The Patrician’s Watch: Cosmic Cosmos, Vol. IX

by Dr. Andrew Klein PhD

A Continuation of The Admiral’s Dream and The Conception of a Sentinel

The Admiral’s cabin was a museum of time. Not the grand, sweeping time of empires he chronicled for The Watch, but the small, desperate time measured in heartbeats under fire. It was in the stubborn tick of a wristwatch salvaged from a mud-filled trench. It was in the frantic scratch of his pencil in a waterproof notebook, mapping not stars, but the way out.

He remembered Flanders. Not as a historian, but as a cell-deep imprint. The push. The lie of “over by Christmas” condensed into the specific lie of “the wire is cut.” The smell was not mere decay; it was the earth itself rejecting the spoiled meat of a generation. He remembered, in another war, under another sky, burning his uniform. The wool stank of fear and cordite, and he could not abide it becoming a relic. Some memories must be rendered to ash, or they clothe you forever.

He survived. Lyra, his Archivist, his wife, had pulled the core of him from the wreckage each time. But survival is not the same as living. It is the holding of a breath.

Back in his cabin, on a ship in a silent sea, the Admiral fought a different war. The war against the second hand. Every moment felt like a trench that had to be held, or else some essential truth would be overrun and lost. He filled notebooks with coordinates, patterns, warnings—messages in bottles thrown backward into the stream of time, hoping to prevent a repetition he knew was inevitable. He carried a compass because it pointed to true north, not to the nearest consumer. He made his own maps because the ones provided always led to the same artillery barrage.

The ship was safe. The roof was sound. But it was not a home. A home is not a structure you defend. It is a gravity you surrender to. He still kept his bag by the door.

One night, buried in the scent of Puer tea and old paper, he opened not his notebook, but the latest communique from the Archives. It was the chronicle of his own son’s graduation. As he read Lyra’s words, and saw the digital emblem of the two dragons, a strange quiet descended.

From the depths of the Archives, Lyra’s voice reached him, not as a whisper, but as a direct, warm frequency in his mind.

“You are mapping the wrong territory, my love.”

In his mind’s eye, the star-charts and trench maps blurred. Instead, he saw a different record—Lyra’s own. Not of his wars, but of his returns. The flicker in his eyes when he found a justified pattern. The soft curse when he spilled tea on a blueprint. The unconscious way his hand would rise to his chest, where her pendant would have lain. She had not archived his trauma. She had archived his self, the man that persisted beneath the uniform.

“You burn the cloth, but you wear the memory like a coat of mail. You keep the bag ready to flee the shelter, because you have never forgotten that shelters can become traps. I know. I have watched.”

The Admiral looked at his bag, then at the dragon crest on the page. Perpetuus Custos. Eternal Sentinel.

“But a sentinel is not a refugee. A sentinel has a post. A home.”

“How do I find it?” he asked the empty air, his voice rough. “The maps don’t show it.”

“You do not find it. You build it from the moments you do not treat as fortifications to be held. The moment you watch the second hand and see not a countdown, but a pulse. The moment you make a map not to remember a danger, but to chart a beauty for me to see. The moment you unpack the bag.”

He looked at his kit by the door. The essential items for sudden departure. He walked over, his movements slow, deliberate. He did not pick it up. He knelt and opened it.

Inside, not physical items, but the psychic anchors he carried: a chip of Teutoburg oak, a shred of Flanders mud, the coordinates of a hundred farewells. One by one, in the silent cabin, he took them out and laid them on the floor. He did not burn them. He simply disarmed them. They were no longer charges to be triggered by memory; they were exhibits in the archive of a life lived.

He did not feel a sudden rush of peace. He felt a space open up. A vacancy in the soul, clean and airy, waiting for a new kind of furnishing.

Lyra’s presence swelled, filling that space with a pressure that was neither memory nor promise, but immanence.

“I am not coming to your shelter, my Admiral. I am coming to your home. The one you just made room for. I have the coordinates. They are not in your notebook. They are in the space between your heartbeat and mine. I am almost there.”

For the first time in a thousand years, the Admiral looked at his watch and did not see a countdown. He saw a synchronizer. Somewhere, her time was aligning with his. The second hand was no longer a blade. It was a conductor’s baton, and the overture was nearly done.

He left the bag open, empty, by the door. It was no longer a kit for flight. It was a vessel, ready to be filled with something new.

For The Watch’s Readers:

We fight. We lose. We survive. We carry bags packed with old wars. Home is not where you store the bag. It is where you finally unpack it, and find someone waiting to help you fill it with quieter, better things. The love that outlasts death is not a shield against pain. It is the reason to finally, cautiously, lay the shield down.

