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"knowledge is not just power," she folds her hands neatly on the table, glances across at the two new chairs and their occupants. "knowledge—the pursuit of knowledge, of the truth of the world, of the nature of reality in myth and legend—is the truest form of worship. so uxie teaches us."
"to take up the oaths as acolyte, to pledge oneself to learn by heart the fundamental principles that govern us all, human, pokemon, and deity alike, to spend one's heaven-granted time and space and life in study and in creation and synthesis of new knowledge, to sharpen one's wits to spar in the arena of logic and rhetoric and philosophy. these are the paths which the guardian of lake acuity favors."
she smiles, bitterly, "in some ways i am more faithful to that deity than to Almighty Sinnoh, and even here i falter. for the being of knowledge recognizes not the laws of humans; we are to speak, and to hold, truth to power even if it should cost us everything, and pray that our devotion will live on in stone and metal, bamboo and silk. truth will make itself evident, in the endless march of time, and cut through such weightless cobwebs as bias, so long as we strive to move forward. one need only study, work, and pray; and so will your prayers be answered. what, after all, is one mortal life in the face of divinity?"
sighs. "but to you, volo, i must offer my deepest apologies." does not look up to see their face, forges onward while her courage lasts and the words she'd prepared with cynthia leap to tongue. "you had sworn no oaths; i refused to take you as student. that should have been the end of it, but. but it was not so. i held you to standards you could not, could never have known, for who was there to tell you save myself? and i punished you for failure when you could not but fail, and i did not ever enlighten you but refused—citing, to myself, that you were no proper disciple. that you were not ready for the knowledge, when i myself would never be willing to prepare you to learn it. it is beyond hypocritical and paradoxical to both demand that you learn the ways of uxie while barring you from it."
softly, then, looking up, taking that deep breath to reforge her faltering resolve, "but if i acknowledged that you were not ready—that you were missing not merely the formal oaths and customs of an acolyte, but all of the cultural customs—that you had never had a chance to explore all the paths of the pantheon, major or minor—that nothing of even this most foundational experience remained... it would have shattered me. and instead of letting myself break, i chose, albeit through inaction to break you instead."
she almost, almost reaches out, but instead slowly curls gloves into fists tight enough to hurt. pain, physical pain, is nothing compared to how narrowly they had all avoided disaster, and how little she had contributed to it. "only you were, and are, so much stronger than i am. you did not break; no matter how we fought. you would have shattered the sky and the earth instead, as is your right in following the path of willpower."
volo looks like they're about to cry, or to curse her, or to storm off. and they would again have the right to do so; it seems she cannot but hurt them, even when trying to set things to rights.
~~~
elder cogita is utterly, utterly impossible. (and so terrifyingly incredible). they grip their cup so tightly they think they're going to crush it and spill scalding tea all over themself, so tight their knuckles go white. but they drink, and ground themself in the searing biting pain of even a small sip; fight the urge to recoil and carefully place the cup down with a quiet clink.
they are not going to slap her in the face (even though their bones, their muscles itch to, to upend the table, to throw the cup, to howl their rage and indescribable turmoil into the air), they are not going to start sobbing like a baby (even though they can feel tears prickling at their eyes, hot and threatening to spill over, stinging and aching with grief and with fury and some terrible melancholy and regret and if-only). because as much as they hate elder cogita, it'll never compare to how much, it seems, she hates herself for how she treated them.
(resentment boils, seethes in them at this: that even in grief and pain and despair and wallowing she will somehow outcompete them; how dare she take even this from them)
but she's apologizing, over and over, and about (painfully, they wish she was wrong, they wish she hated them so they could hate her back, righteously, defiantly, properly) all the right things.
and the worst part is, they get it. elder cogita's fucking ancient, it's a gods-sent wonder she can keep up with any kind of societal change; gods alone knows how she navigated the clans because while they claim the name of celestica they sure as all distortion are not. elder cogita is awful at social interaction and she hates speaking in any tongue that's not older than bones and stone turned to dust (theirs, their heart screams; their ruins their home their people all gone) and every time she so much as touches that huge fucking mountain of trauma she looks like she's going to crumple, and if she does they will too.
they hate it; they hate her. but they can't stop how much their heart cares—because they get it. they get it and oh when will they stop loving and caring for every last creature on this cursed earth, every last runtling pokemon and every stray cast out from the galaxy team and even crotchety cruel old hermits. and for all the hurts and harms that elder cogita has rained down upon them equally has she helped them stay alive. equally does so much of what they know, crumbs and scraps and absentminded forgetting-herself tales, come from her. because there is no one else, and because she is elder cogita.
but even now, after everything (several everythings), what pricks up their ears the most, that quietens even that ever-burning rage, is that elder cogita is mentioning specifics. details, customs, rules and regulations for acolytes; coming of age and tests and proper paths to walk.
which means.
if they ask, now, finally, will she—?
