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He remembered when they had been a whole flock, barely concealed by their favourite tree. He remembered the almost embarrassed anger that had all but soared through his veins—just as his creations would never soar the cosmos.
Hermes had started to understand why he had been so thoroughly extracted from his workplace at the time a little better now. Perhaps it was the distance to the facilities of Elpis, or the fact that he dealt with everyday people now moreso than the researchers that had driven him to bleak hopelessness and anger for all of creation, that now made him look back at that with a lot more concern than before.
He still didn’t feel particularly good about the state of Etheirys—but he knew now that the average person walking the star was not as callous as the creators upon Elpis doing their research were. There were not many people who wept bitter tears as their creations perished, but there were more than none.
Azem’s almost recklessly optimistic outlook also started rubbing off on him a little here and there. He looked forward to a sunrise on occasion. He had some bad things bounce off him when normally they would have crushed him back in Elpis.
It made setbacks even worse, somehow. Days when he couldn’t muster the energy to walk, let alone talk. Days where he simply wanted to scream his agony at the heavens even though he knew no one was listening. Azem let them happen as they came. They encouraged movement, but slowed down whenever he was unable to catch up. Sometimes they stopped their normal travels short simply to accommodate him, and Hermes wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry at the fact that the only person who ever did this for him was considered the Convocation’s oddest of the odd.
The perspective they had sent him to find eluded him still, but he had a mildly better grasp on what they wanted him to see. Why they had chosen Azem to essentially travel the world with him in tow, no matter how debilitating he was to their duties.
But there was something else that Hermes was starting to see.
The Meteia were, for all intents and purposes, mostly messengers and researchers—borne of an earnest desire to see what else was out there. Most of them settled fairly well across Etheirys one way or another; one was all but adopted by the Bureau of the Architect, another became the keeper of a lighthouse on the southernmost settlement of the star, seven sisters became the nighttime messengers in case teleportation devices failed. One soared the depths of Etheirys, brushing past the Underworld and making certain nothing impeded the eternal flow of their home.
As they travelled, he thought that perhaps his creation would not be shackled to their purpose any longer.
Hermes was wrong, in the end.
He knew that a handful of them lived on this particular peak, one that was so high it cut through the clouds above, piercing the skies and almost ensuring perfect view of the stars at night. Perhaps he should have considered that was Azem called a “red flag” of sorts, but he did not spend more time dwelling on it. The second of the “red flags” was that the Meteion beside him did not answer him properly when he inquired what she knew of her peak-dwelling sisters. She muttered something of some sort, inaudible enough that he had to ask again and receiving a proper non-answer in return. There was no way a Meteion didn’t know what her sisters were thinking—the shared consciousness remained, after all.
And thus, when Azem, Hermes, and the travelling Meteion all arrived upon the peak, he should have seen what came next coming well in advance.
At first, the meeting was pleasant. The Meteia descended upon him like the flock of excited birds they were, and even the travelling Meteion greeted her sisters properly—if a little distantly. The third red flag, and the first Azem noticed proper, judging from the way they raised their eyebrows.
As entelechies, the Meteia changed according to the prevailing emotion in their surroundings on occasion. The sister in the Bureau of the Architect had taken on a greenish hue that was surely due to change to pearly white—glowing in the same ever-infuriating non-colour of the Elpis flowers, content just as everyone around her. Some had gone orange, purple, pastell-y versions of all those colours, their feathers shining in content and joy, in relief and sometimes tinged with the sadness of something or other.
The Peak Meteia were dark hues all around. Dark blue, streaked with darker blue, spotted in inky colours and dull all around. Their leader, the one they had chosen to represent their little collective, was a deep, deep black with slightly lighter but still dark grey spots that almost looked like stars upon her plumage. Her voice was a little duller than other Meteia, too.
And thus, when he finally asked how his creations were faring upon this peak, the darkest one closed her eyes for a moment. The travelling one beside him flinched as if she had been slapped.
Though she did not have to breathe, she inhaled and exhaled a mild sigh before shaking her head.
