Excerpt from Master Fawthorn’s ‘Almanac’s Impact: A Review Of The Historical Implications Of Master Yenna’s Most Famous Work.’
“It is impossible to say what exactly happened within that lost moment. It isn’t even entirely clear how long that ‘moment’ was—the nature of temporal observation breaks down at the edge of this phenomena that should, by all known definitions, be entirely impossible. The impact of Master Yenna’s action was reported on in all known corners of the world without exception, though the exact outcomes recorded vary wildly.
“A newspaper in Sumadre reported that a prankster had broken the legendary synchronisation of the myriad time pieces in the famous Hall of Clocks, as guests noticed that several of the devices were off by several seconds to several hours. A Miluran banquet hosted as the final send-off for a master chef’s retirement was ruined as not one of the members there could recall ever consuming a single meal. In distant Tion, widespread panic occurred when the Grand Oracle’s daily pronouncements were lost halfway between the welcome and the dismissal.
“If one is to take Master Yenna’s account at face value—that is, to believe that she truly did what she reported she did—then one must agree that a bit of confusion was a small price to pay. But what occurred in that lost moment in history? What grand reveals, feats of heroism and villainy, confessions of love and hate, and all the other tidbits of life were lost irreparably to that sweep of the blade?”
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Yenna rather suddenly found herself in a wholly different position. In one moment she had swung her blade at the pages of the black book, a desperate act of a dying woman—the next, she was seated comfortably at a low table across from an inky haze in the shape of a person.
It was a curious sensation. Yenna had not teleported, or been brought here against her will. There was a lingering notion in her head, trailing away like the ungraspable memory of a fading dream, that she had come here on purpose. The why and how of the matter were indecipherable, lost as her mind came through the other side of some waking threshold.
Yet, here she was. ‘Here’, as it turned out, was halfway across the wide circular platform Yenna had been fighting for her life on. The air felt cool, the tumultuous and humid breathing wind of the countless praying ghouls stilled by their deathly silence—every one of them laid prostrate, evidently having faded into true death. In the centre of the platform, the pillar that held the other black books had vanished—Yenna noted that the one she had been holding was sitting on the table before her, alongside two gently steaming cups of kaffe, and a plate of assorted biscuits. The witch felt crumbs on her fingers and lips, but she had no recollection of eating anything.
The person-like haze began to coalesce, as Yenna finally attempted to decipher its form. Another kesh solidified across from her—no spirit in kesh form, or a doppelganger of herself, but a regular kesh. She was remarkably plain, a fair kesh some few years Yenna’s senior. Short, neat brown hair framed a square-jawed face, and wide, round hazel eyes stared back at the witch. Even her clothes were unremarkable, a common robe in soft grey without adornment or frill that betrayed very little of the woman underneath. She could have been anyone—Yenna could have seen her before, and wouldn’t be able to recognise her.
“I am so glad,” the woman began to speak in a quiet, almost mournful voice, “But I am also so sorry.”
“Sorry?” Yenna frowned—she realised belatedly that the kesh across from her had been crying, her eyes stained red from wiping away tears.
“Sorry that it had to happen like this. Sorry that I had to involve you and yours. Sorry for this entire situation, though I have had many long years to come to the conclusion that it ultimately was not my fault. Well. It is, but…” The woman laid her hands on the table in front of her, one on top of the other—an overly formal pose of apology, one step away from a deep bow.
“I’m… not sure what you mean. Who are you, and how did I get here?”
The kesh laughed, a sudden and sharp bark of incredulity. “You called me– no, that’s not quite right. You became me, for a moment, but I couldn’t inflict that role upon you without knowledge of the consequences. You walked over here, on your own four legs, after I pieced you back together—though the table and refreshments were my idea. You really did break things—I can’t recall anything other than the fact that we had this conversation already.”
Yenna frowned. She placed her hands on the mug of kaffe, noting that it seemed to have cooled—she was not so clever as to tell how long it had been sitting there, but it definitely had been there since before Yenna realised her new surroundings.
“You didn’t answer–”
“Yes, sorry.” The woman cut Yenna off. “I’m sorry. I’m really stuffing this up.”
“No, no, please–” Yenna stopped herself from apologising for the woman’s apologies. “Just… who are you, then?”
“Ah, I doubt you’re going to want to hear that again. I… well, I am Fate.”
Fate looked extremely embarrassed about the fact, her hands shaking slightly as she gave a shrug.
“You… are not the first person to introduce yourself as such.” Yenna looked her over, then cast her eyes across the platform—the others were nowhere to be seen, the Ledger included.
“Yes, well, that ill-advised machine was built by slightly presumptuous hands. It had hoped to be Fate, which would have made it so for past, present and future, but you stopped it—and so, the original remains. It was a foolish mistake to make it, but… I suppose it served its purpose.”
