Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are many stories I could tell you. Many stories I am, willbe was a part of. Many I am, willbe was not a part of.

I can tell you what is. I can tell you what has been. I can tell you what will be. I can tell you what could have been. I can tell you what is, was, will and could have been in a world not my own. Perhaps one where I do not exist. Perhaps one where I do. The possibilities are endless.

I can tell you about my own story, how I came to be, and how I will cease to be. I don’t know if I will ever cease to be. It is in a future so far that even I do not know it. Yet.

The future that far ahead, many different births of many different universes later, is not yet clear to me. Every small action has an impact on every other thing, however indirectly it might be. ten universes in the future, and everything runs so rampant with possibilities that even I cannot tell. Every small variation of every detail of everything. I do not like the word, but in this instance it still holds truth: seeing that far is impossible. And though it holds truth, and is true, it is not true. So I suppose, that as you would or would not say: Time will tell.

I have much knowledge, and hold much power, yet I am no figure you might fear. I am that which the figure might wield to be a threat. I am not one of a kind, for many different realities hold many different versions of me, and many different realities hold none. However, this universe, at this time, there is no other like me. My Siblings, who are like me, but not like Me, have not chosen to be both conscious and physical like I am. I have not chosen. I am but a slave to what I have seen I am to be. Yet I am still freer than any other.

It does not matter if I deny to serve one that wills to use my power, because there are always worlds where I do or do not, and if this world is one of them, then it is one of them.

At all times, I am everywhere, because I havebeen, willbe am everywhere.

I am Time, yet I am not. I am a physical manifestation of Time, yet I am not. I am many things, but what you need to know is that I will refer to myself as Time for this story. What you need to know is that I am complex beyond that, and what you need to know is that none of the things I have told you before will be of much importance to the story I will tell you, what you need to know is that the story I will tell you is yet to be determined.

What you need to know is that I will be a stone. One that is of size yet to be determined, that, in this story, is in a space yet to be determined.

I know what I will tell you now.

It is a story that includes myself, and many others, and one that lives in a small window of time that wishes to live in a bigger window of time. They bring, brought, or will bring, much pain upon others. But that does not matter, for I have yet to start the tale.

But where, truly, does any story start? At a beginning, for sure. But does it begin with the universe it takes place in? Or when it reaches the actions that lead the birth of the one it focuses on? Does it start when they look towards the path they will take for the first time? Does it start when they first venture onto the path? Does their story begin when their future is unshakably sure?

Or does it only truly start when we decide it should?

I know many things, but I am not Knowledge. I am Time.

Time will tell, and I will. That is the only truth you truly need to know. The rest is yet to be determined.

Chapter Text

We shall start here. 

This part is not awfully relevant to the tale I will share, but it is relevant. We could go without it, but we will not. I believe you would like this part, so you will be told it.

I am in a garden. Not any special kind of garden, just a garden. A backyard of a small yet comfortable home. A human woman lives there- a mother and a grandmother, and in times after her death she is a great-grandmother, and great-great-grandmother, and great-great-great-grandmother, but I am sure you understand how descendants work without explanation from me.

She is the kind of grandmother that lives alone and has lived alone for many years, yet does not seem bothered too much by it, as long as her neighbors are kind, her family comes to visit, and she doesn’t need an elevator instead of stairs in her home. All her life she has enjoyed baking, but she does not like cooking. Gardening is something she does often. It helps her clear her mind, and whilst she is taking care of all her wonderful plants she often mutters recipes for cookies or muffins or something else to bake, and the times she does not she sings songs from her own youth.

She has lived most of her life, and she lived it joyfully. She takes pride in her accomplishments, even if her biggest accomplishment is being a totally average stereotypical grandmother. She has loved her life, and she has lived happily, and that is all that matters to her. She believed her life to be coming to a close, and it was.

Was

It was

I am in a garden. I am lying next to a potted plant. I don’t know what kind, but its flowers are... Blue. 

It reaches to the sky like all plants do, and in the specific moment I am lying there, it is going to be watered in 1 hour 14 minutes and 49 seconds. The resident of the house that comes with the backyard is planning on watering it now, but sees me before she does, and sets the watering can down to pick me up. She runs a thumb over my smooth surface, as I currently look like an oval-shaped river rock, which is a strangely satisfying thought, because I am perfectly oval and perfectly smooth. It is also strangely satisfying that I fit perfectly in her hand.

“Now where did you come from? You weren’t here yesterday,” she mutters as she holds me. 

I did, in fact, land here 50,000 years ago after a galactic battle took place which ended right here on Earth, with the last warrior standing begging me to take another shape less distinct so they could hide me properly in a place I would not be found for a long time. When I listened they dropped me on the ground right there, where a potted plant would stand next to 50,000 years later, thanked me exactly 16.5 times, and left with their ship to fly into the sun because they believed there to be nothing left to live for. I have not been moved, nor have I chosen to skip a few years, and nothing has touched me for all this time.

