Ghostly Visions
There are times the Fool feels as though she consists of nothing more than a blurry superposition of everything she's done before, repeated out of muscle memory and habit, a dust bunny stickily accreted out of déjà vu.
It is bizarre, in this dull and staticky state of mind, to find herself thinking about the future. It's eras since she believed in any future to bother thinking of; just these same onion-skin habituated ruts, wearing deeper and deeper and deeper.
What has she had to think forward to? The princess and Ser Glorie and the spire and things always the same until entropy or reality's ragged unravelled edge finally, finally finish them.
It makes her feel slightly insane. It makes her feel as if there are biochemical machineries in her brain which have lain dormant, and she can feel cold chemical neurotransmissions leaking and dripping along them, waking up her ability to imagine new things happening.
New things! Not yet happening, but imagined, and oh, that's somehow even stranger? Being sure that things are going to happen, and speculatively conjuring them in the privacy of her own brain — it's like hallucinating. Unspeakably weird that once she took it for granted! That it was normal! Phantom fictive simulations of tomorrows in which — in which — she does and says things and does not already know every possible variation on the response from a million dress rehearsals.
Like tectonic plates, friction-locked and straining to slide against each other, they have all appeared stationary, only waiting for the day when their mutual friction is not enough, and things have finally, pent up, slipped.
Earthquake.
The princess looks stunned and terrified, as though any shift in their uneasy triangle will leave her abandoned; the knight just stunned, as though it had never occurred to her to be wanted.
They are all fools, all three of them, and the Fool is standing in the future's doorway, shaking with anticipation at the visions of all-new mistakes she'll make.