the Moirai

The Spinner - Clotho

I get up at the crack of dawn and study my complexion in the shards of mirror hung on the ceiling. The light that surrounds any immortal beings - though quite weak - forms impressive reflections on the wall opposite. I try to read the shapes, find meanings in them, as Atropos has taught me. But to no avail. I must go into the unknown today, unprepared as always.

My bruised feet slide into silken slippers, produced by the pain of a dozen worms. I used to collect the worms by the banks of the Lethe, until Hades forbade that I use them. Now, I just summon them using my divine command and they wiggle their way across the underworld towards me.

Hades doesn’t understand why I can’t just spin my own clothes, after all I am The Spinner of the universe. But what I spin is Life. And with Life, inevitably comes Death.

I look over my shoulder at my two sleeping sisters, grey hair matted into one carpet. Their breath forms swirling clouds in the cold air. They hover above the sleeping faces and I shudder at the milky shapes. I hate not being able to read things like my sisters can. For them, each shape holds a meaning, a truth.

I make my way across the room to the door and take a tentative step outside. And so my day begins.

When you are immortal, time works differently. Kronos plays his own little cruel games with anyone, but for us it feels different. One day for a mortal is nothing to me. So small that it isn’t even worth mentioning.

But because our work is so intertwined with the lives of mortals - in fact, our work is the lives of mortals - we have to follow their rhythm. Every mortal second counts.

As a result, my infinitely long life feels infinitely longer.

Life is rough as it glides through my fingers. Bits of it snag at my skin and I have to guide it carefully on its way.

Pull, twist, glide, repeat.

The spinning wheel is an old specimen, forged by the world itself. I refuse to use any other, even though Hades has offered time and time again to get Hephaestus to make one for me.

Don’t they understand that this is an ancient art that requires ancient tools and an ancient mind?

Their young godly minds can’t comprehend half of what I say. I speak in a tongue forged by fire and earth, how do they expect to understand me?

Pull, twist, glide, repeat.

The twine starts to glow as it is caressed by my calloused fingers. Slowly, bit by bit, I breathe life into it. Some threads glow brighter than others, they’ll catch Atropos’ eye and she’ll think twice before cutting them.

Some lives require more attention from the gods. Some lives are longer and some will not last this morning.

Pull, twist, glide, repeat.

I, however, am fascinated by the normal ones. The faintly glowing, healthy twine that will leave my fingers and so start its course. It will pass under the watchful eye of Lachesis before being ruthlessly ended by Atropos.

But why don’t we pay attention to these lives and instead only focus on the bright ones?

After all, I know better than everyone else that all lives start from the same place. I know that at the start, at that single split second in which they touch my skin for the first time, no-one can tell the difference between the life string of a king or that of a slave.

Pull, twist, glide, repeat.

But, at the end of the day, it’s all the same to me. I couldn’t care less about these mortal lives, I remind myself. I create hundreds in the blink of an eye, this is simply my job.

I hear my sisters laugh in the adjacent room. My shoulders shrug in the darkness. There must be no light, Hades had said. His incompetent mind seems to think that my work is affected by such trivial things as light and dark.

Only the twines glow faintly before my eyes. I run them through my fingers and relish the feeling of vitality that they hold.

Pull, twist, glide, repeat.

The Allotter - Lachesis

I wake with a start, my own nails digging into my own skin. I am the cause of my own misery. I sigh and release the breath that has been held in me for Zeus knows how long. A long silver hair tickles my face and I bite back a shudder.

Beside me, Atropos still snores. Her face looks more youthful in sleep, under the light of her own immortal glow. I know she hates being a crone, but who could end a thousand mortal lives on a daily basis without developing a few wrinkles?

I hear the sound of Clotho’s spinning wheel through the thick stone wall. Her day always starts the earliest. A pair of silken slippers awaits me at the foot of my bed but - like I do every day - I refuse to step into them. I prefer to walk the cold stone tiles with my bare feet.

I must be uncomfortable, I remind myself. I must not live in luxury, I must not rejoice. I need to be fair as my mother taught me. I close my eyes at the thought of my mother and my nails dig deeper into the palms of my hands.

The sun shone down on us and I laughed up at its face. Themis also laughed and the sound was like music in my ears. “Enjoy it, Lachesis, for soon you will be pulled into the world below.” My young, innocent mind didn’t fully comprehend what she meant by it. “All things have their purpose, young one. And it is your job to give them that.”

My eyes snap open again and I look down at my hands. Hot, golden ichor streams from the wounds I’ve created. I quickly wipe it away on my dress and start plaiting my hair.

The thought of my mother always pains me. She is still up above, where the sun shines. Meanwhile, I am stuck down below the earth with only my own light to guide me.

Joints stiff, I turn towards the big heavy door across the room. My sore feet feel every groove in the stones beneath me. My golden hands push it open and I step into my workplace.

The room is small and square. There is just enough space for both me and Atropos to sit side by side on the wooden stools, shoulders touching. One single lamp hangs from the ceiling. through a small hole in the stone wall comes the thread of life. Clotho spins it and pushes the finished product through the hole.

I sit on the stool next to the hole and start organising this morning’s threads. Not many glow extraordinarily brightly, many of them just sit there waiting for me to give them meaning.

“All things have their purpose, young one. And it is your job to give them that.”

I pick out one thread to start with and close my eyes. In the back of my mind, I can sense the meaning of this life. I can see all the ups and downs of the course it’ll take. This human will make many mistakes and it pains me that I can’t do anything to help him avoid them.

But, at the end of the day, all things will be avenged and justice will be brought. I should know, as Justice is my mother.

And so I pick the threads up, one by one and start to plot their lives.

The wall across from me is adorned with hooks for me to use. I take a thread, close my eyes and sense the life. And then I step towards the wall, hook the thread into the first one, guide it through whichever other ones it must touch and then eventually lead it back to Atropos’ chair.

The finished result is an intricate web of golden twine, twisting and crossing other threads. No-one on the face of this earth understands my system, my pattern. But no-one has to.

It is enough that only I can look at this wall and see order, purpose and life.

The Cutter - Atropos

Hypnos is a strange creature. Sometimes he refuses to come for ages, and sometimes he blesses us with a near black-out. Us immortals don’t have to sleep, we do it for pleasure. So in theory, Hypnos doesn’t have to visit us. I know he has a thousand souls to lay to rest every night. So when he does pay me a proper visit, when I can feel his power softly caressing my restless brain and leading me towards infinite darkness, I am always sure to thank him.

Thank you, I whisper, as I slide the sheets of me after the best sleep I’ve had in ages. I sigh when I see Lachesis’ discarded slippers. She’s constantly trying to punish herself. If I even started to try and do that for all the wrong I’ve done, it wouldn’t end well. I mean, I end lives for a living.

I get my own slippers out of the cupboard and also slip on a pair of smooth leggings under my dress. I hate my wrinkled skin, and try to hide it with every chance I get.

The cruel mirror shards on the ceiling above our bed remind me of my coarse grey hair and warted complexion and taunt me with the vision.

I shrug the feeling off. No point feeling sad when so much worse is about to happen.

Clotho gets up the earliest, preparing the lives for the day. Lachesis is already in our room, plotting out the lives. And I am the last to wake up, while being the one who works the deepest into the night.

I told you I am eternally grateful for Hypnos, because I need him.

I pull my hair up in a bun and shudder when I am left with silver strings in my hands. I fear the inevitable day on which all my hair will have given up and fallen out.

It is the price I have to pay.

I walk towards heavy door and push against it. Lachesis’ back is to me as she studies her intricate web of lives. Usually, I am the main interpreter of shapes and meanings, while trying to teach Clotho. But for this, only Lachesis can be trusted. No-one else on this earth knows how her part of fate works.

My part, however, is simple. Simple yet exhausting. Simple yet gut-wrenching.

I take the gloves that hang on the peg besides the door and slip them onto my fingers. I used to go bare, but after an infinity of holding the burning hot shears in my hands, even my immortal fingers could not stand it anymore.

I go to my stool at the end of the room - only one stride from the doorway - and sit down on the blackened wood. I leave a trail of destruction everywhere I go: no living thing survives my touch, not even my own body.

The shears sit in the corner of my eye, calling to me. I wish I could just ignore them, I wish I could just not do this for once.

But our mother taught us that everything has a purpose. And this is my purpose.

I pick up the shears and choose my first thread. It’s quite a bright one and I can feel the life pulsing through it. I close my eyes as my finger traces the twine, waiting to find the spot.

As I explore the rough thread with my ungloved hand, my other hand holds the shears, ready. I tap in and out of the life of the mortal. This job requires presicion that Time does not allow. But as it is the first thread of the day, I decide to pay more attention than usual.

After all, it does have such a wonderful glow… and then I feel it. A tug, a pull at my divine core, telling me that this is it.

I feel it build up in me, the pain of a dozen people. These people don’t know yet who they’re about to lose. It builds and it builds and it builds.

All my golden blood rushes to my face, I take a deep breath and… cut.