Cruelty of the Gods

Shk, shk, shk. Deft fingers dance over spiders’ silk strands suspended from the ceiling, dyed in the colors of the distant cosmos. Fine threads woven into a story, taking shape on the length of material. He’s surrounded by other breathtaking textiles, some finished, some less-so, but continues to lavish his full attention on this one piece. It must be without flaw, for courting gifts require the utmost detail and care.

The customary courting gift for northern rethi consists of one using all of their skill to create a masterpiece. What it is, specifically, is based upon their role in the community with which they reside.

Each new thread added is infused with a unique degree of the weaver’s magic, so even his ninth eye– good only for sensing magic– can see the detail of the work. To portray another’s magic using one’s own is in itself a unique challenge, on top of the required beauty to be perceived by all in the material plane.

Serar̥i'raǁo, Broken Flower, is one of He who Weaves, a position for men that produce very fine, strong silk suitable for clothing and other surfaces that come into contact with one's body often. Those of this role are to create a length of fabric that will serve as their beloved’s courted religious attire. Each thread is carefully spun from one’s own spinnerets, painstakingly dyed and sorted, then woven into a breathtaking tapestry capturing the essence of the courted’s magic signature and presence as felt by the courter.

Broken Flower sighs, clicking his mandible lightly. The object of his affections is one of his dearest friends– Cʼiǂ'shekh, Stubborn Mirror. In the position of One who Sees, a most important religious figure, as the community’s one intermediary to interact with the Goddess. Stubborn Mirror has been blind from the moment he hatched, only able to interact with the world through his innate magic and other senses. While he is blind to all in the material plane, the magical plane was revealed to him in exquisite detail, which he uses to see into the future and to commune with the Goddess.

But, the others don’t know the mischief the two get up to under the deafening cover of night. As males, the two are meant to stay within the city limits at all times, for the outside world is deemed too dangerous for the community’s most vulnerable. However, they often find themselves out in that so-called ‘dangerous’ world– for that is the only occasion they have some time together, now that they’re older. They play silly little games– ones they devised as hatchlings, new to the world and all the wonders and magic in it. They talk, telling one another of their distant lives; sharing their deepest, most personal thoughts.

All but one.

Broken Flower curses– one of his razor-sharp nails severed the strand he was wrapping around another. He oh-so-carefully removes the damaged piece, and scuttles down from his perch on the rough-spun silk walls of his room, in effort to find a similarly dyed spool of silk amongst the mess. He doesn’t. He’ll have to re-spin and re-dye a length to replace the damaged section, which he does not want to do at that moment.

Broken Flower had made decent progress, in his opinion, at least. At least two-thirds of the warp strings were now part of the fabric of his masterpiece. It was predominantly a lovely silver-blue. For Broken Mirror’s eyes, for his hair, for his carapace. Accents of bright color swirl around in a carefully mapped pattern, delicately displaying his unique magic signature– an aura composed of all the colors of the night sky and celestial bodies contained within.

“Broken Flower! Are ya still holed up in there? Come out and spend time with us~! We’re far more interesting than work.” A rough voice calls.

Ah. Sashyi’thin̥ish– Cold Blade. Stubborn Mirror’s guard. That must mean–

“Broken Flower, it’s been far too long since we’ve last convened. Surely work can wait for a little while, at least enough time to catch up with an old friend?” Another voice– one Broken Flower knows all too well. The soft voice of Stubborn Mirror is just that– soft, and as silvery as the rest of him. Yet, it commands quiet respect and wields an ancient sort of magic to it– as if he speaks through the very particles of free-floating magic in the air.

Broken Flower casts one last glance at the partially finished fabric, briefly imagining how the finished product would look on Stubborn Mirror. How it would look pooled on the ground around Stubborn Mirror–

He cuts that train of thought short, not wanting whatever thrice-accursed emotions that type of thinking would leak into his magic signature to be perceptible to Stubborn Mirror.

"I'll be down in a moment!" Broken Flower's own voice is quiet, and raspy from disuse. He quickly works his way around the scattered fibers that cover his room, careful to position himself in such a way that none of his six legs worsen the organized chaos.

