Chapter 16: Chapter Twelve : Frail Sinner

“I don’t want to do this. I’m scared. I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared, no, damn you! No, it’s not just the alcohol talking! I don’t want this! Get off me! Let me go! I’ll kill you!”

~~~

Hazel ran all the way up to her room and collapsed face first into bed. She just let herself be still for a moment. She wanted to take a break. Unpack her things. Write down what she had learned. Read a book, maybe. Just relax, for the first time since she arrived.

If there was one thing all the craziness had been good at doing, it was helping Hazel forget her own lingering wounds. While there was stress and pain in helping Aurelius, the problems right in front of her were much more manageable than the problems that lingered in her mind.

In silence, staring out the window that now led to a cave wall, all she could do was think.

How could she?

How could she fall for this man?

After what she had done to Lily?

Was she just making the same mistake again with Aurelius?

Was she lying by not telling him the whole truth about her former girlfriend?

Hazel snapped up as someone knocked on her door. She quickly wiped away the hot tears that were streaming down her face as Zinnia poked her head in. For once, Zinnia had changed out of her oversized witches hat and gaudy clothes, wearing instead a simple men’s tunic and stained trousers tucked into heavy boots.

She said, “Hey, Hazel…” She paused as she saw Hazel’s face. “You okay?”

Hazel nodded, and wiped more tears from her face. “Mm-hmm. Just. You know. It’s been a wild few days, huh? Do you um, need something?”

“Well we need to make this place liveable but…” she stared down at her boots, tapping nervously on the floorboards. “We’re still… friends, right?”

“Of course!” Hazel cried. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Zinnia shrugged, but seemed to smile in satisfaction. Hazel pulled a hanky out from her pocket and blew her nose. Then, snuffling, she rose to her feet.

“I think doing some work will help me get my mind off things,” she said.

“Yeah,” Zinnia said softly as Hazel approached. She patted her friend on the shoulder and smiled warmly. “Hey, if you’re still hung up about Relly…”

Hazel couldn't help it. She snorted a laugh. “Relly? Took that one from Taé huh?”

“Heck yeah I did! I like it! Makes him sound like a goober.” Zinnia tried to do her characteristic catlike smile. But it came out a little crooked. “But like. You don’t gotta play the good girl for me. You know?”

Hazel smiled, and gave Zinnia a big hug.

“I’m fine, really,” Hazel insisted. “With so much going on…. I just needed a good cry.”

She didn’t know if it was a lie or not. But Zinnia accepted it. And Hazel was ready to make herself useful.

So the two girls spent the rest of the night setting up barrels outside the cave to catch rain for fresh water. Zinnia joked that grocery shopping would be a bit of a bitch going forward. The cliff wasn’t climbable without flying so Hazel helped shape the cliffside into a set of stairs. By the time Taé came back from exploring the jungle atop the cliff (apparently Taé could climb it) exhaustion had blown all Hazel’s negative thoughts away.

She watched the sun rise from within the cave, Zinnia by her side, the girls slumped shoulder to shoulder. They sat among the tide pools, the waves washing past their feet, occasional crab skittering carefully around them. Hazel had to bundle her skirt up around her waist in a fat knot, her knickers stained by mud and sea water. The beard like vines had been pushed aside for the moment, giving a clear view of the slowly lightening sky beyond the cave mouth. A short ways behind them, a fire burned from wood Hazel had rapidly dried, a heavy cauldron’s worth of bath water resting among the controlled burn.

“Manalamps are going to be a bitch to switch each day,” Zinnia mumbled. “But I think I can convert the ceiling into a proper sunroof. Stream some more light down. I think a system to get running water in the house can come after. It’ll be annoying drawing water each day until then…”

“Hey Zinnia,” Hazel asked. “Do you take care of all the plants yourself?”

“Yeah,” Zinnia said. “Why?”

“Isn’t it a lot of work?” Hazel asked.

“Yeah, it is,” Zinnia said. She delicately brushed the seagrass with her toes, flatting it before mussing it up again. “But it's worth it, I think. I like my house. Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Hazel mumbled. “But it's a little haunted. By vampires.”

Zinnia snorted. “Better not feed ‘em, or they’ll never leave.”

“Ohhh nooooo,” Hazel fake cried.

The girls giggled as the sun slowly began to rise. At first there was only the slow wash of waves, water rippling over her bare feet. Slowly, they watched the infinite curved line of the horizon turn from black to pale white, a delicate circle of orange slowly lifting into the sky. Hazel felt herself slowly relaxing, sagging more and more into Zinnia’s shoulder. There was something so peaceful about watching the slowly unfolding beauty of nature.

Hazel collapsed into bed just as the sun crawled above the horizon, chuckling that in just a matter of days, her sleep schedule had been completely inverted. She felt weirdly crusty from the saltwater bath, mineral flakes crinkling and falling off her skin and hair.

Only Edelweiss disturbed her sleep. She blinked awake at the scraping and clinking in her room, only to realize it was Edelweiss, smelling of dirt and leaves and carrying pretty little things he was stuffing into the velvet pillow containing his small horde.

“You smell like the sea,” he said plainly. “I like it better than the smell of that man.”

Hazel winced, and lifted an arm so Edelweiss could snuggle into the blankets as well. He pondered it a moment before back in, dragging his horde after him in his jaws. He was clean, of course, he was smart enough not to track mud into the bed. He left only a bit of water from his washed claws

“You have fun up in the jungle?” she asked.

“Oh I like this place much better than the city,” he asserted as he wiggled into a better sleeping position, his horde serving as a pillow. “Sometimes I still smell the stink of it on the breeze. But the jungle has lots of good food for me to hunt.”

Hazel glanced at Edelweiss’ scales, and noticed a few more speckles of color had been added. She stroked him along his back, between his wings, and he murred gratefully. Eventually, her tired arm dropped, and he simply twisted in place until he was no longer pinned by the limb