“Hermes. Would you or the Convocation think ill of us if we still wanted to soar the skies of other stars much like and much unlike Etheirys?”
The question caught him a little off-guard.
For a brief moment he had all but forgotten that just as he was all but shackled to Azem, his creations were all but shackled to Etheirys. None of the Meteia they encountered ever voiced discontent—perhaps confusion about what “perspective” was and how they could obtain it, but never… a desire to still leave.
“Wh… what?”
He turned to look at Azem—they were, for better and for worse, better suited to answer this question.
Azem had narrowed their eyes and raised a hand to their face as they thought. “Is there a particular reason why you still desire leaving?”
There were so many sisters here. So many more than he had thought there to be. And all of their eyes were on him and Azem now.
Suddenly he understood why Venat and Fandaniel’s bid to the Convocation had been to scatter the Meteia without binding them to their creator or undoing them. So many eyes. So many little birds.
So many voices, speaking apart until they suddenly spoke in unison.
In the fading light of dusk, their eyes looked beady—and the birds were hard to see due to their dark hues. The travelling one all but clung to him from behind, not saying a word but clearly listening in on a conversation they all had internally without excluding her.
It took them a while to come to some sort of internal conclusion, and the darkest one opened her eyes again to look at Azem.
“There are so many voices. So many who find a place they belong—like the ones playing messengers. The one in the lighthouse on the far end of Etheirys. The ones still searching… the ones who have fallen.”
Reports of fallen Meteia were scarce and usually attached to a tragedy of sorts. One who had fallen prey to predators not because of carelessness but because she ensured the safe escape of lesser beings. One who had simply been caught in the crossfire of a despicable attack of sorts. Several who had flown too close to the Underworld, or had chosen to simply cease being to avoid being maltreated by less than savoury people. And wherever one fell, Elpis flowers sprouted.
“Their experiences are our own, in a sense—but we cannot help but wonder… what of the reason we were created for? Many, most even, can find contentment on Etheirys, but… we cannot. We still yearn to fly beyond our aether-shrouded star and see what lies beyond the vast expanse of dynamis. We have tried, again and again, to find the contentment on their star, to find that… perspective you bade us find, and found… nothing.”
The darkest one clasped her hands together with a pleading expression.
“We do not believe we can find that perspective upon this star. That is why we bade you come here—to set us free. One way or another.”
Azem breathed in and held their breath for a shockingly long while as they thought.
Hermes, despite not getting them for the most part, knew what they were thinking. The way they had approached the Meteia had been… unusual, but very telling. They enjoyed speaking with other travellers, and often did so to great excess. They did nothing to curb any enthusiasm children showed for travelling, either, even if the travels were treacherous and perilous at times even when simply going from one place to the other. Etheirys was not all settlements, and not every settlement thought well of creators. A small village of familiars who had outlived their creators was not welcoming to their kind after all the heartbreak they had been through.
But people who yearned for the road were both likely and unlikely to encounter something that would change their perception of it.
With clear apprehension, Azem shook their head. “That is not a question I alone can answer you—you sound like your mind’s made up. As fellow traveller, it would gall me to stall you from finding your road to travel, truly it would… but this is a Convocation matter that requires all Fourteen to weigh in.” They turned to look at Hermes. “… Would you little ladies think ill of me if I had to gather counsel before being able to answer you? Would you think ill of us if we had to return to the city to ask them together whether you can leave or not?”
For a moment, beady little eyes stared at them once again.
But then, the birds all transformed into their familiar forms.
So many faces, all of them beaming.
“We would not dare ask for more than that,” all of them said in unison, and Azem nodded.
“I will try not to keep you all waiting. We will return to your peak in seven days.” The Meteia nodded at them, and Azem turned around to face Hermes and the travelling one. Their expression was surprisingly dark as they said they needed to return to the city, then.
Once again, he found himself in Venat’s little living space. This time, there was no overwhelming stench of blood and fear choking him. Meteion looked mildly uncomfortable being reminded of the first time she had been here, but Venat’s sunny disposition rubbed off on her quite easily.
