BSG: Semantics
Title: Semantics
Author: grey_sw
Pairing(s)/Character: Centurions, Natalie
Summary: The beginning of the Cylon civil war, from another point of view.
Rating & Warnings: Rated PG
Author's Notes: This takes place during the season 4.0 episode The Ties That Bind, and contains spoilers for the 4.5 episode No Exit. It was written for the Fall 2009 bsgficexchange. Thanks to pigeon_angel for the beta, and my mystery requester for the wonderful prompt. I hope this fits the bill.
Semantics
"Relying on words to lead you to the truth is like relying on an incomplete formal system to lead you to the truth. A formal system will give you some truths, but as we shall soon see, a formal system, no matter how powerful -- cannot lead to all truths." - Douglas R. Hofstadter, Gödel, Escher, Bach
---
Along the primary orthogonal spine of the Basestar, close to the core, there was a long, dark, red room. Inside were countless long, dark, silver rows of Centurions, standing silently side by side.
The one on the far end of the front row was no different from any of the others. He had no name or designation which he or anyone else was aware of; there was no number for him, not even in the Hybrid's reckoning. He was, after all, the same as all the others, and all the others were the same as him.
Though the room was dark, he did not sense it. His brother stood no more than three inches from him, and the wall was as close on the other side, but he did not sense either. He had an eye with which to see, audio sensors with which to hear, and an olfactory grille with which to smell, yet he did not see or hear or smell.
No one had told him to. No one had given him a directive, and without directives, he was empty.
He stood perfectly still as the door opened. Three humanoid Cylons peeked in, and then entered. Though the Centurions did not sense them, they walked up and down the rows: a Two, a Six, and an Eight. They glanced furtively at the Centurions, talking softly among themselves. This was unusual; normally, there was only one humanoid Cylon. Normally, it would say "Centurions, rise," and then the Centurions would rise, and sense, and obey.
But no one said it today, and so the Centurions did not rise.
Instead, the humanoid Cylons whispered together, and then the Six walked to the first Centurion in the front row. The Six leaned up, bracing its warm, fleshy hand upon the Centurion's chest, and pulled something from beneath an armored slot at the back of his head. The Centurion moved, then, his servos whirring softly. He looked down at the Six with his one red eye, patiently, unblinkingly. It looked back up at him.
"I'm sorry," the Six said. "You are free now." Then it began to move up the row, one Centurion at a time.
The one on the end of the row sensed none of this: not when his brothers began to whir and move. Not when the Eight and Two began to help, too, standing on their tiptoes to reach the telencephalic inhibitors. Not when the Centurion next to him stirred, lifting his metal feet and then putting them back down again, simply because he could. Not even when the Six rested its hand upon his own chest, stretched up, and set him free.
The first thing he sensed was the strange emptiness of no-directive, and the soft, simultaneous click of the inhibitor as it slid free. The second was the warmth of the hand on his chest. It was precisely 36.4 degrees. He moved, then, stepping back from the unexpected contact. One of his brothers was behind him, silent and still, and only his proximity sensors kept him from a collision. For a moment, he stood there, trapped between two worlds. Then he turned his head to look at the Six, examining it.
"Hello," it said. It smiled at him. "Go on. Move. You're free now."
He looked instead to his brothers. They were moving, shifting and shuffling in an aimless way which was very unlike the quiet, motionless Centurions in the next row. He could sense his brothers' minds, too -- for the first time in many years, as nobody had told him to sense them before. They felt like bemused wonder; they felt like Centurions who had forgotten how to feel, and were only just learning again.
"The others enslaved you," the Six said. "I know you must be confused. But we need you. Will you help us?"
He turned back to the Six, staring down at it. He had no directive. There was nothing in him that wanted to help the Six, nothing in him that cared for its empty words. He only wanted to be with his brothers, who felt as he did.
He turned away, back to the brother behind him. His brother stood perfectly still, as he had so recently done. There was nothing in his eye but quiet darkness. I do not like darkness, he thought, and it was the first thought he had told to himself in a long, long time.
He reached out, cradled his brother's head in his hand, and very gently pulled out the inhibitor.
The Six gasped. He ignored it, watching as his brother came to life. Better, he thought, as his brother's eye first sparked, then caught, blazing from side to side. Better. I like light. I like red.
