Chapter VII: The Girl Beneath the Rain

Act III : The Unraveling

"The Girl Beneath the Rain"

The rain came without warning.

One moment, the village had been beneath a pale afternoon sky, the clouds gathered in the distance but still far enough away that no one paid them much attention. The next, the wind rushed through the trees, carrying with it the cold scent of water.

Aion noticed it before anyone else did.

He stood at the edge of the village, looking toward the darkening sky.

Mara had told him not to wander too far.

She said it often now.

Not because she believed he was incapable of taking care of himself, but because he had begun wandering farther than he once did. The village had become familiar to him. Its paths no longer seemed endless. He knew which houses belonged to which families, which fields belonged to which farmers, where the children gathered to play, and which paths became muddy after rain.

The world was becoming larger.

Or perhaps he was simply learning how to see it.

Aion looked back toward the village.

Mara would probably be finishing her work by now. She would notice if he was gone for too long. He should have returned.

Instead, he remained where he was.

There was something about the sky that held his attention.

He had seen storms before.

Rain was not new to him.

The first rain he remembered had been from the earliest days of his life, though the memory was less a memory than a feeling. Cold water against his skin. Thunder above him. The warmth of Mara's arms as she carried him beneath shelter.

Rain had been the first thing the mortal world had given him.

Now, years later, he found himself watching it approach again.

The first drop struck his hand.

Aion looked down.

Another landed against his cheek.

Then another.

The wind strengthened.

He smiled faintly.

And then the sky opened.

Rain poured across the village.

Aion ran.

He crossed the narrow path leading away from the fields, his feet slipping slightly against the wet earth. Within moments, his clothes were soaked through. Water ran down his hair and face, making it difficult to see.

He could have gone home.

He knew the way.

But the rain had changed everything.

The familiar paths looked different beneath it. The fields had become sheets of silver. The houses were blurred behind curtains of water. The trees bent beneath the wind.

For a moment, Aion simply stood beneath the storm.

He closed his eyes.

The rain fell against him.

It was strange how familiar it felt.

Then he heard someone shouting.

"Wait!"

Aion opened his eyes.

A figure was moving along the path ahead.

A girl.

She was struggling against the wind, one arm wrapped around a small bundle beneath her cloak. She was trying to keep it dry while the rain soaked everything else.

A sudden gust caught the edge of her cloak.

She stumbled.

Aion moved without thinking.

He reached her just before she fell.

His hand caught her arm.

She looked at him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Rain fell between them.

The girl blinked.

Then she looked down at the hand holding her arm.

Then back at Aion.

"You can let go."

Aion immediately did.

"Sorry."

She steadied herself.

"I wasn't going to fall."

Aion looked at the mud covering one of her feet.

"You almost did."

"I said almost."

He considered that.

"That still means you almost fell."

She stared at him.

Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.

It was a small laugh, nearly swallowed by the storm.

"You're strange."

Aion had heard that before.

Usually, the words carried fear.

Her voice did not.

He looked at her carefully.

"Why?"

"Because most people would have just said, 'Are you alright?'"

"Are you alright?"

She smiled.

"Now you're late."

Aion did not know what to say.

The girl adjusted the bundle beneath her cloak.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"Somewhere dry."

She started walking.

Aion remained where he was.

She turned around.

"Are you coming?"

He nodded.

He followed.

They hurried toward an abandoned wooden shelter near the edge of the village. It had once been used by farmers during storms, though its roof had begun to sag and one wall leaned slightly to the side.

Still, it was dry.

Mostly.

The girl stepped inside first.

She immediately lowered the bundle she had been protecting.

Aion watched as she carefully unwrapped it.

Inside was a small wooden box.

She opened it.

Nothing happened.

Aion looked at her.

She sighed.

"It's ruined."

"What is it?"

"Something I was supposed to bring home."

She turned the box toward him.

Inside were several pieces of cloth, all damp despite her efforts.

Aion studied them.

"Why are they important?"

"They're not."

"You were protecting them."

"I was protecting myself from getting yelled at."

Aion tilted his head.

The girl laughed again.

"You really don't understand jokes, do you?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"When people say things they don't mean."

She looked at him for a moment.

"That's not a joke."

"No."

She smiled.

"You're definitely strange."

Aion sat on the wooden floor across from her.

"So are you."

She raised an eyebrow.

"How?"

"You ran into a storm carrying a box."

"I was already outside when it started."

"Then why didn't you go home?"

She hesitated.

"Because I needed to finish something."

"What?"

She looked down at the ruined cloth.

"That."

Aion waited.

She seemed to realize he expected an answer.

"I was trying to make something."

"What?"

"A dress."

"For who?"

"Myself."

Aion looked at the cloth again.

"It doesn't look like a dress."

"Because it's not finished."

"Oh."

She shook her head.

"You really say exactly what you're thinking, don't you?"

"I don't know."

"You do."

Aion considered this.

Perhaps she was right.

He had spent much of his life trying to understand what people meant when they spoke. He had learned that mortals rarely said exactly what they thought.

