Eva smiles bright as the Dream, the lights around the two only hoping to match her intensity.
"I accept any title you would give, for it is what you have chosen." – you, she thinks, and not them. Given by an equal freely rather than labeled without regard for preference or consent. It feels freeing. It feels like... – "I have as well seen enough sisterhood to last a mortal lifetime."
Lies, power trips, backstabbing, plain cruelty. The concepts of 'love' and 'family' for Weavers always had teeth: for every sister a spider – cannibalistic creation of a predator Pale.
But Eva is no sister. She understands, in that moment: it feels like a rebellion.
She'd been having a lot of these, lately. A small compensation for eternal stagnation, for the cycle unbroken 'forenow. Eva prays (to none but herself, for it is her birthright) for them keep going, over and over until there's naught but shards left of these olden cages.
A knot untangles itself in her Soul. One less weight upon the silksteel shoulders.
"Not long ago, I told my mother," – she begins, – "Yivel the Judge, if you know her as such, that I wished to be a Weaver."
Eva glances at Dullahan, who bears a complicated expression, and continues:
"Indeed. She looked at me almost precisely like that." – the avatar smiles with a hint of mischief in her eyes, – "To which I retorted – I am a Weaver indeed, but I shall never be like you.
I am no kin to them who abandoned me to a lonesome fate neverending. I am no kin to those demanded a place above all. I am no kin to those prideful things who cast many a wish vain and left to rot away."
The chamber dims for am moment as Eva's eyes narrow. Subtle fury scatters through the silkslights, radiance bursting through them in a barely controlled blaze.
"I told her," – she whispers; the words sound so loud the silence stills, – "That I will show her just how much better Weaverkind can be".
And she raises a cup that she brings near Dullahan. The tea's gone cold long ago, but that does not matter. Cold feels right in that moment – a ruination of old tradition in things even so small.
"So raise a glass, brother. Let us drink, – even if I cannot ,– to wish on a future beyond their crawling shadow. Raise a glass and Weave a tapestry of future that is ours and ours alone."
