User:Yuanchosaan/A Life of Contemplation\Reflection/Three

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Second Station - Word
From the plateau shrine, the next is nearly a straight line down. Noa feels barely in control as he makes his way there, more sliding than descending, using the spikes in his boots and good old friction from his palms to adjust his path. Rapidly, both the barren plateau and the warmth of the sun are left behind and the valley rises up to embrace him, twining tree branches above his head in a green roof.

He remembers the first time he encountered this shrine. He had been following a game trail, close to the edge of night. It had been an unsuccessful day for him and his pack felt accusingly light against his back as he ventured along the path without much hope.

Perhaps that was why he had reacted so suddenly when he sensed a flurry above him. Instinctively, he had raised his crossbow and fired a bolt towards the silhouette that crossed the sky above his head. The shape twisted and fell, splitting into two as it plummeted: the sleek, powerful bulk of a bird of prey and a smaller grey shadow with a rounded head.

Noa had not had time to gasp. He immediately set off into a run, slotting another bolt into his crossbow as he plunged downhill through the undergrowth. It had only been a glimpse, but if he could calculate roughly how they were falling…

It was more intuition that led him than a hunter’s experience. Noa veered off the main path, following a narrow gap through the forest that was barely a hunter’s trail. He trusted to his instincts; running this fast, on an unknown trail at dusk, he would have no time to adjust for hazards.

A few seconds later, he burst out into an open grove. In the centre of it, lying amid blood-drenched grass, was the eagle he had shot down, its neck clearly snapped in the fall. A little further away, half hidden by a tussock, lay a clump of grey feathers.

Noa knelt, deftly swooped up the eagle with his leather pouch and removed the bolt from its breast. It had embedded itself in the dense muscles between chest and wing, sabotaging the bird’s ability to fly. A miracle that he managed to make the shot, he marvelled, and quietly offered his thanks.

A squawk, surprisingly loud, interrupted his prayer. What Noa had originally taken for a mass of feathers torn from the eagle was, in fact, stirring on its own. A moment later, he found himself staring at an upside-down face, the eyes golden, perfectly circular, and disconcertingly indignant.

Noa crawled over and gently picked the creature up. It hooted in distress, but made no effort to fight him. It was an owl, barely more than a chick, so small that he could hold it in one hand. One wing dragged noticeably. It was a miracle that it had survived both the eagle’s attack and its fall.

“Another miracle,” Noa murmured. He raised his eyes to look the sky that had so blessed him.

A much louder hoot startles Noa from his reverie. He has been daydreaming so long that he has managed to make stumble all the way to the grove without realising. The sudden sunlight on his face is a welcome shock, like being splashed with warm water. Noa laughs as he sees Sage’s familiar face, held tilted to ninety degrees, peeking out from between the branches of a nearby tree. Of course she is here. Where else would she be?

When he had first found her, he hadn’t had time to fully appreciate his surroundings, but even in the darkness, he had known he was somewhere special. The next day he had returned, the newly dubbed Sage safely stowed at the top of his pack, her wing neatly bandaged. He had found a peaceful glade, a shelter at the bottom of the valley, with grass that grew long and soft as it did nowhere else in the mountains of Ilocas. In the centre of the clearing was a small grove of fig trees, their branches entwining to form a roof above the second shrine.

It hasn’t changed in all these years. Noa has never seen the hand that tends the grove, that trims its perfect grass and shapes its trees. He doesn’t need to.

“Hello, you,” he greets her fondly. Sage retreats without a reply; clearly, she has been waiting for him and is impatient for him to get a move on. Sage always keeps him to the task; as beautiful as the second shrine is, he cannot afford to linger when he is not even halfway through his mission.

Trees are generally easier to climb than mountains, and these are ancient figs with wide bases, twisting trunks and thick limbs that Noa easily scrambles up. Within moments, he catches up with Sage who is already at work. Her sharp, curved beak, built for killing rodents and other small prey, is equally effective in twisting off the stems of figs. With a careless flick of her head, she tosses her prize down towards him.

“Thanks, girl.”

They work together: Sage in silence, Noa chattering about his day so far. The branches of the figs are so broad and solid that he can even walk on top of them, arms spread out for balance. Above him, Sage attacks the twigs too slight to take his weight.

“You know,” he says to her after he has finished telling her about the plateau, “seeing figs always reminds me of a parable. It’s one of Cleric Stern’s favourites, even though it’s really short.”

Sage pauses for a moment, just as if she is listening. Of course she is.

“When I hear it, I think of a dale – like this grove, but as if it were a valley as big as one of the ranges of Ilocas. An entire valley of greenery, of peaceful growing things. As many figs as you could eat, without having to spend all your life trying to hunt or coax stubborn potatoes out of stony ground. Can you imagine that?”

Noa can, which is not the same as wishing for it. And yet… “Well, it’s not a valley that’s in the parable. Just a single fig tree, not even fruiting yet. But He says, ‘See the fig tree, and all the trees. When they are already budding, you see it and know by your own selves that the summer is already near.’”

