Of Love and Loss
She knows she is dead because her end-the end-was all so terrible, so heartbreakingly vivid. And because nothing else can compare to this weightless nostalgia rather than death itself. For the first time in many years, Sheba is free. It's sad, yet she doesn't know what she would rather.
She adjusts to the dimension, an endless, empty space. But, packed all around her-rimmed with pale golden-minuscule birds of the purest white. Here, it is not cold, but also not warm in the same way. It's not like she can see, hear, smell or even feel. Awareness, she figures, is simply this evident, unnameable ability to sense.
Like a fascinated child, Sheba marvels at the pale birds as they swirl in the aether. They are called the rukh-the Home of Souls. She knows this because Ugo discovered them. That was literally a lifetime ago. Sheba feels a sharp pang of guilt, of remorse for the dimension she has left behind. But there is nothing left for her to do; her role has vanished with her. The world has vanished without her.
The birds are silent and flit together in swaths of light as if they are controlled-no orchestrated-by a greater will. She realises how correct she is just as they split, great curtains of pale golden drawing apart for the conductor to glide into view. It is none other than Solomon. She is oddly touched to find that in this place of unfamiliarity, he is here to receive her.
His rukh is arranged in a perfect replica of his form, each tiny bird compressed and each flapping in synchronisation. In this way he moves, takes long, flowing strides. And he looks at her with the same conscious as he used to before he ascended into the rukh. Before he broke her heart.
Sheba feels raw emotion twist and flip inside her, it ignites with an agonizing yearning and burns, livid as the rukh in this space. She makes to move towards his approaching form, but she is thinking too literally. Human steps of muscle and bone instead of the spiritual will to move. And of course, her rukh flutters in disorientation, this dimension's equivalent of losing balance and stumbling.
And then Solomon is suddenly there, holding her close. It barely feels possible, but yes. He is embracing her rukh. His warmth isn't there; his form devoid of voice. Yet there is nothing more convincing than the rukh itself. Ugo had said that the rukh cannot lie, and Sheba clings to that information in the same way that she clings to him. And if she has tear ducts, she would cry.
But she doesn't, so she doesn't. It has been too long a time. Their thoughts swirl together; there is nothing holding them back. In the galaxy of free musings, their intact ones share the sacred dialect of sense. His are remorseful and reassuring, hers wounded and desperate. Together, they resonate of love and loss.
Eventually, the time will come when Sheba's rukh will not be able to hold itself together. Influenced by his own encompassing will, it will dissipate and the bits of her own self will lose itself in the great flow. Watching, waiting to be reborn. Like sand in a storm. He wishes to shelter her, preserve her, but there is no way to stop it. He understands the futility of such an endeavor. He cannot deny the solitude of his position, and the one person that wished to forever accompany him will ultimately be lost. He will be alone again, immersed in the fragmented souls of his brethren. He will remain the conductor; the soul and will of his storm; the walker in the wind. Was this not of his own will?
Sheba is falling apart. She knows what is about to happen. She glances at Solomon, but all she can see are his sad, sad eyes. The reassurance has faded in the same way her soul will. He's saying goodbye, he's saying he loves her very, very much, she understands. But she can't complete her reply before the Separation steals her heart and voice. Why do they have to go first? Her soul splits and caresses his with a final, silent, impossible will. He watches her go, mindless, heartless, soulless self in her golden vessels as she joins the rest of them, dancing in his space.
He watches, even after he knows that she has forgotten him.
As much as I'm sure we all wish there was a happy ending, there wasn't. The tale ended unkindly, and my tale is here to hopefully soften the blow. Or worsen it, you never know.
I'm crying right now.
Don't have to read the below
I'd like to stake my belief in the rukh-the home of souls. I think that when one dies, their soul kind of breaks apart into fragments of rukh after a short while, so parts of their personality, parts of themselves are scattered in separate little bundles of personality and physical traits and memories. And when someone is born, random rukh gathers-random bits of random dead people gather-and are reborn. The rukh of one person will gravitate near his or her descendants so that, mixed with science and genetics, children may have same personality or physical traits. In this way, no new human will ever be the same as another.
However, Solomon, being the Phenomenon he is, has all his rukh in the same relative space so that the appearance of his physical form is retained and his mind and soul, in effect are also in sync. Therefore, he would function pretty normally except with the absence of a physical form and physical-think physics-rules.
Of course, the third dimension-the dimension of spirituality and rukh-would not exist as some form of heaven. Rather a resting place for the deceased before rebirth. A dead person such as Sheba would abide just as surely to the rules as anyone else would.