The woman took her time looking around her room. Books. Maps.
The obligatory spinning wheel.
A simple, Spartan Bed, for everyone, be he Human, Beast or God, had to sleep eventually.
And, covering everything, threads.
Every single one labeled with a name.
Every single one unique.
Long and coiled.
Wound around lamps and bedposts
And some short, so unbelievable excruciatingly painfully short.
Her sisters laughed at her.
She was being too sentimental, they said.
That she cared too much about things she could not change – was not allowed to change.
About the tales every single thread consisted of.
Maybe they were just incapable of understanding.
After all it was her that spun the threads, running her fingers over every single tale.
The other two just choose which to end – and ended it.
With an old, rusty pair of scissors, dulled with age and use – and yet cutting as sharp, as unyieldingly final as on the very first day.
The woman was tired of watching, and her heart had failed to grow as calloused as her fingers had become.
It bled every time she saw the mistakes, the fears, the pain.
Knowing she was unable to help.
And still she weaved, year by year, tale by tale.
Until one day a different kind of thread sprung forth beneath her fingers.
Slighter, yet stronger than any before.
Shimmering in curious colors, foreign even to her.
Her sisters looked at her inquiringly when they beheld it, and even more so when the old, merciless scissors for the very first time seemed reluctant to sever the thread.
But the woman was happy.
This thread was special indeed.
Somewhere someone had listened to her silent prayer, had seen her heart's blood and tears.
At last she could meddle with the structure of the thread, was no longer just a tool to the spinning wheel.
Those threads told of destinies devised, leaving her plenty of rope.
At last she could try and give a happy ending to the tales she spun.
Even if having a mind for beauty, felicity and peace was somewhat unbefitting one of the Moirai.
The goddesses of destiny.