Neirai the Forgiven
Christian Guilds List Manager
A Prologue
I swear to live. I swear to overcome pain, to ignore discomfort, and above all to never return to death by my own hand. -- Four Corters' ritual oath of life, given before a Lifeweaving.
A drop of water slowly dribbled down Lisce's arm, jerking to the left and to the right as it meandered over the charred, blackened flesh. It soothed the aching, burning feeling that filled his body as if it were Weaver's Dew.
Weaver's Dew! Lince's face broke into a bitter grin -- a grin so devoid of mirth that it seemed almost to be a grimace. There hasn't been a Weaver of the dews in Mach's Corter since I was a little boy. Slowly, so as not to increase the constant feeling of pain that racked his ravaged body, Lince made a fist with his right hand -- his good hand. Had a dew Weaver been present on that day, he would have had a clean body, and not a burned out shell that always remembered the pain of its dying. But only two Weavers lived in Mach's Corter, and neither of those knew the art of Weaving dew. If only more Weavers chose to live in the Corters rather than leaving for the Upperlands in search of fame. If only there were more Weavers in Mach's Corter. Then Lince's agony would be spared.
Of course, Lince thought bitterly, if there were no Weavers in Mach's Corter, then I would have never Died in the first place. Weaving always had its dangers and often had a price that must be paid. But, all too often, that price was never paid by the Weaver -- instead it would be paid by some poor sap who was in the wrong place at the wrong time: an Unraveling.
In this case it was Mriiah, the blacksmith's daughter. She had found a Loose, and the poor girl had not recognized it for what it was. Before long she had spent to long examining it -- and suddenly it had Unraveled.
Lince could not stop himself from seeing Mriiah's face in his mind at that moment. Inquisitive, soft eyes suddenly grew wide with terror as the flower she was holding burst into flame -- and bit her arm.
No, fool! Lince's angry voice sounded in his head as he made an effort to calm his thoughts, to think of something else. His body.
Lince looked at his right hand. The skin of his palm had not been charred, and he still had three fingers and a thumb. The fourth, smallest finger was still there, but it was not his own. Or rather, it was not the one that he had been born with. It was made of rock. It resembled sandstone in look and feel, but it moved as if it were made of flesh. Weaver's Dust.
His left arm, from the shoulder and down, was also made from Weaver's Dust, as was the left-hand side of his ribcage. Both of his legs from the knees to the ground were also finely crafted from the best Weaving that the old hag could produce.
It had been an honor, they had told him. For his selfless act in saving Mriiah, his broken body had been rebuilt with Weaving. But Lince was not happy. It was not the fact that he had been rebuilt by a Weaver of dust and not of dew that bothered him. It was an elusive but nagging feeling that he had been betrayed. It was hard to put a finger on why he felt betrayed, but the feeling just wouldn't go away, either.
Perhaps it was because he could not remember saying the Oath. Of course, it was not suprising that he could not remember much of that day -- not many remember the moments after they Die, their bodies destroyed and their selves waiting for a chance to leave their mangled confines and move on to the next life. But he must have said the Oath. Why else would a Weaver knit his self back into his body?
It was a gift, they had told him. A Weaver's Gift. And it was true -- the Dust that had remolded his body was one of the finest works of Weaving that he had ever seen. But, if this new body was a gift, then why did it feel like a prison?
I swear to live. I swear to overcome pain, to ignore discomfort, and above all to never return to death by my own hand. -- Four Corters' ritual oath of life, given before a Lifeweaving.
A drop of water slowly dribbled down Lisce's arm, jerking to the left and to the right as it meandered over the charred, blackened flesh. It soothed the aching, burning feeling that filled his body as if it were Weaver's Dew.
Weaver's Dew! Lince's face broke into a bitter grin -- a grin so devoid of mirth that it seemed almost to be a grimace. There hasn't been a Weaver of the dews in Mach's Corter since I was a little boy. Slowly, so as not to increase the constant feeling of pain that racked his ravaged body, Lince made a fist with his right hand -- his good hand. Had a dew Weaver been present on that day, he would have had a clean body, and not a burned out shell that always remembered the pain of its dying. But only two Weavers lived in Mach's Corter, and neither of those knew the art of Weaving dew. If only more Weavers chose to live in the Corters rather than leaving for the Upperlands in search of fame. If only there were more Weavers in Mach's Corter. Then Lince's agony would be spared.
Of course, Lince thought bitterly, if there were no Weavers in Mach's Corter, then I would have never Died in the first place. Weaving always had its dangers and often had a price that must be paid. But, all too often, that price was never paid by the Weaver -- instead it would be paid by some poor sap who was in the wrong place at the wrong time: an Unraveling.
In this case it was Mriiah, the blacksmith's daughter. She had found a Loose, and the poor girl had not recognized it for what it was. Before long she had spent to long examining it -- and suddenly it had Unraveled.
Lince could not stop himself from seeing Mriiah's face in his mind at that moment. Inquisitive, soft eyes suddenly grew wide with terror as the flower she was holding burst into flame -- and bit her arm.
No, fool! Lince's angry voice sounded in his head as he made an effort to calm his thoughts, to think of something else. His body.
Lince looked at his right hand. The skin of his palm had not been charred, and he still had three fingers and a thumb. The fourth, smallest finger was still there, but it was not his own. Or rather, it was not the one that he had been born with. It was made of rock. It resembled sandstone in look and feel, but it moved as if it were made of flesh. Weaver's Dust.
His left arm, from the shoulder and down, was also made from Weaver's Dust, as was the left-hand side of his ribcage. Both of his legs from the knees to the ground were also finely crafted from the best Weaving that the old hag could produce.
It had been an honor, they had told him. For his selfless act in saving Mriiah, his broken body had been rebuilt with Weaving. But Lince was not happy. It was not the fact that he had been rebuilt by a Weaver of dust and not of dew that bothered him. It was an elusive but nagging feeling that he had been betrayed. It was hard to put a finger on why he felt betrayed, but the feeling just wouldn't go away, either.
Perhaps it was because he could not remember saying the Oath. Of course, it was not suprising that he could not remember much of that day -- not many remember the moments after they Die, their bodies destroyed and their selves waiting for a chance to leave their mangled confines and move on to the next life. But he must have said the Oath. Why else would a Weaver knit his self back into his body?
It was a gift, they had told him. A Weaver's Gift. And it was true -- the Dust that had remolded his body was one of the finest works of Weaving that he had ever seen. But, if this new body was a gift, then why did it feel like a prison?