Let us speak of Dumandus of the Clear Morning. A Coribaldi, gray-skinned and taller than most other humanoid sapients in the galaxy. His ship, the Memnis, was a mercantile cargo carrier, composed of two bulbous metal structures connected by a single bridge – the Memnis often took on dangerous or contraband cargo, and the more he could keep that separated from the actual living spaces of his crew, the better.
The Coribaldi looked through the viewscreen next to his captain's chair as the Memnis exited warp. Impellia III rushed in before them, all dour and brown and with a few glowing forests. Hardly livable – much of the ground looked hard, and he doubted the trees bore edible fruit. And yet this was where good ol' Vyde had sent him.
“Alright,” Dumandus said, “Scribbins, make a scan of the planet. Let's see what's below.”
“Right,” Scribbins pressed a few keys on his console. The read-outs started coming up on the viewscreen.
Ah, yes. Vyde had said the Federation would be here. Pagan Chorus, specifically. Legally a guild, but everyone knew it was the Prime Voice's personal militia. The fact that they were out here meant...
Metahumans. Three metahuman lifesigns below, mixed with the various sapients from across the Silver Eye and beyond. A Traveling Point, then. Unless they were extremely unlucky, many metahumans preferred to stay out in the multiverse.
A series of clicks. Auntie Eternity, his onboard AI's, crisp voice came online.
“My Good Sir,” she said, “We're receiving a hail from below.”
“Put it on the main screen, Auntie,” Dumandus said.
Then, suppressing an eyeroll:
“Please.”
He felt a shift in his implant, a ghost of a smile, or as much of a smile as an AI could make.
The image came online. Three metahumans, amidst a group of Pagan Chorus soldiers. The one leading them was a young man in a blue jacket. He nodded at Dumandus.
“This is Cobalt Joe of the Amber Foundation,” he said, “You're Dumandus of the Clear Morning?”
“The one and only,” Dumandus said, “Vyde's told me about you.”
“Has she?” Joe said, and he looked a hair surprised at that, “Well, that's fine.”
“She said you have a metahuman situation, right?” Dumandus said, “Some folks needed to be moved off-world.”
One of the metahumans beside Joe, a woman with almost-glowing green eyes, tilted her head.
“How much... how much did the magician Wakeling tell you?” she asked.
“Ahh,” Dumandus rubbed the back of his bald head, “That metahumans were in danger. That she was calling in a favor from a few years back. That we were to take any of you away from this planet, to a place the Federation couldn't find them.”
He shrugged.
“Looks like they already found you.”
The woman looked at Joe, who sighed.
“How many people can your ship hold?” he asked.
“Quite a few,” Dumandus said, “The Memnis is an old worldship, used to settle colonies in the Outer Reach.”
“How does twenty thousand metahumans, give or take, sound to you?” Joe asked.
Dumandus opened his mouth to reply.
Then the full weight of what the guildfolk said hit him.
He closed his mouth.
Opened it again.
Closed it.
Stood up. Paced the room for a second. Then took out a cigarette, lit it, took a drag.
When he returned in view of the screen, he was shaking his head. Joe smirked.
“You owed one hell of a favor, didn't you?” he said.
“The biggest,” Dumandus said, “You ever been married before?”
Joe shook his head.
“Don't,” Dumandus said, “It'll save you a world of trouble.”
He shook his head again.
“Alright,” he said, “I'll start arranging for transports to come down. Federation won't be any trouble?”
“They won't,” Joe said.
“They'll be coming through a Traveling Point?”
“They will,” Joe said.
Dumandus nodded. His mind raced as he worked out the logistics. Auntie Eternity was helping him with this, pumping numbers and calculations into his head. It would take at least a week to get everyone onboard...
“Better start getting them out here,” he said.
“Will do,” Joe said, “We'll keep in touch.”
The line cut out. Dumandus had a blank look on his face, as he exchanged glances with his crew. Then, he took another drag of his cigarette as he slumped into his chair.
