Cadeyrn does not sleep. He lays in the gauzy silk bed of the god who made him his, and who Cadeyrn took as his in turn; and he thinks. Things have gotten far more complicated than he ever could have imagined.

‘Asterius, a tyrant?’ the very thought is comedic, but it was going to become truth soon, or at last true enough that the other gods would believe it so.

Cadeyrn dares not to say he knows the schemes of the Celestials, but he’s been in the heavens long enough to know whatever Sanctus is plotting it’s bigger than a petty game for currying more power. If that was all he wanted, buttering up Maria would be more than enough, and the High Seraphim already has the Spring Goddess firmly in his pocket. Which means there is more here, a bigger piece of the puzzle they haven’t been able to find. A reason.

Before he can begin to fully delve into the rabbit hole of possible theories, there’s a breathy hitched cry.

Cadeyrn immediately turns, staring intently at Asterius’s shaking back. “Master?” he asks softly, scooting closer and reaching a tentative hand to settle on the god’s shoulder.

Asterius flinches from the touch, and Cadeyrn quickly pulls his hand away, a newfound pit of guilt opening inside his chest. Never would he bring Asterius harm, but as he continues to shake, another cry echoing in the night, he hardens his resolve.

He leans up, propping his body up on his elbow so he can peer over the shaking shoulder, careful not to touch the Celestial. Asterius’s face is pinched tight in his sleep, distress visible by the furrow of his brow and the clench of his teeth, hands fisted in the sheets, robes disheveled and messy. He shudders, something close to a sob echoing in the still night.

Cadeyrn is moving before he can think better of it, placing his hand over top one of Asterius’s, mimicking the reassuring movement he had performed earlier when Asterius was stuck in a state of panic and shock after the High Seraphim’s departure. It had been a desperate act then, a blind panic of his own pushing him closer than he ever dared get to the God of Fate, but it is a deliberate act now.

Yes, Asterius is in distress but there is no more fear of accidental harm, merely a nightmare. There’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that condemns him for taking advantage of the god’s trust, but before he can think better of it, Asterius’s hand twists and laces itself with his.

Cadeyrn stills; mind momentarily blanking as his world is reduced to the soft contact between their hands. It feels different from before, the hold is just as tight, but the simple act of lacing their fingers makes it seem far more… intimate.

He feels ridiculous even thinking such a thing, but there is something strange simmering in his skin, something not completely unwelcome, but impossible to name.

Asterius shudders once more, a quieter muffled hiccup escaping him. Again Cadeyrn’s body moves without his permission, squeezing the pale hand interlaced with his own. The FateWeaver takes another staggering breath, eyelashes fluttering as he faces whatever dreams have assaulted him in his rest.

It takes another few minutes of stifled breaths and quiet hiccups, but eventually his breaths even and the shaking slowly eases, body slowly relaxing back into a restful sleep once more. The entire time Asterius never let’s go of his hand. Cadeyrn doubts he will get it back without some degree of force, so he accepts his fate, hovering awkwardly above the sleeping god to keep the contact as minimally strenuous for Asterius as possible. It is the least he can do after the horror of today. He made an oath to protect this god and he will keep that oath unbroken.

His eyes, of course, settle on the sleeping god below. Looking down once more onto the soft, impossibly strong, god below him. For Asterius holds a strength Cadeyrn can never dream of. Able to withstand the ridicule of a tarnished legacy and the harassment of being forced to live alone like an outcast. Smile just as bright as the first day Cadeyrn meet this other Asterius. How even after this, he still holds a kindness untainted by all the hate that has been placed upon him.

It is a strength Cadeyrn envies, one he can never have. His time in the Flame Prison warped him, reforged him into something too sharp and broken to be content with a soft peaceful life. The Royal Sun and his pointless war took everything from him; his past, his godhood, and his people, but maybe…

He tightens his grip on the hand tangled with his own. Even in his sleep, Asterius returns the gesture, mumbling something that almost sounds like a reassurance. Cadeyrn doesn’t fight the smile that slips onto his face.

Maybe he could learn to gentle himself, to erode his sharp edges, blunt the sword he has become into something more practical, a tool that can be used for more than war. Reforge himself so his hurt does not harm the already bleeding hearts he’s next to.

Cadeyrn pushes on his binds, tasting the familiar magic on his tongue, finding an odd comfort in the familiar sting of fate’s strings tightening around him. It is a warning, suppressive Celestial magic forcing down his own Demonic powers. It does not hurt, not anymore. He has long gotten used to the almost physical weight of the heavenly magic stitched into his flesh and soul.

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He is not sure when it happened, but he no longer looks at the marks with the same bubbling sense of hatred. Perhaps he truly has been tamed, maybe his anger has just cooled. If given a choice he would still remove them, even if they are not as bothersome as they once were, a collar is still a collar. He has lived as a kept beast for long enough and he yearns for the days that he can no longer remember, when his actions were his alone.

