Destiny
Yeah, I get it. You think you're so special. We get a few like you through here every year. I understand that you think you're divinely ordained or something, that your quest is sooooo important. But let me tell you about a local boy named Stanley so you'll understand why I'm not so impressed.
Stanley, you see, had the worst fucking sort of good luck.
When he was born, his poor peasant parents sank every silver piece they had managed to scrape together to hire the best soothgiver in the region to give Stanley a blessing. A soothgiver was very much like a soothsayer, except instead of divining the future of something, the soothgiver could supposedly define the future of something.
Generally speaking, of course, a soothgiver was successful in "defining" the future about as often as a soothsayer was in "predicting" it, which is to say, not reliably. So if we're being honest here, Stanley's parents' decision to throw all their life savings at such a person (instead of, say, continuing to save and then bequeathing it to Stanley when he was of age, so that he might have a head start on bettering his life instead of wallowing in the same downtrodden peasant shit they were going to spend their entire own lives in) has to be viewed as the sort of textbook folly that leads to tales just like this one.
However, it turned out that the regional soothgiver was one of those clocks that was *really* right twice a day, and on Stanley's particular blessing day, he was really in the zone. Something really had him all worked up and he threw himself into his soothing with an excess of vigor. He wildly waved some gestures over the baby. Then he excitedly scattered some sparkly powder over the baby. Then he eagerly intoned… shouted, really, with spittle on his lips, his eyes crazed… over the baby a string of arcane syllables, finishing with his proclamation (in perfectly understandable common speech, other than the mania): "Young boy! The eyes of destiny are upon you! For yooooooou are the one chosen to… GGKK!"
This last bit, of course, was an involuntary sound made as he clutched at his own head quite suddenly. Aneurism, don't you know. Happens to the best of us.
The soothgiver slumped to the floor. He probably would not have lived, regardless, but Stanley's parents were actually loathe to summon immediate medical help. They were starting to rethink the whole waste of their life savings, and it wasn't clear what would happen to the money if the soother lived. Would he consider services rendered and insist on keeping the money? They didn't think he'd completed the blessing, but really, it was a complicated state of affairs now and who could guess what the court would decide, if there was a lawsuit?
Fortunately (if you can call it that) they hemmed and hawed and fretted about it long enough that the soother died right there on their floor. So they kept the money and forgot all about the silly attempt at a blessing. (The money was later squandered on magic bean gambling.)
But the thing was, the old soother really had gotten the blessing going on baby Stanley, and what he had said had stuck. He'd pulled the eyes of destiny onto the newborn tot and made him the One Chosen. But… chosen for what?
Chosen for *everything*, it turned out.
By his first birthday, Stanley had already managed to escape a widespread massacre of infant boys (an attempt by the local monarch to prevent the rise of some kind of messiah) but only because he was lost at sea, orphaned, and raised on an uncharted island by wild dogs. He was rescued a year later by an exploration team sent out by a religious cult searching for the reincarnation of their death god; by the time he was walking and talking, over a hundred other people had been sacrificed to him. Then the regional militia swept in and exterminated the cult, saving him… only to come to the conclusion (something about some kind of magical fairy dust count?) that he was an exceptionally skilled magical warrior who was meant to yadda yadda yadda and so on for his entire goddamn life.
Seriously. He was constantly finding himself, like, chased through some ancient shithole of a town by shadowy forces, and the only weapon to defend himself with was a sword stuck in a churchyard altar, but oops, pulling it out suddenly meant you were going to be the king of every shithole town all the way to the horizon. Yay. Or he'd be trying to just have a nice quiet day to himself in the countryside when some fallen angel would crash to the earth in white light and fire and hand him a ring that would save all of humanity's souls if (for fuck sake) it were only used right by the one meant to wield it. Whenever he experienced some kind of accident, he wouldn't just get hurt or learn a valuable lesson about safety. Oh, no. It always had to somehow miraculously give him a power that was going to save a village or a kingdom or a princess or some fucking thing and everyone would find out and come clamoring for their chosen one. Their chosen one. Their chosen one.
He had a to-do list of prophesies as long as his arm. Every time he went to the doctor for a check-up, they'd find some new birthmark or scar shaped like a dragon or a spiral or, whatever, it didn't matter, it was always something. Always. Yet another destiny to add to the list. He considered suicide for a while, until a sage friend of his pointed out how many prophesies were out there regarding "the one who destroyed himself and then returned purified". Fucking hell. Even death was probably no way out.
So that was Stanley, then. Year after year, picking up destiny after destiny, no matter where he went, no matter what he did. For all I know, he's still out there. The most miserable son of a bitch that the universe has ever smiled on.
And compared to him, whatever destiny you think is shining down on your ass is peanuts. So take a number and wait 'til you're called, like everyone else.
