[Lord of the Mysteries] The Myrtle and the rose (5722 words)

[shamera]

Title: The myrtle and the rose
Fandom: Lord of the Mysteries
Character/Pairing(s): Klein Moretti & Leonard Mitchell
Rating: PG
Warning: spoilers to the epilogue
Summary: Five times Klein encountered Leonard's poetry (and one time it reached him). 

There were slight differences to the Fighting Evil game that Klein hadn’t anticipated.

For all intents and purposes, it was the same game that he used to play with his dorm-mates in college, albeit branded with a new name with with a different feel to the cards within his hand. The same rules, the same goals, and yet…

“No, three of a kind can’t be dealt,” Royale told him patiently with some puzzlement to her voice when Klein tried. She never looked at him as if he were cheating, but as if he knew some interesting variant to the game that she had never seen before. “Although I heard they used to play by those rules during Roselle’s time…?”

“Ah,” Klein flushed, reshuffling his cards, “I… I guess I’m too used to playing with history majors…”

It was a weak excuse, but one that might cover his mistakes while he adjusted to how the game would have developed and evolved over a hundred and fifty years. The original Klein hadn’t the time to play such games with his friends, nor the pocket change to spare for the light gambling that usually accompanied it.

“That’s some dedication you students have,” Leonard remarked from where he decided to sit out on the games after losing three soli to Royale within a half hour. The man was half hiding his face with his usual book of poems, this time accompanied by a heavily fountain pen, and watching them with amused eyes. “I think Klein is playing Intis-style as well.”

Intis-style. Of course it would make sense for a game to change and evolve as it travelled and as time passed, but it was not something Klein had taken into account when he first decided to join the Nighthawks with their leisurely games.

He fumbled with embarrassment.

“It’s fine, he’s still doing better than you today,” Royale said lightly without missing a beat, and Kenley laughed from where he sat across from them, still deliberating his cards. The dark-haired woman smiled sharply at Leonard and added, “Of course you could take Klein’s place in the game and give him some time to get used to how we play. Lose a few more pennies to me.”

“Pennies!” Leonard complained, although there was no heat to his words. “More like soli; pounds! No, thank you. You are a tycoon today, ma’am, and I will stick to my poetry until your streak of luck passes.”

“Oh?” Kenley finally spoke up, peeking from his draw of cards. “Are you writing your own poetry today, Leonard?”

“It is one of those auspicious days,” Leonard agreed genially, lowering his book with a pleased look.

For some reason, Royale covered the lower half of her face and Kenley’s eyes went wide.

Klein looked between the two others who suddenly went quiet, then down at his own cards which didn’t bode very well for him. Deciding to divert attention, he said, “I didn’t know you wrote your own poetry, Leonard.”

“Oh, no,” Kenley muttered behind his cards, voice choked and barely audible despite sitting next to Klein.

“Oh, yes,” Royale countered gleefully under her breath, although her expression didn’t change outwardly. Her eyes shone as Klein’s gaze turned to her, the curve of her eyes indicating a smile behind her hand. “Leonard here is our resident poet, after all. Isn’t that right, Leonard? Why don’t you show us what you’re working on today, Leonard?”

There was something a little strange about the way she emphasized Leonard’s name with each sentence, but Klein’s attention was drawn when the Midnight Poet himself sat up straighter from his usual slouch, finally moving his legs off the table to a more respectable posture. He held his book of poetry a respectable distance away from himself, with his other hand poised dramatically at his shirt collar (if his shirt collar were the more respectable kind that the Loen people favoured… which it was not) in the style of a dramatis personae.

"Oh night," Leonard started, and immediately Royale turned her head away politely as Kenley’s eyes went wide, expression stiffening in an effort to remain neutral, "you are the end of the day!"

No way, Klein's expectant reaction slowly froze as the Midnight Poet continued, could it really be...?

"Oh night!" Leonard continued with far too much enthusiasm as his teammates tried and failed to cover their mirth, "You are so dark! The darkest of the day!"

