“You are sure nothing happened?” Asterius asks the System for possibly the 20th time in the last ten minutes.
[System just checked 30 seconds ago!] The window protests, and he’s sure that if the System could speak it would be very exasperated. [Does Host really want System to check again?]
He knows it’s not really asking, a rhetorical question that’s aimed to remind him of how ridiculous he’s being. Sadly, Asterius is already very aware of how stupid his asking yet again is. But still, he quietly asks, “Please?” trying not to sound as desperate as he feels.
It sends him a [-_-], but a second later opens another message, [System is searching database for targeted characters.]
He waits with bated breath, already mostly knowing the answer, the System’s report has never changed even after all his pestering, but he’s still tense with the fear of something going wrong.
[Targeted characters located!] it announces flashing up an image of a small doodled Pluma and Cadeyrn not unlike a game select party window. [The Seraphim of Stars and the Chained Demon Prince are both alive.]
He sighs, continuing the never-ending cycle of the past few hours, letting himself flood with relief before the fear slowly creeps back in once more. The System could only tell they were alive not where they were, or what they were doing, (and he had no desire to try the System’s GPS function again even if it could find them).
Normally, Cadeyrn and Pluma would be gone for about an hour on their supply runs, it’s now been almost 4 hours, the sky tinting red with the light from the Blood Sun starting to set. He feels stupid for worrying, foolish for never having asked where they went on these trips, but most of all he feels helpless. Stuck pacing the length of the grand dining room back and forth, as the little star angels chime and fret behind him, following behind him like a chorus of bells perfect synced to his footsteps.
[Host should sit down.]
“I’m fine System.”
[ (¬_¬) ]
He swats at the judging emoji, the screen pixelates before reforming into an actual message, [Host is only going to exhaust his strength. Host must not forget his mission tomorrow-,]
“I’m aware System,” he bites, before forcing his feet to stop. Asterius doesn’t want to admit it, but the System is right, his pacing won’t get them anywhere. He takes a shuddering deep breath, it doesn’t really help calm his nerves, but it helps him slip the refined and aloof mask of Asterius back on, “I’m just thinking. Walking helps me do that.”
It is a gross understatement of what’s happening, an oversimplification of the hurricane of thoughts in his head, but the System either chooses to not mention it or it really is as bad at reading people as Asterius suspects.
“You really don’t have any idea-,”
[Host. Please.] the System begs, throwing up an [(╥﹏╥)] face. [System has already told Host everything System knows!!!] it types, message bolded and blocky, [System does not know where they are or why they are late!]
“Sorry I-,” and even another deep breath doesn’t do anything to settle the fear crawling in his veins. It feels ill-placed, and makes him almost nauseous. Maybe he should sit down. “I’ll set the table or something,” He reasons to the empty home, unsure if he’s talking to the System, the worried angels around him, or just himself. But the looming silence is killing him. He’s gotten so used to the little noises of other people; everything is too quiet now.
Asterius makes his way into the kitchen, shoulders relaxing a fraction at the familiar sight. He’s still not completely sure why the kitchen has such a different vibe to the rest of the house, not that he’s complaining. In fact, he’s even more grateful than normal for the lingering smell of burnt toast and watered-down paint.
[Host…]
He waves off the System, pulling open cabinets and opening drawers, “I’ll sit when I’m done,” he assures the bundle of code, “I feel better doing something, and this way I’ll also give Cadeyrn less work when he gets back.”
And Asterius makes a point to speak in when’s and not ifs. He’s had 20 years to come to terms with the fact that Cadeyrn will die at the end of the novel, but the fear of it happening early still hangs. He thought they had more time-
“THUMP!”
Asterius startles so hard he jumps a little, the porcelain plates slipping out of his hands, scattering across the floor in chunks of pastel blue and green shards. But he pays the broken glassware barely a second thought, rushing out into the foyer.
“Oh, by the heavens you are back!” he gasps, the first easy breath he’s taken in hours, racing forward, “I was so worried-,”
He halts his steps, the bursting relief quickly extinguished by a familiar crawling fear.