“Twenty thousand metahumans,” he said, “My god!”
***
Melitta and Aldreia watched, from one of the last metahuman caverns within Father Mountain, as metahumans started going through the Traveling Point.
Thousands and thousands of metahumans. Back through the Traveling Point they would go. At least Kathen Aru had agreed to step aside. It would not be the Federation that would be taking them away. The Memnis would be delivering them to Karatropolis, a planet in the galactic south of the Outer Reach. A major Traveling Point network. There, they would be allowed to enter through the Traveling Points and scatter.
A diaspora once more, but at least they would not be forced into prison camps.
“We're going to be leaving with them,” Melitta said, “My family. My... father.”
She swallowed. She had been crying, Aldreia realized. Her eyes were bloodshot, and though she smiled at her, there was a way it did not quite reach her eyes. It reminded Aldreia of Rosemary, that hiding behind mirth and good cheer.
“Where will you go?” Aldreia asked.
“Oh, we'll stay out in a safehouse, I'm sure,” Melitta said, “Father sold our old home to finance our trip here, you see. We'll lay low for a little while, consider what assets we still have. Snapdragon's going to take over the family business.”
She shuddered a sigh.
“It'll be bad, but we'll be okay,” she said, “We have somewhere safe, at least.”
“Yes,” Aldreia said, “You do.”
They lapsed into an awkward silence.
“What... what about you?” Melitta asked.
“Oh, it's back to the guildhall for me,” Aldreia said, “We've talked about it. One of our ships is on its way here to pick us up, take us back to Londoa.”
“Oh,” Melitta said, “I see.”
She swallowed.
In the distance, they spotted Jaskaios and Snapdragon helping Dodeca with a few crates of supplies. Two of Melitta's keratin soldiers followed behind them.
“Well, I should go,” Melitta said, “I'll, ah...”
She struggled, trying to choose her words.
“Well, seeya,” she decided.
A quick wave, devoid of any closeness the two had shared.
And she ran off.
Aldreia watched her go, her rainbow hair dancing and bobbing as she ran.
It had only been a night, she told herself.
(A night, and an eternity.)
She bit back a stammer in her lips. Tears that threatened to come loose.
“Dammit,” she said.
***
Professor Morandus joined Sky Clan as they traveled east, to the thick forests that had once been their home, that would be their home once again. They settled by a lake, pitching tents and lighting campfires. A few of them had come here earlier, and started erecting longhouses for families to live in once more. One of the metahumans, Stepping Stone, had begun carving out canoes to dip into the waters, guided by a few elder Oshya:de. He was helping the Oshya:de cast it into the water, watching it float on the lake's still surface.
“We let him join us,” Wá:ri said to Evancar, “He volunteered to use his abilities, to help us remain in contact with the other clans as we rebuild.”
“I see,” Evancar said, “And the Settled Peace?”
“Part of it’s been made,” Wá:ri replied, “The greater pieces of it. But the individual treaties still have to be sewed together. I’ve already started gathering beads and shells. Hopefully, it will be a reason for a festival.”
She smiled.
“I never was one for those. But perhaps I'll like this one. After all, I am Clan Mother, what is there to be afraid of?”
And she laughed. Nervously, but a laugh nonetheless.
Evancar grinned at that.
“I'm glad,” he said, “This place, it's beautiful.”
“It was where I grew up,” Wá:ri said, and she pointed, “There. My sisters and I used to play at the shore, over there. Picking through the muck and reeds for frogs and minnows. There's an old tree near the shoreline that we used to climb.”
She looked around, and her smile fell.
“Longhouses, as far as you could see. This lake was Sky Clan's home. A reflection of our namesake. It will be once again.”
There was a sureness to her voice that had not been there before.
She looked at Evancar.
“You could stay, Professor,” she said, “Like Stepping Stone.”
“Oh, I couldn't,” Evancar said, and he ran a hand through his curly hair, “I've too much research. Too much out there.”
