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She’s only just returned recently from the skies. You weren’t familiar with her when she left; all you knew of her was Lyria’s tears, Gran’s sullen expression. When they came rushing up to the deck at the sound that shook the ship, when you heard shrieks of joy and reunion from above your room, you may or may not have been jealous. Never a welcome like that, for you. Just gentle worry, unsteady kindness, walking on eggshells.
Coffee hour comes on the Grandcypher, your mid-afternoon reverie. The tradition stays unbroken; Gran, Lyria and Vyrn are the regulars, but there are always stragglers that like to drop in and have a cup. You never know how many more cups to make, if Rackam or Rosetta or Katalina or even Io will come by and ask to join, and you always end up bustling around the kitchen to make a few (or more than a few) extras. Sometimes, crew members you’ve barely talked to show up. You were unlucky enough to meet Vira when Katalina brought her along. And for someone who’s so commonly seen around the ship, Eugen has been scarce.
Today Lyria is excited. She has someone she wants you to meet, she says. A feeling of dread rises up in your chest; you’re really not the most personable, and you don’t consider yourself good at social interaction. But Lyria seems so happy, so insistent. “I think you’ll like her a lot,” she says, all bright smiles and unfaltering positivity. “And I think there’s a lot for the two of you to talk about!”
Something about that makes your chest constrict. Lyria usually knows more than she lets on. Sometimes she pushes you towards conversations you’re not quite willing to have yet. You’re opening up, in no small part thanks to her, but it’s a gradual and painstaking process, prying open parts of you that have been kept under lock and key. Boxes of memory, and thoughts, and unspoken emotion, all inside you; a chest of drawers.
“Plus, I just want her to try the coffee. And she’s bringing a treat too!”
“You’ve already planned all this out, haven’t you?” You sigh, rub your eyes in annoyance. “Fine. She can come. I don’t know what you’re scheming; you better not have ulterior motives.”
Lyria gives you a pout. “Me? Ulterior motives? Never.”
You know she knows.
When Lyria and Gran enter the kitchen, Vyrn beating his stubby wings behind them, you notice first that there are two dragons too many. It’s a vague recognition at first, but you don’t know what it means, until the guest of honor follows behind them, carrying a round tin of pie in one hand. Her ash-white hair, dark skin, and deep red eyes are unmistakable. You recognize her immediately.
The Grand Order. The Peacemaker. The keeper, the protector of this world. The manifest wishes of all skydwellers for peace and safety. This is what you know about her. What you don’t know— what you didn’t expect— is that when she sees you, her smile is too kind, too innocent for a being that has seen the suffering and struggle of millions, that has pushed against the collapse of the skies for as long as this realm has existed. As if she is more than the collective conscious of every living being. As if she has never seen pain in her life.
You wonder what it’s like to be needed, to be necessary. This is something you have always wondered. It isn’t really a question you should ask, but it lingers in you nonetheless. You think it may be because you are afraid of the answer. But anything is better than this. Or rather, that— what it was before. Before the wings, before the worst.
“I brought her!” Lyria pipes up excitedly. Gran looks more than a little nervous— Vyrn is batting at one of the other dragons, a little jealous at their usurpation of his usual spotlight. “Zooey, this is Sandalphon. Sandalphon, this is Zooey.”
Zooey?
You don’t remember the Grand Order having a name. Or really a form this small. Or liking pie. Or any of this.
“Grand Order…?” you stammer, puzzled. Immediately something like sadness flashes across her face, before she blinks and looks up at you.
“Don’t call me that, please. My name is Zooey.”
You bustle around the kitchen, making four cups of coffee. You’re thankful that you have so many bags of beans, and that everyone stopped stealing them, because having coffee hour every other day consumes resources faster than you could possibly predict. You’re also thankful that you went out and bought three more filter holders, to make multiple cups at once. You fill the kettle with water, set it on the stove, and switch it on. While you wait for it to boil, you start the rest of the process.
Your hand grinder is small, and though it’s nicely portable, it can only grind two cups’ worth of coffee beans at a time. You fill the top compartment and begin to work the handle, idly watching the rest of the table as you work. Zooey is pulling out the pie from the tin, and Lyria runs over to the kitchen and attempts to open a cabinet that is a little too high for her to reach. You open it for her, and pull out the kind of plate that would best suit a slice of pie. “How many?” you ask.
