"Paradox Moving"
by Great Materia Hunter Yuffie
"All things that move between the quiet poles
Shall be at my command: emperors and kings
Are but obeyed in their several provinces;
But his dominion that exceeds in this,
Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man;
A sound magician is a demigod."
Christopher Marlowe - "The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus"
The Prophet speaks, and feels his mouth twist in a parody of prognostication.
He is nothing, a farce, a study in malcontent. His past, his present and his future are joined only by the strings of Lavos and his own story, the one that he continues to repeat, obsessively curling it around his fingers through the streams of time.
"Lavos," he lied, voice deep and calm like a shadowed tide-pool, "is the key. The peerless nation of Zeal will last forever with the aid of its power. It will last until the end of time."
His mother shifted; pale blue hair shaded into her royal robes. Her hands were delicate between the shards of muslin and lace. "Tell me, Prophet," his mother said softly, her yellow eyes half-shut, "Tell me of my progeny. I would know what happens to my children."
His reaction was slight; a twist of his hooded head toward them, as they stood calmly in their places a little behind their mother. A tiny frown.
Schala and Janus.
He was prepared for this. After all, when he had appeared unconscious on the mainland after Lavos had again chewed on him thoughtfully and spat him back out in yet another time, he had put the pieces of where and when he was very quickly.
More quickly than the first time; practice makes perfect, and he had always been a quick study. He had known what he had to do to gain revenge. He did not let his first bout with Lavos dissuade him from it.
She did not know she was his mother, of course. Here he was, back in his own time, with his own family and living in his childhood home. He had fallen back into everything he wanted revenge for. Everything was the same...and he, so very different, that it was as if he saw it all again, the same as a lifetime ago, but this time through dark, mordant lenses. And everything was so ironic it burned.
"The children...their royal highnesses..." Warming up his mind to the task of recalling his childhood, he recalled specific instances that would please his mother to hear before they happened but that would never have interested her otherwise. She had always ignored them unless they did something truly incredible.
His tongue pressed at the roots of his upper teeth, coming to rest against the gums in preparation. And then he made the mistake. Again.
He met his own gaze. The boy, Janus'.
The boy could not see him under the shadows of his hood, but he still swallowed subconsciously. There was something horribly strange about meeting one's own stare. It was the universal question, answered without his consent.
What if I could go back and meet...the younger me? What would I do? What would I say?
He let his red eyes slide away from the yellow-eyed stranger who was himself in another age. His lie was lame, tripping from his mouth with none of the usual grace. "They will receive the gift of immortality and live forever."
Queen Zeal motioned slightly with her hand, skin puckered at her forehead where she frowned. "And...?" she asked expectantly.
The Prophet ducked his head, mind racing. "The princess will become a great magician. The prince will never be as gifted as she."
If he hadn't been looking, the Prophet would have missed it. Janus' face was so suddenly shocked and hurt that it stung him with remembered pain. And then it smoothed back into a picture of boredom in the next instant. Their eyes met again, and though the boy's face was carefully blank, the Prophet could sense his own hate streaming through the ages.
What would that be, sadism or masochism?
And then he remembered the incident, which made him feel vertigo like a buckling ship. He remembered the sharp pain of inadequacy, the bitter taste of it making his tongue curl in his mouth.
He had always hated the Prophet...so much.
Turned around, looking backwards through time, the Prophet hated the boy just as much. It was like raising himself; he felt no hope. The boy would grow to be just as flawed, just as inadequate as he always was and always would be...
And it was not only that. Inside, he felt something shift out of place. Every time he got to a specific, important instance, he felt his perceptions shifting, pressuring him to open his mouth and speak. If he did not say the same things he had heard the Prophet say as a child, what would happen to him? Would he disappear? Would the flawed, man-Prophet that he had become be erased completely?
Thus, the inside of his mind spurred him on, lest he be destroyed by paradox.
"In fact, he will never develop a proficiency in magic." A blatant lie. He saw the look on Janus' face again, but this time it remained, a glowering rage.
