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“I don’t believe you,” Wisdom said, and, really, that was a great way to start any conversation, wasn’t it? The best kind of conversation to start with while playing Go. A game that Nebula needed to actually focus on because was historically terrible at it.
“Great,” Nebula said flatly. “What am I supposed to do about it?”
Wisdom’s head spun indecipherably. “How did you really win against us?”
“What?”
“It can’t possibly have been because you gave up control,” Wisdom continued. “We’re Gods; We are essentially omniscient. Unlike when this was a game, we actually can feasibly control everything and not miss any glaring weaknesses in between. Giving up control, as I see it, is only a weakness. So what did you actually do to—”
“I didn’t lie, Wisdom.” Nebula interjected, moving a piece. “I really did give up control.”
“Well,” Wisdom chuckled, moving a piece almost immediately after Nebula moved his, like he was expecting it. “I know you’re lying, so there’s no need to keep it up. You have a different method of controlling them, perhaps, but there’s no way you actually gave up control.”
Nebula stared at Wisdom for a very long time, at a loss for words. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of a few lizardmen playing cards. Joy. Sorrow at loss. Teasing happiness.
Behind Wisdom, there was only silence.
Nebula opened his mouth. “Were you abused as a child?”
O~O
“So did you ask him?” Zhangwan asked, generally amused with everything.
Wisdom waved a hand and sat on his throne. It was hard, unpleasant, and far too ornate for his tastes, but he had appearances to keep up, so sacrifices of comfort needed to be made, he supposed. “I did.”
“And?”
Wisdom’s head spun with irritation. “He asked me if I was abused as a child.”
Zhangwan choked and began to cackle. Wisdom was not amused.
O~O
“It can’t have been that simple.”
“Wisdom.”
“You had to have done something.”
“Wisdom.”
“Giving up control would not have had some magical solution like this—it’s more likely to crash and burn anyway, so—”
“Wisdom!”
Wisdom’s head spun and he inclined his gaze. Nebula gestured at the board between them, and his wings fluttered with no small amount of irritation. “Your move.”
Wisdom didn’t even spare a glance to the board before he moved a pawn in what was so obviously a distracted blunder that Nebula couldn’t help but feel incredibly disgruntled with the universe.
“Look.” Nebula strained out. “If you don’t want to play, then tell me now so I don’t waste my time. I have other things to do.”
Wisdom’s head spun. “Like what?” he challenged. “You’ve already won the continent. You don’t even control your king. What could you possibly have to do?”
Nebula stared at Wisdom blankly. In the back of his mind, Sratis lumbered awake. “You weren’t abused as a child,” Nebula decided, quietly easing Sratis back to peace. “You just had too many expectations.”
O~O
“Okay, okay,” Zhangwan’s mask stretched in some grotesque grin. “What did he say this time?”
Wisdom’s Great Icosahedron of a head spun, the negative light of the Void catching between the grooves.
“Come ooooonnnn,” Zhangwan wheedled. “Tell meeeeeeeeeeeee.”
Wisdom looked away as best he could with a head that had a face in literally every direction. “He said I wasn’t abused as a child.”
Zhangwan’s face fell so fast it was almost funny. “Oh,” they mused, “That’s… I didn’t think he had it in him. Huh.”
Wisdom’s head spun. “…He said I was raised with too much expectation.”
Zhangwan burst into cackles. “I KNEW IT!” they cried, “I KNEW THAT BASTARD HAD IT IN HIM!”
O~O
“Today’s not a game day.” Nebula intoned flatly. “Why are you here?”
“…I was curious as to what Heukrin looked like.” Wisdom made a show of looking around. A show that was negatively impacted by, again, the fact that he had a face in literally every direction offered by his head. “Hm. You have lots of flowers.”
Nebula stared at Wisdom, presumably at a loss for words. “…Heukrin is near a peninsula near the equator, Wisdom,” he ventured cautiously. “I thought… I thought you knew basic geography…”
“I know basic geography, Nebula,” Wisdom snapped, “I’m just… observing.”
“…Right.” Nebula tilted his head. “Because… you enjoy flowers.”
“No.” Wisdom stared at the closed bud of some unknown flower and idly considered using his divinity on it to force it open. “It’s… It’s been a century or so.” More than a century and time was slipping away, and a part of Wisdom, the part that was still human, was horrified at the fact that it was slipping away, how could it slip away, how long would he last, what would happen, what would— “My kingdom is frozen almost year-round.” Wisdom inclined his gaze towards Nebula. “I’d almost forgotten the sight.”
