Twisting the Threads

Fate is an uncaring, fae creature. Or maybe she is not uncaring, as such, just...not in possession of the knowledge as to how to go about such an action. After all, who can she know? Who is there with whom she can become friends, or even acquaintances? Fate sits solitary and alone at her loom, weaving the patterns of the universe.

But sometimes, on rare occasion, Fate sees the individual people in her weaving. The individuals that, composed of bright colours only she can see, twist and turn through the threads of life. She watches as they cast subtle, oft-unknowing (or unwilling) influence over events (no matter how large or small those events may be). And sometimes, she can slowly begin to, if not understand them (because who can understand humanity, if even they cannot?), then to know them.

She can see the unique, the extraordinary. She sees those who are one of a kind, existing once in a century.

Those who learn how to fly.

So sometimes she decides to encourage them, and she twists the threads in her loom, so that the one she is watching over has all the luck for which they might ever wish. The dice fall their way, and happy coincidences spring up in their paths. Uncanny luck, madman's luck. It is interference, of course, and frowned upon by her kind (though they care not enough to prevent her from doing so).

But after all, what else is there for her to do? She needs to find her amusement somewhere, chained to her loom as she undeniably is (and forever will be). And meddling in the lives of humans (mere mortals that they are, they will never know) provides her that brief, passing enjoyment.

But then, sometimes (more often than one might think), she tires of her favoured children, her chosen ones. And she lets them in for a fall. Stops twisting the threads. She abandons them, ruthlessly, uncaring of their hurt, as their pleas fall upon ears that are not deaf, but simply not listening, ignoring. And then they drown, her brightly-coloured curiosities, falling beneath the surface of the waves. Slipping through the gaps in the weaving, leaving nothing behind them but ripples and memories.

But there are times, even rarer still, when she regrets letting them go. When she wishes that her chosen remained in the world (purely for her own amusement, of course). And then, maybe, that far-luckier-than-is-the-norm mortal gets a second chance. Comes back from the end of the world. Back from the dead. And, maybe, his luck comes back with him.

-end-