Clack, clack, clack.

A lone woman sat by the window before an empty loom, weaving what seemed to be nothing at all. Her feet worked the pedals, her deft hands on the bar, the clacking sound of the loom forming a rhythmic tune.

Outside the window, the rain fell in droves. The droplets ran down the eaves in rivulets of water. They spilled out over the edges, forming small waterfalls that cascaded off the roof and down to the mud stained floor.

The woman looked up, her eyes unfocused as they gazed off somewhere into the distance. Far, far away, beyond the curtain of rain, she could see the vague, blurry outlines of golden dragons and bamboo roofs. The Imperial Palace of the Kingdom of Yang. Somewhere, within the confines of those crimson halls, the Emperor Huo dwelt. As she pushed the bar and stepped on the pedals, she wondered how the young ruler fared on a day like this. Gorging on fine wine and surrounded by women, most likely.

A rustle of cloth.

“It is time to leave,” came a low, melodic voice from behind. “Yao Lin.”

She turned to see a man standing behind her. A man where there once was no one. He was a tall, wry old man, dressed in robes radiant as the morning sun. In his hand was a fan of polished bamboo, atop his head, a tall hat. Engraved on the hat were the words “Met with Prosperity”, a testament to who he was.

“General Xie,” said Lin, turning back to her loom. “I’m not yet ready.”

“It is time to go,” said the messenger of the Underworld. “Death waits for no one.”

His eyes softened.

“Not even the exalted Weaver of Fate.”

“I can’t leave yet. I still have five threads,” she murmured, running her fingers through the empty crevices in the loom. To the bystander, she was merely pantomiming. Yet to her eyes, the loom had never been vacant.

A stream of red cloth parsed between her fingers, rippling through the air in undulating waves. A small fraction of the great Tapestry of Fate which wound through the room, coiling around and through the two of them like a great, crimson snake.

“You know the rules, General Xie. A Weaver of Fate dies only after weaving all threads assigned to them. No sooner, no later. All threads must be accounted for in the Tapestry of Fate.”

“…”

“What are the five threads remaining?” asked the General instead.

The clacking stopped. Lin raised her hand to behold five long strands of crimson, one of which was already attached to the loom.

“One, the Emperor will be lazy and incompetent, overly trusting in women.”

“Two, the waters of the Changjiang will flow backwards and flood the capital.”

“Three, the Kong kingdom will invade and leave with five cities, but will return in a year for another invasion.”

“Four, an army will advance from the south.”

She took a deep breath and sighed.

“Five. The Yang kingdom will fall.”

The General frowned, his hand lifting to stroke his beard.

“You… have been saving the worst for last, haven’t you?” He finally said.

“Yes,” she murmured. “The worst for last.”

The two fell into silence.

“General, I have something to ask.” Lin said.

There was no reply.

“General?”

She turned to find that the man had disappeared. She was the only one in the room, just as she had always been.

She got up from her seat and approached the door, opening it to the thundering downpour outside. The rain plummeted down from the sky in large droplets, falling endlessly from the recesses of the grey clouds above and hitting the ground with a splash.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

She did not know what compelled her to stride back inside, to take an umbrella, and step out into the rain. Until that moment, the rain and its sounds had just been close by, but now it was all around her, droplets impacting the surface of her umbrella and filling her ears with shapeless noise.

Out on the streets, there was not a soul to be seen. All potential passers by were tucked up cozy within the dry confines of shelter. If given the choice, no one would want to brave the storm outside. Lin strode through the empty streets, the soles of her shoes splashing through shallow puddles, a sound that was dampened by the cascade of ever falling rain.

She continued to walk as the stone turned to cobbles, then to dirt as she followed the road further and further out. She knew where she was going, and knew that she should turn back. Yet she could not find the strength to stop herself as her feet carried her all the way beyond the city.

The guard at the gate greeted her as she passed. She knew she ought to return the salutation, but could not find herself able to give more than a brief nod.

Out in the plains, a way away from the city gates, her feet began to slow, then finally stopped. She stood staring out at the vague, shifting landscape amidst the pouring rain, her vision blurring and shifting like the scenery before her. The green of the grass morphed and merged, flickering and stretching into delicate whites. The chrysanthemums swayed lightly in the wind, gentle raindrops falling onto their petals where they lay like small pieces of jewellery. The rain that fell now was still a downpour, but in her mind’s eye, it was just a gentle shower. A rainfall light enough that the white chrysanthemums stood unperturbed and elegant in the rain.

