered. 

Somehow, Cattleya cannot help but be reminded of Queen Mystic and their separation that keeps up to this day. 

In pace with her musings, the gray fog blanketing the floor begins to converge toward the center of the room in front of her desk. It collects and collects, condensing and condensing. 

Cattleya lifts her head and watches with flashing eyes as the once intangible fog forms a tall, thin shape, one almost… human-like.

Then, she blinks.

A person stands in the middle of the room, posed straight yet relaxed. They don a butler’s attire—white shirt, black vest, matching pants—and their silver eyes carry a brightness only comparable to the candles lit aflame in front of Cattleya. Tied by a ribbon, their long gray hair lies in the crook of their neck. An amiable smile sits on their androgynous face. 

They, however, are not what Cattleya focuses on. 

From behind her glasses, Cattleya’s gaze trembles, her breath lodged in her throat, as she stares at their arms where a familiar black cat sits comfortably cradled, its fluffy tail hanging hooked over their elbow. 

Gold eyes meet violet.

Cattleya immediately pushes off her chair and stands, pressing her right hand to her left chest, to bow. “Good evening, Mr. Fool,” she manages to say. “Congratulations on yet another awakening.” 

When Cattleya raises her head, the cat’s tail straightens with a slight curl at the tip. It looks at her gently. “Hello, Ms. Hermit.”

The familiar voice has something tightening in Cattleya’s core.

Cattleya is well aware of Mr. Fool’s visits to Mr. Sun and Ms. Justice. It is hard not to be considering those two wield that bragging right every monthly gathering like a Beyonder weapon with endless usage and negligible negative effects. Many of the members have debated on who would be next. From what she recalls, the majority have their bets on Mr. Hanged Man due to Mr. Fool’s initial attendance of the oldest Tarot Club members.

Not unfamiliar with Mr. Hanged Man’s pride, Cattleya wonders if it would be appropriate to address this in the next meeting. Buried deep, a small part of her wants to see his reaction. 

After spending a moment to recover from the shock of Mr. Fool’s appearance, Cattleya’s eyes rise from the cat toward the human carrying it. 

This person… Cattleya muses. They received permission from Mr. Fool to carry his feline form… Perhaps, this is one of his more clandestine Angels? They must be high up in the hierarchy. 

Before Cattleya can ask, lively silver eyes lock onto hers. The ‘butler’ smiles as two illusory hands sprout from their sides to give a rattling wave, their tangible ones occupied. “Good evening, Ms. Hermit!” it exclaims. “I am Mr. Fool’s most humble and loyal servant, Arrodes: the Magic Mirror!” 

Not an Angel…

Cattleya considers their words carefully, thoughts flashing through her eyes, before she gestures with an open hand. “By Magic Mirror, am I correct to assume that you are a Sealed Artifact?” 

“You are!” Arrodes replies. “Mr. Fool bestowed unto me a temporary human body. How incredibly perceptive; as expected from one of Mr. Fool’s Tarot Club members.” 

Cattleya opens her mouth to reply, but a gentle voice interrupts her.

“Of course.” The cat blinks slowly. “Ms. Hermit is very reliable in such aspects.” 

The only response Cattleya manages to conjure is the parting of her lips—the hesitance and inability to find the words. Something warm swells between her ribs. Under the glow of the candles’ flames, she lowers her head slightly and murmurs, “You flatter me, Mr. Fool.” 

“What about me, Great Master?” 

Cattleya lifts her gaze to see Arrodes peering down at the cat with swelling eyes, lips almost in a pout. 

The cat looks up at them. An exasperated sigh echoes about the air before Mr. Fool replies with a chuckle, “You are very reliable as well, Arrodes. Must I remind you?” 

Arrodes visibly brightens. “Thank you, Great Master! P-Please remind me often!” 

Cattleya’s eyes zero in on their arms which have stiffened suddenly, seemingly holding themselves back from… squeezing Mr. Fool’s fluffy, feline form. She takes in a long indiscernible breath, trying to put sense to this situation, but then, she freezes. 

…Fluffy?  

Immediately, Cattleya calms herself using brief Cogitation. 

With a flick of the cat’s tail, a chair manifests in the middle of the room which Arrodes sits upon. Settling down comfortably on their lap, the cat nods at Cattleya. 

At the allowance, Cattleya seats herself back down behind her desk before asking, “Mr. Fool, may I ask why you have decided to descend here?” 

The cat’s tail swishes. Gold eyes study her carefully, and Cattleya believes she would have never met them at all if not for the existing precedents of Mr. Fool’s allowance to meet the gaze of his feline form. “My consciousness seems to have surfaced concurrently to your prayer,” he answers. “You asked for simple protection, but…”

A chuckle echoes through the room. 

