Inspired by the Red String of Fate myth.
Hope you enjoy :)
-Millie
The First Threads
When first they met, the time was wrong.
Or was it the place?
They passed each other like ships in the night, not even a glance shared between them.
Second they met was better.
Closer.
A different time, a different place, and – this time – a realm of possibility, of almost and maybe.
It took little but a fleeting moment – a glimpse, a flicker of awareness, brief and innocuous – but it was enough.
xxxxx
somewhere...
some place neither here nor there... where the darkest colours of our souls dwell... something, a glimmer perhaps... something begins to stir...
...there is a swift flare of light, then... nothing...
and then... a gleam of crimson... twining, ebbing, flowing in the darkness... until...
... a thread...
xxxxx
The third time... ah, just a little too late.
They met, yes, but-
It was not to be.
xxxxx
"Hey! Hey you!"
A flicker of red, a shimmer in the air, as the strand between them grew tense with awareness...
The cry carried down the quietened hallway. There was almost no one left – they'd all gone home for the day. All but her. Whoever she was.
She didn't turn.
Rolling his eyes, he made to chase down the hallway after her.
"Hey!" he tried again. "Hey!"
Still nothing. She sauntered on heedlessly.
The string began to gleam, pulling them ever closer...
He caught up to her and reached out to grab her arm.
"Hey!" he tried one last time, and this time – his proximity, his hand on her sleeve – she turned.
Pulling her brows down into an imposing frown and yanking her headphones down, she swung around to face him.
"What?"
He almost forgot what he was doing.
She wasn't beautiful, not in the safe, traditional way most pretty girls were. She had sleek dark hair, cut into a sharp bob and the most ferocious brown eyes he'd ever seen, and he stared at her for more moments than he'd have liked to admit.
Between them, the thread grew almost gold with light, willing them to cross the divide, twining itself around their wrists...
Then with a shake of his head, he gathered himself.
"Here," he said, putting something into her hand. "You dropped this."
She hadn't taken her eyes off him, but when she felt the weight of something in her hand, she looked down.
It was her wallet, small and red, vivid in her palm.
She frowned at it, and a quizzical expression crossed her brow.
Then she closed her hand around it, and shoved it into her pocket, then looked up at him again, this time curiously.
"Um... thank you," she said, her voice soft.
"Sure..." he replied. "Um... no problem."
"Yeah. So..." she murmured, looking down at her feet awkwardly. "I suppose I'll see you round."
"Yeah..." he said distantly, feeling a strange buzzing in his head. "Sure. See you round."
And then, giving him a fleeting glance, chased by a smile, she turned and carried on down the hallway, righting her headphones as she walked.
And somewhere in the air between them, unseen by either, a gleaming red thread wound and grew taut, before unravelling and then falling still.
xxxxx
Fourth time, fifth time... still no good came of it. The threads of time and fate remained tangled.
Sixth time, another close one.
And then seven.
xxxxx
Sometimes sleep came easy to her. Sometimes not.
She'd always been a difficult child, not that her mother would have admitted it.
The night was hot and she was toying with the fine, crimson band around her wrist. She'd had it for as long as she could remember, and plucking at it had always been a nervous habit.
She was sprawled out on her bed, having kicked the blankets off at least an hour ago. It was too heavy, too humid, too sticky.
But there was... a strangeness in the air. Like the kind of tension that falls before a thunderstorm.
She didn't like thunderstorms.
Still fiddling with the worn threads, she closed her eyes and tried to breathe deep and steady, but her heart was racing and she couldn't say why. Keeping her eyes closed, she tried to focus on the deep silence of the night, on the low sound of her own breath falling into the stillness of her room.
Are you there?
Her eyes flew open, the sound of her heart hammering in her ears.
Beneath her trembling fingers, the finest threads of her band began to glow, faint and flickering.
It had been a voice, barely loud enough to be heard over the thrum of her own pulse.
A boy.
Sucking in a steadying breath, she closed her eyes once more and waiting, listening, wondering...
At first, nothing happened, and she was on the verge of giving up.
But then...