~~~

Ah, the power of physical exhaustion.

Hazel slept through the whole day, suddenly awaking with a snort after her room was gloomy and dark. The white cave wall outside her window still reflected enough light to guess roughly whether it was day or night. She thought she would get used to it, if she stayed long enough.

She carefully slipped away from Edelweiss, who immediately burrowed into the warm cavity she left in the blankets. She dressed comfortably in her long skirt and blouse and chuckled as she picked up her hat and saw the manalamp was still stuck inside. She pulled it out, pinched the fabric of her hat back together, and went downstairs to a quiet house. She activated the manalights with a tap (they had left the spares sunning near the cave mouth) and she rooted around the kitchen for breakfast. She decided to make oatmeal, but after trying the tap like an idiot, she instead went outside to get some sea water. After a night shedding salt into her sheets, she had mentally pieced together a little spell she could weave to remove minerals from water.

Outside, Taé paced eagerly in the shadows of the cave, a heavy canvas rucksack thrown over one shoulder. The sky had begun turning a navy blue, but it was clear the sun was still up somewhere beyond the cave. While Hazel had slept, dozens of crabs and lizards had crept back into the cave. They darted from waves to tide pools, giving Taé a wide berth.

Hazel squeaked as she nearly stepped on a gray lizard sitting dumbly in the lavender. It fled a foot, then sat right back in the lavender, blinking slowly. It was practically the size of Edelweiss, but looked more like… an iguana with a little gray frill atop its head, running all the way down its back.

“Morning!” Taé cried, waving.

Hazel waved back, her eyes at her feet as she dropped off the slowly dissolving dirt embankment.

“Good morning, Taé,” she said. A thought occurred to her. “Did you sleep?”

“Yeah. A bit,” Taé said cheerfully. “Don’t need to, but it’s nice. Saves energy, you know? Don’t have to eat as much.”

“Ah, that makes sense,” Hazel said.

