Ketsuri was deeply annoyed. Her efforts to animate had not been met with success thus far. She had done her best to move each of her limbs, focusing her whole attention on one at a time, but they had not responded despite her best efforts.

She had not been put away since the first time, and was uncertain whether her newfound consciousness was dependent on being out from her wrappings. The idea that she could be put away and never taken out, never regain awareness terrified her. Perhaps the human’s role in suppressing her awareness with the burial garb contributed to her resentment for them. And though she rightfully accepted the sacrifice of her people, she disliked that the humans were the ones offering it. That the humans were the ones benefiting from her luck, from her people’s sacrifice, from their life-blood, was abhorrent to her.

She was trapped. Both in terms of mobility and function. She had no way of protesting her use by the humans. The claustrophobia of her situation was insufferable.

The day she finally blinked was unexceptional. The humans had completed their rituals earlier in the day. They didn’t seem to keep a fixed schedule for her worship, but would come in periodically to extract luck from her body in their tediously long ritual, followed later by her cleansing and re-anointment with the cochineal ink. She had resigned herself to inanimacy for the time being, instead, entering a meditative state where her mind was quieted, just existing, accepting her inertia. Accepting herself as she was. Accepting her fear of the dark as something out of her control, something she couldn’t change.

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It had been a difficult thing to accept.

To cope she had instead begun to reach out with her consciousness, attempting to explore her environment in the only way available to her, mentally encountering a mass of cochineal just outside her temple, beyond her sight line. They were thriving, unlike the ones that called to her during her ritual painting. Existing on their cacti, in the sun, absorbing the cacti moisture and feasting on its nutrients. They pulsed in her mind, an interconnected awareness, a mind made up of many. And they were so many. Synced in such perfect harmony. Her people were so beautiful. Crystal tears gathered in her stone eyes, and her golden eyelashes fluttered, blinking them away, soft plink plink plinks as they hit the floor beneath her. She gasped, taking her first ever breath, an involuntary, startled reaction.

She consciously, curiously, went to raise her hand and wipe away her tears, but her movement was halted once more. Frustrating. She paused, doing her best to calm her rising ire. What had she been doing that allowed her to move? She had been meditating, right. Reaching out her consciousness to the cochineal. Which was it that had freed her? Perhaps both? Or was it her emotional state, her awe at the beauty of their pulsing hive mind? Too many variables, she thought, disgruntled. But she had plenty of time to try each of their various combinations.

A meditative state turned out to be the key. She was relieved by the revelation. Her people held great importance to her, but constantly maintaining her awe at their synchronicity would have been tiresome. She had experimented with various types of meditation, and while most were effective, the one that suited her best was the one where she focused on her senses. She raised her hand, focusing on the texture of her fingers rather than on the movement of her limb, each whirl and dip in the finger print, her awareness of the motion in the back of her mind. She turned the palm up towards the ceiling, cupping it. Success. She thought with a determined sort of satisfaction. She was free! Free to explore the world around her. Free from the bonds of insentience. She could leave the humans and their bondage of burial wrappings behind. She would not be trapped in the darkness again.