The Threads of Fate
By The Keeper of the Spatulas
PROLOGUE.
The rich scent of orchids floats past. Branches hang downward, limp and dejected, as if to encounter the rich earth from which they sprung; they stir faintly in the restless breeze. Weary and aged, they seem in this light, and full of patient understanding; wait! you imagine them to cry silently, as centuries pass, lingering for a fleeting second before leaping away -
Pale, early-morning sunlight filters through the canopy of leaves, dappling the soil below; the fruits of the trees hold a mellow gleam in this light. The crooning call of a bird undertones the whispering of the trees, as the perfumed breeze wanders its unknown paths of the jungle. All seems well, in this pocket of the universe.
But something is different.
A badger lifts his head, momentarily disturbed in his closed-off burrow; he sniffs the air. With a rustle, a flock of macaws alight from a branch as one; their colours fan out against the sky, shattering the continuous blue for a single instant. They sense it; they sense that something is wrong.
For the wind is changing.
*
In another plane of time and space, rain falls furiously upon a small village. The gloom rapidly descends as stormclouds cluster thickly; and lightning zips through the air, momentarily giving the thatched houses an eerie glow. Two figures run through the pelting drops, hoods pulled tightly over their heads; one clutches a basket covered with a cloth. The larger and stronger figure seems to draw ahead - briefly, they turn around to the smaller.
'Freda!' they call; 'Hurry - you will catch a chill!'
'I caaaan't, Eothain,' Freda whines, stumbling and shivering with cold; 'The bread is soaked through - and we have not reached even halfway home yet ... '
Eothain sighs - you can see already that he will soon be a man, and at the moment considers escorting his younger sister to the fair a lowly task.
'Freda, we are late enough as it is,' he says firmly, stopping for a moment and taking hold of his sister's dripping hand, 'And to make matters worse, we are cold and wet.' He hesitates for a moment, and then crouches down in the rain, looking straight into his sister's eyes. 'You must keep up, Freda. Mother will be worried already, and it will take at least half an hour to get home again in this weather.'
He feels so responsible now, a true brother to his little sister (and doesn't she look so tiny and defenceless, shivering in the rain with the drops falling off the end of her nose?) - Mother would be proud of him at this moment, he knows. But how would they get home in time, with Freda in this state ...
And then a sudden idea occurs to him - just as suddenly as the responsible part of him rejects it. And yet it is suspended there, oh, so temptingly, in his mind; and he is free to grasp it, if he wishes -
Again, he hesitates, then carries on falteringly; ' - Unless you would take the shortcut ...?'
The question hangs in the air for a moment - both Eothain and Freda know they are forbidden to even set foot in the woods, and yet the option of cutting through the sheltering trees is quite appealing, to say the least. But -
'No, Eothain,' says Freda, shaking her little head, 'We cannot. Mother warned us not to.'
'But Freda,' parries Eothain, the idea becoming all the more attractive for Freda's blunt denial, 'Mother will never know - we simply tell her we left the fair a little earlier ... ' You can see it in his eyes now; he has convinced himself, and Freda is close to it too. '...And wouldn't you want to get out of the rain, Freda? We will be home in no time. Mother will have built up a fire, and we shall be warm.'
He stands himself upright again, cheeks flushed in spite of the rain, beginning to walk determinedly off the path. At the edge, he turns back, looking at his sister. 'Come, Freda.'
She stands there for a moment, torn between the words of her mother and the resolution of her older brother; the safe path and the unknown shortcut. And then, she looks up, and sees her brother's kindly face smiling at her encouragingly; she quietly fingers the pretty blue ribbon in her pocket that he has bought her at the fair, and her little mind makes itself up. Trustingly, she holds out her hand to her brother, and he grasps it. He winks at her; so she smiles back. Tightening Freda's hood, he steps backward to take a look at her - then he smiles, and takes her hand again, and together they walk unhurriedly through the houses. They reach the forest, looking at eachother once more, - but do they not notice that the rain is lessening, and the wind is changing? - step forward into the gloom of the forest, and are soon lost from sight between the intertwining tree trunks and branches.
The leaves and branches shift, and rustle; the rain drums down. The landscape freezes suddenly in a flash of lighting; an eerie tableau of a harsh, dark, glistening, beauty of Nature, for -
The wind is changing.
With a sigh, the fickle breeze playfully works its way through the myriads of worlds, its consequences unrealised as it carelessly sets the scene for the toppling of civilizations, groundbreaking discoveries; it is a winding ball of yarn that dodges and twists, unknowingly spinning the fate of the millions of lives in every world that exists. The ultimate woven creation it will result in is at the moment but a figment; a slight idea in the minds of philosophers and seers, scattered amongst the many worlds.