“Oh,” she said, “I will miss our talks.”
“As will I, Clan Mother,” Evancar said.
He sighed.
Watched the canoe on the water. Stepping Stone was calling out to it, laughing with a few of the Sky Clan as the canoe capsized, sending its hapless occupant into the lake.
For a moment, Evancar imagined himself here. Living with the Oshya:de. Learning from them. Using what knowledge he had gained in the multiverse to help them rebuild. Building up a sweat as he built new homes. Telling stories before a fire. Cherishing each and every one of his books, before Ganá:yeht lapsed out of forecast with the rest of the multiverse.
It filled his heart with a sort of yearning he felt but rarely.
But the demon was still in his eyes.
Izmanuzu still lurked, seeing all that he could.
And Evancar knew, he could never stay here, not while the demon and his pact still dwelled within him.
“As will I.”
***
“Where will you be going?” Tallneck asked Meloche.
The philosopher shrugged.
“Nowhere important,” he said, “Just not here.”
He was holding a few sacks in hand, a large backpack slung over a shoulder. Tallneck was accompanying him as he plodded along with a line of metahumans, one that started from the base of Father Mountain and up to the Traveling Point. Oshya:de, as well as metahumans who had chosen to stay, watched from the forest lines.
“Too many memories?” Tallneck asked.
“I feel... uncomfortable, here,” Meloche said, “What we have here is good. The fact that the Oshya:de are allowing many of us to stay is a miracle. But...”
He watched the crowd moving.
“More than half of New Ludaya is leaving,” he said, “To find that greener pasture. A place where they can lay down their roots, and not know that the land they live on was home to bloodshed against a people who had done them no wrong.”
Tallneck looked squeamish at this.
“Perhaps I will return to my home plane, for a while,” Meloche said, “Although, I hear that the protests on Kelstonda are hitting a fever point. Elections within the Marlish Empire, and Federation-backed parties look to be about to control parliament. I could fight there.”
He turned to consider Tallneck.
“I suppose I always fight, in the end.”
“That's what we do,” Tallneck said, with little humor, “Fight.”
“Ten thousand metahumans won't be,” Meloche said, “Not in the same way. Here, at least you'll be able to teach new generations. Tell them what happened here, so it will not again.”
He heaved a sigh.
“Ten thousand, but millions of us are out there,” he said, “Still under the High Federation's thumb.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Tallneck nodded at this.
And the two noticed a figure join them.
“Perhaps,” Fractal said, “You may want to consider our proposition, then.”
…
…
She was with Uni and Wavemaker. The three young metahumans had packed bags, Meloche noted. One of them looked familiar...
“A bag of holding,” he said, “Bigger on the inside.”
Uni nodded. She was dressed, Meloche noted, in light combat gear. As was Wavemaker. Fractal was wearing her sari, her own military uniform. A promise of what had been stolen from her.
She stepped forward, pulled open the bag, gestured for the philosopher to look down into it.
Weapons.
Plasma rifles and plasma pistols and even a stolen rocket launcher. Grenades. A pair of pilfered rayswords. A plasma whip, even, like Kathen Aru's, ready to be worn as a bracelet and unleash three-cracked hell upon the enemy.
“And where will you be taking these?” Meloche asked.
Fractal smirked.
“We're staying on Karatropolis,” she said, “For a while, at least. We're going to give the Federation hell.”
“A return to rebellion,” Meloche said.
“We never left,” Fractal said, “Even when we were here, we were always preparing for the High Federation to come here. And they did. And now,”
She gestured to the forest. To where, in the forest's center, where once had been the Site of Settled Peace, was now a smoldering ruin of ash and glass. A miniature scale of the glassed plane, the Federation's greatest legacy.
“And now we have to live with what they have done,” Fractal said, “If the negotiations had gone south, we would still be fighting here.”
Meloche nodded.
“And now,” he said, “You intend to take the fight to them.”
