Only two beings truly knew of our existence. The first loathed us. The second took us in and loved us as though we had been her very own.
But soon, very soon, we would finally be known to one more. More than a rumor or a myth, more than a forgettable oddity spied from the corners of mortal eyes, we would become real, we would mean something to a a living creature. A child.
We paused. The tides and storms and waves of emotion ceased before a single thought, a ripple traveling amidst our ranks swiftly.
Soon.
We observed Mother’s every preparation,
We gathered round the candle Mother had set. We watched the child, watched Mother prepare herself, watched her struggle for energy.
Lastly, we saw her horn spark starry silver.
A moment passed.
A voice spoke in our midst. Not one of us. Not Mother. Something new and lovely and blindingly brilliant. It was unlike anything we had known. It seemed almost completely unremarkable save its newness, its novelty, its very presence an oddity, an aberration, a miracle. To hear a new voice, any new voice after decades and centuries and lifetimes of murmurs and echoes and Mother, was beyond everything we knew. After every combination, every rendition, every organization of meaningless noise and emotion from the beings we were perpetually surrounded with, something new was heard. The voice was foreign, timid, like Mother’s voice but as weak as an individual. It was neither confident nor demanding, just a simple tone that asked who.
It was like nothing we’d experienced in generations. Merely for hearing it our people seemed to swell. Our joy became a song, a torrent of questions and pleading, with each of us asking as loudly as we knew how. Almost as soon as it had spoken it was drowned out by noise. Sheer chaos followed perfect tranquility, and few of us even heard what the new voice spoke. Those who noticed it’s fear and confusion made attempts to draw nearer, to calm its terror and comfort it, as Mother had comforted us patiently and kindly. The attentive few attempted softness, tried to approach the child, but were unheard over their desperate companions. Others felt overlooked and forgotten, and, having lost sight of their original intent, emphatically stated their presence again and again, bellowing their existence, hoping something would take notice. A few realized the magnitude of the cacophony, but their efforts to quiet the storm only made it more severe.
The worst, though, were those who remembered exactly why they had wanted to speak with her. Those were the voices that pled, and, finding themselves ignored, pled with greater fervor. Finding themselves unanswered, they became annoyed. Their annoyance became anger, and their anger was wrathful indeed. They thundered their bitterness at the poor creature, demanded she return Mother to us and leave us be, threatened to consume her entirely. Before long, they were quite lost in their own noise, intoxicated by their melody.
Soon, all efforts were for nothing. The other, the sun itself, cut us off from the voice. We mourned the newfound silence, fell still at our loss.
As ever, Mother was near.
Mother was different after the incident. She chastised us as she had for centuries, but less forcefully. She told us what a great mistake we had made, but sounded uncertain. Instead of berating us for hours, she trailed off awkwardly after one.
We matched her silence. Whether the quiet lasted minutes or days or months, we hardly knew. Time and emptiness are not kind to us. Individuals are little more than voices, and sparing those they are very little indeed. The length seemed eons, and we found ourselves lost among moments, without our sound to remind us of who we were or hers to remind us of why we mattered. Without anchor, we drifted...
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
The voice had little more than a shred of familiarity.
“It was my mistake.”
But surely, she would never speak those words.
“Please. I’m sorry. Come back.”
An order. Whatever we were, wherever we had been, we knew that much. Slowly, voices found themselves in speaking, imitating the two strange words uttered by such a familiar mind. We gradually gathered around her, as our kind had for as long as it could remember.
Even still, she was changed. A few of us wondered if it was the same voice we had known. Never before had it been so quiet, nor had it known doubt. It had been a confident leader, a bold individual, but now it sounded little more than any of us.
Routine asserted itself once more, and we continued to move her stars and guard her night, while she continued to move the moon. Our contract forged in centuries was not to be broken in weeks.
She rarely saw the child anymore. Many of us rejoiced, glad to have our ruler to ourselves. The victory was a small pleasure so alone in the great quiet that a handful of voices were often heard recalling it, celebrating and reminding us of this small comfort.
Mother seemed to cringe at each repetition.
A few hours, she asked. It seemed a strange request. Never before had she asked to separate herself from us. She had asked for silence on many occasions, but never distance.
Most of us were quick to agree, but some of us were unsettled at the thought. Why would she ask to leave us now? What would a few hours possibly mean?
She took notice of our concern and tried to calm our anxiety. It was for a good reason, she said. It wouldn’t be so bad. She needed it.
Needed it. The words stung us, but not so much that we would let her hear of it. Quickly hushing the handful with the audacity to voice their hurt, we obeyed and departed.
During our separation we continued our tasks, guarding her kingdom and her people. When night fell, we took it upon ourselves to move her moon as well as our stars. The effort seemed monumental, but all the lighter that it was done for her.
When our exile had ended, she called to us. Once more our mother had changed, to something we no longer knew, perhaps something long forgotten. Her voice, her step, her words were more pleasant, more kind, and all the more bewildering.
“Come, I have something to show you.”
Something to show us? Many times she had had something to tell us, or something to order us to do. To show us? Intrigued, we began to gather around her.
She paused. The tip of her horn glowed. She showed us much.
The colors were too vibrant for our kind, too bright to decipher. The sounds and sights and faces were nigh incomprehensible, but were nothing against the emotions accompanying them. We knew anger and fury and wrath, we knew curiosity and madness and joy, above all else we knew loyalty and devotion, but we had never known this. The vision before us was beyond us, with more happiness than we had ever known.
And in the center of this torrent of euphoria was the child.
This was what the child had. This is what we lacked. This is where we failed our leader so utterly, what we couldn’t do for her. We weren’t sure why the child had it and we didn’t, but our question had been answered. We knew why we were second.
We were consumed in beauty and sadness.
Mother gave us a word, a flimsy word, a weak word, as explanation, a short utterance that failed to capture what we felt. As though any singular word could explain what we had witnessed, no less one so familiar.
We understood well enough without it, what had taken place. We knew our place, and finally accepted it. If this was to be the way of things, so be it. Let us offer our services to our leader as diligently as we ever had. We knew now that the child was more than us, more than any and all, to Mother, and that we would protect her as we had Mother.