Joan didn’t know how long she walked through the empty, barren halls. It was strange. So perfectly clean. Her steps didn’t echo, though. Everything about this place seemed so odd. If she kept going would she finally come to the Gods? Would there be another wall? Another message from the gods? More riddles?
Only for a new tapestry to begin after what felt like miles of walking. Or was it inches? No. She couldn’t even see the first tapestry anymore.
It was different from the first. So different. While the first had started so large, this one was so much smaller. She could see the threads. Dozens of them growing to being hundreds, then thousands. All tangled and knotted together. Going back and forth, a mess of a tapestry so crude and violently woven that she would have thought she’d made it. But it was, somehow, so much more colorful than the first. She could make out the different colors, like the Nameless One had shown her. But there was something new. Seven bright, glimmering threads. The Chosen.
It ended as well. So small, cut so violently. Mostly. While the majority of the threads were cut, the threads of the Chosen continued on and, rather than being cut, they just seemed to fade from existence.
She stopped this time and looked back towards the tapestry that had ended. Despite herself, she couldn’t stop it.
Nervously, she reached out her fingers and touched the white thread. Searle’s thread.
------
“Give up,” a voice said. Cold, vicious. Merciless. “You can’t win.”
The Chosen of the Shield didn’t care. Though he lay shattered, the ground coated in his blood, he tried to stand.
So many screams. The world around him frozen to ice. Still he tried to stand. Tried, so desperately, to get back to his feet.
He didn’t even see what killed him.
But then there was warmth. When he opened his eyes again, he stared into the eyes of eternity. Where were--
It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t alone. They were all there, all seven of them.
He felt despair start to sink in. Despite all of the trials, all of the tribulations, they’d failed. Each and every one of them had given up so much, for what? Just to fail now?
“Why do you despair?” a voice asked. Slowly his eyes looked up at he saw the youngest of the Three Sisters.
“We failed,” he said.
“We all failed,” the Chosen of the Crown said.
“We couldn’t protect anyone,” the Chosen of the Spear said.
“Damn it!” the Chosen of the Sword said.
“Not yet, you haven’t,” the youngest said. “Things have only just begun. Now rest, you will awaken once more, soon.”
------
Joan stumbled back from the thread, falling down on her butt and staring up at the tapestry. What was that? Had that truly been the final moments of the Chosen? Was that what had happened? How long ago was that?
Slowly she got back to her feet and eyed the thread once more. It was lightly vibrating, no longer motionless. She reached out to touch it once more, but then stopped herself.
This was it. This was a record of some kind. Did it record all of their history? Could this finally tell her everything she needed to know? FINALLY! Was she finally going to get some actual ANSWERS?
Joan reached out and put her fingers against the red thread. It lightly vibrated from the movement, but she received no vision this time. She stood there for a moment before sighing. “Oh, of course. Can’t ever make anything EASY, can you?” she asked. She reached out to touch the white thread again, but even though she touched it she received no vision this time. Was it a one time thing? She swore if it was she was going to be furious. Then probably cry. Why was she allowed to see that, but not others? Was it because it was Searle’s?
She glanced back to where the threads began. The birth of the Chosen. Odd, she never imagined she’d be staring right at it. A shame it seemed to be just outside her reach. She walked back, trying to find where the threads first appeared. The tapestry was so tightly woven that it was hard for her to entirely gauge, but she was pretty sure that each of the seven threads were different threads that began to glow brightly with their own color.
There wasn’t a silver thread, though. She wondered if that meant there was no hero yet.
Maybe it meant she had never been necessary, after all.
Slowly Joan began to walk again. More tapestries appeared now. Quicker than before. More and more of them. Each time the Chosen’s threads would come, although there were shifts in the way it was woven. Sometimes there seemed to be two of each Chosen’s thread, other times just one. She had no idea what that meant. But each tapestry seemed to end the same. Every thread cut except for the Chosen’s. Worse, each was smaller than the last.
She felt a knot in her stomach. Was this it? Was this the ‘end’? Was the situation of their world finally driven to this point? Was it--
Then, in the distance, she saw it. A new tapestry. One that started smaller than the others before, finally…
It grew exponentially. While it was only a few thousand threads at first, suddenly the threads seemed to multiply, woven around the Chosen’s threads. Millions of them. As suddenly as they started, the threads came to a stop. But rather than being cut, the threads seemed to fade from existence, like the Chosen did.
She reached out to touch the threads, pressing her palm across them.
