Page 134 of Chasing Never
Now that her Mate has tracked her down, Ebonette’s story turns to misery. This particular Descendent is the devious sort, and he intends to murder Ebonette’s husband while she watches. Whether this is a cruel attempt to punish her for marrying another, or whether the Descendent has deluded himself into believing Ebonette will find his brutality attractive, I do not know. What I do know is that every time I attempt to reweave Ebonette’s fate, her husband’s death only reveals itself to be more and more gruesome, the poor man suffering in escalating fits of agony.
I’ve about given up. It seems I’ve only caused Ebonette more pain than even my Sisters have already inflicted, and I cannot bear that thought.
I sigh, dragging myself away from the tapestry. I’ve been at work for hours, and my shadowed hands, ethereal as they are, are still prone to cramping.
As soon as I take my hands off the tapestry again, the threads reweave themselves, spilling out onto the floor. I watch Ebonette’s life pass by. Forced to marry her Mate, cruel as heis. Forced to bear him children—although, at least, her children are kind. They are one of the few comforts she gets in her short life, before she dies at her husband’s hand.
My Eldest Sister is typically selective with whom she Mates together. She usually takes pride in finding perfect matches, couples who will only provide each other with the most immense levels of sacrifice and happiness.
But my Sister, Eldest though she is, possesses a blind spot when it comes to this particular series of Mates. She doesn’t care if the Descendants of our Middle Sister’s lover are cruel, unworthy to be Mated to anyone. She doesn’t care how the young women suffer. Sometimes—and most of the time—she doesn’t even care if they’re already meant to be wed to someone else. All she cares about is inflicting the most pain upon our Middle Sister, driving her to further insanity through her insatiable envy.
Though our Middle Sister has no access to the tapestries of the Descendants, nor their Mates, my Eldest Sister finds great joy in providing her with tantalizing little tidbits of information about where they could be. Rarely does my Middle Sister find a Descendant. If she does, it is usually only on their deathbeds. She is almost always too late.
A few times, she has found them early. But I expect my Eldest Sister has a hand in this too, having made the clues too easy, only because she knows the character of that particular Descendant. Knows that he would never leave his wife, never be unfaithful. A few of them have taken their own lives rather than be whisked away by my Middle Sister. I imagine I have not seen the last of this behavior.
Occasionally, the Mates are good fits for one another. I try my best not to interfere with those. Contrary to my Sisters’ beliefs, I find no pleasure in double-crossing them. Besides, theyare both so petty, so jealous, they typically find a way to punish me.
All worth it if I can make the lives of these poor mortals more bearable.
Not that I wish to undo all the pain mortals suffer. There is plenty of pain that is necessary for growth. Muscles must ache as they stretch to grow during adolescence. Infants must cry when their teeth come in. Pain is sometimes necessary. It is the unnecessary pain that causes me grief.
Unable to look at the failed tapestry any longer, I push myself away from my loom, where the hiss of my tea kettle has just gotten my attention.
I pour the steaming water into a teacup, reveling in the smell of lavender as I allow it to steep.
It is a lonely life, being one of the Fates. But I can bear the loneliness better than my Sisters, at least. I enjoy my cottage. While my Middle Sister tucked herself away in one of the forgotten, unused realms, I chose one that was inhabited. Even if I cannot have friends, even if I cannot be one of the mortals below, I find comfort knowing that they are near.
Occasionally, those at the base of the mountain leave me gifts. Occasionally, I venture down to accept a few. My cabin is now neatly arranged with a few of these gifts. The quilt on my bed, the soft rug at my feet, the teacups—they’re all gifts from the mortals.
I chose this place because of the mountain. After carving myself a hole in the center of it for my workshop, I have built my life here. I’ve always enjoyed heights. And occasionally, I go outside. Once a year, I even travel down the mountain, taking a few of the gifts, then climb back up again.
I suppose I could glide. But I like the feel of the mountain stone underneath my fingertips. It makes me feel grounded. Close to the earth. Close to them.
I’m pondering as much, sipping my lavender tea, when I sense a presence behind me. No—I feel the aura in the air again—two presences. I turn around, startled, to find not one of my Sisters, but both. I cannot count how many years it’s been since they visited my home at the same time. Neither are frequent visitors, not being particularly fond of me. Before their falling out, they had only preferred each other’s company. Part of the reason for my loneliness, I suppose. They had always had each other. Except that recently, that had not been the case at all. Not in the past several hundred years. Not since the tragic incident of my Middle Sister’s lover killing the lover of my Eldest.
Still, each of them visits me, mostly to squabble about the other or to rebuke me for what they perceive as meddling, though they fail to perceive their own interference in the mortals’ lives as meddling. I have yet to understand this particular train of logic.
“Strange seeing both of you here,” I say. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
My Eldest Sister laughs, plucking a stem from one of my plants in the corner and twirling it in the air. Her voice is sickly sweet, though I do not remember it being that way as a child. Not until we reached adolescence and she began to visit the realm of the mortals. It was strange, listening to how her voice heightened rather than deepened with age.
“Oh, just a typical house call,” she says. “Can Sisters not visit one another simply for the occasion of it all?”
I pause as I sip my tea, staring at them as their shadows swarm their figures. I never understood how they do it—form relationships with mortal men. My shadows have always made me feel separate, distinct. Another type of being entirely. My Sisters have no such qualms.
“Well, are you not going to welcome us? Brew us some tea?” asks my Middle Sister.
They exchange mischievous looks, their shadows curling around their faces in a way that betrays that they’re up to something.
“What do the two of you want?” I ask.
My voice is still pleasant, but still harsher than I prefer to use.
“Oh, so we’re not welcome then? Would you believe that?” says my Middle Sister, looking to my Eldest.
“Well, I don’t know why the two of us should be surprised,” says my Eldest Sister. “It’s not like the favorite to have much regard for anyone other than herself.”
I bristle, but I don’t let my emotions show otherwise. My sisters have been making this claim for eons now—that I was our father’s favorite from childhood, from the time he created us. I have my own opinions. I think he let my elder two sisters get away with more. I’m sure he would’ve let me get away with more, too. I just simply never enjoyed breaking the rules. So when he did discipline, it was only ever the two of them. Never me.
