alphabet challenge - b

[felicitygs]

 B - World / Society

 

His brother tells him stories of what it was like. He tells him about cloth and fabric and thread, about how there was no such thing as fate (but there is luck, the accidental snag of the Weave). He talks of craggy spires that break swathes of green, crystalline skies, clear and fresh water not tinged with salt.

 

Terrence is no poet, but it still sounds beautiful.

 

It also sounds so very different.

 

He does not remember it—not well, only remembers ash and smoke and the rending of the Weave in his ears—but he wishes he did. Something to hold to. When he sits and weaves—but not Weaves, more than one lecture from Terrence on that—he sometimes imagines what it would be like, to live there. To grow up there.

 

To be different, yet loved, the gold thread shot through a warp to make the whole gleam.

 

He knows that it would not be so nice as he imagines, but it doesn’t matter. It will only ever be in his head anyway.

 

There’s nothing to go back to.