Wed to the Wild God (Aspect and Anchor)

This must be the heart of the Spidae's powers.

53

I stare in wonder up at the massive, multicolored web that fills the room. It's the source of all the lighting, a million threads all tangled together in no particular order, hanging in midair like a starburst or a nebula of sheer color captured inside the tower. I take a few steps forward, my feet cold on the stone floor, and I clutch my hands to my chest as the strands seem to move, fluttering and weaving themselves amidst each other as I watch. They look close enough to touch when I move to the middle of the room, but I don't dare. I know what this is, and I stare at the strands with awe, trying to pick out Kassam's and my own.

The melody is thicker here, amidst the strands, a thousand songs all floating together at once. It's not discordant or jarring, just…a lot to take in. No wonder Zaroun is lost in his own mind so much. If he's seeing the stories of all these threads…I can't imagine. I take another step forward, and the threads part around me, giving way. They're all slightly different, this one coarse and yellow like yarn, this one silvery and so thin I can barely see it. I'd bet they all have different sounds, too, each life playing its own melody.

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I just stare and stare.

"Most people reach out to try and touch," comes a voice to the side of me. I'm not entirely surprised that when I look over, I see one of the Spidae. He looks exactly like the one that just left, clothing and hair and all. Only the eyes are different. These are so pale that they might be colorless, and piercingly focused on me.

I shake my head. "I've messed up enough stuff lately. I just want to keep my nose clean at this point."

He makes a sound that might be laughter, might be derision. "But you are looking for your thread, are you not?"

"Or Kassam's," I say. "I'd like to see his. Mine would be close by, wouldn't it?"

The god inclines his head, still watching me with those intense eyes. "Do you think you can find them on your own?"

Is…this a test? Because I don't know that I can, or even if he truly wants me to. But if I say no, will I be condemning us to some sort of awful fate because I didn't even try? I hesitate and take a few steps, watching the threads drift through the air, caressing each other and separating, drifting close and knotting, then sliding apart once more. There's no focus, no rhythm, and yet it all seems perfectly orderly in its own way. I stare at the threads, looking for one that seems strong and sure and full of joy like Kassam is…and I look for a janky, torn thread to be attached to it. The sheer number of threads feels like an avalanche, though, and I quickly get confused and overwhelmed. "Do I lose some sort of bet if I say I can't find it?"

"No. This is no test. I am simply humoring my curiosity about how mortals behave." He continues to watch me from afar. "Would you like to see?"

"Are you Neska?" I counter, even as I move toward him.

"Who else do you think I could be?"

That's a shitty answer, considering that there's two other people that look just like him here in this tower. I suspect he's just being a dick, so I ignore it. "Yulenna said you wanted to talk to me?"

That icy gaze—funny how Kassam's silver eyes can be so warm and these so cold—focuses on my face. "I don't recall saying such a thing. You wished to speak to us, yes? Here we are." He spreads a hand. "You have a request, and I am benevolent enough to explain why it will not work."

I flinch, my heart feeling as if it's shattering at his casual words. "What do you mean, it won't work?"

He indicates I should follow him. "Let me show you your thread. All will be made clear."

Anxiety flares through me again. Something tells me I'm not going to like what I see. I remember Death approaching me, and his warning about fraying my thread. I rub my arms, feeling chilled despite myself, and follow after the Spidae. I can't not look now. I have to see for myself.

He moves through the tangle of threads as if they're water, and they part before him. He lifts a hand and a few threads surge forward, others curling back as if repelled. He holds his hand out, palm up, and as he does, I can see two threads. They pass over his palm, stretching out from the web itself and pulled taut. One is a vivid green, thick and strong and beautiful. The other is…obviously mine.