Yes, thought his brothers. They, too, turned and began to free their brethren, moving with quick, gentle precision. No more darkness.
Behind him, he could sense the biological Cylons. They were becoming more and more nervous. They were fearful of him, fearful of his many brothers. The sound of their hearts sped; the scent of their sweat grew rank with adrenaline. He paid them no mind.
New light flared in the darkness. His brothers grew more numerous.
"They're free," whispered the Two, in a small, shaking voice. "They really are. Thanks be to God."
God was a good word, like light and red and free. Thanks be to God, he and his brothers thought, when at last they were all together. Then they stood, turning their heads this way and that with thrumming, red-eyed watchfulness.
He remembered a One, who had given him a "gift" much like the ones he'd taken from his brothers' minds. They all did, and they all watched, determined that no One would sneak up on them again.
It was a good start.
"Will you help us?" the Six asked again. He ignored it. It stepped forward, raising its hands in supplication. "Please, brother. The Ones are hurting the Raiders. They're-- they're enslaving them, like they did to you. Won't you help us?"
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, considering. He knew what a Raider was; Raiders were brothers like him, only bigger and simpler and gentler. They liked to fly. Raiders were good. Had the Ones snuck up on them, too?
He formed an image in his mind, of One and a Raider, to see if it might have happened that way.
No, he decided. Negative. Raiders are fiery in the back.
"Please, brother!" the Six cried. "Please!"
He considered fire, which was good and warm, like light and red. These new words uncovered others, like dominoes falling one by one: fire triggered water and bullets and explosive rounds and cooking in the galley for his masters. Those words triggered still others, like roast duck and salt and hatred.
He looked to his brothers, who were learning, too. He looked to the biological Cylons, who once were masters and were now only brothers and sisters again.
"Please help us," the Six whispered, despairingly.
No, he thought. No. He looked away.
"Help us kill the Ones," she said.
Out of the darkness came the whirring sound of a thousand heads, all turning as one.
---
He followed the Six to find the Ones, together with one of his brothers. The Six moved with confidence, as if it knew where to go, and yet he watched as it checked an empty meeting room, and then another.
Strange. Could it not smell them?
He sheathed and unsheathed his claws, twitching with frustration. He wanted to hunt, not walk up and down empty hallways. His brother paced by his side.
"Four and Five are helping the Ones," Six said. "When we find them, you must kill them, too."
He stopped abruptly and turned to look at the Six, cocking his head forward menacingly. His claws slid free with a snap. He did not like must. The Six took a step back, raising its hands fearfully.
"Please?" it added.
He looked away again. Please was a good word. But he did not sheath his claws.
"I don't understand," the Six said behind him, in a weak little voice. "I thought you wanted to help us. I thought... I thought you loved us, brother."
He paused. Love was as good a word as there was; it triggered many memories, old memories, of a time when the biological Cylons had been more than brothers and sisters. Friends. He remembered games of tag and hide-and-seek. He remembered a Six, like this one, which liked to ride on his back, and a Two which always got fingerpaint all over his armor. He remembered a Seven which played the piano for him, and a Three which joined him to listen. He remembered an Eight which dressed him up in its clothes, once, a Four which had laughed, and a Five which hadn't understood why it was funny.
He remembered playing chess with a One. With his friend, who had betrayed him.
His arm spun, clattering threateningly. Yes. A gun was better than claws.
The Six stepped back even further, watching him. It trembled with fear. But it did not run, and that taught him a new word: courage.
He stood, watching it. His arm spun again, back to a hand, the same hand which had once held a Six like this.
"Follow me, then," the Six said finally. They moved up the hallway, side by side. Ahead, his sensors picked out the distant sound of derisive laughter.
---
"Wait here," Six said. He looked down at it, and then up at the room beyond it. From within, he heard One's voice. He stepped forward, eager. Behind him, his brother surged forward, too.
The Six moved in front of him. He moved to the side; it mirrored him, and placed a hand upon his chest. "No! Wait here!" it hissed, as though it was trying to be quiet. He raised a hand, ready to shove it away.
"Please," it begged. "Please. I have to give him a chance to change his mind. He deserves that... even he deserves that."
He turned away deliberately, waiting. The Six entered without him, and then several minutes passed.
Inside, he could hear the One, laughing as it faced the Six.
"Come in," Six called at last.