But the one who controls it: He knows.
*
Vera Madden looks into the mirror with a sigh, and adjusts the hat perched on her head. The veiling look has never suited her, she knows, yet being the secretary of the manager of the prestigious Bradshaw & Co. Shipping Agencies demands a certain look of polished refinery.
She traces the line of the wave of hair she has managed to curl on her forehead, then picks up her earrings and resignedly begins to slot her pearl studs in her pierced ears. The veiling over the brim of her flowerpot shaped hat splits her vision into hundreds of minute diamonds, and she squints through, feeling shortsighted. She slips the earrings in, scrutinizing her reflection critically - powdered face, chestnut-brown locks, brown eyes, Cupid's-bow painted mouth, rouged cheeks - then, for the fourth time that morning, pronounces the effect unsatisfactory. And another day of work ahead of her, too - tapping at that typewriter that always stuck at the most inopportune moments; and with that Mr. Bradshaw, the pompous hedgehog ...
What does that Ingrid Bergman have that I don't? she thinks crossly, as she jerks her bureau draw open, scrabbling for bobby pins. I can act as well as any of them - why is it me who's the dratted secretary to - to that snotty- nosed shipping firm!
She casts her mind back to the money she spent at the acting school over those three long, hard years; star-struck eyes firmly fastened on a bright future, her name surrounded by flashing lights among Ginger Rogers' and Vivien Leigh's - how long ago those years seem now! She is suddenly struck with the inexplicable urge to screw up her face and wail - oh, the unfairness of it all! The frustration! - she jams the draw shut, and begins to quickly and irritably pin her hair up in an entirely different style. If only - if only ... and she sighs, knowing she is but another disillusioned female of the 1930's, in that dirty, smoking city of London.
'Vera!' trills an artificially high voice from her doorway suddenly, 'You're up so awfully early! Where on earth are you going at this time?'
Vera doesn't need to look around - she already knows it will be her flatmate, Arabella. She groans inwardly, knowing this will be just about the icing on the cake for her morning.
Vera checks her feelings, plasters a delighted smile on her face, and turns around. 'Arabella, darling!' she exclaims, laughing a tinkling, insincere laugh, 'I'm just getting ready for work, as you see - Mr. Bradshaw does like his workers to have an early start to the day ...' She smiles, flashing her white teeth, then turns her back on Arabella dismissively, hoping against hope that she will return to the bedroom and organise her hair-ribbons, or something as equally attention-demanding.
But today, Arabella is not to be shaken off so easily. She floats up to the dressing-table, and perches on the cushioned stool next to Vera.
'Darling, is everything alright? You do look so terribly down today,' she inquires flutteringly, looking concerned.
A jellyfish, Vera thinks suddenly, she's a jellyfish if I ever saw one. Floating along, fragilely and innocently - and then before you know it, she's lashed out at you with those venomous tentacles.
She feels a laugh bubbling inside her at the image, but instead glances at Arabella's wide blue eyes and curled blonde hair (How is it so perfect! She's only just got out of bed!), face impassive, continuing to powder-puff her face with great precision all the while.
'Oh, I don't know, dear,' Vera replies, mock-heavily, moving onto a touch of eyeliner: 'It's probably just life. You know how it is.' She winks conspiratorially, and, putting the pencil down, settles her hat down on her head and picks up her bag. 'Must rush, darling, I'll be late for work. I'll see you this evening - do have a good day!'
Arabella stands, mouth open, objecting; 'But Vera, we've hardly even - '
Vera smiles quickly and cheerfully ('Goodbye, dear!'), and with a wave, is out the door, down the flight of stone steps and onto the street as quick and fresh as a spring breeze.
She walks briskly, heart still thumping at her brave escape; she tucks a few stray hairs behind her ear, and walks with a spring in her step - for she has defeated Medusa, and, at that moment, considers herself a qualified Perseus.
*
For the threads of fate have created a fabric in which the lives and fates of these people are woven and overlapping; and this story is of a particular incident in which these few are able to transcend the barriers of time and space, to fill out the path prepared for them.
And then, there are the alternate paths. The worlds which fill out the paths of the 'what if ...?'s - the ones that split off the main paths at their turning points. The branches of reality which are never fully explored, but exist all the same. This tale is of two worlds which connect and reflect eachother through the weaving, and their alternatives.
For who knows what the threads of Fate have in store?
NB: This is my first fic - I had a few problems with the formatting in this. Does anyone know how to italic and line break? On the other hand, if you've got any constructive criticism, don't hesitate to review! Please keep in mind - I was twelve when I started scribbling down the ideas to this fic, and thirteen now I'm putting them down on paper. * grins * Thanks! (KoS)
By The Keeper of the Spatulas
PROLOGUE.