Here, even Rozanne started giggling from where she was seated across the room behind the counter pretending not to listen in, and Klein's view of his Nighthawk senior took a nosedive.

Leonard Mitchell was a terrible poet!!

 

—

 

“You’re a writer, ma’am?” Klein inquired politely after his first formal meeting with Seeka Tron. The other Nighthawk had a more respectable air to her, a lot like Mrs. Orianne and the Captain, mixed with a casual and relaxed atmosphere that reminded him a little of Leonard.

“Oh, I try to be,” the lady in question answered with a genial smile, brushing her hair behind an ear. “But I’m generally quite busy, and have yet to find a proper publisher that aligns with my beliefs…”

Rozanne tipped her chair back to mouth behind Seeka: she writes melting moments.

Ah. Smut, then. That was certainly more niche in the upright Loen culture. It would make sense that Loen publishers were more likely than not unwilling to publish her works. But from the way Rosanne flushed at the mention of the works, and how others didn’t seem to bat an eye, Klein could deduce that those of Blackthorn had read Ma’am Seeka’s works and didn’t deem the writing to be too bad.

…Unlike a certain poet, whose very words were met with facepalms and giggles.

A self-proclaimed poet, who, at the moment, sat at the windowsill of the Blackthorn lobby where they were all relaxing, brow furrowed as the twirled a pen around his fingers. His eyes were locked down at the expensive-looking notebook he was holding, oblivious to Klein’s study of him.

It was a study that prompted Ma’am Seeka to look where Klein was looking as well, and she smiled, lips drawing further and further up as she gleaned between Klein and Leonard.

“Leonard,” she called out, a hand coming up to hide her smile. “Care to share what you’re working on?”

The man barely made a noise as he pursed his lips, and finally brought his pen down to paper.

"Like water," Leonard dictated aloud as he wrote, brows pinched in concentration, "moving fast..."

At that point, Seeka had given up the pretense of politeness entirely and had her head in her hands, giggling. Klein felt a little bad for the supposed poet, and thought about the imagery that Leonard might be going for. A river, maybe?

"Rushing," Klein offered up as he hid his face behind his cards, thinking that surely it wouldn't be too intrusive to hint at the alliterative rushing river.

Leonard paused a second and crossed out his previous line with a noise of assent before he dictated again alongside his writing: "like water, rushing fast..."

At this point, Rozanne was giggling as well, and Klein gave up.

Sorry, poet classmate, he thought as Leonard continued to struggle with his poetry. I tried.

“Oh,” Rosanne exclaimed, a hand on her cheek, “A rushing river. That’s not bad. Klein, maybe you should try this writing thing as well.”

Klein tensed as the others turned their gazes onto him.

No, thank you! He thought as he hid behind his cards. He already knew he had no talent for poetry— it was just that the classes in his previous life required passing knowledge on philosophers and generals who imparted classical poetry as well. And with Roselle’s influence on this world’s modern state, the literary aesthetic tastes remained passingly familiar. He could write flowery nonsense easy enough, but there would be nothing behind the words— and wouldn’t that defeat the point of poetry?

But then again, this world followed a more western aesthetic that Zhou Mingrui was less familiar with.

He missed his moment to object before Rosanne continued, “Maybe you can work with Leonard on poetry! What if a future sequence of the Seer pathway is a kind of poet as well?”

If that was the case, Klein thought despairingly, he’d fail the acting method.

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Ma’am Seeka chimed in, her smile wide. “What do you think, Leonard? Care to share your writing and collaborate something?”

“Sure,” the aforementioned poet agreed easily, not seeing Klein’s panicked expression. “Who am I to deny inspiration, even if not my own? Like minds will surely produce something greater than what a singular person can ink.”

“You know,” Rosanne said thoughtfully, “Leonard is sometimes so eloquent and poetic in speech. If he just wrote down some of what he says, I think he’d actually be a decent poet.”

Leonard stared blankly back at her. “…What did I say?”

“That would require he learn a few things about himself that may not happen any time soon,” Seeka quipped with a wink, and Rosanne giggled.

