A/N: The plot of this story may be considerably hard to follow at times, as many things may come in an indirect form of words and whatnot. You have been warned.

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'Only by looking back can you understand life, but to live well, look ahead.'

-author unknown-

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Prologue: Spellweave

'Fate is the weaving of threads.'

So said the lady as she drew herself to her full height in the confines of a cramped room, illuminated only by a lone, flickering candle flame. Shadows danced across the crystal walls, occasionally marking out the shape of a loom. The loom itself was moving, vibrating, shuttle shooting back and forth. Threads of numerous colors were crisscrossed, broken, frayed and interlocked with every movement.

The sounds of the moving shuttle stopped. A deathly silence hung in the room, broken only by the innocent, blinking light of the candle. 'Yes,' a girl said softly. Her gloved hands let the loom go, coming up to her curtain of fawn brown hair, tying it into a loop that rested to her left with a small band. Her fingers moved with precise accuracy, and it took her but a few seconds to have her hair neatly tied. Then she continued, her voice silken, soft yet commanding, seemingly sending ripples of fear through the prancing shadows, that recoiled ever so slightly, 'and we are but mere threads in fate's weaving of perfection.'

The lady beamed, amber eyes glittering, although it was not at all visible to the girl. She lfited a hand and adjusted a pin on her bun of ebony black, every movement emanating elegance, authority and majesty. 'Creating a masterpiece, such that each thread will cross many but interlock with only a destined few.'

'Preordained destiny,' the girl agreed. Her eyes were mysterious and deep; a royal, seductive violet. She closed her amethyst orbs. 'Each and every thread can affect where they cross and interlock – but they can only affect this much.' She held up a finger and thumb closely together for measurement.

'Each thread is a life.' Seriousness radiated from the lady's tone, making her seem all the more taller and formidable.

'Weaved together, they are a web,' the girl continued, undaunted.

'The web of life.'

'And of reality.'

Silence fell. There was a small window at the darkest corner of the room, which appeared more to be an attic. Both pairs of eyes turned, and remained fixed at the transparent material that allowed them to see external happenings from this dreary room. The city was swathed in moonlight; its farms and crystal white buildings bathed in a silvery glow. Absolutely nothing moved; it appeared utterly devoid of life. Only at this time of the night could one enjoy the wonders of the city of crystals, or so Faena's capital was known as. Crystalia, they called it. A city that captivated all who caught even the slightest twinkle of its pearly gates. But even crystal could not defeat the shadow of the night, for darkness still crept in and enveloped its glittering glory in a cold, iron grip when night fell. By night, the city of crystals was known as the city of stones; for that was what the crystals seemed to be, as long as night reigned. Two different realities, in fact, if one were to put it mystically. In the day it was the reality of crystals; in the night it was the reality of stone.

Back in the dimly lit room, located somewhere in the heart of Crystalia, amber eyes twinkled in amusement. 'Ah.' She sat down, gathering the tresses of her skirt up, slowly. The girl's eyes never left the lady. When she had made herself comfortable, the lady took a deep breath, and began. 'I knew it would come to this.'

An uncomfortable silence followed.

Then the lady continued, 'it is true that reality is a web of threads. But beware of what this knowledge can do.'

She received not even a flinch from the girl. However, the child in front of her pulled up her gloves instinctively.

'You have learned as much as I was able to teach you. And you are already beginning to shape your own style of weaving,' the lady went on. 'Tomorrow is the ceremony, and then you will truly be one of us.'

A nervous nod. Shadows moving, as if in mockery. The flickering flame grew fainter, though still a far cry from completely extinguishing.

Amber eyes looked at the candle, quietly. 'But these are troubled times,' she said softly. 'Fate is about to weave a section of her masterpiece that will be remembered by all for eons to come.'

Immediately the girl's head snapped up. 'Evanya, svit-kona? I do not understand; what does this have to do with me?'