Poking his head out of the entryway, he makes eye contact with Cold Blade. She's grinning up at him-- venom-tipped black fangs on full display. She's wearing her usual armor-- made of bulky leather, and covering her reddish arms and humanoid torso. Her weapons are strapped to her arachnid abdomen, and they too are the same as always: her prized battleaxe, a bronze shield strapped over the top of her abdomen, and a bow and quiver stowed on her back.

"C'mon ya slowpoke! We're burning daylight down here!" Her strange accent is one both boys have grown accustomed to over the years. She was originally from a southern reshi settlement, but her prowess in battle was enough that she was the only one trusted to protect One who Sees. And she has never faltered in that role.

Broken Flower quickly picks his way down the trunk of the tree that contains his nest. He would normally just jump down, but the last time he did that, he landed poorly.

My patellas still ache from that.

Of course, Cold Blade snickers at his newfound caution.

"Didja age eighty years since we last saw ya? Why didn'tcha jump? Scared?" In response to her prodding, Broken Flower makes a displeased chittering sound with his mandibles, and briefly shows off his own fangs.

"Calm down, you two. We must make haste. There will be time for your squabbling later," Stubborn Mirror cuts in, exasperation leaking ever-so-slightly into his signature, but still holding up his One who Sees façade remarkably well. The other two choose to quit bickering in response-- one slightly bashful and the other heaving a belly laugh.

The three walk briskly to the outskirts of the city and, under Cold Blade's watchful eye, slip into the forest.

❁

Moons pass, and the tapestry is finished. The night of commune with the Goddess arrives. There’s festival, song, and dance, but all of the festivities pass in a blur to Broken Flower. All he can think of is the fabric carefully folded in his pack– more than ready to be gifted to its rightful owner.

He never gets the chance.

After the last word of the Goddess leaves his lips, Stubborn Mirror sways violently, and is immediately dragged off to the healer by Cold Blade. Broken Flower doesn’t miss a beat as he races after them.

What meets his eyes makes his heart stop. There’s blood– so much blood – dripping from Stubborn Mirror’s face– his eyes, unseeing as always, leak tears of blood, his nose drips it, and it's smeared over his lips.



Broken Flower sinks to the floor, even with the medical nest Stubborn Mirror occupies. With shaking hands, he cups his face, touching their foreheads, and whispers words of prayer. Cold Blade is off to the side, confronting the healer on duty. But, for a moment, it is only Stubborn Mirror and Broken Flower– the universe could end and they wouldn’t notice.


Cold Blade skitters over, her signature clouded with irritation and fear; bordering on panic.


“Th’ healer doesn’t know what’s wrong witcha– said she’s never seen somethin’ like this before,” her accent worsens– it had toned down a bit during her time in the north, but now she sounds the same as the first day she arrived. She starts pacing by Stubborn Mirror’s nest-side.

Stubborn Mirror shivers, sweat rolling down his forehead– sticking silver strands to the skin. Moving before he even registers it, Broken Flower grabs the gift, and wraps it around Stubborn Mirror’s Bare shoulders. He stiffens at that– he knows instantly what it is– the magic in the fibers makes it unmistakable. Stubborn Mirror pulls the fabric closer, and relaxes into it. One of his hands, shaking violently, comes up to pull Broken Flower’s face towards his. Their lips meet in a brief kiss, then their faces pass each other so Stubborn Mirror can speak into Broken Flower’s ear.

“S-she of the Night, o-of Passion, o-of–” he coughs, fresh blood dripping from his lips. “She told me t-that– hrk– magic exhaustion… need plant– herb– magic… in the south…” His voice trails off and his body goes limp. For a horrible moment, Broken Flower thought he was dead, but his chest still heaved erratically.


The second he knew that Stubborn Mirror was still alive-- thought not necessarily for much longer-- he was out the entryway and rushing to his nest. As he arrives at his tree, he scales it in an instant. He tears through the room– stuffing supplies into the pack already secured to his back.


And off he dissapears, into the darkened forest. Heading south.

❁

It takes over half a moon before Broken Flower reaches an inhabited village in the southern part of the continent. It would have taken longer– even with the minimal breaks he took– if he hadn’t snuck aboard a farmer’s cart on its way to market. He made sure to disembark before the farmer noticed, for the safety of them both. Though his presence may have spooked the oxen into picking up the pace.

