Work Text:
I am not a man who makes friends easily.
It is a truth I have known about myself for decades now. People have been…difficult, for so long. It had always been easier for me to retreat into solace with the stars, looking up, instead of looking to who was beside me. I would struggle with real conversation, preferring to study what was up there, so sure that few would want to understand who I was. To see me first, instead of the legacy of my father and what it has brought me. For so long, I thought that was how my life would be for the rest of my days–alone with the Milky Way, reading and sending letters to Nova every so often, and I would content myself with that. My walls were high, and I thought they were near-impenetrable. Writing essay after essay, burying myself in books, and quips that I rehearsed and practiced.
But then, Samuel….you.
You, Rose, and Margaret.
I cannot forget how you were one of the first to truly start breaking down my walls. It was yours and Rose’s stories that grabbed my attention, that made me make haste to the Sun--because it was good. The science was exact, but besides that, your writing reminded me of when I was a child, using my father’s telescope to look up at the Milky Way. They reminded me of that excitement I felt when I was so, so young, asking question after question about what lay between and beyond those stars and galaxies. Your creativity and cleverness leapt off the page, enrapturing me, even if I couldn’t quite admit the scope of it yet back then.
God. The joy I felt, speaking to those gathered outside the Sun as I wrote myself into your stories, participating in that wonder. I have rarely felt its equal over the years. It had been so long since I truly dreamt, and yet there I was. Spinning my own tale of that great telescope, telling them here’s a headline! Every word you read was true!
You gave that to me, Samuel, with you and Rose’s stories. I was not thinking of my reputation at that moment, nor what my father would say if he found out-–though I certainly was on the voyage to the Township. Instead, I was wondering with giddy anticipation, what can I say next? What can I next create?
Meeting you did not dissuade me from those brilliant emotions. The more I talked to you, it was clear just why the Great Astronomical Discoveries brimmed with such life and whimsy—for how could a mind like your own not help to create such wonders? Your imagination shone so brightly, Samuel. I still remember the way you and Rose would tease me about it on the journey over to British Guiana, your laughter over it as warm as the sunlight shining off the waves. You never made me feel mocked or judged—I had to work to keep my smile off of my face as you and Rose teamed up to ask me what my favourite parts were, or when you’d ask what I thought those lunar buffalo might look like. If I try, I can still hear your voice saying, just a little too casually, well, John? You pointed that telescope up at the Moon, after all—you saw what you saw! You’re a part of the story, it doesn’t seem like a bad idea to ask!
…I never really did tell you what I thought they might look like.
I regret that now. I should have done so.
It was easy to listen to you. To want to be a part of your story. You drew people in, Samuel—your pencil scribbled down such wonders, and you spoke with such kindness, that I kept on wanting to come back and speak more with you.
Speak, I did.
You were one of the few I have ever trusted with knowledge of just why I asked for the Satellite to be placed so far away from every part of society. You listened when I spoke about the weight of my father’s legacy, offering your own in comfort. You told me of the loss of your own parents, of remembering them less and less each year in turn, and how much that terrified you. You told me of how you understood the feeling of not being enough - of judging yourself harshly, unfairly. We both had legacies to live up to, and…it was a relief, truly, to find another who understood just how that legacy has impacted me. Even you knew that legacy first, Samuel, but you didn’t let it stop you from coming to tease and know and love John, not Sir John Herschel.
I will never be able to describe how much that meant to me.
I took your hand, then. I just felt I had to - trying to reach out, to share the comfort you had given me in those moments. It was warm in mine, callused and hardened from all the labour you had done so far, but it was so easy to hold it gently. You were always a good listener, Samuel, willing to hear everyone’s stories. I tried to do the same the same for you. It was the least I could have done, and I hope it was enough.
And the way you dedicated yourself to the Satellite! You laid more bricks than anyone—there were people who had worked on the Satellite for years that did not throw themselves into it with the fervor you had. It was wonderful seeing you, a man who was fast becoming someone I held dear, be so determined in seeing this great work come to its grand completion. You may not have known much of the science behind it, but that doesn’t change the fact that your contributions were a significant amount of what launched our new Polaris, a brilliant guiding light, up in the sky. There were so many nights where I’d be walking back to my quarters and see you still working your fingers to the bone. I’d come and talk to you as you did so, even lifting some bricks of my own, and many of those conversations would last for hours and hours on end. You never shied away from what needed to be done when it truly came down to it.
…I suppose that’s why you chose what you did, isn’t it?