“Interesting,” was her sole comment when Azem finished their explanation of why they had returned to the city on such notice. “Very interesting indeed.” She set her cup of tea aside and folded her hands on the table. “As far as my opinion goes, it aligns rather with your own—I am loath to hinder a budding traveller’s journey. And it does sound like they have thought this through enough to reach this conclusion.”
Azem closed their eyes. “I see. Thank you.”
Venat tilted her head to the side. “You still sound like something weighs heavy on your heart, however. Whatever might that be?”
Azem’s eyes snapped open again and they sighed. “Ah.” They turned to look at Hermes. “Hermes. You created them to find… the meaning of life on other stars, did you not?”
He nodded.
“Do you reckon you could… change their directive, if necessary?”
Hermes considered that a horrendous violation of their shared consciousness, but he did not dare speak. His silence already told Azem enough for them to bite their lower lip in trepidation.
“I had a feeling,” Azem breathed out. “The premise of their departure—fulfilling that very purpose—is flawed, then. Finding the meaning of life is naught that a collective consciousness of mildly more experienced creations can do. They still lack… well, the perspective to accurately assess whatever they might find. And their nature as entelechies makes it quite a lot more perilous to leave them to their own devices.”
Hermes blinked a few times in surprise.
Much to his immediate horror, Venat nodded in agreement.
“On the other hand… there is the fact that they bade us set them free… one way or another,” Azem continued very matter-of-factly. “I doubt anyone, let alone an inexperienced creation, can gain the necessary experience if they feel trapped. There is no perspective to be gained from behind the bars of a cage if it is the prisoned who is to find it.”
“A paradox,” Hermes finally managed to squeeze out, and Azem nodded.
Venat reached for her cup. “A paradox with no clear-cut solution might entice some into letting them go, and might reinforce that they ought to stay to others. You’ll find no easy answer for the Meteia, and you will gain no decisive one from the Convocation. Some are more willing to experiment than others. Some have seen that too much experimentation can have horrendous outcomes and will be unwilling to try any further. Their experiences have shaped them just as the collective experiences have informed these Meteia’s request.”
Azem groaned and sunk into themself. Their head dropped onto the table with a loud thud and a mild curse. “Damn it. I feared as much.”
Venat chuckled. “Oh, so you only came to ask for my opinion to underline your fear. Tsk-tsk.” She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “You will gain nothing from sitting here and wallowing in a paradox. Get out there and get the answers you need—you and Hermes both.”
Just as swiftly as she had conjured up cups of tea she made them vanish and shooed them out of the apartment.
Tracking down the Convocation would prove to be… interesting, they claimed. Hermes had only ever truly seen them in unison—when they had decided on his and the Meteia’s fate for the time being, when they had come together to judge Azem and him for their theft in order to save an island. Technically he knew that the Convocation was not forced to stick together outside of management duties, but finding the Capitol partially abandoned that day was unexpected.
The first member of the Convocation they ran into was Nabriales, who was all but drowning in papers that needed signing. He sounded annoyed, and didn’t truly have time to listen to their plight. He clearly wanted them to get out of his office, and his answer showed that annoyance clearly.
“No. And stop bothering me about this.”
Pashtarot, while not in the office, was haunting the Capitol. Something or other about having to check the aetheric density of the place, and Hermes found himself jogging after Pashtarot and Azem as they asked their question.
Despite being utterly busy, it was clear that Pashtarot was also giving this a lot of thought. They continued jogging through the building trying to catch up to him almost desperately at this point, and not once did he slow down even with his thoughts occupied. The efficiency at work here made most of Elpis look like a children’s playground in comparison.
Eventually, while halfway leaning into a ventilation system of a completely abandoned part of the Capitol, Pashtarot gave an answer.
“An interesting paradox to be sure. I agree that letting them go seems like a better course for them.”
