Gliding Into Oblivion
And finally, I write again. Whee.
She is the Mistress of Fates.
She walks her halls, whisper-soft, grey-clad, and she holds in her hands the threads of existence - light like cotton, smooth like silk - gliding down the long fibres of life with all the care and more of a fine seamstress.
And as she twines the threads of living in her timeless halls, so down below on Earth lives are tangled - a twist here, and two lives are forever hopelessly intertwined, a snip there and another is suddenly robbed of hoped-for bloom.
She works without feeling, detached, like ice, like lost dreams, like the little snips of thread that are so many mortal lives cut short.
She is the maker of desires.
She works her loom - and suddenly into the great picture there swirls red, the red of flame and of passion and of thick, dark, blood; and down below there is chaos, for her tapestry's threads are the lives of Men, and their thoughts-hopes-dreams are her dyes.
She is the Keeper of lives - and in the end, all lives end the same, at last on the Weaver's great loom, woven and twisted and twined into their own place in history.