“Five!”
“Do I have to eat the pie.”
“Yes!”
You sigh and stack five dessert plates on the counter. Lyria picks them up, humming a little “thank you!” before opening a drawer next to you and gathering utensils. She brings them back to the table, lays them out one by one, and you watch as Zooey begins to cut the pie and pull slices out from the tin to dump onto each plate. It looks… messy. Apple pie? No wonder— Vyrn is practically having an aneurysm on the back of Lyria’s chair. Your hand keeps moving on the grinder; you can feel the burrs working at the beans under the pressure of your arm. It’s satisfying in a way not much else is. Having a physical result for all your trouble is something you only get to experience through the process of making coffee. You think maybe that’s another reason you like it so much.
One of Zooey’s dragons interrupts your reverie by perching on the counter next to you and making small trilling noises. It’s not in the way— yet— but you have a feeling it has nefarious intentions. The kettle begins to whistle, and it startles and flaps away. You set out four mugs on four small saucers, four siphons, a box of paper filters, and continue your work, pouring the hot water over the grounds in the filter, aromatic steam rising into your face and refreshing your senses as the grounds bubble and rise and bloom. The second batch is another two cups’ worth, and eventually you have all four cups lined up on the counter. You bring out a pot of milk and a bowl of sugar cubes, set them in the middle of the table, and then take the coffee over to the table two by two.
Zooey leans over to sniff the coffee the moment you set it down. Lyria grabs for the sugar and the milk. Gran drops one cube of sugar in; he always sweetens it before taking it black. Vyrn perches on the side of the table to lean over Lyria’s cup, sticks his claw in quite rudely and licks it. “Hey! No more,” Lyria protests. “You already licked your hand, so you can’t stick it back in.”
Gran laughs; he’s been mostly silent, though you have no idea what Lyria, Vyrn and Zooey have been chattering away about for the past few minutes, too focused on your coffee to care. You sit down at the table across from Zooey, who is currently eating her pie with an intensity you didn’t expect to see from her.
You take a sip of your coffee. It’s hot, just off the kettle, but you’ve long gotten used to it. The flavor bursts in your mouth; this blend is more than satisfactory. Mainly because it’s Lucifer’s beans, that you’ve been slipping away to harvest every so often, but also because you’ve done a good job on the degree of the roast. Lyria finally takes a sip of hers, cooled down from the refrigerated milk, and happiness spreads across her face.
Your mind wanders.
Lyria and Gran are lost in conversation, and Zooey interjects quietly every so often, and Vyrn devours his apple pie in a good thirty seconds before he flaps off to continue his feud with the other two dragons. He chases one around the table; it takes solace on the back of your chair for a few moments before Vyrn is back from pestering the other one. Lyria shovels forkfuls of pie into her mouth. You catch snippets of a conversation.
“Something this good can’t just grow on trees, you know!”
“Stop bringing that up, please, you’re embarrassing me.”
“Man, I almost forgot about that. ‘How do you get pies? Do you harvest them?’”
“Augh.”
You bring the cup to your lips to hide the barely suppressed smile that tempts your mouth. It comes and goes, easily. You hope no one has noticed. Your mind slips back into sepia, into memory.
You remember Lucifer, for a moment. Shining like a sun you had to look away from. Across the table from you, someone so important, so beloved, sharing this moment, this bright blink of time with you. You who was so undeserving. Over the years he brought out different condiments— sugar, honey, milk and cream— and allowed you to experiment with them. You remember liking it with milk but no sugar; it helped to mask the initial bitterness that you were so unaccustomed to, but over time you began to seek a return to the original, unfiltered flavors. And little by little, you learned to drink it black. Lucifer always smiled when you did. He made some sort of comment about even after an attempt at evolution, sometimes the original is best, isn’t it? and you nodded and looked at him, his face so gentle, as if at any moment he would reach out across the table and caress your cheek.
Mouthful by mouthful. Slowly, you cherish it, the way you would have cherished him, if you had not been too late. This is all you have left of him. Lyria eventually leaves the table, and Gran and Vyrn follow suit, considerate enough to stack the cups on the kitchen counter for washing before excusing themselves. Then it is just you— and Zooey across from you.
