“Everything comes in threes.”
“Except when it doesn’t.”
—First and Second Laws of Cosmological Organization
THEY WEREN’T MAKING HIM LEAVE. That much was clear.
Except, Apollo realized, it wasn’t clear at all. Were they not offering to summon an exit for him because they wanted to trap him there? Did they expect him to find the exit on his own? Did they even realize that he couldn’t leave without the help of a full god? The Fates were sometimes fuzzy on the details, after all, or simply content to let the details attend to themselves in time. Then there was that whole “ended” thing, which rather ruled out the trapping bit, but he had already tried leaving the same way he came and found no door.
Apollo descended the staircase up to the second level, perturbed at the way the Room’s topography caressed the brain like a belt sander. Thought itself was difficult here, and the fact that he’d only just realized the trouble he’d had formulating his questions troubled him further.
His feet gained the second level, which turned out to consist of the back of the Room. He tried not to think about that, and aiding him in his effort was the sight of a comely young woman blinking at him from behind a luminescent curtain of blackness.
You will ask each of us three more questions.
The possibility that he wasn’t out of Fates of whom to ask questions slowly crept into his consciousness. Yet the Fates—there were only three. Had Zeus known of another? For that matter, had Apollo himself known only to forget after diminishing? If that was the case, what else had he forgotten? He didn’t think diminishing worked that way, but it was his first time.
It was a moot point, anyway, since he couldn’t remember what he couldn’t remember.
Irritated by this train of thought, Apollo canned the ontological masturbation and focused on the woman instead. Fate or not, she might be able to help, and in any case she was unnaturally cute. He followed her through the curtain, blatantly ignoring those wary readers who suspect a trap. (He can’t hear you anyway. He’s diminished.)
The curtained area into which he passed was small with a blessedly consistent geometry. Filling it were little more than a bed and a few small tables, atop which sat some spools of thread and assorted types of mending tape. The woman stood in the center of the room, smiling at him.
She hid the smile instantly the moment he saw it, replacing it with a bland stare that somehow managed to seem self-conscious. “Apollo, welcome. Er, you have come.”
“That I have, mysterious one. I would ask your name, save for the fact that I’m only allowed three questions. If you are, in fact, another of the Fates, that is.”
She straightened, taller and prouder, though at her full height she was still a head shorter than Apollo. Her left foot fidgeted as her blank expression quivered. “I am. You may address me as Poppy.”
“Poppy,” he repeated, sure to not make it a question. “I was unaware the Fates numbered four. I regret that I’ve never heard of nor met you before. Your loveliness is truly a sight.”
Her smile returned for a moment, only to vanish again. There was a trace of a blush on her cheeks. Apollo moved closer, curious. The Fates were not moved by flattery, at least not as far as he knew.
But he wasn’t about to use any questions to confirm that just yet either.
“I’m new,” she explained. “And . . . all right, actually I’m not so much of a Fate as I am a . . . I guess you could say I’m an intern.”
Apollo tried to coax more information out of her with just a curious look.
She cast about suddenly. “Oh, would you like something to drink? I’ve only water, but . . . it’s good water. I’m sorry there’s not more to offer; I don’t really have many guests as you can imagine.”
“I would be a poor guest to decline. I’m sure it’s marvelous water.” He smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed, radiating what charm he still held post-diminishment. It was, he expected, still considerable. “I didn’t know the Fates hired interns.”
“Intern, singular. Due to increased birth rate and life expectancy, I think is what they said.” She handed Apollo the water and sat down beside him. “Plus, I get to handle the special cases when someone gets brought back to life. It used to only happen once in a while, but these days it’s getting a little more common. I probably owe my position to the invention of the defibrillator.”
“Ah, you’re welcome, then.”
“Oh, that’s right, isn’t it? Regardless, I’m still getting the hang of things.” She blushed again, spine straightening up from the more relaxed position she’d slipped into. “And according to my last evaluation, I’m really unpracticed at the mysterious detachment shtick. But I’m working on it.” She swallowed, eyes hardening. “You will ask your questions now.”
He waited, just watching her. Her jaw trembled slightly.
“That’s . . . not really a prediction.” She sighed finally. “I don’t have that kind of power yet.”
