Hades and Persephone

Prologue

Long story short: the original prologue was bugging me. For those of you guys who've read the original: what do you think? What do you like that's different? What do you want changed back and why? (Whys are super important). For those of you who haven't: Welcome to the story. I like feedback. Don't be a dick     :D

Clouds of fiber floated freely in the air around her sister. She waved her distaff in all directions, not caring who or what she hit as she emphasized her words with her movements. What tufts littered the air lazily settled into dandelion hair. Her siblings hated how she had chopped it short, falling just above her ears, but it was a better alternative than it getting caught in the spindle.

The blush fabric wrapped her body, an innocent choice. Then again, the neckline plunged down to her midriff. Glints of perfect white teeth were visible as she babbled on about some event that happened decades ago. Her sisters had learned to ignore her tangents.

Clotho made no attempts to hide her body. She was the romantic. The sentimental. Pieces of a mind that chose to only see the best of the past. The births and victories. The bountiful harvests and the newly discovered. The great and the bold.

Then there were the times she ignored. It was easier. The senseless deaths and bloody wars. The famines and the lost. The tyrannical and the abused.

Atropos rocked in her chair, measuring and cutting lengths of thread before feeding them into the loom. The room filled with a tune centuries before it was even a dream. The soft pink of the younger's clothing was replaced with crusted browns and blacks. Evidence of bright reds had been tarnished brown with age. Tattered rags and loose threads. Missing stitches and colorless patches. Layers upon layers, all used to hide the outline of bones and patches of dead skin.

Yellow hair, now brittle and gray, wisped and floated like the tufts of fiber plaguing the air, hardly enough to cover a wrinkled scalp. She tried to grow it long but the moment it reached past her shoulder it fell from her head.

Black talons replaced her nails and fangs- worn down to dull nubs- replaced the picture perfect of her younger.

The romantic was now the feared and the fearful. Of death, of age, of things untold and things unknown. She saw the worst of the future: the wars and deaths. The plagues and blights. The powerful and the powerless.

The sentimental was now the hope and the hopeful. Of long life, of experience, of things untold and things unknown. She also saw the best of the future: the peace and the births. The prosperity and growth. The powerless becoming powerful.

The worst part of their gifts was also their blessing: they could do nothing.

What had passed had passed. Events were unchanging. Those who died remained as such and those who were born cannot be undone.

What would pass was not set in stone. Events changed. Mortals died and were born at the most random of times.

Clotho could not unweave the past as much as Atropos could not weave the future.

The worst of the three, however, was Lachesis.

Her dark hair fell to her waist, her teeth yellowed but not lost. Crow's feet softened her otherwise harsh eyes. The pinks of her younger stained red, the browns of her elder bleached white. She held not the naivete of Clotho nor the experience of Atropos. She could not reminisce nor hope. She could only watch as mortals and immortals alike tore each other apart.

Lachesis was not the one to end lives and she was not the one to birth them. She was the one who spun the threads Clotho created and Atropos cut. Careful measuring and dyeing. Each thread, no matter it's make, was the finest of silks to her. Each blessing of another was also hers. And each mistake was also her fault.