Prophecy

"You know that I don't believe in prophecy," The woman said sternly, peering out from beneath a black veil. "Yet you try to foister this one upon me, and you claim that I am to have a part in it."
"Indeed, madam," The man replied humbly, bowing low, his grey robe looking unusually bright beside the widow's mourning black. "Through no choice of my own, for the Dream came to me and I am but its servant, bound to inform those who must be informed, like or not."
She sniffed, and when she spoke her tone said clearly that she believed it all to be nonsense.
"If, as you say, what must happen shall happen 'like or not', then no action on my part may prohibit its happening to me." She paused, and he nodded in agreement. "Then why tell me at all?"
"My lady," He bowed again, not noticing the way the woman rolled her eyes at the gesture. "My true aim tonight was to impress upon you the importance of your role. If you fail, then we are surely doomed."
Still bent almost double, the man left the room, watched steadily by the woman whose finger still bore the ring of her beloved. She had never held with priests or any of their strange ceremonies, yet something in the man's voice had impressed itself upon her - an undeniable sincerity, an utter belief in what he said that left the woman uncharacteristically inclined to believe his words too. The prophecy he had spoken of had sounded so authentic, the way she had always secretly believed one should sound; filled with dark omens and impossible conditions. Despite the beliefs of a lifetime, suddenly the widow found her mind changed. She would play the priest's game, and await the coming of the prophesied one, and fulfil her part in their destiny.
With a heavy heart the woman looked around her at the room, at the heavy drapes that held out the sun's cheerful light, at the severity of the furniture, at the grim portraits of past generations. Perhaps it was time to end her mourning. Perhaps it was past time. With the tiniest of sighs she stood, knuckling her back, so sore after such a short time in that uncomfortable chair, and threw back the curtains of the nearest window.
Sunbeams lanced the air, and the dust that flew into the air seemed like tiny, dancing particles of gold. The woman stared at them, entranced, and some of the lines that had creased her forehead in recent days faded. Breaking free of the sunlight's spell, she moved about the room in a frenzy, tearing the curtains down and throwing them in a heap on the floor. The paintings followed after, without regard or care, and then she was running down the stairs, head brimming with plans.