Randomness

Unclear what this says about me or you

(with orzo and bok choy poached in the same butter as the fish)

I AM SCREAMING. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. OMG YOU MADE FOOD I WROTE.

I woke up feeling groggy and disoriented, because that’s what happens when you’ve been at work until 2 AM, got home after three, and then some asshole wakes you up at DAWN. I sat up - on a bit of a tilt, I admit - and tried to glare.

The androgynous person with the wild curls, brilliant smile, and faint glow around them didn’t seem to care. “Hail, Jenna! I congratulate thee on thy elevation to godhood!”

I stared at them for a second, then managed a semi-comprehensible mumble. “Wha?”

“Thou art a newly ascended goddess, and I am sent to bid thee congratulations and well-wishing!” The smile got even brighter. Whoever… whatever… this person was, they were abso-fucking-lutely delighted about this wonderful news. “I must away, for I am a busy messenger, but we twain shall meet again!”

And then the bright figure was gone and I was left sitting there, still half asleep and fully bewildered. After a second, I tried speaking again. “… goddess of WHAT?”

There was no answer.

I lay back and tried to convince myself it was all just a dream, but… it wasn’t. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, but not this time. Some glowing, jolly … being… had woken me up at the asscrack of dawn, told me I was a goddess, and then left.

I mean… what the fuck?

I would have decided that it was a hallucination, I think, except that as I lay there, I realised slowly that even though I’d been asleep for maybe a couple of hours, I wasn’t tired. I really, genuinely wasn’t tired. It’s been so long since I wasn’t tired that it took me a while to even identify what was going on. And nothing hurt. Not my back, my shoulders, my knees, my hands… nothing.

I got out of bed and looked down at myself. I still looked the same, as far as I could tell. Medium build with a bit of middle-aged sag, scars on my hands from decades of kitchen work, the pallor of someone who spends all their time working nights, and the same ratty nightshirt I’d gone to sleep in. I went over to the mirror to check my face, and that was the same too. Lined, pale, with sharp eyes and a thin mouth, framed in slightly greyed brown hair. Ordinary. Not the face of a goddess.

But I wasn’t tired. Nothing hurt. In fact… I felt great.

Figuring I might as well ride the weird rush while I had it, I went to make myself an early breakfast… and a proper breakfast, too, with scrambled eggs and bacon as well as toast and coffee. I sat down to eat at my battered old kitchen table, and tried to think.

Obviously I wasn’t, like, capital G God, or anything. That would have presumably involved more fanfare than a single cryptic messenger. And they’d said ‘a’ goddess, not ‘the’ anything. And they’d used my name, so I wasn’t newly appointed as one of the gods anyone had heard of.

So… goddess of… something, I guess? One of those minor deities that accrued around stronger pantheons, or in isolated places. Like how little European villages in the middle of forests accumulated forest gods, or island countries picked up gods of seas and streams and stuff. I really hoped that was it. That level of godhood was something I could just about comprehend. Maybe I was the goddess of something really minor, like aglets, or deep-frying. I am really good at getting a balky deep-fryer to behave.

I really hoped that was it. I thought I could just about cope with becoming the goddess of deep-fryers, or pancakes, or something. That seemed like a… a manageable amount of divinity.

It felt strange being awake all day before work, and I did try to nap, but I just wasn’t sleepy. I tried, and ten minutes later I was standing in the kitchen again, mixing a batch of cookie dough. Baking helped - it kept me busy, at least.

It was a relief when I could head to work. I’ve worked six days out of seven at the Blue Plate Diner for the last fifteen years, and been part-owner for the last six. That kitchen was as much my home as my shabby apartment, if not more so.

I went in early, and sent Rio the day cook home. He looked exhausted, and was grateful to have his shift cut a little short, especially since I promised to pay him for the hour regardless. The day waitresses greeted me, though we don’t know each other well - I never work days - and Stanley the sous was there already.

I walked into my kitchen and immediately felt better. This was what I’d wanted, I realized, what my apartment kitchen hadn’t been able to give me. My kitchen, my domain… every inch familiar, every dish known by heart.

And then… I knew. I felt it.

I could feel the heat of a million grills. The bubble of a million fryers. And the prayers… oh, the prayers. A great silent roar of prayers that the orders would be right, that the rush would end, that the pizza wouldn’t burn and the fries would cook quickly. The pleas for endurance, for patience, for enough tips to get by, for a good smiting for a shitty customer.