------
A thousand images. Pain. Anger. Fear. Excitement. Hope.
A monster with a thousand forms, all different. All terrifying. The mist. The cloud. The god. The fire. The mountain.
Across all of the visions, only one feeling remained the same.
Freedom. Then, finally, peace.
------
Joan stumbled back, her stomach rolling for a moment before she fell to her knees and threw up, the contents of her stomach emptying itself from the strange, distorted vision she’d received. She laid there for a few moments, on her hands and knees, retching and trying to get her body to calm down.
After a few moments the feeling of being in dozens, if not hundreds of places at once, began to fade. “Right. Understood,” she said softly. “Don’t touch more than one of those at a time. Point taken.” She glanced back at the tapestry.
She had been able to touch it and see something, though. So it at least sometimes worked. Now those threads were vibrating as well. Was she only allowed to see one thing per tapestry? Was that the secret?
Great. It wasn’t exactly easy to touch just one single thread on a tapestry, especially one like this.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
With a shake of her head and got back to her feet and started walking again. “You know,” Joan said. “If this is information I need, you could have put it in a book or something. Maybe put a piece of string to show which page I need to read? I’m sure itty bitty threads of history are easy for the gods to read, but I’m only human.”
That, however, made her pause. Now that she thought about it, in the two visions she had seen, had she been human? She was pretty sure that the Chosen of the Shield’s vision she had had four arms and in the last vision she’d had…
Well, there had been a lot of weirdness in that vision, so perhaps it wasn’t a good measure of anything. The idea of touching a clump of threads to find out wasn’t something that appealed to her. But there was definitely something there.
The next tapestry was massive in comparison to the last, towering up into the sky and--
Wait.
Joan paused for a moment and looked up at it and then down. How COULD she see all of it? There were so many millions of threads, yet she could see all of them as if they were only a few inches away. She felt her stomach do another jump at the strange, nonsensical way the Realm of the Gods seemed to operate. Apparently who cared about a little thing like ‘reality’ when instead you could have whatever was convenient at the time?
However, while the last tapestry had ended so much bigger than it began, this one had not. Instead, while some of the threads faded out, many of them were cut. In the end, only a long, golden thread remained. She gave a soft sigh and, with a nervous lump in her stomach, she reached out and pushed her fingers against the golden thread of the Chosen.
------
The Chosen of the Crown sat on the rock, the ground scorched. She hugged her knees to her chest, the only sound a terrible ringing. She couldn’t even breath anymore.
Still she could hear the beast growling. Despite everything they had done. Despite everything they had sacrificed.
Never again.
Let them take someone else. Let someone else carry this burden.
She was done. She was so tired.
Her eyes looked up for just a moment at the monster before her. As large as the world itself. Defeat, snatched from the jaws of victory.
Then she called on the power of her crown once more and the rocks closed in, impaling her.
She would no longer bear this burden.
She could no longer.
------
Joan stumbled back from the tapestry, her eyes wide and a hand moving over her mouth. Korgron? No. Maybe? Something else? The Chosen of the Crown? But what had happened? They’d been victorious, hadn’t they? The last tapestry had held so many threads. Now this?
Once more the thread was vibrating.
She gave a sigh and started walking again. “A book really would have been helpful, you know. Maybe something to give me some direction?” She started to walk faster, hopeful that what came next would be good. That the next tapestry wouldn’t be the end.
Then her breathing stopped.
She could see the next tapestry. Seven threads that glimmered like the Chosen.
And a silver and gray thread.
Joan wondered if her heart would burst. As opposed to the Chosen threads, which hadn’t glimmered at first, these two sprang into being from seemingly nowhere. She longed to touch them, but they were so tightly packed together with so many hundreds, if not thousands, of other threads she couldn’t.
“Can’t make any of it easy, can you?” Joan asked. “Can’t just leave me a note that says ‘Hey, Joan, here’s everything you need to know. Go save the world now’?”
She started walking again, eyeing the threads. There had to be somewhere she could touch them. Just one place. Come on.
There it was. A place where all of the threads intersected. The Chosen, the Hero and the Guide. Just them. Just for a moment. She just had to find the right place to touch it so she only touched one of the threads. She took a slow, deep bread before as carefully as she could she reached out and pressed the tip of her finger against the gray thread.
------
“I am the Daughter of Fate and he is the Son of the Gods,” she said before glancing towards the Hero, hoping she hid her nervousness better than she felt she did.
He smiled back at her. “It’ll be fine. You worry about all of this too much.”