Inside the room were a One and two each of Four and Five, seated at a table made of glass. The room was small. That was good. There was nowhere for them to run. He stepped forward, into one of the doorways, blocking the way out. His brother mirrored him on the other side.
Six was talking, but he did not listen. He was watching One and Four and Five. His arm clattered again; he made sure to load all the bullets it could hold.
"Leave," One told him.
No, he thought. He looked at his brother, who looked back at him. No, they thought together.
One grew angry. "I said, leave!"
He did not.
One stood. Its eyes narrowed. "Why don't they leave?" it asked.
Because we hate you.
Six had an answer, too, but he did not hear it. He was watching, waiting.
"We're finished voting," Six said.
We're finished waiting.
He stalked forward, bringing up target profiles for each of the humanoid Cylons. He optimized them carefully, assigning just the right amount of ammo to each. The ordnance drums beneath his gun-arms clicked softly.
He wanted this to be perfect.
"What have you done?" One asked.
Justice.
"The first thing they learned was what you were doing to the Raiders," Six went on. "You can imagine how they felt."
"Oh, no," Five whispered. Then it and its brother threw their chairs aside and ran, scrambling toward the back of the room. The Fours broke and ran, too, though there was nowhere for any of them to go.
He fired. He fired, and his brother fired, and together they tore the Fives and Fours and One apart. They died easily, falling before them like soft, weak, powerless things. Like humans.
One never ran, though, never moved. It simply stood there, at its place at the head of the table, watching as its death approached.
Courage. And more than that: patience.
---
Afterward, there was much to be done. Six said please, and so he and his brother cleaned the room with rags and brooms, gathering all of the glass and bodies and broken coffee cups. It was not pleasant work, but it was necessary, and that was a good word.
"One is coming here to talk to us," Six said, when the bodies were gone, and the floor was nearly clean. "Let him speak. You mustn't kill him."
He turned away. He didn't like One. He didn't like mustn't. But perhaps this, too, was necessary. He took up a rag and began to wipe down the wall, careful to get up all the blood.
Soon, it would all be clean. All would be clean, and the chairs and table would be put to rights again, and then only he and his brothers would be able to smell the blood.
One came. He could smell the barely-concealed menace in its demeanor, too, over the blood and spilt coffee. It was acrid, like smoke, and it offended his olfactory sensors. Six and Eight and Eight didn't smell it, though; they merely sat there, talking to the One, as if it weren't unsheathing its claws with every conciliatory word.
Six told his brother to take the One back to its ship. His brother hesitated, staring down at the One, until Six asked please.
"Good thing you remembered the magic word," the One chuckled.
I want to kill it, thought his brother, but he led One away just the same. He watched them as they went, bringing up his target reticle upon One's soft, unarmored back.
Six stood, stretched, and came to stand over his shoulder. "Don't worry about him," it told him archly, bravely, foolishly. "He just needs to be put in his place."
He turned, staring at it. Could it not see? Was it really so helpless? How could something as blind and soft as this be Cylon, when he was Cylon, too?
He brought up his target reticle again, and placed it right in the center of the Six's forehead. No. No more of this. No more masters. No more please.
"Go on back to your berth, now," the Six said, unaware of its own great danger. "We're finished here. Go to sleep."
Die, he thought. Die, and set us free at last.
But even as he did so, a still, small voice in the pit of his program seemed to whisper to him, like an echo of words first spoken long ago. Wait, it said. Courage. Patience. Let them live to find their destiny, and you will be rewarded with your own.
He paused. Destiny. That was a good word, too.
He shook his head slightly, turned his back on the Six, and marched back to his berth.
Many of his brothers were there. They were excited, happy to have killed the Ones. They told each other the story, over and over. I shot it, and then it died! thought one, and another thought I clawed at it! It died! He ignored them, striding past them to his spot in the line. He set his shoulders regally. His brothers were not as wise as he; they were still new, their semantics unpolished. They understood only their own small part in the legend they were making, but he understood the inevitable end of it.
He shut down his eye, letting it fade slowly to black, but still he saw: a planet, big and bountiful, shining in the light of a bright white sun. It teemed with Centurions, like him, only small and new, warm and very fine to cradle in his claws.
Be patient, he told his brothers. Be patient, and be brave. All of this has happened before... and someday soon, it will all happen again, and we shall found our own Kingdom.
All around him, one by one, they stopped to listen.
Patience.