Oh, I’m definitely going to be doing a lot of smiting when I figure out how.

I am a goddess.

I am the goddess of short-order cooking. And here in my kitchen, in the very seat of my power, I could do anything.

Stanley yelped and jumped back as my eyes snapped open, and I could see them glowing in my reflection on the grimy window. And then I did what every cook, whether they admit it or not, has always wanted to do. I raised my hands and I woke my kitchen up like a goddamn Disney magician.

Utensils flew on their own to their tasks. The fryer bubbled, blorped, and cleaned itself in one swift shudder, hocking out a lump of unknowable black ick into the nearest garbage can. The fridge opened itself so a dozen eggs could float out and over to the right station. I looked the other way, and the walk-in freezer popped open, spitting out two dozen rolls ready to be thawed. Sauces refilled themselves with a glance. A fry basket filled itself and put itself down in the cleanly gleaming oil. Oh, yeah. This is my domain. My temple. Here, my will is all.

Stanley was still staring, open-mouthed, and I grinned at him. “I became a goddess today.” He stared at me, eyes popping, and then he slowly grinned back. “If anyone was gonna be a kitchen goddess, you’re it. No doubt.”

I didn’t just stand there and watch the magic cooking. I’m a cook. I use my hands, always. But now it was like I had a hundred, a thousand more hands. Like I could see every inch of the kitchen, all the time.

And not just mine, either. While I grilled steaks and burgers, made salads and fixed milkshakes, my awareness expanded out further and further. Blocks away, a nervous kid at McDonalds stumbled and tried to catch himself, and I steadied him before his hand went into the deep-fryer. A woman at a food cart, out of napkins, prayed and found a package that hadn’t been there a moment before. An over-worked pizza chef got their second wind and three simple orders in a row. Food didn’t burn, orders didn’t go wrong, soft-serve machines unclogged and coffee-machines purred obediently. I was aware of all of it, doing all of it, and yet I was still fully aware of my own kitchen, my own diner, of every order going out in record time and the food being better than anything than even I’d ever managed before. I didn’t get tired… in fact, the longer I was in my kitchen, the better I felt.

By the end of the night, Stanley was a fervent believer, as were both the waitresses. I couldn’t hear their prayers quite as clearly as those of actual cooks, but counter staff and wait staff seem to come under my protection too, if they’re in one of ‘my’ restaurants. I tested my limits… anything that could be called short-order cooking seemed to be it. Fast-food, diners, and the like, mostly. Food carts that served hot food were mine, but dessert places of all descriptions weren’t. Bakeries and cafes were both off my list, and I could feel - I can’t explain how - that they belonged to different gods. Fine dining restaurants were outside my purview, and most delis, but anywhere with a deep-fryer or a grill lit up in my mind’s eye.

Closing up was a lot easier when the kitchen had become self-cleaning, so Stanley helped out in the front of the diner. Then we headed home. When I got back to the apartment, I wasn’t tired at all… I felt better than I ever have, charged by contact with my temple and my mostly unknowing believers. Turns out that gods - even minor ones - don’t need sleep to recharge, which is certainly a nice perk.

his name is Tiffany. a bold bright name. a stardust name. a girl name. but he is not a girl. he knows this, even if others don’t. his mother puts him in dresses, teaches him how to sew, chastises him when he lets his voice get low.

“my great-aunt’s friend’s sister,” says his mother, with her red lips tight, “once knew these girls that spoke and diamonds came out of their mouths. you know what happened to the nasty one? she got toads. that’s your future if you don’t figure out how to be a nice little girl.”

so he speaks gently. but the whole time he is wondering: who gave them the language of gems. who gave them the language that rolled out of them. it must be magic. and if there is magic, maybe there is hope for him.

he takes off in a dark night. a sad night. one where the fire was too low and he was sick of mirrors. he leaves his mother a note: gone to find where the gems grow. 

in the black woods, he cuts off his hair. wears his father’s clothes. feels, at last, whole. runs and runs and runs until his air comes out in a wheeze. walks for weeks and weeks.

he finds the old woman carrying water. she is ugly, her mouth all twisted angry. but she carries the water alone. 

the boy does not have much. but he has shoulders. a good back. hands that work. when he takes her burden, she says, “thank you, young man.” and he smiles at her, but doesn’t say anything.

