This a story of tragedy...
This story is heavily embellished to fill in holes in memory and make it more interesting to read. Take heed that this is a story of tragedy; there are child deaths, a murder-suicide, genocide. Reader discretion advised.
In a time long before my own, a child was born to The Ancients with the ability to see the future. So total was his knowledge that he acted only on this foresight, like an NPC aware of the lines of code that will define its every action. His view of time was flat, unmoving, and when asked why he did something, his answer was always, "Because that is what I do." When asked to share his prescience, he would always refuse. When asked why, his answer was always, "Because I do not do that." His father was enraged by his son's silence, driving himself mad over what he could possibly see. Finally, though, the son came to him and told him, "You will kill me to trap my soul in a book which will tell the future. You will then kill yourself and use your soul to seal the spell."
This was the 'problem of prophecy' The Ancients once faced; so dutifully they trusted prophets, not one would fight a prophecy. Some postulated that many prophecies only came true because they were foretold. A few contentious philosophers wondered whether this was truly prophecy, then, or merely a command couched in declarative delivery.
The book produced by this tragedy was the Dark Prognosticus. When the spell took hold, the first page told that it would be found, along with the bodies of Count Bleck and his son, Dimentio. Once it was found, the first page read that the other Ancients would conclude an accident killed the two. There were no signs of a struggle, and who among them would deny prophecy? When they looked back to the book, the first page read that a joint funeral would be held two days from then.
The next someone bothered to look at the book, the first page told that his child would soon be killed.
The role of a prophet is not simply to see the future. Most prophets were left with discretion of when and what to share, their foresight incomplete and every action not already written in stone. Dimentio was not — could not be — this crucial filter. He told what he told, because that is what he does.
The Dark Prognosticus and its tragic futures eventually caused a split among The Ancients. The Purity Heart and the Light Prognosticus were championed by The Ancients who still believed in prophecy and foresight. The Tribe of Darkness, inspired by the old beliefs that prophecy was self-fulfilling, stole the book away. By hiding it where none could know what it foretold, they hoped that it would simply never come true.
The Tribe of the Forest were not related to nor interested in this sordid tale. They were a peaceful group of magicians living deep in the forest. You might consider them similar to wood elves. They were, as a group, hermaphrodites, with no concept of binary gender. They spoke a language similar enough to French for one language to sound familiar – nostalgique, even – to a native of the other.
They did not concern themselves with the tales of The Ancients, nor with that of the Dark Prognosticus. Not until its aftermath became concerned with them. Dangerous groups sought after the Dark Prognosticus, and this one truly came close in the end! The slightest miss was what caused their end, though not before the Tribe of the Forest was reduced to a population of one.
Only now do I, myself, enter the story proper. A young, troublesome child of the forest, always sneaking off to read books or play alone in the forest. I know not what happened while I was gone that faithful day, only that I returned to devastation. The troubled spirits of the lost tribe channeled their magic through me in a last act of revenge, destroying the attacking force completely. It left the forest perfectly intact.
The Tribe of Darkness sent scouts to investigate the powerful magic event. They presumed – correct on some level – it was someone seeking the Dark Prognosticus. They weren't exactly cruel, no, but for as long as I stayed with them, I was keenly aware I was not one of them. Some distrusted outsiders so blindly that they were rude to me for their entire life. Some, who met me when I first moved to their land, pitied me long beyond the time for pity. Some simply found me offputting, some treated me like a fun novelty. The members of the Tribe came and went in time, yet I never aged past adulthood. The final revenge of the Forest had not left me unaffected; even among the Tribe of Darkness, who pride themself on their skill with magic, my own was impressive. Were I one of them, I could've been a well-respected magician.
I left when I learned to teleport, as soon as was smart to. But I always came back. There were other places that could become a home; places more accepting, more aesthetique, more interesting, but none I had a history with. I came back to the Tribe of Darkness to watch them change. Sometimes I returned every day, sometimes I'd be gone long enough to come back to a wealth of exciting life events and news. It didn't stand out to me at the time, when I came back to find the leader of the tribe had a new son – and a dead wife. As the boy, named Blumière in his mother's last moments, grew up, he became increasingly fascinated by any stories I came back with. I tried to convince him, when he was old enough, that he could leave and travel too. He was duty bound, though. The Tribe of Darkness – once defined by their break with the traditional Prophet Culture of The Ancients – had developped traditions of their own which were followed unthinkingly, like lifestock on a lead being brought before the butcher. Despite his obligation, he always asked about my adventures. In hindsight, he may have considered me family. He may have loved me. If I cared for him, I didn't admit it to myself.
I know not what happened while I was gone that faithful day, only that I returned to devastation. The Tribe of Darkness had been viciously destroyed. It was not so clean an attack as my tribe's revenge; the surroundings were not spared. I must have thought it was a nightmare, the past reflected on the present to show me a terrible future, until Dimentio found me. As his father had abandoned the Dark Prognosticus to possess and guide Blumière, Dimentio was free to do about the same for me. He was not so much a mind as a knowledge base, as if he really was no more than a book now. His memory was overwhelming even to someone as long-lived as I.
'Surprise' was not an emotion I knew during the time of The Chaos Heart. Everything was as Dimentio knew it would be. I wonder if he learned through me, saw what a more normal life was like. Learned about surprise, about causation, that a domino falls because it is pushed and not merely because it was fated to fall. When his foresight finally failed, when his prediction did not come true, when the Chaos Heart was lost, the Void destroyed, the worlds saved... He was able to pass on, at long last. If he didn't learn surprise from my memories, he surely learned it then, in those last moments.
Why, though, did his vision finally fail? The Light Progonosticus was not created like its dark counterpart; the Dark Prognosticus kept no records of the past, the first page always a step ahead, so no one knew how it was made. The Light Prognosticus was written not from foresight, but from hope. Perhaps the future we fight for is more likely than the future we're resigned to. Perhaps it was a divine prank on the part of some higher power. There's likely no way to know.