Work Text:
This is the story of how the Scalpel of Savathûn, the Archentrope, the Missing Piece of All Puzzles, was forged:
In the year of the extinction of the Eimin-Tin, when ORYX THE KING devoured two-thirds of their armada and rent them down to chitin for his ships, when SAVATHÛN struck Elulium with a thought-lightning and XIVU ARATH claimed the Umber Sun and devised a bomb capable of destroying three neighbouring systems in its explosion, a silkweaver in service to the High Coven was sent to one of Xivu Arath’s war moons as part of a sisterly bargain. She was a young thing, her talent not yet honed by age—but Savathûn valued her craftsmanship, for the silks that would come from under her claws were unlike any other. Her hands had been mutilated from birth, right bearing only two fingers and left bearing four, and though she had been told she would have never become a craftswoman, she went on to ignore that prophecy profoundly. Her weave was unique due to the gift of her asymmetry, and her threads firm with the strength of her will.
She lived and worked within the war moon, in a workshop in the nook of a dead-end tunnel. Word about her craft spread quickly throughout the brood: gossip claiming that she could weave silence into a fabric, that the patterns she made would blink and move, that her thoughts themselves were threads she spun not with her hands but will alone. She did not care much for these rumours, as long as they kept those who could seek to challenge her away for her to do her work in peace. But not all were so easily discouraged. A silversmith who lived in the war moon as a representative of her guild overhead the stories, and set off to check just how big the seed of truth in them was.
Who she found was a woman of patience and persistence, clever and focused on the delicacy of her craft. Not once did a fine thread snap under her claws, not once was a cord braided too tightly or fraying ends messed in a tangle. She wove slowly, but diligently, and the few words she spoke were all pointed and purposeful. The silversmith fell in love with her instantly.
Their courtship was swift, and their time together was spent gladly. One night, overcome with fondness for her beloved, the silversmith spent hours in the workshop working on a fitting gift she might present to her, something brilliant and never before created, everlasting like the Shape. What she forged was a scalpel — long and silver and infinitely precise, feather-light and as sharp as the edge between realms. No thread it would cut ever frayed. She gave it to the silkweaver, so that in her work she would always have her love’s aid.
When the time came to return the lease and Savathûn demanded her favourite craftswoman back, the silkweaver trembled. She knew of the ebb and flow of the Sea of Screams, of errant currents which carried the royal courts close together and drifting apart with no reason but the fickle whims of gods. She knew that if she left the war moon, she might never see her beloved again. Thus she went to plead with Xivu Arath.
“Please keep me,” she begged. “My time in your Court has honed my skill; I will make for you a tabard softer than the King’s silk robe. I will weave wavelengths of sound into the fabric for your banners so that they scream and scream forever. I will braid the light of the Umber Sun into luminescent threads to drag behind your throne as a proof of your dominance. Please keep me.”
“It’s not enough,” Xivu Arath said. “Your return was to be a token of my love to my sister. If you want me to keep you, I demand you give me your love in return.”
It was a cruel offer. But the silkweaver was a cunning bastard — she had, after all, been raised at the feet of Savathûn’s throne — and so she pulled out the silver scalpel and presented it in outstretched hands.
“This blade had been forged in worship,” she said, “to be the perfect extension of its maker, sharp with her sharpness and beautiful with her beauty, so that she would always be with me whenever I held it. Thus I was never without my love. I offer it now to you.”
Xivu Arath was impressed by the silkweaver’s boldness and wit, and accepted. From that day on the two craftswomen lived in the war god’s brood, never again separate, reshaping the universe under their claws into beauty and terror.
When Savathûn came, at last, to Xivu Arath to question about her end of the bargain, the war that ensued cost each brood two dozen warships and one common war moon acquired from the Qugu system. As they scuffled for the final victory, Xivu Arath pierced Savathûn’s carapace with the silver scalpel, and its infinitely sharp edge sunk deep into the godly flesh, puncturing the heart. Thus Savathûn received her sister’s gift, and the war was concluded.