It had known this day was coming. Had known since the moment it's axe came down on the head of it's dying predecessor, the moment it saw everything that ever was and ever would be.
It had not known his face until the vanishingly short few years before he would take its place, the same as it and many before it had done time and time again. He was young, and he would not age much in the time before he would make his attempt on their life. What a terrible thing— it always seems to be those who are young taking up this mantle, forever tainting their lives with it.
Such things are avoidable, of course. Many have done so before, locking themselves in compounds built in terror and instating centuries-long rules that left entire hemispheres in chaos when they inevitably fell.
He is approaching now. This one is not accompanied with a merry band of heroes like that it's predecessor gathered.
It's predecessor and her companions had been seeking out one of the ruler-types who hid behind endless waves of guards, and to watch it play out from that one's eyes confirms as such. It did not deny its own cowardice, and when the time came, it flailed pathetically in a desperate attempt to save its own life.
Clearly, it had not worked. She, their predecessor, had succeeded in taking her place as one of many Observers.
She had known when it was coming to take her place, too. In fact, it wasn't the first to try— though she had preferred escape over murder, when it came to preserving her own life. An uncommon choice— death of a potential successor is, after all, the most simple and straightforward way to prevent them from simply tracking you down again.
Oh, but she was sneaky. She had used her knowledge to avoid wherever it was that her next successor would appear. She would even directly intervene to change the course of any who even resembled what wisps of the next threat appeared in her mind. She crossed continents and leveled mountains— she would have done anything to keep her status. To keep her power.
It did not hold much respect for her strategies, but if nothing else, she was certainly dedicated.
Death, however, is inevitable. It sits patiently at the end of the road, it stares back at Observers when they look forth, no matter what it is that they do. Wether it be twenty minutes or a hundred years, they will walk along the winding paths of time to meet Death and take its hand.
It had found its predecessor already dying. A cave-in had pinned her during the aforementioned leveling of mountains. It had thought her long gone already, but her eyes followed their every movement. She never spoke to them. When it dug into her past— into her mind, it had found that she had left a long, rambling message for it in her thoughts.
A hateful message, undoubtedly. She hated what it represented, hated that there would be no glory for her, no hero to take her down in a dramatic battle, no legends of her bravery, of her prowess. Despite the cowardice of the Observer she had ripped her power from, the rumors twisted, as such stories tend to do, and it became an hours-long battle between her and them, the plucky hero and the powerful tyrant that had once ruled the lands.
Of course, that's where those stories always ended. The hero vanished into the changing, healing world. Nobody likes when a story ends with "and then the hero did the very same thing as the original tyrant." It's not as catchy as a retirement on some farm somewhere or dying from injuries shortly after the battle, surrounded by companions who fought alongside them, or even protecting some small, remote village to this very day.
"Observers" as a concept were foreign to it, when it took power from her. It did not follow the stories that were passed about, did not whisper about strangers who wandered into town knowing just a little too much and scolded those who did.
Most of those weren't Observers, of course. It had scoured through memory after memory— the only one in its lifetime to pass through that little town had been its predecessor. It didn't know if that made it feel better or worse, for the townsfolk spoke of her more than they had any before. Even those it considered to be wise had begun to whisper of divinity hidden below the surface, and it had admonished them just the same.
It never returned home, once it had put down it's predecessor. It had known there was no saving her from the moment it saw her. To bleed out was no way to die, even for someone like her who hated it so very much.
It had said it was so, so sorry.
The recluse types often left things behind, but it was rare for such things to remain intact. Many took to burying their homes, to creating distant fortresses only one other would ever see. It would consider itself of these types, though it did not consider its home a fortress. It was a library— a repository. What was to be done with it would be left to its successor.
It surfaced from its thoughts at the creak of a grand door.
He stood there, small and scared, holding a well-loved sword before him. He clearly had no formal training with it— it could have knocked the weapon aside with little struggle. But despite this, he was clearly smart. He came prepared for an attack, in spite of his clear fear, and it could not blame him for it— so, so many took to defending their power with violence.
Long ago, it had resolved it would die quietly. Politely. It would not scour the lands for those to murder or redirect, it would not grasp onto power and order armies to destroy a single group of children.
Would not flee and flee and flee until it ran out of earth to run on and the world decided to keep it still so that it may welcome death when it finally came knocking.
It inclined its head ever so slightly at it's successor. His approach was slow, and he would not sit at the offered open seat across from it. It preferred that he did not, really. It would not want to guilt him into rethinking this. It had waited so long.
Never had it been suited for this position. He, however, was as close to perfect as he could be. He knew of the fantastical— he wielded it and protected others where he could, even if he did so clumsily, with more brute force than grace. He understood the weight of such a thing, of the inherent threat that came with it.
He was of a species that was, rarely, born with such things. They lived primarily in darkness, scattered and often even hostile to the powerful dreamers that would appear and disappear in their ranks. Their birth was rare, but for one to reach adulthood was unheard of.
If it killed him, if it ran to where he could not follow, it was unlikely it would find another like him.
His reign would last long. Wether it was of a kind reign or not was not of it to judge— many would agree to the statement, but others would hiss the opposite. He would use what he gained here well— from what it could tell, its halls of knowledge would even survive. Others would walk it, amazed and whispering to each other of the contents.
He was speaking, his voice shaking and weapon held high. It found it did not particularly care for what he had to say. It already knew, after all.
It closed the book that had sat before it— it hadn't been reading, of course, but it did well to keep props around rather than sitting in silence when others were around. It hoped that he would remember this, when he returned home after this.
There was no need for long mental letters to him— a physical one sat hidden on its shelves. To find it would be his first test, and he would pass easily, finding it within the hour.
Perhaps he would keep that, add it to the collection already housed here that he would decide deserved to be seen by eyes other than his own. If he did look back on it— back on this moment, it hoped that he would know that it did not fault him for this. It hoped that he knew he was forgiven, and it understood.
It knew he would, for it had seen that it would be so. It had felt what it was like to hesitantly touch the parchment with his hands, to duck in expectation of some trap to blow his head off, for it couldn't have been that easy, it just couldn't.
What he failed to see was that this was not easy at all. It thought that it wanted to run, like so many others had done before. The self-preservation that makes its home at the core of any being is a difficult thing to battle, and yet it does, sitting patiently before its successor. Is it him now, that looks through its eyes and thinks these things, or is it?
It thought that it did not want to die.
The sword came down, and it no longer thought of much anything of all.