Always spinning, rotation in permanence, what goes up comes down, he rides Fortune's Wheel. An island of order in a sea of chaos, he is separated from the traitors but is still very much one of them, and it is by one of Fortune's tricks that he does not know this. The poisonous bitch-Goddess he calls 'Mother' does naught to disavow him of this small ignorance that has ended so many lives and will end so many more. In a way, the Crisis From The Skies is the embodiment of Fortune, for She takes what She pleases as She will, bides Her time and is a mistress of illusion. Her very viral organization is purest chaos held under dominance of pure will and desire, and She is well aware of it. She presents Her dark gifts not according to the book, distributing favours, honours, but the honours and favours mask death, destruction, and decay. O Fortuna, O Fortune,
To Her chosen pawn, who has made his way across the board and has put the King in jeopardy, She gives power and strength and will, but fills him with Her being and drives him. He is Fortune's fool, but there is another who is the card without a number, and the one with no number leads so many more from the deck. The Magician is there, bearing a flickering flame, and the High Priestess followed, but she was removed by the Crisis and now her card has been snapped in half and thrown away to the bottom of the lake. The Hanged Man is always silent, morose, seemingly uncaring but consumed with misery. The Tower fulfilled its own meaning and lies in ruins, and the thirteenth card strides across the face of the Planet to make his way to the end of the game. Soon, he will bring the twenty-first card into play and call the Stone from the Skies, and then he will rule over the twenty-second and hold the Puppet in thrall. In this way, he will be reborn as a God, to rule over every soul. He is Fortune's fool, but there are others who are more fool than he. He has seen it all, for he was once the highest of the high, now fallen to darkness and shadow, but his Fortune is rising and soon he will sit at the top of the Wheel and never fall again.
velut luna
statu variabilis,
semper crescis
aut descrescis;
vita detestabilis
nunc obdurat
et tunc curat
ludo mentis aciem,
egestatem,
potestatem
dissolvit ut glaciem.
like the moon
you are changeable,
ever waxing
and waning;
hateful life
first oppresses
and then soothes
as fancy takes it;
poverty
and power
it melts them like ice.
She has risen like the mighty Phoenix, from the ashes of Her own defeat, broken through the ice that held Her and called out to the mind of one who would bring Her to the dwellings of men, and now Her flame burns bright in the hearts, minds, and souls of Her puppets. She rides the nightmare that is the man who is Her son in all but blood, cooling his fevered brow with dreams of glory even as She enflames his imagination with the power that will set the world alight. With Her, he will be God of darkness and God of light according to his whim, which will of course be governed by Hers. She is Fortune, wild and uncaring, doing as She will, when She will, and none may control, appease, or deny Her. The sparks of Her fury spread through the veins of those who have been imbued with Her will, and in this, She has contingency, for should Her favoured pawn fail, She will flee to another. Perhaps, if the thirteenth card is lost or broken, She will go to the one with no number, or to any other of Her choosing, although none will be as fair as Her current favourite, or as powerful. To the six-winged mockery of the Seraphim She has given the power to call a lesser cousin of the twenty-first card, the powers of the Cruel Angel, the rider of the Pale Horse. To the twisted creation that mimes the hold She has over Her chosen pawn, She has gifted near-invulnerability. In this way, She safeguards Her son, but before all, She has placed Her own avatar.
Sors immanis -
et inanis
rota tu volubilis,
status malus,
vana salus
semper dissolubilis,
obumbrata
et velata
michi quoque niteris;
nunc per ludum
dorsum nudum
fero tui sceleris.
Fate - monstrous
and empty,
you whirling wheel,
you are malevolent,
well-being is vain
and always fades to nothing,
shadowed
and veiled
you plague me too;
now through the game
I bring my bare back
to your villainy.
She rules all, the shadowy puppet-mistress, the Midnight Queen. All of Creation will fall under Her sway, or She will crush it under Her foot like a glass bauble. Anything that refuses to submit to Her will shall be as naught, most of all these miserable objects that crawl through tunnels even now to make an attempt on the life of Her chosen pawn. There, indeed, is that sly Magician, covered in red fur with a flame on his tail, there is that Hanged Man, there at last is the numberless Fool with that pesky woman with whom he has so recently been Lovers. They are eight in number, pitiful, really, and barely worth the attention it would take to brush them aside and toss them off the edge of despair, although one does bear a scale of one of the WEAPONS of the Planet, but they will not help It now. Its puling cries are music to Her ears, and soon It will scream even more until It dies, a miserable and cold and bloodless rock orbiting a small and inconsequential sun. She will sweep Her tail and a third of the stars shall fall down from Heaven; She shall call down the Falling Star and the waters of the world shall be as wormwood, and the screams of the traitors will be a sweet symphony for Her pleasure. Their dream was sent out into the cold Universe, and It made no reply. All proceeds in accordance with Her will and soon there will be nothing but Her will.
Sors salutis
et virtutis
michi nunc contraria,
est affectus
et defectus
semper in angaria.
Hac in hora
sine mora
corde pulsum tangite;
quod per sortem
sternit fortem,
mecum omnes plangite!
Fate is against me
in health
and virtue,
driven on
and weighted down,
always enslaved.
So at this hour
without delay
pluck the vibrating strings;
since Fate
strikes down the stringman,
weep all you with me!
The wretched band of creatures who would oppose Her gather now at the Heart of the Planet, and She prepares to sweep them aside. Her avatar rises from the depths, the embodiment of Her puppetry strides forth, and Her Winged-One of the Lower Reaches (haryuu no hane kata, the Angel from Hell's heart) waits with a sly smile upon its beautiful face. One moment now, while She brushes them away, and then all the world will weep!
Author's Notes:
Well, this turned out much different than I thought it would. Originally, it was to be about Sephiroth, but somehow it got turned about to focus on Jenova. I do know that it's rather poetic and lyrical, which wasn't really intended upon, but it turned out quite well.
A great deal of obscure references must now be explained, I think.
First off, the fact that I write this to 'O Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi' and, therefore, 'Carmina Burana', is a nod to my favourite piece from the FFVII soundtrack, 'One-Winged Angel', which was based on 'Carmina Burana'.
The thing about the cards is referring to the Tarot. Cursory study into the Tarot should reveal any number of odd correlations with a bit of Final Fantasy VII.
I realize that I tossed in a few names of music tracks, and I made a reference to 'Fortune Presents Gifts Not According to the Book' by Dead Can Dance.
It's about bloody time that someone songficced 'O Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi' but.....well, oh well.
~Silverfire~