Soul Lines (Completed)

Prologue

Prologue
Third Person

Mist rose from the cracks in the cobblestone, catching the light and bathing the room in a soft bluish haze. The light cast bubbling shadows across the walls, almost hiding the deity who sat by the river of the fates. She stared into the darkened waters, dutifully keeping watch, her dress pooling on the ground like molten silver, and wisps of hair, the colour of winter's white frost, danced in the wind's subtle breath.

Born from the jewelled tears of the Moirai, the River of Fatum was the essence of every soul born. From ancient relics of time to the infants yet to take their first breath, the fates had already decided their destinies.

And she was the scribe of the fates, and it was her duty to record the destinies from the river's liquid ink. She was a writer with no control over her pen, powerless to the fate's will; the Moirai created a powerful bond that only time could overcome its strength.

The Goddess pulled a thread from her pile and dipped the two ends into the river. It was a process that should have taken no longer than a second, but as she pulled on the thread, it tensed, straining against her.

She noticed only one soul attached to the thread - she needed two to connect the souls, and unbeknownst to her, it would be hours before the fated soul would make itself known.

She waited, unable to pull one soul from the river alone – though even if she could, she'd never wish that on any soul. A destitute life of loneliness was not one she would want to conceive, not even in her darkest days.

The tawny thread vibrated with unsung energy, and she watched the essence rise along the line slowly as though it anticipated the loss. It was golden in colour, a rarity, but she was familiar with the story it foretold.

She was more interested in its brightness than the colour, for it had been over a century since she had seen one so bright. It was as if she were staring at the sun, unable to tear her gaze away; the light blinded her.

After some time, the soul weaved through her fingers, following the thread.

The Goddess gasped.

The past and future played upon her mind like a film. Key moments of his life appeared and then receded as others made themselves known. The memories and destinies emerged nonsequentially, his adulthood, final days, and youth; each played out, revealing his fate.

With his years detailed in her consciousness, the image in her mind formed around his existing moment. He was only five, still curled to his mother's side; a picture book lay between them, and she caressed a hand over his fearful face, sweeping back sweat-soaked hair. He had woken from a bad dream.

The Goddess had seen things far beyond the imagination of a child. But the memory of his nightmare caused a shiver deep under her skin. Darkness did not belong in a child's thoughts, but he was ravened with their shadows.

There was a tremor in the goddess' hand; she would later tell others that it was fatigue making her hands shake, but it was something else. It was fear. Fear of what the boy knew, too young to be weighted down with such knowledge. And it was fear at what he had yet to face.

She had never seen a soul-line so young, and the consequences for him, a soul of bright gold, an alpha, she wished she didn't know what he would be forced to face in the years to come.

His soul slowed, waiting for something, waiting for her.

***

Twelve hours passed, and no matches were made.

Day broke on the horizon, and the sun shone through the window, turning the fog a buttery yellow. The weary Goddess had not rested, though she had grown fond of the boy, with nothing else to occupy her thoughts.