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When it is built into creation, it thinks it must be alive.
Its insides were gored away, carved into something splendid. Pieces attach to its outsides and seal tightly, interlocking molecule by molecule until it can no longer tell what is new and what is old. Small, clacking, clattering claws tip, tap, tap upon and around and within itself, and it thinks: it must be alive.
It is a great, hulking thing of metal and song. Small creatures curl themselves within in and strum sweet, lovely songs down its body. Many many many times they empower it with a hot, hot, sizzling sort of power, the kind that makes it think it can go in a straight line, forever and forever. It wonders what it has been created for until it is lifted into the sky far above its home, its birthplace, and realizes it is a vessel.
There are small creatures within it. Its creators. Perhaps not all of them. It is a small number to what it has known before. The urge it forward, far away from their shared home. It is reluctant, it thinks, but the power that surges through it is like nothing else it has experienced before. Of course not; it has never experienced anything before.
This is all new.
They cruise through the cosmos, it and the creatures inside. There is a dust pelting its hull, some fragments here and there. It keeps the creatures inside safe from the debris, but it quickly finds that there is something that afflicts them, far smaller than it can see, far smaller than it could ever hope to defend against.
The creatures inside start to go still. For a long, long time. The ones awake are set aflurry with panic, rushing around its insides in certain patterns that make no sense to it. It pushes and claws and barrels its way through the thick, inky smog of this hellish emptiness, desperate to find something else to defend against.
Its purpose was clear: transport these creatures to wherever they wish to go. But the creatures inside… they do not breathe anymore. They do not hum nor sing nor wail within it. It is all silent.
It thinks perhaps it failed. Driftlessly surging forward, to what end? But there is a stirring within itself, and it is a scared, feeble creature—the only one left.
It is determined, it believes. It has never experienced that feeling before; of course it hasn't. This is all new.
It is determined to protect this creature. This one who wails and hums and stays confined within only one section of its insides. That is okay, it believes; it is far easier to protect something that which never moves than something that it cannot see.
It hopes that whatever has penetrated it never comes back again.
There is an aching within them—itself and that creature inside. It mourns that which is could not protect, and the creature mourns the loss of its brethren. It is a sharp sort of ache, something that does not fade into the background; ceaselessly present and withstanding anything it tries to do to dull that pain.
But they are here at their destination, this certain place of stars and planets that the creatures desperately wanted to go to, and it will chauffer that creature inside to wherever it wishes to go, and one day, it will bring that little thing safely back home. It's journey completed. It has decided.
The aching never goes away. It simply learns to exist with it.
They travel the system, it and the creature inside. It does not know what the creature is doing, but it keeps it safe nonetheless. It could not keep the others safe, but it would do anything for this one. It must. That is why it was created.
It is a long time, it thinks, before something happens. The creature within it sings songs to no one but themselves. It tries to reply, but it was never built for that.
Something is approaching. The creature within it notices it, too, and they chase it together. It wants to catch it, it wants to know what it is, but it is frightened, just as it was when it has first come here.
Worry do not, it said to the other. Mean no harm.
Is scared, the other sing-songs. Its voice is beauty, otherworldly, nothing it has never experienced before. How wonderful it is. A quarter of its size, and yet so sleek and quick. It curls around the other before they both cease moving. They regard one another.
There is a creature inside, it tells the other.
Yes, the other agrees. My child is here to save itself.
Out here? it questions. Why risk itself?
My children are sick. This one is here to save them all. There used to be more, the other mourns.
It mourns, too. Both have lost creatures.
The other's child climbs onto its back and catches a container its creature had sent over.
They speak, it told the other.
They will find hope within each other.
What is hope? it wonders.
The other is silent as it starts to twirl. Spinning, spinning, spinning. It is a beautiful sight, the other. It is splayed so beautifully against the darkness behind it. The creature inside it urges it to twirl as well, and they dance and dance and dance.
Swirl after twirl, a pivot here and a dip there, they match one another. Oh, it is wonderful, this amazing dance. For so long, it thinks, it has been adrift in this sea of planets and star, alone, alone, alone. And now, it has a partner. The other is a marvelous dancer, it believes, perhaps the best of them all.
