Chapter Text
Prologue
It was an ugly thing, the thread in their hand. Ragged and kinked, knotted in some places, shorn to the barest of fibers in others. Certainly not the worst they had seen, but far from the finest.
Still, there was something about it that drew their eye. Because in spite of all of that, or perhaps as a result of it, this single strand, thin, frayed and twisted as it was, had not yet snapped. That made it remarkable, even to one such as themself, who knew the weft and weave of all the threads, and maybe that was why it stood out to them.
Ah, they thought as they tightened their hold around it. This one. As if they could forget, as if they could forget any of them. It trembled in their grasp, drew tight, tight, tight, growing ever thinner, yet still refused to break. Few could bear the weight of their gaze even once, but somehow this one merely slithered around, slid through, danced over their fingers in an attempt to escape.
As if someone ever could.
But…No, that was not quite right. If it had been merely that, it would have been cut long ago, the final snip all threads inevitably faced. Too much tugging and twisting disrupted the pattern, threatened to shear the weaving, and they could not allow that to happen. But this thread, this single solitary strand did not pull or yank, but slipped through the spaces in between instead.
Into the liminal, which should have been impossible, hiding beneath its own kinks and twists and shredded edges, the finest bit of gossamer underneath the icy detritus it was stained with.
‘Why do you keep staring at that one?’ the First asked, lifting their gaze from their spindle.
‘Because it is interesting,’ the Second, she, said.
‘So?’ the First shrugged their shoulders. But they would; that one only cared about beginnings, not what came between.
‘And you knew that, know that, about them already,’ the Third, the last of them, said. They seldom, if ever, spoke, and they too had little concern for the between; endings were their domain.
‘I do. But this one,’ the Second dangled it from her fingers, putting it on display, ‘this little one has even managed to withstand the Hydra. How long has it been since that last happened? Certainly that merits a second look.’
‘Hercules is dead,’ the Third said. ‘You know that. And that one is no Hercules.’
‘Are you so sure?’ the Second, she, asked. In fact, if she continued to stare at this little thread of life, she could see it. It had been plied to another once, a perfect tapestry of their own, inseparable as she was from her own Sisters. But it had been love, not Fate, that bound them together. And while that other thread still pulsed golden and bright, this one had been torn away, leaving it shredded and thin.
Yet somehow this tiny wisp remained unbroken. How strong you must be. How strong you are, she found herself thinking, and Maybe…Maybe…
‘You cannot give it any more,’ the First of Them said. ‘You know this.’
No, she could not. That was not her place.
‘And you cannot take from me its ending,’ the Last of Them decreed. ‘You know this too.’
And she did.
But while the First concerned themselves only with beginnings, and the Last only with endings, middles were hers to decide. Sometimes second chances could be granted if she felt so inclined. And this single thread, this little bit of cast-off string, deserved one of those if any ever did. If twined carefully enough, woven into the right pattern, it had the potential to become quite beautiful, softer than silk but just as strong.
But not to the first it been braided with. That one’s weight was too thick, too dense for this one to survive as it was. Warriors tended to walk headfirst into wars with a heavy tread, but the cloaks they wrapped around themselves seldom survived the first battle. And this one, this small and shriveled shred, would need someone softer, gentler, who could help weave its rawness into silk. Not a pattern, but a web, delicate and fine, flexible and unique, strong enough to be inescapable once complete.
In fact she knew just which string to twine with this one. They would not thank her for it, but their strand had been just as twisted and warped once. But they too had survived their own entanglement with a warrior; they would have just the right touch for this.
And they had been also punished for things not their fault and survived. Were still surviving every single day. Maybe they could earn the right to have the last of their own thread cast off, if they were willing to complete this final task.
It was time to change the pattern. Or perhaps this was the way the tapestry was always meant to be. This was her domain after all; who would know better than her?
So with a small smile, the first in a millennia of eternities, she reached out, knowing where to find the thread she was looking for, pulled, and went back to her weaving.