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He probably should know better. He knows what Nyx says, that there is no bargaining with her daughters—and to do so is only to bring their attention upon you, which can never be good.
But he knows what he must do.
Their realm is in a quiet place just deeper than Tartarus. They don't want to be seen often, and only Nyx goes to see them. When he shifts to their realm, they don't even look up at him. Of course they knew he was coming. The dim candlelight is all that shows their work as Clotho spins the eternal yarn, fashioning it with all the speed of a woman who has had lifetimes upon lifetimes to learn and perfect her craft. Lachesis works the tapestry itself, weaving every color imaginable and more into intricate patterns that would take Charon the rest of creation to study to grasp even a small portion. Atropos finishes the final knots, shearing the thread and tossing away the extra into the void. Possibilities cut short. Lives ended. The end of his sisters' work and the beginning of his.
And Hermes'. Blessed, bright Hermes.
Charon clutches his oar. He grumbles, catching their attention. Clotho, the more personable of them, looks at him with her silver hair shifting in the low light. "Brother, you don't—"
Atropos doesn't turn to him, only continues her shearing of the threads. "—often come to us."
Lachesis doesn't speak for now, but she glances up to him and smiles. Lachesis has always loved him most, he suspects.
"Hrrnnng," he says quietly.
"Of course we know why," Atropos clips another thread, and Charon thinks in the back of his mind that he probably needs to get back to the Styx. More souls are on the way, and more souls means he will come to visit him... but that's all the more reason to hurry this along.
"Nnn," he groans. Of course. They're going to make him say it, then. "Ggggh."
Clotho laughs, clear and loud like a ringing bell through the emptiness of their realm. "You do not seriously think—"
"—we can tell you—"
"—what you want to know." Lachesis' mouth moves slowly, her eyes fixed on Charon. Her hands move so quickly he can barely see them work, a blur tying knots at the tapestry as it grows and grows. Even Hermes might be jealous, he thinks.
Charon moves to his belt, unfixing the heavy bag of coins.
"Charon," their voices sound in unity, a light warning. "What use have we for gold?"
The boatman sighs, mist pouring from between his teeth.
"Hrnnnng," he grumbles. It was unfair. He held them when they were little, watching them when Nyx asked. He lett them play with the fringes on his robe, weaving it into stories even before they first began to assign the destinies of men and gods.
Clotho looks irritated as she spins from the wheel. "What would you have of us, Charon?"
"Are we to reveal the heart of another god to you?" Atropos is outright angry.
Charon growls. "Nnnnhhh...Haaahh..."
"Do not speak of Eileithyia!" Clotho snaps. Atropos almost drops her shears, her teeth bared. "You think we would force her love?"
"We would not manipulate anything that has not already been planned," Lachesis says quietly.
Yes. Yes, they would. Charon could argue that their youngest brother is living proof of that. He instead chooses silence on the matter, not daring to risk their ire; after all, he still has not gotten what he made the arduous journey for.
"Haaahhng?"
Lachesis stops knotting, the blur coming to a halt. Clotho and Atropos eye her cautiously, but don't stop their own work. She gently pries the shears from Atropos' hands, who only resists at first. Clotho stops her spinning.
Lachesis is shorter, so much much smaller than him, but she reaches up on the tips of her toes and tilts his hat aside, taking a lock of his pale hair in her hand.
"You already know your answer, brother," she whispers, and snips away the hair, leaving behind a blunted strip of hair. "You do not need us to confirm it for you."
When she steps away, she hands the shears back to Atropos who snatches them back with a frown. The hair she places in Clotho's hand, who throws it into her current pile of material.
"I would request you not ask us such things again," Lachesis mumbles, taking the tapestry back in her hand. "But we know you won't."
Clotho huffs and her wheel turns again. Atropos turns from him, throwing thread over her shoulder and into the pit.
Charon doesn't bid them goodbye as he shifts from their realm. They already know. He already knows.