I had a dream last night:
They gathered around in the otherworld as destinies were handed out. Each packet of fate was a rectangular brick shape marked with a name and just transparent enough to give a hint of what it contained. The river nymph’s destiny was a blue-purple swirl of something thicker than water; the mortal man who loved her was bound for another realm: he ran the edge of his thumbnail along his fate and out of it poured dirt. Common dirt.
He might have wanted to say goodbye to her, though she had never really given him reason to believe she reciprocated his feelings. But the juggernaut of destiny had already begun rolling and neither of them could step off the path.
The hero found himself on Earth. He followed his story faithfully–knocking on every door his tale demanded he should, uttering every word legends of him claimed he spoke–till he found himself bound and bloodied, too injured to continue.
‘I can’t die,’ he reminded himself, ‘This task is my destiny, not death. My destiny cannot be interrupted by death.’
Warm relief washed over him. All he had to do was sit and wait for the cogs to turn. Perhaps soon, he would find himself face to face with the river nymph, both of them having run the course of their fate.
And that’s when he heard a voice: “Death is everyone’s destiny. It’s what you do between then and now that makes the difference.”