“Yes,” Fractal said, “We should never have come to New... To Ganá:yeht. But the Federation is still out there, still repeating the same story as what nearly happened here.”
She fixed Meloche with a ferocious look.
“It is time we stopped them.”
“Not an easy task,” Meloche said, “Many greater than us have tried. Entire metahuman kingdoms, and the Federation emerged triumphant.”
Fractal's smirk turned into a grimace.
“We have to try,” she said.
Meloche, if he could, would have smiled.
“Good,” he said, “That is the correct answer. I will join you.”
He picked up the bag of holding, tucked it into his own pack.
“To Karatropolis.”
***
They put Pauldros to work.
He was the one who was healing Father Mountain's wounds. Those rooms that the Stonemaker had rent into the inside of the mountain, the living spaces, the Council chamber, the storage rooms where the New Ludayans had stored their weapons. The granaries had been distributed to the rest of the plane, the supernatural harvests given out to the Oshya:de and the metahumans who remained. There would still be granaries, for the hard winter season that was quickly approaching, but never again would Father Mountain be used like this.
He would be sacred once more.
Pauldros churned rock up from deep beneath the plane to repair the damage. Members of Mountain Clan were his eyes, pointing out specific areas he had missed, going through the tunnels and caverns that had been carved out and noting where he would fill the place in.
He would travel, from place to place on Ganá:yeht, to do much the same. To break down what he had built in the sacred spaces.
He did all of this in silence. At times, he and the Pit would be allowed to visit the other. The Pit was busy dismissing her many pacts. When Pauldros felt for her, he noted her stomach was becoming smaller and smaller. It had taken her years to get so many demons to agree to her terms.
And now she was reneging on them.
Undergoing Betleh-Kep, multiple times a day.
And yet...
She found was getting happier.
She could tell time again.
She could feel her fingers once more.
She no longer felt pain in her back.
Everything the pacts, the demons, had taken from her, she was slowly regaining. She thought she never would again, even on New Ludaya. For New Ludaya had been built for war, but Ganá:yeht was a place of hard-earned peace.
It was when Pauldros and the Pit were alone together, one night, that she broke down over this. Heavy, heaving sobs, the only witnesses being her lover and the moon high above. He held her close, looked down at her with his sightless eyes.
“It is alright, my love,” he said, “It's alright.”
“I can think again,” she said, “I can feel again. Oh, Pauldros, it was all so easy.”
“I know,” the Stonemaker said, and his voice was heavy with guilt, “I know.”
Perhaps it was not the justice that many looked for, with them. There were talks of execution. Of confinement, for even now the Stonemaker was still a dangerous metahuman. But that would come later. There was still trial to be had, still sins to be atoned for.
But it started with rebuilding, and setting right the land.
Perhaps that would be enough.
***
“It's not a nation,” Cobalt Joe said.
“No, Joe, it's not,” Becenti replied.
They were sitting down near Amoeboy's barn. Dandelion clan, like Sky and the others, had started building their longhouses once more. They had situated them near the barn, new additions to the older metahuman's commune. They heard Clan Mother Otstoch's voice, loud and commanding, as she directed people around. Workers carried in the giant dandelions to help with the longhouses' skeletons, pruning them of the puffy white seeds, letting them scatter out on the wind. High above, a few Oshya:de were landing with Flying Carpet, sheaths of wood in hand for the walls.
“Maybe it's for the best,” Joe said.
“Perhaps,” Becenti said.
There was a way he said it that made Joe turn to him. Becenti smiled over at his young guildmate. The older man had not slept well since Luminary's death. He looked thinner. Older. Gray and wasted by the world.
“Nation, to me, is not simple statehood,” Becenti said, “It is... was, I suppose, a dream. The idea that we would have a place where we would be safe.”
“Seems like you have that, here,” Joe said, gesturing.
“In some ways,” Becenti said, “But this is not a plane where metahumanity can come together. Not in the... way I was imagining.”