“Huh.” Nebula flicked his wrist and a bumblebee crawled out of his sleeve. It shook its bulbous body and took to the sky, bumbling, fumbling its way through the air before it landed on an open flower’s petal. “Aren’t you close to Runda’s nation? She should have flowers for you.”
“I don’t engage with other players much.”
“Ah.”
Wisdom used one side of his head to watch Nebula, and the other to watch the bumblebee. The rest took in the surroundings. All of it was information. Relatively useless information, sure (what with Nebula being an ally now), but information nonetheless.
…Wisdom idly acknowledged that his human self would not have been able to comprehend so many things at once.
“…I…” Wisdom tilted his head and watched as the bumblebee flew off into nowhere. “I don’t remember my childhood.”
The words were small and flat—nothing like a confession. It wasn’t torn out of him, nor was it breathy, like it was wrung out of him. It was—It was bland. It was said as fact. Like this was an indelible truth of the universe and Wisdom could not be bothered to feel anything about it.
Nebula’s wings—or were they a cape? Wisdom tried to make sense of it more times than he could count (a lie, he could count quite a bit, and the answer was 1,347,662) and the more he looked at it, the less sense it made—fluttered.
“Isn’t it interesting?” Wisdom was calm. He was very calm. He did not know how he forgot anything—his memory was perfect, it had always been perfect—and he did not know when he forgot anything, but it was fine that he did, it was all under control, he was calm. Very calm. “Of all the perfection that we as Gods have, we still are subject to small imperfections like this.”
Nebula tilted his head. “Are you… Are you trying to relate to me or something?”
“I’m attempting to make sense of your thought process when allegedly giving up control, yes.” Wisdom’s head spun.
“…Wow.” Nebula stared at Wisdom blankly. “So you’re saying that the only reason I gave up control… Is because I am imperfect?”
Wisdom wasn’t sure about that. Wisdom knew he was imperfect. He who had forgotten, despite everything, he who had lost, he, the Twisted Tie who ruled with fear more than love. Wisdom knew he was imperfect.
But Nebula…
Nebula beat him. Nebula beat them all.
Nebula, in Wisdom’s opinion, was the being closest to perfection currently possible.
So, despite everything, despite his attempt at rationalizing Nebula’s actions, he still couldn’t make sense of it. How could a being so close to perfection willingly cede control to imperfection?
“…No.” Wisdom decided, with a small, hidden note of irritation. “There’s another reason. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“…Right.” Nebula barked out a short laugh. “It isn’t like I told you the answer or anything.”
Wisdom searched his memory, shoving down the irrational fear that he’d perhaps forgotten something. “You’ve told me the answer to nothing.”
Nebula held out his fist and let it uncurl slowly. A moth-related bug, the name of which escaped Wisdom at the moment, fluttered its wings. They were wrinkled, Wisdom noted, like it had only just come out of the chrysalis. “You’re thinking too much, Wisdom.” Nebula said finally, an unspecified length of time later when the moth’s wings had swollen to full length and it began to hover just beyond the reach of Nebula’s hand. “Some things just are.”
Wisdom’s head did not spin, but the light glanced off one of the divots, and he watched as the moth flitted off into nowhere.
O~O
Some things just are.
Wisdom approved the coronation of a new king and relaxed himself into the surge of faith it gave him.
Some things just are.
The king would be a good one, Wisdom thought. It was well liked, it would govern efficiently, and—most importantly—it would follow him well.
Some things just are.
Wisdom stared at the screen showing his newest king, his omniscient focus honed in on a singular point for once, and he realized, very suddenly, that he was tired.
O~O
“Why did you follow Nebula?” It was a question that hadn’t left Wisdom’s mind no matter how many times he assured himself of the answer.
“Huh?” Runda narrowed her eyes. “Wait, are you under the impression that you would’ve won if I stayed with you?”
Wisdom was under that impression wasn’t.
Runda smiled slowly, a tilted, twisted thing. “You’re asking me this question,” she said, “But I think you already know the answer.”
Wisdom’s head tilted. “Nevertheless. Humor me.”
Runda leaned back, floating lightly in the Void. “If it had been necessary to sacrifice my entire nation and all my followers,” she started, “You would have done it.”
Wisdom tilted his head back. “Yes.” he agreed. “That is how you play the game, is it not?” Every dubiously living thing beneath them was liable to be sacrificed for the ultimate form of victory. That was the nature of Lost World.
