He stared into the distance. Into a never-ending void, an abyss that would not end, his mouth moved in a rhythmic motion, chewing on something.
The silhouettes of mounds rising and falling weakly were unclear and hazily obscured by the renewed veil of mist.
And yet he stared, his eyes wide open, unmoving, at the cruel sight before him. The wooden path he had created was disintegrating, albeit slowly.
The path out of this hell would disappear in a weak at most, and still he did not avert his gaze from the despair-inducing sight—he had not done so for a long time, and he wouldn't stop to do so… never again.
The sight somehow reminded him of his home… or what it had been built around, at the very least.
Suddenly, his motionless, broken body visibly shivered as he broke into a long, crazed… disbelieving laugh. Whatever he had been chewing swallowed without rest.
"Hma ha hu ha ha ha ha hua haaaa…"
He laughed, a true laugh, the first true laugh since so long ago, until eventually his voice gave out, a silent tear drooping down his long, dried eyes.
How did I survive that? He questioned, unsure whether the questions had answers and whether he'd ever know.
Noctis was at a loss. Everything had spun out of control so drastically at the end there.
"What a crazy world we live in isnt that right, Oro?" Noctis asked in jest, his body leaning against a branch of the golden bundle of threads weakly bound together, traveling upward. That branch was huge, as thick as the tree's trunk, which he had just brought to its knees, only growing thicker as it rose higher and higher, meeting other bundles of thread that had split below, creating their own golden branches, with their own descent.
It met more and more of such branches, eventually reuniting with the original stem to create one huge string spanning into the distance above and even beyond this realm's confines. What a truly wondrous sight, every singular string representing a person's fate, the physical manifestation of fate itself. A giant bundle of strings representing the future and past of an entire civilization is completely unraveling before his very eye.
The bundle was neither hard nor soft, its singular threads slowly unbundling and freeing themselves, as he leaned against them, his body almost immobile, the huge bloody wound at his stomach barely healed and stitched together, the slightest disturbance able to reopen it.
"Never call me that again!" Oruborus rebutted a moment later, his voice uniquely weak, yet filled with resistance. He had been affected by the struggle, it seemed.
Was he so fervently against the nickname, since it was one of the few things he had control over? After all, he named himself Oruborus.
Cooped up in the sea of threads that could barely be called Noctis' soul, had to be quite demening. Well, how could he tell how inhumane he was being treated? He doesn't know anything different. He was born into this.
Noctis lay there motionless for days, a bloody streak leading directly to the sea of black sludge, very noticeable from above.
And yet nothing came, no bird, no telepoting freak, not even the formless that had brought him to this state.
Noctis weakly ripped off a small bundle of golden thread, its golden tint weakening the moment it was severed from the greater tapestry.
Watching the threads, emitting their golden luster for a few moments, his gaze was distant. Then he opened his mouth, the scars at his lips about to buckle, held together by a few strained white threads growing out of his skin and flesh.
"Chomp."
He bit down upon it as he felt a trickle of strength return to his body. The threads holding him together and others worming through his guts started working, increasing in number, forming, and rebuilding as they began replacing and restructuring.
Nocis felt a grueling pain as he suppressed a groan, in no mood to attract the formless slumbering in the void sea in front. That unimaginable creature that slept and was merely waiting for an intruder to disrupt its territory. How Ironic it was that it, which was in itself the greatest intruder of the realm, was now waiting for other intruders to fall into its trap.
Every small and big thread sliding through his guts could be felt, like small alien organisms or parasites living in his gut. The threads encasing his colon, or what was left of it, a large part of it having been ripped out, by his own volition and the efforts of the formless. The colon started forming and rebuilding itself from the white, silky thread, replacing his human flesh with the cold, emotionless thread, which was ever-present, pulling along the course of history and restricting every living being to follow it.
While he felt parts of his flesh being sliced up to better fit his new organs, he took another bite of the golden thread, which was hard to chew and was now becoming his flesh.
It did not taste particularly good. This was normal after all, he had a human tongue and therefore a humane sense of taste. But it did fill that tearing sense of hunger he had felt for such a long time. His body was no longer starving—the craving it emanated softened with every bit.
He was combining the assimilation with the recovery of his body, since he had lost certain organs entirely.
The assimilation process of the physical body had two steps: first, removing parts like hair, skin, and nails, and then rebuilding them with one's authority. His organs being violently ripped out wasn't the most ideal way to assimilate the parts, but he did not have much of a choice in the matter.
So he simply made the best out of a bad situation.
It was part of the physical assimilation every Authority Wealder had to undergo it at some point.
Well, at least those who planned on living a long life.
Fighting off the call that would grow stronger and stronger with time was, after all, only possible to do when sufficiently strong.
As Authority wealders progressed, they had three things to worry about. The call, the processes of advancing, and, of course, the nutrition they required. The call was an irresistible pull drawing Authority wealders toward the next stage of their evolution, a whispering urge that grew stronger with time, threatening to consume those too weak to answer or control it. Advancing, meanwhile, was the arduous process of breaking through to new ranks or stages, each demanding the wielder reshape body and soul, pushing beyond human limits to embrace their Authority more completely.
The call and the advancements were the same with every Authority wielder. However, the required nutrition was a different problem, unique to every Authority.
One left the first rank after assimilating two parts of oneself. This had brought its own strength, and at the same time, new needs for his body. These needs he had so woefully neglected. The nutrition his now half conceptual body needed.
Eating the string of fate, Noctis felt his so depleted Notium reserves quickly fill, to a point they had never reached, his very lifeblood risking to overflow as it was redirected to assimilate his organs. This was only logical after all, as a beast of fate, he needed to consume the fate of others or at least part of it.
Just like an Authority wealder of mind would feed on the minds of others, or one of fear fed on fears.
With the advancement of his rank, he grew increasingly inhumane, in body and mind, which led to new nutritional needs.
And this was a literal physical manifestation of fate, the perfect meal for a creature such as him.
Pure Notium of the fate realm.
Continuing the process weakly, his strength slowly returning, Noctis closed his eyes and let his exhaustion take over.