She’s been eyeing you strangely ever since you sat down and sank into silence. She hasn’t had a sip of her coffee; neither have you had a bite of your pie. You are at a stalemate.
At least, until one of her dragons throws away any pretense of restraint and sits itself right on top of your head.
The weight of it, and the prick of its claws, are so unexpected that you jump in your seat, and you throw your head back to get it off you. A splash of coffee falls onto your breastplate. Zooey bursts into a fit of giggles.
“Can’t you keep your dragons under control? Hey!” You let out an indignant yelp and bat one away from where it’s attempting to nestle into your hood. “Why are they doing this.”
Zooey laughs softly, like she knows something you don’t. “It means they like you,” she explains. “And you’ve been quiet. They want you to talk.”
“They’re getting in the way,” you huff, trying again to lift the mug to your lips. The second one perches on your shoulder, and its unusual weight tips you backwards, splashing a bit of coffee onto your upper lip and down your chin. You have to set it down to avoid any more casualties. “If they keep pestering me, my coffee’s going to go cold.”
“They do what they want,” Zooey says, as if she’s enjoying watching you deal with her little winged terrors. Their claws are so… sharp. And long. Why are they so long? “You should try the pie. It’s my favorite kind.”
“If they’ll get off of me first.” You wave your hand at the one perched on your shoulder, batting it off. It flaps away and lands on the back of Zooey’s chair, clearly offended. “And you should try the coffee.”
“I’m not sure if I’ll like it?” She pushes her plate of apple pie a little to the side to pick up her mug from the saucer you’ve so considerately set it on for her. “But it smells so nice. Everyone says it’s bitter, though, and I’ve never had a bitter thing.”
“Bitterness is different from acidity. This specific blend is a little less acidic, anyway, so it might be a good starter.” Finally at peace and free of bothersome dragons, you sip your coffee. It hasn’t gone cold yet, but it’s cooled down a little, just below its optimum temperature. You drink, looking up at her through your bangs— she sits there, blinking, obviously unsure what to make of it. “Of course, there’s the possibility you might hate it. I did as well, my first time.”
“Then… why did you keep drinking it?” Her head tilts, genuinely curious.
Because of him. Because he was there. Because he made it for me, all the moments he shared with me. I learned to love it, because it tasted like safety, like the feeling of being wrapped up, like his wings and like love, if there ever was such a thing—
“It allowed me to spend time with… someone. It was less about the taste than about the social action, I suppose. As time went on, the taste only grew kinder.” Now that it’s only the two of you, you can say more— in a need to fill the silence, in an attempt to recapture a feeling.
“Ah,” she says. Contemplating. The cup is still in her hand, and you can see the surface tremble. “I’m going to try it, then.”
She raises it to her lips. You hold your breath.
She takes a sip and immediately her face contorts. You can’t help but chuckle. The same reaction you know you had, that ridiculous face Lucifer must have seen you making, two millenia ago. It’s familiar. It’s almost pleasant.
“Hm,” she says, simply, trying very hard not to look disgusted, and sets it down with a grimace. “I... don’t think it’s to my tastes.”
“Try circulating the air in your mouth, for a moment. The aftertaste is the better part.” You’re not willing to give up on this yet.
Zooey looks at you curiously. Her closed mouth moves, awkwardly, and you suppress a smile at the continued face she’s making.
“Oh,” she finally says. “It’s... interesting. Complex. If only it wasn’t so bitter at the start.”
“I can fix that,” you say, and bring over the little cup of milk and bowl of sugar cubes you’ve prepared for this exact purpose. “Use as much as you want, and then try.” She looks bewildered, but a little determined. You decide to take up your end of the bargain, and cut off a small bite of pie with the side of your fork. You’re about to raise it to your mouth when Zooey makes a happy little noise; you look up.
“I like it better like this,” she says. Her smile is gentle, and radiant. “It’s sweet, but the taste is still there.”
You feel your heart warm, just a bit. “Well, I’m glad. I won’t always be around to make it, though, so if you want some you’ll have to learn to do it yourself.”
“Where does coffee come from? Is it sap? From a tree?” She doesn’t seem to hear you. Her thoughts are on silly, otherwise obvious things. But this is the girl that thought pies were harvested from trees, anyway, so you’re not completely surprised.
