And these sisters are represented through mythology as well as tales of the old times; if not also mythology called in themselves; three loosely-packed, leather-bound, ancient books, hidden in dusty corners of libraries only the old and feeble visit anymore. They are three again - of the Fates, of the Norn, and now of humanity, the one race that is governed either tightly or liberally by the former two, in respective terms. And they are three one last time: three problems and menaces to a member of the opposite equilibrium.
Look into that library for just a moment; pick up one of those books. The title is faded, yes, and you must run a hand over the cover to actually see it at all, but it's worth the trouble; the title, faded, yes, concealed, yes, reads PRESENT. Not the 'gift' sort of present, mind, but the 'time' sort of present. The letters are elegantly looped, yet small, and excessively plain. This book demands immediate attention.
But do not read - no, not now. Wait.
Pick up the book that was previously leaning against PRESENT. This book - oh, if the librarian saw it she'd have a fit - is dog-eared on nearly every page, weather beaten, caked in dust and age grime. I know it might be unpleasant, but scrape away that nasty stuff with the hem of your shirt, and hold the book up to the light; should there not be any light, walk into another room. It won't kill you.
Ah, yes. Isn't it pretty?
The title is hurried, the words and letters bunched together; painted a bright, mocking crimson, fighting admirably against the dust. Beautiful, lustrous. The title is, of course, PAST.
And there is one more book. It rests alone, though closer to PRESENT than PAST, and its cover is not worn by dust or even so much by age as it is fingerprints. It is still very old, but a favored copy. Its title, the words and letters evenly spaced, the distance absolutely precise, was obviously written with something other than a human or divine hand. It is FUTURE.
Now you hold all three books. And let me enlighten you - you hold time, you hold love, you hold promises broken and renewed, you hold the universe and its many whorls right within your palms. You hold three wishes.
Oh, but what is this? Shift your fingers slightly, and you will feel, taped either to the back of PAST or FUTURE, a minute rise from the cover. Turn either book over; ah, I almost forgot. Pull the tape off. It shouldn't be hard, as it is probably ages older than you are, and very brittle. A small, manual-fashioned thing should separate from the book.
Now you hold in one palm the universe, and in the other, the commodities of necessary living. Don't you feel special?
Oh, come now! Don't stand there dumbly! Read the title of the manual - it's not all that hard of a word, is it? Ah, that's right. Now we're getting somewhere. The writing is so very small, isn't it? So very quiet; whispered, secretive, and a light, demanding lavender. FOREVER, it reads softly.
What are you to do with FOREVER, dear reader?
You'll open it - and to no specified page, since they are all blank, save one near the middle, and it, tucked into the spine eons ago, dislodges itself and drifts lazily to the floor. Bend and grasp that old, yellowed page, reader. Rise and hold it up to your previous light source; turn it over and back to its front again. You may not read the writing - humans are ignorant and unaware of this language, these scrawled words that seem to mean so much. They spill frantically over the page as if chased by unrestrained evil; as if, when thought about, the writer was running out of time to compose those very words.
And there is no title to this small piece of the universe, just a signature. There is no heading, no explanation, no footnotes or definitions. Simply a signature.
--Marller.
You are grasping the torment of a woman - a Marked demon - scorned by her family, and mocked by her second people. You are grasping a small note; a mere edge of her diary, or what she cared to call her diary. You are grasping a million agonies, and a long, loud, earsplitting howl that was never uttered.
Don't you wish you could read it?
Yes. I wish so too.