Fate was never incorrect, weaving purpose into the otherwise meaningless existences of those fated by it. That was the general teaching for Farthinians—though such threads were a mystery in and of itself; what meaning did they hold for them, as opposed to a story written by pen and paper?

— Study I of Tarkas, First Verse

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It was the day before the century’s Recognition Ceremony began when Varna was operating the loom in the Rayan Institute’s Weaving Room. Isolated and in silence, she turned the wheels to continue weaving her mother’s incomplete scarf. Every dull click resonated in her ears given the absence of other sounds. The scarf itself donned a prismatic colour, with a transparency so light it seemed as if it were an actual Scarf of Fate.

With warm light peeking through the institute’s tinted windows, she paid no mind to her surroundings. Much of the room consisted of a whiter marble, with little arches extending the entire width of the space. The decor, however, consisted of a darker wood, with colour similar to dark walnut after its wax coating. In all, Varna’s lack of attention to the building brought shame to the quintessence of Farthinian architecture which emphasised elegance rather than practicality. Though, her ignorance also stemmed from her unwavering focus on the matter at hand.

Her preoccupation would only halt two hours before sunset when an unassuming colleague entered the room.

“Mr. Ford? Could I borrow some of your time?” The colleague asked, startling Varna in the midst of her work.

“Ah–!” Varna exclaimed, accidentally snapping the prismatic thread while tightening it for another run. “Crap.”

“Oh,” The colleague paused, his gaze wandering awkwardly around the room, “sorry.”

Varna sighed, grabbing the snipped thread and inspecting it, mumbling, “Great. gotta get a new one.”

Letting go in resignation, she turned and scrutinised the newcomer: fair skin tone, dark brownish hair, bordering on the colour black, brown eyes, and the typical Rayan Institute uniform. Though his attire suggested he was of the same standing as Varna, his triple-stringed emblem accompanied with the elegant border of the Rayan Institute placed him at a higher standing than her. He was a Weaver, experienced, albeit lightly, in the Scarves of Fate, unlike her. Varna felt a slight, indescribable irritation from him.

“What, Percas? Mr. Ford left a while ago. Hours even.”

Percas could only smile bitterly, “I see. I’ll just ask next time then.”

Silence dawned on the two for a few moments, sunlight falling between the two of them, as if mocking Parcas’ circumstances. He broke the silence.

“Your mother’s scarf? How long have you been here?”

“A couple hours at best,” she huffed. “Why?”

“Well … just, shouldn’t you be preparing for the Recognition Ceremony?” Percas inquired, in part due to worry.

“I can prepare later,” — Varna loosened the threads, wrapping up her work for the day — “I’m not gonna spend hours on making myself look pretty anyway.”

“Even when the ceremony happens once a century? You know how it is up here.”

Varna fell silent, her expression pensive for just a moment.

“Yeah.”

Percas paused his questioning after picking up on her hesitation. Sighing, he gazed around the dusk-filled room before approaching Varna’s loom. He knelt down next to her, helping tidy up.

“Careful about the thread.”

The overall process took less than two minutes with the work split somewhat evenly between the two. Both Varna and Percas stood, staring at the loom, equipment in hand.

“You know, sometimes brunt work like this is nice once in a while.” Percas turned to face Varna. “Don’t we make a pretty good team?”

Varna sighed in exasperation. “Sure, but I think I’m better suited for weaving.”

“To each their own, I guess.”

Varna frowned in displeasure, before letting loose her hair to her waist. She gathered the rest of her threading materials, before making haste to the exit. She bowed slightly to Percas.

“Well then, I’ll see you tomorrow—”

“Wait.” Percas grabbed her wrist, dishevelling her long-cuffed white uniform.

Varna sighed again, in indignation. “What?”

Letting go of her hand, he responded. “Are you up for a walk?”

“I’m not a dog, Percas.”

“Sorry— I mean. Do you want to walk around together? Take a breather?”

“Where, even?”

Percas hesitated to respond, and Varna, not wasting any more time, attempted to take advantage of the situation.

“I’ll see—”

“The Garden. Let’s walk around the garden.”