I am so angry , Samuel. I have felt rage before, but it has sputtered out and died. It was not this. It burns in my very soul, will not abate. You should not be gone. You never should have felt like that was the only choice you could have made. Your friendship was something I so greatly treasured, so close to my heart that grief ripples through me every time I think your name. Loss like this is still so new to me. I think it rather comes with the territory of only truly connecting with a few in my twenty-seven years.
I will never speak with you again. I will never see you scribbling down new stories in your journal, new accounts of our adventures—never see that brilliant smile of yours again as you try to figure out what prose would have best suited our latest exploits. I will never see that determined light of hope and compassion in your eyes as you work to build a better world once more. There is nothing I can do to fix that—none of what I have studied will change what you felt you had to do to keep us all safe.
How that aches.
I am out of my depth now, flying off to strange and terrifying locations out in space’s vast expanse. None of what I know truly applies out here. I may have been a god of modern astronomy back in 1835–-oh, I still remember the way a teasing grin spread out across your face as you told me that Rose used to call me that when I told you that we were something now, but clearly supporting us, proud of your sister and I. There are so many stories that you live in now, Samuel, and that is one of them. It is so easy to get sidetracked in those memories, of your friendship and compassion.
I am no god now. I never was. I am just a man, a human who has so much he does not know about the world, about what comes next for all of us in this terrifying war we’ve been thrust into. The Gates , whatever they are—I still do not know. I have so many questions, but right now they are not what I have been thinking of. How could I?
But…One must learn to adapt.
It sounds impossible right now—but it is the truth. I must…I must at least try. We may no longer be travelling these distances together, but you would not have wanted us to lose all sight of what is out there because of your loss.
You would have wanted us to live.
I hope your soul is with the stars, Samuel. I can think of no better place for you to finally rest, up in the night sky you loved so dearly.
I took so long to forgive you.
There is a great part of myself that regrets that. I look at that barely-younger version of myself and scream at her, act, talk to him now—you have so much less time than you think!
I spent months trying to avoid you, telling myself I would do it another day, when I was ready.
Yet, after it all….you only had my forgiveness for a week.
A week .
It feels like barely any time at all now. There should have been more time for us to truly speak. I should not have sent you away so often. I should not have put off that conversation over and over. Every time I think of it, it is all I can do to not start crying once more. It is something I have failed at most times, tears streaking down my face and a void deepening inside my chest.
But…I also know that you wouldn’t have wanted me to forgive you before I felt ready. For as much as you kept asking to speak with me in Township Number Nine, you never pushed beyond that once I said enough . Once I said not now, Samuel, please. You remembered what I had told you on my roof what feels so long ago now. How I did not know if I could ever trust you and Rose again after the reveal of the Hoax, and…even as I watched your face fall, you did not argue against those words. I cannot dismiss that, even in my grief. That was yet another choice of yours. I will not disrespect it, even now.
You know where to find me. How many times did you say that to me, after I told you I wasn’t yet ready? You waited for my forgiveness, understanding that I would find you when I was ready. Your belief was priceless, working to earn back my trust with dedication and remorse.
I did find you once I felt capable. I know I did, for the Satellite’s launch is still so clear in my mind. I remember the way I woke while we were held aloft by Anna’s great work, bones still aching with the Radiance, head throbbing. You instantly came to me, listening once I asked you to stay.
You had waited for me to wake. There was something comforting in that, in knowing that I was no longer alone. That even when our relationship was strained, there was still someone who would want to check on me, to see if I was alright. It was something I had not had in those long years in New York City, after all. The talk whenever I missed galas never seemed to focus on whether I was well. Rather, they centered on just how odd it was. It was always with an air of judgement that made me stiffen up whenever I read those papers, whenever I saw people stare the next time I actually attended one of them.
I was odd. I was unusual. But so were you, Samuel. I believe it is a part of why it felt so easy to connect with you in the beginning. You understood.
You just sat with me, as we waited for it all to end. There was still a smile on your face, as so often before, bright and true as the Sun itself. You talked and talked with me throughout the hours, as I was now ready to discuss the Hoax, and what it meant to you. I learned it was yours and Rose’s way of finding comfort in what was alien and strange, of how it was held so close to your heart, even if you regretted how you had chosen to share it with the world. Even if it had caused me pain that took me months to forgive…I could see why it meant so much to you. It was a home to you, after all. A constant, a way to orient yourself in unfamiliar worlds. Had I not been searching for that as well?
But it was not only my own pain we talked about that night, not only the Hoax. I told you things I had not told another living soul before.
