2024-06-25 - Acknowledged By All But Us

There has been non-stop noise since the first day the Harpers had come, and Neath is sick of it. It had been frustrating to hear this noise without understanding anything of it at all, but now there are words that go along with it - words it understands just enough to be driven to further frustration. It knows what blue is, and it knows what gold is. It knows Father is bronze. What is brown? What is green? It knows by now the weight put on them makes them more than just colour. What does it mean to be bronze? What is this noise-maker trying to tell it?

It reaches out to the nearest egg when its frustration hits a peak. Maybe its beloved others will know. Do you understand this noise? is what it settles on asking. It hasn't spoken directly to this one before, it doesn't think, and the excitement of reaching a new mind softens its irritation significantly.

It was difficult to reach this little egg, a swamp-like fog, sticky and uncomfortable coating it and preventing anything from fully reaching through the static. Of course Myrcelleth understood, at least in part, of course he understood that this song was tradition that Mother hated so much. That this was not the song that he had awoken to, that this was not the song that gave him his name.

Despite this, despite their upset and their fear at having another interaction - would this be the same end as before? An argument and tearing each other asunder? - he still reached out with an answer. If he could help another with their discoveries, then he would be happy. The answer came quietly, almost unheard underneath the defensive static.
It is about tradition. I don’t like it.

Labyrinth had not been happier after abandoning the conversation that occurred days ago. If that could be called a conversation. She had sulked, twining herself with mother only to be abandoned again and again.

And then...there was the song. The song and the feelings that Mother experienced while listening to it. She can sense whisperings around her and for a second Labyrinth considers whether to join or not...eventually, her mind stretches out.

'I do not like it either.' A dull beating echoes behind her words, like the thumping of a heart.

Another voice chimes in and Neath is more than pleased to have her. Oh. Good. It makes it feel better not to be the only one who doesn't like what it hears, though now it's curious about the 'why's the others must have. What do you not like about it? It's vague, directed at both of them at the same time. It wants to listen to their thoughts rather than the cacophony outside.

Myrcelleth couldn’t help but shrivel away just slightly when it hears the familiar beating of the blood through the voice that they have heard before. More than enough, really. That voice, the crackle that accompanied the previous interaction that he had had. Not a pleasant thought. Despite this, he forced himself up. He would keep the peace this time.

It is too much. Too much about tradition, about what is expected of you. I don’t understand why it matters so much.

'It is all about dying.' It isn't necessarily, but that was apparently the conclusion Labyrinth had come to it. 'I do not like that. Separation.' She bristles at thoughts of separation. I do not want to be like Mother. She becomes more alone.'

Dying? Neath was baffled - what did she mean by that? I thought it was about colours, like how Mother is gold and her favourite is blue. How is it about dying? It stirred in the egg, turning 'towards' her as much as it could. It had found that helped it pay better attention, and it wanted this bizarre statement to have its full attention.

Myrcelleth couldn’t help but let out a strange little chirping noise, questioning just as much as Neath. Where did she get dying from? He shifted to try and face the familiar voice, leaning forward as much as they could. They… did mention something new - Threads in the sky, maybe that is how it is about dying?
They wanted so badly to give her the benefit of the doubt, even if they didn’t fully know exactly what the Threads were.

'That stupid little singer said it. Bleed and burn. And Mother....mother lives while the others...'

Labyrinth lets out a quiet creel of frustration, not at the other eggs but at the concept. 'I think she worries her favorite will not come back. She does not bleed and burn with the other colors.'

Stupid little singer, the third voice says, and Neath squirms with delight. It doesn't much like him either, him or his songs. Why not? Because of us? That seems like it makes sense, but there feels like there should be more to it. Why does that feel incomplete? It stirs again to try and stretch out its frustration somewhat. I think there is an important difference between these colours, too. Do you know what green or brown is supposed to be? Do they die too, or just blue?

I think they die too. Myrcelleth provided, a little more confident in the conversation now. The song mentions them all, except for bronze and gold. I don’t understand why there are so many who die. They settled closer to Neath and the third voice, more at ease that this wouldn’t be derailed like it had last time. It’s stupid. I don’t want Mother’s favourite to die! I like when he is here, looking after Her and Us.

Stupid. She likes this word. 'Very stupid,' She agrees with a little hiss while turning its mind to the other questions. 'I think....they all die.' What a morbid thought. 'What difference? Why a difference?'

Neath and Myrcelleth had mentioned it a couple of times now. 'They are keeping us safe like Mother does?'

If they all die, how can any of them come back? Neath asks, baffled by this turn of conversation. I don't think they're meant to do that. It's a blind guess, but it feels pretty confident in it. If there's no difference they wouldn't talk about them like there is. It's strange that they don't explain when they talk. Are we just supposed to know?

Mother keeps being told that her favourite is blue and that is bad. Myrcelleth piped up, also a little baffled and a little eager to turn away from the talk of death. There were not enough discoveries, not enough understanding on that quite yet, not enough for him to want to linger. He said that flying high for them was not acceptable, do you know why? Is this just so normal for them that that’s why they don’t explain it when they talk?

'So what if bronzes and browns can fly a little higher. Father is also stupid. He does not like greens very much or blues.' Which isn't actually what Father had thoughts, it was simply Labyrinth's interpretation of the bronze's thoughts.