Sometimes they lied.

Sometimes they hid things.

Sometimes they said one thing because they were afraid to say another.

Mara had taught him that much.

This girl seemed to have no trouble saying what she thought.

At least, not to him.

"What is your name?" she asked.

Aion paused.

He realized they had been speaking for several minutes without knowing each other's names.

"Aion."

She repeated it quietly.

"Aion."

He nodded.

"My name is Clea."

"Clea."

She smiled.

"Yes."

The rain continued outside.

Aion listened to it strike the roof.

Clea leaned against the wall and looked through the opening where one of the wooden boards had fallen away.

"Do you live nearby?"

"Yes."

"With your family?"

"With Mara."

"Your mother?"

Aion hesitated.

He had never thought about how to answer that.

Mara was not the woman who had given birth to him. He knew that much.

But she was the first person who had held him.

The first person who had fed him.

The first person who had protected him.

The first voice he remembered.

"I live with her," he said.

Clea seemed to understand that he didn't want to explain further.

"She's the woman who lives near the old tree, right?"

Aion looked at her.

"You know her?"

"Everyone knows Mara."

"Why?"

"Because she talks to everyone."

Aion smiled.

"That's true."

"And because you live with her."

"What about me?"

Clea shrugged.

"People talk."

Aion looked toward the rain.

"What do they say?"

"That you're quiet."

"That's true."

"That you're always watching people."

Aion said nothing.

"That you're strange."

He looked at her.

"You said that too."

"Then they must be right."

Aion smiled.

Clea noticed.

"There. You can smile."

"I know."

"I wasn't sure."

"Why?"

"Because you look like you're always thinking."

"I am."

"About what?"

Aion looked out at the storm.

"Everything."

Clea laughed softly.

"That's a lot."

"It is."

"What kind of everything?"

Aion thought about the answer.

He could have told her about the visions.

He could have told her about the strange futures that appeared when he closed his eyes.

He could have told her about Apollo watching from somewhere beyond the limits of mortal sight.

He could have told her about the golden throne.

Instead, he said, "People."

Clea looked at him.

"People?"

"I don't understand them."

She smiled.

"Neither do I."

Aion turned toward her.

"You don't?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because people are complicated."

She pulled one knee toward her chest.

"They say they want one thing, then do another. They tell you they're fine when they're not. They get angry when they're scared. They hurt people they care about. They care about people they barely know."

Aion listened.

Clea looked down at the ruined cloth.

"I don't think anyone really understands anyone else."

Aion thought of the gods.

He thought of Apollo.

He thought of Zeus.

He thought of the Fates.

He thought of the countless possibilities he had seen.

Perhaps she was right.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Clea looked surprised.

"What?"

"You said people are complicated."

"They are."

"What do you want?"

She stared at him for a few seconds.

Then she smiled.

"I don't know."

Aion waited.

Clea sighed.

"Actually, I do."

She looked beyond the shelter, toward the village and the hills beyond it.

"I want to leave."

"Leave the village?"

"Someday."

"Why?"

"Because there's more than this."

Aion looked toward the hills.

"Where would you go?"

"Anywhere."

"That's not a place."

"I know."

She smiled.

"Maybe the coast."

"Why?"

"I've never seen the sea."

Aion remembered the sea.

Not as something he had experienced, but as one of the images that sometimes appeared in his dreams.

A ship cutting through dark water.

A distant shore.

A storm larger than anything he had known.

He looked at Clea.

"You want to see the sea?"

"Yes."

"What do you think it's like?"

She thought about it.

"Big."

Aion smiled.

"That's your answer?"

"It's a big body of water. What else am I supposed to say?"

He laughed.

It surprised him.

The sound came naturally.

Clea smiled when she heard it.

"There."

"What?"

"You laughed."

"I know."

"I wasn't sure you could do that either."

Aion looked at her.

"You ask strange questions."

"Maybe."

For a while, they simply sat there.

The storm seemed less frightening now.

Aion found himself noticing things he had not noticed before.

The way Clea tapped her fingers against her knee when she was thinking.

The way she frowned when she looked at the ruined cloth.

The way she watched the rain as if she wanted it to stop but was also curious about where it would lead.

She was not a hero.

Aion did not know that because he had seen her future.

He knew because she was simply a girl.

She had no sword.

No prophecy.

No crown.

No divine mark.

No great destiny announcing itself around her.

She wanted to see the sea.

She wanted to make a dress.

She wanted to leave the village someday.

She was afraid of being scolded for ruining a piece of cloth.

Her world was small.

And somehow, Aion found himself interested in it.

He looked at her.

For a moment, something shifted.

The world became quieter.

Aion's sight opened.

Possibilities unfolded.

Clea standing beside a road.

Clea walking through a crowded marketplace.

Clea older, laughing beside a fire.

Clea on a ship.

Clea beneath a different sky.

Clea returning to the village.

Clea never leaving it.

The possibilities multiplied.

Aion blinked.

They vanished.

He looked at her again.

Clea was still sitting across from him.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You looked like you saw something."

Aion hesitated.