I told you of how I used to bring food out to the cats that lived near the Westchester Hotel, delighting in how they’d curl around my legs, letting me pet them for what felt like hours. I told you of how I snuck down to the hotel’s kitchens and made myself snacks and sandwiches—the secrecy was half the delight, and I’d find myself making frankly ridiculous pairings just for the fun of it. I was already considered eccentric, after all—even if they caught me, what would it truly matter? I told you of flipping through the latest studies and treatises on what lies out in the stars, filling my library with first editions and the research of brilliant scientists—and while it never gave me the answers I spent so long reaching out for, there was still joy in it. In knowing that there was so much more than this out there, in knowing that great mysteries had been solved before. I had been lonely, had felt disconnected–but there had been small happinesses in my life, still. You listened to them all. You told me of your own. Of the small candies you’d buy to share with Rose with spare money from your job at the Sun, the flowers you'd buy to spruce up your apartment shared with Rose, and of how you’d sometimes stay up late into the night writing, your scribblings lit by the small glow of candlelight.
It is strange to think of. How many nights were we up at the same midnight hour, before we even knew each other? Did we ever both look up at the moon at the same time from our windows? Did we ever attend a gala at the same time? You reporting as I made an appearance in society, yet never speaking to one another?
I will never know.
We even reminisced over those few days you stayed in my apartment. Sharing space with others was a true comfort, Samuel. It was one I was unused to, but one I delighted in at the time. Seeing you and Rose make your way through my library, your shoulders losing tension as you stared around in wonder is a memory I recall with fondness. It felt good to make another feel comfortable and safe. The conversations we shared there are ones I think of often now, those after I took you up to my roof and revealed why I had connected so deeply with your Hoax. They may have been slightly bitter memories when I had first discovered what the Hoax was, but were made much less so when forgiveness had come.
And…though we may not have had much time to become close again after I forgave you, after Sia sent us all down, the time we did have mattered . This, I know.
For how else could I describe that delight on your face when I first transformed that wood into gold, and took those steps towards knowing who I had once been? That mattered. That is a memory I will cherish forever. You looked so proud, your smile widening and glee filling your eyes as you watched that light shimmer and shine through its grain , whirling to face me as I asked you for that journal. I shared that joy with you, feeling relief and happiness swell through me, as bright as moonlight through the clouds. Finally, answers were so close, and I had someone dear beside me as I found them. It was something I would have thought impossible mere months ago, and yet there we were.
I try to focus on remembering that pride, that happiness you so clearly had at my mystery finally beginning to be solved.
…yet, I cannot stop thinking about what could have happened if I had been stronger. If I had already unlocked my Protection, if I had known what that Fog would do. If I had been able to raise shields around you, keep you safe and unscathed from him. It is a question that will not stop haunting me. You sacrificed yourself for us all, but it is a choice you never should have had to make.
…I knew you well enough to say that you would not have wanted me to blame myself. That there is no way I could have known. That you were glad to know me, that what we rebuilt together was worth it all. So I try to push away the shadows that whisper such things, look deep inside and hold tight to the happiest times we had. It does not erase the grief, but it is still a comfort in its own way.
No one knew me, truly knew me, for so long. But you came closer than many ever did over those six years, and did not shy away.
I believed in you, Samuel. Speaking of that was the very first conversation we ever had—and while I was misled to believe in your stories, I was not wrong to believe in you. I am glad I told you that, at least. If nothing else, I can take some small comfort that the last conversation we ever had was me assuring you of just how strong you were. Of just how much you meant to me, of how I was so, so happy we had come to know each other. You were loved. You are loved, even if you are no longer here to see it.
This time, I know the source of my pain. It is no phantom, whispering and unable to be identified. It is raw and new, and can be narrowed down to the aching loss of you.
I have known grief before. I have seen the falling of an entire world, have lost friends to darkness—but this feels different. Because you were with me when I thought I was alone in the universe, destined to face this malady on my own. You were the first to listen to my stories of my phantom pain with an open ear and no mockery to be found. You saw me in one of my darkest hours, and helped me to find my light again.
You were a good man, Samuel, the strongest person I know—a true masterpiece. One of my dearest friends, even if our time was so much shorter than it should have been. And I know that even if it was short, that does not take away from what I gained from your friendship, from getting to know you at all. Without you, I know I would still be on that roof, waiting for answers that would have never come.
Rest well, Samuel. I will always remember you. Nothing will take that away from me now.
…This still doesn’t feel real. It can’t.