“Close. It’s what you get when you harvest the fruit of a coffee tree, then take the seeds out and roast them. Those are coffee beans.” You move over to the counter and pick up the bag of beans, a special blend marked with the number 4, and a small L, and bring it back to the table. You stick your hand into it and pull out a handful. This roast is dark, so the oil has come to the surface of the beans, slicking your hand, but you don’t really mind. Zooey peers over at the collection of beans, her mouth forming a curious little ‘o.’ “And then you grind them… and then there’s a lot of ways to make the liquid, but I use a siphon and a paper filter, put the grounds in it and pour hot water over it. It percolates through the grounds and makes the liquid. You can put cream and sugar in it, afterwards.”
Zooey looks entirely surprised by this explanation. “How did people come up with that process? How did someone think to roast the beans in the first place? Never mind grinding them up and putting water through it. It seems like an entirely strange thing to do…”
“True,” you admit. Now that you think about it, you have no idea how Lucifer deduced the best way to get the flavor from these fruits— or even knew the fruits had that capability in the first place. The first time you ever shared a cup of coffee with him in that shaded garden, he had already figured out the process. You don’t know anything about how he got there, how much trial and error it must have taken to get the final product. He was always like that, you think. Coming up with new ways to change and convert things; to evolve.
Did he know, when he planted that tree? Did he understand what it could be used for? How much was he sure of?
“To tell you the truth… I have no idea either.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one, then.” The bite of pie is still on your fork, uneaten. It’s cooled off by now, and you marvel that it’s stayed on at all; it’s so crumbly, so unstable. “Now you should try the pie.”
You acquiesce. After your coffee, which is still sitting there cooling, it’s so sweet it shocks your tongue. But then the taste of cinnamon, the tartness of apples, and the buttery crust. This could pair well with a sweeter brew, you think. You try another bite, pleased.
“It’s good,” you manage, with your mouth still full. Zooey looks so happy she could cry.
“Do you know why Lyria brought you along?”
Both of you have finished your coffee and your pie, and now you sit across from each other, half like strangers and half like old friends. You play with the handle of your mug, running your thumb over where the porcelain has been chipped. Her dragons have calmed down, mostly; they’ve finished their rampage and have perched on the back of Zooey’s chair. Every so often they make distracting chirruping noises, as if they’re trying to get her attention. She pets them behind the horns each time. You wonder if she’s spoiling them.
“I believe she thinks we have something in common,” she says.
“I don’t think we have anything in common.” You may sound a little bitter, but that’s okay. She doesn’t look hurt. “From our very beginnings, to what we are now… you’re nothing like me.”
“Except maybe coffee?”
You chuckle at that one. “Yes, that. And that you and I reacted the same way on our first taste of it. So there’s that.” Her countenance lightens at your tone for a moment— then settles into solemnity again. “Lyria said you weren’t like other primal beasts.”
“I suppose.” Her eyes drift to the side. “I know you were created, but I just came to be.”
“You’re lucky.”
“How?”
“No experiments. No doubts.”
“I doubt all the time.”
“Do you really?”
“Let me talk to you,” she says.
It happens in an instant. You don’t have time to refuse, but you don’t think you would. Her heart clasps your hand.
It’s a tunnel of sensation, of thought, a twined rope of connection, more than the single thread you experienced with Yggdrasil. Stable and safe. Her voice is the same as it is out loud, maybe a tone deeper; the gravity of it has changed. This is Grand Order, and this is Zooey. She reaches out and takes your hand— or what she can touch of it. There is still a pane of glass between you, a separation you have not reconciled. A bitterness you cannot shake. Your knuckles press against the barrier, and so do hers.
What is it like to be needed by the world? To be essential? you ask her. You’re sure your voice is trembling.
She doesn’t reply, for a while. It feels like forever, before she finally speaks again.
If the atmosphere’s composition were to shift, it could become inhospitable to humans. If the Grandcypher’s engine were to fail, it would mean disaster for almost everyone on this ship, if not death. But you don’t thank the atmosphere for not suddenly turning to carbon dioxide, or thank the Grandcypher’s engine for not failing— not like you’d thank a person for protecting you, or need someone to be by your side.