Only one could remain.
Runda’s smile twisted a little more to the point where Wisdom realized it wasn’t really a smile at all. “Wisdom, she said. “This isn’t a game.”
Wisdom did not understand.
“They’re alive, Wisdom.” Runda snapped her fingers and summoned thousands upon thousands of screens, to the point where Wisdom strained to look at all of them at once. “They’re alive. They are born, they struggle, they bleed, they die, and to them we are their salvation.” Runda shook her head. “They look at us for sanctuary, Wisdom. They’re real.”
A renar was praying at a shrine. A renar was kissing a baby. A renar was arguing with a merchant. A renar was sleeping on the street. A renar was dancing on a stage. A renar was hugging another renar and Wisdom could almost feel the prayers spilling from their lips even though he wasn’t even their god.
A renar was looking at the screen, and there was a sparkle in its eyes.
“Nebula was the number one Lost World player in the world,” Wisdom heard himself say. “He was known for drastic plays and a game sense that was almost supernatural. What made you think he would not have sacrificed your nation if it came down to it?”
Runda shook her head and dispelled the screens. “Talk to Eldar,” she advised, diplomatically handing off Wisdom’s question to a third person. “They may be able to give you the answers you need.”
Wisdom nodded and turned away.
“Wisdom,” Runda called out. “You think too much.”
Wisdom stilled.
“Some things just are.”
O~O
Before Wisdom had gone to Eldar, he’d gone to Zhangwan. Zhangwan, his closest ally. Zhangwan, his closest friend.
“Do I think too much?” he asked.
Zhangwan jolted and immediately flew back a few paces. “Who are you and what have you done to Wisdom?” they demanded.
Wisdom’s head spun and tilted forward. He let empty silence fill the negative air.
Zhangwan immediately relaxed. “Oh, it’s you.” They frowned. “It’s you. Why are you asking this question?”
Because I’d been told this more than once, and that means it is not a fluke. I should pay attention to it—it’s a flaw in my character, it’s a flaw in me, and I must have absolute control over myself—
“It has been… a point of contention for me.” Wisdom admitted diplomatically. “I—”
“Yes.”
“Pardon?”
Zhangwan stared at Wisdom, indecipherable. “The answer is yes,” they elaborated without really elaborating. “You do think too much. It’s how that bastard Choi Sungwoon keeps beating you.”
Choi Sungwoon.
A name that perhaps once held meaning, but now as more than a century had passed, it had become as meaningless as dust in the wind.
This was once Nebula’s name.
“Simplicity is the soul of efficiency.” Zhangwan continued. “I think he’d said this once, so long ago. It sounds like something he’d say.” Zhangwan’s face turned distant, the mask warping until it lost all life and became still, like it really was a toy. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
Wisdom felt discomfort nothing.
O~O
Eldar was a strange being. Transient and intransient at the same time. His entire existence was linked to life itself, for what was alive could create, and the mere act of creation was, by nature, art.
“You’ve perfected the use of your small domain.” Wisdom observed, and Eldar jolted, their frail frame like a wisp in a nonexistent wind. “It seems like you’ve perfected it for a long time.”
Eldar cleared their throat. “Haha, yes! Yes. Yes. I did not… Ha, I did not understand the value of my small domain until civilization had already been somewhat established.”
Wisdom inclined his head. “Why do you continue to work under him, then?”
Eldar frowned. “What?”
“Nebula,” Wisdom elaborated. “Technically, you could stand on your own.” More than that, really—Eldar could probably stand equal to Nebula if they truly tried. Art was an abstract concept, and so once it managed to gain traction, it was incredibly difficult to combat. “You don’t… Hm. You don’t need to stay with him.”
Eldar’s face twisted into something indecipherable. “Wisdom,” they asked carefully. “Why are you here?”
“Merely to ask questions.” And to gather data. Wisdom did not believe, could not believe that Nebula’s method of just—just letting go was in any way the new meta.
“And the question you’re asking… is why I follow or continue to follow Nebula?”
Even if the world was alive, even if Lost World was real, it changed nothing. People often failed to know what was truly best for themselves, and was that not the basis for religion itself? To obey a perfect being that inherently knew better than you, so you would disclaim all faults of your own?
But Wisdom was not perfect, was he?