Broken Flower had very few issues on the initial way to this destination– rethi are an extremely threatening presence to nearly all animals (and most humanoid species, as well…), so he hadn’t been accosted by anything– animal or otherwise. He supposes that even bandits would hesitate to engage a desperate rethi sprinting through the area.

My people’s reputation is quite useful in that regard. Though not so much in interaction…
Broken Flower prepares himself for a… less-than-warm welcome, and quickly runs through his knowledge of the common language of this area, though it always feels strange on his tongue. He prefers to speak only his native tongue, but is able to converse in several common languages– it’s so that any who seek shelter in a rethi community are met with only the finest hospitality, as is dictated by their Goddess.
He closes his eyes for a moment, sighs, and makes his way into the village.

❁

That could have gone worse. They could’ve run me out with pitchforks. But…

“Has anyone in this Goddess-forsaken town even heard of magic exhaustion? How am I meant to locate the cure to something no one knows exists?” Broken Flower drags a hand through his hair as he rants quietly to himself.

He’s broken out of his reverie by an old woman that comes to a stop directly before him. She has the typical look of a Medicine Woman in this part of the continent, donning billowing canvas pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and a belt suspending various herb pouches. She opens her mouth to speak, and Broken Flower prepares himself for more conversation in these people’s strange language.

“They cannot help you. They know not the ailment, and thus cannot guide you to the remedy,”

Broken Flower bristles at the response. He wasn’t expecting one– he spoke in his native language, but apparently so did she. However…

Outsiders cannot speak our language.

The old woman cocks her head to the left.

“Yield, child. I carry words from your goddess.” Her pronunciation is almost too perfect. Her ability to mimic the clicks of mandibles is uncanny. Nevertheless, he’s running out of time. Any information is worth his attention, especially if it supposedly comes from his goddess.

“Speak, then, divine mouthpiece,” Broken Flower tries to keep his tone even and respectful– be she rethi or not, she still technically outranks him as a woman. A woman favored by his goddess no less– thus deserving of even more respect.

“What you seek grows only on the banks of pools of the fae. It consumes degrees of the magic there and stores them in its tissues. Thus, when consumed, it fully replenishes one’s magic reserves,” says the old Medicine Woman. Broken Flower eyes close in exasperation.

And I thought not knowing where the damned thing is would be my biggest problem…

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. His eyes open to see the woman even closer. Flinching backward slightly, he’s taken by surprise when she grabs the back of his head with strength to rival Cold Blade’s. She drags him down slightly, so the two are face-to-face.

“I cannot assist you further. I know not the locations of the fae pools, nor may I find them. They are veiled from the material plane. But you– you can find one. Focus your senses. Find where the flow of magic is altered. There you shall find what you seek,” Her eyes flash strangely.

Broken Flower lowers himself into a bow, front patellas brushing the ground, and turns to leave. He feels a sudden rush of magic behind him, and snaps his head back to see what caused it. For a moment, he sees his Goddess. She smirks and blows him a kiss, then disappears. There was no Medicine Woman. She was merely an illusion.

❁

Guidance directly from his Goddess to any other than One Who Sees is almost completely unheard of– Her appearance has to have been an omen of some sort, though Broken Flower is unsure of what exactly it means. He chooses to believe that her involvement is due to his desire to court Stubborn Mirror– Her position as the Goddess of Love and Passion would certainly cause some interest in the rethi desiring Her intermediary. This could be a quest to both earn the favor of his Goddess, and earn Her approval in the courtship. At least he hopes.

He turns the words over in his head as he makes his way away from the small town– to a distance where the inherent magic of sentient beings is dulled to his senses, and the natural flow of it encompasses him.

Focus.

Broken Flower channels all of his concentration, and a fair amount of his magic, into his ninth eye– the one located on the upper side of his arachnoid abdomen. At first, he sees nothing but the natural flow of unrestrained magic in the air, in the ground, in the plants, in the woodland creatures hiding away in the brush. He focuses more closely, searching for any irregular current in the magic around him. A slight tendril brushes his awareness, and he latches onto the tiny disturbance.