The cat’s head tilts, its gaze holding a certain knowing, as it continues, “Let’s say I have a feeling you wish to ask some other questions. 

“Arrodes.”

At Mr. Fool’s word, Arrodes’s expression, once glowing bright with praise, falls quiet. Their silver eyes rise to pin Cattleya still as they begin, “Ms. Hermit, I follow the rule of reciprocity. As I answered a question of yours, you must answer one of mine. Subsequently, we will continue this exchange until you are satisfied.” 

Cattleya does not reply immediately. She replays Mr. Fool’s words over in her head. With the dangers of his commission regarding the Hidden Sage, Cattleya has been taking ample precautions in her movements, but with those in mind, her progress has not been up to par with her expectations. She has since been looking for methods to accelerate this process but has been hesitant to ask for aid from her deity.

Arrodes. A Sealed Artifact, no doubt with incredible prying abilities. A reciprocal game of questions and answers. 

Cattleya freezes. 

Mr. Fool answered a prayer I didn’t even voice. 

After a moment, when Cattleya breathes out, she is surprised it does not come out shaky. 

“...I see.” Cattleya nods. “Then, please ask one in return.” 

The second the words leave her mouth, a sense of dread pierces right through her chest, her spiritual intuition going off like alarm bells—

“Do you prefer cats or dogs?”

Cattleya blinks. 

The cat’s tail freezes. 

Arrodes smiles, bright and beaming, and Cattleya knows—knows in her very bones that they are not joking.

“...Cats,” she answers.  

Cattleya pointedly does not look at the cat in Arrodes’ arms. 

Arrodes’s smile does not falter as they exclaim, “Thank you for your answer! It is now your turn.” 

Despite the questions about Beyonders and Deities and other clandestine things that have highly possible relations to world-ending factors on her tongue, Cattleya cannot help but find her fear turning toward something else. 

“Have you ever pet a cat before?”

With each valuable question Cattleya asks, Arrodes asks a simple one in return, and if not for the anticipatory build-up to something she can already surmise, Cattleya would be incredibly satisfied with this exchange.  

“Have you ever owned a cat?” 

Mr. Fool only listens quietly, offering not a word. However, as the discussion continues, the cat’s eyes noticeably squint, its ears noticeably flattening ever so briefly, each time Arrodes poses a question of their own, as if in… exasperation. 

“What kind of cat do you prefer?” 

Cattleya, however, has to watch her own words as well. When she asks about the whereabouts of the main ingredients of the Sequence Four formula of the Planter pathway, she happens to notice the stiffening of the cat’s body. 

“On a scale of one to ten, what would you rate Mr. Fool’s cat form in terms of cuteness?” 

The waves lapping at the ship do not allow complete silence. However, it hangs like a ghost over the room with the heavy weight of something far greater than gravity. 

Cattleya’s lips part. Her sea legs fail her, the dizziness of the swaying ship suddenly now blaring in her mind. Thoughts run rampant through her violet eyes, only hidden partly by the dimmed room and flickering candlelights. Rationally, she knows if she is to look, she will not be smote. Instinctively, she wonders when she will hear the thunder. 

Taking in a breath, Cattleya’s eyes drop from Arrodes. 

Mr. Fool’s feline form is quite small, even without being curled up. It fits entirely in Arrodes’ lap with leftover room, and under the dampened light, its pure, kempt dark fur seems to blend into the background and the black pants it lies upon. Its tail hangs off the chair, the hairs long and fluffy like a feather. Round-tipped ears flick occasionally. Curious gold-ringed eyes peer up at Cattleya. Its pupils blow wide and dilated in the shadows of the room.

The answer almost comes too easy. 

“...Ten.” 

When Cattleya lifts her gaze to Arrodes’, she flinches at their sharp, almost-threatening (it very much is) smile. “Ding ding! That is the correct answer!” Arrodes claps. 

A rush of relief fills Cattleya’s lungs, her pulse in her throat. She fights down the urge to grab her chest, as if that would help in slowing her rapidly-beating heart—

“Do you feel an urge to pet Mr. Fool?”

Cattleya wonders if she should have relied on the ravings of the Hidden Sage, rather than this Sealed Artifact. 

However, given that there are multiple precedents of others petting Mr. Fool and surviving, Cattleya purses her lips and answers, “...Yes.” 

Excitement flashes through Arrodes’ silver eyes, catching the light, as they lean forward to ask, “Then, will you—”

“Arrodes.”

Immediately, Arrodes drops their entire attention downward. “Yes, Great Master?” 

Mr. Fool chuckles as he says, in time with the lash of the cat’s tail, “Stop teasing Ms. Hermit.”