"I did."

"What?"

He looked toward the rain.

"I don't know."

That was the truth.

For once, he did not try to see again.

He could have.

He knew that.

He could close his eyes and search through the possibilities.

He could look for the roads Clea might take.

He could try to find out whether she would ever see the sea.

Whether she would leave the village.

Whether she would become the person she wanted to be.

But he didn't.

Something about the uncertainty felt different this time.

He remembered what he had learned.

Possibilities were not promises.

They were only things that might happen.

Aion did not know what Clea would choose, or where she would go.

He only knew that he did not know.

Clea broke the silence.

"What do you want?"

Aion looked at her.

"What?"

"You asked me what I wanted."

She pointed toward him.

"So what do you want?"

Aion thought about it.

The answer did not come quickly.

"I don't know."

Clea smiled.

"Then we're even."

Aion smiled back.

The rain began to weaken.

Drops no longer struck the roof with the same force. The wind had calmed, and sunlight was beginning to break through the clouds.

Clea looked outside.

"I should go."

Aion nodded.

She carefully closed the wooden box.

"It's ruined."

"You can make another one."

She looked at him.

"Another dress?"

"Yes."

"That's your advice?"

Aion shrugged.

"If something is ruined, make another."

Clea smiled.

"Maybe."

She stood.

Aion stood as well.

They stepped outside.

The village looked different after the storm.

Water ran along the paths, carrying leaves and small pieces of grass with it. The clouds were breaking apart above them.

Clea walked a few steps before turning around.

"Aion."

He looked at her.

"Yes?"

"If you ever see the sea before I do..."

She paused.

"Tell me what it's like."

Aion thought about that.

"I will."

"Promise?"

He had heard that word many times.

He knew a promise was something people made when they wanted to be believed.

He nodded.

"I promise."

Clea smiled.

Then she walked away.

Aion watched until she disappeared among the houses.

He remained there for a while.

He did not know why.

There was no vision telling him to stay.

No voice from the gods.

No whisper from the Loom.

No thread pulling him toward her.

Nothing.

And yet he remembered her.

Her name.

Her laugh.

Her ruined dress.

Her wish to see the sea.

Her question about what he wanted.

Aion looked toward the sky.

The storm had passed.

He began walking home.

For the first time since he had learned to see possibilities, he found himself wondering about something that had not appeared in any vision.

Not what would happen to Clea.

Not where her path would lead.

But whether he would see her again.

He did not search for the answer.

He simply walked.

Far from the village, beyond mortal sight, three figures stood before the Great Tapestry.

The Loom continued its endless movement.

Threads crossed.

Threads separated.

Threads tightened.

Threads broke.

Clotho watched a small section of the tapestry.

Her hands were still.

Lachesis stood beside her.

Atropos looked over the woven pattern with an expression that had become increasingly difficult to read.

"What are you looking at?" Lachesis asked.

Clotho did not answer.

Atropos stepped closer.

There was nothing unusual at first.

The village was there.

The people within it were there.

Their threads moved as they always had.

Each life followed its appointed course.

Some paths were long.

Some were short.

Some ended suddenly.

Some stretched farther than any mortal could imagine.

Then Atropos saw it.

A thread.

No.

Not a thread.

A possibility.

It was faint, almost impossible to distinguish from the thousands of lives woven around it.

It belonged to a girl.

A girl who had never been meant to matter to the great design.

Clea.

Her life was ordinary.

No prophecy surrounded her.

No divine hand had marked her.

No hero's fate waited at the end of her path.

She was simply mortal.

And yet one of the threads surrounding her had shifted.

Lachesis narrowed her eyes.

"That wasn't there before."

Clotho said nothing.

Atropos looked toward the edge of the tapestry.

There, beyond the woven lives of gods and mortals, was the strange absence they had grown accustomed to.

Aion.

No thread.

No predetermined path.

No ending written in the Loom.

And now, for the first time, something ordinary had brushed against him.

A mortal life had touched the threadless one.

Not because Fate had arranged it.

Not because the Fates had woven it.

It had simply happened.

Lachesis watched the girl's thread tremble.

"She has no great destiny."

"No," Clotho said.

"Then why did he notice her?"

Atropos looked toward the place where Aion's absence disturbed the tapestry.

"I don't know. "

The three remained silent.

For all their knowledge, there were questions they could not answer.

They had created something without a thread.

They had given him no predetermined path.

But they had never considered what would happen when he began forming bonds of his own.

Clotho looked once more at the mortal village.

Aion was already gone.

Clea was already home.

The storm was already passing.

Nothing had changed. Not yet.

And yet, somewhere within the Great Tapestry, something had shifted.

The Fates could see it, but they could not name it.

It was not a new thread.

It was not a change in Aion's own absence.

It was simply something that had not been there before.

The Fates watched it carefully.

The Fates watched the strange disturbance in the tapestry. They had created something without a thread. They knew he could see possibilities.

They knew he could not be commanded by the Loom. But they still did not know what he would do with the life he had been given.

88.181.249.5

ns88.181.249.5da2