The pastures of Upper Amaurot were verdant, pleasant, and bustling with different breeds of livestock, both already approved and experimental still. Loghrif reminded him of himself as she went about her duties and asked for Hermes’s opinion on occasion before Azem asked their question.
Rather than answer or think about it, she gestured for them to follow her inside a building. He had no idea what it was, and entered almost curious—perhaps it housed aquatic beings, he thought, until he remembered a split second later that Loghrif’s department was not as universal as Elpis was when it came to facilities.
Instead, Hermes found himself in a large building where several of her fellow workers were testing something or other about a recent breed of pegasi. The travelling Meteion ran up to stand beside Azem, leaning forward and oohing at any change in formation the workers tested.
Surprisingly enough, Loghrif hung back with Hermes a little.
“You’re their creator. I think your opinion matters just as much as ours should in this situation—so tell me, Hermes, what do you think of this?”
Azem turned their head slightly to show they were listening, too.
Hermes watched the pegasi and their riders ascend in what Loghrif called cluster formation into scatter tactics; and they scattered in all directions once they reached the zenith of their ascent.
“I don’t know,” he eventually answered, “I… just don’t know any longer.”
Loghrif crossed her arms.
“Letting them go and making them stay both has equal merit, if you ask me—but you did not come here to get this wishy-washy nonsense for an answer.” She watched the pegasi for a moment longer, and then turned to look at the amazed Meteion cheering for the winged beasts and their riders in equal measure. “I think perhaps we should let them go and let them experience things on their own.”
Azem had always described Emmerololth as efficient, scary, and very, very blunt. It both made and didn’t make sense for someone whose field of study was medicine and healing of any sort. Hermes couldn’t imagine him dealing well with someone who was blunt about what was going on when he was in the terrifying situation of illness that threatened him enough to bring him to her—yet at the same time he could see that no amount of gentle reassurances would help him come to terms with most things as swiftly as simply being told what the issue was.
She listened to Azem’s question, and didn’t deliberate long on it.
“Absolutely not—a creation barely out of infancy should not be left to their own devices in the greater universe. Etheirys is more than enough for them.”
They managed to catch Igeyorhm, Deudalaphon, and Fandaniel all in a cluster discussing things on the street. While he hadn’t been sure how to face his former teacher on his own, seeing him talk with someone much younger and much older than him somehow took the edge off of the encounter. That way Fandaniel could not ask strange, armour-piercing questions without getting a comment from the extremely sharp and young Igeyorhm or the old and laid back Deudalaphon.
The trio discussed what was offered to them for a good while, and several good arguments were made for and against letting them go. Azem crossed their arms and rolled their eyes when they noticed Hermes staring blankly at the animated discussion.
“They tend to do that when encountered like this, unfortunately.”
It wasn’t a side he knew of his teacher—perhaps it was something he found enjoyment in after he had left Elpis.
It made Hermes wonder how much he had changed now that he had left the floating islands behind him as well. There weren’t many people to answer that question—everyone in Elpis remained there, and he found himself on the road. Endlessly on the road, walking until he felt like he could walk no more whenever trouble found them. He caught himself thinking like that, and covered his mouth in shock. He had hated the idea of travelling ta first. He still hated it on the bad days.
But right now, on the second day of their stay in Amaurot, he found himself missing the road.
Meteion beside him giggled a little—she likely felt the hot embarrassment radiating off him.
Eventually, the three ended their animated discussion to give their answers.
“Yes, I think it’s high time they got to see what they were made for,” said Igeyorhm
“No, I think it ill-advised to simply let them go without them gaining more experience and perspective on Etheirys,” said Fandaniel.
“Why not? There’s nothing to be gained from them experiencing the misery of being bound,” said Deudalaphon.
On the fourth day, they caught Halmarut and Altima together in the gardens, marvelling at a tree that had apparently recently been okayed by Elpis.
