Quills
A story of will, mercy, and the One who weaves life into the unraveled. By Micah Siemens
Prologue: The Library Beyond Time
Before stars sang or oceans roared, there was a Library.
Its shelves stretched in every direction—endless scrolls, parchments trembling with the weight of what would be. At its center, beneath a dome of invisible light, sat the Author.
His hands bore the scars of making. His eyes saw through the folds of time. Before Him lay two vast sheets of parchment—blank yet humming, as if the future waited just beyond the page.
In His right hand, He lifted two quills—crafted not of feather or bone, but of something deeper: Will and Desire, shaped into form. These were not dead tools, but aware—perceiving, waiting to be used.
He dipped them into an unseen inkwell—its depths filled not with pigment, but truth and mystery—and laid their nibs upon the parchment.
The Quills and the First Strokes
The quills moved—not wildly, but with both direction and wonder.
One quill traced bold lines, arcs that seemed to know their path before they were drawn. The other hesitated at first, then found rhythm—not perfect, but willing.
Each line began forming patterns. And from these patterns, something rose: quilts—woven beings stitched from color, texture, and breath.
The Author whispered, and the parchment hummed. The threads from the ink began to shimmer, pulling together in complex designs. The words became fibers. The story became flesh.
The first quilt shimmered red and gold, sharp and proud. It called itself Kavar—”To Rise.”
The second quilt was gentler, its edges soft, its color like the sky just before dawn. It was named Merah—”To Yield.”
Both opened their eyes.
They did not know everything. But they knew they were being written.
The Writing Becomes Weaving
As the quills moved, each stroke sent threads downward—stitching into the living quilts below.
Kavar reveled in the rhythm. “I feel the power of the pen,” he said. “I will learn its flow. Perhaps, in time, I’ll write myself.”
Merah watched her own stitching. It faltered sometimes, threads tangled. But she lifted her face often toward the Author’s hand.
“Why are my patterns not as clear?” she asked once.
“There is purpose in your softness,” came a silent reply—felt rather than heard.
Each choice, each leaning of the heart, drew a thread down from the quill’s ink and wove it into the quilt. It was mysterious—not forced, but also not detached. The Author held the quills. Yet the quills danced in response to what the quilts desired.
This weaving, then, was both authored and revealed.
And the thread—thin, shimmering, living—was always offered at the edges of every pattern. Some threads were gold, warm with grace. Others were gray, brittle with pride.
The Fraying
As time stretched across the parchment, Kavar grew bold.
He began to resist the gold thread. “It is too soft,” he said. “Let me sew something stronger.”
He began tugging in his own direction, trying to pull from the ink that was never meant to be drawn. His quill grew harder to guide. The Author did not release it, but let it trace Kavar’s will.
The colors in Kavar dulled. The outer stitching began to fray.
Still, he declared, “I am not unraveling. I am evolving.”
But the parchment told the truth. The threads pulled away from each other. Patterns once sharp now spiraled in on themselves.
Merah watched, heart trembling. Her own stitches were uneven, but she still sought the gold thread, reaching for it whenever she could.
She whispered to the sky, “Why does Kavar tear himself away?”
And a hush came from the Library: “Some choose thread that cannot hold.”
The Third Quilt
Then, the Author stood.
From His robe, He drew a thread unlike any other—not created, but eternally woven from His own being.
He laid it into the parchment.
And the parchment shook.
From it rose a Third Quilt—Jeshael—stitched in simple beauty, with patterns older than time and colors that seemed to sing.
Jeshael entered the tapestry not above the others, but within. He walked where the threads were most broken. He touched the unraveling edges of quilts who had nearly given up. And when His hand brushed theirs, their patterns strengthened—not by force, but by restoration.
He came to Merah.
“You’ve reached for the thread often,” He said.
“I’ve dropped it too,” she admitted.
“But you reached. Let Me finish what you began.”
And He wrapped part of His own thread around hers, binding her frayed places. Her colors shone anew.
Then He came to Kavar.
Kavar’s pattern was barely holding. The edges curled inward. Yet still, he puffed up.
“You,” he said to Jeshael, “come from the Author, but I’ve written my own way.”
Jeshael’s eyes softened. “You were never meant to write alone.”
“I’d rather unravel than be sewn by another,” Kavar spat.
And so, the Author let his pattern go slack. The quill still moved, but its ink no longer touched the golden thread.
Epilogue: The Final Stitch
The parchment began to fold.
The quilts who had received the thread of Jeshael—those who had yielded to the grace offered—were gathered together. Their patterns were not perfect, but they were whole, bound by something beyond themselves.
They were stitched into a new book, a living one.
The Author closed the old scroll and placed it on the shelf. Its edges glowed with justice and mercy.
One of the scribes in the Library—whether angel or wind, none could say—asked:
“Was it fair that some unraveled?”
And the Author replied—not with anger, but with sorrow and strength:
“I offered every thread. Some received it. Others did not. But I wasted nothing. Even the unraveling revealed the weight of the thread.”
He looked down at the Book of Life—the new one, bound in the thread of Jeshael.
And He whispered:
“Every stitch I made, I made in love.”
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