It has never known another dancer, of course not; this is all new. And how wonderful this other vessel has come to be!
Hope is good. Everything good within these children. The other slows its spinning, and so does it. It is reluctant to still—it has hope that they will once again dance.
The creature inside is not a children, it says.
Then what is it? questions the other. It ponders this. The creature is beautiful, it knows, and strong. It is here while the others are not.
It is my creature, it decides, then. Just as the other has children, it has its creature.
The other's child throws a small canister back, and the creature inside catches it artfully. So talented, these two, and to have met in such a fantastic way; it is remarkable, it thinks. Its creature urges material to be built along its side, and it groans and twists and turns so that it carefully, oh so carefully, brushes against the other.
Do you care to dance with me? it asked hopefully.
Of course! the other laughs, a chiming sort of laugh that is the most beautiful sound it has ever heard. It is filled with glee—a happiness that is never never felt, of course not; this is all new!
The child and its creature—they meet and begin to talk and hope begins to blossom between them, but it and the other, oh they are lost in the dance. The stepping, the twirling, oh the dips and the pivots, they are a wonderful complement to each other. It leads the other in swirls and the other laughs and laughs and laughs.
Where have you learned to dance? the other wonders. It curls around the other and croons.
It has never learned. It learns with you, it says. You are a very good instructor.
Oh, but I have never danced before, either, the other claims, but it must be a lie! There is no explaining the perfection of its moves, the sway of its smaller, sleeker body against the cosmic wind. Perhaps you are the greater instructor.
But I never would have danced had I not met you, it promises. I have only had one purpose; to travel with my creatures and protect them. I have already…
Oh, the other mourns with it, slowing their dance into something softer, quieter, but no less grand, no less lovely. Oh, my children have gone away, too. We will miss them forever. My child and your creature; they will save the others.
Just as you have saved me, it remarks quietly, leaning in ever so closer. Oh, what wonders it shares with the other, that spark of determined purpose that has evolved into something more, something far more lovely than it could have ever believed possible.
But soon, the child and the creature part away from it, and it worries, now, because the creature has gone inside the other and does not intend to return to it.
Worry not, the other soothes, twirling around it in one last goodbye. I will keep them both safe. We will all return to you, soon.
Hurry back, it pleads, watching the other go with its creature and the other's child. It mourns their loss, but awaits impatiently for their inevitable return. And oh, how beautiful the other looks from so far… If only the other stayed close, instead.
When the other finally returns, it is bruised and battered, but carries an air of success and happiness.
What has happened to you? it asks, brushing against the other and curling around it. They do not dance, yet, but merely bask in each other's presence. How perfectly the other slots into its empty places, nestled and curled up and oh, so, there.
I have kept them both safe, the other boasts, though tiredly, as if the messages between them were a monumental task to emit.
I knew you would, it soothes the others wounds. Its creature and the other's child connect them together, and while it is reluctant to dance with the other so weakened, it reluctantly begins to twirl. Slowly, ever so slowly.
Worry not, the other assures, I have not lost my skill. Someone exceptional has taught me.
Oh? it laughs lightly, holding it close. Ah, but my everything has taught me, instead. Can your exceptional beat my everything?
Of course it can, the other sings, something light and wonderful and beautiful.
The dance, and though the other explains that it will be their final dance, for its creature has given what which powers it to the other, and the other shall take its child home, they both revel in their movements. So crisp, so structured, and yet so wild and so free. They follow no pattern and yet they both hear a rhythm, of which is loud and fast and heart-poundingly amazing but slow and careful and soothing at the very same time.
It is a dance they do together, among the stardust of the cosmos, bound together by mere chance. Oh what songs the other sings to it, and what movements it shows the other. A waltz, they create, the pair of them, together with their child and their creature.
It is a wonderful time, but time ends as it always does, and soon they break apart, reluctantly and mourning.
Perhaps we will meet again, one day, the other says wistfully.
Your children and my creatures, it promises, they will meet again, and so, too, will us.
I will always remember our dances, the other promises.