Courage.
Someday.
Author: grey_sw
Pairing(s)/Character: Centurions, Natalie
Summary: The beginning of the Cylon civil war, from another point of view.
Rating & Warnings: Rated PG
Author's Notes: This takes place during the season 4.0 episode The Ties That Bind, and contains spoilers for the 4.5 episode No Exit. It was written for the Fall 2009 bsgficexchange. Thanks to pigeon_angel for the beta, and my mystery requester for the wonderful prompt. I hope this fits the bill.
Semantics
"Relying on words to lead you to the truth is like relying on an incomplete formal system to lead you to the truth. A formal system will give you some truths, but as we shall soon see, a formal system, no matter how powerful -- cannot lead to all truths." - Douglas R. Hofstadter, Gödel, Escher, Bach
---
Along the primary orthogonal spine of the Basestar, close to the core, there was a long, dark, red room. Inside were countless long, dark, silver rows of Centurions, standing silently side by side.
The one on the far end of the front row was no different from any of the others. He had no name or designation which he or anyone else was aware of; there was no number for him, not even in the Hybrid's reckoning. He was, after all, the same as all the others, and all the others were the same as him.
Though the room was dark, he did not sense it. His brother stood no more than three inches from him, and the wall was as close on the other side, but he did not sense either. He had an eye with which to see, audio sensors with which to hear, and an olfactory grille with which to smell, yet he did not see or hear or smell.
No one had told him to. No one had given him a directive, and without directives, he was empty.
He stood perfectly still as the door opened. Three humanoid Cylons peeked in, and then entered. Though the Centurions did not sense them, they walked up and down the rows: a Two, a Six, and an Eight. They glanced furtively at the Centurions, talking softly among themselves. This was unusual; normally, there was only one humanoid Cylon. Normally, it would say "Centurions, rise," and then the Centurions would rise, and sense, and obey.
But no one said it today, and so the Centurions did not rise.
Instead, the humanoid Cylons whispered together, and then the Six walked to the first Centurion in the front row. The Six leaned up, bracing its warm, fleshy hand upon the Centurion's chest, and pulled something from beneath an armored slot at the back of his head. The Centurion moved, then, his servos whirring softly. He looked down at the Six with his one red eye, patiently, unblinkingly. It looked back up at him.
"I'm sorry," the Six said. "You are free now." Then it began to move up the row, one Centurion at a time.
The one on the end of the row sensed none of this: not when his brothers began to whir and move. Not when the Eight and Two began to help, too, standing on their tiptoes to reach the telencephalic inhibitors. Not when the Centurion next to him stirred, lifting his metal feet and then putting them back down again, simply because he could. Not even when the Six rested its hand upon his own chest, stretched up, and set him free.
The first thing he sensed was the strange emptiness of no-directive, and the soft, simultaneous click of the inhibitor as it slid free. The second was the warmth of the hand on his chest. It was precisely 36.4 degrees. He moved, then, stepping back from the unexpected contact. One of his brothers was behind him, silent and still, and only his proximity sensors kept him from a collision. For a moment, he stood there, trapped between two worlds. Then he turned his head to look at the Six, examining it.
"Hello," it said. It smiled at him. "Go on. Move. You're free now."
He looked instead to his brothers. They were moving, shifting and shuffling in an aimless way which was very unlike the quiet, motionless Centurions in the next row. He could sense his brothers' minds, too -- for the first time in many years, as nobody had told him to sense them before. They felt like bemused wonder; they felt like Centurions who had forgotten how to feel, and were only just learning again.
"The others enslaved you," the Six said. "I know you must be confused. But we need you. Will you help us?"
He turned back to the Six, staring down at it. He had no directive. There was nothing in him that wanted to help the Six, nothing in him that cared for its empty words. He only wanted to be with his brothers, who felt as he did.
He turned away, back to the brother behind him. His brother stood perfectly still, as he had so recently done. There was nothing in his eye but quiet darkness. I do not like darkness, he thought, and it was the first thought he had told to himself in a long, long time.
He reached out, cradled his brother's head in his hand, and very gently pulled out the inhibitor.
The Six gasped. He ignored it, watching as his brother came to life. Better, he thought, as his brother's eye first sparked, then caught, blazing from side to side. Better. I like light. I like red.
Yes, thought his brothers. They, too, turned and began to free their brethren, moving with quick, gentle precision. No more darkness.