I want so badly for this to be a nightmare. Something that I can shake myself awake from and find out that none of this has truly happened. I want to be able to go and find you, talk through what a horrible dream it was. Because of course you’re okay , because of course nothing has happened to you . It was just my mind running at breakneck speeds to horrible places, places no one wants to tread. I want to throw my arms around you and have you hug me back like we did on Lincoln’s beach, reunited again. I want to cling on tight, erasing that nightmare with the warmth of my brother in my arms, the comfortable pressure returned.
But this is reality, with no escape to be found.
We’re separated, even though you promised that would never happen again. You promised, Samuel!
God, how am I supposed to go on without you?
You were the first person I dreamed with, who comforted me through every struggle I couldn’t have faced alone. You’re the one who listened to my constant rambles about the night sky, about Newtonian mechanics and thermodynamics, about how there was so much more than this out there that I wanted to race towards with everything I had. I refused to live a life immobilized, and you always supported me on my attempts to get there. Even when it became more and more improper for a woman of my age to not settle down, to keep on pursuing the sciences in the only ways available to me, you continued to create with me. To listen to it all. You were one of the only people who I knew would always be proud of me, who would believe in me to the end.
Four months.
That’s how long I’ve known John and Margaret.
That’s how long the two people I am...I am closest to now have known me. How could that ever compete with how long you knew me? What’s that, against decades? Of years where it was just you and I?
You knew all my stories, and I knew yours. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
But now I’m going to make new ones, and you’ll never get to know them.
You can’t be gone.
How can I accept that? How? I am–I was–no, no, I am your older sister. I’m still your sister. I’m always going to be your sister. I can’t lose that. I won’t . Do you hear me? I won’t!
…You can’t hear me. I know that.
But I don’t know how I can accept it.
It’s been the Stratford twins against the world for so long. But now, I’m the only one left of our family–-we’ve been cut down to one. One. How is that anything close to fair? How am I the last Stratford? Here I stand, alone under dark skies, an abyss all around me. I’m hurtling away from everything I’ve ever known, with barely any points of familiarity.
I’m terrified, Samuel. I’ve shaken, I’ve cried, over and over. How can it be an adventure without you? How can I find any sort of joy in heading off to places I know nothing about, without you by my side?
We’ve adventured together since birth. First New York, spitballing stories as a way to start to find our place in this strange city. We’d spend hours staying up way too late, giggling together and scribbling down the words we weaved together, with me doodling what we imagined in your journal’s margins. Creating tales of what could be in the space between stars, those dreams giving us a way to cope with what we didn’t yet understand about the world. Then, the next day, we’d be running through its streets, exploring and gathering more material for what we’d write together. I was always faster than you, and had to wait more than one time for you to keep up. If I try, I can still picture that exact feeling of me grabbing your hand when I decided that that was enough waiting. I can feel its warmth, the way it was slightly smaller than my own, and can see your gap-toothed smile you had when we were eight. I’d pull you along as I raced towards something new, my heart pounding with excitement.
…I did that a lot, didn’t I?
I’m going too. But, don’t worry, brother, so are you. I’ve been thinking of those words I said to you on Margaret’s roof often, after everything. I want to go back and shake that younger version of myself. I want to yell at her, to scream. I want to tell her that this adventure isn’t worth what will happen - that she should have never accepted John’s offer, that she should have stayed at the Paper Stand. That what she will find wasn’t worth losing what she always had.
Right now, I would trade everything I’ve gained on this journey to have you back, baby brother. What I built with John, my friendship with Margaret, all the dreams fulfilled, everything I’ve learned—all of it. Just to have you standing beside me once more, to see your small smile brightening your face and know you’re okay.
But, I can’t go back. I can’t change what happened next, as much as I desperately wish otherwise. The adventure continued, didn’t it?
We sailed to British Guiana on John’s ship, you finding me fighting off seasickness and doing your best to comfort me through it those first days. We hadn’t sailed in over twenty years, after all. God, I was jealous that you seemed to handle it better than I did. Granted, coming to help didn’t stop you from also teasing me over it later, sea legs and all.
I want so badly to hear you tease me like that again. To hear your voice just a little too light--to hear your voice at all.
I was so excited, even through my seasickness - after years of stagnation at the Paper Stand, something was finally happening again! We spent months working towards launching that Satellite–we may not have been moving, but it was an adventure, a way for all of what I’d spent years studying to matter. To launch that new star in the sky, to guide people home. You’d check in on me when I’d stay up late going over the equations, while other nights I would pull you away from laying yet another brick, even when nearly everyone else had left for the day. That was the deal. We took care of each other, made sure we didn’t burn out entirely. We recalibrated together, balanced each other out.