Maintaining a steady circulation of magic between his eye and legs proves a bit of a challenge to begin with. He must follow the trail as quickly as possible, before the tiny disturbance dissipates, but he’s unfamiliar with using the body-enhancing magic that is so commonly used by warriors and other women.

His first step has far too much magic, and leaves a crater where he pushes off from, and the next few have far too little in a substantial overcorrection. After the first few stumbling steps, he gets the hang of it– it becomes nearly as natural as weaving (or at least that’s what he tells himself).

As he pursues the thread of magic, it thickens and intensifies. Broken Flower keeps chasing after it– mentally overlaying the map of magic current with his other ocular inputs (to try to avoid crashing into trees like a clumsy hatchling).

The sun hangs heavily in the sky– not quite sunset, but most certainly past noon– by the time Broken Flower finds the source of the disturbance.

The currents of magic open into a wide void– directly in front of him. He slowly gets closer to it, holding out a hand tentatively. It touches a firm, cold barrier, and his senses explode with magic. This is undeniably the cloaked location of a fae pool. Broken Flower focuses magic in his hands– just as he does when weaving, and plunges his claws into the barrier. It creates a little hole, which he uses to pry open the barrier. It has the same smooth texture of the imported glassware set out for offerings to the Goddess, but stretches, almost like spider silk.

Once the hole is large enough, Broken Flower stumbles inside. The view is completely different to the regular woodlands he was gazing upon seconds prior– a large, glowing pool surrounded by immense trees and flecked with the soft shades the flowers that dot its surface greets his eyes instead. Around the rim of the pool are small flowers that look like a cross between spider lilies and bleeding hearts, radiating an unmistakably powerful magic signature. These are the herbs he seeks.

Broken Flower doesn’t even make it one step closer before he’s blown back by a forceful wave of magic.

“Return to the hole you crawled out of, foul insect. Beings of material are disallowed access to these sacred spaces. Leave and never return,” A strange voice commands in the Tongue of Magic. The being, of immense stature and presence, is undoubtedly a deity. A safe bet is to assume he is the god of fae, considering the circumstances.

Sʼor. This is not good.

Broken Flower has a basic understanding of the tongue– it’s imperative that any who practice even the slightest magic know at least some of the language– but a pit of dread opens at the pit of his stomach at the thought of negotiating with a deity in it.

“Honorable Deity, I come only seeking medicine for One Who Sees, my beloved. She of Night sanctioned–” His pronunciation is off, and he knows it. He isn’t even able to finish his explanation before the god lashes out.

“Be gone!” The deity blows him back once more.

Broken Flower feels a signature– Stubborn Mirror’s. It’s even weaker than it was when he left, and spurs him on to make a reckless attack on the god, binding his limbs with magic-infused silk strings. This only enrages the being.

“You disrespectful–” Slash!

“Selfish–” Slash!

“Pathetic creature!” Slash! With each word, he rakes razor-sharp talons across Broken Flower’s face, blinding three of his eyes in the same number of strikes.

“I just want him to live!” Broken Flower starts focusing all of his magic into his hands– preparing for a blast similar to the ones directed towards him, missing the flash of apprehension on the deity’s face at the quantity and concentration of power. He releases it with a yell.

The sheer power of the strike manages to blow back the god, cracking his faceplate and other pieces of his carapace. He seems to be down for a moment, and Broken Flower uses the moment as a chance to stumble over to the flower, legs dragging against the soft grass. He reaches down to pluck a singular stalk.

His wrist is yanked straight up, away from the plant, and dangling him in the air. The livid deity throws Broken Flower a great distance away, flattening part of the forest.

By this point, Broken Flower barely clings to the barest thread of consciousness, head clouded by pain. The fae lands inches in front of his face, and begins reciting a spell– one that has every vibration thrumming with magic. The sensation of his little remaining magic being forcefully drawn out of his very soul is the last thing he feels.

❁

Moons pass. Blossoms wither, their browning petals landing around Broken Flower. Freshly awakened, with a tender brand marking his throat. He sits, face blank, staring at his hands. The plant he sought sits pristine in his left palm, taunting him. He can’t sense Stubborn Mirror anymore.