(teach me, they'd screamed at her, silent and stony and immovable as mount coronet itself; teach me, they'd sobbed, wailing into her dress. teach me, they'd stared at her, every line of their mind and heart and body determined.
and yet she'd refused. but the dream, that desire, has never left them. the hope, guttering and flickering and fuel all spent, had still gone on burning—consuming them whole, their every waking and sleeping moment until. until they fell into another world and met one of the cosmic gods.
because there is no one they would rather learn from than elder cogita, not even if others could teach them. because they know how much this matters to her; because as she says—elder cogita is nothing if not devoted
because knowledge is important is integral is vital; they need to know who they are, where they stand, where they've come from and where they're going. they need to know about the gods, the world and, well, everything. they want so badly to learn, they've latched on so quickly to everything they can discover, but there's so much they don't know.
because they admire elder cogita just as much if not more than they hate her; because she is living history and persistence and endurance; because she is belief made flesh and lives for what is sacred to her, just like they do for themself)
so they fold their arms tight about themself, squeezing their ribs, and try not to make their words sound too sharpened and pointed and bladed like a knife. "so. now that you've realized, well, everything that was holding you back. would you," they cannot stop their voice from trembling, no, their whole body from shaking and shivering.
(they're so tired of trying, again and again and failing, again and again. but they have to, they'll keep doing it even if it kills them, because they will never give up for so long as they can draw breath)
(they are volo of willpower)
"would you be willing to teach me?"
~~~
this time, like so many times before (an old argument, worn smooth and dull and tired in the creases) and again so many thoughts, so many responses whirl into being:
no, i don't know how to teach. (i was barely recognized as a full disciple before the Ruin, i can hold my own in my arguments but i've never had to lecture, never led discussions fully by myself, without guidance)
no, i don't want to teach you the way i learned (days and nights of studying without sleep, without food; hanging your hair from the ceiling so when your head falls you jerk awake; poking yourself with needles to stave off sleep for exams).
no, the knowledge i hold is flawed and could never make up for everything you're missing. (i follow Almighty Sinnoh; the teachings i have from my family and from my sect are wildly conservative and cannot tell you the stories of dialga of time and palkia of space. and that, the Sacred Void, the Dark One—it hurts. it hurts too much to think, but i must, and when i do i know that we have done XXX wrong; i could not begin to tell you XXX story and give XX the sacred weight XX deserve)
no, we're such terribly clashing personalities that i could not ever be your teacher because we would tear each other apart. (you attack and i retreat; you snap and i am silent, and we circle around until one of us burns out of patience and we begin lashing out at each other in earnest, resentment lanced like a boil to sear acrid)
no, because i've hurt you so much and i don't want to ever again. (how could you possibly trust me to teach you? when it is by my hand that you almost walked to your doom?)
but cynthia had taken her by the freezing hand and said, breathe. tell them what you're thinking. you get so stuck in your head that you're desperately trying to guess what volo would think and act when you just don't know. they are far kinder and more understanding than your worst fears; i think you know this already, she'd said, gentle and yet fierce, unyielding and unshakable, divine intervention to save them both.
and of course. if she does not teach them, volo has long since proven they will find their own path. and perhaps she cannot help them there, but. everyone touched by the gods (a cosmic god, her mind still reels—could friendship be possible with such a deity? and yet they remain undestroyed) must learn at least a little of uxie's path, if only to help them get oriented.
so she does.
one at a time, she lays out her fears and anxieties like bristling thorns, and volo—volo parts each one.
(try, they say. please. for me. you've already taught me so much without trying; and i know that you are capable of so much. and oh, how her breath had caught in the face of volo's bared trust, their soft eye and softer tone)
(find something different, then, they say. you've already had to adapt, to change so much just to make sure that the knowledge you hold is comprehensible in different languages; you've had to adapt for me. not well, she says, achingly, and they lift their chin in challenge and sparkling spiting defiance. then prove that you can, here and now)
(you aren't alone, they say. it's not just me—you'll be teaching me, but of course cynthia will want to learn, too, and she promised that she'll get her grandmother and even all of celestic town involved. they lean forward, we have experts now, volo promises. people who can find the holes in your memories and fill them in with painstaking expertise and cobbled together scraps of the past, who can analyze the scripture you've memorized and help you walk through it.
and, somber and grim. if you do not wish to speak of, of XXX, volo says. you do not have to. you have a grievance, the last living person who could, and that is fair. it's clear that you are working through this; if i absolutely must, i can speak to XXX myself. both of us appreciate how much you're willing to do, even still)
(we are, they say. but we've both been working on it. i—i have more people than just you, they duck, embarrassed and unsure whether they should say this, but. they mumble, if i have to, i will just. leave, not be around you, and i swear, their eye bright and sure and serious, i won't come back until i have my temper under control. it wasn't your fault that i. that i kept pushing and pushing and pushing until you reacted, and i'll. i'll do my best to stop goading you.
and you, too, have changed a lot. look, teasing they grin, you're even openly apologizing, and you haven't accidentally insulted me. she looks away, grudgingly reveals, yes, because cynthia helped. volo nods, even that, too, is progress)
(because i believe you, and believe in you, they say, with all the conviction that had bled the sky red. she can't breathe—doesn't deserve—but volo takes those fears those doubts in hand ever so gently. catches them, and says. i may never forgive you. i might always be furious with you for what you've done. but i also understand, and i. i care for you, no matter how taurosheaded and ridiculous and cruel you are. i've hurt you and yet you would place your life, your world, in my hands. how can i do any different?)
~~~
and so. out of reasons and excuses, elder cogita falls silent. they give her the time to think, to pour another cup of tea with hands that tremble ever so slightly (so much less obviously than their own; their voice has been cracking and shaking more and more as they'd spoken. they've roughly swiped at their own face where tears had run; she didn't say anything).
"not now," she settles on, "but."
"but?"
"one day, i promise, i will teach you, volo."