It is a great power that we wield, and a great loneliness beside. All the others fear us, and with good reason for between us, we call life, life, and death, death, and give meaning to the time between the two. We are the bookends and the pages of a book that we have written and that we alone know the end to. Meddle in our ways, and that which is written between the covers can change. Please or amuse us, and perhaps your story shall take a turn for the better before the end, for that is who we are. Clotho, the youngest of our triple existence spins the thread that man and not-man alike call Life on her wheel of flashing stories. I, Lachesis, measures out her work, deciding the length and the imperfections that each story should contain. Atropos, once the youngest, now the eldest of our trio wields the blades that put swiftly put an end to the art that together we have created, declaring the final product as complete in all ways.
It is Atropos between us that has changed the most, and for Atropos it is that we most fear. Once cautious, he’d ponder the power that he wielded through the blades in his hand, snipping here and snipping there to cut short the life misspent and put an end to the suffering that I deemed fair. Atropos kept my dreams in check, and I kept Clotho in check, for she knew that I could grant rest and peace or hatred and suffering in each life that she spun. She in turn kept Atropos in balance with the promise of a new life to replace each that he took.
That was the way it was then. Now though, things have gone awry, and the balance that we had we have shaken, perhaps beyond repair. We wield a great power in unison, but when one choses to walk their own path, that is where our careful work begins to unravel- slowly at first, but oh so rapidly if left uncheck. Without the balance, Clotho spins faster and faster, her wheel a blur that only she can stop. Without the balance, I am free to write each story as I please, the ink of my measure pouring into the lives with new color, new suffering, and new dreams that ought not to be. Without the balance, Atropos’ shears flash with a newly sharpened edge, cutting here and there without cause or purpose.
The balance of power is fear, and with fear comes loneliness. No one dares to visit, now that the balance is undone and there is none to keep us in check. They fear the rawness that is left of our work, the mess that is what remains of Clotho’s work, and my art. They fear the flashing blades that Atropos wields without rhyme or reason. Their fear is a tangible thing, a wall that divides us from them, and in that wall, we are alone.