A/N So this is my first piece of fanfiction I've published, a few notes before we begin:

This is based of an idea that I had for an original story, but it morphed into a fanfic. So yeah, there are a couple of moderately important OCs, but hopefully they'll be interesting and there will be plenty of familiar faces otherwise.

The spelling of Daemon is intentional, though it's used more like demon at first, the intent will become clear soon enough.

Amor Fati - Prologue

A storm raged through the mountains, carrying the howls and screams of Daemons. It was their night, after all. The longest night of the year, the night when the sun died and the people prayed for its return. Snowy wind raged through the pine-dotted foothills, cracking branches and sending boulders tumbling down the mountainside with an eerie, joyful laugh. Among the trees was a walled city, protected by imposing iron gates. The rough metal wound around the topmost timbers that made up the containing wall, a slight deterrence against what lurked outside the walls.

Within the iron-bound town, the houses were dark, not a gleam of candle light in any of the small windows. The wind whipped up the main street, breaking against a towering structure of wood and metal. A temple rose above the walls of the town, defiant against the wind. Above the heavy iron doors hung a spindly twelve pointed star, a symbol of unity, of devotion, of the gods' everlasting protection. Inside, the entirety of the town huddled around a priest, each holding a candle and keeping vigil until Pakram, god of the sun, would be reborn and banish the darkness and the shrieking Daemons from the winter air.

In one corner of the temple, a woman screamed. Her brow was slick with sweat and her eyes hazy with agony. She called for help, begged for someone, anyone. Her body convulsed as white hot pain shot through her lower back. She continued, voice gradually getting weaker as her blood spilled over the floor. The faithful, mere paces away, heard and flinched at every shout, but none made a move to comfort the poor, cursed woman. With a final scream, she fell silent, the silence soaking through the church like the woman's blood into the rough floorboards. The faithful kept themselves bent in prayer until dawn light began to filter through the high windows. Their collective relief was palpable. Daemon's Night was over, for an entire year, and now it was time to celebrate and drink to the return of the sun.

It was the priest who approached the woman. She was still. No breath lifted her side. The priest stared at her pitiful form, so small in death. He wondered what she had done, to receive such a fate. He turned the curse itself. He prayed that it was stillborn. He turned over the baby, so silent thus far, its umbilical cord already shriveled and disconnected. He went to lift it, brush some of its mothers blood off its forehead when it opened its — his — eyes. The priest gazed into the sky blue orbs. Horror slipped down his spine. The thing was cursed, born on the night of Daemons. He would have to take it out of the city and let the elements take care of it. It was law; it was doctrine. As if he sensed his fate, the baby began to cry. The priest washed him, dried him with a rough towel, and prepared him for his death. The boy never ceased crying, though the priest made no effort to soothe the accursed child. After the customary bath was complete, he wrapped the infant in a thin blanket and carried what must have been the loudest child in all of the mortal realm out of the city.

The priest couldn't help but admire the glitter of snow in the new sun's light. He trudged through the deep pine woods to where he could, with as little conscious as possible, leave the child to die. He laid the child to rest in a frosty clearing surrounded by thick fir trees. The snow was windblown and hard, crunching with every step the he took. He didn't think it was possible, but the baby began to weep harder. Guilt twisted the priest's heart. He could just take the child back, pretend it was a mistake. But no, he couldn't. The town relied on him. He could not inflict a Daemon child on them. Guilt burning his throat, he left the child.

The baby continued to scream as loud as he could until the sun began to set. He grew weaker, cries fading into faint hiccups. Tears frozen to his white face, he settled into silence. The moon peaked over the tops of the trees, and with it came a light laugh. The baby opened his eyes, searching for the voice. When it began to fade, he found his voice again, and began wailing. The laughter stopped. Soft hands encircled the child, cradling it to the chest of a tall woman. Despite the cold air, she wore only a light shift, belted just above her waist. It shimmered in the moonlight, a match to the silver glow. She swept a long white braid over her shoulder and shifted the baby to a more comfortable position. She cooed to the child, voice like midsummer's rain. He calmed in her arms, and stared up with his wide blue eyes. She smoothed his brow, trailing her fingers through his thin blond hair and over a small piece that decided to stick straight up. She knew what he was, a child of the Daemon's night, cursed, better off dead. But maybe, she pondered, it was worth it to make sure.

