The document this story was written in was named 'unknown years later' while I was working on it, but that felt a little clunky as an actual title so I eventually settled on the equally vague but better sounding 'A Long Time Later'. In this case though, the exact length of time that it has been since Luciform does not matter for this story. You will see why (I hope) when you read it.
I shall never forget you…
Hearts that know you love you
And lips that have given you laughter
Have gone to their lifetime of grief and of roses
Searching for dreams that they lost
In the world, far away from your walls.
-Ottawa High School yearbook, 1925, the epigraph to The Radium Girls by Kate Moore.
They have always been here.
The warmth and the spark, the sweetness and the heart. The four of them, they have always been here. As the days became weeks became months, as those months sprouted into years and then blossomed into decades, they have always been here. Not walking as we know it, not breathing as we know it, not even seeing as we know it. No, they have never seen any of the things they have borne witness to, not within this whiteness, not when the only thing they have ever needed sight for has been for each other.
Nonetheless, they have always been here, in the layers of the world and they have borne witness. The spell of remembrance, cast in the form of a monument, it has ensured that though they are cast adrift they are never truly lost. It has allowed them to hear the prayers of their other former friends clearer than any other prayers, to sense their aging, to sense the new lives that these friends have gone on to create and nurture and to particularly listen out for their prayers. They have had their powers invoked at wedding ceremonies, they have drifted towards the warm sound of laughter, and in recent years they have been invisible funeral attendees, almost-unnoticed witnesses to the moment the people they once saved the world with slipped to the other side.
Not that they have seen any of these things. No, the only things that their eyes have ever seen in this world of whiteness, in the layers of the world itself, are each other. That has all they've ever needed to see.
But it's different now.
It is different now.
For now, the white is slowly peeling away and they find themselves in a garden, a beautiful garden in the spring. The trees are blossoming, the grass growing green and glowing. People stroll, completely and unaware of their presence as the sun shines above them in a pure blue sky. A few of these people sense a certain something, stop and shiver momentarily, turning to companions in confusion before shrugging and continuing on their way. Others walk right through them, or around them. But as the four head to a particular point in the garden, their feet tugging them to a location almost beyond their own will, it is not this they feel. No, as their eyes drink in sights of the world for the first time in lifetimes, they find themselves consumed by memories as a new emotion layers up inside all of them.
A strange, thick emotion. The only defence against it is for them to hold hands tightly and keep walking to where their feet want to take them. Walking, walking, walking, taking in the sight of courtyard stones shimmering like soap-bubbles; the roses-trellises thick with velvet-rich night-sky blooms, sunny yellow flowers growing in a patch near a small rock garden, elegant pink in another patch near a building; a river flowing merrily, almost divided in two by a bush that could have been made of water itself. Blue-blossom trees, partial walls of rose-stone, intricately carved benches. Consumed by memories, the four keep walking until finally, finally, they find the place that stops the tugging.
Here, resting on a plinth of fragments of rose stone, fixed together with silver and gold lacquer is the monument that has anchored them all this time-a spherical framework of wrought-iron rings. Usually, devices like this are meant to measure the motions of the skies above but this one does not. Most of the rings are smooth and unmarked apart from four of them. These four are engraved with names
It is the spark who steps forward first, rubbing his finger across the letters that represent the name he once had: Haze Kellen Áineschild. Their sweet one, their only girl, carefully reaches over to trace the engraving of her own: A Ardalko ('Ada, our A') while the warm one crouches to peer up at his own old name, mouthing it quietly: Ezrael Finnian Luko ('Ezra') and then they all make way for their soft one, the heart of them all to gaze at the ring that bears his name. And gaze at it is all he does. He does not mouth Theodore Étaínschilde ('Theo', 'Teddy'), nor does he trace the letters. Instead he looks at it, and then out at the gardens around him, at the splendour around him and all of it he recognises and all that he doesn't and then he reaches his arms out for them. They gather as they always have-with the spark on his left and the sweet one on his right and the warmth before him. They lean into each other and they weep.
They weep, because now they understand.