her house is damp. she feeds him stew, apologizes. says she used to make lovely foods but the price of milk and eggs got far too high. she says: if you carry my water for five weeks, i will give you something special. and he agrees.

she talks for him. spends a lot of time telling him of people he never met. girls with lips blood red. girls with white fairy dresses. boys who fell in love with swans. 

the boy says little. just nods. sleeps on the floor of her empty barn. when she’s not looking, he darns her clothes for her, keeps the floors swept, fills the lanterns with oil, makes her a blanket for the coming winter. 

on the end of the fifth week, she gives him the beans. tells him that they have been passed down in her family, that this was her portion. she says that she is too old now for such adventures. that she hears the beans will bring treasure. fortune. all the things of greed. she says: i will give them to you, for what you have done to me.

in the morning, he takes off. he feels the weight of them in his pocket. he thinks of the old woman and the stories and the sight of her tired hands. he stands in the market for a long time, unspeaking, simply staring at the cobblestones beneath him.

jack’s voice is the last call in the evening. a beautiful cow, young and thick and healthy. 

the boy has no money. he bounces the magic bean in his pocket, and thinks of treasures. 

“wait,” he says. 

jack turns. 

transaction complete: one cow for a handful of magic beans. the boy walks the cow home to the old woman, gets there in the morning. they are both very tired. he falls asleep beside the beast in the hay. dreams of the foods the old woman can cook now that she can get milk.

when he wakes up, he is changed. it is as if he simply turned into who he was made to be. not a new body. familiar. the body he could always see.

the old woman stands at the door of his barn. she says, “good morning,” and then she says a new word. a word he’s never heard. a name. his name. a boy name. 

he repeats it. it is a jewel in his mouth, so he says it again. another diamond.

“time to fetch water,” she says, winking. the whole way, he whispers his name. it never quite tastes the same, always beautiful, always a fine thing, always his. the something special he was lacking.

“I can’t believe you thought a trail of breadcrumbs would save you. I mean, honestly, this is a forest! It’s full of animals. Honestly, the very idea that a dumb shit like you thought you could get the better of me is absurd.”

Gretel hits her in the face with said chair. To be fair to the witch, she takes the chairshot like a champ.

“Ow!”

“Did you know,” says Gretel, “that crows are capable of facial recognition?”

“Eh?” Says the witch, clambering to her feet and pulling a candy cane sledgehammer off the wall. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Not only that,” Gretel continues, “but they can remember both friends and enemies. And they’ll often follow people they remember as friends.”

The two fence with their sugared weapons for a moment, before the witch knocks the chair out of Gretel’s hands.

“Enough with the bird facts! Honestly, this whole attempted escape has been utter clownshoes. Get in the fucking oven!”

She seizes Gretel by the collar. Gretel immediately sandbags, letting her whole body go limp. This eminently practical defense forces the witch to try and deadlift her. Which is hard, as the witch often skips leg day.

“For example,” Gretel says, as the witch struggles and grunts, “if you feed crows a lot of breadcrumbs, they’ll probably start to see you as a friend and follow you in the hope of more food.”

The witch stops. Outside, she hears the thunder of wings.

“They’ll even bring you shiny things they find as presents!” Says Gretel, as a corner of the gingerbread ceiling is suddenly cut away by a large crow with a knife in its mouth.

“Oh shitballs.” Says the witch, as the crows descend. “I hope you know this is a great unkindness.”

Also, if you didn’t care about the future, didn’t that mean you didn’t care about the stone either? You might as well give it to someone else. Maybe someone better suited than you. There was this little girl across the street who had an acorn necklace and played in puddles and always sat very still until the every last stray cat felt safe enough to eat what she brought them. Maybe the stone should go to her, she at least gave a shit.

You debated arguing or refusing, but your disinterest won out in the end. “Sure,” you answered, holding out a hand for them to plop the stone into. You weren’t scared of it, especially since it looked utterly unremarkable. If you tossed it into a river, no one would be able to tell it apart from the other rocks.

The three wizened elders, apparently the smartest of their magic circle, exchanged grave looks and you waited until they were done with their silent communication and their leader stepped forward.

“We entrust you with the Stone of Possibility, never use it and always hide it,” they said, voice solemn and carrying the sort of undertone that spoke of great importance. You blinked slowly. “Give it to no one, no matter how noble their hearts, how pitiful their tale or how silver their tongue.” You couldn’t help but imagine a genderless person sticking out their tongue dripping with mercury.