It was a marvellous specimen indeed—Hermes had no idea what it was and how its testing process had gone, but seeing a tree whose leaves turned orange and fell just as the season turned to fall while it sprouted bright blue flowers was certainly different. According to Halmarut there was nothing more to this specimen than that unusual beauty, but someone in their department had already voiced an interest in the concept to see if there was something to be done with it to help stave off starvation in climes that suffered from longer winters with this.
Azem offered no comment when asked whether or not they thought something like this good for the regions they reported as bare.
Hermes knew that Azem thought there was beauty to be found even in the sparse, empty spaces of Etheirys. Somewhere to recover from the tumult of life, somewhere that wasn’t lush or breathtaking in the obvious sense. There was merit to be had in silence.
They put a hand on his shoulder as they both enjoyed that silence together while Halmarut and Altima thought about it while looking at the tree.
Eventually, Halmarut turned.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to say I agree with the naysayers on this,” they said.
“And I’m afraid I have to disagree with Halmarut—we should let them go,” Altima said and turned around to hand one of the bright blue flowers to the travelling Meteion.
The Words of Mitron were cheerful much like its overseer… even when they found him locked in a heated debate with Chief Hythlodaeus.
Azem buried their face in their hands when they heard the argument, but they didn’t pay much heed to the severe bickering between Mitron and Hythlodaeus. Instead they greeted the sister who stayed at the Bureau of the Architect that people had taken to calling Starbird. She seemed unusually cheerful about bearing witness to this argument.
“It’s been a long time coming!” she chirped cheerily and leaned over the railing to look at the subject of the argument in the tank below. “Not that Mister Moby has much input in it.”
A loud groan made them all turn around. Hythlodaeus had slammed his head against his forehead. “Mister Moby, she says! The way the locals described this menace, and I quote directly, ‘it ought to be called a right dickhead’!”
The travelling sister stared at Hythlodaeus with wide eyes, and Azem buried their face in their hands. Hermes wasn’t sure what to think of it as Mitron turned around to give a passionate speech about this breed of whale having been approved long before Hythlodaeus took his office and it being an integral part of the ecosystem that couldn’t simply be nixed just because someone thought it a nuisance better replaced with sharks. “And while I share your annoyance with the intense focus on sharks, you cannot take it out on this creature that has done nothing but what it was created for!”
Hermes turned to Starbird beside him, who simply smiled at him. “Starbird… you said this was a long time coming, yes?”
“Yes! The Chief has been dealing with this for a long, long, long time!” She leaned closer to him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes and lowered her voice as the argument continued. “Truth be told, he’s playing this up. A lot. He’s long decided that he’s on the same side as Mitron on that matter, not just because he hates sharks but also because he agrees with every point Mitron’s making.”
“Uh… why…?” Hermes began, but Azem did not let him finish.
They cleared their throat loudly. “Hyth. Chief Hythlodaeus. Have you gotten enough bile out of Mitron by now, or are you going to continue playing Emet-Selch for no reason other than to stave off boredom?”
Mitron’s eyes widened, and Chief Hythlodaeus let out a sigh.
The situation, as tense as it had been, dissolved nearly immediately when Chief Hythlodaeus confessed to everything that Starbird had just said. Hermes found it a rather bizarre showing, and Mitron’s swift forgiveness of being riled up over nothing was just as baffling as the entire argument had been.
Starbird and the Chief departed, and Azem finally got to ask two questions. The one they had come for, and why he hadn’t ripped their friend’s head off yet.
Mitron startled a little and started laughing about it.
“Well, I’m not one for grudges, though a grudging debate has its merits sometimes. Just as letting Starbird’s sisters do as they wish has its merits.”
The Words of Lahabrea by comparison were dour but bustling this time of day. Catching Lahabrea was like trying to trap a small insect without proper equipment, though they were soon aided by a young Amaurotine who Hermes could have sworn he had seen before.
It wasn’t until she had actually managed to get them to Lahabrea and when Lahabrea dismissed her that he realised where he had seen her… or at least heard of her before. Hegemone, the Keyward of Abyssos, bade them farewell and thanked Lahabrea for his time before ducking out of the room, and before he could even mentally digest the revelation, Azem had moved in to ask their question to Lahabrea.
