Broken Wings, Scattered Dust

Pony Up and Stardust

I did not end amongst the stars.

I was floating—not of my own power—in some strange, nebulous region.  It looked almost exactly like the lightbathed shrine had, except it was completely silent, and I could move.  It was spherical, the light walls as solid as any stone, yet the walls kept rippling erractically, like I was caught in some bizarre raindrop.  I was also—as far as I could tell—alone, save for these little tiny specks of the flickering light that darted around the sphere’s interior like so many lightning bugs.

There was nothing I could do but wait.  I still couldn’t fly at all—I could move freely but it got me nowhere—and my bands had run out of charge, though I suspected they wouldn’t be much use here.  There was still no sign of Whimsy, Descant, or the other three, which was in itself odd, and on top of that, the place looked the same whether I had my goggles on or not.  This was no illusion.

I punched myself.  It hurt.  The air was thin, but breathable.  I found myself strangely relaxed.  Death was a lot shinier and a lot less painful than I’d expected.

At least until it stung me.

Every time one of the lightning bugs brushed against me, it zapped me, the sensation somewhere between a static shock and being stung by a halfhearted bee.  It was more irritating than anything else, but the stings were strong evidence that I wasn’t actually dead, merely suspended in some limbo region of magic.

I kept hoping, wishing I’d see Whimsy here, but if the magic heard me, it wasn’t listening.  Which was a minor disappointment; I had been half-hoping that by some stroke of luck the magic would grant my wish, and Whimsy’d show up.  Or at least that it’d show me that she was alive and unharmed.

“Your sister is alive.”

If I had been flying, raw shock would’ve plucked me right out of the air.  Several voices had spoken, the flawless wall of sound pressing in from all sides, each voice wholly unique and distinct.  I noticed then that all the little lightning bugs, the teeny stars, were congregating in front of me; I instinctively tensed, fortified by the familiarity of calculated fearlessness.

“Hello?”

“Peace.”

The single word echoed with a veritable symphony of voices, but for all the components that composed it, for all the parts of the whole, only one of them made it through my hardened shell.  Or more accurately, blasted its way through with a worldshaking series of silent explosions—I’d heard that exact word in that exact voice too many times to count.  There was no mistaking it.

“Dad?!”

His voice, and his voice alone, answered me.  “You have grown.”

Half my brain seized up at the distinct sound at his careful, gruff tones.  A single lightning bug had separated from the pack to hover right in front of me, buzzing slightly and quivering like it was cold; it was then that I noticed I couldn’t tell how hot or cold it was inside the magic bubble.  I reached out to the tiny star, and it brushed against me.

But instead of shocking me, I felt it siphoning my stress, drained away like someone had pulled the plug in the bathtub, and I relaxed in spite of myself.  Things that mattered before didn’t now—things like how much I had stashed away for Whimsy, how unsure I was of Descant.  How I was talking to my long-since-deceased father.

“There is a star for every creature in the universe,” his voice said.  “Dead, alive, unborn.  This is but a shard of mine.  Your mother’s, I’m afraid, isn’t here right now.”

I frowned, but said nothing.  I didn’t have to.  My mother would not appreciate the path I’d taken, and we both knew it.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

The spark—Dad’s star—brushed against my hoof again.

“You did what you had to do.”

“...Thanks, Dad.”  I had known from nearly the start that Dad wouldn’t begrudge me for anything, but knowing something isn’t the same as hearing it.

“But you aren’t finished yet.”

I nodded, unable to speak.  Which was not helped when Dad guessed exactly what I was thinking.  The rest of the stars had formed a loose cluster behind him, though I could readily still pick him out.

“Resolution.”  Dad’s star quivered with the word’s cadence, as did all the stars behind him and every last feather I had.  Usually he pushed resolve, not resolution.  But then again, he had had plenty time to think it over.  “You have brought it to many,” he continued.  “Yet you have found none in return.”

I shuffled my wings, the sound of shifting feathers painfully loud in the otherwise silent bubble.  The other stars had grown oddly still, as if they’d been flash-frozen, yet I could feel them listening, guessing.  Judging.

If only they knew...but it was—without question—better that they didn’t.

But if Dad noticed any oddities, he didn’t bring them up.  “The Calamus has given birth to countless stars,” he said.  “And, likewise, it ends them.  But it does not determine what happens after.  That...is you.”

I still couldn’t find anything worth saying aloud—Dad knew me well enough to know every question I would have.  The only one I really needed answered was...what, exactly, did I have to do?  Bringing closure to living beings was simple enough, but closure to stars?  I was no magician, and as far as I knew only the cosmic sisters were capable of surviving a trip to the void.

“Like the lifeless vessel of an animal, stars do not vanish when they die.  The bits and pieces that compose them slowly part ways over time.  Some find a new home.  Others do not.”  He paused, letting the quiet chitters from the other stars die down.  “In order to meet Lucifa, you need to spread resolution to those not yet blessed with its solace.”

“Mmm,” I said.  For one fleeting moment I thought of asking why it had to be me, but the reason was obvious.  Either I was being forced into ‘redeeming’ myself, or no one else had as much experience with ending things as I had.

Dad’s star flickered and floated backwards, disappearing into the crowd.

“I know you will do what must be done.”

And the lights started to fade.

“...G’bye, Dad.”

End of Prelude

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