“I don’t know how to write poetry,” Klein tried to excuse himself, feeling his palms sweat as the ladies smiled strangely in his direction. “And I really don’t think the Seer pathway has any relation to anything poetic…”

“Prophesy?” Rosanne suggested.

“There’s never a bad reason to learn poetry,” Seeka said. “Poetry is both a way of expressing what’s in your heart, and a manner of eloquence learned only through experience.”

At this point, Leonard was already concentrating on his own work. The Midnight Poet hunched over his small notebook, heavy fountain pen writing, “ So… too.. do… I…”

“…A lot of experience,” Seeka amended.

 

—

 

“Do you ever think about… rhyming your poetry?” Klein asked sleepily as he and Leonard guarded Chanis Gate. After the incident with the Misfortune Cloth Doll, Leonard volunteered to stand guard with him, leaving Klein to slowly space out as the adrenaline faded away. He had his back to the wall next to the Gate, spiritual senses aware but his eyes starting to droop as the hours wore on. Klein raised a hand to hide a yawn, and then rubbed his eyes. How hard could an overnight shift be? He had pulled plenty of those during his college years! So why did it feel so hard to do now?

“Rhymes?” Leonard thought about it. “That sounds childish.”

“But that’s how most start learning poetry, innit?” The slurred words and informal manner finally spurred Klein to blink to awareness again, face flushing at his unintended slip of speech. He pushed himself up higher, stretching out his back in an attempt to feel more awake. It was only… oh, perhaps 4am? Less than two hours before his shift ended and he got to go home and sleep! He cleared his throat, and then said with careful enunciation, “You start with the basics. Rhyme and rhythm. Find something that sounds pleasing to the ear before assigning meaning. What topics do you normally write about?”

When Klein looked over, he met Leonard’s amused gaze, the other man’s green eyes crinkling at the edges in amusement. Klein very carefully attempted to keep a neutral expression, ignoring his own slip in speech.

Luckily, Leonard didn’t dig into it.

“What do I write about…? The Goddess, probably? The world?”

Watching Leonard tilt his head back in thought, arms crossed even as he leaned against the wall next to the Chanis Gate, Klein frowned.

“Isn’t that a bit vague?” He asked. Thinking about it, the two times he heard Leonard’s poetry, it really had been rather vague. “What about something you love?”

“I love the church,” Leonard answered rotely, and then blinked at his own words. He tilted his head and hummed in thought before continuing with more enthusiasm, “Of course I should write poetry to the Goddess! Although for a poet, poetry is seen in everything around us. I could, of course, write a poem for you as well!”

“No, thank you,” Klein responded dryly. “Write one on the Chanis Gate, if you must.”

He yawned again afterward, pressing his palm against his mouth to be polite.

Leonard mused next to him, intentionally ignoring his words. “Rhymes? Rhythm? …Slept? Leapt? Night? Light? Bright? Hmm…”

Klein suddenly realised why Leonard thought the concept would be childish. In the Midnight Poet’s hands, schemes such as rhyme and rhythm did feel very childish. It was almost ridiculous, as Leonard Mitchell liked reciting old lines of poetry that made him feel very eloquent and poetic indeed. Even Leonard’s manner of speech at times hinted at the old literature he read: sophisticated and magniloquent. At first glance, Klein might have taken him to be a literature aficionado… or a theatre student.

Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and head tilted skyward, Leonard smiled softly with his eyes closed and then started, “ Those who stand as night falls, we who fight in the… um… lulls… ”

“Please stop,” Klein interjected, voice pained. He somehow wasn’t even sleepy anymore when faced with Leonard’s poetry.

Leonard opened one eye and tilted his head toward Klein to give him a cheeky smile, “Weren’t you the one who suggested this? What do you think? Charming are the men called to duty! For we are… this may actually be harder than I thought. Duty… snooty?”

He looked taken aback by his lack of inspiration, pulling away from the wall to expose a look of concentration. It was almost a few seconds later when he said in a bewildered tone, “…Booty?”

Despite himself, Klein laughed. His eyes then widened as he tried to stifle the laughter unsuccessfully. No matter how hard Leonard tried, he didn’t think that the other would be able to do a decent rhyme with with the word ‘booty’ in it.