You raise your eyebrows. Something about that doesn’t feel right. It seems… inanimate. Not quite alive. Is that really what having a purpose feels like? Lack of recognition, lack of support, just doing what is required of you…
You think about Lucifer.
You know, she continues, being important to the world and being important to someone are two awfully different things. Of course she knew, this whole time, what you were really asking. What you refused to acknowledge you were asking. No, I should say— they’re completely at odds with each other.
This is the answer you have been dreading. This is the feeling you have been avoiding. The feeling that you may actually be alone in this world, for wanting something like this. For wanting to be useful.
What… what do you mean?
I want to be more than just the concept of protection. I wanted to be a person. Despite appearances, I’ll never be able to get rid of the first completely; nor will I want to, even now. She whispers it like a secret no one knows. But it’s easy enough to tell, just looking at her— Zooey, not Grand Order, not the collective wish of a world— who likes pie, and dislikes bitter things, and takes care of what seems like a countless swarm of dragons, and has people she wants to be with. Your heart hardens in response, but you don’t close the thread.
I… How can you say that? Is it really like that? I want to be more than just a person. This isn’t enough. Whatever I am— it’s not enough. You might be crying; you might not. You hope you’re not. How can you act like being enough doesn’t even matter?!
You are capable of more than I will ever be; precisely because you are more human than I will ever be. She doesn’t recoil from your harsh tone, from your anger. She stares you down, unwavering. Her eyes reflect yours, create another spark between you. She is trying to break the wall. You don’t want her to. You make your own purpose. It’s better that way.
But I need to know that what I do matters in the long run. I want to be something to the world. How can you, someone who is needed, someone that the world can’t live without, possibly understand—?!
To be important to the world, you must not be remembered by anyone, you must not be connected to anyone— and you must be incapable of doing so. You don’t want that. I know you don’t. You want to be important to someone. You feel her breathe, a swelling of energy, of calm. Sandalphon.
She hasn’t said your name before.
Sandalphon. You don’t know it yet. But you matter. You always have. Those wings on your back are not the only proof that you are needed.
It’s like she’s pierced you with a bolt of light. It crackles in your chest like a dagger buried in you. You crumple before her.
Grand Order—
Shh. Here, at least, on this earth, my name is Zooey. The Singularity’s name— he has one too— is Gran. Supreme Primarch, you really need to start learning to call people by their names. This is a gentle smile, an olive branch.
Zooey.
You are more than your wings. You have inherited Lucifer’s will, but you have a purpose of your own, and you always have. Your purpose is to be here, to be cherished. To be loved.
No, you say, your voice sharpening by the second. Frustration rises in your throat like bile, and you feel like choking, suddenly. Nonsense. You know nothing about him, what he wanted for me.
Lucifer told me. He loved you, you know. Even I know that.
Something rises in you, then erupts. You recognize it, the same boiling refusal that shattered your cocoon in Canaan, the scream inside you that destroys walls and answers questions you have been afraid to answer. You don’t even think to ask how she knows Lucifer; that is a question for another time. You feel the catch in the back of your throat. Your face twists into a snarl, and then into rage-tinted panic— your eyes are wide— a stone heart, a shell of you crumbling— don’t say such things, I’ll break, I’ll break—
“Stop it!”
Stop talking, stop talking, don’t go any further.
Every thread in the twined rope burns away, then snaps. You are thrown back into your chair. The mug you’ve been holding shatters in your hand; blood and coffee dregs stain your fingers. You stare down at your body, motionless. Frozen, your heart in the shape of a question.
Zooey sits across from you. Her expression is stunned, but not particularly surprised. She doesn’t meet your eyes.
You expect her to leave. She does not leave. She only sits, motionless, looking down at her lap, as if she is waiting for something. She is patient, you’ve learned. You know she will wait. So you bury your face in your hands and think.
She’s never questioned why she’s here. Why she exists. What meaning her life has. She’s never cursed the world for making her. She’s never hated like you have.
Did you hate him for creating you?
This is a question she would ask you.
No, you think. You didn’t hate him for creating you. You hated him for leaving you behind.
I don’t believe you, you hear her say. She’s not there, but she’s questioning you. You know what she would say to that. And you know she is right. You loved. You longed. No— you blamed yourself. You blamed yourself for not being good enough, good enough for him to break his shackles of duty and keep you with him.
