They’re had been three of them, once. The Moirai Sisters. Each of them controlling one of the three branches of Destiny.
Clotho, the spinner, had gone first. She’d woven herself into her own tapestry, preferring to end her days surrounded by a portrait of hope. As beings with immortal blood, she was technically still alive, and sometimes, it seemed, her voice could still be heard: Pluck that thread, Sister. Tweak that rune. That woman deserves some luck. That man is evil, make him feel the pain he caused to others.
Atropos, the immutable one, went next. She had been in charge of clipping the threads to end lives, and it had gone to her head and bruised her heart beyond repair. Too many children, she said, haven’t been allotted adulthood. Too many rapists and murderers were given long lives. She’d cut her own thread, in the end. Lachesis never even knew where she found the scissors.
But, just as her sisters had never blamed her for doing her job as the allotter, Lach (their father had given her the nickname) had never resented them for leaving her alone.
She’d had to change her methods, though. Doing the work of three with the skills of one necessitated the alteration. Where the Sisters had spun threads, woven lives, and snipped the ends as the colors faded, Lachesis had conjured a sort of runic tickertape machine.
Rolls of paper, made from Potential, inked with Hopes and Plans and Dreams, gave her updates on every life that came into being. She was no longer allotting, but allowing. She read the scrolling symbols and made decisions: this person would have a long life, with many meters of paper, and this one would have their scroll ripped off mid-word.
It was hard work. It was constant. It would never end, until she chose to let the ink of her own life run dry.
But for now, Lachesis let meter after meter of ink and paper run through her calloused fingers, and sent a prayer to the gods in memory of her sisters.