“Easy for you to say,” she said before rolling her eyes. “You’re not the one who has to tell them the gods aren’t coming.”
“It’s our duty, isn’t it?” he asked with a shrug. “Not much we can do about it now except save the world.”
“What if they’re wrong?” she asked. “What if I’m not fit to be this Guide? What if you’re not able to be this Champion of theirs? What if in the end we’re unworthy? What if we fail? Everything is depending on us. What if--”
“What is given cannot be stolen back,” he said with a small shake of his head. “They wouldn’t have done this if there was any other way, they cannot undo it. Like it or not, we are what we are. So try to enjoy it, why don’t you?”
“You’re right,” she said before taking a slow, deep breath. “Let’s go meet the Chosen.” Together, the two walked out into the light and began their introductions. “Hello, Chosen. It is an honor to meet you, at last. I am Penthe, the Daughter of Fate. This is Arta, the Son of the Gods. We are to serve as your Guide and Champion.”
“Is that literal?” the Chosen of the Crown asked.
“Excuse me?” Penthe asked.
“Are you literally their daughter? I mean, I’ve heard of fate but I never really thought they would--”
“No!” Penthe said quickly. “It’s not literal, I think. It’s a title. They created us, but it’s not a--”
“Where are the gods?” the Chosen of the Spear asked.
“They’re not coming,” Penthe said.
“WHAT?” the Chosen of the Sword yelled. “How are we supposed to wage this war if not by their side?”
“We will not,” Penthe said. She found her eyes drawn to one in particular. The Chosen of the Crown. “You will not. We are not here to lead you. We are here to free you from this burden. The hour of the end draws near. One final battle. Then, come what may, you will be free.”
“Free?” the Chosen of the Shield asked. “What happens then?”
“Even the Fates don’t know,” Penthe said.
“Well, this is just useless, isn’t it?” the Chosen of the Crown asked, her voice filled with bitterness. “We fight, die and fight again. All so they can just toss us aside when things go a little sour? Did they have any other messages for us, oh precious ‘Guide’ of ours?”
Penthe lowered her eyes and a deep feeling of sadness and loathing welled up inside her. “Just one.”
“Well?” the Chosen of the Crown asked.
“They’re sorry. The gods. The fates. They’re so, so sorry. Mortals should never have had to take up this burden,” Penthe said before her gaze turned towards Arta. “So please, help us fix this.”
Silence reigned after that.
The first to speak up was the Chosen of the Hammer. “We all knew what we were getting into when we took up these weapons. Just because we had a bit of a setback doesn’t mean we’re going to give up now.”
“We won once, we can do it again,” the Chosen of the Shield said.
One by one the Chosen agreed, standing together once more. One by one they raised their weapons, their voices. Their cries.
Penthe and Arta spared each other a small smile.
------
Joan was sent flying back from the thread, pain shooting through her face and torso.
How long had she been in there? Hours? She hit the ground and rolled a few times before she went entirely limp.
It hadn’t ended. She’d watched the Chosen slowly grow, plan, prepare. Against an enemy they all knew so well. Penthe and Arta had guided them. Helped them. Planned with them on how to defeat this monster once and for all. She only saw the first day of planning, the first day of fear and worry. How they had finally collapsed with exhaustion, knowing it would be many more days before they were ready.
Everything mixed in her head none the less. Penthe hadn’t been the Penthe she’d known. The Chosen hadn’t been the Chosen she knew. But they all had been, as well. Even if they had claws, or gils, or fangs, or other arms. It had been them. All of them.
Except Arta.
If she was the Hero, the Champion, that meant she was Arta. Didn’t it?
But that hadn’t been her.
She wasn’t sure of everything, but that she was certain of. Arta wasn’t her. He felt familiar, though. He felt like someone she knew. Just on the edge of her mind. She wondered if it was yet another memory that had been tampered with. If only she could-- A new realization hit her.
Why was she out of the vision? How long had she been there? It hadn’t ended, though she had been there for what felt like hours.
Slowly she looked up at the tapestry and felt her stomach twist into knots.
Perched on the threads, one of its massive legs pushing against the thread she had been touching, was a spider. One unlike any she had ever seen, solid white with a body that seemed to be bone.
A shudder ran through her when she looked to where its eyes were. Where they should have been. Hollow. Empty.
It was the skeleton of a massive arachnid, one that put even the massive ones she’d once seen to shame.
Worse, eyes or not, she was certain it was staring right at her.