Eldar hummed. “I suppose… It’s because he spared me, I think. Well, that might’ve been it at first.” They tilted their head. “Yes, that might have been it at first. However, as time went on, I suppose I followed him because—”
Eldar said words. Eldar said words and Wisdom could not understand. Eldar was talking. Eldar was speaking. The meaning of the words was there, right there in front of him, but Wisdom could not comprehend it.
Eldar paused, and Wisdom’s head spun. “Ah,” they said, eloquently. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m still getting used to the shared power of the Pantheon.”
“Is that so?” Wisdom strained out.
Eldar smiled apologetically. “There is a kind of power in being able to let go and still have things go your way that Nebula has in excess.” He rephrased. “You know it, don’t you? Sometimes the story just writes itself.”
Wisdom didn’t often engage in writing, so he didn’t know, actually.
“I hope this was a good enough answer for you.”
It wasn’t.
“It helped.” Wisdom said. “I’m going home now.”
Eldar smiled a touch wider. “Oh! Safe trip!” he paused. “Also, I think I remember Krampus telling me that he’d surprise you with a visit today. Just—letting you know.”
Wisdom inclined his head. “Our trips are always safe.” He said aloud.
O~O
Krampus was a little bit like a force of nature in the way a drunk driver was a force of nature—that is to say, he was an absolute directionless trainwreck who somehow managed to accomplish the creation of an entire nation on whimsy.
“Wisdom!” Krampus laughed and waltzed into Wisdom’s section of the Void. “You’ve been visiting everyone but me! How cruel could you be?”
Wisdom inclined his head. “I saw no need to visit you.”
Krampus grinned. “No need, but was there not a want?”
Wisdom’s head spun. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to visit!” Krampus floated backwards, grinning sharply. “Now that we’re allies, I don’t need to toe around you anymore.” I can pay you back for all the bullshit you put me through, remained unsaid.
Krampus: the name of a figure from a legend that everyone had likely forgotten save Wisdom (because Wisdom remembered, Wisdom always remembered even when he forgot). It was said that Krampus was half-goat, half-demon, and wholly cruel. It acted as a sort of dark inversion of Santa Claus, only it came before Santa Claus.
It was an instrument used by fearful mothers to scare children into behaving. If you act naughty, they would say, Krampus will come to you on Krampusnacht, and beat you, torture you, bring you to its lair.
And then it will eat you.
…It all came back to control, didn’t it?
“Krampus,” Wisdom started, because if he was in this for the inch, he was in this for the mile. “When you first lost to Nebula—”
“It was about a century ago man, I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast this morning.” Krampus dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Ask me something else.”
Wisdom forced himself still. “I wasn’t asking about a century ago, Krampus. I was asking about the recent war. You had fought Nebula—”
“Right, right,” Krampus smiled beatifically. “After you abandoned me, right. Yeah, I remember all that.”
Wisdom’s head pitched forward. “…Do you hold a grudge?”
It was a worry, of course, because infighting within the Pantheon was… hm. Though it wouldn’t do much real damage, it wasn’t the best for the image of unity they needed to present to their devotees.
Krampus laughed. “As much of a grudge as I could hold.” He said vaguely. “How are you even so sure that Nebula told me anything? He just judged my gameplay—or, well, you can’t really call it gameplay anymore, hm?” Krampus shook his head from side to side, his horns catching the negative light to glow something dark and sinister.
Wisdom’s head spun. “Pardon?”
Krampus leaned in sharply. “Wisdom.” He said, very, very seriously. “You’re thinking too much.”
Wisdom stilled.
“This isn’t a game, man.” Krampus continued, and, wow, if Krampus apparently got it too, then Wisdom was the odd one out here, wasn’t he? Wisdom was the one who couldn’t understand—it was Wisdom who didn’t know better? “When was the last time you actually interacted with your devotees?”
“…What?”
Krampus inclined his head. Rectangular pupils focused on Wisdom with unnerving accuracy. “You should visit the dreams of your priest or something,” he advised. “I’ve been doing that recently. It costs a bit of faith, but we have more than enough to spare—and either way, it’s the new meta, right?”
Wisdom’s head spun. “…You should leave.”
Krampus tilted his head, vaguely amused. “Do you not like what I’m saying?” he smiled wider. “Everyone else has been telling you the same thing, Wisdom. We’ve been repeating ourselves over and over for you. Honestly, Nebula probably gave you the straightest answer, all things considered.”
Wisdom… Hm. Wisdom felt odd. “And,” he said. “What was this straight answer?”
Krampus tilted his head. “Some things just are.”