The rich scent of orchids floats past. Branches hang downward, limp and dejected, as if to encounter the rich earth from which they sprung; they stir faintly in the restless breeze. Weary and aged, they seem in this light, and full of patient understanding; wait! you imagine them to cry silently, as centuries pass, lingering for a fleeting second before leaping away -
Pale, early-morning sunlight filters through the canopy of leaves, dappling the soil below; the fruits of the trees hold a mellow gleam in this light. The crooning call of a bird undertones the whispering of the trees, as the perfumed breeze wanders its unknown paths of the jungle. All seems well, in this pocket of the universe.
But something is different.
A badger lifts his head, momentarily disturbed in his closed-off burrow; he sniffs the air. With a rustle, a flock of macaws alight from a branch as one; their colours fan out against the sky, shattering the continuous blue for a single instant. They sense it; they sense that something is wrong.
For the wind is changing.
*
In another plane of time and space, rain falls furiously upon a small village. The gloom rapidly descends as stormclouds cluster thickly; and lightning zips through the air, momentarily giving the thatched houses an eerie glow. Two figures run through the pelting drops, hoods pulled tightly over their heads; one clutches a basket covered with a cloth. The larger and stronger figure seems to draw ahead - briefly, they turn around to the smaller.
'Freda!' they call; 'Hurry - you will catch a chill!'
'I caaaan't, Eothain,' Freda whines, stumbling and shivering with cold; 'The bread is soaked through - and we have not reached even halfway home yet ... '
Eothain sighs - you can see already that he will soon be a man, and at the moment considers escorting his younger sister to the fair a lowly task.
'Freda, we are late enough as it is,' he says firmly, stopping for a moment and taking hold of his sister's dripping hand, 'And to make matters worse, we are cold and wet.' He hesitates for a moment, and then crouches down in the rain, looking straight into his sister's eyes. 'You must keep up, Freda. Mother will be worried already, and it will take at least half an hour to get home again in this weather.'
He feels so responsible now, a true brother to his little sister (and doesn't she look so tiny and defenceless, shivering in the rain with the drops falling off the end of her nose?) - Mother would be proud of him at this moment, he knows. But how would they get home in time, with Freda in this state ...
And then a sudden idea occurs to him - just as suddenly as the responsible part of him rejects it. And yet it is suspended there, oh, so temptingly, in his mind; and he is free to grasp it, if he wishes -
Again, he hesitates, then carries on falteringly; ' - Unless you would take the shortcut ...?'
The question hangs in the air for a moment - both Eothain and Freda know they are forbidden to even set foot in the woods, and yet the option of cutting through the sheltering trees is quite appealing, to say the least. But -
'No, Eothain,' says Freda, shaking her little head, 'We cannot. Mother warned us not to.'
'But Freda,' parries Eothain, the idea becoming all the more attractive for Freda's blunt denial, 'Mother will never know - we simply tell her we left the fair a little earlier ... ' You can see it in his eyes now; he has convinced himself, and Freda is close to it too. '...And wouldn't you want to get out of the rain, Freda? We will be home in no time. Mother will have built up a fire, and we shall be warm.'
He stands himself upright again, cheeks flushed in spite of the rain, beginning to walk determinedly off the path. At the edge, he turns back, looking at his sister. 'Come, Freda.'
She stands there for a moment, torn between the words of her mother and the resolution of her older brother; the safe path and the unknown shortcut. And then, she looks up, and sees her brother's kindly face smiling at her encouragingly; she quietly fingers the pretty blue ribbon in her pocket that he has bought her at the fair, and her little mind makes itself up. Trustingly, she holds out her hand to her brother, and he grasps it. He winks at her; so she smiles back. Tightening Freda's hood, he steps backward to take a look at her - then he smiles, and takes her hand again, and together they walk unhurriedly through the houses. They reach the forest, looking at eachother once more, - but do they not notice that the rain is lessening, and the wind is changing? - step forward into the gloom of the forest, and are soon lost from sight between the intertwining tree trunks and branches.
The leaves and branches shift, and rustle; the rain drums down. The landscape freezes suddenly in a flash of lighting; an eerie tableau of a harsh, dark, glistening, beauty of Nature, for -
The wind is changing.
With a sigh, the fickle breeze playfully works its way through the myriads of worlds, its consequences unrealised as it carelessly sets the scene for the toppling of civilizations, groundbreaking discoveries; it is a winding ball of yarn that dodges and twists, unknowingly spinning the fate of the millions of lives in every world that exists. The ultimate woven creation it will result in is at the moment but a figment; a slight idea in the minds of philosophers and seers, scattered amongst the many worlds.
