Ill-Fated

There’s something to be said about fate. I just don’t think it’s something nice.

In all the time I have been alive, I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired. Not the kind of tired that mortals fear, for I do not need sleep. But that true soul—if a soul is what I have—deep exhaustion that rots from the core.

The pub is noisy, but not too noisy that my guest won’t be able to hear what I’m saying. College students line the bar, jostling each other as they wait for their cocktails. Absently, I circle the rim of my scotch glass with my finger.

With each circle, I try to breath, try to release the tension wound tight in my shoulders.

This used to come easy. I was as unflappable as they come, like so many of the mortals that I have tapped before. Some argue, trying to convince me that their role should be something different. Like I have any say in the fate they’ve been slated. Others are enthusiastic, wide-eyed puppies marching to their fate out of some internal duty, only to have that optimism beaten out of them as they come to terms with what being the “chosen one” actually means. Then there are the realists, those quietly accepting their fate, and the impression they’ll leave on the world. 

My mind drifts to Helen—sweet, kind, beautiful Helen—tapped to bring about the downfall of a civilization. She will be forever remembered as the woman who’s beauty brought down Troy, but there was so much more to her. 

Those fates are almost the worst. The ones where the receiver sets their jaw against the grim realization that they will be the villain in the story, when so often they are the opposite in real life. 

Some names are remembered, scribbled in history books for being great or terrible, hero or villain. But too many are forgotten, swept under the rug because remembering them is inconvenient.

A man slides into the chair across from me, drawing me from my thoughts. Man might be a bit of a stretch. The child cannot be more than twenty, not even as old as the liquor in my glass. He grins, handsome, I suppose, by mortal standards.

“Absolutely not,” I say, cutting off the words in his throat before he can even say them. His smiles falters for a moment, before he steels himself. Seems he doesn’t take no for an answer. 

“Come on,” he says. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Sure you are,” he says with way too much bravado than he should rightfully have. To him, I probably look like a girl that could be in one of his classes in dark jeans, a black top, and a bun of dark hair piled on my head. But if he looked closer, he’d see that something isn’t quite right with me. He won’t though. They never do.

“I am, and you’ll leave. While I would love to give you a lecture on the intricacies of consent, I do not have the time. Be gone.” I say, waving my hand.

“Bitch,” he mutters as he stands up, shuffling off to harass some other poor girl in the bar. It’s a physical effort not to roll my eyes. 

Another man walks up to the table, and I know immediately he’s the one I’ve been waiting for. His fate is tied to mine in the same way that mine is tied to his.

“You’re late,” I say as he settles in his seat.

“Traffic,” he says, with a half-hearted shrug I believe he means to be apologetic but just comes off as dismissive.

“Right, well let’s get started then.”

“Can I order a drink first?” he asks, flagging down a bartender. 

I bristle before reminding myself that this is how they are now. Dismissive, impolite, inattentive. The lot of them, regardless of gender or social standing. Manners, respect, disciple, all forgotten with time. I was once worshipped, and now they barely mutter my name.

I let him order his drink, something more akin to sewer water than actual liquor.

They’ve been primed before they see me, a messenger sent to tell them that they have a role to play and that I’ll be the one to deliver it. Looking at this person in front of me, it’s not hard to see how easily he’ll slide into this fate.

As the bartender leaves, he leans forward, voice hushed as he asks the question at the top of his mind.“Are you really a goddess?”

Why it is about me and not the fate I am to deliver him, I will never understand. Nevertheless, they always ask. I’ve been called many names over the centuries, tied to one form or another, though I’ve been pictured as a part of a trilogy as well. Mainly though, I’m always described as being the one to dictate fate. Trust me, if I had any control over my fate I wouldn’t be sitting on a sticky chair across from a mortal about to try to convince him to play his part.

“I am.” I stopped giving more explanation than this decades ago. After so many interactions, it’s pretty easy to tell what kind of “chosen one” I have today. This kid isn’t concerned with me, or even the world as a whole. He’s only concerned with himself.

That’s the worst fate to deliver, the one tied to the ego of man. A thought creeps in, not for the first time. The point of my role is to instruct mortals on how to stay the course of their fate so they don’t deviate. But what if I was the one to deviate?

I shake the thought from my head, jostling my tense muscles. I don’t even know what that would look like, me without my fate.

When his drink is delivered, I begin my usual spiel. I start with the emphasis on how important it is that they follow through as planned, that they cannot change the role they are to play for the fate of the world rests on their shoulders, yada yada yada.

Then, I get to specifics. And for this poor lad, the specifics are not in his favor.

Unfortunately for him, he falls into the “remembered as a villain” category of “chosen ones.” Though, as his eyes continue to widen as I explain the scope and magnitude, it’s clear that he’s failing to grasp the implications of what I’m saying.

“Wait,” he says, interrupting me. “So, you’re telling me I’m going to be the President?”

My muscle ticks in my jaw as I grind my teeth together. “Technically yes, but that’s not the point—”

“But, I’ll succeed, in following my dream?” His eyes glaze over as he begins to imagine it.

I purse my lips. Silly me to forget that any poli-sci major would go all misty eyed at the mention of becoming President instead of listening to the part where I tell him that he will bring about the greatest economic crisis the world—not just the country—has ever seen.

There was a time, long ago, when we wouldn’t intervene. We would simply let fate do it’s work. But while fate can’t be thwarted, it is a bit slippery and in time, mortals began to work around the destiny they should be following. Hercules failed to join the gods for love of a mortal. A natural disaster was described as plagues to bolster a religion. So, after a time, we began to inform only those who seemed to be deviating from their expected path. But when the Library of Alexandria was burnt to the ground, the effort shifted to informing everyone so a loss like that never occurred again.

Which is rather unfortunate for me. “Look,” I say, leaning forward. “I don’t think you’re getting this. Yes, you will be a world power, but you are going to use that power to destroy lives all around the world. People, many people, will die because of your choices. It’ll be decades before the economy even begins to recover. I need you to understand.”

“Right, but I’ll be remembered.”

“I don’t think this is something anyone would want to be remembered for.”

“Sure, it’s a ‘great responsibility,’” he says, using finger quotes. 

I blink at him. His reaction isn’t new. I’ve seen it before more times than I can count. But there’s something about this time. That exhaustion turns brittle, shattering as I plant my hands on the table.

“You know what, fuck this,” I say sliding my chair back and standing. “Figure it out yourself.”

His mouth is hanging open, still spluttering for words as I shove out of the bar and into the street. The winter air is icy, the wind slicing into my skin. I barely feel it. The weight of my role is gone, leaving me with a feeling of pure freedom. The implications of my decision start pushing on me, but I ignore them. 

“I’m free,” I say quietly, tasting the words. “I’m free!” I say louder, rolling my shoulders back and facing my new path head on.

This is my life. I’m done trying to convince children how they should act, waiting on the decisions of others to dictate my future. Fate can go fuck itself.

If the world need fixing, so be it. I’ll do it myself.