It came that Destiny strode out of a group of columns into the center of his garden. His empty garden. The mystery could have been as easily solved as opening his book but he simply held it closed and wandered up and down empty paths, looking for someone. Anyone at all.
Time, as far as it matters in the garden of Destiny, passed. The light came and went several times, the hedges flickered with noon-light and torch-light and the paths gleamed in the moon several times. The changes in the garden, the liquid shifts from one maze to another did not stop because only one pair of feet tread them. And still Destiny found no one.
Destiny did not open the book to seek answers. Destiny retired to a marble room and sat down.
Destiny stood up and walked out to the garden. He looked. He opened the heavily bound cover of the book and turned pages and ignored the rippling of scenes that spread out from the shuffling. In the garden of Destiny time means very little, but intent means quite a bit. Destiny kept turning pages.
Destiny looked up to the garden and frowned, a thin line turning down.
Destiny percieved himself to be blind, and more than that, unable to see. The frown deepened.
Destiny looked up, and out, and slowly he saw his eldest sister weeping in a quiet room. He looked, up higher and out further and bent double low to the ground. He looked.
It came that Destiny lay in the sun on the ground across a section of gravelled path, unafraid of being trampled by passers-by. Destiny, were he able, would very likely have laughed for a long, long time. He ran fingers again and again over pages that, as far as he knew, were blank papers. He would have laughed, and laughed, and laughed.