He lowered his head.
“Perhaps I'm just being selfish,” he said, “Perhaps I'm just looking at the world through a lens of black and white.”
“When all the world is, is gray,” Joe finished.
“Yes,” Becenti said, “Gray...”
He went quiet, and Joseph knew that Becenti was thinking about Luminary again. He had been the one to kill her, he had found out. The one to end her rule over the plane.
For rule it had been. The Warriors and the Rulers and the Workers. That had been her idea.
He put a hand on his mentor's shoulder.
“At least here, people can be safe,” he said, “They don't have to fear the Federation anymore.”
“For now,” Becenti said, “I shudder to think-”
“That's enough,” Joe said, “Enough with the attitude, for today. Come on, man, look.”
He pointed. At the longhouses. The Oshya:de and metahumans, together.
“The sky's blue. The day is long. And people are safe,” Joe said, “Shouldn't that be enough?”
Becenti sighed.
Smiled.
And had to agree.
(Or, at least, pretended to.)
***
Guyasuta and Hadawa'ko ventured north. A trip to the tundra. For the former Warleader, now Chief, of the Oshya:de, it was a bitter time. He saw the path that he had walked, just a few weeks ago, to go to the Sovereign Melody, and barter his people's souls. How funny it was, that a scarce few weeks could change his world. His outlook. The way he looked at the multiverse and its people.
But he did not voice these thoughts. For he had come with Guyasuta to support him, as the last of Four Banner trekked to his old home to pay final respects.
The place where Four Banner had once lived was gone. The two Oshya:de crested over a hill to find nothing but the same rolling tundra. The same grass. The same snow, the same cold, the same mountains looming in the distance.
Hadawa'ko remembered seeing the longhouses of Four Banner here. The people in their masks, painted and carved with hundreds of different patterns and stripes and meanings. The namesake banners, painted from red ochre on animal hides, fluttering on longhouses, to denote which Banner one belonged to, what role they would take in the community.
Guyasuta merely looked out, where once had been an entire clan.
He went down the hill, stopping about halfway down, and merely sat, his arms crossing over his knees. He looked much like the boy that he was, not the wiry warrior he had tried to be. He hadn't even participated in the final battle. Not in Father Mountain, not fighting Pagan Chorus in the forests.
Hadawa'ko had forbidden it.
Lest the last become none at all.
He sat down with Guyasuta. The boy was trembling, and not from the cold.
Hadawa'ko rested a hand on his shoulder. For support.
They did not say anything.
They did not need to.
They merely sat. And remembered.
***
Rhunea found Becenti in one of the campfires near the base of Father Mountain. He was alone tonight, most of his guildmates having gone up north to help set up the new longhouses with the natives of the plane. The metahuman had taken off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, his white dress shirt matted with dirt and sweat after a day of hard work. He looked up at her as she approached.
She saw a dark sort of betrayal in his eyes.
“Becenti,” she said, “It's...”
She faltered.
What was there to say?
There was nothing.
She knew what she had done. What she had supported. That night played, on repeat, in her head. The elimination of metahumans, of Myron's people.
Others who may have recognized her glared at her. But the treaty still stood. The agreements, and the peace, stood on a razor's edge. If the balance were tipped, it would mean the return of hostilities, and the glassing of the plane.
So all she received were angry looks, including from Becenti.
Who opened his mouth.
“Four hundred and seventy-three,” he said.
She tilted her head.
“Sorry?”
“That is how many metahumans were killed during the battles here. Three hundred alone from when you came onto this plane. Many of them were families. Hundreds more were injured.”
She felt a lump form in her throat.
“That's an estimate,” Becenti said, “Some metahumans, we haven't even found. Same with the Oshya:de. They number two hundred and five.”
She brought a hand to her snout, covering it and looking away. Tears started brimming in her eyes.
“I thought you said,” Becenti's voice was flat. Low. Even. But she could feel the menace all the same, “You joined the Federation so things like this wouldn't happen again. So you could change them from the inside.”