Hazel looked for a spot to draw her circles, eventually picking one close to the embankment. She blinked and began tracing the spell into the stone with her finger. If nothing else, it could help guide Zinnia in casting the spell herself during the dry season.

Taé walked over and watched curiously over her shoulder.

“You seem excited,” Hazel said conversationally.

“Oh yeah!” Taé said, perking up. “Two years I’ve been ‘working’ for that old fucker. Not allowed to go where I want, do what I want…. I’m ready to cut loose and run wild! Hey!” Taé shook Hazel’s shoulder, though Hazel’s body barely moved with the action. “Can you convince Relly to come with me? He said he was busy… but he needs a break! The guy looks like he’s… uhg, what's the phrase? One yanked thread from unraveling?”

Hazel took a steadying breath, and finished drawing her spellweave.

“Yes,” Hazel said firmly. “I think after how crazy the last couple days have been, we could use a little fun.”

Taé pumped her fist and said a small, “Yes!”

With a few swirls of her finger, Hazel pulled up the Fabric of Earth, popping it apart into threads and making it radiate along the circle’s perimeter. She blinked back to reality and quickly swirled the pot above the spellweave, the circle still glowing faintly. Sediment began collecting along the bottom of the pot, slowly forming into larger and larger white and brown pebbles.

“Neat!” Taé said. As Hazel picked the pebbles out, Taé said, “That’s a bit different from the one we used back in the village…”

“Oh! Did you filter sea water?” Hazel asked, tossing a wet crystal aside.

“Nah… had to filter, uh, pond water. When things got bad.”

“I’m not… the most knowledgeable about this stuff,” Hazel said, fishing out more rocks. “But this spell is only for getting stuff like sand and salt out. Ponds would have like…. Bugs and plants and stuff?” Hazel shrugged, setting aside a fistful of sand. “This weaving wouldn’t get those out.”

“Yeah, and we couldn't activate it like that. We’d need –” she made a clicking sound “–blood to get it to work.”

“Yup. Perks of being a Weaver,” Hazel said with a light smile. “I don’t need a Fabric-rich material to weave a spell.”

Taé clapped her hands together, as if she realized something. “Oh! Like a Yol’altiani!”

Hazel stared up at Taé, nonplussed. “A what?”

“You can reach right into the Body, right? Or I guess you call ‘the body’ the ‘Fabric’ instead?” Taé made a scooping motion in the air. “Like a dragon can?”

Hazel laughed, “Dragons are a bit different… they can only eat the Fabric.”

“But you are, right?” Taé insisted. “Why the hell are we bothering with recruiting more thralls? You can kill people just by touching them! You just reach in and –” Taé gave a yanking motion. “That’s why we call your kind ‘Sacred Heart Sacrificer!’”

Hazel froze. Her fished-out sand plunked quietly back into the water. She stared open-mouthed up at Taé, heart hammering, and throat refusing to budge. Her voice screamed in her head, over and over,

‘No! Not here! Not again!’

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Taé’s smile slipped an inch. “Am… am I wrong?”

Hazel slowly opened and closed her lips, feeling her throat cracking as she tried to speak.

“I’m not,” she whispered. “That kind of Weaver.”

“Oh,” Taé said. “There’s types?”

“Yup,” Hazel lied. “I’m a kind of healer. I don’t fight.”

“Oh. Okay,” Taé said. “My bad.” She gave Hazel a pat on the shoulder and smiled warmly. “Anyway, you gotta help me get Relly outta here! You think it’s dark enough yet?”

“I… it’s your condition,” Hazel said. “Is it dark enough?”

Taé stared out of the cave mouth, shrugged, and said, “Yeah close enough.”

Taé stepped up the short dirt cliff and padded down the scattered path towards the house. Hazel set down the pot and shivered, and blowing her stress out her nose. She mimed pushing her hair behind her ears, and in a blink, she was tugging at the fabric of her mind. She could feel it boiling, shifting and shaking with anxiety. She tried to smooth it, but as always, it only soothed symptoms. The core was deeper, under the outer Fabric.

