The Weaver

 My weary bare feet cross silently over the cold stone floor of an echoing palace hallway. The once proud stone walls are now crumbling around me and the lovely satin curtains hang in tatters, doing little to keep out the harsh wind. My bare arms and legs are marble white and equally cold, my once elegant gown torn and mended far too many times.

 This dull, grey place was my castle of dreams, once so splendid and full of life but my dreams were frail. My castle was built upon a land of marshy grasses, fully unsuitable and so quickly melting away. All my friends are gone now, the banquet food rots in the kitchen and the wings that once carried me high no droop featherless, down my back.

 Listlessly, I wander the now deadly maze of my memories and chase after the mocking echoes of happiness. Days, weeks, months, time becoming an empty word in the back of my mind. But one day, I chanced upon a chamber I’d never seen before, empty save for a giant wooden loom with a tapestry upon it.

 I saw no candles or lamps, for those had gone out years ago and yet I could see the loom clearly. The sight of the half woven tapestry held me breathless for a time, a tempest of feelings stirring within me. It held no beauty; in fact, it was the polar opposite of beauty and perfection. Some threads hung uncompleted while others crossed in non-patterns, creating rats nests and ugly, twisted knots. The colors clashed, too bright or too dull, making a frantic, childish piece of work.

 And the longer I gazed at the loom, the more certain I became that this tapestry was my life. Tears began to run down my face, tears of self-sorrow and frustration, of brokenness and utter exhaustion. The light touch of a hand on my shoulder surprised me and I whirled around, seeing a gentle hearted man. His eyes were like mirrors, warm and never ending like a starry summer night and his hands were scarred.

 “I am the Weaver.” His voice rumbled and echoed around the room, both thrilling and terrifying my broken heart. “This tapestry is my masterpiece.” At the sight of my unbelieving expression, he smiled. “Do you trust me?” One scarred hand reached out and I took it, nodding slowly.

 The Weaver took me around the loom so that I could see the other side and when I did, tears of joy replaced my sadness. This side was masterfully woven, every single thread chosen and put in so that every other thread relied on another. The colors were more real than anything I had ever dreamed of, leaping out and revealing a story, my story, a beautiful tale of perfect details.

 “Come sit with me while I weave.” The Weaver sat and continued to work, and I sat down at his feet. The cold was no longer in my bones and though my castle of dreams still lay in ruins, I no longer saw anything but the Weaver.