His sack is nearly full of figs. Noa holds it open for Sage to deposit the last of hers, then lets the owl hitch a ride on his shoulder as he descends back to the ground, more slowly than his ascent. It is a different world down here, after the freedom of the branches above. Standing within the grove, the trunks and branches knot together into walls.

The shrine lies in the centre of the trees: a simple, flat stone, bereft of moss. Noa carefully places his bounty onto it, arranging the figs into the shape of a cross, and bows his head.

Softly, he continues, “It’s a beautiful phrase on its own. But then God says, ‘Even so you also, when you see these things happening, know that the Kingdom of God is near. Most certainly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things are accomplished. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will by no means pass away.’

“And that’s when I think: this is why. Even when the fig tree is barren and the fragrant valleys are icy mountains instead. That’s why.” {|width="45%" align="right" Seungchul’s face abruptly froze, then shattered. For a moment, Sonthi was left floating in a void, the memories now sparser, bright strings of spheres floating apart in the darkness, shining without illuminating it. One was seized, twisted, and then vanished – Se’ze had plucked it away to be processed.
 * }

In a rush, Sonthi felt the memory fall towards him.

He was sitting across from Haruka, who had just said something. They were in the Caesura’s cafeteria. A coffee steamed gently by her elbow, a cup of tea on his side. They had been talking idly about the ships, a bit of code Sonthi was struggling with, their Rorquals’ idiosyncrasies. Nothing of importance. Never mentioning Seungchul, the moon or his mother.

It was easier to talk here, away from the Mira, where he always felt a pressure, as if his mother’s gaze was on him all the time. Still difficult here, but at least possible.

In the corner of his eye, he could see a view of the Mira through the cafeteria’s window. The vast, serene bulk of it hung in space, covering more than half the view. Always, they were in its shadow.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. That was right, Haruka had been asking him a question. “I was a bit distracted. What did you say?”

Haruka twisted her cup one way, and then the other. She looked at him with her always unreadable expression. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” he asked automatically. It was a courtier’s training, to always deflect and obtain more information before answering. He reflected that Haruka had probably been taught the same lessons, and yet she always spoke in direct, even brusque tones. Many found it off-putting, but Sonthi liked it. In her own prickly way, Haruka was more honest towards him than he deserved.

“Join,” she said simply.

He took a sip from his tea as he thought of his reply. If he looked into the cup, then he could imagine it was his father asking him the question instead. When his father asked him, the answer was always easy.

For a moment, the surface of the tea rippled with an image of his father.

“The preservation of duty,” Sonthi said aloud. He kept his eyes focused on where his father’s had been, meeting their invisible gaze. “It was my responsibility as a prince to shepherd my people. If they are to traverse across the stars, then I must join them.”

“And nothing to do with proving your worth?” Haruka’s voice was low, almost husky. He heard the chink of her cup against saucer as she took a sip. Once again, he was reminded that Haruka remained a diplomat, and one who did not make friends.

“I have nothing to prove,” he replied as serenely as he could. I am already worthy. “There is no question of whether I can meet my duty or not. It must be done.”

“Why not one of your brothers?”

“They could not be spared.”

“I heard you volunteered.”

Carefully, Sonthi placed his cup back in its place. He twisted it so that its handle faced perfectly to the right. That motion helped him to bite back the immediate Who told you? that he had wanted to retort with. It had probably been her Rorqual. They always knew more than their human partners did.

“If you know that, why do you ask?” he said softly. He was conscious of how many people there were in the cafeteria – two crewmembers in one corner laughing raucously at each other’s jokes, a scientist frowning as she tapped away at a display, a waiter standing bored at the counter. All distant, but enough to make him soften his voice.

“I’m not asking why you joined the expedition,” Haruka answered, equally quietly. “I meant – why did you choose to join…what we are now.”

Sonthi opened his mouth to reply – and said nothing. There was no easy lie on the tip of his tongue, nor a teaching he could effortlessly summon up. He found that he didn’t want to lie. Nor did he particularly want to tell the truth.

“I don’t know,” he said, which was neither. ''Not knowing why and not knowing how to say the answer are different things. '' “I’m still searching.”

It was characteristic that Haruka did not nod or show any acknowledgement of this. She merely sat, as still as always – perfect poise and perfect clothes, Sonthi thought. That had been his initial impression of her.

“What about you?” he asked impulsively. “Why did you choose this?”

A darkness appeared between Haruka’s lips. At first he thought she was about to reply, then the line cut through the lower half of her face, gaping open into the void again. It split her face in two and blossomed outward, swallowing first her, then the cups and saucer and table, the crew and the scientist, the shadow of the Mira, until only he was left, floating in the void again.

Haruka? he cried out. He groped for the memory of her response and found nothing. Had Haruka answered him? Had he ever been able to answer her question?

There was no reply: not a voice from the void, not an echo from his remembrances. Only Se’ze.