“Beauty?” Klein offered as Leonard looked increasingly flustered. “Cutie?”

Leonard pointed a finger at himself in question, and then a finger a Klein. It was his thoughtful look that made Klein laugh again, the sound echoing down the wide stone halls before Chanis Gate and dispelling the previous gloom.

“ Deputy, ” Leonard finally exclaimed excitedly, only to catch himself a moment later as his posture turned to one of contemplation once more, a hand to his chin. “…I’m unsure how to use that at the end of a line.”

“Perhaps the first line should be revised,” Klein suggested, pressing a hand against his chest and smiling as his laughter finally died down. “Or stick to the ‘night, light, bright’ rhyming schemes.”

“We who fight in the night, we— wait, does it count if ‘fight’ and ‘night’ already have the rhyme in the same line, or do you think I should fit two more in the next line—? Klein? Why are you laughing this time!”

 

—

 

After Ince Zangwill, neither of them mentioned those days in Tingen anymore.

Of course, they were too busy to reminisce about the past, even if Leonard sometimes grew quiet in their brief conversations. Klein was too busy advancing, too busy keeping up his roles, too busy with everything that Gehrman Sparrow or Dwayne Dantes needed to do, while Leonard was kept working full time as a Red Gloves captain. After their long period of lost contact, Klein felt too… awkward, trying to make small talk with Leonard once again.

After all, their circle of acquaintances were now down to just them in the know. It wasn’t even enough to play Fighting Evil. Klein would message with questions for Pallez, and Leonard would respond asking if Klein was doing well.

They were only able to meet up with each other a small handful of times between events, times that had nothing do with a current crisis or looming threat.

If not for those shared memories and past, Klein wasn’t sure that level of communication would have kept them as the friends they still were.

At least, not to the level of now meeting above the grey fog on a weekly basis while Klein traversed the Forsaken Land of the Gods, alone but for the weekly Tarot Club meetings and mandatory check-in with Audrey to stabilise his mental state, and…

And his weekly moments set aside with Leonard.

As a sequence three, Klein could feel the coldness of his mentality, of the loss when it came to sentiment and his lukewarm humanity teetering on the edge of an inevitable abyss. He was safe now, for the moment, but every second of loneliness accumulated within the Forsaken Land might be a moment used against him in the future.

It was selfish, but he needed to cling to his human connections, and one of those few connections was— Leonard.

“It’s not that I don’t know how to cook,” Leonard attempted to defend himself as the two of them sat around a smaller version of the table used for the Tarot Club. Smaller in that there were only two chairs this time, and they were facing each other while the rest of the world was clouded over in grey fog, like nothing else existed except for this small space with the two of them and the countless red stars dotting the surroundings. “I just don’t see much of a point to it. It takes so long! And unprepared food goes bad so quickly, especially in the summer. Cold boxes can only do so much.”

“Cooking saves money,” Klein countered. “You can’t just eat out every meal.”

“It doesn’t cost that much?” Leonard argued back, “I make enough. I can prove it! Klein, what do you want to eat? Name anything. I’ll sacrifice it to Mr. Fool for you, so you can get a proper meal. You can’t tell me that you’re actually making the time to cook where you are. Wouldn’t you need— pots and pans? Spices?”

Klein gave him a long, blank look, but Leonard still seemed pensive.

“…I’m a Scholar of Yore,” Klein told him slowly, “I can summon cookware long enough to cook.”

Perhaps not food to eat, but that was taken care of by Danitz’s regular sacrifices. It meant that Klein was eating quite well, although he didn’t want to bring that up as it contradicted his earlier point about eating out all the time. Of course, for him it didn’t matter since he was by himself and because it was Danitz footing the food bill, but it just… felt important that he remind Leonard to eat healthy as well.

“That didn’t answer my question! There’s a new Intisian restaurant in North Borough that you might like to try, and I’m in Backlund for another week and the place is somehow still operating. Not sure how long that will last, so you might miss it if you’re gone for too long.”

