"Y-You can smell me?" Her throat still ached from crying. Then... she brought her head to her armpits and took a sniff.
What? How come I don't smell anything?
Raine's lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost. "We can't smell our own names."
"Oh." Aspen's cheeks warmed. Is it like how we get used to our own odors in real life? "Why?"
"We don't know."
Of course. She frowned. "Whatever, what do I smell like?"
Raine's brows furrowed as brought her nose closer. "Um... bad."
Huh? Bad?
Did I hear that right?
"I-I... I smell—"
Raine waved her hands like her life depended on it. "No! Not bad exactly, just... strange. Your smell feels... webbed."
This world and its culture differences... "What do you mean by webbed, Raine?"
"It doesn't smell clear."
Clear? "So is it like... many different smells in one?"
"Maybe...? It feels more like, the smell itself—I don't know. I can't describe it."
Aspen's face fell. Just great. Well, at least I have one.
But somehow, I'm not even curious.
Hm. I don't care about what this means for me. She looked for a sensation in her chest. There was just a dull ache. Or maybe I do but... I'm tired?
I mean, none of this feels real. Nothing at all.
Raine tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Um, maybe by me calling your name, the spirits acknowledged you." She gestured to the threads. "They treated you as a Namelost until you chose a name. With Hanged Man's work calling their attention, it's possible that this is why your name has gotten a smell so quickly. Even if its strange, maybe you just need more time to grow into it."
Yeah. Great. "Okay."
Then Raine frowned, speaking faster. "After all, my name still doesn't have a smell, and it's been years."
Oh. Yeah, from her perspective, this must be... Aspen bit her lips. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Raine sighed before trying on a ghost of a smile. "Regardless, this is... um, but," she turned to the bare, open curtain-way, "h-how will this impact our structure?"
Does it even matter? When can I sleep? "Is me having a name-smell bad?"
"No—just, wait."
The pair stared at the curtain-way for what felt like hours. Waiting. Ears trained on any possible noise.
Nothing. Just the hum of the threads.
Aspen sighed. Maybe the spirits didn't tell them? I thought they worried about the spirits telling the commonfolk or something if there's no curtain, is it not an immediate process? "Do you think they'll hurt us if they find out?"
Raine shook her head. "No. I'm your Namelost. Calling you by your name is fine. And it's better if you are stronger for your own ritual."
Oh right. I have a ritual to do eventually.
Ugh... "So what's the worry?"
"...I'm worried because this is unprecedented. Causing such a reaction from the spirits, not to mention you were treated as a Namelost by them."
I think I see the issue.
All these fucking logistics.
Her shoulders dropped, not inches, but miles. Should I feel this tired? "Okay."
Then Raine's did. The invisible wire holding her spine straight snapped.
You're tired too.
Aspen looked at Raine—really looked at her—and saw the tremors in the girl's hands.
Then the shadows carved under her eyes.
And the last few floating bubbles above her head.
We're really tired.
"Damn it," Aspen breathed out, sliding down the edge of the silk basin till she hit the floor. "I really don't have a joke for this."
Raine nodded, though her eyes were distant. "Lyra wasn't one to joke much either." She took a moment to compose herself, smoothing her features into a mask that looked less like a grieving girl and more like a subordinate of the Council.
Why do you do this?
She popped the few remaining bubbles in the air, Aspen nearly chuckled at the act but the joy died in her throat.
Why do I feel so terrible? Well, it's obvious but... it's only been one day.
Ugh... I could use a necklace.
Raine sighed, trying to exhale her hesitation. "I will go. I will speak to the Council regarding… this, eventually." She crouched a little beneath an opening in the threads, making her way to the open curtain-way. "Someone will come, but take your time to rest. You're husked... Aspen."
With that, she slipped out, leaving Aspen alone with the hum of the threads.
Aspen exhaled slowly.
Then inhaled.
The air tasted sharp. Sharp in the sense that it seemed like someone cut the smell from it.
Husked, that's a good word. How am I supposed to rest when its so easy to think about...
Ugh, stop thinking.
Why does this world have tarot? Is it really—
Stop. I need rest.
But if I don't think about this, I'm going to spend more time in this cursed world.
True.
That's very true.
They said these prismatic threads were supposed to slow the progress of my link to the Omen, so does Hanged Man have some slowing power? Or pausing stuff?
I don't remember what the Hanged Man tarot card had—
Hold on, no. No. This isn't what rest looks like.
Why am I thinking about Hanged Man's powers? She pressed her palms to her temples. This isn't because of the necklace. That's gone now, and somehow, I'm okay.
Well, okay enough to think. Even if tired.
Am I just coping? No, what am I saying? I have to be coping. Super coping.
No matter how much I think, I'm too weak to actually do anything. So there's no use. I'll just burn out, that's what I've learned.