Then, flying up in Anna’s Satellite, launched into a bold new unknown to escape from what waited below. The stars felt so close that I could almost reach out and touch them, the moon’s light so much brighter than before. What I’d admired from afar, studied in every way I could access - I could see you by that moon’s light, pen tapping at your page. In what we thought would be our last moments, I told you how lucky I was to have you.
I wish I’d gotten to say that again before you made your choice.
Next, sailing the Ellen Austin, the…the beginning of the end. I wondered what my stories would be on the Sargasso, leaping over to the Antikythera with whirling and excited thoughts, wanting to know just what lay there. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into with that—though, doesn’t that apply to everything with the Travellers? You didn’t come with me over to that strange ship, but you came to say goodbye each time I left. You didn’t doubt me, and believed that I would be okay, even when others looked at me with worry.
I was. It was you we should have been worrying about. If only I had known…
It is so unthinkably wrong that I can look for you and you won’t be there. I barely got used to it during those two weeks on Lincoln, pushing myself to my limits - how am I supposed to deal with it being forever?
It hurts. It hurts so badly, but I don’t want it to stop.
I want it to hurt, because you mattered, Samuel. Every time I remember you, it claws its way up my throat, digs itself deep into my chest. It feels almost like drowning again, like falling into deep waters and trying desperately to keep myself afloat as they try to drag me under, consume me entirely. Crashing waves of anger, fear, grief— so much grief, unthinkably vast—slam into me, swirl and ebb and rise—
Even that doesn’t seem to be enough to describe it all.
I don’t think words can encompass just how much you mattered to me. How furious I am that following the Plan didn’t keep you safe, how griefstruck I am that you are gone. I could write, and write, and write, throwing my years of practice into it, and I don’t think it could come even close to expressing what’s inside me now.
I was supposed to protect you. That’s what an older sister’s for! Mom and Dad always told me to look out for you, even when we were still little. So, I was bold, brash, and pulled other kids’ attention away from you when it seemed like it was getting to be too much for you. As we got older, it got much harder than just dealing with cruel children, but…I always tried.
The one time I couldn’t, you acted to protect me.
It was to protect us all, but I think that it was especially for me. I saw the way your eyes found mine before you left. I saw them, and…I know I’d never seen you that determined, Samuel. There was a certainty in your eyes as you held yourself tall, your hand clenching around your journal. You didn’t shake, even as you took in a deep breath.
Get to the gates. I love you all.
Those words were the last you ever said to me.
You had already made your choice.
I couldn’t stop you.
I wish I could stop thinking of Gemini. Of the story Mom used to tell us when we were kids, of Castor and Pollux. Of those stellar twins who adventured together, dreamed together. It was our constellation, the one I felt such kinship with - they were heroes, pushing further and further on, changing the world around them. Connected to the stars I was fascinated by, only making me love it all the more.
We were never supposed to fulfill all of that myth.
You were never supposed to be Castor, fallen forever, gone where I can’t follow.
I can’t even bury you. At least with Mom and Dad, I could lay them to rest. I dealt with the funeral, found a plot for them near enough to our apartment, managed to scrounge together the money to buy their favourite flowers to lay on their graves as often as we could spare. Dad always liked marigolds, Mom preferred violets–they clashed a little, and we’d laugh as they jokingly fought about which they’d get for the apartment, sprucing it up and filling it with life. But there is no resting place I can put you in, nowhere to make a grave or scatter your ashes. I don’t even…I don’t even know what you would have wanted after death. We never really talked about it. We talked about so much, but that never came up. Was I avoiding it? Was I refusing to ever acknowledge that one day, I might be here and you wouldn’t be?
But...
We keep going, baby brother.
I said that so long ago now. And…I don’t want to follow my own advice. The determination I felt while saying it seems so far from me now. It feels so fragile, because the me back then never could have expected to exist without you. I never pictured a world where you lived in the echoes, not beside me as always.
I’m not ready. I don’t know how I’ll shine again. I don’t know if it’ll ever be as bright. I don't even know how it can be possible right now.
But I have to keep on moving.
I have to find out who I am without you.
It feels impossible to move forward, but…I think you would have wanted me to. I know you would have wanted me to. You never would have wanted me to stay still, completely frozen in the past. I have to try, don't I? If only for that? I don't want it to stop hurting, I don't want you to become a memory, I don't want to accept it--but here I am anyways.
There will always be an ache in me the shape of you. I’ll miss you as long as I live, but I’ll keep on going. I can’t say goodbye—the words choke up in my throat—but I’ll push forward anyways.
I love you, Samuel. I’ll keep you in my heart.