I know you're still out there, I know you are... It's day 178. It feels like a long time. But you've got to come back... Just... come back, okay? I... I miss you.
And then it was gone... whatever it was, leaving her tremulous and weary and a little afraid.
That voice.
She felt... as though she knew it from somewhere...
From a dream?
No. She didn't think so.
Who was he?
She fell asleep quickly, with that question haunting her mind, and dropped into a dream that was as eerie as it was familiar, though she always struggled to remember it when she woke.
Black. All around her, and almost glaring in its intensity. And a dripping, watery sound, echoing all about her, though she could see no water. She could see, as though the blackness was lit with a kind of unseen light.
And a sense of... being somewhere that was entirely... other.
But tonight...
Tonight it was different.
There was someone here.
I know I shouldn't be doing this... But I just... I have to try. And if you can hear me, please... just give me a sign... And I know I say it every night. But I won't give up, El. I won't give up on you...
The boy.
He was here.
She looked around frantically, trying to find the source of the voice. And then... out of the corner of her eye
A flicker of scarlet...
Suddenly she saw him.
He was sitting, cross-legged on the ground, holding a walkie-talkie in his hand. He had dark, dark hair and sad eyes, and wore his dejectedness like a shield.
Taking slow, careful steps, matching them to her slow, careful breaths, she made her way over to him. He didn't seem to notice her at all. Not even when she drew right up beside him and crouched next to him on the ground.
I'll be late tomorrow. I'm going to Will's to work on our campaign. But I'll call. I promise, Eleven... Promise.
Eleven.
As soon as she heard it, her heart began to pound and she felt a stirring deep inside herself, and then – before she could stop herself – her lips formed a name that fell unbidden from her mouth.
"Mike..."
His eyes flared, and he looked around, and for a fleeting moment his eyes stilled on her. Had he seen her?
She reached out a hand to him, unaware of her own movements.
And then...
She saw his hand lift and reach out in response...
And for just a moment it seemed their hands would brush-
The fibril between them gleamed brighter than ever before and it seemed that this time it would transcend the tapestry of space and time which separated them...
And then, she woke. Her pulse in her throat, and the faint tracks of tears on her cheek, tangled in blankets and rapidly dwindling memory...
xxxxx
Eight and nine were promising, and ten was a write off.
There would have been a beautiful kind of elegance if it had been the eleventh time, but life is rarely as neat as that.
Is it?
xxxxx
He'd known about her for a long time.
She'd first appeared to him when he was four, and he'd been unafraid of things like the presence of a girl only he could see.
It was probably just as well.
Who are you? he'd asked.
I'm Jane, she'd replied. Who are you?
Mike, he'd said. Where did you come from? How'd you get in my room?
I don't know, she'd said.
The red thread was knotted in her fingertips, unseen by the boy, and almost burnished with light.
D'you wanna play? he'd asked, and she'd nodded.
And that was that.
She visited him regularly after that first day. She was smaller than him, though not younger – something which perplexed him somewhat - and had dark blond curls that always seemed to be tangled.
At first, they played in silence, those first few months. But after a time, as they grew older, conversation sprang up like buttercups between them.
Mike? she asked.
Yeah?
Do you have a father?
Yeah, he said. Do you?
No.
Oh, he replied. And then - Hey did I show you this? My mom got it for me on Tuesday. C'mon, I'll show you...
Cool! she said, envious. My mom would never let me have that. You're so lucky!
Your Aunt Becky might...
No way! she laughed. For my birthday, maybe.
Hey, Jane, does anybody know you come here? he asked.
No. It's just us.
Good, he replied, satisfied.
It's our secret... Hey Mike, what's your favourite book?
Years passed, and still she visited. He still didn't know where she came from, or how she got there, and still didn't question it. It was still their secret.
The thread grew brighter, stronger; forming a winding, plaited length that wound round them, over and again, like an endless spiral...
They'd grown and were swiftly leaving childhood. Her hair grew longer and darker, and her eyes seemed to grow larger, more perceptive. He grew taller, becoming lanky and moody with the passage of time. It had become harder to ignore the fact that she was a girl. A pretty one.
It became impossible on the day of her sixteenth birthday.
