WOVEN THREADS 3

Expectations for the time of year were at an all time low. As the chronicle keeper of the whole realm, Astral found himself uncharacteristically drifting into daydreams that involved the most fantastical plots and captivating characters. For, you see, it was the writer’s explicit destiny to let the mind’s eye wander and to let creations spring forth onto the page.

Usually this was how the stories of the realm made it into his chronicle book. He would let his mind wander, glimpse the stories of the Scarfoxes that frolicked in the realm, and then he would spend days scribbling furiously while the stories flowed through his conduit and out in the form of ink and additional paper. For every event, there were thousands of pages to add to his books. For every new life sewn into existence by the All-Mother, there was a new chapter that had to be documented.

Omnipotence came at a price sometimes, and the price Astral paid was that of time. Sure, he was outside of the bounds of time and space, as he had to write down every transgression. Every lie, every crime, every positive effect on the world. The lives of every creature touched and violated by the foxes of the Scarfox Realm. Every inch of their journey. It was exhausting, and the average Scarfox simply could not understand the pressures he was under.

Even the gods would forsake him sometimes, forgetting that before they were built of the all-Mother’s love, Astral was there to mark down the patterns. It was thankless work that kept him busy endlessly.

Which was why it was so dangerous for his mind to wander to places that did not involve the stories of existing Scarfoxes. When Astral’s mind wandered to the abyss of existence, he would grow lonely, and he would long to be a part of the realm that he spent so many eons watching over. It was a dangerous thought to have, A dangerous desire to entertain, even for a moment.

But, nevertheless, Astral pondered the realm. How in this time of year, many foxes would be gearing up to give gifts to one another. Woven garments made from love mostly. Sometimes other materials, but even the most tattered and ragged article would go touched by the fingers of ones so full of love and hope, that it made this normally frigid time of year warmer in tone. Bathed in chocolate drinks and clouds of delicious smells.

Not that he was affected by the cold. He was well aware that Scarfoxes could only feel the cold if their humanity was intact. He had never been human. The All-Mother couldn’t have made him from a human. Such was life, he supposed. Such was life.

As he imagined a world where he had been sewn by the All-Mother to be like any other Scarfox, Astral dozed off - another uncharacteristic response to daydreaming - and the ink and quills spilled all over the chronicle book, jolting him awake in a flurry of panic.

No! All the lost stories! The memories! The future!

He scrambled, even as the warm voice of the All-Mother reached down to him and wrapped him up in a song so warm and comforting. He swept her voice away, trying to clean the ink from the pages, huffing and puffing in annoyance. Wondering why he was doing this when even the greatest gods of the universe would forsake his duties. Claim him to be inept.

Wondering why the All-Mother put him here if all he was going to do was be admonished.

Her voice was still gentle and all encompassing. A voice he knew well, better than any other fox in the realm, soothed his uncharacteristic anger and lulled him into a stillness. It was like sleep, but not quite as otherworldly. The All-Mother whispered her love to him. To Astral, who was the most special of her children. Loved just as much, but given such a heavy burden to bear.

A burden that she could not help him with, as he was the one who had the sew the new foxes into existence. Every day, the new would come, and she had to make them and while Astral understood this innately, he wanted to be touched by the love of others. Of friends and family he had made himself.

The All-Mother understood, naturally, as she was the whole of the realm herself. Her words left Astral breathless, gasping for understanding. And when she went silent, Astral was alone again, the book still tacky with spilled ink and pages littering the floor. But within the spilled ink and torn pages, there was a box woven of the finest fabric. Knitted into existence with invisible needles and microscopic threads. A gift. From the All-Mother to Astral.

Astral went to his desk, scooping up papers off the floor and fixing his glasses, correcting his anger and misguided fear.

The box was tempting. Astral was tempted by its grandeur. Its promise of great things. Of special prizes and much needed love. Once his abode was cleaned, he allowed himself to give into that temptation, and he untied the ribbon and peeled the lid off the top and found a gorgeous tapestry.

It was as fine as silk, as sturdy as denim, and as warm as wool. Think with the magic of the realm. A temporary comfort, but a comfort nevertheless. Astral allowed the garment to roll out of the box in its entirety, and it filled the room with the smell of hot chocolate and the laughter of the wind and the strength of the forests.

“Silly me,” Astral said, draping the garment over himself. “I have let the foxes of the realm affect me so. All-Mother, these are the children you created. I apologize.”

There was no word, but the air of forgiveness was thick and smothering. The love of a mother, most holy and true. Astral took a deep breath, refilling with mist as he painstakingly removed the now dried ink that had spilled across the pages, ready to continue transcribing the history of the realm, not swathed in the only thing that could really comfort him.