“That must get frustrating at times.” He reached out to put a hand over hers.
“It’s not bad. Except when we watch TV. Do you know what it’s like to watch TV with those three? Between them all, they know exactly how everything is going to start, end, and how it’s going to get there. Nor are they shy about sharing it—they’re always talking about how predictable something is and ruining any surprise at all.”
“One wonders why they watch at all if they find it so boring.”
“I suspect they like talking about it on the Internet, and they at least need to see a show in order to discuss it. It’s a weird . . . Fate . . . thing. Hard to explain. Not that I’ve ever caught them going online.” She pulled her hand away. “Not that I’m supposed to explain things like that at all, even.”
“It’s all right to share things that aren’t related to why I came, surely. I don’t even know how you got the job or your parentage yet. You seem to be somewhat more than mortal, though I can’t be sure of the source.”
“I’m not really sure myself . . . which is to say, ah.” She paused, standing straight and facing him. “My origins lie shrouded in mystery. They are unknowable. Enigma.”
“Ineffable,” Apollo offered.
“That might be a good word, but I think it’s taken.” She cleared her throat and took a breath, apparently doing her best to appear aloof once more. “Now. You really must ask your questions. Before Atropos decides your time is up.”
“She does that a lot.”
Poppy nodded. “It is her thing. Er, ‘such is her nature,’ I should say. Now, please, ask. Don’t get me in trouble, Apollo.”
“I like you,” he told her. “You don’t call me ‘godling.’”
Poppy’s countenance faltered just for a moment. “Behave yourself.” She crossed her arms, waiting.
“As you wish,” he said finally, adding with a wink, “Intern-lady of Fate. I know the Fates created the UnMaking Nexus. I know Zeus was aware of a loophole that prevented its strike from being completely fatal. It occurs to me that I haven’t actually asked how the loophole works or how Zeus might return.”
Poppy began to speak, then stopped and collected herself. “You have not.” She flashed a proud grin then shut it away, still waiting.
“You’re getting the hang of this,” he said. “Much to my dismay. Very well: What can be done to aid Zeus’s return via this loophole?”
Poppy paused, pondering. “If Father Zeus did truly suspect foul play—”
“We’re pretty sure he did.”
She cleared her throat. “If he did, the loophole requires that he first create a magical talisman into which he then siphons a piece of his immortal essence.”
“A talisman not unlike an amulet.”
Poppy opened her mouth to respond, pausing first to flash a little smile. “A magical talisman, which could be created only by him so as to be properly attuned to him. Only by his hand could it be made ready to accept and hold the required fragment of his power.”
“Purple stone,” Apollo fished. “Hangs on a gold chain about the neck. About yay big.” He held up his hands questioningly.
“The magical talisman—”
“Amulet. We already found it.”
“Hush.” Poppy glared at him. It was sweet. “The magical talisman must then be delivered unto the hands of a chosen champion of Zeus’s offspring.”
“Look, just say ‘amulet.’ It’ll be faster.”
She frowned. “Amulet isn’t anywhere near as mysterious as magical talisman, and I’ve got another evaluation coming in a month.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“The amulet,” and here she imbued the word with a mysterious wave of her arms, “must be taken by the chosen champion among Zeus’s offspring—”
“She’s got a much shorter name too.”
“You know, this would be over and done by now if you would just let me speak.”
“Yes, but I do so enjoy the sight of you talking.”
“So why shorten everything I’m trying to say?”
He simply smiled, leaning back and listening, trying to make her blush with his gaze under the theory that she might tell him more than she was supposed to if she became flustered again. He also just enjoyed doing it, but two birds with one arrow and so forth.
She turned her back to him instead, continuing to speak. Apollo listened intently, making a concerted effort to note every detail, every option, and commit them all to memory with special care so the process of exiting the Fates’ abode—or even walking out into the main room again—didn’t knock them out of his mind.
Poppy’s answer was indeed detailed, yet so great were Apollo’s efforts at absorbing every mote of information that absolutely none of it managed to make its way past his ears and into this retelling. Such things may only be transcribed from echoes within the cosmos, as anyone with an advanced degree in quantum fictional mechanics knows. Some narratives may claim to hide such details purely out of dramatic license, keeping them unknown so as to create tension and mystery, but that’s all really a bunch of bull. Not that many would admit it.
