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Another flash of blue. Another heavy shadow cast in front of them as they look away from the last moments of their solar system.
Another view of Giant's Deep above them. Another flash of light, from an explosion thousands of kilometers away. Another sigh escapes their mouth.
Another moment remaining in their sleeping roll. Maybe they won't get up this time.
Slate looks towards Protolith as they fidget in their bedroll, turning away from their questioning eyes, before they remain as still as possible, acting as though they've gone back to sleep. Slate blessedly does not provoke conversation, and allows them to continue their 'sleep' peacefully. Protolith closes their eyes, trying to focus on meditation like Gabbro had taught them once....but they don't want to completely lose this timeline either. They want to remain conscious in it, aware that this time, this version of them is in fact real and happening right now. They focus instead on the crackle of the fire burning low, the occasional pop of steam escaping a piece of wood, sometimes a couple branches above rustle in a light breeze–too high for them to feel, but enough to bring the smell of pine down to where they rest. They exhale once more, attention being brought now to the warmth spread at their back, the nape of their neck, the crown of their head and behind the ears–just hot enough to be slightly uncomfortable, but not enough to make them move away. Protolith tunes in on the discomfort. It reminds them that this is their real life, their real world, their real body and mind.
One of their hands snakes out from the bedroll to trace soft lines in the dirt in front of them. They venture to open their lower set of eyes only, watching one finger grow steadily more dusty as it draws over the same circle again and again. With one more sigh, the circle they’ve drawn is blown away, as if it never existed in the first place.
As if it never existed in the first place.
Would it have mattered, if their people had never grown here? If there was no town, no home, if there was no life here at all? What does that matter to the sun, climbing higher in the sky and steadily growing? Who in the solar system cares about them, aside from themselves? Timber Hearth may as well be yet another rocky, empty, nothing planet for all that this timeline amounts to. Protolith may as well never have been born, let alone their parents, or their parents’ parents, or their entire lineage and friends and home…
They close their eyes once more and breathe in, shakily, as deep as they can. Their mind wanders to the Nomai, who lived and died (as they will soon), never knowing the Hearthians or what they will do, how they will grow up and live…and die, as well. Their thoughts travel to the skeletons bent over at the dining tables on Brittle Hollow, the clothed remains collapsed on Ash Twin, their bodies floating inches away from their final recorded words on Dark Bramble. The writing on the walls, the images meticulously drawn out, the Quantum tests and pilgrimage….did that not matter at all ?
Protolith thinks for another moment, and concludes that yes, they did matter. The Nomai, their lives and words and hopes and feelings and love and goals mattered so much to the Hearthian people–no, to Protolith themself–that they made the decision to pursue their own future in linguistics. It provoked so many late nights with them and Hal, burning midnight oil with a little bit of sapwine (swiped from Porphy’s big cauldron before it could finish fermenting all the way), becoming excitable over finding a single letter they can decipher out and add to their dictionary they’ve been compiling based on Feldspar’s artifacts, monuments, pieces to their own personal puzzle. The hugs they’ve shared, the frustration, tears, laughs, memories they’ve made, the relationship they’ve grown together. Their shared joy when the translator came into reality, countered by the fear Protolith set loose from their own mind one late night, in front of a campfire, to Gossan about travelling so far away. For a moment, they had shared Riebeck’s anxiety about their first launch going so poorly..until Gossan knocked some sense into them, invited them to practice a few more times to ensure they knew exactly how to move about in a zero gravity environment and get themself landed safely as possible. All of this had happened as a direct result of the Nomai.
Yes, the Nomai did matter. Would Timber Hearth matter to anyone else?
Protolith opens their eyes again, just enough to stare at the wooded trunk in front of them, light from the flames of the fire dancing in various shapes. They imagined for a moment that the firelight played out a recreation of their life up to this moment–so fleeting, so unnoticed by anyone except themself. Did anything they had done up to this point matter? Would it affect someone else’s life? Would it shape the way anyone else would think, or act, or behave? They could only dream of it…but could not convince themself that, truthfully, it would do anything for any other being. The universe was dying, and they were to die with it. They were meant to die years ago, were it not for the Nomai meddling.
Once again, the Nomai bring meaning to what Protolith does. They wished they had been allowed a bit more agency–but bit their tongue before they could scoff. They should be thankful for the opportunity they have been afforded, to at least be given a goal before all life was snuffed out.
Not that it mattered, in the end.
Did it?
Squeezing their eyes shut to keep the stinging, hot tears from dropping, Protolith huffs once more before turning to their back and looking up at the sky. The sun was out now, daybreak in full swing, with only a couple particularly bright stars still visible. They could feel Slate’s gaze boring into them with question, and maybe a little concern. A hand presses against their eyes to wipe them dry, another pushing against the soft dirt below to bring them sitting upright–they are surely late for launch at this point.