Varna grimaced, before resigning to Percas’ insistence.

“Fine.”

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To call the institute’s gardens ‘beautiful’ was an understatement. Amassing fifty-five Farthan acres, the institute’s gardens, formally known as the Rayan Gardens, was filled with life native to Farthos alone. Hedges upon hedges, flowers upon flowers, there was no area in the Rayan Gardens without some form of ecological life. It boasted even its own creek, with its own thriving aquatic life.

Within this garden, upon the setting sun, Varna and Percas walked down an isolated path, straying from the garden and bordering on the outskirts of Forthas itself. The two paced with silence, wind breezing between the empty space between them as if to make note of the awkward air.

“So, care to explain? I’m sure this wasn’t the date you had in mind.” Varna spoke brusquely.

Scratching his reddening cheeks, Percas replied. “Well, uh… I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I just wanted to walk, I guess?”

His response was met only with silence, as the two of them continued down the beaten path. The surrounding environment began to clutter, giving a sense of claustrophobia as they delved deeper into the outskirts of the gardens.

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“Around the garden?.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Percas laughed, dryly.

“Okay. Then why are we heading to the outskirts?” Varna interrogated him.

“Change of scenery, I guess?”

“‘Change of scenery’ my ass.” Varna frowned.

Percas delayed his response. “I know.”

Only a vexed sigh came in reply. Percas huffed, awkwardly placing his gaze down the beaten path. Much of the claustrophobic surroundings made clear the longer Percas avoided Varna’s scrutiny. He felt his stomach churn slightly, the surroundings seeming to rise in temperature the longer he kept the act. Then came a cough—Percas turned in Varna’s direction.

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

Only a frown surfaced on Varna’s face. Even she had her limits, granted the fact that she had less tolerance than her other colleagues.

The two kept proceeding down the near indistinguishable path. The once conspicuous dirt road now blended with the rest of the ground, covered in a lush green. The sun, which had now entered its sunset, reflected off Varna’s slender face. Alluring, almost, Percas thought, as the orange hue heightened the unique colour of her hair—white. Her uniform, also glowing from the setting sun, presented almost a heavenly appearance.

For a slight moment, Percas instinctively raised his hand to caress her face.

“What?” Varna questioned, oblivious to the matter.

“Nah, nothing.” Percas shrugged with a dry chuckle. “There was just a bug on your cuff.”

“Oh. Well, thanks then.”

Their swift exchange was interrupted when an unfamiliar buzz entered their ears. Varna, recognizing the noise, had her expression immediately brighten to her ignorance, and Percas, had his bearing softened watching the spectacle. One by one, the environment began to be spotted with an iridescent luminescence. And as if they were one, the iridescent spots blinked in waves.

“I know it’s pretty, but we’re almost there.” Percas reminded Varna, gesturing to what seemed to be the exit of the cluttered forest.

“Percas, would it kill you to just enjoy things like this?”

He only smiled bitterly in response. “Well, it’s nicer when you take in the cliff’s view.”

Varna huffed, and continued through the forest, ignoring most of Percas’ comment and absorbing the spectacle. Percas sighed, before pushing aside the shrubbery, revealing the sun in full view. He flinched, raising his hand to block some sunlight.

Hunched over and crouching through, Varna too blocked the sun and exited the forest. Immediately, the two were greeted by an expanse of land, all of which were riddled with spots from the creatures before. Ahead of them lay a cliffside which extended as far as the eye could see from their left to their right, and slight mist covered the aforementioned cliffside. There was a slight prismatic colour as the sunlight was reflected off the mist.

Varna, fascinated by the sight, carefully trod across the grassland such that the bugs would not be crushed. She moved closer to the edge of the cliffside, but not enough to put herself in danger. Percas, busy from taking in the environment, quickly followed suit. Eventually, Varna settled down on a rock nearby the edge, where she looked upon the horizon.

“It’s amazing, the view.”

“Isn’t it?” Percas boasted, as if it were his own. “I’m sure this’ll beat the gardens by a landslide.”

Varna groaned. “I’m not sure. It’s certainly lovely, but the garden also has its own fritters.”

