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They do not call it praying, these men and women of science. They call it hope. They call it desperation. They call it innovation and discovery. But they whisper under their breath, they bow their heads down, and their hands grasp and fumble over and over, pouring over aetherically charged electrope.
This time, they whisper, this time it will work.
They recreate her in their mind’s eye, in the databanks, until all they can see is her smile when they dream. They hear her voice in their ears. They can feel the ghost of her touch everywhere. Their princess, their queen, their—
What will become of their kingdom without her? Their enemies press in around them, and without a ruler to guide them, all that remains is endless death. What will become of them, men and women of science? What will become of Alexandria, beautiful kingdom? What will become of—
She was so young. She was so beautiful. She was so kind. She always had a kind word for everyone she met. Her laughter was the morning bell, her smile the rainbow after a storm. It did not matter that the skies raged with lightning if she was there. It will not matter if she is here. They bow their heads, these men and women of science. They breathe their hopes as if that would make them form faster. They clutch at arcanima, at electrope, at anything they can use.
Soul and body offer themselves, one after another. Their kingdom has never been united in one purpose—
The skies darken day after day. What is this kingdom, without a queen? What is this kingdom, without the sun? What is this kingdom, without—
They entomb their souls to electrope. They enshrine their memories in electrope. They build monuments of it, soul and memories and soul. But it is not enough. Outside, the skies crackle with lightning, and around them the countries clamor: for electrope, for a fraction of remaining sunlight. Inside, the people clamor and clamor:
They do not call it praying, these men and women of science. They call it a success. They bow their heads down, clasp each other’s hands, and with a susurrus of breath, they call to her—
And then they do not know anything anymore, just one word, one command, one single primal urge.
—Sphene