Written for StarsGoBlue. Spoilers through Unrealized Reality. Thanks so much to Kernezelda for betaing this!
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No two snowflakes are exactly alike.
Billions upon billions to form this patch of ice, tiny crystals spun into delicate lace, patterns never repeating, always unique. Hanging in the air, drifting lazily downward, pulled from invisible clouds by illusory gravity. None of this is real.
All held within his mind, every design, every pattern. The human sees a ragged chunk of ice and packed snow. He sees the design behind every flake, a complex web of mathematical equations to make up oxygen and frozen water, enough to sustain one fragile life.
Only the wormholes are real, swirling blue, hypnotic, yawning open at the edges of the ice. Waves of raw, destructive energy lap the shore of his mind, beautiful and seductive.
Time is meaningless, and yet it is all that exists.
He should not be able to feel this cold.
I love how you lay it out there, Einstein. So let me ask you, without getting . . . existential on me--why am I, why are we . . . here?
Such a strange creature, fragile and scarred. Delicate as a snowflake, and as irreplaceable. But so much more deadly, even if it does not yet know.
You are present to perish. I am present to effect that outcome.
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This one's mind is open, despite its efforts to hide what he would take. Images flash, other races, familiar names. Peacekeepers. Scarrans. Frightened children, grasping at power they cannot hope to hold. He knows, better than anyone, the consequences if the knowledge falls into those hands.
Destroy the vessel, and the knowledge is lost, spilled across the ice like wine from a shattered glass, hot blood melting imaginary snow. So why does he hesitate?
One step to tumble off the edge. He could stop this creature's plunge down into the wormhole, any wormhole, it does not matter which. But he will not. It must understand what this power is, what can happen if it is misused. He thinks he can pull it back in time.
Time . . . And he does.
Real, like the water's not wet real? Real, like you see with no eyes?
He points. The tuft of white hair clutched in its hand is real, even if the wind stirring it is not.
It begins to understand.
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Should a traveler appear earlier in the timeline of his own existence, he would be but . . . as a pebble . . . cast upon still waters.
He can see the ripples that will spread, the numbers shifting behind the illusion. He knows where the energy will break against the floe, before he lifts a loose chunk of ice.
But the ripples he creates would, over time, radiate upon far distant shores . . . geometrically altering events in its path.
Ice sinks beneath black water with a faint slap, soft at first, then echoing louder and louder. Predicting the ripples this creature will cause is beyond the reach of his mind.
Then why am I not dead yet?
Sensible question. It begins to realize there is no escape. But he can think of only one answer, and it does not satisfy him.
I trust the one who entrusted you. A brilliant student, though far too young for the monumental task given him. Reckless even, at times. But the young one had chosen this duty freely, though it meant permanent exile. But I need to understand why he bestowed this ability.
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He had tried to dissuade the young one. Now he wonders if his own sorrow blinds him to what may have been a grave error of his student's. Stranded in an alien space, with no way home, would he have let compassion for a creature likewise lost override his duty?
The creature says it is not afraid.
There is still time.
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You want me not to have the knowledge? Take it out of my head.
It assumes he can simply take back what was given. That he can undo what has been done, repair shredded cloth and make it smooth and whole again, remove the knowledge from its fragile mind and leave no scars behind. He and his kind have power it cannot conceive, but even his strength has limits.
He is not surprised when it strikes him. He expected it would attack much sooner. The creature's awkward regrets surprise him more than the force of the blow.
Predictable, that it would assume he is invulnerable to harm. Most weaker species do. They are wrong, and his strength is failing faster than he thought.
What do you desire with wormholes?
He should have known the answer. For starters . . .
. . . to go home.
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From every point of entry a wormhole branches into multiple paths.
He looks into blue eyes and sees another. Strange, to be the teacher again. This one's mind holds just enough of his former student's touch to make his loss ache anew, too little to be any comfort.
The subdivision continues until at last you are deposited back into space-time.
This one is just as stubborn.
Destination is the key.
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Stubborn, but not impossible. He sees it at last, the flash of understanding, crystallized from doubt and confusion. Another student, finally beginning to realize. Too risky. All of it. Best to leave me.
The young one had bid him farewell without fear. He would have learned better, after, stranded in this creature's space-time. Learned too late.
Are you suddenly becoming afraid?
He can see the answer before it speaks. Of the damage I can do, yes.
Billions upon billions of lives, hanging on this one's strength. Such a great burden, for one such as it to carry. But there is no other, and he must trust that his student, his friend, made the correct decision.
The ice floe is disintegrating. Billions upon billions of snowflakes, sliding into the sea. Melted, their patterns, their uniqueness lost. So much hangs in the balance.
Fear . . . is the correct answer.
Perhaps there is hope, still, even now.