Arrodes deflates but does not dare question. “By your will,” they say solemnly.  

Cattleya closes her eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath and letting it out quietly. When she opens them, she says steadily, “Those are all my questions.” 

The cat nods its head. Pushing off Arrodes’ lap, it stands to stretch its legs before turning toward to the desk and leaping. 

Cattleya flinches, her heart lurching. 

Paying no mind to her reaction, the cat glances at Arrodes and says with a high-perked tail, “Ascend to Sefirah Castle and prepare for slumber.”

Arrodes’ face crumbles like a kicked dog. “...Yes, Mr. Fool,” they murmur, their eyes downcast. Rising from the chair, Arrodes presses their right hand to their left chest, bows deeply, and continues, “Your most loyal and humble servant will patiently await your return!” 

Like the drop of a play’s curtain, their human form collapses into a cloud of gray fog. It splashes down onto the floor, seeping into the floorboards to disappear all together. 

Prepare for slumber? The words do not miss her attention, instead choosing to ricochet in her mind like an endless echo. Is this Mr. Fool implying that he is not alone within his dream? 

The cat turns to Cattleya.

Cattleya freezes, lowering her gaze. 

At her expression, the cat settles by the candles to allow the flames to cast their light into its eyes. Mr. Fool chuckles. “Do not fret over Arrodes’ questions. They can get quite peculiar at times. Blatant as well.” 

“Thank you for the reassurance, Mr. Fool," Cattleya replies. With a moment of consideration, she adds, "I hope I did not offend you.” 

“Not at all.” 

Cattleya looks up instinctively, and when she does, the warmth in the cat’s gaze is far gentler than the heat from any hearth. It tilts its head just so. “It was a laugh I needed.” 

Before Cattleya can even begin to register those words, ones bleeding a kind of humanity she is unfamiliar with hearing from Mr. Fool, the cat’s tail flicks purposefully. 

A page blinks into existence in front of her. Cattleya reaches out to take it before the candles’ flames catch its edge, her eyes immediately consuming the text inked down. They stop on a particular line. Or, rather, a name—one she can actually read. 

My eldest daughter, Bernadette. 

Cattleya’s eyes widen. She turns to the cat with her mouth half agape and begins, “Mr. Fool, this is Roselle’s…” 

The cat watches her gently. Without much of an explanation, he says, “Give her my regards.” 

Cattleya’s tongue rests numbly in her mouth as she fumbles for the words. From what she knows, the relationship between Mr. Fool and Bernadette has been strictly transactional, mostly revolving around Roselle’s diary pages. Mr. Fool has only ever once done a translation.

Now, he is giving Bernadette a whole deciphered page?

After a moment, Cattleya swallows dryly and bows her head. “By your will, Mr. Fool.” 

The cat nods.

Then, its gaze turns distant in the candlelight, its swishing tail coming to a stop upon the desk, and Cattleya recognizes the signs, recalling from Mr. Sun’s and Ms. Justice’s tellings. 

“I feel my main consciousness deepening,” Mr. Fool says quietly. “Regarding your original prayer, before you expose yourself to the task you wish to carry out, recite my Honorific Name. I will bless you with a seal to protect you against corruption.”

Pursing her lips, Cattleya nods.

A deep, swelling sadness arises inside her chest at the nearing farewell, but she manages to say, ever steadily, “Thank you, Mr. Fool, for your grace… and I apologize for occupying your brief awakening.” 

The cat tilts its head. “There is no need for that,” Mr. Fool reassures gently, “With matters regarding my dear Tarot Club, I find myself quite lenient—for example... if one of the members wishes to pet my feline form.” 

Cold water pours down Cattleya’s back. 

With only a knowing look in its eyes, the cat lowers itself onto the desk without another word. It tucks its soft paws under its chin like a cushion and its black tail slides across the wood to curl up against it like a crescent moon. In tune with the rocking waves of The Future, its eyes fall closed. 

A faint buzz rattles in Cattleya’s ears—loud enough and consistent enough for her to consider the possibility that she is losing control on the spot. Her mouth is dry. Her eyes shake, and in her lap, her hand clenches and unclenches, mulling over a decision. 

She does not know how long she spends contemplating. 

However, push comes to shove. 

A familiar gray fog seeps out of the desk, surrounding Mr. Fool like a cradle. The cat itself begins to lose touch with reality—its form breaking down into the mist, and as if released from her restraints, Cattleya finds herself reaching forward.

The moment she makes contact with the fluffy fur, her eyes widen and shake, her lips pursing to try to maintain her nonchalant expression no matter how said act is failing her, because—

Soft, is her first thought.

…This is blasphemy, is her second.