Axial Lacuna Lore:
Archaeologists understand: a buried hatchet is still, after all, a hatchet.
For years—61 years and either 23 or 19 days, depending on who you ask—Ikora and I did not speak to each other. Now we do. But I don’t think we’ll ever talk about it.
There is little purpose in doing so, in any case. I raised Ikora from dust and bone, and ever since approximately 0.734 seconds after that first brush of Light, I have known the type of person she is, and the type of Ghost I am to her.
We fit. We are both, in our ways, stubborn. I might have broken the standoff just as well as she, and I chose not to. Ikora began the silence; it was correct that she end it. What purpose is there in the post-mortem, in hashing out what went awry and who should have said what and when?
When I dissect should-have-dones, it is only for the benefit of after-action reports, for young Hidden and New Lights first learning to weigh risks and make quick decisions on which lives rest. Ikora and I both already know where any misstep was. Our understanding is deeper even than friendship.
So too is it with this. We did not speak, and then we spoke, and it is not as it was. It is something new, although we are something old. There is a hole at the center, not to be touched or defined.
Ikora understands this, too. We picked up, and carried on, and that was enough. I do not envy other Ghosts their Guardians, and I would not be so fitted a Ghost to any other. Someday, that gap will be smaller than what has grown around it.
And so far as everyone else is concerned, there is no fault line, no sign of fracture. A united front, in our position, is more valuable than a deep emotional honesty.
We were friends, once.
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