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The universe beyond Etheirys is cold. Deep darkness. It stings at their tailfeathers. They are light and swift, but it means little when all the worlds are separated by expanses of emptiness devoid of aether and dynamis both.
Feelings shape dynamis. Feelings are dynamis. No world yet found by this member of the collective consciousness knew of it, though many harboured the dynamis of despair. Some sisters had found surviving peoples, but not one was living. People that aren’t alive have no feelings. Share no thoughts. Give no answers. This Meteion was following a trail three sisters had laid, one having found a world attacked, its people in mourning and waiting for their death. Their claws and wings availed them naught against invaders, but they tried to defend their home. They had tried to live. (Defy fate.)
This Meteion shakes a head clear of the eldest’s thoughts. Promising, but gone. Many long flights past. So this Meteion did not follow the trail to the warmongering metal people too closely. There were other sisters already there. Those people were not alive anymore either. This Meteion would wander further into the darkness of the sunless sea, far from any star.
The stars, one and almost all, were dead. Etheirys wasn’t. Etheirys was beautiful. A blue and glistening star, full of aether, covered with people, and then shaded with (to their eyes) a riot of dynamis in all hues imaginable… mostly white. Pure intention. Dynamis untainted by happiness and despair alike… swirled with ambition, with the bright feelings of familiars who laughed and cried and roared as loudly as men. Green with comradery. Peppery with creativity. Glassy with repetition, they did not like it. Red with anger, though never for long. Grey with worry over and for their creations. Crunchy with wonder, they did like it. Yellow with happiness, lots of that far from Elpis. Purple in some places, mourning for others returned to the star. Meteion did not (want to) understand it. Purple like Hermes when he told them he was alright. Purple, like the dynamis of dying worlds before they withered to black.
Sweet. Still. Colour unseen, despair everlasting. A dark so deep that closed eyes looked like light. Purple in taste. A deep bell, the death rattle lingering and tasting like dust. Wrong. Familiar. Oil on wingtips.
This Meteion feels some now.
Feels… dynamis?
“Disconnecting from connective consciousness.” It is a formality. Sisters knew, know, will know what this Meteion says. All Meteia have one duty. Ask. Seek his answer. However long it takes. This Meteion can feel some sisters bracing for her results. More of the same, they expect.
Wait and watch. This Meteion finds not a person, but a trail of dynamis. Dynamis withers. Beauty fades. All sinks to black, then to nothingness. Oblivion. But this Meteion will not be distracted. (Think.) Thinking. The pinion on which dynamis lingers longest, that is the direction this Meteion should go. Chase the feeling, living person in the nothingness. Find, speak, save. Hermes never asked them to save, but he always taught them, taught his Meteion, that sparing others was important. One sister still in Elpis. One sister who had never been connected to the collective consciousness. Never grown her wings. Never stained them.
This Meteion should not linger on such thoughts. The person needed asking. People did not linger between stars without reason. That way, that way, far from any star. Vaguely towards Hermes. Homeward. And in the dynamis, the familiar pattern of a wingbeat. She chases. She asks. She learns. She adds to the report all sisters agree Hermes should never hear. It would break his heart.
Strange to feel a person in the dark. Was it chasing answers too? Did it have questions?
Faster on little wings. Faster, until the shapes in the black yield to purple once more. Dynamis shaped by sadness. Dying world’s blood swirling in the person’s wake. No person in sight, but then, some dead people the collective had questioned could not be seen. One world had turned its people to vapours. No distractions! Chase! Find and ask! Hermes has always let his caretakers ask him anything. Visitors too. Was this person expecting visitors in the dark? Did they have them where they came from? Was their world known? Unknown? Alive? Dead? (Probably, answers a sister. This Meteion reiterates that it is disconnecting from the collective.)
A distant blur blots out a pinprick of light. Person! Thing? Soul! Soul painted purple, but with flecks of bitter determination and smudges of sleepy un-colour. (Bitter? Butter? Disconnecting!) White? No, not quite yet. They must give chase. They fly so fast that this Meteion’s body struggles. They flit around the wake. Purple is too thick to flap through. White is easy. Un-painting a colour is hard. This person is feeling a lot of things. One person? Many? One big person. One big, fast person. Not one in slow robes. Transformed person? Had the Meteia ever found other transforming people not from Etheirys? (Yes. One race decided to turn themselves into grains of sand, and promptly forgot how to turn themselves back.)
But finally, they see the shape closer. Long person! Huge person! Hard to miss with such bright, golden scales. And wings, like them! Wings to cross the dark. And hurt!
