Page 1 of Fated
CATSITTING
Once upon a time...
In a dense, dark, forest…
That time didn’t merely forget…
But avoids at all costs?—
for that’s wherein t’was born…
A hovel awaits, warm light glowing through the cracks of it’s windows and door. Pulsing faintly through any break to the outside world as though trying to escape.
Sun streaks fight through the canopy of trees, guiding the lost light its’ way. A hopeless saviour.
A ribbon of smoke drifts up from the chimney glittering in the broken beams.
A sound— naught but a mumble, quiet at first but gaining strength and dimming the glow.
Very much a Tardis situation, the hovel is much bigger on the inside than it appears on the outside. It’s cluttered in an organized manner with homemade items.
Eris, goddess of strife and discord, sits folded on a short step stool much too small for her lithe and lengthy frame. She’s folded inward, smaller still, protecting herself from the onslaught of her sisters’ —the Moirae— lecturing.
They speak in rounds and rhymes, almost a singular voice that emanates from the whole, magnified amongst them, it’s impossible to tell which of them actually utters sound.
Eris’ snake garland hisses, twining amongst the thorns in her hair.
“Hush, Ribbon, just… let them.”
The Fates chant as they sway, “Don’t touch the wheel— Don’t touch the threads— Don’t touch the loom— Even brother Ares can’t save your skin— We’ll take you and flay you alive— You’ll wish you’d never met the night?—“
The main room has several doors and through one Eris can see bits of the workroom they lecture about. She strains to see through the cracked door. Floor to ceiling shelving and sturdy, rickety chairs, a spinning wheel of such craftsmanship and perfection it brings a tear to your eye— a loom to match.
She stares intently at it, the loom, blinking to clear the flames ever present in her eyes, thinking what she’s seeing must be her imagination, but it doesn’t fade no matter how she tries… the thread on the loom pulses with a faint glow.
She shifts, adjusting her heavy protective clothing around her shoulders. When one has thorns in their hair— an obvious necessity.
Her sisters, Clotho, Atropos, and Lachesis pace between her and the massive fireplace in a figure eight pattern. They’re bent, angry, crones. Each has one eye missing and the cold sockets flicker hauntingly in the firelight with each pass of the fire.
Atropos leads. She’s the eldest— gnarled and bent. She sets the tone of every conversation in every room. Clotho follows behind her— still hunched yet slightly more erect than Atropos. Lachesis brings up the tail of the trail and is nearly straight— by comparison. All three wear dark draped fabrics for clothing and hold thick, twisted branches as walking sticks.
Shadows of their feline brood dance in the firelight against the walls which sparkle a bit in the soft light. The cats appear more shadow than structure.
The sisters’ quit their maundering march suddenly, turning on Eris.
Atropos starts, “I’m telling you Eris?—”
Then Clotho, “Telling you Eris that if you?—”
And Lachesis, “Eris that if you go into the workroom?—”
“You’ll regret it.” They continue in lyrical rounds, like children’s poets of nightmares.
“Nothing good will come of it.”
“The end of you will come of it.”
Eris, exhausted of this lecture tries to break in, “I get it, I promise—” to no avail.
