“The Loneliness of Former Constellations” by P.H. Low

Wil Wheaton (0:25)

Hi, friends. I'm Wil, and it's Storytime.

The war is long over, and as the memory of it fades, it has taken with it the sacrifices and horrors endured by those who fought and won the conflict. One of the warriors, perhaps the most consequential warrior, you'll have to decide if that's accurate for yourself, has quietly made a home for herself, far away from the blood-soaked front lines, where she has safely grown old in quiet solitude. Our story begins when she receives a visitor, a young warrior who brings with her a familiar something, something halfway between an echo and a reflection, that stirs something deep within the veteran who welcomes her. The war is over, but there are still battles to be fought, tyrants to be defeated, a young warrior to be mentored.

She is tired, but it has been a very long time since she received a visitor, let alone a young warrior who may remind her of herself so long ago. So she will embrace her visitor, embrace the responsibility of caring for her, and perhaps she will find a way to soften her embrace of the loneliness of former constellations.

The Loneliness of Former Constellations by PH. Low, originally published in Strange Horizons.

A content warning. This story involves animal cruelty and death, disregard for personal autonomy, blood, scars and scarification, suicide, violence and combat, and vomit. I mean, other than that, it's pretty benign.

When the doorbell first rings, I do not rise from my chair. It is one of those days when the hurt bends me double. My nerves pulse sharp behind my eyelids. My fingers, clenched around the worn wooden armrests, are full of thorns. But outside the open window, the maples blaze a vermillion song. And so, at the bell's second chime, I hobble down the hall, raise myself to the peephole. I have only ever seen her in two dimensions, bright pixels on a small glass tablet I would have laughed at once for its primitiveness. Here, it is all I have. In person, her hair is red as the leaves. And she is so, so young. Come in, I say, cracking open the door. She hefts a huge trunk, the kind with leather straps and no wheels, wide as she is tall, and cocks her head. You're heady? Yes. Are you really a house witch?

Despite the ache unfurling in my chest, I smile. That she might give me such a name, trapped as I am in this flesh I did not choose. You could say so. I flex my fingers, and her mouth crooks as the chandelier above my head flares bright every pale candle. Heat waxes across my shoulder blades, drips down. I am too tired to wince, but it's worth the effort. Impressive, she says, and thrusts her hand toward mine with a modicum more respect. I'm Alana. Well met, I say, shaking. Her grip is flawless, long fingered and strong.

This is the house, three floors of shining mahogany. Lintels of flowered mardle, rafters and windows arched as the sky. Lightbulbs gutter in sconces installed at the dawn of mass production. Dried roses hang like dark exhales above the main fireplace. All mine for years, but too large of late for a single person and their sleepless turning.

And when I tripped down the stairs one night, lay for hours gasping and panting on the floor as the nanites in my bones knit me back together. I decided it would be good to have another person nearby, another body just in case.

How long have you lived here? Alana strides ahead of me through the main hall. A dark blur of leather jacket, black jeans, combat boots. She has the ramrod posture of someone the world cannot tamp down. 30 years old, maybe, or 35?

Longer than you've been alive, I say. Her eyes flick up, the dark blue of an old friend's, long gone. You don't look a day over 20 When I attempt to shrug, my shoulders sing lightning, and my eyes water.

I point to my chair, still out of reach. If you would be so kind. Oh, here. A soft thud on the wooden floor, a guiding hand, and my legs fold into the cushions.

Thank you. I tip my head back into the draft-cooled headrest, breathe. Sorry, I'm, it's not the best of days.

I should have told you, no, she says, knife sharp. You didn't have to. I take care of everything, regardless. I curl my fingers again. A slow convulsion beneath my sternum and the tea kettle whistles. I'd heated it up earlier in anticipation, but still. Would you like some tea? That would be lovely, but her voice catches. Are you sure you don't need? Please sit. When I clench my fist, the whistling stops. Two china cups clink down on the dining table, Italian blue. Breakfast or Earl Grey? Earl Grey, she says quickly, and I laugh, heaving back to my feet. She holds out a hand to urge me back down, but the house parts for me in its subtle way. Slants its generous floors to help me along. Good, I was out of breakfast anyway.