“Because…. because we threaten their homeland, my lord?”

“And why do we threaten their homeland?”

“Because Kushiel rules it and she exiled you?”

“Close. Because Kushiel rules it and she must be stopped. But we cannot stop her.”

“I’m… not sure I follow, my liege.”

“I am not surprised. This war started long before you were born, did it not?”

“Yes, my lord, at least a dozen centuries before.”

“And I was at least a dozen centuries old when this war began. We sent our strongest soldiers, our mightiest armies. And Kushiel sent children.”

“Children…? Then… how did we not win?”

“Would you like to fight an army of children? See the light that should have burned a century be snuffed out after barely a decade?”

“Well… not particularly, no.”

“Nor did we, and Kushiel knew this. She gives them no training for she knows the worse off they are the worse it will be for us to face them. This went on for several centuries. She fills her people’s heads with stories, false prophecies about how a child will someday defeat the tyrannical ruler who threatens them. And so, we are helping that prophecy become true.”

“Wait, what?”

“We cannot hope to defeat Kushiel. We do not know her with any intimacy. We cannot predict her movements. All we know is she will keep sending children. So we train them. We send out weakest soldiers, those willing to die knowing their sacrifice will eventually be her undoing. Someday, a hero will come who is able to defeat us. A hero who will slaughter our weakest, then our next weakest, and will continue to do so until even I lay dead at their feet. And then the hero will come here and sit in my throne and peer from my grand window. Sit. Tell me what they will see.”

“It…. It’s a graveyard, sir.”

They probably thought they were being clever though, what with the blaming you for an injury you knew damn well you’d never given keeping one of them out of commission for a few months, then references to what they would ‘leave behind’ or ‘could not follow’ when in the latest death trap. One of them had accidentally pulled a pacifier out of their utility belt once, and tried to pass it off as being prepared for any young children they came across while rescuing.

Idiots.

Still, you had standards. Standards that fell somewhere past war crimes and before common decency, but they were standards.

Odysseus: Regret it why?

Cassandra: You won’t believe me if I tell you. If I prophecy, nobody believes me. That is my curse.

Odysseus: … I’m Nobody. Fill me in. 

*A couple of months later* 

Odysseus: HELLO PENELOPE, I AM HERE PRECISELY ON TIME AND NOT YEARS LATE incidentally I rescued and adopted a Trojan seer while I was away, she’s great, got me home really fast, Cassandra this is your new mother who’s not going to treat you like shit. 

Penelope: … I’m going to need more details, but okay, sure. 

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”

At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.

Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.

One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”

Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”

She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”

You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.

Ships don’t blow up cleanly in flashes and sparks.  Oh, if you’re in the engine room, you’ll probably die instantly, but away from that?  In the computer core, or the communications hub?  You just lose power.  And have to sit, air going stale and room slowly cooling, while you wait to find out if the battle is won or lost.

If it’s lost, nobody comes for you.

It had been about half a day (that’s a Raithar day, probably a bit shorter than yours) and Kvala and I were pretty sure we had lost.  Kvala was injured, Traav and I were dehydrated and exhausted, and Louv was dead, hit by shrapnel when the conduits blew.

Most fleets give you something, of course.  For Raithari, it’s essence of windgrass.  I looked at the vial.

“It’s too soon,” Traav said.

Kvala gestured negation, shakily.  She had been burned when conduits blew, and her feathers were charred, and her leftmost eye was bubbly and blind now.  Even if we were rescued, she probably wouldn’t survive.  “You know we’re losing the war.”

They couldn’t deny that.  “It doesn’t mean we lost the battle.”

“Doesn’t it?  The Chreee have better technology.  Better resources.  And they have their warrior code.  They don’t care if they die.”

“We can’t give up!” Traav protested.  They were young, a young and reckless thar who had listened to a recruiting officer and still believed scraps of what they had been told.  “Any heartbeat now—”

There was a clunk.  Something had docked with our fragment of the ship.

“You see?!” Traav crowed triumphantly.

Kvala exchanged glances with me.  The Chreee never bothered to hunt down survivors.  What was the point, after all?

The Aushkune did.

There weren’t supposed to be Aushkune here.  They were supposed to hide in nebulas.

But if there were—

If there were, we were too late.  The windgrass couldn’t possibly destroy our nervous systems in time to stop the corpse-reviving implants, and once you were implanted, it was over—or it would never be over, depending on how you looked at it and whether Aushkune drones were aware of anything—

Footsteps.