“You planning to get up any time today?” Slate asks gruffly, clearly unaware of all the thoughts that had been racing through Protolith’s mind for the past…..oh stars, how many minutes has it been? How many more does this version of them have to live? They wasted time again, this timeline of them is going to end up having done nothing with the remaining moments of their life. They don’t want to die…not again, they don’t want to do it again and again and again and again. They turn to Slate, intending to mumble some response, but the dam cracks before they could catch it and they burst into loud sobbing.
Slate jolts with widened eyes before Protolith turns away to bite their sleeve, trying to keep the noise muffled and hopefully calm themself quickly. They shove their face into their legs, trying to push their kneecaps into their eyes as hard as possible to soak up any tears before they can spill further. They’ve gotta leave now, or else there will have been no point in living–they freeze when they feel a hand on their upper back, thumb kneading very small circles. A small sigh above them, and the sound of ground shifting beside their bedroll.
“You don’t gotta say anything,” Slate’s voice is lower, having lost some of the grit it typically pulls, and replacing it with some breathy quality. “Take your time, little hatchling. There’s always tomorrow, too.”
That does it. Protolith stops caring about having to do anything else in this timeline, except let themself cry, and cry. They force themself to pretend that this version of them DOES believe that there’ll be a tomorrow to try the launch again. Yes, they can spend the rest of the day calming themself, debriefing, cleaning up and getting ready to take off tomorrow. Maybe they’d go visit the Attlerock first, as per tradition, and say hi to Esker up there, share any new stories that had been going around town, gossip about Marl and that damned tree, laugh about how poorly Porphy’s previous sapwine batch had been flavored (why would you use fiddleheads, WHY??), and call down to Slate telling them that the launch went well, everything was okay, sorry for the trouble yesterday. Maybe after a few hours, they’d make a shaky entrance to Brittle Hollow (they’d always loved the color blue), following their signalscope to where Riebeck was hiding from the black hole at the center. They’d convince Riebeck to trust the gravity crystals, the Hanging City has GOT to be worth all of this anxiety. They come across the city, eventually, after a few scary jumps and trust in the glowing crystals, and Riebeck would wander, surely with stars in their eyes, beside themself with how unspeakably beautiful all the Nomai homes, artifacts, livelihoods were. Protolith would make their way back to their ship to do more exploring as Riebeck continued their research in earnest, throwing themself into their work and thanking Protolith for their help. They’d fly to Chert on Ember Twin next, the planet full of sand from its planetary satellite, and no doubt hear earfuls of how ungracefully they landed their shuttle. Before long, though, Chert would be distracted with explaining their charts–they’d share a cup of tea together, shadows cast from the enormous sun at their sides, with Chert happily pointing out any changes in formation, updates to the constellations, insights to what each cluster and nebula could become in the future. Maybe after listening for a few hours, they’d return to Timber Hearth for some rest, before finally going to see Gabbro on Giant’s Deep, deftly dodging the twisters before coming across that telltale line of smoke from the campfire–goodness knows how many burned marshmallows also make up that smoke. They’d land on the VERY convenient gravity well landing pad, fighting the gravity to heave themself over to Gabbro’s hammock, before plopping on the sand to chat about what work Gabbro’s been up to. Nothing much, as it turns out–after finding the statues, they figured they ought to have earned a nice break. They sit back to listen to Gabbro’s flute, somehow loud enough to pierce through the roaring atmosphere, but still playing a tune in tandem with the winds. They talk after a while, wondering if they will ever find Feldspar wherever they are. Gabbro tells them they have faith that of all Hearthians, Protolith will be the one to bring Feldspar home. Protolith hopes so, makes it a goal of theirs to find them and bring them back. Maybe at that point, they can all return to Timber Hearth and celebrate everyone coming together once more, safe and sound, playing the Traveler’s Tune and hearing it with all instruments. Maybe years from now Protolith would be as good a pilot as Feldspar. Maybe even further in the future, Protolith and Hal could have found their relationship sparking into something else, maybe even a hatchling of their own. Maybe their hatchling could have helped to improve the translator, maybe even teaching all the Hearthians how to speak the Nomai language. Maybe the following generations of Hearthians would be able to find another system where other Nomai still reside, and tell them of what happened with the journey to the Eye, put their companions to rest in their minds and legacy. Maybe they could have all lived together and found the eye, side by side.
Instead, Protolith find themself crawling into Slate’s arms, weeping that tomorrow will never come.
They wake up looking at Giant’s Deep.