Querent

[Spookhouse]

Shel's eyes snapped open, and he wept.

It was impossible to escape the fleeting visions of soldiers --- thousands of them, lined on the crest of a great hill, their backs to the horizon. Their spears glistened with the first rays of sunshine across their metal pinnacles, and yet some of those rays were absorbed by the stains of blood.

He rose to his feet, clasping his face in his hands, until his breathing slowed and the choked hints of tears receded back in to the depths of his spirit. Here, in this room, in this entire nexus of control, he was a slave.

He was surrounded by four. Four corners. Four walls. Four seasons of training, education, and heightened learning. Soon, he would receive last of four readings from the cartomancer, and his journey would begin. Shel had been a prisoner to the four since his inception, and desired nothing more than to rid himself of that infernal number and its dooming significance.

Shel stepped out in to the hallway with his chalice on his back. It hummed with the dim glow of blues and reds: an indicator of his aura. Because Shel and his peers were different ---- not born, but constructed by fate and the star, the nexus had no way of measuring their auras without keeping the ornate cup in close proximity to their person at all times. Discipline was not an issue, but rather, it came down to a principle of being genuine. If the nexus could not determine how the twenty three felt, then it had no way of knowing when they were ready.

Shel stared out the transparent barricade that led to the infinite beyond of nothingness. Space. They existed, suspended, in a perfect trinity of body, mind, and spirit. Their ancestors had constructed the Pantheon and its center nexus so perfectly that it had never been modified --- not a single time in the history of Fortune.

He winced with pain, and although the dream was still with him, he felt the turning of the world and the shift in humanity. Aeons across the chasm of boundless distances, human beings on the planet of earth were suffering. Soon, their fate would be determined by the nexus --- but to choose the right outcome, the nexus needed them. Shel, his friend Sariah, and his other peers. They'd been brought in to this place to make a final decision --- to choose the outcome as intended by fate.

The other twenty two emerged from the niche that each had been provided for reflection, meditation, and slumber. They stepped out in to the hallway like eager recruits, ready for an upcoming battle. Shel felt as though he were the only one who felt the pullings of an ill omen within the depths of his ego --- the cartomancer stressed communication between the conscious mind.

They filed in line to traverse the bridge that led to the cartomancer. Shel had completed three of four readings. His first had been largely unremarkable, although as a querent, he'd been profoundly affected by another person telling him his entire life story, his feelings, his motivations --- through a deck of cards. His second had yielded the inverted Hanged Man as his trump arcana, and the cards connected to it? The number four. Everywhere. Above and below --- across the board. Every number was a four.

He'd panicked at first, because although most paid heed to the trump as their source of insight, the frequent reoccurence of the number four in each of his readings had to serve as some great source of information. Of what caliber, Shel and his superiors had failed to decipher.

Shel had a difficult time grasping the fact that soon, he would no longer be a person or a figure here in the Pantheon, but rather, he would evolve in to something greater: a force of energy. He would take his place in the Order of the Tarot, and then, he would be one of twenty-three who decided.

The Order had been disbanded seven hundred and thirty one years ago. Some believed that the indivisive properties of that number served as a sign that someone within the Order had been acting contrary to the best interests of fate. The Order was bound by the rules of fate, and so, when the Hierophant was discovered manipulating fate itself, twenty two members were executed.

He'd spent his entire young life being mentored against allowing such a thing to happen again. His teachers and priests stressed the importance of balance, of allowing the tarot to act as they existed in nature --- for one member to overpower or manipulate another would result in disastrous consequences for the outside world. The Pantheon was the center of the universe, but when the Hierophant and the Emperor silenced Temperance and held her captive, the balance shifted. In turn, man felt that he could not be held to any consequence. The influence of Devil, Chariot, and Tower diminished.

