The Ole Switcheroo
When Lachesis thought she was alone (or as alone as any of the Moirae could ever be), she considered the dart Styx had sent to her. She took it out of the box reverently, and ran long, slender fingers over the cool metal, sometimes testing the point with the tip of one of her digits, but never with enough pressure to pierce the skin. This choice Styx had given her was an impossible one; a crisis of conscience, a crisis of professional ethics, even.
How could one embody Life if one didn't experience it properly, legitimately, with the bad as well as the good?
But then, how could one experience life properly if one was so burdened by her pain that she could never come out from under it?
But Lachesis liked to carry her pain. She'd carried every moment of her pain over him for most of her Life.
Sometimes, she longed to be free... sometimes she even allowed herself the all-too-brief luxury of wishing things could have gone differently between the two of them. But most of the time, she wrapped that dart back up, put it away, and went about her business.
It was difficult. It was difficult.
She was tired today - inexplicably tired. The dart fell out of her fingers as she felt herself compelled to unconsciousness, and for some reason, she didn't fight it. She wanted it. Wanted relief, release, a brief respite from Work and her heart and all that had happened over the past few years.
Lachesis left the waking world for a dreamless sleep.
***
Atropos snuck up with a stealth and lightness of foot that belied her aged appearance. Observing Lachesis, she evaluated her sister, and went over the calculations in her mind.
The Crone had spent the last few weeks with the Weaver in closer quarters than they had since Clotho had left. It was strange, being reminded of the mannerisms and the quirks and the sameness that had always been there - but then, there were the new things, this subtle cloud that had come to rest over her, this grating angst that made Atropos want to smash things and set them on fire because of what they stirred in her.
Anything to crush down even the memory of such disgusting weakness.
Atropos knew that if she could have put the pillow over Lachesis' face and smothered her to death, she probably would have, just to make those idiotic feelings stop - just to get some release and be able to watch Judge Judy or play bingo in peace.
But that would be pointless, and would only result in a brawl the likes of which their temple didn't really deserve - and that road led unavoidably to the destruction of the TV, and possibly all TV's everywhere, because Khesis could be spiteful like that.
Damnit.
So instead, she made other arrangements.
She crept silently over to her sister, still not convinced that she wouldn't wake, even though Attie had arranged it so that she wasn't Fated to. Gnarled old hands retrieved the dart from Lachesis' sleep-slackened grip. She Who Cannot Be Turned considered the bit of metal for a moment, smirking for just one brief second before she nodded, raised the dart up, and then brought it down with incredible force directly into Khesis' chest, piercing the skin, the tissue, the heart - and everything in between.
As though it were a shot of adrenaline, almost Tarantino-style, Lachesis shot up into a sitting position, gasping for air as though she were breathing through a plastic bag, her hands scrambling at her chest until they discovered the cold protrusion from it. Her eyes went down to the dart, then slowly, incredulously, back up to Attie - not yet quite comprehending - or even accepting - what she saw there.
"Fuck," she gasped hoarsely.
The change had been instantaneous. As soon as Anteros' power obliterated the love that had coursed through Lachesis, and had traced through the other two, for so long, without fanfare or light-flashes, or any other warning, Atropos had...
Atropos seemed to take the shift in stride, giving Lachesis a bit of a cheeky smile before replying,
"What's the matter, petal? You act like you've never seen an instant incarnation of the consequences of a major shift in Fate before. Pfft."
Lachesis looked at Atropos as though she'd grown another head (which, in some sense, perhaps she had), and said, "You cheeky little bint."
Atropos shrugged, still smirking a little.
The Measurer sat still for a few moments, staring blankly ahead for a moment. Absently, her fingers caressed the fletching, which had fallen harmlessly into her lap, then moved up to smooth across her chest, stopping the trickle of ichor that'd begun there.
"Well... I suppose that's that then," she said faintly, trying to get accustomed to the almost unbearable lightness of being that she was experiencing for the first time since she was barely more than a child.
But slowly, carefully, then as though she were a bit afraid or in awe of the joy that was welling up in her... she laughed.
"You cheeky little bint!" she repeated, then dove off the sofa to topple the young Atropos off her feet and onto the rug, covering her with hugs and kisses.
Attie shrieked, but was laughing even as she tried to push her sister off of her.
