Summary: Good dog, best friend.
Word Count: 958
In the beginning, the light broke from the darkness and Becquerel Knew. He Knew of every new hair on his body and of every just-born star in the sky. He Knew of the present moment, of all the cataclysms that were breathing life into his planet. He Knew of the past, of the nothingness out of which his universe had been stitched into being. And he Knew of everything that would come to pass.
So he climbed out of the chasm, licked his fur clean, and waited.
It was a long wait, to be certain.
Time passed and still he sat, calm and patient century by century. Sometimes time went slowly, decades dragging on, and other times millennia came and went without his notice. He was not bothered; Time was not his gift, after all. His Master was ruler of Time, and of Space, and of What Will Be and What Will Not Be, and if He should demand time stand still and Becquerel wait forever, then it would be so.
He wondered sometimes, how his brothers bore the weight of Time. He did not know which one to go to, as their number exceeded the insects evolving beneath his paws, the leaves that fell from trees over his head, the atoms that made up the entirety of the Earth. He had a brother for every universe that spawned and died, a brother who Knew like him. Did Time come in waves to them as well? Did it ebb and flow, always moving and changing, like his planet? Or was that power only reserved for Space?
He would have liked to have asked his Master, but that was out of the question. He would see his Master once, he Knew, and never again. That was his Master’s duty. And it was up to Becquerel to pass his own Time until then.
The Man came first.
He was not old, but not so young anymore. Or perhaps few things seemed old when compared to Becquerel’s own age. But he was kind and good and smelt of strongly gunpowder, and after watching with wide, crinkled eyes as his bullets glowed green and and dissolved into stars, he slowly set down his gun and dug a biscuit cookie out of his many-pocketed jacket.
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” he told Becquerel, smiling. “You remind me of an old friend of mine.” His hand was gentle, calloused fingers carefully plucking the burrs and leaves from Becquerel’s fur. “Where’s your master, boy?”
Not here, not yet, Becquerel wanted to say. But he Knew he would not, and so he didn’t. He licked the last of the biscuit crumbs from his jaws, and followed the Man back to shore.
The Girl was small, so small when she arrived. He Knew of humans, of the nature of their minds and hearts, of the entire evolution of the species and the history that went with it, and yet even he was in awe of her tiny knuckles, her miniscule kneecaps. She would ride on his back through the jungle, fingers grasping at the fur on his neck, listening carefully as the Man explained nuclear physics, the anatomy of a musket, and the basic alphabet to her in the same afternoon.
She became too heavy for him to carry soon enough, and he watched her knuckles widen to grasp a welding torch, her kneecaps harden to support two spindly calves and two pale feet. But she still held onto him during the Man’s hunting treks, though Becquerel Knew that she would grow out of her dependence, in time. She could not remain a Girl forever.
Still, he thought, she was so small.
The Dark Pocket lasted only a second, a half-second perhaps.
But Time passed, whatever the length. Becquerel Knew again.
He and the Girl were alone.
Time had changed for him. The Girl grew and grew and grew. She learnt of atoms and animals and ancient languages. She watched movies late at night with the other Boys and the other Girl, at least until he sent her to sleep. She taught herself to climb trees and play guitar and sneak past him when keeping up with her proved too tiring. Time had moved so slowly for him, before. Now it went by as rapidly as the tide flowed back into the sea, and soon, he Knew, his Master would arrive.
The Dark Pocket haunted him sometimes, when she hurried past the Man's blue-haired dolls, lips pressed tightly together and hands curled into fists. He had been so afraid in that moment, afraid of What He Did Not Know. He had been afraid for the Girl. What if he had another Dark Pocket during The Game? What would happen to her? How could she manage without him?
He watched the stars work their way across the sky in the same pattern they had spun in since the beginning, as the Girl slept soundly in her bed. In some ways, his planet had never changed at all.
He Knew that he would miss it.
She would be Witch of Space, which was more fitting, he thought, than Time. Time could never be charted or mapped. But the Girl, his Girl, she could plot the whole of the universe.
He had Known from the beginning of the challenges she would face, of the dangers ahead. He Knew that once he altered the Sprite, he could not go back.
She would be great, Becquerel Knew. He always did.
His Master would be angry, to be sure. His actions would alter What Will Be. They would certainly change What Will Not Be. But his Master would still arrive; in the end, what did it matter?
Becquerel had waited long enough.
- Homestuck: Deuteronomy