And she dared not touch anything that deep again.

~~~~~

Over two decades ago and over a thousand miles away…

Summer in High Valley. High mountain peaks surrounded a brilliant green valley, jutting gray rock speckled with snow. Sparse buildings were scattered here and there, mostly built of old and mossy stone. A roar echoed around the cliffs as a green dragon soared overhead, leaving two white trails through the large and puffy clouds. Young children ran across the grass gnawed to roots by wooly rams. They chased the dragon as it soared between the peaks and out of sight. It was chilly, air thin, but the children were used to it, wearing little more than light cotton dresses, flowers in their hair and feet bare.

“No fair! No flying!”

“I’m not flying, I’m not!”

Hazel leapt up into the air, Air swirling around her in gusts. The world she saw was tinted in golden fog, the green of the peaks barely visible. Life glistened like a blanket of snow beneath her, fading in and out of sight as she leapt, Air whipping freely as she grabbed and tossed it around her.

“Bloomers!” one of the boys shouted excitedly. “I can see her BLOOMERS!”

Hazel screeched and pulled her dress down past her knees. She tumbled to white and green grass, rolling as if the ground was as soft as cotton. With a small ‘oof,’ reality asserted itself back around her, the ground stiffening into the bristly stalks and hard dirt again.

Hazel, age seven and beet red with anger, sat up and shouted, “You don’t have to LOOK!!!”

The boys laughed and jeered. “Who’d want to, fatty!” “You got fat legs!” “No tits!”

“Dumb boys!”

Hazel watched as the collection of young girls and boys began tossing seeds and grass back and forth, clutching the hem of her dress. It had only been a few scant years since she’d been let out of isolation, for fears something as simple as a tantrum might hurt or kill someone. She knew well not to participate in something as simple as a pretend fight. But when one of the boys plucked up the hardened disc of a cow pat, she joined the other girls in screaming in disgust.

The girls ran and screamed in a tumult, Hazel running and screaming and laughing along with them. The group hid in one of the overgrown ruins used as a makeshift barn, thatch roof collapsed into the mud leaving the wooden beams overhead exposed. There she and the other girls crouched among the recently shaved rams and plotted their revenge.

“Boys are DUMB,” one girl said. “You’re the prettiest girl around, Hazel!”

“Oh, um, no way!” Hazel replied, flustered. “You’re way prettier … I like your hair…”

“We should put extra pepper in his oatmeal!”

“Ooh, or unscrew the pepper shaker so when he goes to put pepper in, it spills!”

“But what if someone else uses the paper shaker…?” Hazel said. “And won’t Matron Ginger get mad for wasting it?”

“Well it’s your pepper, Hazel,” the girl insisted. “So it’s up to you if you want to waste it or not…”

“I wanted everyone to have some…” Hazel mumbled.

Adults were always giving Hazel weird and nice gifts, and she didn’t know what to do about them. Sometimes it was fun things like dolls and dresses. But sometimes it was jewelry she was too nervous to wear, since it was so nice and she knew she’d lose them. Or stuff like perfume, or spices, or terrifyingly, a small pistol in a velvet box. As soon as she opened that one, Matron Ginger snatched the box away and Hazel never saw it again.

The girls screeched as a gust of wind ripped through the ruins, tossing about the straw. A massive dragon, mostly green with brown spots and as big as a barn thudded beside the ruins, making the earth shake and beams groan. The dozing livestock were unperturbed, baa’ing in annoyance as dozens of little white wyrmlings flapped and skittered among them, screeching playfully.

“Hi Momma Gladdy!” the girls shouted in uneven voices up at the dragon.

“Good morning, children.” The dragon spoke as softly as she could, but her voice still boomed in her throat. “I smell with my great big nose that there’s a naughty girl among you!”

The girls giggled and shushed each other. Hazel tried to make herself as small as possible. She reached for a wyrmling and hugged it, curling up into a teeny tiny ball. The baby dragon squeaked and squirmed in her arms, trying to wriggle free.