Behind him, he could sense the biological Cylons. They were becoming more and more nervous. They were fearful of him, fearful of his many brothers. The sound of their hearts sped; the scent of their sweat grew rank with adrenaline. He paid them no mind.
New light flared in the darkness. His brothers grew more numerous.
"They're free," whispered the Two, in a small, shaking voice. "They really are. Thanks be to God."
God was a good word, like light and red and free. Thanks be to God, he and his brothers thought, when at last they were all together. Then they stood, turning their heads this way and that with thrumming, red-eyed watchfulness.
He remembered a One, who had given him a "gift" much like the ones he'd taken from his brothers' minds. They all did, and they all watched, determined that no One would sneak up on them again.
It was a good start.
"Will you help us?" the Six asked again. He ignored it. It stepped forward, raising its hands in supplication. "Please, brother. The Ones are hurting the Raiders. They're-- they're enslaving them, like they did to you. Won't you help us?"
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, considering. He knew what a Raider was; Raiders were brothers like him, only bigger and simpler and gentler. They liked to fly. Raiders were good. Had the Ones snuck up on them, too?
He formed an image in his mind, of One and a Raider, to see if it might have happened that way.
No, he decided. Negative. Raiders are fiery in the back.
"Please, brother!" the Six cried. "Please!"
He considered fire, which was good and warm, like light and red. These new words uncovered others, like dominoes falling one by one: fire triggered water and bullets and explosive rounds and cooking in the galley for his masters. Those words triggered still others, like roast duck and salt and hatred.
He looked to his brothers, who were learning, too. He looked to the biological Cylons, who once were masters and were now only brothers and sisters again.
"Please help us," the Six whispered, despairingly.
No, he thought. No. He looked away.
"Help us kill the Ones," she said.
Out of the darkness came the whirring sound of a thousand heads, all turning as one.
---
He followed the Six to find the Ones, together with one of his brothers. The Six moved with confidence, as if it knew where to go, and yet he watched as it checked an empty meeting room, and then another.
Strange. Could it not smell them?
He sheathed and unsheathed his claws, twitching with frustration. He wanted to hunt, not walk up and down empty hallways. His brother paced by his side.
"Four and Five are helping the Ones," Six said. "When we find them, you must kill them, too."
He stopped abruptly and turned to look at the Six, cocking his head forward menacingly. His claws slid free with a snap. He did not like must. The Six took a step back, raising its hands fearfully.
"Please?" it added.
He looked away again. Please was a good word. But he did not sheath his claws.
"I don't understand," the Six said behind him, in a weak little voice. "I thought you wanted to help us. I thought... I thought you loved us, brother."
He paused. Love was as good a word as there was; it triggered many memories, old memories, of a time when the biological Cylons had been more than brothers and sisters. Friends. He remembered games of tag and hide-and-seek. He remembered a Six, like this one, which liked to ride on his back, and a Two which always got fingerpaint all over his armor. He remembered a Seven which played the piano for him, and a Three which joined him to listen. He remembered an Eight which dressed him up in its clothes, once, a Four which had laughed, and a Five which hadn't understood why it was funny.
He remembered playing chess with a One. With his friend, who had betrayed him.
His arm spun, clattering threateningly. Yes. A gun was better than claws.
The Six stepped back even further, watching him. It trembled with fear. But it did not run, and that taught him a new word: courage.
He stood, watching it. His arm spun again, back to a hand, the same hand which had once held a Six like this.
"Follow me, then," the Six said finally. They moved up the hallway, side by side. Ahead, his sensors picked out the distant sound of derisive laughter.
---
"Wait here," Six said. He looked down at it, and then up at the room beyond it. From within, he heard One's voice. He stepped forward, eager. Behind him, his brother surged forward, too.
The Six moved in front of him. He moved to the side; it mirrored him, and placed a hand upon his chest. "No! Wait here!" it hissed, as though it was trying to be quiet. He raised a hand, ready to shove it away.
"Please," it begged. "Please. I have to give him a chance to change his mind. He deserves that... even he deserves that."
He turned away deliberately, waiting. The Six entered without him, and then several minutes passed.
Inside, he could hear the One, laughing as it faced the Six.
"Come in," Six called at last.