It was not his fault, you remember. You don’t like to admit it, but it’s true. You know he did what he was made to do. He couldn’t fight his purpose. But you could, and you did. That in itself is power, Zooey would say. That is the power of a person, rather than a concept.
So then what is Zooey? Does she— does Grand Order— ever doubt herself, ever have to consider what she needs to strike down for the good of the world? What would happen to her, what would she choose, if one of Zooey’s dear friends became a threat that Grand Order had to destroy?
You start to wonder if having a purpose is really something you would want. If it is something you can handle, at this point. You are Lucifer’s heir. You are the Supreme Primarch, the six-winged Archangel that watches the world evolve. But unlike him, you can’t help but interact with it, to bring yourself to the level of emotion, of attachment. You are maybe too human for this role.
What can she tell you about defying your creator— defying yourself?
You reconnect, open the channel again. You’re surprised at how willingly she opens up to you, as if she knew you would come back.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have cut you off.
It’s okay. I know it’s a lot to think about. Are you angry?
Not particularly. Mostly at myself.
You’re always angry at yourself, she points out. You don’t respond to that; there are more important questions to ask.
You created yourself. What is that like?
I became myself, she answers. First, I was, suddenly, in existence. But then I came down, and had to recreate myself.
Is that defying yourself— defying your nature?
Yes, she says. It’s difficult to keep this form, even now, even with everyone here supporting me. But I have to try, for them. I want to try.
By being with people, you create a person… Your attachments to this world, however slow they form…
Ah. That question again. You nearly forgot to ask. How did you even know him?
We’d crossed paths from time to time; conversations between strangers. I was far less human than I am now, but perhaps that’s why we got along. I was someone outside of that hierarchy that he was created to lead, someone he could talk to, and I enjoyed hearing things that he had to say... Although, I think a good part of it was that I would have had no reason or benefit from telling his secrets.
She pauses, for a moment, as if she’s trying to decide what to say and what to leave out.
I say that like we were friends; I don’t know if either of us were capable of it, and I don’t think it was attachment— maybe simply enjoyment of each other’s company. The comfort of talking to a stranger with a listening ear who won’t be able to remember that you cared for someone, who wouldn’t be able to use it against you—
You start to think. Was he never capable of friendship in the first place? You know you could have taught him. That he created you with a heart like this to teach him. If you hadn’t been too late, if you had believed in his words—
He’d said a lot about you.
Why couldn’t he defy himself the way Zooey— Grand Order— did? Why didn’t he learn to dream? If he had, then… If he had…
I’m sorry; I think you’ve misunderstood. She replies to what you don’t voice. Even at my best, I am a mimicry of humanity. The emotions I feel, the reactions I have; they are nowhere near as developed as yours, and the attachments I’ve formed are incomplete.
You close your eyes. I don’t know why I had to be made like this. It hurts— so much. Sometimes I think I’d be better off without them.
I believe in you, you know. I know he did, as well. She says this, and your core seizes. Whenever she mentions him, it’s like trying to take a breath of air but inhaling water instead. You have so much more to offer than you think, and so much more capability for growth than you think. Greater than me— greater than him, as well. He was more human than I was, but at the same time, that same mimicry was close in each of us.
You almost laugh. It makes sense, that the only thing you’ve ever been better than him at is being sad and angry and in love—
Stop it, Zooey interrupts, and you remember she can feel those thoughts, even those you don’t voice. No more time for self-hate. You have festered in it for too long.
For what I have done… I deserve it.
Not enough. Never enough to repent. You know you’ve been repeating this refrain for as long as you remember, but you don’t think you can believe in anything else.
You can believe me or not, but… don’t act like making yourself suffer is doing any good for you, or for him. After all, haven’t you suffered enough?
Again, it makes you want to laugh, bark out something harsh and mirthless, like the reaction to being stabbed in the gut. I don’t know what else I’m allowed to do, like this. I don’t think I’ll ever be strong enough to defy myself.
Zooey presses her fingers further into the bitter wall between you. Something cracks. Just by her touch, by her will to reach you, spiderwebs appear in the glass. It holds together still, because you’re keeping it there, because you refuse to let go. All you have to do is push your fingers through. But the fear of losing that grudge, the stone-cold wall that has made you a survivor, after all you’ve been through to build it and keep yourself safe, overcomes you.
