Four on a ship, hurtling through the stars. And as fast as it flies- fast, the captain boasts, probably the fastest you'll ever know- it does not matter, because it is the path that matters, and they are followed.
One is patient. Only one. He is old. Old, he would tell the others if they could understand him, but two do not. They also do not understand his age, for he is not really old, he has just lived a very long time, and that is only as of yet, because he can live longer still, if the fates allow.
The ship races, but he will wait, for even if he runs out of time, he knows it will happen. Some day. Maybe without him, maybe with. There is a word for it in his language the others also won't understand. It is an idea, a concept, and the best he can come up with in their language is An Evening Out.
"You're asking me on a date?" the Captain asks. He might understand, but he won't show that he does.
The patient one shakes his shaggy head. No. He would like to give the Captain a gentle shove. Maybe not so gentle. The Captain takes that patient word, brings it to his own language, and makes a pun.
Even-ing, he explains with his centuries-earned patience. Becoming even. Leveling.
The Captain does not care. If it is beyond his time, he does not care. He does not believe it will be within his time. Still, he twists words as if they are chemistry, as if they will devise a new solution. He is out of time and he knows it, so he speaks, halting time, asking for a delay.
The other one who is impatient is She, who has witnessed an end of time, who must believe it can begin again. Only she cannot wait. She must see it through, now, and it is her dominant thought. Now. When the Captain twists words she snaps Now, when the Boy asks how she is full of description, but ultimately she means Now. Her pain is raw. He touches her at the back of her head, cradles her, stops her from moving. Time absolves you, he tells her gently. Her eyes beg the question, Will I see it? but she turns to the Captain, who translates, unsurprisingly, in purposeful error.
"He says the Empire's a murdering bunch of mother fuckers."
The Boy is not like the other two. His impatience is like a sponge squeezed out, ready to be put to work again. There is trust in the Boy. It holds fast, and he won't let it go, even though he is sure the Captain lies in his translation.
"He says to go swab the decks," the Captain's lip twists like his meaning.
The Boy almost understands the Even-ing Out. It is in him, but it is new and must be explored. He has yet to learn it is not Hope that causes it, the dreaming of the Short-lived, but rather Time, which cannot be rushed or twisted simply by the desires of one small life.
The truth is long life doesn't necessarily bring wisdom. He wishes both for the Captain, long life and wisdom. The Boy will have both, he suspects, and it would be nice if the hope in him never dies. As for Her, with her raw energy of grief and despair, it is possible life will be too short, but if she finds peace it will be worthwhile.
They hurtle through space, followed by the thing that does not level but razes, and he cannot help but be touched by the other three. Let us feast at the platter of life, he murmurs a prayer in his language.
The Captain, busy with the landing sequence, mutters, "I don't think they're gonna feed us."
The saddest part is he may outlive them all.