She stared through the gaps in her fingers.
But everything is… more though. I guess it's hitting me now, without the necklace and all.
The prismatic light wasn't dim—it was searing. And each pulse of the mushrooms echoed afterimages into her retinas. The hum of the threads wasn't background noise, it was a choir, dozens of frequencies layered into a chord that made her molars ache.
Why is it always me?
Raine should've stayed. Better I can focus on those bubbles than this.
Her own heartbeat thundered in her ears, too loud, too fast, each contraction a small violence. Then she remembered that her hands were wrong.
She ripped them away from her face. Her chest tightened.
No.
No more spirals. Think later. Just… sit with it. You need to sit with it.
She took a deep breath and shivered. You need to be stronger. This world wants to break you, don't let it. Her brows furrowed as she looked down at her body. At the acorn-beige silk dress. At the legs that were thinner and longer than her old ones. At the wings folded against her back, spilling out to her sides.
Wings.
She'd been avoiding looking at them. Avoiding thinking about them. It was easier with the necklace, everything was easier. But now, alone, she forced herself to turn her head.
They were… insect-like. Moth wings, probably. The outer membrane was translucent, revealing an orange hairy-looking interior that caught the rainbow light and refracted it into an oil spill of iridescent dust, like an angel's pollen rotting in a puddle.
Pretty… gross. Pretty and gross.
It's like they've been glued on. Jesus.
She tried to move them consciously.
Nothing.
Right, because how am I supposed to move wings? What am I? A bug?
Aspen the Bug.
Well, that's not too bad of a name.
She tried again, focusing on her shoulder blades where they connected.
A twitch. A shudder. But no real control.
Okay. Wings I can't use. Shouldn't I have instinctive control or something? Or maybe my normal human instincts are fucking me over.
She pulled herself up with the edge of the silk basin. Her knees wobbled but held. The room tilted slightly—her center of gravity was too high, redistributed by the wing mass—but she managed to stay upright.
Did the necklace also mess with this? I swear it wasn't so hard before. Hell, I was just standing up.
But it's all really hitting me now.
Just how much did that neclace fuck with me?
I mean, I guess I really spent most of this day just... not even in reality? That must've been how I thought this was a dream for so long.
There was barely a body's length of space between the bed and the nearest thread. Enough to stand. Not enough to pace. The threads formed a loose cage around the bed, save for two ends where the bed was too close to the walls.
The spirits could see everything.
She touched the mark on her forehead, it was cold and smooth, like liquid crystal frozen mid-drip. She pressed harder.
A spike of ice shot through her skull. Not pain exactly, but cold so intense it felt like her brain was crystallizing. She yanked her hand away, gasping.
Okay. Don't do that.
She looked at the threads again. Let's just start somewhere simple. I don't want to sleep. Hell, I don't even think I'd be able to with all these thoughts.
So let's try this. Sniff the threads. She gave them a whiff. No scent, no name-frequency. Just light and tension.
And these things slow the binding. Oh wait.
This room used to smell like burnt sugar, that's the smell that triggers those visions. But I can't smell anything now with these threads.
So they really are stopping or slowing some things. Somehow even stopping the name-smells or... wait, what even was that smell?
Ughhhhhh, SHUT UP.
She stomped against the warm wood floor, letting the impact ripple up her leg. Grounding.
I am grounding myself.
It's not working at all.
Topic change. That burnt sugar smell was useful, could get me more information about the Omen.
Maybe I could leverage that information for more freedom? I can't really sneak out, especially when I can't fly.
Wait what am I even thinking? These things are slowing the Omen coming. She slapped her forehead. Trying to leave would just be stupid. I'll be free once the Omen is gone, probably.
So really, I should get more information so we could figure out a weakness. Better if I make myself useful so then there's no future stress.
The ache in her chest cleared just a bit. I just need something to focus on. She nodded to herself. If I can't smell that burnt sugar thing naturally, could I just recall the smell from memory?
She closed her eyes. Burnt sugar. Caramel but… in a fire. Marshmallows in a microwave.
Caramel. Omen guy. Lyra. Come on. Show me.
Burning. Ash. Sweet decay. Burnt sugar. Burnt sugar.
Nothing.
Shit. Lyra's deat—
The room lurched.
No—she lurched. Her perspective yanked sideways, tearing away from the gray walls and humming threads. Her stomach tripped like she'd missed a step on stairs that weren't there.
The world went white.
✦
She was standing in a flower field.
I need to throw up.
The flowers beneath her feet looked normal, which surprised her. Even the trees, her familiar green and brown. Am I back home?
Then she looked up.
The night sky stretched above her, vast and black and wrong. There were no stars. It was a void with the moon—
The moon was too large.