It Formed in the Absence of Stars

This story contains mentions or themes of: physical violence, gore, or abuse, and sexual violence.

The first time, it was formed in the wind. Was it alive? Perhaps. It wasn’t sure. It had no body. No eyes to see. No hands to feel. No ears to hear. Yet, it heard.

It heard a call in the distance. One of desperation. Of pain. Of fear. So, it answered swiftly.

It rocketed through the stagnant forest, running through the air. Invisible in its beauty. The air might have rushed past it, had it been of substance. Instead, it simply moved. Past time and space and thought. Answering the call.

It reached the woman. She knelt beside someone who lay on the forest floor. A man. A child nestled into her. Her lips moved in what might have been prayer. Her eyes were closed. It padded towards her, and nuzzled itself against her arm, trailing along her until it reached the man.

His face was contorted in what may have been pain. It didn’t know pain. It laid on his chest, circling several times before finding a comfortable position. After a long while, he awoke. It didn’t leave his side. Not until he died, many years later. After the world had returned to its ways.

The second time it was formed, it formed in a fire. It did not burn. Not in the way the village had. No. It heard the screams, and felt a tug towards them, but they were not its business. Not this time. The call was quiet this time. Almost inaudible. It followed an old hunting trail to the shore. Somehow, it knew the way.

At the shore stood a little child. A girl. She pushed a small boat towards the sea. Her attempts at escaping the fire were deemed useless by her small stature. But she did not need it the most. No. As it watched, another girl, this one older, taller, stronger, came even with the younger one. Then, she hesitated. It answered quickly once more, nipping at her heels. She joined the younger girl, and they fled.

It joined the older one on her journeys. Although she seemed to run from it so often. Although she desired to snuff out its fire. Because she needed it. It knew that.

Then, the girl died. And it was released from its charge.

The third time, it was formed in smoke. The smoke was sweet. Unusual. It followed the smoke to an apprentice. He smiled brightly, sharing stew with a blacksmith. The apprentice did not need it. It was sure of that. So it left, in search of a call. It took a long while to find that call. It wandered paths, and forests, and lakes. It spent time traveling with a minstrel. It did not find the apprentice again for several years.

When the apprentice called, it was already there. It had followed the minstrel to him. And stayed with them for a time. His call was the minstrel’s name, spoken over and over again. A plea. A bargain. A dream. And utterly broken. It found its way to his shoulder, and perched there, resolute.

It did not leave when the apprentice started screaming. It did not leave when he stumbled through the mud, bleeding, carrying the minstrel. It did not leave when he was cast from his home. Or even over that terrible winter.

The fourth time, it was formed in water. In the brine of the deep sea. The call it heard was that of a mother. The crying of a young boy. It swam through the deep, moving to meet him. He rowed, his oars beating against the water in time with an old rhythm. It swam alongside him, then slept beside him when the stars came out.

Eventually, he reached what could have been safety. Should have been safety. A ship. It boarded the ship with him. And was violently cast off. It had never known pain before.

For years, it followed, swimming in the ship’s wake. Never able to board. Then, it heard another call.

This was new.

Not much was new to it at this time.

It swam towards the call. It swam for a long while. Then, it reached the caller. A lady clung to a piece of driftwood, bobbing up and down in the waves. She looked up, almost seeming to see it. But that was impossible. It rested on the driftwood near her.

Later, the ship found them. The boy rescued the lady, bringing both her and it aboard.

It was still needed.

Not long after she had boarded the ship, the lady found herself shoved against a wall. A stranger’s hands on her. It hit the floor hard. Almost as if it were of substance. It was too far from her. It could not move, though it sensed the lady calling for it silently. It could read her plea in her widened eyes and tense shoulders. But it could do nothing. Something was holding it back. It struggled against that something.

The something snapped as the boy came. It rushed to the lady, curling around her legs. It would never leave her again. Not until long after her bones were gifted to the sea. Not until everyone who had known her was gone, and her name was forgotten.

The fifth time it was formed, it formed in a moment. The call was quick. So it was quick in response. It met the brother as the young prince ran away. It stood beside him. The moment was over quickly. There was the rasp of steel. A scuffle. Then, the brother fell dead, his head rolling to its feet. It left him after his funeral. His mother had cried as they laid him in a tomb.

The sixth time, it was formed in darkness. A closet. It felt weak as it nestled against the little prince. Cold. Shaky. Barely present. And then, a week later, it grew strong. And stronger. Steady. Many, many years later, the little prince died. Peacefully. A whisper in the night. And so, it left.

The seventh time, it was formed in a song. A few tentative chords strummed. An intake of breath. A low hum. It answered the song, meeting the minstrel once more. Her voice grew stronger as it followed her. Her steps lighter, though still limping. Her scars turned from shame to badges of honor. She smiled again.

The eighth time, it formed in iron and stone. It squeezed between the bars of the cell, and came to lay at the prisoner’s feet. Once again, it felt weak. Fluttering, like a feather on the wind. Yet it remained. It remained until a torch’s flame pierced the dark of the dungeon. It looked up, and saw the apprentice.

And with the apprentice, a friend. They opened the cell, speaking to the prisoner. The apprentice offered him drink. It grew stronger. It led him out of the cell. It stayed with the prisoner. Watched him grow old, which he’d never thought would happen. Watched him pass, which he’d thought would happen sooner.

The ninth time it formed, it formed in ink. In dark swirls binding fate. The call was the shuddering sigh of the one who was bound by that fate. The Hunter. It sustained her, though she never noticed it. Her life was not what she’d though it would be. There had been more pain. More snakes. But more love as well. In the end, she was content.

It vanished once, and only once. The apprentice’s call had gone silent. His gaze downcast. He had replaced the prisoner, through no fault of his own. Or, perhaps, through every fault of his own. Seconds blurred into hours. Hours into days. Days into weeks. Then, in the light of a torch, it returned. It did not vanish again.

The tenth time, it was formed in a battle cry. It rose, riding alongside the soldiers, until it found the strategist, her brow furrowed in contemplation. Her plans nearly ruined. It curled up on her head, breathing into her orange waves. The battle was not over yet.

It formed over, and over, and over again. In the moon, and clouds, and mist. In tired smiles, and daffodils, and the laughter of an infant. Finally, it was formed in the absence of stars. It called itself hope.