He'd been waiting for her. He knew she'd come. She always did, especially on birthdays. She loved presents with a kind of honest greed that was better suited to a two-year-old than a teenager.
It was one of his favourite things about her.
And he had a gift for her, just as he'd always done. The first one had been his dinosaur Rory. Another had been a scarf in rainbow colours, after she hadn't been able to pick a favourite colour and he'd laughed at her. This time he'd gotten her something special.
It was her sixteenth birthday after all.
She appeared shortly after nine in the evening, just as the sky was growing dark, and he was fiddling with the red knitted friendship bracelet she'd given him not long after that first time. It happened like it always did. He never saw her actually appear in front of him. Rather more like a flicker of movement, caught in the corner of his eye, and then he'd turn and she'd be standing there.
And there she was.
...a crimson gleam, as she dropped the braided threads from her fingertips impatiently...
Hey, she said, smiling.
Happy Birthday, he replied, unable to help his own answering smile.
Thanks, she said, her smile widening to a grin. Is that for me?
How did you know? He asked, laughing.
Just a guess, she replied.
He handed her his gift, feeling his heart speeding up a bit, and wasn't sure why. She plucked at the wrapping with eager fingers, her face alive with that look she got when she was truly excited.
Once she'd freed the gift from its wrapping, she let the paper fall to the floor, and held the box in her hands. She didn't open it right away, but he knew this was just her way. She liked to savour it.
After she'd run her fingers over the box, tracing the pink pattern with thumb, looking at it as though trying to memorise it, she lifted the lid of the box.
He heard the sudden intake of breath, and there was a moment of brief horror where he wondered if he'd got it totally wrong. But then she turned to look at him, and he saw-
Her face, flushed pink with pleasure, eyes black and shiny like polished ebony, as she stood holding the silver comb in trembling hands.
She looked beautiful in that moment, and he wondered absently why it had taken him so long to figure it out.
Mike... you didn't- you shouldn't have, she breathed, taking a step towards him.
Between them, the threads tugged and twisted, urgent and compelling...
Nah-
No really, she went on taking another step. It's- just... too much-
No it's not, he protested, moving closer to her. Seriously, it's just a comb.
It's not just a comb and you know it, she snapped.
Jane, for God's sake, just shut up, he said, as he closed the distance between them.
The threads pulled ever tighter, weaving and plaiting over each other, webbing together like lace...
He reached out for her hand, his fingers encircling her wrist. They'd never really touched before – not like this – and his heart was racing. Her skin felt soft under his fingertips, and he could feel the rapid tread of her pulse beneath his grasp.
He looked down into her eyes, coffee and amber, and so wide...
He raised his other hand, tracing his fingers along the line of her jaw, pausing to tilt her chin up, and then, finally, finally, brought his lips to hers.
It was sweet, gentle, and he felt her trembling exhalation, and the soft suddenness of her answering kiss, and wanted to pull her close-
But as he went to so, to run his fingers through those gorgeous curls of hers, he came up with nothing. His hands met no resistance as they passed through the air, and somehow he knew, he knew, she was gone.
On the floor, by his feet, lay a bundle of knotted, gleaming thread...
And though he waited, for more years than he cared to admit, far longer than he should have... she never came back.
Not once.
xxxxx
A trail of disappointments followed after.
Time and place and opportunity folded and altered like silk, bending and creasing capriciously.
It was rare they even met. The merest of encounters. Dreams, fragments of memory.
Paltry.
Until-
It was the twenty-sixth time and place, the twenty-sixth life, and it seemed – for once – that things were finally right.
So it seemed, as the red twine once again began to glow...
So... what do you think?
I'm quite excited about this one, and I hope you like it so far.
The inspiration for this fic is based on The Red String of Fate, which is a myth found in both Chinese and Japanese folklore, and finds it's basis in the idea that soulmates are connected by a red string. Traditionally, it is tied around the pinkie finger or ankle, and will connect the two for life, regardless of whether they meet or not. I have toyed with a number of elements of this myth, as you will (hopefully) see later in the fic.
Anyway, the real story will kick off in the next chapter.
Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think.
-Millie