The Threader

A Meeting

She doesn't search for him. He comes of his own curiosity, for her soul is one if the few he has yet to touch -- it is a commonality for most to seek his work before they reach the half mark of their life.

But she is ill -- irreversibly ill. He sees that she will die within three days. He sees that she will not come to him unless he comes to her.

The Threader has never approached a human before.

"I am the Threader," he says into the room, and she glances up, void of surprise.

"The Threader?" Her voice is loud, filling the room, curious yet authoritative -- I will not ask, it seems to say, but nevertheless you will tell me.

He cannot help but smile at her chin, tilted upwards, her eyes catching in the glow of the fading sun -- she is as every bit of fire as he is darkness, even in such cold days.

He does not acknowledge that he has heard her question, for she will not ask for anything -- standing here he realizes that.

No, he will make her ask.

His gloved hands reach within the great, black scarf that wraps and drapes around his being, and she sees that he has retrieved a small needle and thread, the needle catching the afternoon light. The thread dangles, thin and fine, like cobweb. The two intertwine, and he begins to sew. The stitches hang in the air, suspended and gold. He moves methodically as though he has repeated the action for generations, for centuries.

Perhaps he has.

"I thread history, time, memory. I patch, mend --" is that a smile beneath his hood? she cannot tell in this fading sunset. His face has become shadow, his entire being darkness. The last wisps of light falter, and then submit. She is about to repeat herself when he speaks, so soft it's a wonder she can hear it.

"But sometimes," he says after a great pause. "Sometimes, I create."

Through the darkness, life erupts.

"Artificial beauty," he says nonchalantly, though she cannot bring herself to even blink as she stares upon this materialization, fearful of forgetting, terrified of missing any part of it.

"It has no heart," he continues, helplessly finding his gaze drawn to it as well. "It has no soul. I can create it, but I cannot control it. It moves with a will of its own, a motive beyond my knowledge. I cannot patch or mend it, something few in this reality can deny me of."

"I am in love with it."

The Threader turns abruptly, having for a moment forgotten the other presence in the room.

"It cannot love you," he warns her. "And I cannot make it."

There are tears in her eyes.

"I do not care."

He studies her, and she is speaking the truth.

"It will live long beyond your mortality. I cannot garuntee it's allegiance to you. It may walk away."

"I do not care."

She turns to him, searching to meet his gaze beneath his cloak, her eyes begging, "allow me."

She does not specify what, but he knows. He looks towards the future, seeing what his creation will one day bring. But when he focuses upon her expression, so present and so very passionate, he knows he cannot patch this. The rip is too deep.

So he nods.

And it breathes.