Air blows, water splashes, fire burns and earth rumbles: for Fiona,
it's as if four petulant geriatrics have entered the room to squabble
over a cake that's not there. Whereas her husband and his parents
see a small mound of earth hollowed out with a well, lit candle and
tiny typhoon, Fiona sees something entirely different. Before her is
the ghost of a grand table, four throne like chairs arranged along
its' edges. In each chair a hooded figure sits, features hidden in
dark recesses of cloth, limbs folded with discontent.
“Quiet!” she commands when their bickering becomes more than she
can bear. “Why don't you listen to his reasons for calling you?”
Four hoods turn to face her. She can see no faces, no sets of eyes
scrutinising her, yet she's never felt more examined in her entire
life.
She can feel Raven's anxiety in the face of these four, so she smiles
at him and nods encouragingly, helping him start his explanation,
before she loses track of his words, her attention lost in the
multiple aspects of this same room.
Her attention snaps back, sharp and clear, when earth grinds: “Is
there one here who can speak for this 'personality' from the Weave?”