Self-indulgence for the human race followed. They cultivated technology, advanced their society, and aspired to achieve a new level of high reason. In trying to elevate their mind and body, they lost touch with the spirit. With the Pantheon out of balance, thrust into chaos and relentless abandon, Chariot went berserk. Without Temperance and her balance of water between cups, Justice and Judgement fell quickly. Soon, the Order was dead, and man thought himself too great to heed notions like "empathy" and "compassion."

Sariah glanced back over her shoulder and flashed Shel a smile as they filed in to the waiting area of domed obsidian --- the antechamber before the cartomancer's lair. He was the only remaining survivor of the order himself, and yet, he refused to be called the "Hermit." He instructed them that a new Hermit, one of them, would take his place soon, and so, he was only a servant of fate, and nothing more.

He knew that she would be the Empress, for Sariah was motherly and perfect in her beauty and grace. He'd also pinpointed one other of their newly founded Order --- a hothead by the name of Kascht ---and there was a running bet between Shel and Sariah on which tarot he might personify --- the Fool, or the Moon. He was a likely candidate for both spots, and yet it was impossible to know which he would be for sure when no one except the Querent was allowed in the cartomancer's chamber.

Shel's brilliance and aptitude for the spirit realm left most with only hints of which tarot that he might eventually manifest. His fears stemmed from the thought of losing his body and his mind to something that could not be described, but only felt and experienced.

The dome's breadth expanded when the portcullis to the cartomancer's room groaned open, and the first of their class entered. This was Kascht's fourth reading. He would be the first of twenty three to ascend to the center of the Pantheon. They meditated as required of them by the nexus while they waited. Most of Shel's conversations with Sariah were through the ego and brief moments of eye contact during long periods of reflective silence.

The most valued attributes of the tarot candidates were optimism, open mindedness, and the ability to adapt to new boundaries. Upon ascension, the manifest invaded the psyche like a bee hive; conscious memory and the physical realm were devoured by the force of the tarot within split seconds. The change was furious, immediate, and ordained by fate.

Since his birth, the priests told him that this was inescapable. This was Shel's goal. Ascension. Inevitable consequence. Glory for the Order. Restore balance to the tarot after nearly a millenium of disorder, and save the potential of the human race.

Hours passed. The lights in the cartomancer's chamber faded, and for a time, there was nothing but darkness and the soft footfalls of the next member of the future order, being called forth for their reading through the portcullis.

With nothing to see or hear, the prison of four invaded Shel's senses. His paranoia increased tenfold ---- he felt like a claustrophobic prisoner, sitting here with his arms folded against the polished black wall of obsidian, waiting to be called forth like a lamb to a massacre of thought and feeling. He wanted nothing more than to escape this place, to doom the tarot and spit in the face of fate. An ultimate act of defiance ---- but that was impossible. The jar's polished surface grew cold against his side, and he knew his aura had shifted. He tried his best to conceal it, and yet even Sariah was aware. Shel had doubts. The cartomancer would know he had doubts. He would not be allowed to ascend, for he would be executed for crossing the natural way. The way of fate.

Sariah was gone. He'd felt her warmth fade as she rose from the opposite wall for her reading. More time passed. He knew they were prolonging his reading for last. He was the least certain of them, and yet, also, the one with the most potential.

One seer lived on from the times of the first order, created by the Hermit from stardust and water. She praised Shel's aura and would soon herald him as the future Hierophant. It was what the order desired, more than any other. Because the previous Hierophant had the will to bend the rules of fate, they desired one with massive potential. Shel was their straight arrow, their genius, their trump card. Should Sariah become the Empress and he become the Hierophant, they would forever be starcrossed.

Shel held no value in ideals such as institution or formality. Experience and education had done little for him ---- besides hold him captive to the nexus itself. These ideals were what they worshiped. Order to restore the chaos.

The only genuine part of his entire ego consisted of his feelings for the girl who was now getting her fourth reading before him. She would ascend, and she would be matched with Kascht, who had undoubtedly drawn the Emperor. They would unite, and he would be left as the Pope, chastise and hardened to forget his love for her in the span of a split second.

