Every Glistening Night

Chapter Seventeen

Just one more night. I repeat this mantra in my head as I retrieve my bag from the depths of the wooden chest, as I climb up the cliffside, as my hands threaten to release their grip on the rocks, as I collapse on the grass atop the precipice.

Just one more night.

I feel woozy on my feet when I stand. Though my aim is the forest, I stumble to the left and right, unable to get my limbs to obey me. Trees tower overhead, and deeper and deeper shadows fall over me as I approach. Leaves and twigs crush underfoot. Sometimes, sharp fragments stab my feet, each one a jab to my senses.

Wake up. Wake up.

No longer able to see the forest's entrance, I slump against the nearest ruggard bark. I haven't gone far enough to get lost, and I want to keep it that way. The ika silk parcel I made skates over the inside fabric of my bag, onto the dirt. If I were to peek at it during the day, I'm certain that brown stains cover it from my earthy workspace.

Warmth floods my fingertips as I pull back the ika silk cover. Even the special spider thread isn't enough to contain this much light, this much power. Golden light spews onto my face, illuminates me sitting cross-legged on the ground. I can't imagine how someone will manage to wear the cape without being burned. Then again, perhaps the hooded figure doesn't plan to. Perhaps it's the hooded figure's idea of a decoration for her home, a display of how much power she has. Or maybe where she lives is extremely cold, and she needs the sunlight cloak to stay warm. There could be a valid reason for the cloak's creation.

All of the cloak's segments are complete. The only thing remaining is to put them together. I remove a needle and ika thread from my bag. Squinting, I slip the barely visible silk through the tiny head of a needle, which I borrowed from the seamstresses' supplies a couple days ago. Then, I shift the golden squares around, mapping out which ones will fit best together.

My needle sinks through the sunlight. Tiny white stitches bob along the seam I sew, slightly crooked from my shaking fingers. The normal dexterity in my fingers is hindered by the fatigue clouding my brain. Too tired to resist, my muscles are pulled into sloppy relaxation. I slouch as I work, my shoulders slumped away from my ears and the curve of my back pressed against the tree behind me. It's the only thing holding me somewhat upright.

The needle meanders in and out of the sunlight until two golden sections are conjoined. I add on a new section, another and another, until the individual squares resemble a cloak. My fingers stiffen from the constant, tiny movements. The ika silk slips more often from the needle's head, and I stab myself several times trying to thread it again. Blood dots the tips of my gloves now, marring the pristine white.

Energy feeds off energy. I can feel it building in the clearing. Sweat dribbles down my face and neck, pools inside my gloves, makes my tunic stick to my skin. I can smell the energy, too. An acrid odor sits in the breeze as leaves and grass are crisped by the sun. I try to keep the cloak on the ika silk blanket I made, but it grows too big and spills over the sides.

Orange ignites in the darkness. A small fire has begun on the grass near where a large bundle of sunlight lays. I drop my needle on my bag and quickly push the rest of the cloak into a pile on the ika silk. Frantic, I glance around for something to use on the fire. I know there's a stream nearby, but I might not have time to run there and back.

My eyes fall on my gloves, the ones that are supposed to contain heat. I slam my hands over the fire, hoping to smother it. Heat burns through the cloth, but not enough to do damage. After a moment, my gloves cool down.

I slowly draw back. An ashen patch remains in place of grass and flowers. I remove my half-blackened gloves to inspect my hands. They just appear redder than usual, no burns. I exhale in relief, sagging against the tree. My head lolls against pointy bark. I can't go on like this.

Just one more night.

Using the sunlight's glow, I find my needle, rethread it, and continue my work. I try to hurry, but my frenzy results in more pauses to realign my needle and thread.

At long last, the last sections are connected. I wish this were the end of my work, but of course, there's more to be done. There's always more to be done.

I have more ika silk, and I might as well put it to good use. Hopefully, it can prevent the cloak from setting anything more ablaze. Quickly, I pinch another thread between my fingers and set to work on the cape's interior. I don't concern myself with the size of the stitches. Instead, large stretches of white loop through the gold. I make sure to keep it away from my bare arms as I work, though sometimes, I misjudge my proximity and sunlight sears my skin.

The ika silk works. The sweltering air diminishes in its poignancy. When I run another ika thread through the cloak and my forearm accidentally touches it, it doesn't burn me like it used to. I disperse a few more so that silk swirls from top to bottom. Then, from my bag, I remove an ika silk ribbon. I secure it to the top of the cloak, the final touch so that if a person wishes to wear it, the sunlight won't fall to the ground.

I hold up the cloak, surveying my work. Gold fans out from the top, trailing on the ground. Fortunately, it doesn't start any more fires on the ground it touches. Bell sleeves hang off the shoulders, probably far too large to be practical. I had no measurements to go off of, so I made them extra wide.

In my hands, I hold a feat of weaving — the very sun in threaded form. This moment of completion is more underwhelming than I would've thought. I feel little accomplishment, only relief that it's finally over. It's all over.

I pack up my needle, about to do the same with the cloak, when curiosity gets the better of me. I drape the cloak around my shoulders, drown my arms in the golden sleeves. Sunlight presses around me, a bit too sizzling for comfort, but again, the ika silk prevents serious injury.

An odd sensation overcomes me the longer I wear the cloak. It's like the sun is seeping through my tunic, penetrating my skin. Overwhelmingly hot power surges in my veins. It travels from my chest into my farthest extremities, my fingers, my toes, even my nose. What starts as tingling flooding my nerves builds into a burning sensation, almost some sort of fluid pressurizing the tissue inside me. I shudder, from this thing, this power, begging to be released.

My trembling hands rush to pull the sunlight off. It lands in the ground in a clump. The surge in my veins ebbs away, shrinking in my blood vessels, retreating back to my core where it flickers out of existence.

I breathe out. My lungs hitch on the air, still unstable. My knees buckle, the intense exertion I felt while wearing the cloak catching up to me. I crash to the ground, inches from hitting the sunlight.

What was that? I can't make sense of what happened. It isn't normal, isn't rational for this world.

Blinding light crowds my vision. I blink at it for several minutes, unable to move or process anything. At last, a tiny voice breaks through the haze.

You have to get up and get back to camp.

There are a few more hours of night left. If I hurry, I can still catch some rest. I force myself upright, my arms taking the brunt of my weight. I hurriedly fold the sunlight cloak and uncase it in the ika silk blanket. It adds a heft to my bag that wasn't there before. Perhaps I'm just tired. Or perhaps it's because I still feel the cloak pressing against my shoulders, the sunlight swelling in my veins. What could a person possibly want with this?

I shake my head of my thoughts. It doesn't really matter, does it? Not when this is the only way to keep my secret.