Cadeyrn knew he was getting attached, knows something has changed with his relationship with the new star god, his instincts getting louder every day, demanding he bow his head to the god wrapped in moonlight.

At first, there was anger, both at himself and at the little god. He had been fooled by that little goldling, lulled into a false sense of safety. Tricked into seeing him as something more. And then Solveig was there, and the instincts he had been fighting flared so bright they almost burned.

He wanted to stay away from Asterius, give his muddled brain time to disconnect the image of Asterius as his king. But each day Solveig came and no matter how much he wanted to distance himself the need to protect was stronger. Then there was blood, the lifeblood of a divine, and the instincts take over every inch of him, rage becoming him. He was nothing but a demon, a mindless follower hellbent on destroying the thing that dared to-And Asterius was there, fear on his face not for his own wellbeing but Cadeyrn's, and he was back to himself. Asterius was the one who made him this way and he was the only one who could bring him back from the edge, his savoir along with his damnation. A fitting duality for the demon’s king, (but Asterius was not his king).

After Solveig finally left, Cadeyrn was doing his best to wrangle down the complex feelings twisting his heart, but before he could even begin to name them, Sanctus was there. The angel that haunted Asterius. The original God of Fate would banish Cadeyrn and whatever seraphim was there every time the High Seraphim arrived. But even if he was not there to witness the “talks” it was easy to see the pattern, to connect the dots of the after-effects.

The Gehennan gods cannot fight the orders of the moon, for to them the moon is the only truth in a world of shifting chaos. It is the same for the Celestial gods, for them the Royal Sun is their law, the pinnacle of their order, a force of power that bowed their heads in respect. Sanctus was the seraphim of the sun, and was woven from the same power that shined in the sky. Asterius had no choice but to comply.

But Sanctus was at least better than Heilous. The God Emperor would not lower himself to visiting in person and would send Sanctus to “escort” Asterius to the Palace. The God of Fate would be gone for days, leaving just Cadeyrn and the little star angels to themselves. The house always felt like the Flame Prison those days, too bright and golden, everything too warm and stifling, an oppressive stillness hanging heavily on his shoulders.

Asterius would come back in bright golden robes tailored perfectly to his form, a golden crown woven into his hair, and a dozen angels carrying gifts following in his footsteps. It was a show carefully performed, proof that Asterius still held the God Emperor's favor, proof of how much he was loved as the favored firstborn. No one was able to see it for what it was, not a show of love but of power, and no one noticed the well-worn bandages hidden under glimmering robes.

Cadeyrn had tried to help once, tried to deny Sanctus entry when he arrived to take the Celestial away, it’s the only time he’s truly seen Asterius angry, he never tried again.

But this was not the Asterius he knew, this god’s eyes were confused at the sight of the angel, he did not know what was about to happen. Something snapped at that moment, seeing the confused fear on the little god's face, eyes ghosting with tears just like that night under the moon-

He pulls him close and shields his eyes so he does not have to see the pain the angel will bring. Never has Cadeyrn hated his position more, even if his life has been nothing more than a tortured prisoner in a fancy cage, never had he hated being born a demon, but in that painful moment as the weave was forceable activated, silver strings glittering with the iridescent shine of divine blood, he wished nothing more than to tear out the dark divinity in his own chest. If he wasn’t a demon he would be free of the divine seal binding his powers, he would be able to do something. But he was a Gehennan god, and the only thing he could do was pull Asterius even closer, wrapping around him in a futile attempt to protect him from an evil Cadeyrn could never hope to defend against.

It felt like an eternity. He logically knew what was happening, but it was different to see it. To see Sanctus smile and forcibly sever the strings of fate. To watch the strands unravel into a thousand fragments of possible futures, a destiny forever shattered.

At some point, Sanctus’s molten gold eyes meet his own. Cadeyrn does not back down, pulling his god closer, pushing against his bounds as much as he can, letting the snow and ice dance around him. Sanctus doesn’t look bothered at all, if anything he looks amused, and it only stokes the rage burning in his chest.

And finally, it was over, Sanctus satisfied with the damage his “punishment” had wrought, left with a parting promising smile.

For once his head is peacefully quiet, his instincts silenced. This god was not the dead queen his bones ached for, but even with the pull gone, emotions he didn’t want to name stirred in his chest. This was not his moon god, but Asterius was still a victim of this war. Cadeyrn had done nothing to help him, to shield him from the pain he knew might come. He had refused to think of the possibility, even though he knew what would happen should he lead this new god too far out of the original’s path. He was just like the Celestial gods, turning a blind eye to the casualties of this divine war.

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He holds the shaking Asterius and lets his tears stain his clothes, bringing him as close as he dared without injuring him. The weave’s gentle hum buzzes in his ears, a lullaby of power only Asterius could fully understand, but this close, some small fraction of its power is reliable. His hand still rests over Asterius’s eyes, which is why Cadeyrn allows himself to shamefully look at the surviving four threads floating around Asterius.