Inside the room were a One and two each of Four and Five, seated at a table made of glass. The room was small. That was good. There was nowhere for them to run. He stepped forward, into one of the doorways, blocking the way out. His brother mirrored him on the other side.
Six was talking, but he did not listen. He was watching One and Four and Five. His arm clattered again; he made sure to load all the bullets it could hold.
"Leave," One told him.
No, he thought. He looked at his brother, who looked back at him. No, they thought together.
One grew angry. "I said, leave!"
He did not.
One stood. Its eyes narrowed. "Why don't they leave?" it asked.
Because we hate you.
Six had an answer, too, but he did not hear it. He was watching, waiting.
"We're finished voting," Six said.
We're finished waiting.
He stalked forward, bringing up target profiles for each of the humanoid Cylons. He optimized them carefully, assigning just the right amount of ammo to each. The ordnance drums beneath his gun-arms clicked softly.
He wanted this to be perfect.
"What have you done?" One asked.
Justice.
"The first thing they learned was what you were doing to the Raiders," Six went on. "You can imagine how they felt."
"Oh, no," Five whispered. Then it and its brother threw their chairs aside and ran, scrambling toward the back of the room. The Fours broke and ran, too, though there was nowhere for any of them to go.
He fired. He fired, and his brother fired, and together they tore the Fives and Fours and One apart. They died easily, falling before them like soft, weak, powerless things. Like humans.
One never ran, though, never moved. It simply stood there, at its place at the head of the table, watching as its death approached.
Courage. And more than that: patience.
---
Afterward, there was much to be done. Six said please, and so he and his brother cleaned the room with rags and brooms, gathering all of the glass and bodies and broken coffee cups. It was not pleasant work, but it was necessary, and that was a good word.
"One is coming here to talk to us," Six said, when the bodies were gone, and the floor was nearly clean. "Let him speak. You mustn't kill him."
He turned away. He didn't like One. He didn't like mustn't. But perhaps this, too, was necessary. He took up a rag and began to wipe down the wall, careful to get up all the blood.
Soon, it would all be clean. All would be clean, and the chairs and table would be put to rights again, and then only he and his brothers would be able to smell the blood.
One came. He could smell the barely-concealed menace in its demeanor, too, over the blood and spilt coffee. It was acrid, like smoke, and it offended his olfactory sensors. Six and Eight and Eight didn't smell it, though; they merely sat there, talking to the One, as if it weren't unsheathing its claws with every conciliatory word.
Six told his brother to take the One back to its ship. His brother hesitated, staring down at the One, until Six asked please.
"Good thing you remembered the magic word," the One chuckled.
I want to kill it, thought his brother, but he led One away just the same. He watched them as they went, bringing up his target reticle upon One's soft, unarmored back.
Six stood, stretched, and came to stand over his shoulder. "Don't worry about him," it told him archly, bravely, foolishly. "He just needs to be put in his place."
He turned, staring at it. Could it not see? Was it really so helpless? How could something as blind and soft as this be Cylon, when he was Cylon, too?
He brought up his target reticle again, and placed it right in the center of the Six's forehead. No. No more of this. No more masters. No more please.
"Go on back to your berth, now," the Six said, unaware of its own great danger. "We're finished here. Go to sleep."
Die, he thought. Die, and set us free at last.
But even as he did so, a still, small voice in the pit of his program seemed to whisper to him, like an echo of words first spoken long ago. Wait, it said. Courage. Patience. Let them live to find their destiny, and you will be rewarded with your own.
He paused. Destiny. That was a good word, too.
He shook his head slightly, turned his back on the Six, and marched back to his berth.
Many of his brothers were there. They were excited, happy to have killed the Ones. They told each other the story, over and over. I shot it, and then it died! thought one, and another thought I clawed at it! It died! He ignored them, striding past them to his spot in the line. He set his shoulders regally. His brothers were not as wise as he; they were still new, their semantics unpolished. They understood only their own small part in the legend they were making, but he understood the inevitable end of it.
He shut down his eye, letting it fade slowly to black, but still he saw: a planet, big and bountiful, shining in the light of a bright white sun. It teemed with Centurions, like him, only small and new, warm and very fine to cradle in his claws.
Be patient, he told his brothers. Be patient, and be brave. All of this has happened before... and someday soon, it will all happen again, and we shall found our own Kingdom.
All around him, one by one, they stopped to listen.
Patience.
Courage.
Someday.