A sigh escaped Evanya's lips. 'Wryda has three key threads in her hands. But she might not begin that section of her masterpiece until well after my death. Or she could begin tomorrow, or the day after, or only after the time of your death. We do not know. But all new apprentices must know that when the key threads are identified – and mark my words, they will be blaringly singled out by fate – the Quintessence, all three parts of it, which have for so long lain dormant, must be roused from their sleep and given to them, so that wryda can do her work with perfection.'

The girl inclined her head quizzically, still not understanding, although a window was slowly opening in her mind. Words, there were words – she grasped at them, but they slipped away, too quick, too slippery…

The candle flame blinked violently, as shadows closed in, threatening to snuff the poor thing out at any given moment. Both violet and amber orbs came to focus on the twinkling, strong yet fragile fire. The darkness was overwhelming, eating away at the halo of orange the candle cast around itself. Nevertheless it struggled to keep burning, struggled to sustain that faint, fading yet stable glow. Then Evanya smiled. 'Look closely at the flame, child. Scrutinize it.'

The girl did as told. She did not understand. There was nothing uniqe. She voiced this to Evanya.

Her smile did not slide off. 'Darkness – the shadows – outnumbers this flame by the thousands, if it were countable. Yet the candle flame still fights. Against all odds, it fights, to sustain its light, its life, for this is its raison d'etre. And this determination to fight, even if the odds seem stacked against us, is what we lack. And what the key threads have, which is also why wryda chose them, rather than any one of us, to undertake what only they can accomplish,' Evanya explained softly, looking expectantly at the girl.

As she foretold, understanding at last dawned; this much the lady could tell from the girl's vacant eyes. A window had opened behind them; one that had been locked by the birth process. All babies – and children – could no longer remember. And their parents did not remember either. Nor did their grandparents. In fact the only ones who remembered were those of Evanya's kind, for apprenticeship itself slowly unlocked the many locks placed on that door. And once that door was opened, apprentices could become one of them, protecting and sustaining the city of crystals for the remainder of their flickering lives.

The girl began to realize; began to know; began to remember. As had all other apprentices before her. She opened her mouth to sing, softly and musically, lines from before, long ago forgotten and forced into the subconscious, but still ran utterly hidden in the blood of the descendents:

'O white fate that weaves destiny,

By the grip of winter shall it see:

The choice of worlds left with three Keys.

When petals fall from the Timeless Tree

And the island bathes in full glory,

With the sweetest song of Spellweaving,

Shall the Sleepers wake in Free Magic.

Devotion, Protection, and Innocence complete

As the war of allegiance reaches its peak – '

Her voice trailed off. She was pretty certain there was a final verse – or at least, a few lines – after this, but the words eluded her. They did come to the font of her mind when she was singing. However, as she tried to grasp them firmly, their tune and their meaning, they slipped away, hovering just out of her reach. When she strained further, they moved further, almost as if they were taunting her, enticing her to continue on this futile quest. Eventually exasperation swallowed her initial decision, and she stopped striving to know those words by heart.

When she stopped, Evanya looked up at her in surprise. 'Why did you stop?' she berated.

'I could not… the words eluded me, svrit-kona,' she said meekly, still retaining her air of eloquence and grace despite the slight embarrassment, as she had been taught before.

'Ah, I see.' Evanya appeared disappointed. 'So many have tried, and all have only reached to where you are, never completing the song. But perhaps,' she stood up, and smiled. 'Perhaps the time when this song will be finished is drawing near. Very near. Be prepared, child. Just like all others before, and with you.'

The girl nodded and reached for her loom, as Evanya gathered the folds of her long skirt, sweeping out of the room gracefully, without so much as a backward glance at the child, whose hands worked comfortably with the loom, the shuttle shooting back and forth. Sounds of weaving resonated in the confined space, a fine tapestry slowly taking shape among the rightly individual, yet truly interlocked threads.