There is a memorial to Logos’ father in the garden. It is a simple monument, merely an old, rusted blade embedded in the earth. It is humble and straightforward, and it has been here for as long as Logos could remember, from the very beginning of their many lives. Even back then, the blade was rusted over. But of course it was. This had been here for as long as mother had.
It is not a grave. There is nothing to bury. Logos’ father left nothing behind with his death. When Logos dies, they will not leave a body either, and nor will mother, if death comes for her. They will simply bleed into space and join the background radiation. That is how it is.
Sometimes mother comes down and spends time with the memorial. Talking. And talking. She can sit here for hours, detailing everything that’s happened in the past while. Often, she does it while drinking, and the talk becomes emotional. It is usually filled with off-handed, teasing remarks and warm affection. A few times, on days when things are particularly rough on mother, she ends up falling asleep there, and Logos has to carry her back to bed.
Logos’ visits with their father are not like that. When gardening, or when running through combat drills, they pass by this location, usually several times a day. They don’t really stop by often. Today, they are kneeling in front of the memorial, and thinking. This is what passes for a conversation with their father. When their thoughts grow to be too much for them, Logos comes and sits with him, and thinks it out, as if he were here to listen.
He is not. But it is still enough to calm Logos, even if no conversation is occurring. Not even a facsimile of one, like when mother speaks to the rusted sword as if he was there. It is just thinking, but it is all Logos has. Mother says they’re quite like their father, in a lot of ways, and that this was one such way. “You’re stuck in your own head, Logos.” In other words, they think too much. But they can’t do otherwise. For one. They were made to be like their father. That was a decision made for them.
And they cannot talk about these things. They don’t know how. They never did. Not in this lifetime, at least. Some of the past Logos did. But they aren’t them anymore, so they don’t know how. It was an ability given to them when desired, and taken away when it no longer served a purpose. Logos understands this. It is not something mother acknowledges often, but they understand it, and it is how their life is. One day, if they’re not careful, they are likely to lose what makes them who they are, and they are to gain something that will make them someone else. The next Logos.
Logos does not want to think about this anymore.
They wish they were more like their father. But they were made to not be their father, paradoxically. Made in his image, but denied the ability to realize that image. It makes Logos sad. When they realize that the traits that made the original Logos such a good man are the traits that they will never have, because they are to follow, not lead. So what are they? Not much. They hope they can at least become as worthy of love and peace as mother believes their father to be. Logos stares at the sword, and then at the ground, feeling a pit in their stomach.
Father would know what to say, they’re sure.
But he is dead.
What an unproductive conversation. ‘Conversation’. This is not going to accomplish anything. It is really just pathetic. A child, talking to a grave. Or, really, a child just talking to themself as they stare down a reflection in a broken mirror. Well. No. This sword, as tarnished as it is, is physical reality and truth. Logos is the reflection.