He shook his head.
“Thirty years, Rhunea,” he said, “Thirty years, and the same things happen.”
She didn't answer.
She couldn’t answer.
She simply left. Back into the trees, and her old friend's gaze followed her all the way back to Pagan Chorus.
***
“Joe,” Nasir said, “It's him.”
The tracker pointed out Kathen Aru to Joseph, standing out in the field. The guildmates had been helping build one of the longhouses, a sheath of bark in Joe's hands, the eagle fully realized and carrying a dandelion trunk in its claws.
He set it down, the soul dispelling as he picked through the long grass towards the member of Pagan Chorus. Kathen Aru was dressed back in his military uniform, a long sheath of gray with the symbol of the High Federation on his chest. His AI, Merry Curiosity, sat on his shoulder.
The two men regarded each other for a few moments. Nasir watched the two for a time, before he returned to his work, bringing his sheath of wood over to a longhouse, helping a pair of Dandelion Clan brace it up against the building as a wall.
“The Twelve-Thousandth Blessing-Upon-Blessings warped in this morning,” Kathen Aru said, “I've explained the situation to them. Let them know that the Memnis is to leave the system unharmed.”
“Good,” Joe said, “You're a man of your word.”
“I am,” Kathen said, “I meant what I said. No more killing. Not here, anyways.”
He looked out. The wind picked up, blowing his long hair back, revealing his haunted face, the deep rings beneath his eyes. He looked almost skeletal, without the lion's mane to conceal him. Naked without his crown.
“It's a beautiful plane,” he said, “I'm sorry that things escalated as they did. That hotter heads took over.”
“Yeah,” Joe said, “You almost ruined it for everyone, didn't you?”
There was a spark of heat in his voice. Kathen gave him a sidelong glance, but then shrugged it off.
Joe had a point.
“There are talks of reparations,” he said, “For... the forest. The attempted glassing. The deaths. But for the most part, it seems like the Oshya:de just want to be left alone.”
“They were dragged into all of this,” Joe said, “I gotta say, I sympathize with them.”
“Mm,” Kathen said, “Same.”
They were quiet for a while.
“Whatever happened to the Dyriptium of Karn?” Joe asked, “You ever do anything with it?”
Kathen grimaced.
“I... I did,” he said, “Studied the book for a long time. Researched it. But...”
(Voices whispered in his head.)
“Things got busy for me,” he said, “I haven't had a chance to go out to the Frauds-Echten Squall.”
There was a lot unsaid in that. He swallowed, and looked like he didn't want to speak of it anymore.
“Right,” Joe said.
“And you?” Kathen asked, “You fought hard for it, back then. There's something different about you now.”
He looked the metahuman up and down.
“You're angry, but in a different way,” he said.
Joe chuckled darkly.
“I figured some things out,” he said, “That's all.”
“Mm,” Kathen said, “So it goes.”
“So it goes,” Joe said, “How long are your people going to stay here?”
“Not much longer, I think,” Kathen said, “No doubt that someone in the fleet will try and track where the Memnis will go.”
“According to my contacts,” Merry said, interrupting him, “The other AI, there's already been three attempts, from different ships.”
“Gods,” Kathen said, and he pulled a face, “I tell them not to try anything funny, and look at what they do.”
“When the king rests, the servants misbehave,” Merry chuckled.
And at this, Kathen's face took on a sudden anger. Shadows cloaked much of his face as he glared out at the world with a mixture of resentment and defiance.
“Not a king,” he said, “Just... I hear people. And I understand.”
He nodded to Joe, and took his leave.
Joseph watched him go, moving through the grass, before he turned and continued his work.
***
Let us speak of Gallimena.
The work that she had been assigned for the rebuilding was the harshest of all. Hers was to go out into the plasma-blasted wasteland, the corpse of the Sovereign Melody, and scavenge it for materials. For potential technology. For survivors, if it came to that, for many people were still coming out of the forest, having been lost in the weeks following the Sovereign Melody's destruction. Her metahuman power made her perfect for this role, and she was a white blur among the trees and ash.