“Noooo,” one girl replied. “We’re all good little girls riiiiight?” The girls nodded enthusiastically.

“Are you suuuure?” Momma Gladiolus said, voice tumbling put. “Because I smell one right there!”

Hazel ‘eep’d’ as a jut of rock sprung up behind her, catching her by the back of her dress and hoisting her into the air. The other girls screeched excitedly as some of the rams sleepily scattered from the magical display.

“Hi Momma Gladdy…” Hazel said, staring down at the small squirming baby dragon.

“Little Hazel,” Momma Gladiolus rumbled. “You know we have guests today.”

“I knnooowww,” Hazel said, still refusing to look up. “But that scary one is here….”

“The sooner you say hello, the quicker you can say goodbye,” the dragon intoned. “Running will only mean they overstay their welcome in order to see you.”

“Mmm…” Hazel said. The little dragon at last managed to squirm out of her grip. With nothing else to hide behind, Hazel mumbled. “Okay…”

Hazel blinked. She gripped the Fabric of Air around her, and with a twist of her wrist, spun off the spire of Earth and settled on the crook just beneath Gladiolus' skull, gripping the dragon’s long rocky horns for support. In the Fabric, the dragon’s scales were bright green, flooded with Earthen fabric, white Life only peering out in the gaps between the scales.

“Lucky!” one girl cried.

“Take us flying too, Momma Gladdy!”

“Perhaps later, with a harness,” Momma Gladdy said. “I’d be very sad if any of you little ones fell off!”

“Okaaaayyy!”

The little girls waved and said goodbye as Hazel flew off on the Elder Dragon’s head, the little flock of white wyrmlings screeching in their mother’s wake. Hazel barely registered the stinging cold, the amazing sights. She barely noticed how well she balanced, how easy it was to blink and adjust the air around her when she got close to falling. She was still small enough that the minor miracles meant little to her.

Momma Gladiolus landed beside a large castle. It was nothing grand or pretty, the uneven stonework covered in moss and vines. Rebuilt and refurbished sections were apparent inside and out, giving the whole thing a patchwork quality that came with long, long years of use.

There was a small platoon of a dozen soldiers neatly lined up out front, along with three men on horses. Hazel, young as she was, knew from the blue and red banners that this was a group from Delland, a large country on High Valley’s northern border. And she knew from the squat, fat little man out front decked in glittering medals that this was a visit from one of their generals. It was this brazen and slobbish man who had gifted a seven year old girl a gun. According to him, the only place for a Weaver was the front lines of a battlefield.

And though Hazel couldn’t see him, she knew the Weaver who terrified her was here.

Hazel knew that a Weaver was someone born with all affinities. She knew that nobody knew what caused an affinity, be it parentage, diet, astrology, or some other quirk of the Fabric. She knew that she was one in a million, which meant there were only a few hundred Weavers in all the three Southern Continents. She was rare, valuable for what she could potentially do. But not worth another country risking war to get her. Especially not a war with the territorial dragons.

Instead she received an endless parade of petitioners. Whoever could afford to send her gifts did so. And the largest countries, Delland and the United Island especially, brought delegations. High Valley was a country that prided itself in staying out of the endless churning wars and rotating politicians. It was a roost to the majority of the Southern Continent’s Dragons; humans were merely guests in these lands, outcasts huddled among the high peaks and hiding under the wings that spanned them.

Hazel wished all the dragons in the country would just pummel anyone that came for her with rocks. She didn't want to go anywhere. She wanted to stay here and play with all her friends forever. She did not want to listen to creepy adults talk about how good little girls run away from home with them.

As they landed, she winced as General Tubbolard (she couldn't remember his real name) approached her. But Matron Ginger, a heavyset woman holding her black witch’s hat steady on her head, raced out to pluck Hazel off the dragon, shouting, “I’ll make her presentable!” as she carried the girl inside.

