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Library: The Weaver of Fates

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Author: zxf
Date:May 26 2025

The grove trembled as Elspeth's blood dripped onto the loom,
each drop crystallizing into tiny chrono-flowers.
"Mortal hands weren't made to hold eternity,"
whispered the World Tree's leaves in the tongue of comet.
The knight's thread resisted her needle -
it thrummed like a harp string plucked by Valkyries.
Outside the grove, three crows materialized from smoke,
their beaks snapping at the unraveling edges of dawn.
[The loom's frame cracks vertically]
A fissure revealed infinite tapestries beneath:
Wars unwon, loves unspent, kingdoms that never were.
Elspeth glimpsed her own face in a thousand threads,
always weaving, never woven. Until now.
The pearl rolled from the letter, singing:
"What is given must first be taken..."
[Dragonfire echoes in distance]
The knight's empty armor stood sentinel,
its visor reflecting not his face, but Elspeth's -
aged centuries in a blink. Her golden thread
began braiding itself into his shattered breastplate.
Somewhere in the North, the Oracle screamed,
her blind eyes weeping blackened stars.

The wax seal melted into Elspeth's palm,
branding her with the Lost King's crown-shaped scar.
"This isn't correspondence," she realized,
"but a coronation." The pearl dissolved,
its liquid moonlight slithering up her arms -
writing new constellations on her skin.
[The loom's shuttle moves without hands]
It wove the knight's rebirth: his lungs filling
with stardust instead of air, his sword fusing
to his flesh as dragon-scale grafts.
The crows brought gifts:
a scale from Time's underbelly,
three notes from the Song Before Creation,
and a feather plucked from Death's wing.
Elspeth's golden thread now connected
to every silver strand in the cosmos.
She saw the knight riding through burning cities,
his sword carving the prophecy into reality:
"When the weaver becomes the woven..."
The World Tree's roots groaned in response,
piercing through dimensions like needles.
At the tree's heart pulsed a fetus-shaped fruit,
its veins mirroring Elspeth's new markings.
"The first and final tapestry," she understood,
reaching for the fruit as her body unraveled
into golden filaments. The knight arrived,
his dragon-forged eyes seeing her true form:
not woman nor goddess, but the space between
destinies - where all possibilities breathe.
[The fruit splits open]
Inside sat two figures woven from their mingled threads:
Elspeth as the Lost Queen, the knight as her living throne.
The Northern Oracle's voice boomed:
"You've remade the loom's purpose -
now become its pattern."
The World Tree uprooted itself, revealing
its underside was another grand loom,
where cosmic spiders spun with Elspeth's face.
The knight's sword-hymn vibrated
through every reality, waking dragons
from their eggless slumber. And high above,
the stars rearranged into a single sentence:
"Fate is just the first draft."
[Final image: The original loom stands empty,
its threads now growing leaves]


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