The Prophet's stomach curled and he felt his cheeks sting as he clenched his teeth so hard they made tiny cracking noises in his ears. Why did he enjoy hurting himself so much?
And the world shifted back again; he felt his mind locking back into place between his ears.
The princess speaks then, and when he hears her voice he hears it twice. Once through the childish ears of Janus from years ago, and once again through the adult ears of a false Prophet:
"Don't talk like that!" Her words were emphatic, but the way she said it was pathetically quiet, as if raising her voice would break something. The Prophet did not turn to look at her; he closed his eyes. "Don't say things like that! Of course he will! You can't know that for sure!"
A spot under the Prophet's left eye began to twitch spasmodically. Those words and his own hate for the Prophet had been what made him become a great magician in the middle ages...
He could not help but feel inspired, really.
His mother spoke, laughing cruelly, "How can he know for sure, Schala? Why, because he has never been wrong before, of course!"
The Prophet felt unduly pleased; at some level, he was still affected by his mother's approval. His lips curled in a slight smile. But then he remembered the way the same words had utterly depressed him...Janus...
He finally turns toward his older sister and speaks condescendingly, knowing that having his face hidden in the shadows of her hood cows her, as she had once confided in Janus her fear of him:
"Princess Schala," he said from the darkness of his cloaked face, "Please defer to my judgment in these matters, as is my area of expertise. Believe me when I say it will never come to pass."
His voice was soft and dark and deep, and too firm by half. Schala's face fell and she looked at the tips of her shoes, poking out beneath her robes. She always capitulated, always.
The boy's face flashed with hurt and hate and fear. Another memory wafted through the ages to the Prophet. Later, he knew the princess would find the young prince crying alone. And he remembered the words she would say:
"I think...that that man has to be lying! You will become a great wizard one day, I know it!"
Childishly, he would shiver with the after-effects of sobbing and simultaneously glaring at his cat to try to pretend he had not been sobbing. "I...I hate this," he muttered at the world in general, at his unfair life, at his failure to wield magic.
"Don't say that!" Schala was only really good at comforting, and she would fly around him, her voluminous sleeves acting better than blankets to comfort. "Please be happy...I think that if you are unhappy I might just..."
She would not finish that sentence.
"When?" he would gasp. "When, da-mmit!"
He was too young to curse glibly, and the word would trip off his lips like a skipping stone, then sink into the silence of the room, seeming to echo with foreboding. He would be wide-eyed, wondering if Schala would berate him for the use of it.
She would pause, but would only say, "When what?" through pursed lips.
"When will I..." It would be a whisper, emphatic and breathless. "I need to be a great wizard now."
The Prophet is brought out of his reverie by the voice of his mother. It startles him how much he has...actually missed her, in those many, intervening years:
"Yes, Schala. Don't be rude!"
It is...pleasant to have her championing me, for once.
His mind skittered away from the thought of his mother choosing sides between himself and...himself. Some paradoxes were too intrinsic to contemplate...
"Please do continue," she said, the boredom in her voice warning him that her attention span was wearing thin.
"I see no more on the subject of your children. As you know, far-future prognostication is shaky at best. Perhaps on another day, when the ether is clearer." Before she could object, the Prophet continued. "Today, I see more on the subject of...enemies to your majesty," he finished, voice low and almost too quiet to hear.
"Enemies?" Queen Zeal prompted, as if on cue.
"Evildoers. I see a group that will try to prevent the Mammon Machine from being completed. They will be foreigners, a weird bunch of youths. They will try to usurp your majesty with the aid of the earthbound populace. They will also aim to free the Gurus."
The queen looked merely interested. "Anything else?"
The Prophet smiled, a surprisingly evil expression hidden in the cavity of his hood.
"The leader...has spiky red hair."
He felt paradox moving...
A.N. Alfador is a feline pimp, just FYI. This will be multi-chapter, and will most likely be Lucca and Magus centric, as I have it all planned out that way... It will also be kind of dark, I hope. Review if you please, but only if you please, as I do not want to be labeled mercenary and pathetic by my wheedling.