...who sang in unison with the music of the Seirenes... Who: The Moirae [narrative] Where: The girls' apartment. When: New Year's Eve
Outside, the city lights burn brightly, in defiance of the night. Muffled music filters in, the tune choked out by the throbbing bassline, and rising from the street below, the shouts and whoops of drunken revellers can be heard. For mortalkind, at least, this is a night of celebration. It's a chance for a fresh beginning, a wiping of the slate, and - let's face it - an excellent excuse for going out and getting extremely smashed.
Inside the Moirae's apartment all is dark. The sisters work by the light of a candle, whose dim glow casts flickering shadows across the threads of the ancient Loom: Clotho spinning, Lachesis measuring, Atropos cutting. They toil in silence, pausing only to inspect each other's work and, occasionally, to cast an eye across the room to the clock ticking away softly on the mantel. They are waiting.
The minute hand has made its slow revolution almost four times before anything happens. Atropos is staring outright now, lips pursed as the hand edges closer to its starting-point. And at long last, she nods. The clock-face reads one minute to twelve.
A few blocks away, a brilliantly lit ball begins its descent.
In the dark of the apartment Lachesis raises her head, and sings.
Hers is a song of times past, of things that were. With tender voice, she bids the listener reflect upon the year that has gone, and indeed all the years that went before it. It seems at first a pretty song, a gentle recollection of joys past, of victories shared and happiness found, but beneath those sentimental lyrics is a note of melancholy. For even as she celebrates Lachesis mourns, burdened by the knowledge that those golden ages cannot and will never be reclaimed, and by past mistakes soon to be repeated.
Now Clotho's voice joins the Measurer's, a clear and sweet soprano singing the things that are. No sadness suffuses her melody, for hers is the joy of the present: it wonders and rejoices at the turning of another year. Her voice holds neither longing or regret for what has past nor fear for what the future with bring. Those may come later. But for at least this short time, now is all there is - it is a moment to be treasured, celebrated.
And then a third melody, a dark contralto threading itself around, between and through the other two. No pretty ballad, this one, but a warning: it tells of a gathering storm, an ancient war soon to be refought, and loss, terrible loss on both sides of the battlefield. Of a fading light, of failing worship and the death of the ancients. This is Atropos' song, the song of things that are to be.
They sing, the Fates three, their voices rising to a climax as the clock rolls over.
The ball drops. The crowds cheer. In the apartment, the mantel clock tolls the first strike of twelve. The sisters' harmonies find one common melody.
And, if only for a moment, past, present and future are one.
What happens next is almost too quick to perceive.
Lachesis selects a thread and pulls it taut against her measuring rod. To the untrained eye this thread is entirely unremarkable, a nondescript stretch of undyed wool indistinguishable from the millions of others, except - if one is to look more closely - in its length, which is considerably shorter than the lives nestled around it.
It is precisely three hundred and sixty five days long.
Lachesis nods, and Atropos' shears flash. As the excess thread drops lifelessly away, Clotho moves in, securing an identical woollen string in its place.
It is the work of a moment; one fluid, practiced movement accomplished before midnight's first chime has died away. In that split second, the ailing Old Year is relieved of its burden, while the baby New Year comes squalling into existence.
By the second toll the room is silent once more, but for the rustle of fabric and the occasional snipping of shears.
Fate toils on.
"The Moirai … clad in white vestments with filleted heads, Lakhesis, and Klotho, and Atropos, who sang in unison with the music of the Seirenes, Lakhesis singing the things that were, Klotho the things that are, and Atropos the things that are to be."