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Faulke: Art paves the way for history. The cave paintings of Rasa are the earliest records we have—

Boise: The ones in Delve predate them.

Faulke: Yes, well, either way, writing came much later, but the spirit did not change. Our ancestors did not record history for us to look back on. They did so to reach into the future.

Boise: Which is of no interest to us historians, living in the present. Our duty is to focus on the facts, to preserve the now for those who come after.

Faulke: I don’t disagree, but precision is not all that matters—

Boise: It is! What use is biased history? History is not art, Faulke.

Faulke: How people want to present their era is just as important as the facts of what happened.

Boise: Their bias, you mean.

Faulke: Their hope. The Rasa paintings are not photographs; they are not perfect representations of the ark. But their imperfections tell us more. Their careful, deep strokes could only have come from deep respect and awe for the ship. They must have painted it as they did in hopes it would come again, just as majestic as they imagined it.

Boise: I’ll allow that, but cavemen were hardly concerned with keeping a careful record of their times. The scribes that came after should have known better.

Faulke: Not really. Again, how scribes wanted to present the facts has value in and of itself.

Boise: History is a camera, Faulke. You need a clear lens to see. One that only lets in red light, for example, will not reveal the blue.

Faulke: But if you stack a red lens and a blue lens, both colours become visible. Stack enough, and you see the full picture.

Boise: I don’t think you understand the analogy. Have you used a camera before?

Faulke: No, never.

Boise: Neither have I, to be honest.

- from “The 3rd Historical Symposium” at Académie Scientifique de l'œil de Gradial”

ALICE

It took no time at all to locate your cottage using Mobius’s cached satellite data. It was closer than expected, sitting east of the city and about five kilometres north of the cave. It made sense that both were within walking distance of the city—you did show up here on foot, after all.

We waited a day for the snow to clear up, and it did. The children in the city were likely making snow angels that would last a few hours undisturbed. I strapped a makeshift knapsack across my back and tightened my robe before fastening my cloak around my shoulders. “Ready to leave?” I asked.

“I’m ready. Are you sure it’ll be safe?”

“It should be. It’s still cold—I doubt anyone will be roaming about.”

We set off, exiting the cave and trudging through the snow. Navigating the thick forest was a struggle. Whenever the clouds broke, I would look up and note the position of the Sun, using it to ensure we were on track. Still, there were moments when Oracle had to steer me using his built-in compass data which I hated relying on.

Two hours later, a faint dot crested the horizon. “Is that it?” I asked, squinting.

“Yes! Yes, it’s still there, still in one piece. Thank God.”

“I did nothing,” I said, unable to resist, but you were too excited to retort. We jogged through the snow and soon the cottage came into full view. It was a small hut, though sturdy enough to survive the seasons. It had a simple, square layout, its walls made of bamboo and straw, its roof sloped and thatched without a ceiling beneath. You gingerly pushed the door open—it yielded, unlocked.

The furniture inside was crude, made of wood and stone. You tended to each one, your touch gentle, as though each were a sick animal. Dust sprung into the air as we moved about, forming a slight haze. There were two windows—the east-facing one let the sunlight in, forming thick rays in the dust, bathing the room in a gentle glow.

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On one table lay sheets of parchment. I stepped closer and picked one up. A painting? It depicted a large, black creature in the air—the winged beast, I realised. I held it up against the window, the rays of light shining through and illuminating the sky around the creature. So this is how Mobius looks to her.

“Give me that!” You snatched the parchment out of my hands and fussed over it, checking for damage. I noticed some of your paintings had crumbled from age.

“Sorry. Did I ruin it?”

“No… no, it’s fine. This is one of the later ones I drew.”

“I didn’t know you could paint.”

“I’m not very good. I realised that after seeing Mobius up close. It’s so different from how I imagined it.”

“It’s a beautiful painting.”

You looked up at me. “Don’t mock me. It looks like an obese bird here.”

Oracle floated past my head, curious—and baulked immediately, dropping half a metre before regaining altitude. He said nothing, but his sigil blinked and pulsed rapidly. “You don’t have to transmit everything back to Mobius,” I said, sighing.

“What? He can do that?” Your eyes widened, mortified. “Stop! I’m sorry. I’ll do it over—”

“It’s fine. It’s a nice painting. It’s interesting how so many perceive Mobius as a bird: a winged beast. To me, it has always been a ship. I knew what Mobius looked like before I ever saw my first bird, after all.”

“It’s hard not to see it as anything else,” you said, placing the painting face down on the table. “Its wings are huge. They even extend, like a gliding bird, and retract, like a falcon diving for prey.”

“The sweep wings? I suppose they do. The ship is more agile with them extended, but they would tear off at high speeds.”

You continued to search your cottage. Finally, you pulled out a blade wrapped in jute and placed it on the bed. After a deep breath, you unwrapped it, careful of its sharp edge beneath the jute. What emerged was not shiny metal like Mobius, but flat, grey iron. I recognised it immediately: the blade I gifted to the first seed. “That’s your sword, no?” I asked.

“Yes. It was built to last—you were the one who made it, after all. It retains its edge even after so many years.”

“Oracle helped with that. We have precision equipment onboard Mobius. Still, I’m surprised iron could last so long.”

You stood and lifted the sword with one hand, the muscles in your arm drawn taut. It fit you like a third limb. You twirled and waved it, testing its weight, your feet naturally taking stance. It cut through the hazy light.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

“The same. It’s a good sword.”

“Have you ever killed anyone with it?”

You paused. “Animals, yes. People, no. I spent most of my time living here alone, so nobody ever showed up to threaten me.”

“I see. I’ll be counting on you to protect us in case any of those polar bears show up.”

“There aren’t any here!” You slashed the air in front of me. I leapt to my feet and stumbled backwards out the door, laughing.

I spent a few hours in the cottage, listening to you talk about the years you spent there. Each and every trinket and piece of furniture had a story to tell. During my time in the city I had seen mothers sit idly, watching their toddlers babble and crawl. They would grow into children, adolescents, and finally adults—many of whom ended up living mundane lives throughout. Still, they watched their children warmly, beaming with pride. Behind them I would watch both mother and child with that very same love, for they as well as the rest of the city had only appeared by my design. And it was with that same love I looked at you as you told me about how you lived alone on the outskirts of the city, my attention hanging on each and every detail.

“Do you want to take those paintings with you?” I asked as we gathered our things to leave. Comfortable as the cottage was, it could not house two, and more importantly, it was far from Mobius.

“Maybe just this one,” you mumbled as you picked up the painting of Mobius.

“Oracle won’t be happy about that.”

“He doesn’t need to see it. I’ll paint a better one.”

“I was just joking. I’ll stick it on a wall somewhere. That would be nice.”

You looked at me, saying nothing, but I could tell you were pleased. I should stop belittling her. She looks so happy.

“I really like it, despite what I said. It’s mythical, in a way. I love the way you portrayed Mobius.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, blushing. It’s more fun this way. I didn’t think genuinely complimenting someone could feel so good.

“I paint too, by the way.”

“You do?” Your head whipped towards me.

“I’ll show you when we get back.”

We trudged through the snow back towards the cave, the forest illuminated by the setting sun, each step lighter than the last.