“Lin…” whispered the chrysanthemums. “Lin…”

A wisp of a giggle made her turn her head. Behind her, blurring and shifting amid the rain, was a young girl of about ten years old.

“Auntie Lin!” smiled the girl. “Teach me to weave!”

“When you’re older, Zhi’er” she recited as she stared out blurrily at the scene. “You still have much of your life to live. It’s too early for you to weave the threads of Fate.”

“But I don’t get to do anything around here… You all say that the Weavers of Fate can only watch and witness. So the sooner I’m done with all my threads, the sooner I can be free to make friends and do what I want!”

“Zhi’er, the threads of Fate are not a joke,” She felt her fingers tighten around the handle of the umbrella and loosened her grip, only for it to tense again as she shifted her attention.

“It’s all up to the will of the Heavens anyway,” Zhi’er shrugged. “Tian ming, right? There’s nothing I can do to stop what’s going to happen, so I might as well let it happen sooner. Then I’ll be free!”

One droplet of rain rolled down Zhi’er’s face, then another, then another, leaving clean streaks of sky wherever they landed. The little girl amid the chrysanthemums was washed away like paint off a wall, just like the day she had completed all her threads.

“Zhi’er!” Lin cried out, dropping her umbrella. The field of chrysanthemums wobbled, dissipated, becoming a field of grass once more. She knew that it was futile, but couldn’t stop herself from turning her head frantically, trying to spot that small figure before she lost her again. Yet it was as she had expected, there was none to be seen, only the looming fogginess of the city walls that stood back the way she had come.

Thunder crashed through the loud downpour, the forked curve of lightning splitting the sky in a bright flash of white. For a moment, she saw a face reflected in the mountains, a craggy face with a wise pair of eyes that shone like the stars.

“Little Lin,” rumbled the thunder. “The Weaver of Fate is a role passed down within our family for generations. There are boundaries to what we can and cannot do.”

“Is that so…” she managed, her voice emerging as a breathy whisper. “What are those boundaries, Grandfather?”

Grandfather propped himself up in his old rickety chair, his stick shuddering under the force of his grip. He cleared his throat with the rumble of passing thunder, dignified words spilling from his lips.

Lin spoke as he did, the words of the three rules passed down within their family for generations.

“No threads of Fate may be broken or lost. No Weaver may interfere with the course of Fate.”

“The threads represent the will of the inevitable tian ming.”

Grandfather stroked his beard and gazed kindly down at Lin.

“My threads are nearly finished, little Lin. Grandfather will go soon. Remember. We cannot go beyond what we were born for. Our role is merely to record and bear witness. Fate cannot be changed. The sooner you realise this, the lesser the burden you will bear.”

Once, she had pestered Grandfather with questions. Asking why he was so sure that the threads were unchangeable, why tian ming was so cruel. But now, she found that she could not say anything anymore. Instead, she slowly raised her hands to clamp over her ears, so that she could hear the storm no more.

One by one, the memories came, trickling slowly at first, then faster and faster, till they came flowing back to her in a stream. Zhi’er and Grandfather; Mother and Father; her rowdy elder brothers and her stream of distant cousins; Da Li, Ri Bei, Er Lan… How it all started out, and how it all ended up.

In the muffled quietness of the world around her, she sunk into her memories. The good, the bad, all whirled together in a reminiscent swirl of colours and smells, of soft touches and painful heartburn. The rain fell thick, white streaks painting her vision like snowfall.

Amidst the blizzard, a woman sat weaving at her loom. Her eyes were sunken, her lips chapped. Yet still she wove tirelessly the Tapestry of Fate, the glowing red fabric cascading through the snowstorm like a river of crimson.

“Don’t you want to see how far we can go?” the woman asked. “How far beyond our so-called boundaries of Fate?”

The glow of the Tapestry threaded through the air, waving enticingly to her.

“Don’t you want to leave a shining legacy? That neither Fate nor Death can take away from you?”

Lin reached out her hand, and stopped, the rain pelting her back to reality. The woman faded. The memories halted. It was just her, drenched, in a field of soaked grass, the rain still coming down in droves around her ears.

“A shining legacy…” murmured Lin. “Prosperity for all… beyond the boundaries of our role.”

A lazy king. A river flowing upstream. An invasion. An army.

And finally, the fall of a kingdom.

Lin stood in the rain and thought for a long time.

She knew what she had to do.