Prologue
A dark, cluttered workshop was filled with strange contraptions and piled high with worn books and handwritten notes. There was barely enough room to breathe comfortably among the tottering piles threatening to fall over at any moment, never mind work, but the owner of the place managed.
The owner bent over a large stretch of heavy yellow paper -parchment, strangely enough- and was muttering to themselves. "You've left me with no choice," the person grumbled irritably. It was not clear as to whom the owner was speaking to, as they were the only person in the workshop. Perhaps they were speaking to an invisible spectator, or perhaps God? Regardless of any audience, seen or unseen, the owner continued to toil away.
A old fashioned quill, heavy with ink, danced delicately across the off-white surface. A unidentifiable color, neither black nor indigo nor violet, a color that was darker than the shadows at midnight, bleed onto the smooth paper. Slowly but surely, a strange pentagram filled with scores of old runes was born from nothing.
"That should do it," the sole occupant of the workshop said when they were finally satisfied with their work. The genderless owner placed the worn quill back into its cup before gently blowing on the gleaming ink so it would dry quicker. They glanced at a nearby calendar that was pinned to the wall. It proclaimed December 8, 1980 in neat print. To the left of it, a window set deep into the stone wall showed a dark sky and gentle flurries of snow drifting past.
"A cold day for a cold decision," the person snorted, self despicably, turning away once they saw the weather. "But is it a cold decision when I just want a blasted vacation away from everybody? I don't think so."
Fingers trailed across the smooth spine of delicate silver contraptions and the surface of thick tomes that would soon be gathering dust. "I've already said my goodbyes to those who care. All that's left is you."
Fingers dropped away, clutching the edges of clothes. Lips turned down at the corners, frowning minutely. "I've asked for guidance- multiple times, if you do recall- but you never answered. You have no one to blame but yourself." the owner chastised the air.
But as if to provide a counter to the heavy emotion filling the room, lips then curled into a obscenely amused grin. "They won't rest until they find me. I wish them luck, because they won't see hide nor hair of me for the next few decades!" the figure chortled.
Dawn light spilled into the workshop, illuminating all that it touched with golden light.
"Here we go!" the admittedly strange, and quite possibly mad, person cheered. But then, the pentagram on the parchment started to glow. Every line and graceful curve drawn with the utmost care shone bright with a inner light. It was strange, it was otherworldly, it was quite possibly magical.
And then the light died. The owner vanished along with the glow – without a trace, as if they had evaporated into thin air! Magic indeed.
The twittering of birds filled the otherwise silent shop with music. The dawns bright rays did not fade, merely grew with the passage of time. Dust modes began to settle on books with nothing stirring the air to continue their flight. A pair of spiders started to spin a web between an old broom and the back wall, where the light didn't reach. Somehow they instinctively knew that no one would disturb the crowded workshop for a very, very long time.
But then a faint presence appeared, felt in the echo of a warm summer breeze. It drifted through the workshop, piles swaying dangerously as it passed. The presence did not stop, however, until it reached the runic diagram which was all that remained of whatever ritual the owner had concocted to aid their escape. It caught on fire without any visible prompting, the parchment curling into ash as the presence vanished.
The workshop was undisturbed once more.
)Line Break(
Miles and miles away, in a metropolitan town dusted with the first snowfall of winter, a stillborn baby that was previously unresponsive took her first breath. The doctors and nurses were baffled, for there was no scientific explanation that could accurately summarize the phenomenon. The baby was dead as a doornail one second, then was alive, rosy cheeked and screaming at the heavens the next. "It's a miracle, couldn't be anything else." the more religiously inclined claimed.
The new mother, still painfully weak from the difficult labor, was confused as well, but was more willing to let go of the situation than most. She was alive, her child was alive, and that's all that mattered. She looked at her child, her first and only, and smiled gently. "You are Sandhya Rame," the young woman whispered. "You are mine. My miracle baby."
)Line break(
Three ancient ladies, wrinkled by time, sat in a space between dimensions in from of a magnificent loom without end. They were doing what they usually did; Clotho was creating strings of various varieties, Lanchesis was measuring each strings length as she knit them into the tapestry of Life, and Atropos was cutting strings where they were due. The sisters were not speaking- Clotho thanked Chaos for small mercies, because her sisters arguments could get vicious- as they worked. It was normal, systematic, comforting in the easy way the trio worked around each other.
It was also a bit dull.
That was before Atropos inhaled sharply, the release of breath a venomous warning hiss. "Sister..."
Clotho winched microscopically, that tone did not bode well for the continuation of a (relatively) peaceful silence.
"What?" Lanchesis, ever the distracted one with her perpetual knitting, didn't seem to notice the dangerous edge to Atropos's voice.
"This string," this was accented by a rough tug at a grey string that was still to short to affect much (Clotho felt a ephemeral twinge of pity for the infant who wouldn't even get a chance to breathe before it died; and then a stronger surge of confusion, as to why Atropos was bringing it to their attention and not just cutting it), "stop repairing it."
Lanchesis slowly blinked her milky eyes, turning away from the tapestry to Atropos and the string she held up. "At any other time you would be right, but I am not giving second chances out now." the weaver said mildly.
"Don't lie," Atropos gnashed her teeth together in barely constrained fury. "How else would it re-knit itself?" To drive her point home, she lifted huge double bladed sheers and snipped the cord neatly. But before the sisters eyes, the string repaired itself, fibers knitting back together until there was no sign of previous damage.
"Please, tell me. Explain how a string could rejuvenate itself without help."
Clotho's attention was not on the budding argument swelling between her sisters, but on the string still clutched in Atropos's fist. Now that she was looking closely, she recognized the string. She had created it not to long ago to symbolize the life of a new, rather unique demigod -
And under Clotho's horrified gaze, the string shifted from its solemn grey to a glittering, bright silver gold.
"UNDER MY DOMAIN." a strident voice boomed, interrupting whatever sharp resort Lanchesis formulated. A presence, the same presence from the workshop, appeared but now it was almost blinding in its radiance. It didn't bring to mind picnics in the park and fluffy clouds in a blue sky. It was a whirlwind, a storm coming to a boil over the ocean, a thundering hurricane that was as beautiful as it was destructive.
The three sisters were cowered. But as quickly and suddenly as it appeared, the majestic presence vanished. It left the expanse they sat in feeling rather underwhelming, despite the leagues and leagues of hand knit tapestry surrounding the trio on every side.
The three sisters exchanged looks thick with meaning. Even Atropos, who was seconds away from breathing fire before the arrival, was silent, her face devoid of color. The encounter had shaken them all.
"Well," Lanchesis said slowly, drawing out the word as she carefully took the silvery strand from Atrops's weak grip. "Now we now who to blame." Lanchesis didn't look at her sisters as she knit the glittering strand into the tapestry of life, a strand there that wasn't there before.
Clotho turned back to her own spinning, her own creating. Already the colors and patterns and textures she could see in her mind's eye symbolizing lives in the future were shifting like the unstoppable tide. The future was changing. Clotho didn't know if it was for the better, or for the worse.
"It will be fun testing this new demigod!" Lanchesis crackled from her side. "Such fun I haven't had in centuries."