"Augh, come on, you bloody nutter! Get off of me!" she protested between giggles. "Come on, sod off then!!"
But there was no sodding off at all - just laughter and wrestling and renewed Life ringing through the Temple of Fate.
How could one embody Life if one didn't experience it properly, legitimately, with the bad as well as the good?
But then, how could one experience life properly if one was so burdened by her pain that she could never come out from under it?
But Lachesis liked to carry her pain. She'd carried every moment of her pain over him for most of her Life.
Sometimes, she longed to be free... sometimes she even allowed herself the all-too-brief luxury of wishing things could have gone differently between the two of them. But most of the time, she wrapped that dart back up, put it away, and went about her business.
It was difficult. It was difficult.
She was tired today - inexplicably tired. The dart fell out of her fingers as she felt herself compelled to unconsciousness, and for some reason, she didn't fight it. She wanted it. Wanted relief, release, a brief respite from Work and her heart and all that had happened over the past few years.
Lachesis left the waking world for a dreamless sleep.
***
Atropos snuck up with a stealth and lightness of foot that belied her aged appearance. Observing Lachesis, she evaluated her sister, and went over the calculations in her mind.
The Crone had spent the last few weeks with the Weaver in closer quarters than they had since Clotho had left. It was strange, being reminded of the mannerisms and the quirks and the sameness that had always been there - but then, there were the new things, this subtle cloud that had come to rest over her, this grating angst that made Atropos want to smash things and set them on fire because of what they stirred in her.
Anything to crush down even the memory of such disgusting weakness.
Atropos knew that if she could have put the pillow over Lachesis' face and smothered her to death, she probably would have, just to make those idiotic feelings stop - just to get some release and be able to watch Judge Judy or play bingo in peace.
But that would be pointless, and would only result in a brawl the likes of which their temple didn't really deserve - and that road led unavoidably to the destruction of the TV, and possibly all TV's everywhere, because Khesis could be spiteful like that.
Damnit.
So instead, she made other arrangements.
She crept silently over to her sister, still not convinced that she wouldn't wake, even though Attie had arranged it so that she wasn't Fated to. Gnarled old hands retrieved the dart from Lachesis' sleep-slackened grip. She Who Cannot Be Turned considered the bit of metal for a moment, smirking for just one brief second before she nodded, raised the dart up, and then brought it down with incredible force directly into Khesis' chest, piercing the skin, the tissue, the heart - and everything in between.
As though it were a shot of adrenaline, almost Tarantino-style, Lachesis shot up into a sitting position, gasping for air as though she were breathing through a plastic bag, her hands scrambling at her chest until they discovered the cold protrusion from it. Her eyes went down to the dart, then slowly, incredulously, back up to Attie - not yet quite comprehending - or even accepting - what she saw there.
"Fuck," she gasped hoarsely.
The change had been instantaneous. As soon as Anteros' power obliterated the love that had coursed through Lachesis, and had traced through the other two, for so long, without fanfare or light-flashes, or any other warning, Atropos had...
Atropos seemed to take the shift in stride, giving Lachesis a bit of a cheeky smile before replying,
"What's the matter, petal? You act like you've never seen an instant incarnation of the consequences of a major shift in Fate before. Pfft."
Lachesis looked at Atropos as though she'd grown another head (which, in some sense, perhaps she had), and said, "You cheeky little bint."
Atropos shrugged, still smirking a little.
The Measurer sat still for a few moments, staring blankly ahead for a moment. Absently, her fingers caressed the fletching, which had fallen harmlessly into her lap, then moved up to smooth across her chest, stopping the trickle of ichor that'd begun there.
"Well... I suppose that's that then," she said faintly, trying to get accustomed to the almost unbearable lightness of being that she was experiencing for the first time since she was barely more than a child.
But slowly, carefully, then as though she were a bit afraid or in awe of the joy that was welling up in her... she laughed.
"You cheeky little bint!" she repeated, then dove off the sofa to topple the young Atropos off her feet and onto the rug, covering her with hugs and kisses.
Attie shrieked, but was laughing even as she tried to push her sister off of her.
"Augh, come on, you bloody nutter! Get off of me!" she protested between giggles. "Come on, sod off then!!"
But there was no sodding off at all - just laughter and wrestling and renewed Life ringing through the Temple of Fate.