“I’m sorry, Matron,” Hazel mumbled into her blouse.

“It’s those damn…”

“Swearing.”

“Yes, thank you. Those terrible, wretched vulture’s fault. Pestering a little girl on the pretense of paying tribute. Bah! Don’t you listen to a word they say, Hazel!”

Hazel cracked a small smile. “I know, Matron…”

Hazel was hastily washed and stuffed into a dress of yellow chiffon. Then, her hair barely dried, rapidly marched to one of the nicer rooms in the large and cold castle. It was a little greenhouse in the center of a courtyard mostly filled with dead grass and sand. The greenhouse was a warm and cozy place full of potted plants and flowers, as well as any bugs and butterflies the children released in there.

Hazel hid behind Matron Ginger as she opened the greenhouse door. Warm and humid air gushed around her as the door swung open, unbearably wet for someone used to the dry thin air. The chirping inside suddenly quieted, a few butterflies scattering and escaping from the motion. The space was nearly overgrown, stuffed to the brim with colorful bushes and long grass that fought for the soil and crowded out the small concrete path and circular patio. Rockroot cut across a path already buried in rotting leaves, cracking and crumbling the path wherever it pushed up. Songflowers shaped like bells emanated birdsong, always pausing whenever anyone spoke. Blue lilypads sat in large stagnant pots, multicolored frogs peeking out from between the floating plants. Warmth radiated from a colorful variety of firevine, pink tendrils weaving up trellises, small white flowers radiating enough heat to make the air shimmer slightly. There was only one pot radiant with quiet white flowers, the white ink derived from the petals of the mountain Edelweiss used in healing the worst of the coven’s injuries.

Hazel watched her feet, stepping over Rockroot as she was led to the center of the greenhouse. There awaited four wicker chairs surrounding a low coffee table. A metal serving cart had been rolled in, tea and small cookies from a tin laid out.

But Hazel’s little child heart lifted when she was what was on the center of the table. It was a whipped frosting lemon cake with candied cherries and toffee crumble on top. She knew it was her very very very very favorite cake in the whole wide world.

But she knew if she wanted that cake, she would have to sit with that man.

Hazel peered around Matron Ginger’s skirts, and saw that man smiled at her warmly. He was very old to the child, but to most people he was on the young side of adulthood. He looked like he could have been Hazel’s brother. Both of them were colored similarly, a strong mix of all affinities giving them solid brown skin and black hair. He dressed in a special white robe, the cut of the top half mimicking a military uniform with golden epaulets. A white witch’s — or in this case, wizard’s — hat rested on the table beside him, also trimmed in gold.

“Hello Weaver Hazel,” he said pleasantly.

“Hello Weaver Cycla,” Hazel said nervously.

Matron Ginger stubbornly served the pair tea and cake. Hazel’s mouth watered as she received a slice. She felt guilty that she couldn’t share it with everybody, but also, she was a child. More cake for her was more cake for her! She kept her eyes down as she shoveled the sweet spongy cake in her mouth.

“How have you been, Hazel?” Cycla said.

“Fine.”

“What are you kids learning in school lately?” Cycla asked.

“Um… how to multiply big numbers. And I can read really well now.”

“And what magic have you been learning?” Cycle asked.

“Um,” Hazel said. “I dunno…”

He leaned forward slightly. “Do you not learn magic with the others?”

“I do. I can draw some spellweaves. But it's really boring…”

He laughed. “It must seem pretty pointless, since you can do most things with a touch.”

“Mm.”

She finished her cake, and continued to stare at her plate. She didn’t dare blink. She didn’t dare look.

“May I have some tea please?” she asked.

As Matron Ginger collected the tea things, Cycla continued.

“You know, I could teach you magic, Hazel,” Cycla said. “I saw you flying earlier. So you can control Air well enough to ride a dragon. But did you know you can pull Water from the air? Or Fire?”

“Um…”

