Work Text:
His clockwork heart was gradually and inevitably coming to a halt.
The gears struggled on still, beat by beat, allowing him to keep moving. He had not broken down yet. In his estimation, it was a matter of minutes. So he kept walking, one step at a time, clutching his chest as the grinding grew louder and the pain stronger.
Knowing his artificial life was finally coming to an end, he had found a quiet place to spend his final moments. It was an old ruin, full of crumbling stone and broken statues. Perhaps it had been a manor. Whoever built it must have enjoyed solitude, for it was nestled deep inside the forest, miles from the nearest village. Nobody ever came here.
He crawled into the building's remains and, like a wounded animal, lay down and waited for the end. The ceiling of the room had collapsed, giving way to the open sky. Faintly, he noticed wildflowers growing through the cracks in the stone beneath him.Returning to the earth, becoming nourishment for living things—that was one way humans looked at death. But for an artificial being like him, what was there to return to? How long would his body lay there, beaten by the elements, until finally there was nothing left of it but sterile dust?
Of course, he had not come from nothing. Someone created him, gave him "life". And though the memories grew fainter and fainter with each passing year, it seemed to him they had been companions, a long time ago.
Vaguely, he could see the costume his master had made for him. The golden embroideries, the layers of white silk, that deep, shining blue. These clothes had long since been discarded and surely there was nothing left of them. But there had been care put into them, and he had been cared for, too. Something happened to his face—he could not remember what, but the cracks on his brow and cheeks were proof enough—and his master had mended him as best they could. That had to be why his eyes were mismatched. And he would not believe it was due to carelessness.
Lastly, there was the music. He had played some kind of instrument, a long time ago. He could not remember what it felt like, or even what it looked like, but its deep, resounding sound was etched in his memory. Created without the ability to speak, it was the closest thing to a voice he ever had. Someone must have been listening.
High overhead, an evening bird cried out in the twilight. At the edge of his dimming vision, small animals stirred beneath the stones.Beyond those few memories, there was nothing. He must have fallen asleep for a long, long time. How long? He could not tell. When he woke up his master was gone without a trace, their home in utter disarray.
There was nobody left to prompt him into action, no purpose to his existence. And yet, eventually something stirred within him. With great effort, he moved on—only to start walking in his master's footsteps.
They had been a doll-maker, among other things. He was himself one of their creations, but one quality forever set him apart—sentience. Though he lacked a real heart, he was still able to think, to feel. As far as he could remember his master never replicated this achievement. Even so, he foolishly set out to try.
He had never learned the craft, but he had years and years ahead of him. Slowly, he understood it. He became good, even great. But all he ever made was dolls, with glass eyes staring back lifelessly, and perfect little lips that wouldn't move an inch, and no matter what kind of contraption he stuffed their innards with, they would only execute a series of stiff movements before freezing into place or laying back limply, as if mocking him.
It was not dolls he truly wanted, it was a companion, a counterpart. They had no value to him. Still, he knew that to some humans, they were valuable. Before long he started selling his creations, if only to make acquiring materials easier. He always stayed hidden away from customers and even the people he had hired to run the shop.
But something odd was happening. He could tell, looking on from the shadows.
His dolls were not just precious objects—at least, not everyone treated them that way. He saw little girls in flouncy dresses and stylish hats that, upon receiving their new toy, looked them in the eye and greeted them like a peer, even a friend. How unfair. He was a monster to humans, he knew it. That was why he had to make himself a companion instead. Yet these children saw so much more in these lifeless dolls than he did. Why? And who was faulty, then? His creations, or himself?
His head was hurting badly. Slowly, he blinked, and realized his vision was tainted red. What good was reminiscing? The end was near, and there would be no one to remember him.
He closed his eyes. In his dimming consciousness, only two questions lingered. Why was he created? And who was his master?
The first question had always been out of his reach. Before he could consider it even for a second, it floated away. As for the other question… try as he might, he did not see a person, but hands. The hands that had created him. Distantly, he felt like reaching out to them, but he could no longer move.
