ORIGIN

No words came--only motion, and his eyes tracked it as a predator's would. As a predator's did. What he had expected--the sheen of oil on black--was... missing. Instead: a sheen of oil on silver, or so it seemed: the same rainbow shimmer, but night replaced by moonlight.

Vargas's eyes first widened, then grew half-lidded as he considered this. This changes everything. The thought was final. And then: -unless it is a trick--and then it changed nothing. The acid eyes lifted to meet Dhracia's, and he studied her. "Is this a trick?" he asked, his voice as soft as it could go, and then--there was no chance to answer, his gaze dropping back to the holographic shine--"Whose power is this-? Or... Is it what I think it is, my Lord-? Is it-..."

His voice could, it turned out, sift down to even softer syllables. "Is it your own?"

A soft exhale--it was audible, the weight of worldchanging thoughts, of realization and the decisions and consequences that would tumble from it. It is not a trick, he thought, wondering, gaze still shifting between Lord Dhracia's eyes and her bloodied stone. It is not a trick... and this changes everything.

And suddenly, the fear returned--not the cold trickle before, a trickle where at least he knew where he stood, but the shift underfoot of uncertainty. One misstep--in either direction--could mean his immediate death.

Or hers.

'It's mine.' Those two words rang in the air, soft-spoken though they were: a siren and a church bell, a warning and a death knell. They were the funeral dirge for everything he'd ever known--and the call to prayer at the altar of a new god.

The awe in him was torn breathlessly away by her next words: 'I've no reason to deceive you of this, Vargas.'-and replaced once again, in a dizzying rush, with his previous wariness. His suspicion. Of course you do, he thought; of course you do, if this is a test, this would be exactly what you'd offer. Betrayal of my Creator for some--what, unknown power-? But was it? Would she be so foolish, if it weren't genuine, to think that he'd--but maybe that was the point-...

He shook the thought away with a quiet huff, and if his brow could have drawn down it would have. 'If you believe you weren't made to love, I need you to exceed that. For everybody's sake.' "I wasn't," he replied, bluntly, almost brutishly, the words void of care or finesse. They were brash and honest. "The 'love' I have seen here is a fleeting rush of chemicals. A fawning fascination, a trick of their evolution--a gimmick to bind the strong to the weak, so that they may grow--that fades, with time. It never lasts. But," he added, staring at her (was this real? Was she honest?) "I believe that we can value something greatly--truly recognize its worth. Wish to protect it." The child. "To preserve it, longer and truer than any simple chemicals. You speak to me as though you believe I will abandon my Creator for some new power," he said, and was it brash, again? -It was. "You must have a reason to think that. To think that I will value what you value. And not just this nest," he added. "You say that you found love, and lost it. Tell me: what new god would I be serving? If not Chaos, if not Order; what will you stand for?"

His tone gave little away--it was as direct as it always was, as straight-to-the-point. She would kill him for even considering betraying the Creator, perhaps. Or she would kill him for demanding her reasons. But he did not care for her half-glimpsed offers and hesitant lures. He would not be controlled, as Raheerah had been, by a threat dangled above his neck for eternity. As Khavur and Chaos-Two. As so many at the trials--as Lord Dhracia, perhaps, herself-?

That was not a weakness he would allow himself to feel. Nor one he had any inclination toward.

But reason? Value? That, he would listen to; that, he was requesting, betrayal or not, trick or not. Would she offer him something more than the service toward mindless destruction? Something more than another blind faith in another one-dimensional god? Did she plan on something different? He would not jump ship from one to the other on a threat, or a whispered promise--he would be no one's fool. (If he could help it.) Was this even what she meant? Perhaps she intended to continue serving the Creator, keeping her magic secret--maybe that's all she'd intended to ask of him. But Vargas didn't think so--she would have simply kept it hidden, if that was her intent.

If she wished him to turn away from his god of ten thousand years, he wanted to know what she would stand for.

'You speak of your Creator as if it was not Tamulus.' Vargas wondered, briefly, what that had to do with anything--but she was not yet striking him down. She was not yet striking him down. Paths opened before him, possibilities, his attention again sharpening beyond the immediate, tension shifting once again from wary near-fear to the simpler suspense of mere world-altering changes.

'I can't claim to stand for freedom, or love, or justice. I'm not noble, and neither are you.' The trickling rise of dislike at the first gave way to acceptance at the second. She was right: he was not noble. As much as some part of him would have liked to do the right thing, at times, he rarely had. He valued survival--to survive to some unseen end, to some unseen power... Why? To survive? An old thought bubbled back up through his subconscious: Is this the world I would help build? A grim question he had asked himself, more than once, in recent days.

'But there is life that must exist unafflicted by the consequences of Chaos and Order.' He noted this down, marked it off as one of Dhracia's goals, then. And, 'I've been trying to undo a terrible mistake, Vargas.' He was about to ask what, his searching gaze still taking in that seemingly honest face she was presenting him.

But then she was inviting him to sit--to hear--to listen; she would tell him... everything. Prelude to a test, a trick? It seemed like much trouble to go to, but a few moments--a few hours, weeks, months, even years--of test were nothing to a creature centuries old. Hell, he was making a mental note that it might be worth testing his spawn this way, already-... