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The Antarctic night depicted by the simulator was crystal clear.
Unlike the smog-filled skies of a city, the view through the observation dome’s translucent armor was ablaze with the light of countless stars. The "perfect starry sky" calculated by the computer was silent, cold, and breathtakingly beautiful.
With a rhythmic click, click, an analog telescope tracked the movement of the heavens. Resting a small hand against its cold barrel was the boy who traverses the sea of stars—Voyager.
"Oh, it seems I have a predecessor tonight."
The voice from behind was gentle, careful not to disturb the silence of the night.
Voyager turned to see Bartholomew Roberts. He had shed his usual flamboyant pirate attire for something lighter and more casual.
"Did you come to see the stars, too... Captain?"
"Yes. For some reason, even after getting into bed tonight, my heart wouldn’t settle."
Bartholomew stood beside Voyager and looked up at the zenith with the naked eye, bypassing the lens. His gaze was sharper than any observation glass, looking toward something far, far away.
"…Hey, Captain. They say... the time you wasted for your rose. That is what makes the rose so special," Voyager murmured.
The words felt like a fragment of a story he had once heard from someone, or perhaps a fundamental part of his own primal memory.
"If that is true... the time I wasted in the dark. What did I make special? Did the dark... give me something back? At the end of the long, long path?"
A loneliness spanning hundreds of millions of kilometers. A vacuum where even the warmth of the sun could not reach. To dismiss it simply as "courage" felt inadequate; the path he had followed was far too long, and far too silent.
"…Swing-by. …Further and further away."
Bartholomew watched the boy’s profile with the deep thoughtfulness of a man reading a nautical chart.
"A rose, is it? …That sounds like a beautiful yet stifling logic dreamt up by someone who loves gardening. For a man designed like me, Voyager, those words are a bit of a heavy burden."
"Your… design?"
"Yes. You see, I am not built to confine a single flower within my own garden. It isn’t that something is important because we spent time on it. Rather, we pay with our time in order to reach the place we’ve decided is important. Both you and I."
Bartholomew slid his fingers along the telescope, feeling the touch of the cold metal.
"…Captain. Do we have to 'tame' someone? To be special? They say... being responsible for our bonds is what love is. Is that true?"
At Voyager's question, Bartholomew narrowed his eyes slightly. It was the smile of a pirate—a man who symbolized freedom.
"That is the perspective of those who live on land. They perceive bonds as if they were shackles or chains. But on the sea, anyone who tries to 'tame' the waves or the wind is nothing but a fool. We simply acknowledge their wildness, respect it, and discipline ourselves within it."
"…To see them? And respect them?"
"Exactly. To not change the other, and to not let oneself be changed, but to simply find joy in existing within the same universe—the same sea. Because we do not possess them, there are relationships that can never be lost. …I imagine I love the stars for much the same reason."
Bartholomew pointed toward a pale blue star twinkling at the tip of the telescope’s reach.
"Do you never wish to become someone’s rose? …Do you not fall in love, too?"
"Hahaha, you’re sharp. …Love for me is… well, yes."
Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed—dauntless, yet full of affection.
"Take, for example, the North Star peeking through a gap in the clouds on a stormy night. I have never once thought of it as a mere celestial body. It guides me, and I place my faith in it. If the star, in turn, is enjoying the sight of my helmsmanship… then that is a form of mutual love. The stars never betray me. They simply exist there, releasing me into a voyage of freedom. …Don’t you think that’s a luxurious kind of romance?"
Voyager placed a hand gently over his chest, as if savoring each of Bartholomew’s words. Tucked inside was the Golden Record—the "greeting" that humanity had once entrusted to the cosmos.
"…Loving the stars. It is very quiet. I like it"
"Yes. It requires neither recompense nor exclusivity. It is a relationship made complete by the simple fact that 'you are here, and I am here.' It’s the same for that record you carry, Voyager. Even if it is never opened by anyone, the fact that you are crossing the stars holding it makes your voyage beautiful—and a more passionate love letter than any other."
A smile, faint as a glimmer of light, appeared on Voyager’s lips.
Silence returned between them—the tranquil silence of those who are fulfilled.
Eventually, Bartholomew took a long stretch and lightly patted the boy’s head.
"Well, I should head back soon. Voyager, I pray that good stars always twinkle upon your path. …After all, you are a special navigator passing between my 'lovers.'"
Bartholomew nodded with satisfaction and turned to leave.
Toward his retreating back, Voyager spoke in a small but clear voice.
"—Hello. Have a nice trip, Sailor."
As Bartholomew headed toward the dome’s exit, a faint presence descended from the roof, as if trading places with him.
"…Hmph. Lovers’ spats with the stars? A mere pirate playing the poet is enough to make me laugh."
"Brother, don't say it like that. …Still, Bartholomew. I do not dislike your words. The stars in the night sky are always watching over mortals."
The Dioscuri twins, who had been lingering in the shadows, quietly watched the pirate's departing back and the boy who remained. Even Castor’s sarcasm sounded somewhat like a clumsy blessing in the crisp night air.
When Voyager looked through the telescope again, he saw the binary stars named Castor and Pollux—twins who would never be parted—twinkling pale, yet warm.
The stars shine, and the ship moves on.
The Antarctic night grew deeper, quietly enveloping the dreams of the navigators.