Frayed Thread of Lethren

Many years ago magic was thick across the land. In these early days, mortals were just beginning to understand the Arcane Threads. Only a few skilled mortals were gifted enough to touch fate. These early Spell Weavers could not follow in the path of those before them. Their spells were guided by their own intuition, each one unique and exact outcomes hard to repeat.

One such Spell Weaver was Lethren, a young man who lived in a small village. As he learned that fate would bend to his will, he tried to make life better for those around him. The flowers on his mother's table lasted a little bit longer. His sister's favourite toy survived a fall from much too high.

As winter drew closer, his father brought him out to the fields. "It's been so dry this year," his father told him, "couldn't you do something to help the crops?"

So Lethren nudged the plants to grow and called down rain from the sky. And by the end of the harvest, their pantry was full. If Lethren was tired, well, everyone was tired after the harvest.

Winter was long that year, and food grew sparse in the village. Though, Lethren's table was always full, when he tried to share their bounty his father always held him back. "If we give food to some, others will come wanting more. And then we'll have none for ourselves. You don't want your mother and sister to go hungry, do you?"

Eventually, even long winters come to an end. Spring brought new life and the village elders came to seek Lethren's help. "Can't you spare a little help for everyone's fields? If the crops fail again, surely many people would die."

So Lethren spent many hours that spring in the fields. The crops began to grow, and the gardens in the village were bountiful. The villagers thanked Lethren when they saw him, offering small gifts when they passed. When the snows returned, every pantry in the village was full. And if Lethren's hair turned grey like the winter skies, well his father's had done the same some years ago.

Like it does every year, winter faded to spring. Again, the elders came. Again Lethren spent many hours in the fields. And for many years after that, the pattern repeated.

Each year fewer gifts were offered, fewer words of thanks were called as the villagers passed. Until it was only the children who came to play with Lethren as he worked. They would bring him the treasures that children find - lost buttons, delicate blooms, and drawings of sunny days.

As the years passed, Lethren seemed to grow old more quickly than he should. His hair turning from grey to white. His shoulders beginning to stoop before their time. But, couldn't the same be said for all of the farmers who worked the fields?

One day, an old woman came to the village. The elders called her to their table, for it was rare for someone their age to arrive with news from away. They were quick to offer her tastes of their bounty.

"Surely it's too early in the year," she said, as a bowl of berries and cream was pressed into her hands.

"We have a Spell Weaver," the elders whispered eagerly.

The berries were sweet, and the cream was thick. More and more was passed to the old traveller until she simply could not take another bite. She asked to see this Spell Weaver. "I surely wish to thank him, for the bounty you have shared with me. Is not the whole village here?" She looked out at the tables. Most of the village was together in the square that night, as was the custom now that food was plentiful.

But, the old woman did not see a Spell Weaver. So the elders assured her he would be there the next night. "He often stays late in the fields," the elders praised.

These promises were repeated, night after night, until the old woman had shared in their suppers for a week. But still, she had not met their Spell Weaver.

The next day, she would be put off no longer. The woman stole away from the elders before dinner and followed the pull of the threads to a man alone in the fields.

Lethren felt the threads grow lighter in his hands as the old woman approached and another began to help him to weave. And a grin filled his face as he turned to meet another like him.

The old woman did not share his joy, though she hid her despair. Where she expected to see a young man, in the prime of his life, she saw the weight of time heavy on his shoulders.

"Surely, you've earned your retirement, grandmother, but would you teach me some of what you know? You carry the threads as if they weigh nothing and I desperately wish to learn."

The woman's mastery of fate was impressive, seemingly shifting reality around them with barely a glance. "Sweet child, I would gladly share my teachings. But, it is not you who needs to learn."

As the woman cupped Lethren's face in her worn hands, he understood. This was not an old woman from the neighbouring village. It was Nyrali, the Knot Binder, a goddess amongst mortals, who held him.

"You have brought great prosperity to your people, Lethren. The elders have sweet berries all season long, and the children grow strong from fresh vegetables. Your comrades grow lazy with excess." As she spoke, he felt fate move around him. The great threads that held up reality, those he dared not touch in deference to their power, began to shift.

The weight was lifted from his shoulders, and Lethren stood tall again. The white was washed from his hair, replaced with the rich chestnut of his youth. Soon, he looked strong, like the man in his prime that Nyrali knew he should be.

Far from the field, everyone sat in the village square, again to partake in the bounty provided to them. But, as they took their first bites, their fates also shifted.

A tiredness fell upon the elders of the village. The farmers began to stoop as a weight settled on their shoulders. And it was the children who understood first, as parents seemed to age right before their eyes.

The children, who's lost buttons and bright drawings sat in a drawer of treasures, knew. It is the ties between people that make them strong. Any thread alone will fray under its own weight.

The villagers looked between them, shamed in the way only a goddess' gentle correction could. And they knew that Lethren would no longer carry the weight of their prosperity while they sat idle.

And with this new determination, years passed. The village prospered still, but no longer at the expense of one of their own. Lethren grew old, though he remained strong for all his years.

In time, it was Lethren's apprentice who kept a drawer of lost buttons and small treasures as a new generation of children brought him gifts.

And so generations passed. Fortunes rose and fell. But the village of Lethren never forgot Nyrali's lessons.