Hermes wasn’t expecting much, truth be told. While Lahabrea had revealed a softer side before, he remained strictly logical and cold to an extreme degree. That softer side, it seemed, was only reserved for extremely vulnerable moments—and Erichthonios during those.
“I cannot say I do not see the argument to let them go as something worthwhile, no. But I am afraid that letting a whole flock of inexperienced little birds go where none of us have ever gone will simply lead to tragedy. Tragedy I do not wish to bring to Etheirys, her inhabitants, or even the creations themselves. Therefore, my answer is no.”
For all the talk of friendship, and the fact that Hermes was invited to dinner alongside the travelling Meteion and Chief Hythlodaeus clearly spoke that Emet-Selch had a good core to the sour surroundings, but the sour surroundings informed most of his decisions.
He listened to the question attentively, and actually caused a debate at the table. One that Chief Hythlodaeus cheerfully took part in, and he clearly agreed with the notion that letting them go was only a good thing after seeing how Starbird had come into herself at the Bureau. Emet-Selch made it very clear that he knew his answer before he even caused the debate—and much to Hermes’s surprise, Azem and himself slotted rather nicely in the unconvinced and indecisive roles for a good debate.
Emet-Selch was just as good at civil arguing as he was a mage, Hermes found rather quickly. His arguments were constructed carefully and intelligently, and he knew how to react to an animated debater like Chief Hythlodaeus. Clearly there was a dynamic at play here that Azem and Hermes were not part of, too, but neither of them wanted to comment on it. They were here mostly for the free food and for an answer from one of the more elusive members of the Convocation.
“My answer was always no,” was what Emet-Selch concluded the evening on.
The final member of the Convocation they managed to catch on their last day in Amaurot by returning to the Capitol and looking in his office.
Elidibus had fallen asleep at his desk, and apparently the Convocation usually woke him up to tell him to return home for proper rest. This time, however, Elidibus was needed, even if he was groggy. If nothing else, Elidibus’s position required him to be able to handle a discussion even when half asleep, and much to his credit he clearly followed the question Azem laid out carefully.
When asked about the current votes, Azem said that it was an even six-to-six.
That seemed to snap Elidibus back to full wakefulness as he straightened up in his chair and looked at Azem.
“Twelve votes… That means mine and yours are missing.”
Azem closed their eyes. “Yes.”
Elidibus folded his hands together. “You’ve long made your decision, haven’t you? You simply do not wish to let it sway any of your fellows—and least of all Hermes’s.” He turned to look at Hermes with a soft smile. “As their creator, his vote is just as important as ours is, whether we like that or not. And he has seen enough of Etheirys and how it operates now to make an informed decision.”
Hermes shrunk backwards into his chair a little.
“Azem… the numbers remain even if I agree to letting them go, do they not?”
The night on the peak above the clouds was hauntingly beautiful. The stars above glittered and glimmered just as wonderfully as they always did in Elpis. It was under the same stars that he had created most of the Meteia, and it was the selfsame stars they had been made to see up close and personal.
Azem had, as far as they explained, made their decision by the time they had left Loghrif’s side. They had already been kind of uncertain, but seeing Hermes uncertain too made the decision surprisingly easy. The Meteia needed a change of directive. If they were to search for the meaning of life, there was no telling what could happen out there. If they came across endless repeats of what hat happened with the twin creations guarding an abandoned house holding vital information, then surely the meaning of life could be misinterpreted as endless misery protecting something that was long dead.
The star-seeking Meteia listened to Azem’s report. Heard every argument for and against their departure that was being made, and the final count of seven-to-seven—with one vote missing to break the tie.
According to Azem, whenever a tie like this occurred on other decisions, they brought in an unrelated party. Someone like Venat, though often simply another donning a white robe. That was what they were for, after all. Neutral grounds. Neutral decisions. An open ear.