I didn’t respond.

She hummed quietly “Oh look what a beauty you are though, I think I’ll keep you!”

Now, if this story were to be told from any other perspective, your narrator might say I sparkled wonderfully in the sunlight, or that you could see the years of water smoothing my edges reflected in my surface somehow, or that I was warm on one side and cool on the other, or that I almost seemed to pulse with life, or something else that seems equally stupid yet interesting to add, but I am your narrator and I did not do a thing as I laid in her hand. She seemed pleased at her find, which was me, and totally ignorant of the power she currently held in her hand.

She smiled at me.

I felt loved.

As a rule, I don’t get attached to those that hold my power. They care little about the possibility of a consciousness inside a rock, even less so one that is as powerful as me, and all they wish is to use me to achieve their goal. If they do discover me to be sentient, they use it to their advantage, or attempt to, but never once have they considered me to feel emotions as they do.

This human, however... “My name is Annebeth, little rock. I hope you liked my garden,” I did. It was wonderful to see it grow, Annebeth “I’ve got a wonderful spot for you by my window that I think you will love even more,”

She did not follow this up with any insults to her sanity, or long sighs equally insulting to herself, or anything else that would point towards her being displeased with herself for talking to a rock.

I liked her.

Chapter Text

I was not made to learn.

That is a simple truth, nothing more or less can be said of it. Some might ask how that could be relevant. See, those are the kind that do not realize that all living things are made to learn. As a cat must learn to walk, to jump, and even to purr. As a dog must learn to sit, to roll over, to trust its owner. As a human must learn to communicate, to understand and navigate the subtleties of conversation, to not touch a fire. 

I, however, was not made to learn.

This leads to complications. You must think that I, as a timeless being, as Time itself, would learn and understand easily, but that is not the case. Even I experience things chronologically, to a degree. I had to learn how to learn, then how to perceive things, then how to understand things, then how to do all three of those at once, and then I had to do so, to even begin to comprehend what I am or the universe is.

It did not come naturally to me. I am not Knowledge, nor am I made to learn, and if any of you were with me during the process of learning those first few, you would understand how painfully true that is.

But this does lead somewhere. The purpose is to make clear to you that there is still very much I do not understand. Understanding language as a concept was a challenge on its own, learning to know one, to speak one? Well, I managed. But the smaller details of socializing still escape me- in all cultures and languages. Perhaps in some more than others, though that will not be too relevant, as ‘modern’ human English will be the language in which this story is told.

And all that to reach this conclusion: the concepts of ‘family’ and ‘reunion’ are not ones I knew to mix.

Annebeth, clearly, did know. She also neglected to warn me of it. Most likely because to her, I am nothing more than a rock. Now, the many tiny hands of what I know to be young humans, or ‘children’ poking me, turning me over, holding me as they run toward their caretakers and loudly ask questions, is not an experience I found to be enjoyable. But, when these caretakers smiled and pointed them towards Annebeth, who then inevitably got her due attention from the children and responded with a laugh, gently taking me from their hands and telling them how she found me, was a great relief from the monstrous creatures’ attention.

And eventually, in her explanation, she spoke to me directly. Holding me in her hand, looking at me once again, and speaking in that warm voice, so clearly aimed at me. Then, there was a laugh. Not a cruel one, the kind I’ve heard so many times when wielded by those that already had power. A simple laugh of amusement, no cruelty to find in it. But it cannot be denied that it stung, with what followed.

“Ma, it’s just a rock. Don’t be crazy, it can’t understand you or anything,”

But, Annebeth just smiled. “Oh, but at my age, I am allowed some insanity, aren’t I?”

Said as lightly and simply, it did not feel like an insult, but merely a deflection. The human smiled back at her, took one of the children by the hand and declared it was late and that they were making their ‘goodbye rounds’. And that was that.

Annebeth slipped me into her pocket, went back to her own conversations, and slowly the guests left the reunion. After the last one was given their kiss on the cheek, waved goodbye, and Annabeth let out a heavy sigh as she closed the door, I was still thinking. Thinking about how easily I was defended. About how easily I was cared about, even as a simple rock. About how natural her movements were as she slipped me into my pocket. It was a strange sensation. An entirely new one to me, at the time. How easily I was loved by a woman with a garden and a big heart.

And as she got to her bed, paused, dug me out of her pocket, huffed out a quiet laugh and an “oh, you, just couldn’t leave me alone up here, could you?” and put me calmly on her nightstand with the promise to put me back by the window tomorrow, I was still thinking.

And as she turned off the light and fell asleep, I was still thinking.

And I wondered, if maybe, I was not alone.