Wisdom—
Wisdom—
Wisdom turned away. “Leave.” He commanded.
Krampus smiled and left.
O~O
Wisdom visited the dreams of his priest that night.
“Oh, Twisted Tie.” His priest whimpered. “Have I sinned? Have I sinned?”
Wisdom stared down at his priest. This was a mistake.
“I’m sorry,” his priest sobbed. “I must be set straight. I must be set straight. I must be said straight.”
Wisdom peeled himself out of the dreamscape and stared into nothing for a very long time.
O~O
“I’ll choose the game we play today.” Nebula announced.
Wisdom’s head turned. “Why is Krampus here?”
Krampus smiled brightly. “If only two people play this game, it gets kind of boring, you see—”
“We’re playing Go Fish.” Nebula interrupted. “Have you ever played it before?”
Wisdom couldn’t say he had.
“Long story short, you need to get as many card sets as possible.” Krampus said. “You either ask us for what you have, or you pull from the pile. If you don’t have what someone else asks you for, you say Go Fish.”
“The what?”
Nebula snapped his fingers and more than half of the deck that was kept neat in Wisdom’s hands was splayed on the ground. Nebula sat and snapped his fingers again. “I dealt randomly,” he assured. “It’s no fun if I rig the game anyway.”
Wisdom stared at his hand. Seven cards.
“So,” Nebula said, “I heard you’ve been asking around.”
“Do you have any threes? Nebula?” Krampus scratched his chin and brightened when Nebula floated a three over to him.
“I’ve been attempting to decipher your words.” Wisdom admitted. There was no shame in admitting fault to a being of greater perfection than him.
Nebula shook his head. “You’re thinking about it too hard. Take it at face value.”
“Wisdom? You got any threes?”
Wisdom shook his head.
“Is that, like, a yes or a no?”
“No. Go… fish.” Krampus groaned and pulled from the pile.
“I’ve been attempting to take it at face value, but it just seems impossible. Some things just are. Are what? What are they?” Wisdom’s head spun, and a foreign feeling irritation, this was irritation welled up in his chest.
“They are.” Nebula paused. “Krampus, a ten?”
“Go Fish.”
“They are what they are,” Nebula continued, pulling from the pile. “There is no controlling that.”
Wisdom’s head pitched forward. “Nebula. Ten.”
Nebula sighed and handed over two tens.
“To live is to think is to defy,” Krampus hummed. “It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that.”
“Krampus, a nine?”
Krampus cursed and surrendered three nines. Wisdom won the first set. “I,” Krampus snarled, “Am really tempted to use your head as a soccer ball.”
Wisdom’s head spun. “You can attempt it,” he assured ambivalently. “But you will fail. Nebula, a four.”
“Go Fish.”
Wisdom pulled from the pile. He got a seven. What a useless pull.
“Yo, Wisdom, gimme your fours.”
Wisdom’s hand clenched against his will. He handed over two fours. Krampus got the second set.
“Hm. Nebula. Gimme a, uh, six?”
“Go Fish.”
“Aww.”
It took about two more sets, both of which were won by Nebula, for Wisdom to realize this was an utterly pointless game, devoid of all strategy and control. One would gamble for a card in a pile that was a mess, and guess as to what cards the other players had in order to build their own points. Once the principles were found, it was… boring.
A drag.
And yet… oddly fulfilling.
Wisdom… could not put a reason as to why.
The game ended far too soon in his opinion. They were about to start another round when Krampus had to leave. “Sorry,” he’d said distractedly. “There’s a plague, and I need to perform a miracle.”
“Shame,” Nebula drawled. “I was having fun.”
Wisdom was having fun too, but he’d sooner be vassalized than admit it.
When Krampus left, Nebula shifted back. Wisdom’s head spun.
They were in a meadow.
Nebula strolled through the tall grass. He grazed his finger against the stems. Purple flower fields. Wisdom remembered this place. He’d been there not so long ago. They still hadn’t bloomed, it seemed.
Nebula turned to face Wisdom, and for a few moments, there was silence. Then, Nebula held his hand out and let his fingers uncurl. Inside, there was a moth.
Wisdom watched it for an untold length of time. The moth’s wings fluttered, flitted, and they swelled with life.
“It’s beautiful.” Nebula said, But it’s not mine, Nebula didn’t say.
The moth fluttered away. The sun dipped over the horizon. The buds slowly cracked open, blue light spilling from the inside.