It wasn’t your fault. There’s only so much you can change. I can’t make you let anything go, or make everything better, but I can tell you that it won’t do anything if you keep hating yourself, that it’s not what he would have wanted.
It’s not what he would have wanted— she says that, and a part of you opens like a dam. Before you can hold it back, she sees flashes of it— years of imprisonment, of torture, of hatred building up, a plaque of it accumulating and eventually petrifying your heart. She blinks in the face of it. But she does not look away. Her gaze becomes even softer.
You have hated this world so much. You have learned to hate it for what it has done to you, and to hate yourself for being something you think is deserving of it. And yet… She looks at you, but she does not break the wall, even though it’s moments from crashing down in a shower of sparks and shards. She is waiting for your movement, for your impulse. And yet, you saved it. You defied your nature. You created yourself from suffering and survival. And then you overcame yourself. You have already done the breaking. Now, time to rebuild.
What do I do? Where do I go from here?
Your hand shakes as you brush your fingers over the hairline cracks.
Let’s go together, she says.
From there, it is a torrent of light.
Lucifer gave you the heart he never quite knew how to use. Now, you need to recreate yourself— balance your heart and your duty. The world in the palm of a hand.
You create yourself and destroy your own creator. You eat yourself away and wonder where your body went, then realize it is better that you are free from that form. You are everything you have made, from everyone you have ever met. There is no line there. You are a cycle of destruction and rebirth. The day will come again, just as it has in the past, when you have to face everything you have built upon the foundation you were given, a day when everything stands still and you are made to observe what you have become, and then decide— decide to break yourself and to rebuild. Time to grow the bone back stronger. There will be time until then.
Zooey sits across from you at the table. You don’t know how long you’ve been there. Fragments of porcelain lie on the wood between you. You start with the base, which has stayed mostly intact, and stack the pieces together. There is something lost, in the dust and crumble of it, the smallest shards, but for now this will do. She moves her chair over to your side, and watches intently as you create the precarious balance, each piece slotting imperfectly in, but holding because you say so.
You have yet to decide if it is a prison, or a sanctuary, or a vessel to hold something precious; but you rebuild your tower nonetheless. You will give it meaning later. Your own meaning. Delayed, yes, but yours.
“If it’s okay with you,” Zooey says, and then pauses. You look up at her, hands still hovering over your creation. “Would you… teach me more about coffee?”
The slightest smile comes to your face, a quiet twitch of your lips. “Come by next coffee hour, and stay after. I’ll find a good blend for you.”
“I’ll bring pie.”
“Fine.”
In the silence that follows, she leans her head on your shoulder. You nearly shrug her off, but she looks up at you, eyes gentle, and brings her finger to her lips. Something about that gesture— so unlike the being you were just talking to, but so like Zooey— soothes your heart. You rest your head over hers.
I wasn’t expecting that, you hear her say.
You’re safe. I don’t mind it, I suppose.
That’s high praise coming from you. I’m honored.
Shh. Quiet, you tell her.
Just for a moment. Just for now, silence is good. You’re safe in this lack of sound, this bubble of stillness; it makes it easier to search for something that you know now has always been within you.
Zooey doesn’t move. She waits for you, as she has each time. She doesn’t expect anything from you, or ask anything of you. She just listens to you breathe, her temple pressed against the bone of your shoulder.
Time comes, and passes. Your neck begins to hurt, and you tell her so. She takes her head off your shoulder and pokes your neck, to which you respond with an undignified “ow.” Her calm eyes wrinkle into happy half-moons. You shoo her away, goodnaturedly.
“Remember, coffee hour.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she says. Her dragons have taken up residence on top of the kitchen cabinet— one is wrapped around the other. She whistles, and they sleepily disembark from their nest. Dragons in tow, one under each arm, Zooey leaves the table, forgetting to put away her dishes— you understand, seeing as she had her hands full— and walks back up the stairs.
You stare at your tower. It’s broken and stained with coffee dregs and your own quickly browning blood, but it’s yours. You wonder how many coffee cups you’ve broken in 2000 years. Enough to fill a cupboard, maybe. Enough to piece together a person. To create something from the ruins of what you have destroyed.
Maybe not enough to remake yourself quite yet. But you have time. You have all the time in the world.