There was something to his words, to the casualness of it all, that made Klein soften. He imagined actually heading back to Backlund in the midst of war in order to sample a popular restaurant, and the thought was so foreign to him that it seemed a dream.

There were always other and more important things to do.

The intent and care were there, and it made Klein soften his tone to say, “You don’t have to. Go for yourself. Like you said, don’t miss it. You’ll only be in Backlund for another week, poet classmate.”

He didn’t ask where Leonard’s team would be deployed, or what they were going up against. If it was important, then it would come up in the Tarot Club meetings, and if it was significant, then Leonard would tell him. There was very little that Klein could do to help from his position in the Forsaken Land, but there were still methods for Klein to intervene should anyone he cared for needed it.

“I’ll go,” Leonard protested stubbornly, “and get the whole menu and send half to you.”

Klein knew it wasn’t an empty threat. Leonard had certainly done things similar the first few weeks Klein managed to escape from Amon’s grasp in the Land Forsaken by God. The thought and action was appreciated, but as a sequence three, he required much less food than others thought.

“Besides that,” Leonard continued before Klein could come up with a good rebuttal, “there’s something else I’ve been wondering.”

The Sleepless Beyonder had half his upper body sprawled over the stone table, resting his head against one hand as he leaned toward Klein in a way he might not have dared in an actual Tarot meeting. Klein could only silent lampoon over his sloppy posture and how it would likely affect his back had they both been normal people instead of Beyonders.

On the other hand, Klein sat as he usually directed ‘The World’ to sit, calmly and casually into the overly large stone seat. As only their spirit bodies appeared above the grey fog, only the visuals of the seat mattered, and there was no need to complain about the cold and hard stone.

He waited for Leonard to voice his question.

“Poet classmate,” Leonard quoted, and then smiled when he saw Klein stiffen his jaw just the slightest bit in surprise. His green eyes were bright, wide and teasing, “what exactly does that mean?”

No, Klein calmed himself. This wasn’t an unusual question at all. He hadn’t noticed when he started to call Leonard that aloud rather than just in his thoughts, but it wasn’t anything embarrassing. Instead, he made a note to come back to the topic of food later on, and responded, “That’s not hard to figure out from the wording, is it?”

If anything, Leonard’s smile grew wider.

“Not that I mind, but I haven’t been a poet in a long time now.”

Klein tilted his head. “But you were a poet when we met, just as I was merely Klein Moretti.”

Well. Not merely. But it was certainly his only alias in the world back then, and despite all his identity changes, Leonard clung to Klein’s name and original form in a way that acted as an anchor. If Klein ever felt a part of himself was lost to the burgeoning power within himself, then Leonard would be the first to remind him of who he once was and why he continued to walk the path he did.

In that manner, he didn’t mind how Leonard clung to his old identity. And in that manner, Klein recalled Leonard with his book on poetry, and the overnight shifts shared before Chanis Gate where Leonard took it upon himself to recite more and more outrageous poetry in efforts to make Klein laugh.

Things had been different between them back then. There was more suspicion but also more curiosity, a newness to everything that had Klein hesitating but Leonard overtly forward in efforts to uncovering secrets. They were both still naive and innocent to the Beyonder world despite the frequent tragedies that touched upon the Nighthawks.

Now, opposite him, Leonard settled into stillness as he took in Klein’s words.

The other man looked aggrieved, almost bullied as his lips slanted downward.

“You’re still Klein Moretti,” he said.

Klein could deny that, could say that the identity referred to had long since been buried, but that would be a lie. In his mind, he was Klein from the moment he accepted the identity in this world. Despite building all his other personas, he still thought of himself as Klein. Instead, he quirked his lips into a slight smile and asked, “Are you still a poet?”

Leonard gained a pained look, and pulled back from the table as if cringing.

“I’ve long since acknowledged that some things were not meant to be,” he bemoaned pitifully.

But, Klein thought, I think you were happiest when you considered yourself a poet.

