I called on old threads, the sensation of joy and care still clinging to the plant itself even after so many millennia. I rethreaded them into protection, a means to defend myself from the words of others, weaving the charm into its eternal fabric.
Fabric that has now been torn.
I stare at the minor crack in the flower’s protective surface, uncertain of how it was damaged. Perhaps it will cause the petals to rot – death is persistent and it’s possible that the ravages of time might exploit the gap, finally laying claim to its lifeforce.
The idea settles heavily in my chest, strangely akin to grief, but it’s quickly overpowered by another tug beneath my ribs as the threads pull tighter. The pain spreads outwards like a poison, familiar and far more welcome than nonsensical emotions.
It hardly matters that the flower could decay, without the protective qualities it is entirely insignificant – the talisman itself is a far greater loss.
Still… I should attempt to salvage it; it would be a great deal of trouble to have to find another item with enough potential to be used in its place.Not trying would be undoubtedly careless of me.
I walk over and set the talisman on my desk for later scrutiny, hissing as the movement causes the tethers to slice a little deeper. I wind two arms protectively around my chest. It does nothing to help the tears in my energy, deep beneath my woven vessel, but at least it provides an illusion of something to do.
I sweep over to my music-stand and pick up my latest composition with my lower hands. There’s a transition near the middle that jars with the rest of the piece, and I have been meaning to fix it for quite a while. It should provide a useful distraction.
I review the sounds, humming them aloud and testing if they communicate the right meanings, focused only on the music.
The reprieve doesn’t last long, I should have known I could not be so fortunate.
My mind skips over the line I’m reading as several more strands slip through my wards and across my form. I snarl at the discomfort as they lodge beneath my skin, foreign and unwanted, a writhing mass of syllables.
Without my talisman I am forced to rely on older methods of self-preservation. Spooling is rudimentary at best, far less effective than protective charms, but it is the only other tactic that I am willing to employ.
I look down to evaluate the placement of the threads; the puncture marks are bleeding energy and, though their cause would not be visible to anyone else, I grimace at the sight of strings pulsing beneath my skin.
Each one carries a different thickness, colour and luminescence, a reflection of their meaning, which is mostly indecipherable at a glance. Words are specific to their wielder and there is no standardisation to how their appearance manifests what was said. It’s only my familiarity with my siblings that allows me to recognise their threads among the gathering of foreign ones. Clearly the meeting has made me the topic of a great many ongoing discussions.
Paying greater attention to the hooks only makes me more aware of the way they rip at my flesh, so I endeavour to be quick. I attempt to unpick the strands with my talons, to unhook them from my physical form. It is only through distancing them from my essence that they will lose their tangible effects and remain only as a mental awareness that I am being spoken of.
Though the thimbles make them easier to grasp, transforming them into material strings, my hands are shaking an inordinate amount. The threads flex and contract with live meaning, slipping through my fingers repeatedly. I growl in frustration, attempting to grip them tighter as I try again to extricate the hooks.
The metal provides a physical barrier, allowing me to remain generally unaware of the detailed meaning the threads contain, but the negative connotations seep through unheeded. Disgust, anger, hatred – I sense them as though they were my own. They are not foreign sentiments in regard to myself, and the sting of that knowledge has long-since dulled to a phantom pain.
As I try and gather some slack, the distinct familiarity of a few strands leaves me with a sense of morbid curiosity. Instinctively I widen my Sight to try and read them, to parse the words my siblings have spoken of me. A fool’s error.
In an instant the Tethers dig sickeningly deeper into my essence and the sinew of my form grates over their unnatural presence.
Revulsion rises in my throat, and I stumble in the vague direction of the wards, my quarters blurring as the movement aggravates the abrasions. I follow their white glow, barely able to see, and scan each line, searching for a character out of place, or a smudge or… something. Anything that could suggest a way to make it all stop. But they just look like unreadable shapes and my head pounds as some of the threads become audible.
“You know what he’s like-”
“-twisted-”
“-wish he wasn’t one of us-”
I abandon my search as something crunches in my chest. I cry out in pain and wait for it to pass. My vision darkens at the edges before the pain redoubles and it whites out entirely. Bitterness stings my eyes, trailing rivulets down my face.
I refuse to allow my siblings any further hold over me, weakness-be-damned.
I release my grasp on my form, letting the muscles and organs unravel till only I remain. The relief is instant as the Tethers lose their physical anchor, hovering at the edge of my consciousness where they are more easily ignored.
In this state I am nothing more than a manifestation of sound, comprehendible only to the Divine. Even though the pain has gone, my raw form flickers with concerning levels of exhaustion, like some pathetic mortal radio. The hum of energy is discordant, cutting in and out with irregularity and I wince, which is rather more a sharpening of noise than an expression, at the lack of harmony as my essence pulses out of synchronicity.
I’m repulsed by how much I am unable to function, how much they have weakened me. Returning to this state should have irradicated the problem, just as it did in the Early Days.
Regardless, it shouldn’t take such extreme measures to keep control of myself. Spooling used to be child’s play, but my reliance on a charm instead of skill has left me unpractised and vulnerable. It has been so long since I was open to an attack like this, and I am regrettably not as hardened to it as I once was.
I consider resisting the pull of fatigue, pushing forward on one of my projects, biding my time till the conversations die down, but doing so would only leave me further depleted and at greater risk in the long run. So, though the vulnerability of resting unnerves me, I resign myself to several hours of oblivion.
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