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You have told other Hearthians what the supernova was like.
From the hatchlings clamoring to you, chattering about what it looked like. You had to balance between making them not scared of it and to be as careful as to not make them have a new obsession. Worst case, Hornfels’d scold you after hearing so many concerningly excited inquiries about the death of their sun. Best case, they’d have an apprentice of sorts.
To Feldspar, the first one you opened up about the time loop to, and you know love explosions. It’s a kind of explosion, right? Then a few nights pass and they’re in a more mellow mood, more of Feldspar who got stuck on the deadliest planet for years than Feldspar who caused house fires like they breathed. You told them, as quiet as the nights, how you watched the sun collapse under its own weight and usually got the brief thought of, no way something that grand can crumple that quick? But, well.
To Gabbro, your time buddy who, despite being the only one in it with you, rarely actually saw it. All you knew was: a supernova on Giant’s Deep gets terrifyingly dark, and then that burning white. You told them it was the most beautiful thing you’ve seen. Sometimes you showed it, though those opportunities were scarce.
Still, you were vague with it when you could, and tried to broach the topic as little as you possibly can. The concept was still a whole lot for most Hearthians even if you’re fairly certain it won’t happen. Maybe. Hopefully, probably.
One day, Chert asks, “How… was our sun’s supernova?” and you don’t know how to answer that.
You tailored each answer to the Hearthian who’s asking. Hornfels, all of the science you can fit into it. The hatchlings, all the wonder and warmth you could convey. Feldspar, the novelty of it all—Gabbro, the poeticity you could muster. Riebeck is still a work in progress, although they’d prolly still freak out no matter how you go about it.
Chert, though…?
Chert has always been… unique, even in the time loops. The fact they were aware of not only the sun dying, but the universe. The only one to. There are many grievances you experienced during your time in the Ash Twin Project, but they were mostly one-sided. The village never knew, not Feldspar nor Solanum, no one. You bore that grief in big part yourself, and maybe a part of you was grateful for that.
The standout case was Chert.
You hated how they were aware. Hated how they’d known; hated how you found out only after a decent amount of loops and realized all these times you never… knew. How much it devastated them. Gabbro later told you it wasn’t, and isn’t, your fault, that you found out too late.
However.
Grief that you carried was easy. Well— no it wasn’t— but something you’ve come to realize is the thing more dreadful than having to carry the grief alone was to have someone experience it over and over, the same beats repeated. You'd carry the weight of loss all on your shoulders if it meant sparing it from others. You'd chose to pair with the statue time and time again, and it could be selfish. It could also be a mercy. Easier to suffer when you weigh it against anyone else going through it. But.
Whenever you’d come by early in the loop you’d look upon them with an awful lot of tragedy. Like seeing the Nomai initially excited to explore the comet, knowing what killed them. You don’t know which one hurts more—to see the descent or to simply know it will happen.
You spent so many loops trying to make them avoid it. Eventually succeeded after many attempts. Eventually realized you can’t do this every loop, either. It was something you never got closure on, even as you ended the universe—not like how you did with bringing Feldspar home before everything—so you applied the logic of “if it happened in only one loop, then it’s worth it”. Which wasn’t enough. It had to be, though.
So, with the hundreds of breakdowns you’ve seen from Chert in mind, you’re not sure how to answer them.
Sat on Ember Twin, the usual spot they were usually at. After this many months, most of the travelers have moved spots aside from Esker—even Riebeck has. You’re fairly certain Chert hopped around a bit, although maybe not, with how they love to stay in one spot. Keeps it simple, they said.
Nearest to the sun. Scorching hot. Even so, you don’t think it’s that that’s making your brain all mush.
There’s a long pause before you say anything. Breathe, look at the stars around you. They’re alive, alive. You used to be reckless with this kind of thing. Now though, you’ve long since learnt the lesson of time and between that and Gabbro, it leads to a Hatchling everyone else in the village is unnerved to receive compared to who they knew.
You’ve lost the capabilities and energy to care about that. Still, you cast a glance at Chert and you have no idea what they’re thinking. No need to fuss over that then. Back to the stars.
Small, bright things. No overly big ones that are actually supernovae once you zoom in, which is a bit of a relief. Because of that, it lulls. The conversation, the air, maybe even space itself. You’ve seen these stars die so many times, even if it’s not to the same amount as your own sun’s. Had seen how empty the sky looked at the end of the loop and felt dread, which crystallized to quiet, time and time again.
How would you go about explaining a supernova to someone who’s devoted their life in part to it?
That’s the true question, isn’t it? Because you look at all the stars—small speckles in the sky—and come to an epiphany: Chert is far more intimate to supernovae than you ever were. Yes, you saw it far more than any Hearthian combined, you weren’t going to discredit yourself of that any time soon. But.
It is their life’s work. They knew the technicality of its death more than anyone and somehow that made it more personal. You’ve learnt that loving includes seeing and letting it die. Maybe it means knowing how it dies like you’re speaking the steps from your exhales, too.
You were more like a guest, really, in comparison to Chert’s burning passion for it. You say you know it like a friend simply because it was a constant you can never escape. So you grew to accept it. Grew to love it. Chert, though, had reached out to the stars, buried themselves in books to learn and measure and hypothesize over it—so could you ever say it’s the same?
Could you ever say anything, at all?
What can you say? That it was beautiful, like with Gabbro? Chert’d know that, gazing at a far-off supernova through the telescope with wonder overflowing in their eyes. That it was explosive, like with Feldspar? There is no Hearthian that can recite how a sun can collapse in itself to erupt like how Chert can. That it was nothing to fear, like with the hatchlings? Well. You’ve tried that before, many times. You don’t know how it’ll fare outside the loops.
You have indulged Riebeck's curiosity, with the entire history of the Nomai. You have indulged Feldspar's curiosity, with all the crevices of the solar system even they haven't gotten to. You have indulged Gabbro's curiosity with all the quantum rules and the know-how of the loops, Hal with a new language, Hornfels with a little bit of everything.
This is their curiosity. You must do it right by them for it; a perfect answer to sate it.
Your eyes lull, from the stars to your sun. Oh, sun.
How much I’ve seen you die.
You still do not answer, as the minutes pass. The sun rotates and your head creaks slowly to follow it, entranced. Sun Station occasionally flits by. Your eyes are burning. Your body used to, too.
“... If you keep staring at it like that, you’re going to get blind.” Chert says, like the words are wooden in their mouth. You hum; after that, nothing again. Chert fixes a stare on you. Gives up after a bit. You still cannot decipher what they’re thinking.
(You think of watching as it—sun—falls apart into a spiky thing. You think about the brief ring of light at its initial explosion. You think about all the subtle lines that burst forth, and how the boom was never actually loud; never as bombastic as you think a star’s death should be. Or maybe it was a sound so loud it covered the entirety of your solar system and went into your ears as a muffled thing.)
You think you’ve got an answer. Not the answer, but it is one.
“It is the most grandiose thing you’ll witness,” you say. It crackles on your teeth, “and it’s so, so gentle.”
The air thrums for a minute, and your scale has well melted into your suit. There is much more you could say. To Chert, to your sun. For now, you need them to mull on this answer for a while before you say anything.
Time. You’ve learnt your lesson about time.
Chert follows your gaze to the sun. The light reflects off their visor. You remember when that shade used to be blue.