She watch his hand as his fingers flexed. The room grew slightly cooler. Over his pinky a ball of water formed. Over his thumb, a small flame ignited. With a twitch of his fingers, the two orbs spun around each other, only to vanish as he closed his fist, dispersing in a gush of steam

“Can you see?” he asked.

She leaned in, fascinated. For a moment, her childish brain only wanted to see what he was doing. She couldn’t help it.

She blinked.

She watched as his fingers tugged and swirled in the Air, rooting through the yellow threads and collecting the blue and red. She was used to ignoring the thin haze of yellow in her second sight. But through his simple trick, she could see even the air had the same multicolored texture that all living things held.

He squeezed the two together, and a brilliant gout of multicolored steam flowed between his fingers, making Hazel gasp. She lifted her head to watch the steam rise.

And remembered why she was afraid of this man. She cried out and blinked her second sight away. But she had already seen.

Most people had a bit of every color in their bodies. People were made of all affinities. The Fabric of Life always dominated, but everyone was speckled with Water, of Fire, Air, and Earth. Some shades were just more prominent than others, shifting subtly among the white. People even had death lingering in their Fabric, along healing wounds, or radiating from the acid in their bellies. Death was pain and anxiety. But Death was also conversion and change. Just as there was a Father and a Mother, one could not have Life without Death.

Weavers were, to Hazel’s eyes, a true work of beauty. Their heads shone with glorious and powerful Life, like for most people. But the other elements, Water, Fire, Air, and Earth formed in beautiful rivers. Like a hand painting dye as it dispersed in water, it was a beautiful work of detailed art. A gorgeous tattoo that was forever shifting and changing, displaying the unification of affinities all across the Weaver’s body.

But Cycla’s pattern was disturbed. While elements still swirled around his skin, Death clinging to this man was far from normal. His head leaked. Holes were bored into the Fabric, gaping and empty. Thick black smoke spilled from the void, settling on his shoulders, the roiling threads convalescing into eyes and mouths that roved about and gasped in terror.

She only saw it for a moment, but a moment was enough to terrify her. In reality she only saw his warm and smiling face. Acting like nothing was wrong.

“Ah… still there is it?” Cycla said, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Thought the old shoulders felt a bit stiff.”

He forced a stilted laugh. Matron Ginger looked between Cycla and Hazel, and settled for putting a bracing hand on Hazel's shoulder.

“He’s still haunted…” Hazel whispered to her matron.

“Most people return from war with battle scars. But instead I just get ghosts in my ears. Funny isn’t it?” He leaned forward, still smiling. “I know they give you a fright, Hazel. But I’ve found a way to keep them at bay. Want to see?”

Hazel didn’t blink. Cycla didn’t either, but she saw when he switched to his Weaver sight. It was a subtle thing, without the fanfare of glowing eyes or magical aura. She just saw him sink a little in his chair, his pupils wide and gaze distant, like he was staring a thousand yards away.

Cycla lifted his hand to his brow. The flesh rolled away from his fingers as they dipped deeper, and deeper, and deeper. His hand was buried in a ring of flesh when the muscles of his arm tensed. He gripped something within himself, then slowly his hand retreated, slick with blood and clear fluids. Between his sticky fingers he held one long, veiny, flesh colored worm.

Cycla hiccuped as the skin of his forehead folded shut, becoming smooth, not even leaving a scar. A meaty string slapped dead into his wet palm. Hazel watched as he cupped the dead flesh in his fist, and shattered it into a gout of black and white threads.

“See? All gone,” he said, blinking rapidly. “Now what were we talking about?”

Hazel began crying, and Matron Ginger rushed her out of the room.

And that was the last she saw of Weaver Cycla. By the time a decade had passed and she finally decided to leave her mountain home, Cycla had long since committed suicide.