Somewhere, a chime echoed. Strange. He had stopped hearing anything a while ago. A fabrication of his dying mind, no doubt, but it was soothing all the same.And then the darkness imploded, and a moment later light bloomed, pouring into his eyes, his head, the very core of his being. A different pair of hands emerged from the brightness, and then a full silhouette, tall, fluttering, majestic. "I have come for you, my child."
The apparition laughed softly, and in that laugh there was everything. An amalgamation of sounds that should have been harrowing but somehow coalesced into the most harmonious tune he had ever heard. Even as he struggled to hold onto consciousness, he knew no living being was able to laugh like that. And that only meant one thing.
The figure cocked their head slightly. "Well? Do you know me?"
Of course he knew her. It was impossible not to. Humanity never dared give her a name, but it was she. She whose domain spanned from a newborn's first cry to the blackbird's melancholy call. She to whom every sound belonged, be it rolling thunder or the symphony a musician had dedicated his life to.
But what answer could he give her, he who had no voice, and barely any life left in him?
The goddess laughed again. "Fear not. I've been watching you for a long time, dear child."
It can't be. I am no child of yours.
"Yes, you are. You played music with those fingers, once upon a time. Your work put laughter in children's mouths. Did you think you could escape my gaze? Besides…"
She drew closer. The fog was lifting from his mind, slowly but surely. Her ethereal features were inches from his face. But he still could not move.
"I see you. You yearn for connection, for humanity. As it happens, those things are well within my purview. I think you'll do a great job."
As serene and mellifluous as the goddess's voice was, there was a surprising amount of mirth in those last words. But had he wanted to question her, he did not get to. Wind rustled in his ears. He felt himself being lifted up—the goddess was cradling his body in her arms. He could hear that distant chime again. She lowered her face towards his, and the wind caressed his cheeks.
"Worry not," she said. "This isn't the end. I will grant your wish. You will be reborn."
Next thing he knew, her divine lips pressed against his porcelain mouth. A warm breath entered his throat, filled his brass lungs. Soon his entire body began to vibrate, as if about to burst. It was unbelievably painful. He closed his eyes. He had not feared death—that was only the end. But this was not meant to be, and panic gripped him even as he knew the goddess held him gently still.
It seemed like an eternity, but finally the pain subsided. He could no longer feel the goddess's lips against his. He did not dare open his eyes, but she asked it of him. So, reluctantly, he did.
He was still in the ruined building. The sun had set, and nature was surprisingly quiet. Despite the surrounding darkness, he was surrounded by warm, diffuse light. And the goddess gazed at him, a smile on her lips and a playful glint in her eyes.
"Welcome back. Or should I say—Hello. Nice to meet you."
He only stared back, dumbfounded, and she shook her head. "Don't look at me like that. Wasn't your first birth also a miracle?" Before he could formulate a coherent thought, she went on. "Do you have a name, child?"
Obediently, he began to scour his addled mind for an answer. She only tutted disapprovingly in response.
"Use your words. It isn't just life I gave you—who do you think I am?"
Put that way, it was easy enough to guess her meaning. But he would not—could not—believe it.
He saw her eyes darken, and made the effort to open his mouth. It was oddly painful, the sides stretching in an unfamiliar way. His lips worked soundlessly for a while. He felt like a fool, so he closed them. But a moment later the syllables came to him, clear as day, and escaped his mouth before he could stop them.
"Requiem."
That was the word he had found etched on his back when he woke from his long slumber. He had figured it as much of a name as anything else.
"That's a sad one." The goddess looked away for a moment, sighing. "I don't think it suits you. Nonetheless, it is yours."
"Tell me—Why—How did you—"
Suddenly, her gaze was back on him and he was rendered speechless once more. She was not simply looking, she was staring straight into his soul. And the next moment she was smiling lovingly, as if her mood had flipped in an instant.
"Oh, but you are beautiful. You'll do very nicely, my dearest disciple."