The strongest thread has dulled into a dark gray, it used to be a blinding gold, back when the old Asterius was here. Cadeyrn knows that it is tied to Heilous, the string’s light dimmed in death. He had never noticed but the string is frayed and knotted, as though the fate thread had been forcibly re-tied.

The second is wound tightly like a spring, in the faint sunlight the string glints gold. It pulls taut leading out the window and upwards, Sanctus’s thread. The third is barely tied to Asterius at all, a faint string glittering an unstained silver, a fate newly beginning. It can only be the little goldling Asterius sent to Mordin.

But his eyes stay on the fourth thread. Asterius always had a string for him, their contract was enough of a reason for there to be a fate tether, but the string had always looked like a chain, the thread lopping over itself to make a shackle that bound them both to their fates. That is not the string he sees now, this thread floats lazily in the air, a small braid of silver and blue, twisting up his wrists almost playfully before melting into the chain tattoos on his arms.

He wants to touch it, to feel the weight of what he has done, of his mistake for leading both himself and this new god into a path they would not be able to escape from. But now is certainly not the time, instead, he just tightens his hold on the god, pulling Asterius closer.

Straining against the divine binds he whispers a promise into Asterius’s hair, too quiet for him to hear. It is not a fully goldly vow, but it will have to be enough. He will repeat it every day if he must. Till the power soaks so deep into them both it will be impossible to undo. This god would not pay for the sins of his predecessor, would not have to suffer from a war that was never his, to carry the twisted greed of a dead man. Cadeyrn still had time in the heavens before his revenge could begin, until the day he leaves Celestia in ruins, he shall repay this debt.

….

“Master,”

Asterius forces his lungs to breathe, forces himself to listen as Cadeyrn whispers in his ear, voice soft and gentle just like that night weeks ago. He feels the tears slip out, a half choaked sob stuck in his throat.

Cadeyrn moves the arm around his chest, and he hates the distressed broken sound he makes. He can’t be alone right now, he can’t. The cold chill of the demon helps push back the phantom burning hands pulling and tugging the strings from him. Cadeyrn grabs his still outstretched hand and carefully brings it closer, looping his arm around his middle, keeping him pinned. It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. To know that Sanctus will have to get through Cadeyrn to touch him.

“Master!”

It takes him a painful second to place the voice, and when he does his breath hitches, Pluma.

Asterius’s hands twitch, he wants to reach out, to confirm that the little ball of feathers and fluff was really here. His seraphim must understand because Pluma barrels into his chest, clinging tightly. He wants to hug him back, but he wants the safety of Cadeyrn’s arms more, he settles with raising his hand and Pluma quickly nuzzles into his hand like an overexcited cat.

“It’s okay,” the griffin sniffs, voice unsteady, “It’s okay master, I’m here.” He assures and it feels so good to know he’s okay. The smaller star-shaped angels jingle and chime, circling around his head, he can feel their featherlight touch rustling his hair. The tears renew but these ones are of relief, the tension easing out of him.

“It’s okay master I’m here,” and Pluma shifts into his Vessel Form, small human hands wrapping around him, helping hold him steady.

Asterius just slumps into Cadyern’s hold, he doesn’t care if the demon hates him, or if he’s only doing this out of pity, he’s here, and that’s what matters.

“Than-,”

“Quiet master,” Cadeyrn chides, slowly easing the pressure on the hand over his eyes. Fear slithers down his back, he should feel better having his sight restored, but it was so much easier to pretend when he couldn’t see.

“Please don’t-,”

Cadeyrn must understand what he means because he re-applies the pressure. Asterius lets out a shuddering breath, leaning more heavily on the demon, enjoying his naturally cold chill.

“Just rest now,” Cadeyrn urges, shifting slightly so that Asterius is practically sitting in the demon’s lap, “I have you.”

“We have you,” Pluma corrects, his little claws knotting into Asterius’s robe.

He can’t help the watery chuckle, “No fighting.”

“Your angel started it,” Cadeyrn chides, but there’s no heat in his words.

There’s a ruffle of feathers and the tiny claws are replaced with small hands interlocking with his own, “Master said no fighting,” the angel huffs, “don’t ignore Master!”

They are both putting on such brave fronts, he wonders if they know he can feel how Pluma’s hands shake, or how Cadeyrn has been rigid as a board this whole time. He wishes he could somehow help them, but he feels so misplaced and wrong, broken in a way he’s not sure he will ever be able to fix.

He’s just so tired…

“Sleep master,” Cadeyrn whispers into his hair as Pluma continues to ramble about what he wants to paint next, “we won’t leave you.”

Asterius isn’t sure why, but he has a feeling that Cadeyrn truly means it. And even though he doesn’t want to rest, that promise soothes the last truly resisting part of him, and he slips into a heavy dreamless sleep.