Cadeyrn has his jaw set tight, glaring hard at a spot over Asterius’s own shoulder, body tense and hands clenched as if ready for a fight. The silver chain tattoos on his dark arms glitter a bright white, sealing power in full force, though it’s not enough to completely temper Cadeyrn’s magic, as ice coats his fingers and a few errant snowflakes flutter from his selves. Next to him is Pluma, in Vessel Form, clutching his backet to his chest like his life depends on it. Feathered ears flat on the top of his head, and tail curled tightly around his leg. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to disappear.
Looming behind both of them, with a tan hand on either of their shoulders is a figure Asterius couldn’t forget even if he wanted to.
“Pardon your followers' tardiness, Starling,” High Seraphim says with a false airy tone. “We were a bit busy.”
Asterius shudders, he can hear the heavy anger in Sanctus’s tone. Asterius has never heard him angry before. He’s not sure what that means, isn’t sure what that means for any of them.
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“Well,” Sanctus says leadingly, pushing both Cadeyrn and Pluma forward, “aren’t you going to greet your god?”
He doesn’t even hide the fact that it’s not a question, it is an order. Pluma stumbles a few steps, almost tipping over, but Cadeyrn catches him by the scruff of his shirt, pulling the angel back up. Pluma glances up at him and Asterius’s heart tightens, as if he was just punched. Pluma’s big blue eyes are watery, and though he’s not currently crying, there’s a red flush high on his cheeks and the top of his shirt is damp.
Asterius shifts his gaze to Cadeyrn as the demon bows, lower and more formal then he ever has before, nearly touching the ground with his forehead, “I greet my master, the Lord of Stars and the Weaver of Fate. I humbly seek your forgiveness for our late arrival.”
“I greet my master,” Pluma echoes, with a quiet hiccup, “asking master to forgive us.”
He gives both of them a thorough look over, trying to be quick about it. He’s been caught off guard, and is still scrambling to get everything back in order inside his head, at least neither of them look hurt, (physically at least, he knows firsthand how poisonousness Sanctus’s words can be, insults laced with pleasant tones, words aimed to tear you apart even as he smiles.)
“Let it not happen again,” he chides without any real bite, sweeping his arms behind him to appear even more aloof and unbothered, and also to hide how his hands shake, “you are dismissed-,”
“Actually Starling,” and Sanctus walks forward, finally entering the cottage, allowing the door to shut and cast them all in temporary darkness, before with a flick of Sanctus’s hand, the curtains in the room all flutter open, filling the room with a bright red light. “I think they should stay,” and he walks across the floor until he stands right behind Cadeyrn and Pluma once again. Cadeyrn tenses a fraction more and Pluma flinches but neither of them get up from their bow, “they are the reason I’m paying you a visit after all.”
‘What did you do?’ he wants to ask, but he knows that would be too much. Whatever game Sanctus is playing, won’t allow for that kind of question, and there’s still a simmering rage to the High Seraphim’s tone, even if he’s doing a rather good job of hiding it under his normal false kind tone. His smile is just a stretch too sharp, his words delivered with a fraction more venom.
“My apologies for not inquiring sooner," and Santucs's tone can't be further from apologetic in any way, "but I truly had no idea you had learned how to summon seraphims so easily Starling. Perhaps I should have you give me firsthand experience.” Asterius can’t help how his eyes shift to Pluma, stock still and frozen before Sanctus, still bowing towards him, “of course that would mean you would need to be… in need of a seraphim of course.”
It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t waver as he responds, “I do not think that will be necessary Sanctus.”
The High Seraphim smiles, and Asterius feels his breath catch in his throat. His whole body locks up, alarm bells ringing in his head as every part of him goes completely still. There’s a weight to the air, an oppressive threatening thing, the temperature a few degrees above a comfortable level. That horrible invasive warmth is back, slow crawling through his blood like a poison. A different kind of fear is flooding him now, something primal, instinctual.
Asterius was wrong, Sanctus isn’t mad, he’s furious.
“I told you what your role in this is, Starling,” and he abandons looming over Cadeyrn and Pluma to instead walk forward, stopping barely a foot away from Asterius. Sanctus isn’t much taller than him, but with his red-gold wings spread wide across the room, filling every inch of the ceiling and walls, he feels impossibly large. Molten gold eyes lock firmly with his own. He feels his breath hitch in his throat, as he takes a small half-step back, then forces his muscles to lock so he won’t do it again. Asterius knows how much the High Seraphim hates being disobeyed, hates seeing how afraid Asterius is of him, even though his fear is obviously the goal of these encounters, his fear and obedience.
