(promptathon) What would have happened if Obi had actually succeeded in taking Shirayuki's hand That One Time.
Fate is a funny little thing isn’t it?
At time it’s a comfort, a knowing; a certainty you wrap around yourself like a blanket. I am meant for more, you say, because you know, you know in some deep place inside you that there is a greatness you can achieve. A greatness you will achieve. All you have to do is walk on this path, never wander, and you will never know worry greater than the depths of your own self-doubt.
(And sometimes that comfort is cold. You lay on a dirt floor, battered and broken, and you say, oh, this cannot be my end, for what is waiting for me is so much worse than this)
At times it is a cage, it is the kudzu. It grows and it grows, vines twisting up your ankles, rooting you to the spot. You do not pull away – it is too much effort to fight against your nature – but the longer you stay the closer it holds you, reaching up, up, until it wraps around your neck and chokes you, until it twines into your mouth, into your lungs, and there is no more breath to scream.
(But sometimes you need to be held still, don’t you? Drop a coin before you cross the street, narrowly miss being trampled underfoot by a carriage. You look onto the cobbles and see a bird crushed under the wheel. That could have been you, baby girl, that could have been you)
And sometimes it is a thread. A red thread, let’s say. A thing that binds. A thing that holds. It does not strangle, it just tangles, becomes complicated at parts and easy at others. A thing you can ignore until it tugs on you saying, this way.
(But that’s the thing is it not? Thread is so fragile; all it takes is a hard tug, all it takes is a blade’s edge, all it takes is a thrown shoe and
s n a p s)