“Always with the theatrics.”
“Never. I’m merely humbled by your presence in my garden. What brings you forth from the chaos?”
“I need to see Lachesis.”
Lachesis was born second and was the seer. She tended the blooms of life with a gentle hand and measured their life span along with the destiny they bore upon fragile shoulders. It was impossible to tell Atropos and Lachesis apart aside from their crowns and mannerisms. Where Atropos wore a crown of thorns and was a strong leader, Lachesis wore a crown of stars that complimented her meek temperament. Physically, they were identical from their bare feet all the way up to their milky, weeping stare. Except, perhaps, for the wilted white roses that grew from cuts decorating Lachesis’ exposed skin.
Atropos turned her gaze to the great tree in the center of the domed cavern.
It stood from floor to ceiling with branches reaching out to make a canopy over top of them. The asphodel plants weren’t hanging from the ceiling… They were budding from the system of branches.
Suspended in the great hollow of the tree was a nude woman.
Clotho. The Weaver, grower of life and presence of the Here and Now.
Clotho had a love for human life that no other daemon could compare. When the great tree of life started to wither at the beginning of time, she gave herself to it for eternity so that it may prosper and hold the souls she cared so dearly for. In exchange, the tree kept her suspended in animation, giving as freely as it took.
She was attached to the hollow by vines that snaked out and pierced her paper-thin skin. Her lower body was split into hundreds of smaller threads like a sweater unraveling and continued up her abdomen.
Opened wide and spread like wings, her ribs fanned out and joined more hearty vines acting as great arteries for the tree. The lush vines pulsed an ethereal blue to the vivid red heart peeking out just below the fraying ribs.
Where the other Fated sisters shed bioluminescent blue tears, Clotho wept red. Blood ran from every remaining orifice and dropped on the petals closest to the base of the tree.
Her blood permeated the soil and tinted the blooms red. The life force of a Fate was potent and gave the blooms immortality.
The daemon. Olympians. Gods. Whatever they called themselves.
“How does Clotho fare?” His voice was low and concerned.
“My sister is well. Always threading vines and seeding new life.” That small smile reappeared and her face softened as she gazed upon her lifeless sister.
“Lachesis has been waiting for you. She says you’re intending to sleep.” A crinkle of worry graced her brows as her nose wrinkled slightly.
“I am,” he said softly. “I grow tired, Atropos. I’ve molded galaxies with my hands and filtered chaos into every corner of it. Shouldn’t I get a day of rest?” He tried to reassure her, to form an easy smile and bring lightness, but it didn’t seem to ease her unrest.
“Life has begun to bloom throughout on its own. It doesn’t need my help, and I am restless, goddess. I seek solace in the void.”
It was more than restlessness, but the Fate wasn’t privy to such information. He was lost and without purpose. What more could he give the universe?
With her head bowed subserviently she answered, “Yes, my king.”
Bold rays of yellow and orange pulled his consciousness back to present and away from the mysterious maidens in the field of glowing asphodels.
In what seemed like a blink, the stars were fading and the sun bled into the horizon. Brooks watched himself stand and make the silent trek back to his room.
Only after the wristwatch was nestled back into the mattress and his body lie lifeless on top of it did he return to the confines of his broken mind. If the gods had granted him solace in anything, it was the ability to dissociate so completely.
He thought briefly back to his recurring dream, one that had become a consolation between nightmares. A dream that appeared so often, it was becoming as real as his rooftop escapades.
He forced his muscles to relax and sank into the knotted mattress. Just as waves of sleep lapped at his ankles, a scream more shrill than a harpy cry rang through darkness and pierced the very center of his being.
Glass.
It was her home.
Her solace.
Her nightmare.
