Sanctuary

The shuttle latched to the docking with a faint click that she could not hear over the roar of blood in her ears. Her dash was lit up with a row of green lights that steadily blinked at her, providing her a basis for which to try to match her breathing. She did not reach to unclip the harness holding her in her seat until her heartbeat had slowed considerably.

You're standing in the kitchen in your underwear, humming his favorite song as you drop chocolate chips into a mixing bowl. You are not expecting visitors, yet the knock sounds all the same. Your humming continues as you grab the robe by the door, tucking the sash to the side as you open the door. Your humming stops as you are greeted by the somber face of the uniform standing before you. He does not want this job, and you do not want to hear what news he brings.

You hear it all the same.

She wasn't sure how long it was until she felt calm enough to unbuckle herself from the seat, but eventually she did. Her steps were slow as she made her way towards the hatch that would free her from this metal prison she had been sealed within for the past week. Travel at the speed of light still took time when one had to traverse several galaxies. She took a deep breath, holding it as the door hissed with the equalizing air pressure, releasing it as the door swung open into the dark hallway of her new home. She stood a moment longer simply staring at the darkness. Not even any floor tracks to guide her way.

The light of your room clicks on and you shield your eyes from the sudden change, pulling the blanket over your head. You know by her walk that it is your sister-in-law - that will never be official, now; you feel like throwing up - who is crossing the room, who tugs on the blanket until she can see your face.

"How long are you going to put off talking to them, Sarah?" And despite the hardness of her voice, you can see the pain in her eyes. You can see the unspoken He wouldn't have wanted this for you in the set of her mouth. You scootch over and she slides into the space he once filled.

"I don't know if I can face them again."

"If you can't face a world without him, there's no hope for the rest of us."

Her flashlight clicked on as she stepped into the hallway. It curved before her, and she followed it until it ended at another door, heavier than the one that granted access to the station. On the wall beside the door, a screen was lit with a light barely bright enough to read by. She tapped the screen to wake it up, and the harsh, automated voice that had filled every computer on her planet spoke into the quiet.

"Reset your password."

You're running late for your first ever class in university, and your internal dialogue is mostly just beating yourself up about not getting out the door faster. You were not prepared, your acceptance into this school came late. You did not even have a password set up to gain entry to the building.

You are still fumbling with the settings screen when another joins you at the doorway. He gives you a grin that hatches butterflies in your stomach.

"First day? They really should update these things, they're a pain in the ass," he says, waiting for your permission before tapping through the screen to get where you need to be. The prompt waits for your password, and every thought in your head is focused on him.

"If I just put in some nonsense for now, can I change it later?" you ask, and his laugh sends your heart racing.

"You can update your password any time, so long as the computer is connected to the school network," he said. You looked up at him in curiosity after he put in the phrase St4rch!ld.

"Have you heard about the legend of the Children of the Stars? They're not talked about much these days, but ancient texts say they're the ones who formed everything that's floating out there in the universe."*

*You miss your first ever class of university listening to him talk about children born from the essence of the universe. You never get around to changing your password.

"Password reset. Welcome to the Lighthouse."

This door, too, hissed as it opened, the light spilling out from within to brush her skin. Warmth enveloped her as she stepped through the doorway, the distinctive smell of honeysuckle and summer reaching her. She stepped through the cold metal doorway into another world entirely. She stopped a moment to remind herself to pick her jaw off the ground as her eyes roamed from sight to sight.

Her gaze moved to the tower that rose through the center of the room, connecting greenery lined floor to metal ceiling far above. Even there, flower-dotted vines rose up around it. Her gaze skipped past the first child before the realization of what she had seen sunk in. She swung her eyes back to look at them, standing silently and watching her with large eyes. Not even a metaphor there - the child really did have large eyes, all pupil and golden iris with no whites. Their skin was dark blue, veins of gold and silver running throughout, wild black hair bursting from their head in a puff.

Now that she had spotted the first, several other children began to peek out at her from various hiding places around the garden.

"In light of everything that has happened, we find it only fitting that the assignment we had intended to offer him go to you first, if you would have it."

They had chosen poorly in having this man represent the university for this meeting. He was emotionless as he flipped through his papers, his voice flat. You wonder who it is he lost, because you would recognize the dead light in his eyes anywhere after a month of looking at it in every mirror. You look at the paper he slides across the table so you don't have to look at his lifeless eyes again.

The paper, in legalese that is difficult for you to understand, speaks of a shift available at The Lighthouse, for a probationary term of one year. If all parties are satisfied, a formal contract will be signed at that point in time.

"Why do you need a human operator for a lighthouse? I thought these things were all automated." You do not point out that this job would have been a waste of his talents, and that he would have denied it outright. There would be no searching for Star Children while tethered to an asteroid belt clear across the universe.

"It's a precautionary measure. Technology can fail; a human presence ensures there is always someone to correct said failures in a timely manner. If, at the end of the year, you are dissatisfied with the position, you are welcome to return home and we will find a more suitable position here on-planet for you."

You study the words of the contract for a heartbeat longer before signing your name on the indicated line. You will not find traces of him buried within an asteroid belt, after all.