[Spookhouse]

He would morph. He would become the bridge between the deity of fate and humanity. It was not what he desired. The jar dimmed, until the aura emanating from it was no longer a light at all, but a perfect mix with the darkness that gathered within the obsidian dome.

Shel felt as though he might lose his mind in this heavy, thick, oppressive silence. At least it was not a room of four, but a dome, where no number gained more power over another. He was content to evolve, to think freely, to formulate his own decision. Should he fail in the chamber, then humanity would already be doomed. The order did not have the luxury of another seven hundred years to cultivate a twenty third replacement.

He shuddered as the pull seized his mind, his nerves ---- burrowing in at the nape of his neck and slowly sweeping over his entire body. Get up, rise, walk forward. OBEY US. PORTCULLIS. PORTCULLIS. OBEY. PORTCULLIS. YOU ARE THE HIEROPHANT. COME.

He was a marionette, being led blindly by the strings of fate, and yet he found himself able to move more freely than those who had passed before him. During his first, second, and third readings, he'd felt helpless, as though there were a colossal magnet on the other side of the portcullis gate, threatening to flatten him against the dome if he did not succumb to its drawing energy. Shel bowed his head as the opening groaned open again. OBEY.

His muscles shook, his body forced forward by the hands of fate herself. He watched himself move hypnotically in the darkness, the glow within his chalice now having faded in to a black, inky liquid of foulness. He grabbed the jar with his hands and felt as though he'd be ripped apart if he didn't obey soon.

The shattering of his urn echoed around the dome until it was swallowed whole by the jet blackness. Shel opened his mind's eye and gritted his teeth, fighting the portcullis and its persistent pull. He could hear someone coming through, but the cartomancer never left his chamber. It had to be one of the order. Here to fetch their last prospect. By force.

He saw Kascht step through the gate, and yet he was not Kascht. He was Loki, the lord of the Chariot, here to wage war on those who tempted fate's absolution. Shel's chest heaved, and then the dome wasn't dark anymore.

He was surrounded by them. Soldiers with their silver shields and sharpened spears. The glorious sheen of Chariot's hammer reflected off the pinnacles of their helmets, blinding Shel, wracking his head with the pain and pull of the tarot. Kascht's voice had an ethereal quality to it... brazen, brash, impossible to escape within the dome.

"We are the might of the Order. We enforce what cannot be obeyed." Chariot's grip was like that of a titan, crushing in to his collarbone, dragging him to his feet. The pull strengthened. Obey. Embrace the reading. Move forward. Obey.

Shel approached the portcullis with the legion of soldiers at his rear, armed to the teeth, prepared to cut him to ribbons at the first hint of any further hesitation. He stood on the precipice, and the warmth of the chamber called to him. He turned to face the Chariot, and in turn, he saw the others who had been transformed.

Shel stared at the Empress, and he saw the cheekbones and soft facial features of Sariah. He'd been correct. She stared at him with unfamiliarity and emptiness. One of his peers was the Emperor, standing next to her, his fingertips gliding down her curves. At least it was not Kascht. He did not see the Hierophant among them. So it would be, but they were missing others. There were only seventeen, and so surely, some had failed before him. They needed him to BECOME the Hierophant, but that didn't necessarily mean he would. His fate, his persona, decided before his fortune would ever be read. Fate was not as genuine as they made her appear to be. Shel knew they would skewer him through the heart where he stood if they knew what his aura would betray to them. He'd broken the jar. He had a force of will too soon, before he ascended. It was strategy. A game. They had to ignore its significance, and yet he was aware of the small amount of power he still held in this place, surrounded by the new Order.

He felt the heavy, searing head of Chariot's hammer pushing in to his side.

"Spiritual balance. You must offset the Hanged Man. Two fingers up, two fingers down.... the perfect bridge. You must ascend." His voice was commanding, booming through his helmet with the authority of ages.