Bipedal.  The Aushkune were supposed to be bipedal.

And then the blast door opened, and a figure stood in it.  My first thought was, robot?  That’s almost worse than Aushkune . . .  But no, it was a being in some sort of suit.

Who wore suits?

“Friendly contact,” the suit’s sound system blared, as the being moved over to Kvala.  “Urgent treatment.  Evacuation.”

“Who are you?”  Kvala struggled upright.

Despite the primitive suit, the blocky being was using up-to-date medical scanners.  “Low frequency right angle shape,” it explained—or maybe didn’t explain.  Two more figures came into the room and put Kvala firmly onto a stretcher.

“You’re with the Chreee, aren’t you?”  Kvala was not at all happy to be on a stretcher.

“Not Chreee,” the sound system said.  “You Man.  Soil Starship Nichols.”  The being hesitated.  “Rescue Chreee as well.  On ship.  Will separate.”

“You what?” I said faintly.  Who would do that?

“Oath,” the being explained.

“What kind of oath?  To what deity?”

The shoulders of the being moved up and down.  “Several different.  Also none.  For me, none.  Just—oath.”

I exchanged glances with Traav, who looked as unsettled as I was.  I had never, ever heard of groups cooperating when they couldn’t even swear to or by the same power.

The being scanned me.  “Have water,” it said.  “Recommend.”

Raithari have fast metabolisms.  I could—would—die of thirst quickly, and painfully.

“Where will you take us,” Traav asked, “after you give us water?”

“Raithari to Raithar.  Chreee to Chreeeholm.”

“Chreeeholm would kill them for failing,” Traav remarked.

The being hesitated, and then said, “War news sometimes bad.  Sometimes lie.”

We had learned long ago not to believe the recruiting officers, but what did that have to do with anything?

“And you—what?” I asked.  “Just fly around looking for battles and rescuing victims?”

The being seemed to consider this.  “Best invention of soil,” it said finally.

Most of what it was saying didn’t make any sense.  Did it worship soil?  But it had said that it had sworn to no deity . . .

Madness.

On the other hand—war was a deliberate, rational act by deliberate, rational people, and I wanted no more of it.  So why not embrace madness and see what happened?

“Soil Starship—Rrikkol?” I asked, stumbling over the word.

“Yes.  Soil Starship Nichols.”

The suit helps, as do the layers underneath it- it’s a dry suit. That’s how deep this dive is, that the pressure change should necessitate the drysuit. That’s how cold it is.

You can feel it, seeping into you. It was just “cold” before, when you were still with your team, like how water always is. Once it has the chance to press down on you, push into you, water is always cold. But now you can almost touch it. Your fingers, then your toes, now your hands and feet. Starting up your ankles. It feels like water rising past the seal of your drysuit up against your vulnerable flesh. It feels like sinking. You are doing everything in your power to remember that it isn’t true. Your suit is still sealed, you are still floating, still impossibly dry. But it feels so cold, so cold you can touch it, and the water is pressing in.

Into you.

Rule number one is don’t panic: you’ll use up your air too fast. But it’s so cold, and impossibly dark. So, so dark. You’d think you were in space- somewhere darker even- if it weren’t for the walls crushing into you. You are trying to maneuver, to shine your light on an opening or a way forward or a marker or anything. But every twist BANGS harshly against the cave wall and shocks through you with a blind fear that you’ve broken your canisters, that you’re running out of air. And all you can see is the pitch black and the rising static of the silt you are dislodging as you get sloppy with your kicks. And it’s so hard not to panic when it’s this hard to breath.

It feels like hours, and you are running out of time. Every second you spend down here-

“Turn off the lights”

- further away from you, from the surface. And you’re running out of-

“- can help”

-And you can’t see anything and it getting so cold! And-

“We can help you if you turn off the lights”

It’s silent. Caves like these are always so scarily silent. Sometimes you can hear rocks shifting, or the rush of the water over your flippers, and the bubbling of your own breath. Never speaking. But there was a voice in the water. It sounded so soft, but so close. Turn off your lights?

What other options do you have? None. Die.

It gets darker. Just for a second. The worst second of your life, worse than the cold or the pressure or the growing panic. It gets impossibly, horrifyingly, dark.

And then. Light.