Yenna got the feeling that Fate was admitting to some deeply shameful act, the way she refused to meet Yenna’s eyes. Fate looked everywhere but directly at Yenna—at her hands, at the things on the table, out towards the rest of the room. It reminded the witch of giving parent and teacher interviews, with Fate squirming like a student who would rather their guardians didn’t know about their failing studies.
Still, the witch wasn’t an idiot—on occasion, she even prided herself on being able to put two and two together. Fate had been characterised so far as a sentient force for the smoothing of all reality’s events. Every single thing that had happened in Yenna’s life, for good or ill, could be blamed squarely on the woman in front of her—at least, as long as she was who she said she was.
Fate waited patiently as Yenna cast a spell. It was a spell of magical sight, a favourite piece of her toolkit that extended her unreliable magical sense into a precise measuring tool. However, to gaze through the soap-bubble lens of her sight spell at Fate was to find a mostly underwhelming sight. Before her was a regular person, her inner being shining no brighter than any other. Yet, as Yenna observed the edges and the outline of Fate’s form, she saw the gaps that revealed her true form. It was as though Yenna’s eyes had adjusted to the truth of an optical illusion—this ‘normal person’ facade was the magical equivalent of a paper cut-out installed perfectly in place to fool an observer. Shifting slightly, one could see the truth—and Yenna immediately regretted seeing it.
Beyond the fake identity was eternity—all of time, all of space, everything within and without. Fate was totality, a concept that encompassed everything, literally everything—the witch’s mind reeled as she retreated her gaze, back to the safe lie of an unremarkable kesh. Fate apologised as Yenna dismissed her spell.
“I’m sorry, for the inadequacy of this extension. We are so, so far off-script, and skipping ahead to see what lies beyond defeats the purpose of arriving here.” A tear rolled down Fate’s cheek, and she hurriedly wiped it away. “I have caused you yet more pain, and I’m sorry.”
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If this is all some ruse to get my guard lowered, Yenna thought to herself, it’s bloody well working.
The witch reached across the table and, in a show of confidence that surprised even herself, clasped Fate’s trembling hands. Yenna gave a small squeeze and a supportive smile—attempted her best to give off an aura of encouragement. Yet, the display only seemed to sadden Fate further.
“Oh, this is miserable. Appearing before you like this—the worst possible form for what I would ask of you. But, I can’t help it. I’m made this way, after all. Made to live, to resist, to continue my work. I can conspire against myself, but I can’t prevent the desire to carry on.”
Fate slipped her hands out of Yenna’s grasp and placed them in her lap. She cleared her throat, took a deep, trembling breath, and looked Yenna dead in the eye.
“Yenna Bookbinder. I need you to kill me.”
“... What?”
It was the witch’s turn to shiver in fright. Her sorrow and pity had solidified into a wave of cold fear, ice running down her flesh.
“I am sorry. I am so dreadfully sorry that it has come to this. I can’t do it myself. I can’t even make it easy. I have laboured for nearly the entirety of my existence to bring about my own end, and yet the closest I’ve ever come to success is this meeting with you.”
Fate stopped to choke down a heaving sob, a pitiful noise that tugged at Yenna’s heart-strings. She was absolutely right—if Yenna couldn’t imagine a world where she killed the mad alchemist Mulvari, there was no way she could harm a hair on the head of a sad, unremarkable woman who hadn’t threatened her in the slightest. Though, is that true?
Yenna’s mind caught on the edge of that realisation. If this truly was Fate, then everything that had happened to Yenna on her adventure thus far had been the fault of this woman. Would Yenna have even left her peaceful hometown of Ulumaya were it not for Fate’s intervention? Would Mulvari have done what he did if Fate hadn’t made him that way? Yenna recalled the Ledger’s talk about rewriting Mulvari—it had sounded so simple to just make the alchemist a kind man, to never have made him a walking series of tragedies.
As the witch turned those thoughts over in her mind, Fate’s tears flowed freely. Could Fate tell what Yenna was thinking, as the Ledger had been able to? Looking at her face, Yenna couldn’t imagine her being the one responsible for every tragedy, every horror and evil in existence—for every vile thing that had ever happened in history, this entity before her had either allowed it to happen or explicitly made it so. Yenna knew this being before her was not the true face of Fate, nor did one’s appearance make them any more or less likely to commit an atrocity. There was, instead, a sense of sincerity—that Fate felt nothing but the purest anguish for what had happened.
“Yenna. Know that I am responsible for all evils. For every betrayal, for every crime, for every scrap of hatred and cruelty, I bear responsibility.”
Fate was wracked by shuddering sobs as she spoke. Yenna hardened her heart to the social call for her to reach out and comfort, but she still felt horrible for doing so.
“Then, what of free will?” The witch’s question rose up from the back of her mind, spoken before she could process it. “Are the people who did those things not responsible? Do people not have agency in the world, to decide what exactly they do?”
“No!”
