Chapter Eight #3
“And yet”—I turn to face her—“I feel her presence. Call it twintuition.”
“Oh, that’s clever. But still, sister, that’s impossible. She couldn’t be.”
“It would explain the Lost Souls Division, wouldn’t it?”
“No one has ever returned from The Moonless Mountains. The way is impassable.”
“Impassable, but not impossible. This current story reeks of her. It stinks of second chances. And I want to scrub it all clean.”
“I’m with you, but, sister …”
“If Mercy is back and she’s working with that reaper and his orange-haired menace,” I spit, turning to my tapestry, “she will undo all we’ve worked so meticulously and exhaustingly to build.” I notice my sister’s jaw working as she stares intently at my tapestry.
“Think rationally, sister.” She turns to walk away, and I follow, my irritation rising.
“I am. Trusting my instincts is rational.”
Time sighs as she sits down, crossing one long leg over the other. “Then what some say must be true. We cannot live in a world without Mercy.”
“Ridiculous,” I scoff. “We create the laws.”
“No,” Time says quietly, “we enforce them.”
My lips thin.
“Mercy exists because perfection does not.” She traces a finger along the arm of her chair. “Worlds stop spinning. Mortals falter. Deities make mistakes. She is the space between consequence and catastrophe.”
“She’s weak.”
Time laughs once, a sharp, humorless sound. “Tell me, sister, how many times have you rewritten a story to fit your narrative?”
I say nothing, causing Time to smile knowingly.
“Exactly. Even Fate requires Mercy.”
“I dislike you taking her side.”
“Trust me, sister, I am not on the side of Mercy. I just choose the steadfast course of rationality over the turbulent sea of emotions.”
I eye her suspiciously. “Is that the real reason? Rationality … or fear?”
Her eyes meet mine, and I notice the slightest flinch.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, faster than usual.
“I was fed the same prophecy as you, Time.” I take a step forward as I recite the words all in our lineage know by heart. “Three in one and one of three. Weak alone, in strength as we. The end of one is the end of all, when pride arrives beneath a pall.”
Silence stretches between us, and for the briefest second, her mask slips.
I see the fear. A tingle runs through me as Time rises from her chair, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve. “And do you know what we’ll find hidden under that proverbial pall, that dark cloak of death? Hmm?”
“Oh? Do enlighten me.”
I shrug nonchalantly. “Your end, big sis. It’ll be your funeral.”
She laughs coldly. “No, sister. Yours.”
I frown as a surge of resentment runs through me.
“Stories must have a beginning and an end, Fate. The end of one is the end of all …” She takes a step closer. “You will have nothing left to weave. The end of stories.” Her eyes darken. “A fate that cannot change is not fate; it is a prison.”
“Without story, what would the world measure time by?” I snipe back. “The end of all … ”
We stare at each other for a long moment before I break the hold and step back.
Time eventually speaks. “Father certainly knew how to make sure we all played nice.” She laughs as she walks to the window again, concluding her speech.
“He made us counterweights. So, now, here we are, needing each other and needing Mercy … or at least needing her existence.”
Mercy. Hope. Love.
Three things that have no place in a well-ordered afterlife.
Three things that could unravel everything we’ve built.
“We’ll handle it,” I say, more to myself than to Time. “We always do.”
“Of course we will.” Time’s reflection in the window shows her sharp smile. “We’re eternal after all. Empires rise and fall. Souls come and go. But Time and Fate?”
“Endure,” I finish.
“Always.”
We stand there for a moment, two Sisters who’ve ruled the OtherWorld from the shadows since before most souls can remember. Who’ve shaped destinies and bent moments to our will. Who’ve maintained order through fear, precision, and absolute control.
Now we’re watching that control slip through our fingers like sand through an hourglass.
“I’m still angry about my fire,” Time says finally.
“I know.”
“You owe me a moment. Something spectacular. Something worthy of the Grand Orpheum.”
“Fine.”
“I’m thinking … a war. Or perhaps a natural disaster. A tsunami maybe? I do love a good tsunami. The way time seems to stop when people see the wave approaching—”
“I’ll weave you something appropriate,” I interrupt, not wanting to hear her wax poetic about mass death again. “I just need some time to find the right threads.”
“How much time?”
“As much as you’ll give me.”
Time laughs, a crystalline sound that is both beautiful and terrible. “Oh, sister. For you? I’ll stop the clocks if I have to.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Let’s hope.”
But we both know hope is for mortals. We deal in certainties.
And the only certainty right now is that something is coming. Some shift in the balance. Some changes we haven’t woven, planned, or controlled.
And neither of us likes not knowing what comes next.