'If they explain it, then they will hear how stupid they sound.' Again, not the case but...'Idiotic.' That word felt nice too.

She's probably right, now that Neath thinks about it. But why doesn't he like the greens and blues? it pushes anyway. It just wants to understand - if greens are like blues, shouldn't they be some of the nicest minds out there? Nothing is making sense. And why can't they fly as high? This is stupid.

I know! It’s really frustrating. Myrcelleth practically groaned, delighted to have like minds. I don’t think I’ve heard him think about blues or greens… which is sad. He turned to the third voice again, eager now. I think if they actually explained the song they are singing, then they would not like it as much. It’s ridiculous that anything other than bronze and gold are sent away. He paused. Do you two think that there are other colours?

'I think...they are smaller. But that doesn't mean they can't fly higher. They just....shouldn't. Because...Because Father is an idiot.' Well, that didn't make sense, but did it really matter.

'They do a lot of that. Saying something that means something else. It's confusing. I want there to be other colors. Red...like red. But the idiot singer didn't mention red.'

Does Father control how high they fly? It liked the idea of being smaller. Being as big as Mother seemed like a lot of effort. Was it bad to be smaller? Why? If it was bad to be smaller then why did the smaller ones exist? Were golds always big and blues and greens always small?

He wanted there to be other colours too. Red would be nice. It didn’t make much sense, Myrcelleth found themselves settling on. None of this made any sense. The third voice did say something that he agreed with, though.

They do say things that means something else. I hate it. I hated when someone asked to come closer and didn’t. They’re liars.

'If he did, it would at least be a good excuse for not visiting us.' She says bitterly. Alright, so maybe this whole color concept wasn't the only reason she was annoyed with Father.

'They are! They are liars and tricksters.' Her mind tries to snake a little closer to the other two. 'I do not want to be gold like mom. She is lonely too much.'

She has her favourite, Neath begins, then stops. She has her favourite, but she's not supposed to. That must be lonely indeed. ...I don't want to be gold either. Or bronze like Father. Blue like her favourite would be nice. I don't know anything about green or brown... Because nobody is explaining it! Why do they say things and not explain them? Its frustration is apparent through the mental bond. There are not many of these minds that I like, it decides. The Harper irritates it, Father is not around often, Mother is too large... It concludes, once again, that being like Pertemarth is what it wants. He's at risk of death - not that it fully understands death, not yet - but he's nicer than Father and more free than Mother.

Myrcelleth thought about that, unhappiness brewing. What did they want to be? They had already decided they wanted to be like Mother but… There aren’t many minds that I like either… Her favourite is nice. Mother is nice, I want to be like her… like how she acts, not how she is. She is very lonely, he agreed quietly. Maybe being like Mother would not be the nicest to be. I like blue… maybe green would be nice, green is a nice colour… even if I don’t really understand what it means. It was miserable, the act of not knowing. Hopefully they will understand soon.

'I will be green.' Labyrinth states decisively. 'It is better to live a short life than be lonely like Mother.' Was this egg ever anything other than weirdly intense or morbid? Maybe.

'Green Misogauth. It is very fitting.' Not that it gives an explanation as to why.

I don't think all greens live short lives, Neath says optimistically, though of course it doesn't know. Green Misogauth. It does sound good, doesn't it? Maybe we can all be green together, it suggests hopefully. It's less scary not knowing if they all don't know together, surely, and maybe greens aren't separated the way blues and bronzes and golds seem to be.

That sounds nice. Myrcelleth was hard to hear again, the static worsening, fueled by his own fear, but he tried to take solace in the idea of them all being together, all being greens together. Importance was unimportant to them, they decided, and neither was living a long life, as long as they had a happy one, surely. He had no real idea how long 'long' or 'short' was in this context and it was upsetting to try and think about. Why did none of this make sense? Why were these things this way? This didn't sound like a nice world to be in anymore...

'Yes!' For the first time when interacting with others Misogauth shows something that could be genuine enthusiasm. 'We will be together, and we will be green.' The undercurrent of her thumping heart grows louder as she delves into this little fantasy.

The image she shares is a crudely drawn one. Well, it's basically just three blobs of green that are relatively the same color. The outlines could hardly be called dragons.

Neath adds some details to the scene, though they're more feelings than images: comfort, togetherness, perpetual company, directed mostly at Myrcelleth in an attempt at comfort even if it is just as much intended for Misogauth. They'll look after one another out there, whatever 'out there' consists of. They will be green together and live long, happy lives together, just the three of them (and, of course, whatever others want to tag along, though they're not taking up much of its mind right now.)

This does seem to make it better for Myrcelleth, if only a little, the ominous fog lifting a touch to allow the sunlight in. That would be nice, that would be very nice, but what if they don't turn out green? Can they choose that themselves? Is that allowed? If those colours aren't liked, then why are there lots of dragons of those colours at all.

Can we be together even if I don't end up being green? he asks tentatively, probing at the waters like a frightened animal afraid of getting caught by whatever monster lurks beneath the surface.

'We are green on the inside!' Misogauth suddenly declares...but then rumbles with confusion. Dragon blood is green. But I thought...why did I think it was red?' An odd little tangent to go on, but soon she is right back to her enthusiasm. 'So you are green. No matter what.'

She snakes her way happily between the two of them, heart thrumming with delight.