Wisdom looked at the world around him. The world bloomed with light. “The last time we were here, I wanted to bloom the flowers myself to see what was inside.” He murmured.
“Hm. No patience?”
Wisdom said nothing.
“Under you, what is strong will capitulate, and what is weak will wither away. In the end you have a robust flower. This is… not a wrong method.” Nebula flicked the flower petal and a bumblebee fluttered over. Or—at least, Wisdom thought it was a bumblebee. Its stripes were blue and black and the wings glowed with ethereal light. Hm. Perhaps it wasn’t quite what he thought it was. “But if you merely waited, encouraged, coaxed, and prodded, all the buds would bloom anyway, and the flower would be robust nevertheless.”
“…I thought you didn’t want to help me.”
“I never said I didn’t want to help you. I merely thought myself incapable.” Nebula corrected. “You’re my ally. I’m… invested, you could say, in your, hm. Well-being.”
Wisdom stared at the world around him. Information filtered into his mind. More than he could ever have handled as a human. “…I don’t remember who I was.” He confessed quietly, and, oh, this was a confession. Quiet, like he was telling a secret. Quiet, like it was shameful. “I don’t remember why I’m like this. Why I feel the need to be like this.”
There, Wisdom thought, very, very morosely, Is something wrong with me.
“I don’t actually remember my sister’s face.” Nebula said suddenly, and it was so sudden, this segue, that Wisdom’s head was left reeling. “I’m confident enough to be able to point out who is or isn’t her, but I can’t remember her face.”
This was a confession, torn straight from Nebula’s soul for how lackadaisically it was said. It was ragged and raw, like pain. It was tired, like begrudging peace.
“…I didn’t think you forgot anything.” Wisdom admitted.
“It’s been more than a century, Wisdom. Everyone’s forgotten something.” Nebula paused. “Except for Eldar somehow.”
Despite himself, Wisdom stuttered out a laugh.
Eldar truly was a strange, strange being.
“How imperfect we are,” Nebula marveled aloud. “And yet to be given the position of God over mortals.”
Wisdom stared everywhere and nowhere. The world was beautiful, he realized, and so much more so than he’d ever given the grace to see. Ladybugs in the grass, fireflies in the air, the bumblebee flitting, feeding on the flowers. He saw everything. Wisdom saw everything.
I…
Wisdom’s head spun. There was too much to take in. He felt like he was going mad. Eldar’s words entered his mind once more, and—they were beginning to make sense.
I can’t…
“I believe you.” Wisdom managed. “I believe you. I believe you, but I don’t understand it. It is… indecipherable to me. I’ve—” kept my hand closed so tight, I’ve forgotten how to uncurl my fingers.
“Your ideal of perfection is based on your perception of perfection as an imperfect being.” Nebula said. “How flawed is your ideal then? How much will it change?”
Is it even true?
A surge of golden light. The impression of beauty so overpowering not even Wisdom could properly look at it. Eldar. “Nebula, I—” Eldar paused. “Wisdom.”
“Eldar.” Wisdom greeted.
“You.” Nebula greeted.
Eldar harrumphed good-naturedly. “How is it that Wisdom addresses me by name, but you still call me hey you?”
“Because Wisdom has issues.”
“And you don’t?”
Wisdom felt… surreal. He did not remember the last time he experienced such easy camaraderie.
Well, that was a lie, wasn’t it? Zhangwan surely would think so.
Nebula tilted his head. “I’ve been putting a task off,” he admitted, and Wisdom suddenly realized he’d been zoning out of the conversation. “I need to send Sratis around Heukrin twice.”
“Isn’t that a waste of faith?” Wisdom blurted out.
“In some cases, yes. But it brings them peace.” Nebula inclined his head. “Therefore, logically, it’s better for faith in the long run.”
Eldar scoffed. “Like that’s the reason you do it.”
It brings them peace.
Nebula waved his hand and disappeared, his well wishes lost on the wind.
Wisdom stared at Eldar.
The flower field seemed to both gravitate towards and shy away from Eldar’s form. “Did you find what you were looking for?” they asked.
Wisdom’s head spun. “I wasn’t looking for anything.”
Eldar hummed. “Maybe,” they said. “Maybe not.”
A moment.
“It’s alright to be imperfect, Wisdom.”
Eldar was beautiful and incomprehensible in the soft light of the night.
“…I know.” Wisdom said. He did not know.
Eldar smiled at a slant, and then they were gone. Wisdom remained in the flower field until dawn, when the flowers closed once more.