When everything began, the Fates were close behind.
Atropos came first, her scissors at the ready in practiced hands, and she knew instinctively when to cut and when to let the threads fall slack, giving life itself just a bit more time to grow and learn.
Lachesis was the middle child, her measurements precise and quick, never allotting more time and space than necessary.
The youngest, Clotho, came last, and her spinning set destiny in motion, creating all that would eventually be cut.
As the sisters wove order out of primordial chaos, golden threads appeared, and Atropos knew on instinct that these threads could never be severed. It initially caused her distress, knowing that no matter how she tried the gods' threads couldn't be cut—but, as Clotho and Lachesis reminded her, their destinies could be shaped for good or for ill, and watching eternal lives meant they would never suffer ennui.
Reassured, Atropos saw into the future as much as she wished to, and saw a harsh childhood for the one called Hades that would bring him strength and resilience once overcome, a love blossoming out of nothing that would soften his time-hardened heart, and a great wall he'd build that would sorely test his marriage.
An amused chuckle from Lachesis broke her out of reminiscing. "Sister," Lachesis said with a barely-concealed smile, "the one called Hermes moves so fast my tapestry is hard-pressed to keep up."
Atropos looked and saw it was true, and she watched as Clotho examined what had already been woven, sending her vision back into Hermes' past. "He's already been to so many places and seen so many gods and men," she said. "His life will be interesting to follow."
"He's not the only one. Persephone was newly-born but already holds interest," Lachesis added. "Her existence brings relief to the mortals toiling, yet she yearns for more than what her mother can give. She hides her turmoil behind smiles and partying, never letting the mortals see."
"And those mortals," Atropos asked, simultaneously snipping waiting threads in her hands. "Are any of them worth our time, sisters?"
Clotho and Lachesis considered the question and the tapestry unfolding before them. "Some," they admitted, "but their destinies are yet to be woven."
Atropos accepted this with a nod, and turned her eyes heavenward. Beyond the reach of the clouds, beyond Olympus, stars were born with a twitch of Clotho's hands, burned a while as Lachesis measured, and finally burned out when Atropos laid her scissors on them.
"They are beautiful," Atropos said, turning her gaze inward to see out. "The mortals will weave their own tales of the stars."
"Some already have," Lachesis reminded her. "Even now they wonder who put them there and why."
"And their wonderings gave birth to stories," Clotho finished. "Even the gods look to the stars with awe."
Atropos was about to say that of course, they knew better, but thought better of it. As she looked into the unending sky, though she knew it was far from endless, she could see, for a moment, the stories the mortals told, had begun to tell, and would eventually tell.
It brought to mind the Fates' own tapestry, of destinies and hope and tragedies alike, and Atropos knew that the mortals her sisters spoke of didn't have long to wait before their existence would be known and their lives laid bare.
Mortals were born, lived for a bit, and died; they all knew that. But if some were destined to hold even the Fates' interest, Atropos decided she'd rather wait and see for herself, instead of glimpsing what would be.
The Fates had all the time in the world to observe, after all.