19 Feb Fantastic Fridays: Meet the Fates
On this beautiful Friday, I share a passage from Blue Moon.
The Sisters of Fate are not high in the clouds or tucked away in a forest. In the Fated series, they pull their silvery strings from the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
But life is not as easy as you might imagine. Their world has been rocked by a mortal with high aspirations. And, for the first time, they need assistance. From a human. Gods help us.
The sisters enjoyed their work. Few would imagine they ruled their roost from the Upper East Side. But, really, if you could run the universe from anywhere, wouldn’t you prefer to be in a place with style and infinitely delicious baked goods?
Clarissa smiled. Peering into her cup of jasmine tea. She preferred to scry using unconventional methods. She didn’t need a clear glacier lake or a wide bowl with fairy water. No, she loved to watch her subjects in her cup of tea.
True, she was the one who made the most errors as the mortals loved to call them. But she believed wholeheartedly in improvisation. Pulling the cosmic strings should be an art rather than a mechanical show with no finesse and even less pleasure.
Clarissa felt and saw the universe as music played by an orchestra. She was the concertmaster, directing the way. Lifting them up with the melody … leading in an infinitely beautiful song.
Humans often mistook the Fates as the Conductor. Certainly, she was flattered. But as important, and immortal, as she was, Clarissa was merely one instrument among many. She felt the power of the conductor surge through her, guiding her fingers as she pulled the strings of her instrument.
Stella, the oldest sister, was infinitely less amused by Clarissa’s approach to her work. Stella was a traditionalist. She found Clarissa’s methods offensive, if not downright heretical. The sisters had a reputation to uphold.
If the Board of Immortality decided they had been playing too fast and loose with the patterns of the universe, the sisters could kiss goodbye to job security.
Stella scowled and searched the little café for interlopers. There was always some ambitious new goddess nipping at their heels, wanting a crack at running the show. They never understood the hard work and coordination required.
The role of the Fates was far from some glamour-filled power gig, Stella grumbled to herself. The new ones always saw the flash and not the sleepless nights. Assuming they could do better with less, not imagining that running the universe took stamina and a thick skin.
When things went wrong — or really, when humans in their short-sighted view believed something had gone wrong — all fingers pointed to the Fates. No one ever said, “Thank you, Fate” when everything lined up beautifully.
No, Stella muttered silently, irritated by every mortal sipping a cup of tea or offering a cupcake to her beloved. Humans take all the credit for those little endeavors. Maybe they toss the occasional crumb of gratitude up to the Conductor. Maybe.
But when life went sideways, you could lay money on who got blamed.
Ironically, those were the moments that took sharp attention and keen reaction. When humans got it into their heads that life needed to be fixed, that’s when Havoc arrived. And that girl loved to make a mess that took centuries to clean up.
Stella frowned, sipping her cappuccino, and casting resentful looks at patrons in the little shop. After Prometheus made the idiotic choice to hand them fire, human beings never got the hang of using it. They’d been burning their fingers ever since.
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