In the deepest corner of his mind, filled with the horrors of the Flame Prison and tinted with the fragmented memories of a home he cannot remember, a quiet voice whispers of the day he will no longer look upon the binds as a shackle. Of when the heavy weight will not only be welcome, but wanted. (Cadeyrn fears that day may have already come).

It whispers of the day when he will become nothing more than a tamed beast, bowing its head to the first man to offer it scraps of kindness, loyal until its pitiful and dreadful end. When he will willingly bear the Celestial bindings, proud of the claim Asterius has placed. When he will trace the patterns burned into his skin whenever he is away from their cottage, reassured by the thrum of magic and the burning connection that his little god is safe. When the warning they are meant to instill will instead become a promise, proof that he will stand by the FateWeaver’s side until the end, (that he finally has a home to return to.)

Asterius shifts, clearly uncomfortable in his sleep, and Cadeyrn immediately bends, hunching further over the god, allowing the other to pull their joined hands closer to himself. The Celestial shifts again, flipping over to bury his face into Cadeyrn’s hip.

He holds himself very still, breath caught in his throat as Asterius settles once more. Numbly, he notes how the god’s hair is already a mess of glittering angels and knots.

It’s a moment ripped straight from one of the fairytales Asterius loved to tell. An injured princess resting in the shadow of her knight.

Asterius is far from a princess, far more capable and noble than any of the foolish mortals from his stories, and Cadeyrn is certainly no honorable knight. Though if he were to entertain the thought, he has already made a vow to let no harm befall this god, so he supposes the description isn’t entirely wrong-

And suddenly it clicks.

‘Ahh’ he thinks, eyes shifting once more to the slumbering god next to him, as the puzzle of his own feelings finally makes sense, ‘that’s what it is.’

Somehow, he finds it a little easier to hold himself. Cadeyrn has never fancied himself a knight, his life is not something he would sell away for fame or honor. His loyalty is not such a flimsy thing to be bought and sold with mortal fanfare. Nor his power something so easily influenced by morals or justice. He has seen the justice of those heralded "good", Asterius was a perfect example of Celestia's true nature. But... he’s aware of how much his little god liked the idea.

Often when Maria was young, Asterius would spin tales of heroes and brave knights defeating evil, protecting those they loved, and bringing glory to their kings.

He could not be a knight straight from one of his fantastical stories, set in a world so black and white, he was surprised there was color at all, but perhaps he could be something close enough.

For there was only one Celestial he would ever bow his head to.

It seems almost funny now, how obviously he was denying the truth. He wanted this, so painfully did he want this, yet the lingering fear twists his thoughts.

Cadeyrn has never truly known a time without the familiar lick of fear at his heels, the tense unease of disaster awaiting to strike. It makes these quiet moments all the harder to stomach, a taunting taste of a life he could never be living.

For almost 20 years he had fought down the conflicting emotions filling his blood. At first, they were poisonous, foreign, and unwanted. Desire so deep it ached like a wound. He had unintentionally tied the instinctual devotion of his people to a false moon god, and he hated himself for the careless mistake. Now it is easier to see that while he had made an incorrect connection, his feelings had not changed even as the association broke.

It has gotten easier to carry the weight of the unknown feelings, much like the divine seal that decorates his arms. It was loyalty, reverence, and devotion for a god he found worthy.

Cadeyrn would likely never leave the Heavens. It pained him to admit it, but there wasn’t much use in holding out for an impossibility, not when this was the other option. He would always be a demon, that he couldn’t change, nor would he wish it, but perhaps his oath will not lie with the moon and instead it will rest among the stars.

There are still several hours until dawn and whatever wicked scheme Sanctus has planned begins. Cadeyrn could sleep, but he doubts dreams would find him even if he tried. So instead he will keep a silent vigil over his god.

Asterius doesn’t need his strength nor his watchful eye, the Celestial is more than capable of handling himself, but Cadeyrn will give it anyway. Even the impossibly strong need someone to watch their back while they rest. He might not be strong enough to aid his god now, but once Ascended he will make a proper vow. Cadeyrn will blunt the sword of his rage. His revenge has already been stolen from him, and he has long been replaced in his divinity. So he will live for this instead; these quiet mornings, paint stains under fingernails, and flowers blooming under his watchful care. He will give Asterius everything he can, be his sword, shield, and spade; all to keep living this life.

But those plans will have to wait until this nasty affair is done. For now, all he can do is keep watch. To warn Asterius of any coming danger, and to help ease the monsters already in his head.

“You truly do not know the power you hold little master,” he whispers into the dark, leaning down and gently moving a strand of silver hair that was causing his god’s nose to scrunch, letting his touch linger on the tangled strands.

“Thank you,” and it rings around the room with an emotion Cadeyrn would never allow himself to have in the daylight. But the night belongs to Gehenna, and it is so easy to pretend that everything is alright without the sun burning their skin, “thank you for giving me hope to be something better. Thank you for giving me a future worth living for.”

He pauses, unsure how truthful he wants to be. Even if he is the only audience, it feels wrong to speak the shameful thoughts out loud. But the words burn on his tongue and they slip free into the quiet air before he can stop them, “and thank you for gifting me a fate tied to yours.”