A row of slowly marching children, dressed in robes, moved as a conveyor belt towards and away from a singular point.
Faint but determined chanting and instrumentation filled the air and the sky was just beginning to darken over the opulent half-domed sanctuary. Even the most energetic child was marching stoically, moved by reverence for the entire ritual.
The singular point that the children were approaching and then departing was the Conduit of Fate. A child approached and knelt before the unseeing but seeing eyes of the Conduit, through whom Fate whispered on gently plucked harp strings.
The Conduit spoke softly but their words carried much power: “A mender.” And the child bowed their head, thanking the Conduit, stood and departed. And the child allowed a small but delighted smile to show on their face - for they now knew their true passion, the path of their life, and why they found so much joy in fixing their friends’ toys.
Another child knelt before the Conduit. Fate played Her harp. “A baker.”
The child bowed their head, gave their thanks, and departed, thinking about how much they loved the smell of fresh bread.
Another child: “A doctor.”
Another: “A tailor.”
Another: “A farmer.”
And so it went for hours, as did most ceremonies.
Until one wide-eyed child approached slowly, the only child slightly out of rhythm with the rest of the ritual, kneeling hesitantly. There was a great fear within them.
Upon sensing this terrified child, the Conduit’s trance-like unfocused eyes returned their focus to the mortal plane to regard what the issue was.
“Fear not child. Your life is in no danger. Why do you appear so?”
The child was too unsure of what to say, so they said nothing. But this was The Good Conduit. Maybe they were so wise that they already knew that this child had been suffering from nightmares of indescribable pain, doubled over in agony from an unknown wound. The child had never seen or known violence, and had no words for it.
But The Good Conduit could only hear and interpret the delicate harp strings of Fate, and could neither read minds nor divine dreams.
“Fate will tell us your Path. Let’s hear what She plays.” And the Conduit’s eyes unfocused again.
The child stared, hoping for something, anything that would help.
Fate’s hand faltered, hesitated. And for the first time, the Conduit actually heard Her voice.
“This one…”
Fate placed Her hands back onto Her Harp. Took a moment to find the right notes. Some sour notes, unsure, lacking confidence, then picking up and ending in one very determined string.
The child’s eyes widened, watching the Conduit’s brow become knitted and mouth drop open into a confused frown.
The entire ceremony had come to a complete halt. Children waiting to hear their fates craned their necks to see what was going on. Even children who had already had their fates divined stood perfectly still, watching what was unfolding before them.
“I…”
The Conduit focused their eyes again on the child.
“…I did not hear anything about your Path.”
The child stared back, mouth quivering.
“Except…” The Conduit hesitated. How does one tell but a child everyone’s eventual fate? So used to simply stating a word or two about each child’s fate, they were unequipped to tell this child anything beyond that. Better be direct. Better be clear.
“You will die."
The child’s breath caught in their throat.
“I cannot hear when. I cannot hear where. But the how…” And the Conduit raised a pointed bony finger and pressed its point into the child’s chest, “You will die by being pierced through the heart.”
And all of the agony from the nightmare, the doubled over pain, came back to the child, and they clasped their hands over their heart protectively, instinctively. Words came to their mouth at last: “No…How can I escape it?”
The Conduit shook their head slowly. “You cannot, my child. None of us can escape Kismet.”
The child clutched their heart tighter.
“However, you have something that no one else here has. You have the freedom to choose. And I see it within you, the burning determination. You can choose to meet Fate however you see fit.”
The child stared into the Conduit’s seeing eyes for a long moment. This was not the salvation they were hoping for. Having no other choice, they slowly bowed, quietly and mechanically recited, “Thank you, Good Conduit.” Then stood and walked towards the departing group, who were gawking at the strange one with their hand over their heart, and they were all grateful that such an embarrassing scene hadn’t happened to them.
And thus were the Kismet Rituals of Akabyssus. Every citizen’s fate was divined as a child, and every citizen lived out their lives accordingly. After the divining ceremony, the children would have their long, uncut hair shaved off, and they would begin apprenticing for their Path.
But for the child with their hand placed firmly over their heart, no one was sure of how to help them. Unable to take up an apprenticeship, they kept the long black messy hair which often got in their face. Their Minder, who now had a younger group of children to tend to, as the others had moved out and onward to their apprenticeships, had no clue what to tell the instructor-less one. Sure, the child had the freedom to choose their own Path, but no one on Akabyssus could advise or lead them. They’d have to make every decision on their own from now on.