------
For consideration: if you wait long enough maybe everyone gets a turn holding the magic sword
Stanley, you see, had the worst fucking sort of good luck.
When he was born, his poor peasant parents sank every silver piece they had managed to scrape together to hire the best soothgiver in the region to give Stanley a blessing. A soothgiver was very much like a soothsayer, except instead of divining the future of something, the soothgiver could supposedly define the future of something.
Generally speaking, of course, a soothgiver was successful in "defining" the future about as often as a soothsayer was in "predicting" it, which is to say, not reliably. So if we're being honest here, Stanley's parents' decision to throw all their life savings at such a person (instead of, say, continuing to save and then bequeathing it to Stanley when he was of age, so that he might have a head start on bettering his life instead of wallowing in the same downtrodden peasant shit they were going to spend their entire own lives in) has to be viewed as the sort of textbook folly that leads to tales just like this one.
However, it turned out that the regional soothgiver was one of those clocks that was *really* right twice a day, and on Stanley's particular blessing day, he was really in the zone. Something really had him all worked up and he threw himself into his soothing with an excess of vigor. He wildly waved some gestures over the baby. Then he excitedly scattered some sparkly powder over the baby. Then he eagerly intoned… shouted, really, with spittle on his lips, his eyes crazed… over the baby a string of arcane syllables, finishing with his proclamation (in perfectly understandable common speech, other than the mania): "Young boy! The eyes of destiny are upon you! For yooooooou are the one chosen to… GGKK!"
This last bit, of course, was an involuntary sound made as he clutched at his own head quite suddenly. Aneurism, don't you know. Happens to the best of us.
The soothgiver slumped to the floor. He probably would not have lived, regardless, but Stanley's parents were actually loathe to summon immediate medical help. They were starting to rethink the whole waste of their life savings, and it wasn't clear what would happen to the money if the soother lived. Would he consider services rendered and insist on keeping the money? They didn't think he'd completed the blessing, but really, it was a complicated state of affairs now and who could guess what the court would decide, if there was a lawsuit?
Fortunately (if you can call it that) they hemmed and hawed and fretted about it long enough that the soother died right there on their floor. So they kept the money and forgot all about the silly attempt at a blessing. (The money was later squandered on magic bean gambling.)
But the thing was, the old soother really had gotten the blessing going on baby Stanley, and what he had said had stuck. He'd pulled the eyes of destiny onto the newborn tot and made him the One Chosen. But… chosen for what?
Chosen for *everything*, it turned out.
By his first birthday, Stanley had already managed to escape a widespread massacre of infant boys (an attempt by the local monarch to prevent the rise of some kind of messiah) but only because he was lost at sea, orphaned, and raised on an uncharted island by wild dogs. He was rescued a year later by an exploration team sent out by a religious cult searching for the reincarnation of their death god; by the time he was walking and talking, over a hundred other people had been sacrificed to him. Then the regional militia swept in and exterminated the cult, saving him… only to come to the conclusion (something about some kind of magical fairy dust count?) that he was an exceptionally skilled magical warrior who was meant to yadda yadda yadda and so on for his entire goddamn life.
Seriously. He was constantly finding himself, like, chased through some ancient shithole of a town by shadowy forces, and the only weapon to defend himself with was a sword stuck in a churchyard altar, but oops, pulling it out suddenly meant you were going to be the king of every shithole town all the way to the horizon. Yay. Or he'd be trying to just have a nice quiet day to himself in the countryside when some fallen angel would crash to the earth in white light and fire and hand him a ring that would save all of humanity's souls if (for fuck sake) it were only used right by the one meant to wield it. Whenever he experienced some kind of accident, he wouldn't just get hurt or learn a valuable lesson about safety. Oh, no. It always had to somehow miraculously give him a power that was going to save a village or a kingdom or a princess or some fucking thing and everyone would find out and come clamoring for their chosen one. Their chosen one. Their chosen one.
He had a to-do list of prophesies as long as his arm. Every time he went to the doctor for a check-up, they'd find some new birthmark or scar shaped like a dragon or a spiral or, whatever, it didn't matter, it was always something. Always. Yet another destiny to add to the list. He considered suicide for a while, until a sage friend of his pointed out how many prophesies were out there regarding "the one who destroyed himself and then returned purified". Fucking hell. Even death was probably no way out.
So that was Stanley, then. Year after year, picking up destiny after destiny, no matter where he went, no matter what he did. For all I know, he's still out there. The most miserable son of a bitch that the universe has ever smiled on.
And compared to him, whatever destiny you think is shining down on your ass is peanuts. So take a number and wait 'til you're called, like everyone else.
------
For consideration: if you wait long enough maybe everyone gets a turn holding the magic sword