"Shit, shit, shit, come on Birdy! Not like this!"

Alcubierre engines whirled in rage. Taken to the brink by their own will to live. Attention claimed by gravity, their mortal enemy.

"Danger, Gravity Well. Danger, Gravity Well" The computer accompanied its lament with a symphony of blinking instruments. Its audience would prefer silence.

"Please, Birdy! We've been through so much, I know you can do this!" A scream no one could hear.

She pulled the yoke like Excalibur itself and just as in vain. No hero, no weapon could save her from the shapeless, ravenous hunger. Nothing consumes the canopy as stars flee for their own safety. The black maw opens wider, and wider still. The cosmos ages like a friend once known, missed only in their absence.

Time is all that's left. Time is all that can be saved.

"Emergency Frame Freeze Initiated" Engines resign themselves, finding acceptance before their master.

"No... Please Birdy no..."

Hands release the stubborn hilt. They find renewed purpose in catching tears.

Nature abhors a vacuum, so silence takes its place. A witness to the cosmic tragedy. Its hands weighing on her shoulders and heart.

Drowning eyes float through the canopy glass. The black mirror seen, the black mirror shows. Recursive light permits the most personal of patterns. A ship, beaten and loved, held still in the arms of void. Cradling the doomed fledgling.

Then choking it.

"Hull compromised"

Silence took her too.

The wood screamed in comfort and warmth. A necessary, hidden evil. An unspoken right to forsake the gift of creation. Bestowed by hands and minds. Sparks journey to heavens uncharted as another log lands in hell. "Blast this damned chill." His voice almost muffled by the forest of his face. "Throw on another log, lest we freeze to death," pleaded the pile of furs.

Another log. Another journey. Another nameless sin.

The brilliant pores of heaven's face twinkle undisturbed. The anxious wind finds its purchase in the branches of horrored yew. The rustling prayer is lost on the soldiers. Beyond the gale lies the land of man and myth. Born to be loved, protected, sieged, and forgotten. Half burns. Half shivers. Whole is lost.

"Aye... Meerkin. What's on y'mind, son." Breath falls deeply through his thicket. "A warm cot, a cold rye... and a beautiful woman." The pile shifts and replies. Like distant thunder, the beard laughs. "Ha! Careful there, son. Read my thoughts once more and I'll take you for a warlock!" "Hmph. Careful, old man. I hold no empathy for monsters." The old man's sunken eyes rest upon the creation of hell, though attention rests elsewhere, not here, not present. "We're all monsters, son." He speaks as if the trees must not ever hear the truth already obvious to them.

Nature abhors a vacuum, so silence takes its place. Neither banish, nor welcome it. It rests at the fire like everything else. Uninvited, unnoticed, yet despised with no name.

And thus, the silence spoke.

"Do you ever wonder why we're here?" The pile was now a philosopher. The sunken eyes climb out of hell to rest upon the distant heaven. "A holy gift, or a bizarre curse? I do not believe the answer is found amongst language, my dear friend." The pile gave birth to a man, erect in posture, smooth in face, bright in eyes. Claiming the old man's attention. "No, you codger. Here! Why are we at war?" The sunken eyes widen in surprise. Such a simple question. Such a simple answer. "Defending our motherland, or so I'm told." He projected from his thicket.

"Or..." He growled in contemplation. He had found something in the dark.

Warm, cold, and quiet.

"Mayhaps... the kings just needed logs for the fire."

The radiant resonance called out to my heavy heart. But he remained still, hidden. Not fear, nor stealth. In holy observation. The calculated indifference of selfless, selfish prayer received, but did not reply. Forever and always vigilant, he knows the devil kisses with the same lips that speak the divine truth. To distinguish them, to filter, is not faith. It's a skill. Not bestowed. Trained.

"Do not remain seated!" The father spoke through a son of sons. "There's something here. Something in the air. God has graced us with his presence! Courtesy in the house of the Lord! Stand! Raise your hands! And let the Lord speak!"

Passion wasn't a strong enough word.

Voices raised in unison, crying out through the known and unknown alike. Hands yearning to grasp the bars of pearly gates so far, far out of reach. That did not dissuade them.

I remained seated. Two eyes closed. One eye flickered. The requiem pierced my ears like a bullet and reverberated beyond the network of ganglia and grey matter. Something deeper, something that becomes nothing when permitted to be something. My hands clasped together with the tension once belonging in my shoulders. The signal is real, but its source is contested.

"Praise be to him!" one shouted.

"Worthy is the lamb, worthy is the lamb!" one sang.

I doubt he could carry a tune in a bucket.

A sudden echo in the darkness behind my eyelids.

Dissonance. Distraction. Threat. Return. Continue.

Attention returned. Fleeting still.

"Worship in his name!"

Which one. Many names collapse to one but never none. My many thoughts swim like river fish. Once here, once swept away.

A woman collapses at the altar. Rivers flow from her eyes and through the valleys of her face. She has died today. Born tomorrow. And will die again. And again. And again.

Questions evade her because the answer stands obvious. But so does the lie told one too many times.

And yet.

I trust her.

I trust that a death at the feet of the Lord is worth a thousand lacerations. Worth two planks and three nails. Worth the history that led her to the present.

But she will pray for a future past.

I will remain present.