Ten thousand spiders weaving a tapestry of light. Threads twist and tangle. Wrapped in flame, a kingdom shatters. Shards hold parliament at tea. Three anchors stand above, the web between. One sways in wind. One stands firm. One rolls away to tear free. A fourth now lands, tearing the web in its wake. The spiders scramble, but one stands firm.
One weaver, I. First born. One weaver, him. First born of first born. I see his father in his eyes, and I see myself reflected in him. Too hard, but now strong. Thread of destiny, followed to this point. Ten thousand threads, trapping the spiders as much as the flies. Trapping me, weaver first born. Trapping him, my first born, against me. The web survives still, but now it is so close to tearing forever. And all the spiders fall into what lies below.
Shadow cannot exist without light. Destiny the thread, him the weaver now. Little spider, my little spider, weaving a trap to catch a bird. First born weaver, now queen, held by thread. I never wanted a crown, only to remove it from His head. The web traps the prey and the predator alike, bound together. All we are, weavers of light.
The web is torn. The branch is threatened. The trap is laid. My clever little spider, he is all that I dreamed of as his father held me close a lifetime ago. He brings the threads together, at the heart of the web, where he has always belonged. My web is complete.