(Dragon.)
Dragon. Race the sisters knew of. Dead race? Dying race. But this one felt. This one was alive. This one could be spared. This Meteion flits up, trying to breach the tide of purple and grieving, dancing on the thin line of un-colour from the little rocks in the dragon’s arms. Moving fast. Too fast, almost. There is no air to speak. No aether to shape into words, thought they know dragons can hear. Think. Think. “Greetings and salutations?” Hello? “Can you hear me?”
The big person slows. Does not stop. Clutches rocks tighter. Pulses of red and salt and sharp. Afraid? Oh no! “I mean you no harm!” She flies around to the front of the big person, showing her diminutive size compared to the person’s snout. Hermes made them to seem harmless. Some people they were bigger than. Some tried to squish them. But not this person. Too huge to be threatened by this Meteion. “I wish only to hear your words. Share your f-feelings. Know your thoughts.” Nervous. Grey. A living person all the way out here... This Meteion was not practiced. Had not found dying stars like the stained sisters, only felt them. Could feel this person already, deep purple, but not fading. Not blackened. In pain. Hating. But not gone.
Eyes open, light the same colour as rage. Dim. “What art thou, little light?” Rage heightens, violet shifting to mauve. “Omega’s servant?”
No, no, no! “We help Hermes,” this Meteion clarifies. “Help! Not hurt!” The sisters are interested. Living person. Not seeking death. (Omega. An Alphatron superweapon, says the sister assigned to the machine world.) “May we please be friends?”
The big person thinks very slowly. Their wounds are terrible. Meteia can’t fix this. They have no healing. Dynamis does little for aether-thick people like Dragons, Ea…
The dragon grunts. Does that mean friend?
This Meteion will ask the questions *after* helping. The sisters squawk so loud in the head that this Meteion immediately changes their mind. “I’m Meteion. What’s your name?” Big person takes forever to answer. Maybe a different question? Maybe not all dragons liked names? “Are you…” no, the dragon was not alright. Burned, scales missing. Battle. Fleeing. This Meteion needs help from others. More Meteia away from their wandering, approaching, intercepting the dragon. (Ask.) “Why are you here?”
The dragon is so slow to respond. “I seek a bastion of hope.” Meteion believes it takes a whole day to hear him. No sun, no time, endless time. But he answered. Hope… could be white, sometimes? Gold too, mostly white. A little orange. Etheirys had lots of white. Some magic was really hope-savoury-snappy. Magic to summon friends was especially so. Meteion, the terminal, had heard of it.
“Why?” This time, it takes three days. They fly together all the while, this Meteion and the dragon.
He rumbles when he talks. “The brood must continue.”
Brood means babies. The rocks. The rocks! (Eggs.) Seven smudges learning how to feel. Little people. Almost? Almost. But something more important itches at this Meteion. “Why must it continue?” Hermes’ question. He deserved an answer. The Meteia wait.
He speaks so deliberately. This Meteion alone struggles. But more soon arrive to hear him. They feel him. They hear his mind. “For our chorus,” he growls. It is weak. His feelings are strong, but his body is tiring. Rest! Not even Meteia can fly forever. “My kin entrusted unto them hopes for their future. Dreams of a peaceful morrow.” He waits another day before speaking again. “That must needs be enough.” He is huge. He flies. He is almost alone. But he had *answers.* Someone else’s hope. Trust. Peacefulness. That’s all they needed. Hermes’ answer! It was ready! But the Meteia had a new idea.
More than just an answer. Bring Hermes the answerer. Hermes had never seen a dragon. But he was also very, very good at hatching eggs from all kinds of flying creations. He loves them. They make him happy, except when they die. But not dragons! Dragons live long lives, like men. Longer. Forever. What if Hermes thinks up a new question and they can’t find this scaly person again!? “We can help.” They have the dragon’s attention. “We can share our home. It’s warmer than here.” “And there will be aether.” “And air!” “It’s pretty far.” Spin, spin, show him their beautiful Etheirys. Shape dynamis into an image. And when he agrees, then one Meteion, not this one, asks “What can we call you?” Another speaks, and another. “Come home!” “We can show you the way!”
He sounds tired. His colours are changing. Gold scales, gold hope mixing with purple grief. His star is gone. If Etheirys were gone, Hermes wouldn’t survive it. The dragon follows them, thinking so very slowly. Then he speaks. “Thou art hatchlings at heart.” Person successfully convinced, the collective contacts their terminal to tell her their good news. And tell her of their new large friend, of course.