“No, it’s not just the fritters that make this better than the gardens.”

Percas sat down nearby Varna on the rock. He nudged her shoulder, before pointing toward the cliffside.

“Look.” He said.

“What? I don’t see anything there.”

“Just give it a few moments, will’ya?”

Varna shrugged and did as he said, but the scenery never changed.

“So … where’s that ‘spectacle’ of yours?” Varna teased.

Percas groaned. “That’s odd, it’s supposed to appear around now.”

“What is?”

“The fritters.”

Varna frowned, waiting for the show to begin. Yet, all she was met with was the buzzing of the fritters.

“Whatever. Just talk then. It’ll pass the time while we wait.”

“About?”

“Idiot, said you’d tell me when we got here, so what is it?”

“Oh.” Percas paused, his hand rubbing the back of his head as he responded. “Well, it’s just that— it seemed like something was bothering you.”

Varna grimaced. She clenched the threads in her pocket.

“Not particularly.”

Percas hesitated a response, shifting his body so it would face the cliffside. “Is it the Recognition Ceremony?”

“It’s not like you to meddle.” Varna scowled.

“I’m just worried.”

Silence.

The cool air seeped into both of their uniforms, their bated breath fresh in the cold. Varna looked down at her hand, red and shivering with minor cuts from tense threads. She cupped her hands and breathed into them.

“I was wondering what it meant to be Fatebearer.” She said.

“Fatebearer? You’re not even a Stringer yet. Why think about that now?” Percas inquired.

“No, I mean, just generally.”

Percas frowned. “I guess. … Isn’t it to keep things proper?”

“That’s what they teach us, Percas.” Varna rubbed her hands together, before putting them in her pocket. “I’m wondering about your opinion.”

He groaned, crossing his arms and looking up at the sky. The numerous stars gazed down on him, as if listening to his opinion on the matter.

“I don’t know. To become like Her Excellency, Arponia, maybe?”

“So we’re imitations?”

“I didn’t say—”

“But that’s what we’re taught, no?” Varna frowned, clenching her fists. “They tell us ‘it’s to keep the world stable’, or ‘follow in the footsteps of Her Excellency, Arponia’, but what about them?”

“Who, the Fated?”

“They’re people, Percas. They have feelings, emotions, just like us.”

Varna crouched down, picking up a fritter, playing with it as she articulated her thoughts.

“So why do we ignore that, as Fatebearers?”

Percas tried to respond, but the harder he tried the harder it was to answer her. It was like a dam had been placed in his throat, choking his beliefs as long as it was lodged there.

“You know, my mother always reads this one poem to me.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re always reading it when you’re not practising, after all.”

Varna nodded. “I never understood it, though.”

Percas kept silent, affirming his response instead.

“I just knew bits and pieces because of my mother.” Varna let down the fritter, taking out her thread as she explained to Percas. “She told me it was a criticism of Forthinian purposes.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, you shouldn’t.” Varna stood up from the rock, clenching the thread in her hand. “Percas, I don’t understand the meaning of the Scarves anymore.”

Percas followed suit, also standing. “Well—”

“If they’re so important, then why do we use the Fated as entertainment? Why do we turn a blind eye to their pleas to us? Why do we— why do we abandon humanity?”

The cool air subsided in the midst of Varna’s tangent, the mist clearing away as what remained of the sun illuminated only a fraction of the sky. The stars shone brightly, intermittently, almost, as they listened to the ramblings of an ignorant woman.

Past the cliffside floated several iridescent spots in the air. The fritters moved to and fro as the wind carried them across the cliff. The still ocean laid bare as such a rare and beautiful phenomenon exposed itself just once in the century.

Fortunately or unfortunately, however, the view mattered little to the two students. Varna’s desperation captivated Percas’ focus.

“I want to understand why we govern the lives of others— No, I want to understand why fate plays favourites.”

Silence dawned on the two young adults, as the buzz of the fritters began dying down. For a moment, the stars cast their dice on Varna, and for a moment, destiny turned into its own unbound arrow, and in this moment, the first fritter lost its light.

“That is what I wish for.”