The art of hunting thin air

"How do heroes deal with these things? I don't think they experience the sight of red strings hanging from people's wrists. I therefore can't demand anything of them."
An eighteenth birthday isn't meant to be the day that you get powers, or lead to meeting actual Gods. But Megan isn't ordinary, after all she should be dead.


1. Prologue


Three women intrude on a birth


The scene is set in a warm, dark room, there is an exhausted woman lying on a bed but she is happy and she carries a swaddled bundle in her exhausted arms. To anyone but the mother, the baby she held could be considered albeit ugly; scrunched and overly pink, with dull eyes and thin, nearly non-existent, lips. However, the opinions of others didn't matter. The baby was the product of nine months of waiting, of just shy from dangerous complications, of hope. She and her baby are all that matter, there is no one else in the room that can contest that.

But they are not alone. Three women are huddled in a corner. Of course the eyes of the mother don't see these. No story of Gods and mythical beings would work that way if ordinary humans could see them. These are no regular three women, that is clearly seen by the spindle resting idly in between them.

They loom and they loom the string of inescapable destiny. Now, that may seem a daunting topic, after all you don't have any sort of upper hand when it comes to your future. But you're life is safe in their hands, trust me. 

Clotho spins the string, the new born life, from her staff to the spinner. Lachesis measures the thread of life allotted to the child with her measuring rod. Atropos takes out her abhorred shears and decides and then cuts the string. They do not see the string fall to ground. But they do see the string attach itself to the child and their job is done. That child’s life is sealed. They say as one, “Listen we, who sit nearest of Gods and the throne of Zeus, and weave with shuttles of adamant, inescapable devices for time of life of every kind. We fine-armed daughters of Night see thee as one of might. This birth, this life, this end, may excuse the ground of misfortune as power is bestowed and may this life see that is what is.” They talk in rambles, in barely there sentences. They depart not with a cackle of pre-imagined witches but with silence. Silence is more profound than a cackle. Cackles give too much away when it comes to personality. 

Another steps forth with an eye on the spot they’ve just left, an ethereal trail followed in their wake. And with all three pairs of eyes she stares at the child. And with the words of a melody her decision is born. The baby squirms, but the Goddess smiles, “Be one with magic, I’ll meet thee at the crossroads,” and she departs with a wider smile. 

It always feels good to mess with destinies. 


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