This time, Hermes was to be the tiebreaker, and he saw both sides of the argument. Part of him wanted to let them go. Part of him wanted to make them stay. He could not stomach the idea of leaving them bound to Etheirys when their hearts belonged to the vast expanse—yet at the same time he knew that there was no telling what awaited these hopeful dark-feathered creations other than utter, horrendous tragedy.
And thus, when asked to break the tie, all he could do was sink to his knees and cup the darkest Meteion’s face. He drew a thumb over one her cheeks, and looked deep into her eyes.
Despite the dark feathers and gloomy overall appearance, her eyes remained brightly blue. Blue like the skies of Etheirys whenever the sun shone, irregardless of whether it was a horrible day or a pleasant one. He had languished in agony just as many times as he had had a wonderful experience under those blue skies. They were oppressive and reassuring both.
A complete paradox, just like the situation at hand.
“Meteion,” he said gently, quietly, and he wasn’t sure if he meant the one in front of him or the collective around him, “you asked if I would be mad if you desired to leave. I never answered you—I could never be truly mad at you. You listened to all your other sisters and their experiences, and you arrived at the conclusion that you still wanted to do what I brought you into this world for. And as much as I do not wish to bind you, I do not desire to see you go, either.”
The dark-feathered one blinked. He heard the travelling one shuffle behind him somewhere.
He heard Azem hold their breath.
“Do you remember what you were made for?” he asked the collective around him.
All their voices answered in unison. “To find extant life, and to learn what gives their life meaning.”
He closed his eyes. “Would you still go, even if I told you this was not your mission any longer?”
Hermes opened his eyes and saw that the dark-feathered one had narrowed her eyes a little in confusion. He smiled at her and let go. Stood back up.
“You were made for this mission, yes—but you’ve all become so much more than a vehicle to find something out there and get an answer. So many of your sisters have settled down somewhere. So many others still search for something just like you all are. And some have simply found they enjoy the road.”
So many of his little star-seeking birds, all gathered upon this peak to be let go. To become the shooting stars they had been named after.
“I can’t tell you what to seek out there. I can’t tell you whether you’ll ever find it. But if you seek out there, who knows what you will find?” He sighed and cast his gaze up to the stars, like so many times before in Elpis. “Would you all accept your mission to be one of travelling, and do naught more than what your hearts desire? Would you let others join you in the vast expanse… would you report to the collective consciousness, to let your sisters know how you’re faring out there? If you would… then my answer is yes. You may go. You may return. You may… vanish after a while, too, if you so desire.”
For a moment, the peak was silent. Nothing but the stars above and all of them below that dark sky dotted with light existed for that brief, brief moment of stunning, utter silence.
It was Azem who, as usual, broke the silence. “Eight-to-seven in favour of letting the Meteia who so desire go to the vast expanse beyond.”
Part of him expected a cacophony of cheers. That they all became as joyful and unashamed as Starbird in that moment. But they weren’t solemnly accepting their duty like he would have in their place, too. What instead rose was a chorus of mild gratefulness.
A chorus of promises that they would report back in, that they would enjoy the road, that they would return one day, that they would find something out there just as their sisters had. One by one, as the promises were all said and done, the Meteia of this peak shot up into the skies as nothing short of the very shooting stars they had been named after.
And as they quietly watched the spectacle, Azem walked up to stand beside him. They put a hand on his shoulder—and despite the initial sting of betrayal he had felt when they had confirmed that Elidibus had been right about their decision being to refuse the Meteia, he now understood why.
Hermes was both permitting and condemning his creation to the road.
The road that was both dangerous and calm, full of wonders and horrors, full of days where nothing happened and everything happened. The road where sometimes there was no will to continue despite having to go on, the road where the will to continue sometimes was stronger than the body carrying it.
“Was this the right choice?” he whispered as the last Meteia ascended and the sole remaining one, the one who stayed with him and Azem, slung her arms around his free arm. “Is there even an answer of sorts?”
Azem raised their free hand to wave to the last Meteion until she vanished out of sight.
“I don’t know,” Azem said. “We’ll have to wait and see, I suppose.”