“A beautiful and tragic villain,” the High Seraphim continues, almost looking wistful for a moment, “You didn’t need to do anything. Just be the pretty little thing you are and lie when I tell you.” The warmth spikes at those words, so hot and buzzing he can feel a haze start to cloud his mind, he tightens his fists digging his nails into his palms, forcing himself past the sticky syrupy haze.
Sanctus glances down, false smile dropping into a tight frown and the invading warmth abruptly leaves. Asterius almost stumbles as the weight is suddenly lifted, forcing the instinctual sadness at the loss of the warmth to the deepest corner of his brain he can find. Relishing in the sudden clarity of his own thoughts.
“So, tell me, Starling,” and Sanctus leans closer, leans down so they are sharing the same air. “Why I found your little followers,” and he spits the word like it was something disgusting, “helping Maria summon her seraphim. Why they succeeded in summoning it? Why its form looks so much like your late mother's? Maria was not supposed to summon her seraphim until after her wedding."
'Maria’s seraphim is here?!' he thinks, surprise filling the void of fear. Maria had only summoned her seraphim in the epilogue, after the wedding and restabilizing of Celestia. It was a painfully sweet moment, between Maria and Solveig, one of Asterius’s favorite to be honest. But- but Cadeyrn and Pluma helped her? 'What did that even mean? How could they even help?'
He casts a glance around Sanctus towards Cadeyrn as if hoping to read the answer on the demon’s face, but Sanctus steps forward, wings flaring further to block his view, a too-warm hand reaching out and clasping onto his arm like a vice, the same spot from where he pulled the strings of fate out of Asterius’s soul and body. A shiver races down his spine but he holds his ground, lowering his head, in a sign of respect Sanctus will hopefully appreciate in his enraged state.
“I did not tell them to do such a thing, High Seraphim," he quietly informs, "but I assure you I will thoroughly-,”
“Well, there’s no need to keep disobedient angels about,” and Sanctus starts to turn back around, hand letting go of his arm.
“I mean-,” he scrambles, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he doesn’t play his cards right here, none of them will walk away after this encounter. He grabs Sanctus’s hand, forcing it back against his arm. The contact almost burns, and the unnatural warmth rushes through him again, hotter and even more pervasive. There’s a war raging inside his head, desire to obey fighting the need to survive, mixing with fear and desperation. But he holds his ground, if the High Seraphim has to hurt one of them, Asterius would rather it be him.
“I didn’t tell them to seek your opinion first,” he says, spinning an excuse as quickly as he can, shifting the blame, “I wanted to help enable Maria to ascend and choose her husband as quickly as possible, It was foolish of me to assume your goals in this matter High Seraphim.”
The seraphim laughs, though it doesn’t sound very amused, “I’ve practically helped raise you Starling,” and Sanctus’s other hand comes up, gripping his jaw with a bruising grip, forcing his eyes upward to meet Sanctus's own glowing golden eyes, “Do not ever think you can lie to me again.”
Asterius feels his body tense, a knee-jerk reaction to having the order forced into him with the authority of the Royal Sun. He opens his mouth to say something, but whatever he is trying to say is strangled away before it ever leaves his lips.
“Listen here very closely Starling, you know I don’t like repeating myself,” and Sanctus grip flexes, nails digging into his forearm as if seeking to rip the strings straight out of his bones and tissue. But as quick as he applies the pressure he eases his grip, gentling his hold, choking but no longer painful, he wishes he didn’t feel relieved and a tiny bit thankful for the mercy.
“I was trying to be kind with you. You know I don’t like to do these things to you, but you just don’t understand how to behave,” and he sighs like a disappointed parent, shaking his head as if he truly is sorry.
“I had the perfect story all ready for you, the tragically misunderstood brother, twisted by your guilt over your father’s passing, you would see no one on the throne your father once held. Now though,” and there’s that hidden cruelty, brought starkly to the surface of Sanctus’s perfect face, what’s worse is that he doesn’t seem to be doing it on purpose. This isn’t an act, Sanctus is truly so enraged that he’s letting his emotions actually show.
“Now I think you would make a rather fine tyrant.”