Any contradiction between the above statements and statements elsewhere in this narrative is, of course, completely intended. Probably.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Apollo said when she was done. “Though finding the place might be a little problematic. Which brings me to my next question: Just how can I get out of here if I’m diminished? I had to have someone else open the door for me to get in.”
“You’ll have to ask Atropos’s help with that unfortunately.”
“Ask her help,” he repeated, just managing to turn the inflection away from being interrogative. “That might be a problem . . . Will you ask her on my behalf?”
Poppy paused, cocking her head to one side, considering. Her eyes shut. She slowly drew a breath as her arms raised up, spreading out, fingers splayed wide as if searching the air for something. Her eyes worked back and forth under closed lids, body beginning to sway. Apollo waited, curious about what was happening, uncertain if this was some means of telecommunication with the other Fates or if she was simply trying to answer the question. Her daze lasted long enough for Apollo to worry that he might have wasted the last of his questions—and begin to hope that maybe the Fates had also hired a concierge or personal masseuse who might allow him three further questions.
And then Poppy opened her eyes to reveal darkly glazed orbs that seemed to stare at him across a vast distance. “I . . .” she began, “will ask.”
Apollo blinked.
She smirked and blinked away the glaze. “How was that? Pretty mysterious, eh?”
Poppy was correct; she did indeed ask. A response was given. A bargain was struck. The cost of a doorway was a steep one, yet not so steep as to outweigh the cost of remaining in the Room indefinitely. Apollo consoled himself with the thought that he was better off without the thing he’d had to give up anyway. (As this narrative has previously stated, gods can have their stupid moments too, and they’re even more practiced at kidding themselves with specious justifications. They’re also better at shuffleboard, but that is neither here nor there.)
In the Room, the Fates continued their work. As they always had. As they always would.
So far as anyone knows at least.
“It is ended,” Atropos announced.
“Unnecessarily announced,” Lachesis said.
“Nevertheless.”
“We gave up far too much,” Lachesis continued.
Clotho nodded. Atropos sighed.
Poppy looked up from where she was trying to decide what to do with a box containing no spoons that someone had mistakenly delivered. “If it bothers you so much, why did you tell him anything?”
“Predestination is a bitch,” Lachesis explained.
“We foresaw our own compliance.” Clotho nodded.
“There was no other choice,” Atropos said.
“I really don’t get why you’d see yourselves doing something that you didn’t want to do and not even have a reason for it after you did it.”
“There was a reason.”
“Because it happened.”
“There was no other choice.”
“For us.”
Poppy frowned. “That’s terribly circular reasoning.”
“Yes. It works best.”
“This is not to be mistaken for philosophy.”
“We have neither the leather nor sunglasses for it.”
“Nor the love of bullet time.”
Poppy frowned. “This is like what you told me when I first arrived: that there is never choice, only the illusion of choice. Isn’t it?”
“No,” Lachesis answered. “That was a lie.”
“We were screwing with you,” Atropos explained.
“But you believed us. Such is the value of inscrutability. A lesson for you,” Clotho offered.
“So you did have a choice about telling Apollo, then?”
“No.”
“There is no choice, for us. We are the Fates. We are but characters in a novel.”
“And not a very good one.”
“Now fetch us some coffee, Poppy,” Atropos ordered. Poppy left the room to do so, wondering if her confusion would hurt her next evaluation. The three paused once she was gone.
“We have entertained them,” Clotho surmised.
“After a fashion,” Lachesis commented.
“Irrelevant. We return to our tasks,” Atropos finished.
“I shall miss the others when he sends them away,” added Clotho. The other two stopped to stare as they had known they would.
“To which ‘he’ do you refer?” Atropos asked.
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
“You knew she would say that,” Lachesis said.
“Yet I was bound to ask,” Atropos stated.
“Yes,” remarked Lachesis. “I knew that.”
“The humor grows old, Lachesis.”
“It always was.”
“Such is our fate,” Clotho remarked.
“Please stop saying that.”
The Fates continued their work.