The Needle

They wondered where he had gotten that strange thing. It shimmered wrongly in the sunlight, like it was bending against the sun's rays. It had no reflection, no depth, only the outline of something sharp. They didn't know where it had come from, but it made everyone uneasy. He kept to himself and rarely spoke a word, so it seldom became a problem, but the guards would shadow him.

It was an expression. In the depths below, a meek and besieged thing would hide its writhing form from vicious outsiders, shying away from the relentless haunt of the sun and the prying eyes of the Things from Behind the Wall. But there, when he slid into the shuddering grip of the Well, he drew from within it every aspect of its defiance, its rage, and its power. He felt it in his hands as he arose from the depths, into a church littered with the dead, a reminder of exactly who he was meant to raise it against. It was oblong, hard to hold, and unpleasant to be in the presence of, but he knew it was his duty to carry it.

That blade represented what precious little rebellion was left in the Well, an expression of its power as a Cosmic Entity. Throughout this world's history, the Well had been subjugated, chained, suppressed and tormented, whether it was by the light of the Architect or the needle-hands of the Vekhnamar. In his hands, it was a weapon that struck unfathomably true, and reminded the Vekhnamar that they were not dealing with a defenseless enemy in the Well.

It was uncomfortable to wield, and it burned faintly in his hands whenever he drew it, but he knew that he could only lay it down in death.