The feeling they feel now, it is the same thing they felt when they first arrived here, in the layers of the world. When the warmth and the sweetness and the heart had to wait for their spark to arrive, when they had been swept up by shadows and golden petals and fragments of glitter and feathers. Standing here, in front of the device that used to measure the motion of the heavens and now holds the weight of their legacy, they understand what feeling it is that has returned their sight to them for a moment, that has tugged them here.
It is the feeling of an era ending.
Though time and calendars have no meaning to them anymore, they felt the sweeping change of an era ending when they left their human lives behind and as such, they know now that the same change is happening once again. That all of those who were left behind, the ones who had been there with them in the tumultuous happenings that caused that first ending, they're all gone now. They grew up and up over the years, like trees and flowers, vibrant and alive and some even nurturing new lives of their own. They grew up, and they remembered, and then their lives ended and they arrived on the Other Side. One by one, until gradually all their lives ended.
They're all gone now.
They're all gone, and there is nobody left to remember.
Oh, the stories of their events live on, as such things do. People will know, and they will come here to know if they do not already. The legacy will not die now that they are all dead. But what of living memory?
That is no more.
No more will there be anyone to walk on this earth whose remembrance is more than a list of events on paper and plaques and screens, whose memory is something that whirls in the blood and solidifies the bones. Who embody the knowledge that weighs down the shoulders and turns tears into fire and hope. It is no more.
There is no living memory. That era has ended.
These four, these four are all that remain. Though they are not alive or dead, though they are no longer truly of the world, they are all that is left. And for all that they are as they should always be, with each other forever, they cannot help but weep for a while. Because even if it was a smaller, less significant love they still loved them.
They love them still.
And so they weep for a while, and then wipe away each other's tears and they stand there, beside the plinth that holds the sphere. In the formation they like best, they stand there as people drift in and out, watch as they laugh and spin and chatter and argue. They listen to the words exchanged, and the prayers left at the base of their plinth. Occasionally, they even hover their ghostly hands over the small flames of the tealights or the golden silk flowers, remembering and remembering. While they can still see and listen and feel the things that are not them, they remain here.
And then the sky colours and darkens, and the people begin to leave. The gardens quiet, hush covering it like a blanket. The four stand shoulder to shoulder and grab each other's hands tightly again as white starts to creep in, swirling around. The whiteness stretches, and they are back where they should be. Grief still stings them, the heaviness of ending tiring them.
But they have each other. They are still here, and they will keep going.
Not walking as we know it, not breathing as we know it, not even seeing as we know it. No, they will never see any of the things they have borne witness to, not within this whiteness, not when the only thing they have ever needed sight for has been for each other. They will always be anchored by the monument bearing their old names, but they will never see it again. They will not need to.
No, they will not need it to continue bearing witness as they always have, answering prayers as they always have. And so that is what they will do, the four of them together as they always should be and always will be. This era has ended, but they will continue on and on, endlessly, eternally them. The warmth and the spark, the sweetness and the spark. Always.
And they will carry the living memory with them.
Although in Luciform I did not get a chance to come up with or use Theodore, Ezrael, Haze and A's full names, from about part 2/round 2 onwards I knew that I would incorporate some Irish names in there. The reason? Reading Savage Her Reply (yes, the same book that a lot of epigraphs for this and Luciform came from) and discovering that the name 'Aodh' is pronounced 'ay', as in 'hay'...which is also exactly how you say the letter 'A'. Even funnier (to me, my sense of humour is not the finest) is that the diminutive of Aodh is Aodhan, which has been Anglicised into Aidan-only one sound and two letters short of Ada. Believe me, I would have find a way of making that detail a part of the story if I had read this book back when I begun Luciform in the first place. Not that it matters too much, because either way from that point the actual story the book told influenced some aspects of the way I interpreted their story from the point I did read it., but as a further homage to that/furthering the inside joke with myself, I decided incorporating some Irish names (that I took either from other myths or from Behind the Name) into their full names was the best way to go.
Anyway, this is the end of the collection! This doesn't guarantee that this is the last time I ever write anything in this universe. I swear, when I finished Luciform in August I thought that was that and look where we are now. But, regardless, this is the end. So, I hope that you have enjoyed this collection. Reviews, as always, are always appreciated but there is no obligation for them. Thank you for reading, and since it's close to the end of 2021, I wish you all a happy New Year!