There are no windows or doors.
The room is silent, save for the endless, regular click-clack of the shuttle. She makes no sound herself, no movement save for what is necessary for the weaving, and never seems to grow weary of her task.
Her eyes gaze intently on the loom; her fingers move swiftly and easily across the threads.
Who is she? This silent weaver, shut away from the world in a silent white chamber?
Who is she? A prisoner, a philosopher, a nun – or something more? Is she weaving a cloak for a brother, a blanket for a son, a tunic for a husband?
Or perhaps she is one of the mythical Phaerie… and if this is so, the cloth she weaves is far greater than a cloak, a blanket, or a tunic.
But she does not seem to be Phaerie – her ears are rounded, not pointed as the mysterious Green Folk’s ears are. Her eyes seem normal, not glowing or cat-slit.
She is not beautiful, she is not tall, the bones in her face do not seem finely-formed. She is but an elderly human seamstress, closed up in her chamber…
Her work seems never-ending – already a vast length of cloth is stretched out on the loom, and great heaps of yarn and thread remain, more thread than it seems the room can hold. They are in all colours of the rainbow, and more besides – blue, green, yellow, purple red orangeblackwhitesilvergold –
A myriad of colours, dazzling the eyes and entrapping the mind. The only colour in this pale little room, for the walls are plain, and the woman plainer still, garbed in cobweb grey, with pale eyes and hands.
Those hands… her hands fly over the loom, making difficult work seem easy, producing cloth swiftly and skilfully.
Who is she? A woman, a person, a human – bent over her loom, forever at her weaving, with no respite throughout eternity.
Is this Hell, then? Is she weary of her task, tired and old and wishing for nothing more than a final sleep, a rest for her aching bones?
Is this Heaven for her? Maybe she enjoys weaving, and the peace and solitude of her silent chamber. Maybe her life was hard, full of war and chaos and grief, and no chance for simple, laborious weaving such as this. Maybe she wants to spend eternity at her loom.
Who will ever know? Whether the woman can speak is uncertain; an eternity with nothing but a loom and endless amounts of thread does not provide one with much opportunity for conversation.
And what does she weave? In those millions of colours, so bright and enchanting, as if dragon’s blood went into the dying of the wool…
A tapestry, then, a tapestry depicting images of life that this woman can no longer take part in – knights slay dragons and rescue princesses; lovers kiss beneath a waxing moon; soldiers are slain in battle, warring for a cause they care nothing about; mothers sacrifice their children to the unrelenting Reaper of Souls…
Sorrow and joy; tragedy and comedy; deaths and births. Love and loss walk hand in hand across the brilliant tapestry of the lady’s imaginings.
The colours of life, woven across a loom on an infinite tapestry, by a woman who is, perhaps, someone’s sister, someone’s daughter, someone’s wife, someone’s mother – a woman.
A human.
Not Fate, not a Goddess, not a Phaerie – she is a human, taken out of time but once mortal, with a heart full of memories.
She is human, who affects us all, who decides our destinies and weaves our lives across her vast, colourful tapestry…