While Leonard still smiled and spoke happily when they were together, Klein was well aware that the other man rarely had such an upbeat attitude for his current coworkers. In the moments when Klein observed the Tarot Club from above the grey fog, watching over them during the worst parts of the war and when their prayers turned to The Fool, he could see the solemnity and gravitas that events forced Leonard to accept.

It must have been a long time since Leonard would take the initiative to recite ludicrous poetry that made his teammates laugh. Klein wondered if he had done that at all since he left Tingen.

“I don’t think it was bad,” Klein said, thinking back to those moments. If nothing else, despite the ribbing that everyone did at Leonard’s expense when it came to his poetry, they always had a smile when speaking of it.

The words didn’t matter, he thought. Whether the poems themselves were good or not didn’t matter. What poetry conveyed was emotion, and the emotion that Klein felt when he thought of Leonard’s poetry was one of fondness and nostalgia.

Yes.

“I like your poems,” Klein concluded.

Leonard froze from where he was pulling back, eyes fierce on Klein. He raised a hand to point at himself incredulously.

“Mine?”

Well, certainly not Roselle’s, Klein thought. No matter how fine the words and the flow, he always felt a little pained at the blatant plagiarism when he heard of another thing Roselle managed to rip off from their time.

“If you want,” Leonard said uncertainly, still pointing at himself, “I think I’m rather good at reciting poetry rather than writing it. I could find some of Roselle’s better ones—”

At this, Klein really did grimace despite his Clown abilities. At least, it was visible enough that it made Leonard halt and then laugh, pulling back to rub at his face as he smiled with his gaze downward.

“I wouldn’t know where to start on my own,” Leonard admitted. “What would I write about? It’s been a few years.”

“The church,” Klein suggested. “The world. Or things that you love.”

He hoped that Leonard would find the same joy he used to find in poetry.

“The world,” Leonard echoed, “I really did… used to write just about anything.”

Klein stayed quiet, letting him reminisce over a bright halcyon summer now long gone as the two of them sat nestled within the grey fog with all the world far away. That time in Tingen felt so far away in memory, with only vague memories of too-warm days studying and long night shifts. Back then, he thought he knew fear— but it wasn’t true. No matter how frightening the situation, he had the support of the Nighthawks, and the knowledge that there would always be someone to look out for him.

Now… well, he retained that, if in a different way.

“The world from above,” Leonard started, his tone different as he once again leaned down toward the table and rested his chin on his palm in thought. There was a certain way he spoke, a certain cadence, that came across whenever he recited something original, “looks different than from before. It…”

Klein waited patiently with a slight smile.

After a moment of silence, Leonard huffed out a sigh, head slipping from his palm. “I don’t know. I don’t even recall how I used to come up with this.”

Seeing Leonard’s brow furrowed in concentration, Klein stayed quiet.

“It’s changed. There are now things that I can’t ignore.”

He let out a long breath. “…That doesn’t sound like poetry at all.”

“Actually,” Klein said, “It sounds honest, and it’s from you. It might be the start of your best poem yet.”

Leonard, when he looked up in surprise, had an uncertainty in his eyes that Klein had never seen from him before. Be it from the praise, or from the unexpectedness, it led to a long stare as green eyes darkened and stared intently at Klein.

“…Alright,” he finally admitted, once again relaxing down into a sloppy slouch over the stone table. “I suppose I’m still me, the same way you’re still you.”

 

—

 

He didn’t know how long it’s been since he fell asleep.

A moment, an aeon; the blink of an eye or the span of a civilization. Often he felt the full breadth and weight of the 10,000 years he’s existed, while other times he felt like a fresh-faced university student still green to his first job: clumsy footed and missing home.

He knows he is not yet fully awake. There are moments of bleary awareness and longer moments of oblivion. He exists in the dream world and seldom glimpsed outside it.

In one world, he is Zhou Mingrui and he is overworked and living with roommates. He is home and he is not, missing his family but secure in the knowledge that they are merely a day trip away. He meets strange people who smile at him from time to time, and often got caught up in situations that seem almost like they’re straight from a novel.

