“There is one final clause to discuss, little ones.”

The Priest’s voice echoes in that familiar, omnipresent way as Xhoa stands upon the barren wastes of SCN-2X-1-14, hiding from the bright intensity of the twin suns in the Weapon’s awesome shadow. Representatives from the Swarm, SNTNL and the Guild have all gathered here, after quarters of discussion, to finally sign the treaty that will end the war.

The morning has been spent slowly reading through the agreed terms, mostly for the benefit of the Colonel and Priest. Already, and although they suggested a few small changes in the wording, they’ve agreed to uphold the non-aggression pact and some peripheral mechanisms for conflict resolution. But they’re right – there is a final clause.

“We have, after long and careful deliberation, decided not to uphold the agreement of non-interference, at least in its current state.”

“You are, of course, welcome to make such agreements among yourselves. But we cannot commit ourselves to supporting it with force, and see no value in lying to you.”

The Guild diplomats turn inwards to discuss, Xhoa among them; and together they look up at the Weapon, this great, darkened monument to power and to countless lives, and begin to negotiate. But there is no progress to be made. The morning turns to noon, turns to evening, turns to night. Lights are bought from the shuttles and set in a wide ring around the assembled parties. The Swarm and SNTNL are happy with almost every suggested concession: it is, in fact, not them that the Guild is conceding to. But by the time a proposal is found that both Colonel and Priest would happily uphold, it is so dilute as to barely deserve the name ‘non-intervention pact’.

“Perhaps it would help to see it from another perspective, Xhoa,” the Colonel comments after a moment of particular frustration, “To us, you and your kind are young and immature. You want us to bar you from interfering with less advanced civilisations; but had we done the same, we never would have involved ourselves with you, and this war would still be ongoing.”

“Non-intervention stands in fundamental opposition to our nature, little one, because it is merely an excuse for shirking your moral duties. Suppose a planet were swept by a plague - not enough to end their civilisation, but enough to cause massive, unrelenting suffering to much of the populace. Could you look one of those people in the eyes, and tell them that they and all their comrades must suffer, because they could not handle the truth of your existence?”

The next day, the camp is packed away, and the shuttles depart. The non-aggression pact is signed, and all sides agree to revisit the question of non-intervention later. The war may be over, but there are yet many questions left to answer.

Entry .—- …– …..
We were together again, in that bar where we met, truly met for the first time. Things were different back then, so much simpler but so much more complicated. We looked at each other, cold calculations and fiery ambition in our eyes and language, planning such spiteful schemes. We could’ve, should’ve guessed how wrong it would go, but we did it still.

I see it still, that guilt and pain, haunting the pupils of your eyes and hiding in the brief pauses between the flashes of your wonderful light. I see it, because it’s a mirror of my own. We made a promise to forgive ourselves, to move on. You deserve to, but I can't. Change my form as I might, I can’t escape that spiteful ego.

So I bury it, hide it, write it here, channel it into my work so you don't have to see it. I veil it so that you can glow unburdened. So you can live freely, like you deserve.

Now we look at each other You're waiting for me right now, back by our table, with lights now fixed and the atmosphere electric. I’ll swallow it down again and again if it lets me smile with you and see those happy flashes of yours for the rare moments I can, my shining brightness.

Entry ..— —-. …–
My boots got stuck in the mud more than once, and though I easily could have flown there, that wasn't what we did back then. We walked. Despite all that’s changed on the planet, the walk remained mostly the same in a physical sense. The settlements have expanded, sure, but the nature has been mostly well-preserved, especially as I went further and further from the hubs of civilisation. The same rolling stretches of mossy ground, the same waters tinged a fiery gold with the sunset, the same pond in the clearing. But it was all deathly quiet, and I was all alone.

We all had to go our separate ways, whether we had wanted to or not. A revolutionary incarcerated, an inventor cowed, and a fighter exiled. But here I stand, the only one left, a traitor made hero.

I’m glad to see that the effigy stayed where it was, nestled in its notch in a rock by the pond. It still depicts that lovely image, a bird and a cephalopod and a robot and a dragon all gathered around a fire: a sliver of memory, of happiness and comfort, frozen forever in time. That fire lies extinguished, its ashes grown over by a new wave of plants and moss, but I remember its spot like the back of my hand. So I gathered some wood, sighed out a puff of flame, and sat by it like we did back then.

I sit beside it now, under the same stars we sat under all those years ago, by a fire in the same spot it was then. But in my heart I know it’s a poor imitation: their voices are no longer with me, their souls scattered throughout the galaxy and their company gone, leaving the fire cold in its loss. They lie locked away, in prisons corporeal or metaphorical that none of them had a choice in building, and all I have left of them now is this tiny little thing in the rock beside me, with the flowers I picked from Corico and Kallimar laying beneath it.

They deserve to be here, happy. Not me.

The tears still haven’t dried while I sit here and write. The wind whispers, and for a moment I hear their voices again. But only for a moment.

Written by Alyssa A.

For it is said that in the first cycles of the Guild, when a great war arose between overwhelming powers, a Diplomat arose from a humble background, and sought for peace; and their words were so beguiling, and kind, and wise, that they bent the ears of a cosmic force, a Weapon with the might to shatter planets and rend the heavens, and it decided that they would be so. And so by force of will and passion of word alone, the galaxy was remade, and ancient, frenzied beasts tamed.

The Lesson of the Diplomat is thus: the Word, spoken or written, is ever mightier than the railgun, or laser, or missile; where the latter may tear flesh or steal, the earlier transforms souls. And again thus: the power of the Word may be wielded by any with the mind and care to wield it, regardless of their provenance or creed, and should be respected and nurtured in whomever it comes to reside.