A/N: Don't despair! The last chapter wasn't the last...and neither is this one the last. (I don't make sense, I know). Please be patient, the tale has yet to wind down from its peak. Again, I invite you to take a look at the complex tapestry of TS.
Truthseekers
by mierin-lanfear
Chapter Twenty Eight
Rowan held a broken white thread in her shaking hands. The delicate white skein dangled down to a pile of winding sheets in front of her. She closed her hands around the thread.
She knew who was buried beneath the sheets.
They were on a floating barque, in a middle of a wide, foggy river. She was kneeling before the pile, while a hooded woman stood at the other side. The flat boat rolled and yawed with the river current, keeping precarious balance.
The hooded woman faced Rowan. We cannot stay here for long.
Rowan pressed the broken thread to her bosom. Where are we?
At the crossroads. She either goes over there... The woman waved a thin, long hand downstream, where the white mist swirled in pearlescent light. Or back there... She points upstream--there the mist billowed out from the dark horizon, where the river's edge met the vague sky.
Rowan stared at the pile before her. If she's gone, why hasn't everything collapsed?
Beneath the hood, Rowan caught a glimpse of a smile in the shadows. Because she chose to break her thread herself, using the Stone in exchange for that choice.
Wise woman, I have a question myself.
The woman nodded at her. Ask.
Why Vera? Why her, of all the lives in the tapestry? It could have been me, or anyone else. Why her?
She knelt before the pile, facing Rowan. Rowan saw the well-shaped chin and rosebud lips of the woman curling into a small smile.
Because the essense of the Stone is found throughout the tapestry. I myself spun out the first threads with the essence in them in the beginning of time.
She reached over the pile and hooked a finger on a loop of white thread. The One gave me the power to set the primary pattern, but to you mortals, He gave a higher gift--free will. The first threads gave birth to other threads with the same essence. Some had more of that than the others. And they wove themselves into patterns they wanted.
The woman rubbed a finger on the thread. That essence is "reality". Reality and free will. But for the tapestry to hold, threads with stronger essence spun into them served as anchorpoints.
Your sister...she was simply a product of the tapestry. Her whiteness and fragility, pure essence, was the result of the intermarriage of all kinds of threads. Because of this, she is placed at the border of the pattern, holding everything together.
But why? She is weak...fragile to the point of breaking!
But she is mortal as well, with free will. The weakness is offset by strength of will. What the Magus did...was to go out of the tapestry by weaving artificial threads from his self--homonunculi--to directly tamper the weave.
And the strength or weakness of will is influenced by the people and situations around her.
The woman fell silent, letting the thread float from her finger.
Rowan shook her head. Can you not weave her back again? Add more fibers to her thread? Her green eyes glimmered with tears. You wove the first threads in, surely you can do it again?
The woman stood up, her colorless robes rustling like dead leaves. No, my work is done in the beginning of time. The power to weave back lies in mortal hands. She nodded at Rowan. It lies in your hands. The only power I have is the choice of who will weave it again. By choosing to die, Vera gave me that power to give it to someone worthy enough for the responsibility.
Rowan felt her cheeks redden. Oh, no, not me! Why me?
You ask too many unneccessary questions. Time is short. Do you know who is willing to give a part of his thread to her?
She smiled at the hooded figure. I know.
Holmes took deep, gulping breaths as he glared at the Magus' bloody supine body. He willed his hand, still gripping the revolver, to stop shaking. Glancing back at Watson, busy wrapping gauze bandages around Vera's exposed chest, he called out, "How is she?"
Watson palpitated for a pulse on Vera's neck. With somber eyes, he looked at Holmes and shook his head.
Holmes bit off an oath, turning away from the Magus. He signalled at Lestrade, who tactfully kept away from the scene, occupying himself with directing the local police. He was immersed in a soft discussion with two constables.
"Inspector, come this way, my man." He kept his voice clipped, willing himself to not glance back at either Vera or the bloodied man behind him.
Lestrade sighed, nodding at the two men. He strode towards Holmes, ferret face grim. "No, Holmes, if you're thinking about what happened a while go, it was justified." He glanced at Watson. "Is she...alright?"
"No, Lestrade. It's not that. The twins, where are they?"
"The twins...?" Before Lestrade could respond, Holmes felt two pairs of hands touch his shoulders.
Anja and Katja, pallid and translucent in early spring daylight, stood behind him. Anja, solemn-faced, spoke, "We come and go as we please. The Magus gave us that power."
Katja said, "But he is gone, and so will we."
"Before we fade, Mr. Holmes..." Anja pulled herself close to Holmes' ear. "All is not lost. Listen and you will find her."
Her twin shook her head. "You seeker of truths, she lies beyond here, but within reach. Unlike us..."
They bowed their heads. "We were created with no regrets. But as we fade..." Their skin grew more transparent, shimmering before the men like a mirage. "Why are we sad?"
"We fade...because we are nothing." A final shimmer. Their images melted into air. Wordless, the two men faced the Magus' body, then at Watson and Vera.
Lestrade broke the stillness. "Who were they, Holmes?"
He did not respond. His grey eyes were transfixed at a distant point of the horizon, slightly beyond the figures of the doctor and the girl. He whispered, "Yes--you know that as well as I do."
"Holmes? What were you saying?"
Holmes blinked, turning to the inspector. "Nothing, Lestrade, I was just thinking..." He felt a twinge within himself, a slight pain in the solar plexus. He took a deep breath, replacing the revolver back to its holster.
"That was...singular..."
Before he could finish his comment, Watson gave a triumphant yell.
"She lives!"