But the one who controls it: He knows.
*
Vera Madden looks into the mirror with a sigh, and adjusts the hat perched on her head. The veiling look has never suited her, she knows, yet being the secretary of the manager of the prestigious Bradshaw & Co. Shipping Agencies demands a certain look of polished refinery.
She traces the line of the wave of hair she has managed to curl on her forehead, then picks up her earrings and resignedly begins to slot her pearl studs in her pierced ears. The veiling over the brim of her flowerpot shaped hat splits her vision into hundreds of minute diamonds, and she squints through, feeling shortsighted. She slips the earrings in, scrutinizing her reflection critically - powdered face, chestnut-brown locks, brown eyes, Cupid's-bow painted mouth, rouged cheeks - then, for the fourth time that morning, pronounces the effect unsatisfactory. And another day of work ahead of her, too - tapping at that typewriter that always stuck at the most inopportune moments; and with that Mr. Bradshaw, the pompous hedgehog ...
What does that Ingrid Bergman have that I don't? she thinks crossly, as she jerks her bureau draw open, scrabbling for bobby pins. I can act as well as any of them - why is it me who's the dratted secretary to - to that snotty- nosed shipping firm!
She casts her mind back to the money she spent at the acting school over those three long, hard years; star-struck eyes firmly fastened on a bright future, her name surrounded by flashing lights among Ginger Rogers' and Vivien Leigh's - how long ago those years seem now! She is suddenly struck with the inexplicable urge to screw up her face and wail - oh, the unfairness of it all! The frustration! - she jams the draw shut, and begins to quickly and irritably pin her hair up in an entirely different style. If only - if only ... and she sighs, knowing she is but another disillusioned female of the 1930's, in that dirty, smoking city of London.
'Vera!' trills an artificially high voice from her doorway suddenly, 'You're up so awfully early! Where on earth are you going at this time?'
Vera doesn't need to look around - she already knows it will be her flatmate, Arabella. She groans inwardly, knowing this will be just about the icing on the cake for her morning.
Vera checks her feelings, plasters a delighted smile on her face, and turns around. 'Arabella, darling!' she exclaims, laughing a tinkling, insincere laugh, 'I'm just getting ready for work, as you see - Mr. Bradshaw does like his workers to have an early start to the day ...' She smiles, flashing her white teeth, then turns her back on Arabella dismissively, hoping against hope that she will return to the bedroom and organise her hair-ribbons, or something as equally attention-demanding.
But today, Arabella is not to be shaken off so easily. She floats up to the dressing-table, and perches on the cushioned stool next to Vera.
'Darling, is everything alright? You do look so terribly down today,' she inquires flutteringly, looking concerned.
A jellyfish, Vera thinks suddenly, she's a jellyfish if I ever saw one. Floating along, fragilely and innocently - and then before you know it, she's lashed out at you with those venomous tentacles.
She feels a laugh bubbling inside her at the image, but instead glances at Arabella's wide blue eyes and curled blonde hair (How is it so perfect! She's only just got out of bed!), face impassive, continuing to powder-puff her face with great precision all the while.
'Oh, I don't know, dear,' Vera replies, mock-heavily, moving onto a touch of eyeliner: 'It's probably just life. You know how it is.' She winks conspiratorially, and, putting the pencil down, settles her hat down on her head and picks up her bag. 'Must rush, darling, I'll be late for work. I'll see you this evening - do have a good day!'
Arabella stands, mouth open, objecting; 'But Vera, we've hardly even - '
Vera smiles quickly and cheerfully ('Goodbye, dear!'), and with a wave, is out the door, down the flight of stone steps and onto the street as quick and fresh as a spring breeze.
She walks briskly, heart still thumping at her brave escape; she tucks a few stray hairs behind her ear, and walks with a spring in her step - for she has defeated Medusa, and, at that moment, considers herself a qualified Perseus.
*
For the threads of fate have created a fabric in which the lives and fates of these people are woven and overlapping; and this story is of a particular incident in which these few are able to transcend the barriers of time and space, to fill out the path prepared for them.
And then, there are the alternate paths. The worlds which fill out the paths of the 'what if ...?'s - the ones that split off the main paths at their turning points. The branches of reality which are never fully explored, but exist all the same. This tale is of two worlds which connect and reflect eachother through the weaving, and their alternatives.
For who knows what the threads of Fate have in store?
NB: This is my first fic - I had a few problems with the formatting in this. Does anyone know how to italic and line break? On the other hand, if you've got any constructive criticism, don't hesitate to review! Please keep in mind - I was twelve when I started scribbling down the ideas to this fic, and thirteen now I'm putting them down on paper. * grins * Thanks! (KoS)