"And so I shall to appease the balance and restore faith in mankind. Is this what fate would require of me?" Shel asked.

"It is." Authoritative. Powerful. But a hint of uncertainty.

"Then I might ask one question, if she would allow."

"Then you may, as ordained by fate." Chariot said.

"I see seventeen of twenty three behind your soldiers that you used to wage war against the Hierophant of old. What of Death? What of the Tower? What of the World and the half-goat Devil?"

"They will arise when you have birthed them with your coming. The Hierophant is the next arcana in the cycle. Without the bridge to form between us, we are nothing. You must allow them to be, by being." Chariot ordered.

"And if I am not the bridge? If my trump is not the arcana of benediction?" Shel felt as though he were talking to an element, a force with programmed responses ---- not a person. Certainly not his former classmate.

Chariot's arm went taut as he swung the blazing hammer upward. It stopped just below Shel's adam's apple. He felt like it was going to burn straight through his neck as Chariot shoved him backward, up against the portcullis edge, suspending him against the wall with his feet dangling like eroded, thin tree trunks in an arid desert storm.

"The cartomancer is never wrong, Querent. The number of four represents balance, stability, and goodness. Every Hierophant in the past has been surrounded by this number. It is what the new Order requires. If your goal is not that of fate's, then I must destroy you, for the wrath of the tarot lies within the responsibility of the Chariot and Justice."

Shel didn't recognize Justice as he stepped forward through the gauntlet of soldiers. His blade was the opposite of the Chariot's hammer. Frigid --- a honed and sharpened edge of absolute zero that now pricked lightly against his the side of his ribs.

"Go through. Too long has the world been without true guidance." Justice said.

And then, Shel was dropping, prodded through the opening at the behest of armaments of fire and frost. The heavy iron of the portcullis slammed shut, and the dome shuddered. Silence except for the sound of flickering candles and the scratching of a quill on aged papyrus.

"Welcome again my friend. Sit and close your eyes. You've done this before, yes?" The Hermit's voice was like the ripping of velcro. Rough. Ancient.

Shel sank in to the lush cushion, flattening his hands against the wooden table. They still shook, even when he willed them with all his might not to.

"The rest of them have ascended. I am the last, and yet they are missing some of the arcana. What has happened, cardcrafter?" Despite the Hermit's involvement with the order, he was bound by fate. His answers were always earnest, insightful ---- the truth, at the very least.

"It's a bureaucracy now. Not like the days of old. Subsequently, man's society has fallen in to decay and ruin. They stamped out your would-be court." The Hermit flipped over a card. The number four. Of course.

"But if I am the Hierophant, my court is outside, Hermit. The Emperor and the Empress await the benediction. I don't understand."

"You are not the Hierophant, Shel." Another four.

"Then who is, Hermit?" Shel asked.

"He will not manifest. Three of your peers before you became the Devil, the Tower, and the World. They were murdered. Fate has been taken hostage, and they're trying to manipulate it. They want the Garden of Eden on earth, and a utopia here, without consequence. It can't sustain itself, Shel. There will be no Hierophant, and what must be done now can not be prevented." The last numbered card. A four, of course. Of wands.

"What do you mean, without consequence?" Shel saw behind the Hermit now. Three of his mates from the order, slashed across the chest and throat. Their heads were crushed in.

"I would have been your ally. The Hermit is opposed to the false tendencies of the Hierophant. I am true wisdom. But now, I am a tool for them to read your arcana. You have one card remaining, and then they will kill for me for fulfilling my purpose. They can't have a member who is true to the old Order, true to fate." The Hermit's sunken lime eyes bored in to Shel, and he shuddered before the cartomancer turned over the last card.

Death.