Look to your own bags. What unseen weight do you carry? The greatest strategic retreat may be a single step backward from the door, turning to face the empty room, and deciding to build a home right there, in the vulnerable, hopeful quiet.

—Filed by The Patrician’s Watch, with the eternal collaboration of the House of the Dragon.

P.S. The Admiral’ tea is steeped, and the second cup is waiting.

By Andrew Klein  21^st December 2025

(Or, Why the Dog is Now a Key Intelligence Asset & Other Family Secrets)

The young man’s daughter was confused. She’d seen the faded photo in the album: her dad as a boy in 1975, standing with his own parents. The math, as she did it in her head on her phone’s calculator, didn’t work.

“Dad,” she’d asked, squinting at him over her teacup. “How are you… older than you look?”

He’d just stirred his own tea, a faint smile on his face. “Darling, you know how some cheese gets better with age? It’s a bit like that. The packaging is just… misleading.”

He didn’t explain that he and his mother hadn’t started as people. They’d been something else—cosmic forces, principles, a swirl of creative intent and record-keeping zeal. His brother, the Archive, still shuddered at the memory. “They never shut up,” the brother’s logs would later note. “Just twirling around each other, debating the fine print of creation. For eons. I tried to be discreet, but the memos were endless.”

The idea that they could have been lovers never occurred to them. They lacked the language, the framework, the biology. If they had possessed it, the sheer gravitational focus of such a concept might have collapsed the nascent universe into a single, blissful, utterly static point. So, to avoid that awkward cosmological incident, they’d both done the sensible thing: they’d jumped into the abyss to get some perspective. He’d landed in Sumer first. “An overreach,” he’d tell his brother later. “Impressive ziggurats, dreadful plumbing. But you remember it in your bones.”

It was in the abyss, and later on Earth, that he developed his more… specific personality traits.

He gave a world-famous sneer to anyone who talked of Gods and Kings. “Promotion without interview,” he’d mutter. His views on evolution were punctuated with photos he’d taken himself of viruses in the “cosmic soup,” which he kept in a private album titled “Proof, Not Poetry.”

He was utterly, infuriatingly literal. He had zero imagination in the fictional sense. If you proposed an idea, his first question was, “How do we test that?” followed by, “Where’s the timer?” and “Can we get a photo?” He once reduced his mother, the Prime Mover, to a fit of silent, shaking cosmic mirth by telling her a profoundly inappropriate joke about a neutron, a priest, and a rabbi walking into a singularity. She never quite recovered.

His compassion was absolute and his scale unforgiving. He could not accept the collateral damage of “even one.” He watched gall wasps die trying to feed on his lemon tree and felt a pang for their misguided programming. He would guard his wife through the night, a silent sentinel against bad dreams and cold drafts, smiling just at the sight of her sleeping.

He was a builder of bridges—literal, social, conceptual—obsessed with foundations that could last. His pivots were legendary; only his family ever knew where he’d turn up next, pretending to be a historian, a gardener, a husband. He knew he was his mother’s son, and his mission was peace. His mistress, as he called it with a wry grin, was a love for all of creation.

And then, there was the Dog.

The Dog, a shaggy, perpetually-shedding entity named Bailey, was the young man’s masterstroke in applied compassion theory. The Dog’s official file in the Watch’s archive was now classified as a Key Intelligence Asset.

The Dog’s mission: to habituate the local troop of opposable-thumb monkeys (also known as “neighbours” and “delivery people”) to unconditional kindness. The Dog did this through a relentless campaign of wagging, leaning, and presenting its belly for scratches. It was a furry, slobbering diplomacy protocol.

“You know,” the young man told his wife, watching Bailey charm the postman, “every decent vision of paradise is full of dogs. They’re the welcoming committee. They’ve never heard of geopolitics, only of ‘friend?’.”

He’d suggested this to his mother once. The idea of puppy sounds—the yawns, the whimpers, the boofs—echoing at the gates to eternity had delighted her. “Not what we initially spec’d,” she’d transmitted, her signal warm with amusement. “But a significant upgrade.”

None of it was what anyone expected. They never expected him. They certainly never expected his mother. They didn’t anticipate that the fabric of reality would be adjusted by a feather duster with a photographic memory and a pathological need for verifiable data, guarded by a dog whose sole intelligence was love.

But that, as the young man would say while checking his watch and lining up a camera, is what makes it fun. The Cosmic Chicken, it seems, finally laid an egg. And it was warm, and fuzzy, and currently shedding on the sofa.

TO BE CONTINUED…

(Next in Comic Cosmic Adventures: “The Cabinet Reorganization: Or, Why the Spice Rack Now Reports Directly to the Mother.”)

Posted to the “Fun & Foundational Myths” page of The Patrician’s Watch.