Title: was it He that bore, and Yesterday, or Centuries before?

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Emily Dickinson

Warnings: AU during seasons 3 & 5; the consequences of time travel; probable violence/death in future; almost definite torture because Alistair; unhealthy codependency between two sets of siblings

Pairings: references to canon couples

Rating: PGish? PG13?

Wordcount: WIP

Note: follows "the crucifix was constructed wrong" and will make ZERO sense without reading it. WIP but I'll be tagging everything I know is coming. I know what the overall plot will be, though I've yet to determine how to get there.

Another note: I have a tag ( tagged/time-traveling-sam) for this 'verse on my tumblr, though there are spoilers contained therein

In their home office, the elder two of the Moirai sisters listen to Atropos rant about arrogant humans who think themselves high enough to reWeave the Strands. It is not the first time she has ranted about this, but Klotho certainly hopes it will be the last.

"Little sister," she finally cuts in gently, when Atropos pauses to breathe. Lachesis takes Atropos by the hand and tugs her down onto the plushy chair she's curled in as Klotho rises to her feet. Even as Atropos glares up at her, she takes the Hershey kiss Lachesis offers, petulantly unwraps it, and shoves it into her mouth. Klotho very determinedly does not smile at how cute her youngest sister is. Lachesis, her face safely out of Atropos' sight, smiles in her stead.

Klotho has often wondered how much easier it must be, to be the middle child. Fewer responsibilities, fewer worries. She never wonders long, for there is always much to do.

"I have located the Commander of Heaven," Klotho tells her sisters. "I shall be having a chat with them soon."

Atropos' eyes widen. "Alone?" she demands, and when she tries surging to her feet, Lachesis' arms wrap around her middle.

Raising an eyebrow, Klotho gazes down at her serenely. "Can you hold your tongue, dearest?" she asks. "Try not to pick a fight with the Star of Morning and Commander of Heaven?"

Paling, Atropos falls back against Lachesis, who says, "I presume you have a plan, sister."

Klotho grins at them. "Of course I do."

.

It has been a very long time since Klotho or Michael sought audiences with each other. After the Three-Fold Creator vanished, Klotho traveled to Heaven to discuss with the new leaders what the Strands foretold, and they listened to her, the Commander and the Healer. They listened respectfully and then the Commander dared to issue a command to the eldest of the Moirai, to the Weaver of the Strands. The eldest archangel gazed at her with all their eyes, and Klotho gazed back, severely unimpressed.

"I Weave the Strands of all, Michael," she said serenely. "Are you not one of all?"

And so she left Heaven by a way unknown to every angel, a way known to Reapers and agents of Death, and she waved at her father as she passed his 'prison.' Death's laughter followed her.

Once home, she informed her sisters to be wary of angels, and if one ever spoke to them, they were to call for her immediately. It was good for all that Michael gave the same order to the angels, because the Weaver is the greatest of the Moirai, for though Lachesis measures the Strands and Atropos cuts the Strands, they only do so upon Klotho's word. Should Michael have tried to make war upon Death's first children, the archangel's Strand would be severed immediately.

.

"This is perhaps a better way," Death tells Klotho as he pops into her office. She doesn't acknowledge him until she's done with her count, whereupon she drops the pen, closes her notebook, and stares at him over the edge of her glasses. Death holds out a sky-blue porcelain plate with peanut butter cookies; Klotho sighs. She really is too much like her father.

She picks the plumpest cookie from the plate. "Welcome, Death," she says, setting the cookie beside her notebook. The plate vanishes and Death's cane takes its place. "Please, have a seat." As he chooses among the four chairs she keeps for visitors, Klotho delicately removes the Hershey kiss from atop the cookie and sets it aside for later.

"You have examined the Strands, of course," Death comments, materializing a cup of tea. He offers Klotho her own but she instead materializes a mug of milk. The comment requires no response, so Klotho maintains her silence by nibbling on the cookie. After a moment, Death continues, "I know Atropos' anger is great, and Lachesis' confusion worries her. But you, eldest of my children, you are unmoved." He sips his tea. "Have you no questions before you accost the angels?"

Klotho scoffs. "I have many questions, and worries, and doubts. But, as you said," she retorts, almost viciously, "I see the Strands. I Weave them." She meets his calm, ancient eyes. "This is a better way, Father."

Death regally nods his head. "Of all my siblings' creations," he notes, "only one has ever made such a mess of things as the Winchester brothers."

She shudders. "Why were they allowed to live?" she asks, glad that the ravenous Leviathan was locked away long before her own existence.

Her father shrugs elegantly. "It matters not so long as they remain locked away and no haughty little angels seek them, yes?"

That is a particular Strand that Klotho is very glad she will not Weave.

"Will you still accost the angels?" Death asks.

Klotho shrugs now, busying her hands with slowly turning the mug in place. "Atropos wants to, and I won't let them go alone, no matter how reasonable Michael seems to be at the moment." And she won't let either of her sisters on the same plane of existence as the no-longer-calling-themself-Lucifer without her there.

Death sets his tea on the small table that wasn't there a moment before, alongside the plate of cookies. Klotho summons another; Death picks one himself and they sit in silence for a few moments. No matter how frustrating her father can be, he still carries with him an air of serenity that soothes her.

But finally, second cookie gone, and both Hershey kisses, and her third mugful of milk, Klotho gazes steadily at her father. "You did not come to discuss the angels walking the Earth."

"I did not," Death admits. He rests both hands on the cane, ring flashing. "The Strands, daughter. What you will not Weave concerns me."

Her breath catches, and slowly Klotho breathes out. "You haven't taken an interest in a long time, Father."

"I have not." His ring flashes again and the pendant hanging from Klotho's neck flashes in response. "There is little I cannot do," Death tells her, "and much that I will not. But perhaps, some locks should be…" His lips twist, though not in a smile. "Not broken, just weakened."

It is a horrifying proposition, and one Klotho knows she will never mention to anyone, even her sisters. "Weave the Strands," Death commands, rising to his feet.

He's gone before Klotho can think of any reply. She removes her glasses, rubs at her eyes. Takes a quick walk at the bottom of the Marianas Trench to calm herself. Returns to her office, puts her glasses on, picks up her pen, opens her notebook, gets some work done.

Weaken the lock, she thinks. The lock only five beings even know exists. The lock sealed by the willpower of a demon and a Fallen, the only shield between—

She is the eldest of the Moirai. There are Strands to Weave, which she will do only after speaking with the eldest of the angels, and with the human who dared reWeave the world.