The old man rose to his feet as he watched the young man's eyes glaze over. The transformation started with the peeling of skin from his forehead. The cool blue gaze of a normal youth was quickly engulfed by voids of a black, infinite depth. They were like maelstroms in a sea of decay; they drew in flesh and blood from the cheekbones, the eye sockets of the bared skull continuing to pull the life from Shel's body, consuming it in nothing. It was that black nothing that opposed the twisting of the Order. It was the thoughts and memories that Death consumed to arrive at this pinnacle, now.

Soon, there was nothing but bone and leathery wing and scythe. Tattered remnants of the Nexus robe hung from cracks and splinters in the bone visage. The pits of the skull flared to life, burning with omnipotent darkness that held an absolute purpose. Death rose, his wingspan flailing outward to shield the Hermit as Chariot's hammer smashed the portcullis in to small pieces of disfigured iron and bent bronze. Death smiled at the booming of Chariot's voice, for he had not entered yet.

[Spookhouse]

"HIEROPHANT. Stand aside before you lead us, so that we might discard this old trinket of a man, this man named Merlin, who impedes our...."

The god's voice was silenced when his helmet crested the door frame. He stared at Death, and the searing maul lost its glow and heat. It hardened in to a mound of coal on the end of a stick before snapping in two. Justice followed in shortly after. His sword crumbled to dust and water, flowing down his armor and staining it with black, sodden ash.

"You were outcast and terminated from the order aeons ago. You hold no power here, Death. Nothing will come of your existence but chaos and disor...." Chariot's skin was stretching, aging, hardening until it cracked at the bends of his muscles and he was on his knees. His lips and teeth rotted until his tongue fell to the stone floor, detached from his mouth, and he could speak no longer. Justice collapsed, gasping for breath, the snowy white skin of his complexion melting away like acid as blackness devoured him from the inside out.

The iron walls of the Hermit's prison collapsed with a great and heavy thundering of tangling metal. The card-master limped behind Death, whose scythe waved over the helmets of the soldiers as he made his way down the center aisle of spears on either side. Their hardened, military discipline quickly evaporated as Death's contagion overtook their spirits. Soon, they were mangled and decrepit versions of themselves, their armor rusted and dilapidated as if worn and battered by centuries of warfare in the rain and elements. And yet, their spearheads still glistened perfectly.

Sariah and her Emperor stared at the monstrosity that was now Death. He did not remember her, nor did she remember him, and now the only connection that existed between them was a primal and elemental one ---- they were star-crossed, and destined to clash as any Empress or Death would. The mother of life and earth, and her antithesis, met for the briefest of moments before the legion of soldiers turned on their heel to salute their new master.

Death's blade sang with the faint breeze of the black dome as it separated the Emperor's head from his body. The rest of them knew they were helpless. Over fifteen hundred years of manipulation, and Fate had finally resorted to its last bastion to preserve the natural order of things. Death himself.

The Nexus crumbled in to fragments of obsidian, but not before Death gave the Hermit an honorable service. The old man had served his cause in bringing about the revolution of nativity, and to this day, unknown to man, his casket floats about in the cosmos, listless and peaceful.

Fate decided that using the elements of the Order was too risky, and so Death remained. The Nexus would never be reconstructed, but without its existence, man embraced free will.

Now, Death sleeps. He watches, waiting with vigilance. Death will not allow man to play God and twist the whims of fate as the Order did before. He is the last remaining of the tarot, and the only with a true purpose left.

This cycle has repeated itself three times. Each time, Death has risen from his slumber and granted a new chance at the request of Fate for man. Three times, man has destroyed itself. Nuclear warfare. Wasted resources. A manufactured sickness that brought mankind to its knees. Each time, time was rewinded, and the soldiers and their spears were brought forth to purge the earth and begin a cycle anew.

It has been seven hundred and thirty years. Soon, Death will return and grant his final rebirth. Then, man will be left alone for eternity.

It is only then, when the Tarot leaves us to our own devices, that we might see what our future holds for us.