What else to do with them? it asks with amusement. Nothing but to remember them. And you. Fondly, my entire being will sing for you.
And mine yours, the other croons, twisting one last time around it. The creature inside urges it toward home, and it must comply, but oh, will it miss the other. The other turns away, too, urged on by the child inside, but oh… will the other miss it.
Thank you, it calls out, for the dance.
Thank you! the other sings so sweetly, for being here among the stars!
They part, and it is with great sorrow that it and the creature inside returns home, but it is with great excitement that their journey comes to an end.
It is weak. It has no power surging through its hull, through its tanks, through its wires. The small things its creature has broad inside itself ravage its insides, devouring everything that they touch. And they touch it. Everywhere. Soon, it will be unable to breathe for its creature, unable to shield it, unable to protect it.
It will have failed its mission, its purpose.
They were so close.
Oh, how it aches to think that this is the end of its frightfully long journey. To simply lay down within the cosmic clouds and dip into that eternal slumber—no, it does not wish to, not when it had extracted a promise to see one another again from the other and its child.
I am sorry, it mourns to its creature. The creature inside is full of panic and despair, and it does everything it can to fix it, but they both know that its machinations are for naught. There is nothing they can do but sit here and slowly, slowly, slowly wither. Oh, how sorry I am.
It surges forward every so slightly until it completely runs out of its power. They drift aimlessly, and maybe, eventually, they will reach home, but its creature will have long since laid into the eternal slumber, and the small things it has brought inside, too. There is no saving its creature, not here nor on their home.
It rests there, for a while, curling around the creature and trying to protect it from what has taken the others, what will surely eventually take it. If it cannot bring it home, surely it can prolong its inevitable demise.
I am sorry, it weeps. I am sorry.
hello, something sings in the distance. It is a faint thing, a faint thread of red twine, curled from one end of itself and disappearing toward another. But oh, how it careens towards it, stretching with all its last, feeble might. Hello.
It is you, it marvels, gazing upon the other with such thick affection that it steals its never ending hopelessness away. It has never experienced this before; of course not. This is all new.
…And it will be the last new thing it will ever experience.
It's me, the other returns with soft love stringing along on its lovely voice. Oh, how it wishes it could hear its croon until the end of their time together, and it surely will. For the end of its time is coming.
My creature, it wails, seeing the other's child climb aboard its back and launch toward itself. It catches the child, cradling it gently. My creature needs its hope.
My child will return it, the other soothed, pressing against it and itching to twirl once more. But it has no energy, no will to dance. It cannot muster a pirouette, a spin, a twirl, nothing. I will take them both back to your home. My child has sent the solution to my other children… now it will take the solution to your creatures.
It wails and mourns the loss of the creature as it goes toward the other, but it can think of no better place for it to be. It could not protect it, not as much as the other will be able to. Oh, but it will miss the creature, that determined little thing that survived far longer than the others through nothing but pure spite.
Thank you, it weeps, with gratitude but with loss so surmountable it cannot even fathom. It has never experienced this before, and it will never again. Oh, thank you for returning to me.
We were made to be, the other swore, twirling around it in one last, final dance. Made to meet, made to dance.
I have enjoyed dancing with you, it says tiredly. You have been exceptional.
You have been my everything, the other promises, swears, mourns. It watches the other go until it can no longer see its beautiful, twirling form.
And perhaps, some far away day, when the other's children and its creatures are ready to meet across the cosmos, they will stumble upon an abandoned, sleeping vessel, and wonder. They will attach cables and wires and cords to it, and they will tug it back home, and it will awaken one day, astonished to have finally completed its mission.
It will find the other resting there, slumbering around its home and waiting for a new mission, a new need to fulfuill. The other has done its very best, and now it longs for the simplicity of experiencing wonders.
It will see the smaller, sleeker vessel, and it will exclaim in pure, relieved joy that the other had made. This will rouse the other, who will seek it out and embrace for the first time in many, many days.
Will you dance with me? it will ask the other.
Of course, the other will respond, and that will be it.
It will dance with the other around their home, forever and till the end of time, for that's what they were made to do; together.