(In another world, he is cold and lonely. He is surrounded by grey fog and sees a stretch of eternity around him. He breathes power and the world warps itself to his very presence. He is The Fool, the ancient god up high looking down over humanity as they scurried through their lives like ants on the Earth. He is vast and yet confined.)

Browsing along the strange items at the Star Dream Provisions Store, Zhou Mingrui came across a most peculiar book. It was small, not even the breadth of his hand, with a beautiful crimson cover and with a foreign title written in gold ink. He originally meant to ignore it and move on, but for some reason his eyes kept straying back to the cover. He couldn’t tell what language that was.

…Hadn’t he told himself he would work on learning a new language in the coming years? Of course, English was the best course of action, seeing that there were new foreign clients at work, but… it wouldn’t hurt, right? To learn a little of something else, even if it was just to post it in the group chat as The Fool and see how the others react?

He couldn’t even remember what he originally stopped at this store for, anyway.

The foreign lady in her black dress behind the counter had a pleased smile when Zhou Mingrui approached with the book, looking amiable enough to even answer his question this time— “It’s a book on poetry.”

That was perfect. He was sure to find some decent quotes in there.

It wasn’t until he collapsed into bed far into the night after hours of overtime, that Zhou Mingrui remembered about the book of foreign poetry that he managed to pick up that day.

To his surprised, this time around he could— the words on the cover didn’t feel like gibberish, but like a language he understood! The boxy text in bold golden ink read out Poems to The World .

He hesitated, apprehensive of this new knowledge. With all the strange things happening to him recently, this felt almost par for the course.

He flipped to a random page.

A thousand words I’ve sent to you,
A thousand times I’ve struggled
A thousand prayers I’ve never said,
For all of them were muddled.

My thoughts of you reach ever-long,
I know not if they find you
My dreams of you are bright but drear,
A nameless fear come true.

It was… well, it didn’t read like a poem to the world! Zhou Mingrui traced the words with some internal conflict, half tempted to sigh over the elementary school level rhyming scheme but also by the inaccurate beats per line for something that attempted to induce a steady beat— but also half touched by the choice of words and how honest it felt.

…Not that he understood what the author was trying to say. For having written something that sounded like a love poem, why would that person hesitate? Why was there fear written throughout the poem?

He flipped the page.

O dark, o night
Oh Blessed sight
To see you
Once Again
The Stars above
are waiting for
The World
the wake once more.

…

What did that mean? Zhou Mingrui rubbed his eyes, and stared once more at the page. Not questioning how he managed to suddenly learn how to read this language was one thing, but he was now questioning if he actually got a faulty skill that interrupted his reading comprehension.

He didn’t think he could quote any of this online.

Perhaps he picked up a book on amateur poetry?

He flipped to another random page.

Like water, rushing fast
You move through the world
Through molasses, I reach to follow
O’er dreams I weave my net
Like sand slipping through my fingers
Memories of your laughter fades.

Do gods remember quiet nights?
Or do they only look ahead
To hear you say you miss it
I yearn to answer: so, too, do I.

It didn’t make any sense. Where syntax worked, the imagery would fail, and where the imagery worked, the words would clunky and strange. Yet there was a longing to it, an honest and clumsy nostalgia, that made Zhou Mingrui hesitate.

Perhaps these poems weren’t ever meant to grace the wider world despite its title. He had a feeling they were only ever created to be heard by one person, and he suddenly felt awkward. He flipped the pages back to the front of the book, fingers tracing the strange lettering until he found a signed ‘LM’, looking less like print and more like a personalised inscription.

Underneath was less a poem and more a promise.

‘You remain you, and I remain me.’

The words settled something within him that he hadn’t known was agitated, and Zhou Mingrui ended up staring at the words for longer than he anticipated. Eventually, he set the book on the drawer next to his bed, set his alarm for the morning, and went to sleep.

In his dreams, he resided atop a foggy realm and looked down at a different world filled with strange abilities and forbidden knowledge.

“I remain me,” the Fool said quietly to himself, and watched the glow of bright red stars twinkle around him.

Quietly, contemplatively, he watched the world from above, and thought of days before his ascent to divinity.