Still cradling the child, she turned on her heel and found the invisible tie to her own world, to Caelei. She stepped through the marble gateway and made her way through the mountain passes towards the dwelling of the Seer.

She wound her way to the entrance of a cave. Deep green moss huge over the opening. The baby shifted uncomfortably as the smoky cavern stung his eyes, letting out a small whimper.

A stooped man in nothing but a ragged grey robe sat with his back to the entrance, casting stones into the large fire before him. The goddess dipped her head in respect. "Circalous, you are granted the gift of Sight, I beg you—"

"Why Arlya?" said a sandpaper voice. "Why have you brought the spawn of the night to the home of the gods? He is cursed. Why didn't you leave him? That kind of filth deserves only death."

The goddess clutched the child tighter to her chest. "He's a baby! He cannot be blamed for his own birth."

The old man whipped toward the goddess. He bored into her with cataract coated eyes set deep above a crooked nose. "You felt it. The very air crackled with the black magic of the Daemons. None were left untouched, least of all this fresh life with his first breath so tainted. We've seen it over the eons, those born on the death of the sun will forever be cursed, hated, wild." He spat on the last word.

"Prove it," said Arlya, her voice quiet and cold.

"What?"

Arlya glared at him over the child, every facet of her face tight with rage. "Prove it. Look into his future. See what he is to become."

"He is naught but a monster. He is—"

"Prove it."

The god stepped down, defeated. "Your affection shall be your demise, daughter. I shall look."

The baby whimpered again. Arlya clutched him to her breast. The god of prophecy turned back to his fire. The shadows around the cave began to twist, dancing with the magic of the god. He jerked above the fire, shuddering as the fates moved through him. His voice rang through the cave:

Daemons howl and pierce our very core,

As order crumbles, Gods, your power wanes!

Now time grows dark, a breath before the war

Where Moon will spatter blood o're silent plains.

But plucked from wind-blown snows will he be brought

To mountains on the sky, to Caelei, God-home.

He shall here learn the world, and dreams, and thought,

Though whispers in the sky call his blood to roam.

A gift the gods give naught shall his guide be,

Though deep he shall fall, down to Daemon's heart.

Returned from purgatory, eyes ready to see,

He'll take up metal cold to play his part.

Against this chaos he will lead the quest:

The final vict'ry by sword of th' God-Blest.

The god sunk back down to the floor and the lights returned to normal. Though the cavern was uncomfortably warm from the fire, Circalous shook. The prophesy hummed in the air, echoing down through the cave. He knelt, trying to process what the fates had just revealed. This child? This daemon-cursed human? It couldn't be.

"It's impossible. The gods not able — the Daemons in all these years. There is no way — that piece of filth — a human of all—"

A triumphant gleam shone in Arlya's silver eyes. "Are you perhaps you suggesting you might have Seen wrong?" she said innocently.

The seer stopped his sputtering. His entire face flushed. "Insolent woman! I have Seen since the beginning ages of this earth. Never once have I been wrong. This time must be no different."

If gods were anything, they were prideful. Circalous would never admit to the possibility of his prophecy being wrong. No matter what he had thought before. The fates were never wrong. They were fates after all.

The god returned to his fire, resigned. "What will you call him?"

The goddess's eyes turned down on the boy in her arms. He had drifted to sleep, bright blue eyes tucked behind his lids. She knew he was special, though she never dreamed to this extent. He would be their savior, their hero.

"Alfred. His name will be Alfred."

A/N

AHHH! A prophesy! Fear not, I'll try to keep it as far from cliche as possible. Just stick with it?

Sorry for the lack of Hetalia characters here... None of them really seemed to fit these particular gods. Don't worry, a couple will make their debut next chapter. Any advice, ideas (any particular side plots/pairings of interest), constructive criticism and the like are loved.

Poetry is not my strength. The only poetry I can make kind of work is the super structured kind such as this sonnet. Not to mention, it took me as long to write the prophesy as it took to write the rest of this. So odds are, this is the last of my poetry for a long time.

Other than that, I'll hopefully have maps posted and linked to by tomorrow, if not, Wednesday night at the latest.