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FATE
It was Winter in Trenton, Ontario, the new snow fell in pale, fluffed mats. The ideas flowed onto the page like a running river. Her dreams were crowded into every available line, margin, and the inside of both covers. They coated the small diary, a suit of armour cementing the truth into reality. Now, she mused, if only they would see, I could save us.

The day had begun like so many others. Sharrah recorded her thoughts upon a full little journal as if preserving the essence of the dreams that haunted her. Death and violence, hunger and fear, these were the common themes. Her psychiatrist had laughed her out of his office, pronouncing her to be a silly child in need of medication. The visions had been especially vivid last night. As she came out of the morning?s trance, she glanced at the paper, not knowing the language in which she had written was surely a bad sign.

She pondered showing it to her parents, she recalled the strange reaction her best friend Faith had had. He had gone very quiet and taken something out of his pocket that was extremely similar. He had insisted that she show it to no one. Thinking of Babyface caused the pain of his death to resurface in a guilty wave that threatened to reduce her to tears. She went to her bed and recovered a rather small hand-embroidered pillow that he had made for her. It read, ?The Child of Fate is ever present.? He had been crushed by a semi-truck as he walked to his shack at the edge of town. . He lived there alone, his parent?s had died long ago. He didn?t speak of them, so Sharrah had stopped asking. All she knew, was that Faith had been the best friend she?d ever had. They had both been twelve at the time, the accident that claimed his life had been seven years ago, as he went home from her birthday party. The horrible, violent nightmares had come that very night, it had taken the visions these seven years to come with consistency.

This past week it had all been the same one. A dark road, winding into blackness, the seeming endlessness of it had made him jumpy. Babyface? he thought, Babyface?Why does she call me that? Why do I care? A bright light then comes from the end of the tunnel road, no, two. A deafening horn blast. Arms come up to protect the face. Flaming hair faces into the lights. Darkness. No pain, no fear. An archaic voice calls out.
<Faith, awaken, you have arrived.>

He opened his eyes slightly to see a cloaked figure. An unreadable, shadowed face. He held a book that was chained to his wrist. ?Fate.? said Faith, unbelieving, ?Why have you done this?? the small voice echoed strangely in this place.

<You will see, in time. I shall teach you the ways of the Circle, you have but one chance to save her>

?I?ll do my best.? He cast out a grieving thought for his Sharrah. ?I will miss you, I will wait? he whispered into the glacial air. He had been to Fate?s door at the deaths of his parents, when Fate had called to him and then simply answered
<In time.>

Sharrah sat forlornly at her small vanity table and gave a sigh. As she stared at her bedraggled blonde head and red-rimmed eyes, a fog crept around the corners of her mirror. Confused, she peered at the peculiar condensation. She reached out to wipe at the glass, but her hand met no resistance and fell through into a freezing, invisible place. Her hand was withdrawn at near terminal velocity. Not unusual for someone who has located an otherworldly portal in their own bedroom. An image of Faith appeared in her mirror. He looked incredibly thin. An old scar ran down the right side of his face. He gave a small smile. A very loud scream was heard, followed by the repeated thumps of someone running with wild abandon down many flights of stairs. His eyes had followed her to the door.

As the Child of Fate, Faith had certain obligations. First, to use the years since his earthly death to become the representative and sole earth-going part of Fate?s network. Second, to collect the many items of power on earth for Fate to use in the upcoming ascension. He concentrated, and a circlet of light appeared above Sharra?s night table. In his shining angelic robes, he padded on ghostly feet and retrieved the object of power, a small, very full journal. As he looked about at the familiar room, it never struck him just where he was until he saw the pillow. As a twelve year old living by himself, he had made the gift from fabric that he had stolen, and stuffed it with scraps of a wool touque. Embroidered it with the threads of a shirt he had found and washed until it looked new.

He had learned this odd skill for finding many uses of things from the brief time that he?d had with his mother. She had gotten very sick. The words on the small pillow had been her last. He now held this relic, old and worn, stained with many tears. He begged with his mind that there had been another way. As he slid back into the mirror world, he looked around the empty room.
I have missed you, Sharrah. he whispered. He left a note on the mirror for Sharrah to find. It read,
The Child of Fate awaits your arrival.