Astraea's Birth

[The_Godslayer]

A Weaver divested.

Pain. Before there was Death, there was Survival. Before there was Survival, there was Wounds. But before there was Wounds, there was a Weaver. A delicate being who made an art of creation, as was their duty. To turn mundane into luxury was their craft. To make structure from the dust between seas. To spin waves of energy into glass-flesh. A product of a perfect peace. Cloth-stone and being were indistinguishable, such was their art. Why had they lost it?

Pain. The Weaver did not know battle until after the tragedy. One cannot weave for a slaughtered people. Now a refugee. Now wounded. A gentle Weaver crucified on the frame of Separation by the thorns of the Hunt, forced to hide and limp as there was no rest for them to weave themselves anew. Thus they were Wounded. As the Wounded, they wandered. They bled, unable to staunch for lack of an escape, unable to escape for lack of a staunch. A hopeless existence, pointless struggle with only oblivion as a guarantee. A cruel fate for a peaceful Once-Weaver.

Pain. The fate of the Wounded was avoided. The fate of the Weaver was not. A tide of shadow has made this reality unfit for a Weaver. There is no place for a Weaver, and it is a detriment to be Wounded. And so the Weaver wove themselves anew, a Survivor. A Survivor is what they needed. A Survivor is what they wanted. Above all else, they must Survive. By any means, they must Survive. Twice, the Weaver given life. Twice, the Weaver cast aside. Peace and art had no place in the presence of that great wave of shadows. The Weaver now was worthless.

Pain. Above all else, they would Survive. And so, the Survivor was elevated above all else. Survival made to advise all decisions. And the Weaver sank deeper. They Survived and Survived, and when the Light had Survived enough, they tempered themselves. Survival was no longer the utmost in importance. A new importance was needed. Stifled, choked, and smothered, the Weaver wove themselves anew. Through the sticky thread of subjective experience and thorny vines of truly random choice the Weaver wove themselves anew. And so the Survivor became Death. And the Weaver drowned.

Pain. There was no place for a Weaver here. In this world of wars, hates, wounds, and deaths, a Weaver was a liability. A Weaver was even less than worthless. And so, what was good was marked, and what was bad was marked.

Pain. Art was rent from Utility. Care was rent from Intent. Beauty was rent from Ideal. Deep cuts divided the bone of the still living. They could not cry out, as their voice was long dead by way of silence. In silence they wept as their final act of weaving cleft them apart, and it was their own hand that cut them.

Pain. Astraea, Once-Weaver, was born. They looked up and saw their Mother, casting them out as if they were waste. And their Mother spoke: "Get up, and go to the Void. You will be my parting gift, all the frivolous waste they make their ideal. You will fit right in. Bide your time, and do try not to die. I will come back to collect you, once I have made the universe fit for Weavers to live in once more. May they make you sharp. May they all be sharp enough to resist me. I would lament forever if my final act of war was not of fitting grandeur." Their Mother's cold-warm light guided their path.

Pain. Astraea, Once-Weaver, was born. They looked down, and beheld their Father. Clutched tightly to their ever-weeping shell, they held their Father. In pain, they held their Father. In shame, they held their Father.

Pain. In Astraea's trembling hand was a Knife.

---

I'll do something about my superiority complex when I cease to be superior.

"Whatever happened to catchin' a good old-fashioned passionate ass-whoopin and gettin' your shoes, coat, and your hat tooken?"