#tw fate

Yellow.

It’s the color of warmth, sunshine, and positivity.

Happiness, hope, and spontaneity.

Yellow is the color of the sun, smiley faces, and sunflowers. It grabs your attention and holds it, too bright to look away but too intoxicating to want to.

Yellow is everywhere. It has been for centuries, millennia even. It’s woven in our history, from World War II to ancient mythology. It’s in our fables and myths, our religions and morals. It’s inescapable.

But yellow is a lie. It’s spontaneity is unstable. Too much yellow and you lose focus. Too much yellow and you become critical. Demanding. Too little yellow however, causes isolation and fear. Insecurity and low self esteem.

The Greek god Helios was known for his yellow. He was the sun-god, wearing a yellow robe and riding in a golden chariot to bring the light of day. He was radiant, the light of the sun personified as divine wisdom.

Hercules is another example. According to the beloved Disney film, he was saved from death as his thread turned golden, making it unable for the Fates to kill him. The Fates- Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos- are tasked with handling the threads that determine our life, cutting our threads when it’s our time to go.

Fate is a funny thing. To think that our lives, everything we live and work for, is determined by a simple thread. It’s nearly unfathomable, utter nonsense to a sensible person. Threads are thin and breakable, able to snap with little pressure.

But not Hercules’ thread. No, it was golden. A golden thread; unbreakable and, therefore, unkillable. The golden thread held power, enough to fool even the Fates. It was the ultimate control.

That’s why he used yellow thread.

That’s why Janus, hands shaking, threaded a thin needle with yellow thread. That’s why he stood in front of his bathroom mirror on unstable feet and pushed the needle into his upper lip. That’s why he bit his tongue and held back a scream as he pushed the needle in further.

It was about time someone finally shut him up.

Janus was a problem. He was yellow. He was the critical, demanding, egoist that his color warned you about. He held one too many secrets, kept one too many lies. He thought he could be the good kind of yellow, the wisdom and hope that would help the others see the truth, however ironic that may seem. He tried, by god he tried, but once you’re yellow you can never seem to go back. And hell did Janus wish he could go back.

Instead, he pushed the needle through his lip, pulling the thin thread through the fresh wound before piercing his lower lip. He ignored the fogging of his eyes as the needle reached the other side of his lip and he pulled the string tight. He ignored the screaming in the back of his brain that told him to stop and put the needle down. He ignored the steady drip of blood now running down his chin and dripping into the sink. He ignored the way the string was slowly turning red. Like most things, he ignored it.

So he did it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

He threaded the needle through his trembling lips over and over again until you could barely consider it a mouth. He didn’t know when his tears fell down his cheeks but he sure as hell knew when they reached the stitches, the salt burning the raw flesh and open wounds. The thread was barely yellow at this point, too covered in blood and tears to be recognizable as the canary yellow thread it was before. His mouth was closed, unable to open, unable to react, and leaving him unable to do anything but hum.

Finally someone managed to shut him up.

Too bad it had to be his own doing.

He stared at himself in his mirror, looking at the hair stuck to his forehead with sweat with a scowl. Or, well, he tried to scowl. He quickly regretted that action as the strings pulled on his now-sensitive skin and elicited an involuntary whimper. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes hard, finding relief in the swirling colors behind his eyelids.

The Fates were right. The golden thread shouldn’t have this much power. Nothing should. But the Fates weren’t there. They weren’t in the bathroom with Janus as he sewed his mouth shut. They weren’t there when he nearly collapsed from the blood loss. They weren’t there when he told one too many lies. They weren’t there when he was all alone.

Because they weren’t real.

But he was. He was real and he was putting his fate in his own hands. Sewing his own seeds. Cutting his own string.

Why? Because if they weren’t…who would? Who would cut his string?

Perhaps it wasn’t so nonsensical to think that one's fate could be held within a thread. Perhaps it wasn’t crazy to trust such a simple object. Perhaps it wasn’t ridiculous to depend on such a breakable string. After all, that’s exactly what Janus did.

He put his fate in a thread.

Now, there’s no going back. Now he must trust the thread not to break, not to free himself from something he deems necessary. The thread will keep him safe. It will keep the others safe. To hide himself is to help the others, to finally do some good. To finally be the good yellow.

All he wants to do is be the good yellow.

He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and opened his eyes, waving a hand in front of his mouth to put up an effective illusion to hide the stitches. It almost looked normal, the phantom mouth serving good justice to the facade that was Deceit. He tried to smirk, wincing slightly at the pull of the threads but finding his attempt successful. Giving himself a once over he waved his hand, fixing his clothes and hair until he looked nearly perfect.

Now, it was time to face the others.

***

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