She thought, at times, as she looked around, at the hull of the warbird that rose as a mountain of metal, how her life had gotten to this point. She had gotten off easy, she knew. Not like Mister Meaning, who had been beaten upon his capture by the Oshya:de. She had known about the initial scourging.
The...
The genocide.
And yet the Oshya:de's punishment for her, when her duty here was done, was simple. She was to leave. A ship had been procured for her, separate from the Memnis, a final favor by the Dorucanthos family. She would disappear.
It did not feel right.
Now, as she ran, without Mister Meaning's snide voice to mock her, to guilt her into continuing Luminary's work, she could process the guilt. The shame. Like Memoire.
She took all of this in silence. She had always been a quiet girl.
Perhaps she would find some uncharted plane. A planet. Somewhere she could live in nature as a raptor, her metahuman form discarded forever. There, she would be an animal.
For an animal killed for survival, and not out of malice.
***
And what of Memoire?
What of the old Seat of Ritual and History?
She was exiled. No work. No reparation. Simple dismissal.
They allowed her to live in a small home in the mountains. Aima Dorucanthos visited her there. It was a quaint little place, a cottage built by Pauldros the Stonemaker and a few other building metahumans.
The young Dorucanthos girl looked around. The place was bare. A table. A bed. A firepit, for the winters in the eastern parts of Ganá:yeht were bitter and cold. Food would be provided, for Flying Carpet was staying and would be able to ferry supplies to the metahuman.
For, guilty as she was, liable as she was, she still carried the memories of a people within her. She would be honored, not for her person, but for her power.
Her power, and nothing else.
Memoire was sitting on her bed. She looked up at Aima's approach.
“Ah,” she said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” Aima said.
She scratched her arm awkwardly. The wind outside howled.
“I've come to say goodbye,” Aima said, “We're leaving. In the morning.”
“And so our nation ends,” Memoire said, “With our people in twain once more.”
She said this without emotion. No hate. No anger. But no relief, either. A simple statement of fact, for that was all she was, now.
“Will you... be alright?” Aima asked.
“No,” Memoire replied, “I'm... I will never be alright.”
She looked down, and the symbols floating on her skin slowed down in mourning.
“I have become that which I feared and hated,” she said, “And there is no coming back from it. There is only atonement. Only justice.”
She let out a dry chuckle.
“It's funny,” she said, “When I was young, I thought I would be on the other side of this. The one delivering justice. The one liberating us.”
“The Oshya:de aren't being fair,” Aima said, “They're-”
And at this, Memoire looked up at her. There was something in her eyes that made the young Dorucanthos stammer.
“They're... they're... you felt bad,” she said, “You feel guilty.”
“Is that enough?” Memoire asked, “Tell me, Aima Dorucanthos, is feeling guilt enough to be forgiven?”
Aima sighed. Leaned against the table.
“No,” she said, “I guess it isn't.”
“Guilt is the first step,” Memoire said, “Shame should be the catalyst, not the redemption alone. It is what you do with that guilt, that matters.”
She gestured.
“This is my atonement. A life, alone. The others will come to me so I may record their lives. But they won't speak to me. I will have use. I will be used. And that will be all.”
She sighed.
“Perhaps, in time...”
But then she shook her head. And looked back up to Aima.
“I bid you farewell, Aima. I wish you luck. The multiverse is a harsh place. And it is getting harsher. Be quick. Be smart. And above all, survive.”
Aima nodded.
Then ran over, and hugged Memoire.
And the former Seat of Ritual walked her out the door. Bade her goodbye, watched as the young Dorucanthos walked down the mountain path, onto Flying Carpet, who swallowed her up and launched into the sky. She watched the hope for the future disappear into the distance, a speck on the horizon, leave the past and its shame behind.