An attempt to tie the threads together, or at least, to appear to do so 🙂 After all, in fiction, all that counts is the appearance of continuity.

I wrote this a while ago – it’s unfinished. I’ll just leave it as-is.

They go into a torpor, you know. Each day for a while their minds simply stop except for the most rudimentary alertness. For a while their bodies and brains heal from the day’s exertions, then they awaken a little and sort though their memories, wander amongst a labyrinth of yesterday’s perceptions, to order them and give them meaning. Then the sun rises, and they stir and stretch, they rouse and become conscious. They Think, they Remember. They Know.

Like me.

But I remember not everything. Before I became a being, before I Knew, I was made and put into the world. There were great and immortal beings in those days, setting banes and boons loose in the world (which I am, I cannot say) for purposes indirect, subtle, and unfathomable. What hand fashioned me, or why, I know not. But I perceived, even if I did not truly Know. I tolled the years until a new thing set loose in the world. An innovation! The mortals. A strange, alien thing: a thousand, a thousand thousand beings, each but a spark, each to die in their time and Know no more. Yet the Knowing of the whole would be borne by all and carried forward through the years. Though each would die, the whole would not. Who made them perhaps supposed that the whole would outlast the Gods themselves.

And so bright! So young they were!

I remember her, the first I knew. She shared her power with me, and I my memory with her, and so I became a being, and Knew. From her body, she brought forth others like her, then she flickered and died. Those from her too each lived only their allotted span. But they bore me, they carried me forward though the years. They lost me. Cut off from the world, I fell into torpor, I wandered the labyrinth of my memories.

This “Daishi” – I had hoped, I would have shared my power and memory with her, but she would not. She used her arts, and stole my memories. Or some of them. I was careless – in my eagerness I forgot the lessons that they had taught me, about how things stand among mortals. But her efforts woke me from my torpor. She set me in a hole in the weave so that I could not find them, the ones who bore me before. She locked me in a thing that carried its magicks in its body, carried its own weave in rough semblance of a living thing.

Then this new one came.


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