Work Text:
It had started life as an ordinary strip of cloth. Not the red it would one day wear, this bit of cloth was white; symbols and shapes stitched along its length. It had no sentience, at its creation. It was just cloth. It had no awareness of its importance. It had no knowledge of its purpose. And, yet, its very first act was of incalculable value. Carried from person to person – hands unfolded it across prickly straw amidst the soft sounds of cattle and sheep. A weight was placed across it – warm and tender. The cloth was crossed, back and forth, surrounding that tiny thing – that little creature – crossed until the small edges of cloth reached the cheeks of the being it enveloped. Breathy cries shook from the small thing – soaking tears into the cloth. It didn't move.
It remained for the next five months; washed often as it was soiled often, until one day it was lost – torn away in the current of a fast moving river when its caretaker was distracted. It swirled through the depths and was a hairsbreadth from disaster in the muddy banks when it was caught up by a slave. His foot was bloodied from crushing straw beneath his heel and he'd been soaking his aching feet in the river. He used the cloth to bind his wound. The cloth would exist with the man for the next three years – carrying out many duties; threads slowly darkening from the original white as blood and soil and sometimes tears were ground into its fibers.
In time it would have many owners; passed among slaves in the same tiny community; its tattered edges hemmed and, at times, lengthened. From swaddling cloth to bandage it eventually became a child's blanket; wrapping a shivering form through a terrible illness; absorbing her cries and sweat and fever. She lived. The cloth was passed on.
It was tucked in the belt of a woman, given in marriage to a man from a distant land. Together, they travelled to a strange place called Ceylon.
A decade after this it was reduced to a fragment of its former length.
It was first imbued with consciousness in a small dungeon in Caledonia while clutched in the uncertain grip of an uncertain sorcerer; too young to wield such power but desperate and willing to take a risk. Its very first task was to carry a message. Meant purely as, in essence, a note, the young sorcerer had instead cast a spell of intelligence.
For the first time it had awareness. But not, unfortunately, motion. Still, it managed to save the young sorcerer with its minimal abilities.
This, of course, was where everything changed.
Carried by the sorcerer through a burning doorway, the little strip of cloth was in a land that had no name. While deprived of awareness until only recently, memories of its many journeys had been embedded in its fibers. It had no context for the place it now found itself.
A strange being approached; holding out his wrinkled hand for the bit of cloth. “What have you done this time, Rintrah?”
The young sorcerer ducked his head and stammered an apology. “Master, I attempted to cast a nuntius spell, but...”
“Instead you cast a Binding Sentience spell.”
Though Rintrah ducked his head, abashed, his Master only chuckled. “There is no harm done, this time. You chose a good fabric for your spell; unexpected though it may be. Remember, there are no accidents. Everything has a reason even if we do not yet know why.”
After Rintrah was dismissed, the old Master lifted the cloth close to his watery eyes. “Now, little one, let us see what you are meant for...”
Lifting his hands, Master Enitharmon began a spell of weaving. Length spilled from the cloth on waves; thickening and softening into luxurious rolls of fabric. A single, hooked finger tapped the center of the bolt and it shimmered from off white to a rich red.
“Now we have something to work with.”
He began to sew; magic pouring from his hands and filling the fabric with every stitch.
Days; weeks passed while he worked – the old master telling the fabric of his life; the sorcerers he'd known; the pupils he'd trained. He spoke of the worlds beyond; of the wars fought beyond the sight of mortals. He spoke of loss and death and bloodshed. He spoke of happiness and birth and hope. He spoke of purpose.
Now and then, Rintrah would visit and ask about the progress of the fabric – which now wore a patchwork of tiny symbols on one side; gold thread holding each one in place. The answer was always the same. “Soon”. Though the months grew to years, still the answer was unchanged, “soon”.
It was a decade later that the old master, unchanged in all that time, stepped away from his creation.
“And, yet, something is still incomplete...”
Ten years, however, had been enough time to contemplate any final trim required. A bit of tassel, perhaps?
“There is nothing wrong with thinking.” He finally said. “But how would you like to truly speak?”
A voice? How... audacious! The fabric wondered what its first words would be? Would it have a loud voice or a soft one? Would it be lilting and high, like the woman who transcribed ancient manuscripts or shaky and cracked, like the old Master?
A flapping wind rushed across the fabric. Then, in a bizarre flash of sensation, through the billowing folds! And just as fast it was gone in a haze of sparks.
“Well? Are you just going to lie there?”
Confusion flooded the fabric. An awareness crafted in the literal it struggled with euphemism and analogy. And, yet, no speech formed; as it had expected. Perhaps... perhaps the Master was being literal, after all?
A ripple shivered through the fabric. And then another. Excitement followed – not a voice; not as it had understood a voice to be. Oh... this was far better!
In a sudden roar of power, the fabric flew from the table! Tearing through the room it toppled candlesticks and books; ink wells shattered – spilling their contents in spatters of color. Rintrah, likely drawn by the cacophony, raced to the room and threw open the door. The fabric immediately whirled around him much like a playful dog; tossing his hair about his head and upsetting the order of his robes.
“Master, you... it can fly? You made the cape fly?”
Enitharmon, wrinkling his long nose, held out one crooked hand towards the caroming red folds. “This is not a cape!” He ran his fingers along the raised collar as the delighted flight finally stilled before him; shivering with obvious joy. “This is a cloak! The Cloak of Levitation!”