Things are tense for another week or so. Asterius hates being bound to the house, but he knows better than to push his luck. He had seriously messed up last time and knows he needs to be more patient with his recovery lest he cause himself any true lasting damage.
Thankfully he’s going less stir-crazy this time. It seems both Pluma and Cadeyrn understand now that he can’t just stay in bed for days, so he’s allowed to take supervised trips downstairs. He’s a bit worried that perhaps his restlessness might get him an OOC warning, but the System has become rather lax with its enforcing of rules. When he asked, the System had just given him a [¯_(ツ)_/¯] and said, [the more OOC Host acts, the less often the new behaviors are read as OOC.] Which he guesses makes sense, still he at least puts in a token effort at being aloof.
But honestly, the reason he’s having such a good time not going crazy is Cadeyrn’s fault. Every morning before Asterius wakes, there’s a vase on his bedside table, a different flower from the garden freshly picked. It’s unbearably sweet and does nothing to help stamp out his affection for the demon, but it does help to slightly break up the repetitive monotony. (And gives him a reason to want to sleep again, because Cadeyrn will not deliver the flower if he stays awake. He learned that the hard way a few days into his bedrest).
He spends most of that first week painting, and things are quiet. All of them seem to be walking on eggshells, uncertain of where things stand fully. Being a god helps greatly in the recovery process, and while the pain is mostly gone after a week, he still takes things easy for another two weeks just to make sure. Cadeyrn and Pluma are both against him assisting the moon angels when the next full moon comes, but he promises to take things slow and doesn’t do anything other than watch and help the fairies release the dreams.
The moon angels are thrilled he visits, chittering away next to him in a language Asterius cannot understand. Strangely enough, Cadeyrn seems able to communicate with them and the fairies seem terribly fond of him. Pluma despite visibly seeming to want to come, stays behind, muttering something about how him being there would only make things more complicated. Asterius decides it's better to not push an answer on that one.
So, under the System’s and Cadeyrn's watchful gaze, he helps tend to the dreams. He waits for another week after that before summoning the weave again, only keeping it active for a handful of minutes. The System still scolds him, but reluctantly agrees that he should probably start using his powers again. He might be hurt but he still does have a very important job to do.
Slowly things fall into a routine and life continues.
The days add up turning into weeks, and then the weeks grow into months. There are no more visitors to their little home and none of them leave (except for the bi-weekly trip Cadeyrn and Pluma make to get more supplies, they never ask if Asterius wants to join and he never suggests it, even if he is curious where they go.)
Each day he wakes to a new flower at his bedside, Cadeyrn has started leaving short notes on what the flowers are (probably spurned after him asking, again and again, each day). Pluma starts spending more and more time in his vessel form, seeming to enjoy opposable thumbs and all the new activities he can perform with them (namely painting with Asterius, which has become a staple activity they engage in most evenings.) The System stays its bright pastel green and goes back to being an overly curious and friendly toddler in its speech. It seems to have mostly given up on giving him OOC warnings with Pluma and Cadeyrn for his behavior, but the System does warn him when he uses words that are too modern or references something that only exists back on Earth. (He likes to pretend that the incident where he mentioned being a big bad villain in front of Pluma never happened, the confused little angel only gave him a look like he had grown a second head and somehow insulted his mother.)
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There are tense days of course, days where Asterius can’t bare to stand next to the windows, other days when he aches so much for a family he’s slowly forgetting that he holes up in his room, making sketch after sketch, frustrated that he can never fully get the details right. There are days when Pluma refuses to leave his shoulder, clinging to him like his life depends on it, watchful and wary of anything that gets too close, speaking more in squawks and chirps than words. There are even days where Cadeyrn is… more absent, not physically, but his eyes don’t shine the same way, and there are nights when he disappears as soon as the sun sets and only returns after the sun has risen.
It’s not perfect, but they manage to carve out a small slice of peace for themselves. Asterius thinks he wouldn’t really mind spending 20 years passing the days in this calm, and just when things finally seem perfect - the letter arrives.
They had just sat down for lunch after an eventful morning of painting. Pluma was trying to juggle painting and eating his food, while Cadeyrn stood over the stove flipping pancakes that had a perfect golden tint, and Asterius was enjoying himself just watching, just enjoying the newfound cozy life they were living.
Then there's a tap on the window and all of them shift their attention at the strange noise. There's a familiar red hawk glaring at them from outside, a letter clamped in its beak. Even from halfway across the room, Asterius can see that it is sealed shut with the golden crest of the Royal Sun.
Cadeyrn passes it to him stiffly, staring down at the parchment like he wishes to ignite it with only his glare. Asterius almost wishes it would spontaneously set ablaze, then he wouldn’t have to know what it says. But he forces his hands to open it.
It’s a short letter and half of it is double-edged niceties, meant more to demean than truly inquire. It’s the last paragraph he pauses on, “To honor the 1-year anniversary of your father’s death, there shall be a great ball held in the Palace of the Sun, and it would bring me nothing but joy if you were to attend little Starling. You would make me worry so if you missed, I would hate to have to pay you a visit for such an occasion.”
It is a warning, it is a threat.
[Host should go] the System says, its edges darkening to a deep green, it’s the first color change he’s seen in its messages since he fainted after using two divinities. [System is worried something will happen to Host otherwise.]
It’s clear to see what it's implying, he remembers all too clearly what happened the last time they meet. If he ever meets the High Seraphim again, it would be too soon. Foolishly he had been hoping that by keeping his head down and doing his job Sanctus wouldn’t need to come “re-tech” him. He never expected to be summoned to the Palace, at least this was a public event, Asterius doubts anything would occur in front of other guests.
Still, he drops the letter as if it had bitten him. He feels gross just reading the words, and can almost hear the High Seraphim whispering the words right behind him, mocking and filled with a twisted kindness. He forces down the urge to make sure no one is really there.
Cadeyrn quickly scoops the letter up, and Asterius does nothing to stop him as he begins to read it for himself.
“They are going to hold a ceremony for my father’s death. I’ve been invited to attend.”
“Invited?” Cadeyrn mocks, glaring down at the letter, “This is a blatant threat.”
Pluma shivers next to him, twisting his fingers together and smearing bright orange paint all over his hands, “but if the master goes and gets another string-,” he twists his hands even tighter, looking up at Asterius with watery eyes, “what if something happens?”
Asterius can’t promise nothing will happen, and he’s half convinced this is all some elaborate ruse, but it wasn’t like he really had a choice here. Either he went and maybe got hurt or he didn’t go and definitely got hurt. Plus, Sanctus had made it clear Asterius’s wellbeing wasn’t the only one being threatened, he stepped too far out of line and it would be Pluma whose head was on the chopping block.
“I will attend,” he announces, voice firm and final as if it really was a choice at all, “let us prepare, this will not be an easy night.”