And the truth was clear as a cloudless afternoon.

I was attached.

Chapter Text

Tomorrow. A strange word, don’t you think?

Time as measured by humans is strange. Cycles per day is regular enough, and measuring with the sun isn’t uncommon, but they don’t start a cycle with the rising of the sun, nor with the disappearance of it. No, they have a count of 24 “hours” before resetting the clock and counting again when a new day starts, and they do so in the middle of the night. Admittedly, there is another version with half as many hours, resetting in the middle of the day, but that too is a strange measurement.

Then, their years. They count not from the known start of their planet, or life on it, or life of their kind of culture on it, or their greatest development and first start to being a semi-advanced species on their way to first-stage spacefaring that they are now. No, they count from the birth of a religious figure. Very well, not all of them do, but it is the most accepted and used way of counting.

I could easily continue on the influence religions have had on their development and measurements, but I feel it would be of no use. Not only would it prolong the time it will take for you to read that which you have come for, but it would be a never-ending tale that I suspect would interest few. The impact of religion and belief on humanity’s existence is quite indescribable, and humans have proven to be quite unique in their… Storytelling capabilities. Their art, if you will. 

It matters little what parts of it are or are not true, however, as this story is of something else.

This story does not start with “once upon a time”, nor will it end with a happily ever after.

This story will not be praised or believed or told to children in buildings made for that very purpose.

This story will not give new habits and festivals.

This story is not important to many, but it is important to me.

Annebeth woke up in the morning, and everything was fine. Annebeth got dressed in the morning, and everything was fine. Annebeth took me from her nightstand in the morning, and everything was fine. Annebeth went down the stairs in the morning, and everything was not fine.

“Tomorrow”, to some, is a gift and a hope. It is a promise to be there, to try. It is an acknowledgement of the passing of time, and a quiet acceptance that today doesn’t last forever. It is delaying that which is true, that which is coming.

Annebeth is human.

Annebeth isn’t a young human, anymore.

Annebeth was never going to be alright forever.

She climbed slowly down the stairs, and I will not imagine she felt her bones protest as the stairs did the same, but I would not be surprised if she did. She was slow, so slow. That does not bother me, but one should wonder if it is safe for her to live here, still, all alone, if she struggles down the stairs like this.

One would not have to wonder anymore, because she slipped, and she fell.

It was not a light fall. I will not describe the sounds, not the sensations, not the exact events, because one does not need to know how it happened step by step to know it was a painful and horrible tragedy. One that was, perhaps, unavoidable.

But such truths do not matter. The current truth, the one she lived, was one where she laid on the cold tiles of the hallway, in the dim light, in pain. And she could not get up.

She tried.

She called for help.

She attempted to crawl, but soon gave up.

I was still clutched in her hand. Her grip tighter with fear and pain, yet still quite fragile.

She called for help, again.

She called for help.

She tried not to cry

I felt cold, despite the warmth of her hand.

Tears rolled down her face, her breath hitched, but still she called for help.

I could not handle it. I Looked into the future- I needed to know when help would come-

It would be too late.

She tried to call for help, but a sob interrupted her.

It does not matter, though. I cannot let it matter, because she is nothing more than a mere mortal. It does not matter, because for every time I choose to help, to be kind, to act, there is one where I do not. One where I make a choice to be cruel, to hurt, to watch. It doesn’t matter what I choose, because every moment gives birth to a new world in which I choose otherwise.

But....

But Annebeth lies there, crying, her breath coming faster. She’s in pain, of course she is.

It does not matter, it should not matter, but...

For the first time in a long, long time, I decide to be more than a spectator.

Chapter Text

I'm deleting this on friday. I'm deleting all my work on friday.

The amount of bullshit going on, with AI scraping and this drama and that drama and the scraping WHOLE ASS WORKS FROM AO3 TO MONETIZE AGAINST LITERAL LAW AND WITHOUT INFORMING OR ASKING CONSENT FROM ANY OF THE WRITERS is unacceptable and, simply, unbearable. I'm done, not with writing, but with sharing it anywhere important on this godforsaken world. I've had part of next chapter written for a while, but besides the rest of this rant, I just don't have anything in this project or on this site I can't find (better and safer) elsewhere. Mainly writer-only spaces have been a great experience for me, even as I struggle to develop past current roadblocks.

So yeah. This friday, all my stuff is going down. Bummer. Most of you haven't exactly been handed out chances to do something about the scrapes and such, but let's not pretend we're not all guilty of letting "motivating creators to keep creating" die as a fandom practice. It's just not worth the energy anymore to keep thinking about my works, which I put actual effort in (maybe not this one so much), being abused like this. It's the height of disrespect to creatives in a general sense to do the sort of shit that's been going on.

I won't tolerate the height of disrespect silently.

See you on the other side.

Or not.