Far off, distant. Barely there- but there. Faintly in what must be above, almost invisible, nearly a hallucination. But you can swim towards it, and nothing hits you! The walls that were caging you a moment ago have disappeared, and you have direction again. Up, towards the light!

The swim is silent. Utterly silent. You don’t even realize it consciously, you’re just so glad to be swimming. But you don’t hear anything as you ascend, not even your own breathing. It’s just you and the light, steadily getting brighter.

When you are found, nearly three hours later, they will be astonished to see you there: floating nearly a mile off shore, mask off to swallow gulps of fresh air. They had no idea that the cave system had another opening, that it even extended past the shoreline! You must have found a new tunnel, one that took you in the opposite direction of the rest of the cave. It’s a miracle that you survived. You are silent, mostly. They think it might be the shock, or your ears, still throbbing from your perhaps slightly hasty ascent.

You spend nearly a week in the hospital. You don’t care. You are so grateful.

Your crew has long talks about it. About what went wrong, about who was at fault, about luck. Never about what you saw (heard). They let you have that silence. They are so glad you are alive. They understand if you don’t ever want to go diving again.

But. You do. You don’t know why.

It takes less than a year for it to happen again. You swear, you were on the markers practically. And then you just- weren’t. Lost again. In the cold, cramped, dark.

When the thought (voice?) returned-

“We can help you”

You didn’t even hesitate.

It only takes one more time for your team to get tired of your “incredible luck”. This time the talk is more of a shouting, tense series of disjointed conversations over maybe three weeks. And then it’s over. They don’t know if you are unfit for your license, or playing some sort of fucked up prank, or doing it on purpose or what. But they don’t want to dive with someone who nearly dies every time.

You let them go without much of a fight. You can see it in their eyes; they’re frightened. You would have been too.

But you get scared less and less these days. And you’ve been diving more and more. Unlicensed, unprepared. With no one ahead or behind you it’s sometimes hard to say ‘lost’- harder when the dives you find don’t even have any routes to follow. But you manage all the same. Every time you dive down, you’ll end up lost eventually. You’ve stopped even trying to avoid it at some point.

And every time, just when the panic starts to fizzle at the edge of your awareness, you hear it:

“Turn off the lights”

One of these days, it’ll be a trick. But what other choice do you have?

See, I think that still works.

You are the guardsman assigned to protect the eight-year-old Prince. You are currently in the middle of the forest because he absolutely had his heart set on "going hunting", and the royal second-grader should definitely not be traipsing around the woods on his own. You let him go a little on ahead and he comes running back talking about how there's a dead girl in the clearing and there's no-one else around and he wants to take her home because she's really pretty, Hans, and she's all alone!

You let him drag you to said clearing and okay, that is one angelic-looking dead child alright, and on the one hand the quality of her clothes and the craftsmanship on the coffin (who builds a see-through coffin?) speak to potential Consequences if you simply carry her off, but also for the amount of vines that have grown on the coffin she looks extraordinarily un-decayed, so you should probably get the court alchemist's opinion on that, and there's no way he's going to come all the way out here in his embroidered velvet curly-shoes. And also this kid is technically assigned by God as your natural superior, or something.

So fine. You hoist the coffin onto your shoulder (it's not like the Prince can do it. He's eight.) and head back toward the castle, Prince chattering blithely all the way. And then you turn your ankle on a rock and suddenly there's a thump and a cough and a lot of shouting from inside the coffin and you have now become a key player in a tense political incident with the next kingdom over.

It wasn’t the end of the world. Maybe if this place was my livelihood I’d start panicking or packing up, but it’s not. I’m a vet, I own my own home, and I’m not hurting if my vegetables get looted. The garden’s a hobby at best, and yeah, maybe it was Grandma’s pride and joy, but I warned her I killed my mom’s geraniums when she told me she was leaving me the house, so it’s not like she has room for disappointment.

If anything, the rabbits are lucky they picked my land to figure out civilization on, because I’m pretty sure my neighbor Carl would be dropping dynamite down the burrows in my shoes.

I won’t lie, I came close. Monster Truck got out while I wasn’t looking, and when he came hobbling home with a goddamn spearhead embedded in his leg, I was about ready to rain my own personal Iliad down on the little bastards. Lucky for them, treating arrow wounds on my cat gave me enough time to calm down and think. I figure it was self defense. I don’t like letting my cats outside off-harness anyway, and I would’ve been plenty upset if he’d come home with a dead bunny in his mouth.