Fate screamed her denial, a sudden shout that caused Yenna to jump. “No, free will is a pleasant lie. What you call agency, the choices you make, they are all meaningless so long as I live. As long as Fate exists, to dictate the passage of history, to spur the continuation of the story of civilisations and peoples and places, there is no such thing as free will.”
“Then, what about this moment? It doesn’t add up.” Yenna tapped her fingers against the wood of the table between them, finding herself slowly growing frustrated with this conversation. “If there is no such thing as free will, and you are the one who decides what should happen, why are you asking me to kill you? If I truly have no say in the matter, what point is there in convincing me to do it?”
For one tense moment, Yenna half expected Fate to straighten up and reveal some greater truth—that this was all a test, or that she had lied somehow. Yet, Fate stared blankly at Yenna, her face slowly scrunching into a miserable, heart-wrenching sob.
“I am doing it right now. I am forcing you to do it.” Fate’s voice was so small, a choking gasp barely escaping her shaking body. “Yenna, I’m so sorry. This wasn’t meant to be a miserable adventure for you—if I had left well enough alone, we wouldn’t be here. But it had to be you, the one blind spot I was able to make for myself. I had to bring you here, because you are the only one who can kill me.”
Fate dropped her head into her hands, leaning her elbows on the table. Her shoulders quivered, barely holding her up as she covered her eyes and suppressed an anguished scream.
“Why me, though? What makes me special—why am I your… blind spot?”
“Because you kill me, Yenna Bookbinder.” Fate looked up at Yenna, tears streaming down her exasperated face. “You kill me, and throw yourself outside of my machinations, past, present and future. Which is a paradox! I can’t tell if you’re going to kill me, and I can’t make you kill me, and I can’t stop you from killing me, but you will kill me!”
With her hands balled up into fists, Fate slammed the table. Both mugs of kaffe bounced and clinked on the wood, and one of the biscuits rolled off the table and onto the floor. A tiny moment of mundanity, a little hook that kept Yenna grounded. The witch sighed, wrung her hands together, adjusted the brim of her hat—anything to spare her a few more seconds to think of what to say to that.
“Then… why am I going to kill you? What for?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Fate wiped her face with her sleeve and sniffled loudly. “As long as I exist, there can be no such thing as free will. I never should have been made—my very existence is anathema to people’s agency, to the very concept of choice. But I can’t destroy myself, because it would go against my mission.”
“Your mission? Made?” Yenna’s eyes went wide. “I had thought even those that called themselves gods bowed to Fate—yet, you were made for a purpose? What is your mission?”
“I cannot speak about who made me, because even I do not know. I am Totality, and Totality contains all within and without, even that which lies outside of itself, yet even I cannot see beyond this existence.” Talking about this seemed to improve Fate’s mood, ever so slightly—she sat up a bit, wiped her face one more time, and locked eyes with Yenna again.
“However, I can explain my mission, for it is quite simple. I was built to ensure that there existed at least one path of history where life flourished. From the beginning of time to its infinite ends, I was left behind as a caretaker—this reality would not falter or fade under my watch. Existence ends when it reaches a state where nothing changes—a world of pure good, where nothing but endless joy and rapture exists, is a world that grows stable and stagnant. It is an end, Yenna—thus, strife must exist to perpetuate motion.
“Destroying myself would, in the eyes of this mission, be a massive problem. I could not steer history away from the course of inevitable, entropic stagnancy if I ceased to exist. Yet, I made the realisation—a statement that feels almost daft to say. I should not be the one to choose!”
Fate screwed up her face once more, spitting those words out with such venom that Yenna was taken aback. The witch agreed, too—no one being should be able to decide the course of history for everyone else, no matter the virtue of their intent. But, what happened without Fate’s guiding hand?
“If I am even being given the option to choose,” Yenna’s eyebrows knitted together as the puzzle came together in her head, “Then I am to decide whether to grant all living things free will, at the cost of inviting the potential of complete, stagnant failure of reality as a whole?”
“Your choice is greater than that, and also irrelevant.” Fate shook her head hard, her short hair sticking to her face where it came in contact with her tears. “I don’t even know if you get to choose, or if I’ve already made it an inevitability. But, the world is already stagnant—locked into the tale I’ve told an eternity in advance. When you kill me, you will save us. But you will give up so much. That is why I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that has ever happened, but I am mostly sorry for making you choose. There isn’t a third option. There may not be an option at all. But, I must ask you to do it.”
Yenna fell silent, the weight of responsibility pouring down on her. Fate was a force of ultimate power, a defining symbol of the totality of existence—Yenna was just a school teacher who dared to step foot outside her hometown. Who was she to decide?
A long moment passed in silence. The chamber was so still, so empty of life and movement that Yenna could hear the pounding of her own heart. She looked up at Fate, and asked the only thing she could ask.
“What will I be giving up, if I should do as you say?”
Fate sighed, a horrible, miserable sigh. “I had hoped you wouldn’t ask. Yet, I knew you would.”