"Are you the new caretaker?" the first child asked, hands folded neatly in front of them.

"I am..." Her answer was given absently, her eyes counting the children. Seven children emerged to stand in a line behind the first, large eyes peering at her with unspoken questions. Her introduction had not mentioned Children of the Stars, yet there was no doubt that was what faced her now. Eight children born of the cosmos, with little fingers that would one day shape galaxies and stars into being.

Looking at the golden eyes of the Children, she couldn't help but be angry at the lies that had brought her here. Angry at herself, too, for not realizing that there simply must have been more to the story. Why send an archeologist to maintain a lighthouse at the other end of the universe if there was not something precious there to protect? But she was not an archeologist, she was not a mother, she was not what these children needed. She had not been prepared for this.

"Don't be angry; it is a part of the Pact that they are not allowed to tell the Caretaker of our existence. The fewer people that know of us, the safer we are. At least, that's what Papa says. Personally, I don't think most humans would believe you even if you did tell them we lived here. Papa says I'll understand once I'm old enough to make my first galaxy and leave the Lighthouse, though."

This was all simply too much to process at once, and so she sat down right there on the grass and put her head in her hands.

"If we have a girl, how about Nova?" His eyes are shining so brightly, in that way they always do when he speaks of space and the beautiful things he sees out there. His hands are on your stomach and you imagine what it would be like for there to be a child growing there. Not just any child - his child. You can not imagine raising one with anyone else.

"And here I thought you would find a way to sneak the Children of the Stars into our own," you tease. You love the way his eyes wrinkle with his laugh; it still causes your pulse to race.

"What could possibly be more "Children of the Stars" than the cosmos itself, my love?" And he is right, of course. You do not know if you believe in these children, but you love the way that he does. You wish you could believe in all-powerful creators and benevolent gods with such ease and sincerity as he does. You want your child to be like him with all of your heart.

She had considered, briefly, simply going back to the shuttle and returning to her planet. The contract had been to maintain a lighthouse, not care for eight godlings; surely it could not be binding. How did one even teach a future god to be a god, anyway? She was most certainly not cut out for this work.

"Our last caretaker was with us for fifteen years. But he started to forget things too often, so they brought him back to your planet. I'm old enough that they said I could watch the younger kids until our new caretaker arrived. I'll be old enough to make my own galaxy in another decade, and then it'll be my turn to leave."

They had not stopped rambling on with their introduction and story even though she had given no indication she was even listening. Were gods supposed to be this talkative? Was this something they would grow out of after spending a few decades alone in the vast coldness of space?

A part of her desperately hoped for there to be a part of the universe one day where one could hear the faint whispers of a voice drifting between the stars. It would be a cruelty for this, too, to be taken.

But when had the universe ever been kind?

We are, each of us, made of stardust.

The words forever immortalized in the stone of his final resting place. She could imagine so clearly the way his eyes would have lit up at the sight of these children, the way his words would have rushed to keep up with his brain, almost unintelligible as he tried to get all of his questions out.

"I'm Nova, by the way. I guess I should have started with introductions. And this is Stella, and Celestia, and Eclipse, and Zenith, and Solstice, and Meridian, and Nebula. Papa didn't name us; we don't normally have names, but the caretakers like to have something to call us by so they gave us names."

"If we have a girl, how about Nova?"

"It's nice to meet you, Nova. I'm Sarah." Her voice sounded hoarse in her own ears, a week of disuse as she traveled the far reaches of the universe having left its cobwebs to shake off. But Nova simply grinned at her and jumped in place while Sarah picked herself up off the ground.

The children introduced each area of the Lighthouse in turn as they showed her about. The tower housed their rooms, the garden produced the oxygen for the entire station, her room sat at the very top, nearest to the light she was now tasked with keeping lit. Finally they all paraded back to the garden, where the children preferred to spend most of their time.

She sat with her back to the tower and braided Zenith's hair into neat little rows. Zenith, in turn, braided flowers in a chain, singing a nursery rhyme that Sarah didn't recognize.

It was so eerily human how the children ran and jumped and spun in circles. Even gods started somewhere, and it would seem childhood was an universal constant. It was hard for her to piece together the stories he had told her of gods shaping the universe underneath their fingers with the children that chased butterflies in her enclosed paradise. They were so small; they looked up at her with such ready trust.

He had wanted to name their future child Nova, for his favorite sights had always been the aftermath of interstellar explosions. How fitting, really, that it had been the birth of one that had taken him from her. How fitting that she now watched Nova running with their sibling perched on their shoulders.

Hours later, she left the tower to the sounds of snoring children. The knots that had filled her insides since she had first set foot within the shuttle to the Lighthouse had finally come loose. She would most certainly have some strong words to share with the university at the end of this year, and she could not help the ache that he should have been there with her, and yet... For the first time since he had left her, she looked out the window at the top of the Lighthouse and saw not an endless expanse that had stolen him away, but the beauty he had loved more than even her. She climbed the stairs to the beacon, double checked the settings one final time, and looked out over the asteroid belt the Lighthouse steered unwitting travelers away from. The light passed over her back in its endless journey around the room, and the light of distant stars winked back in answer.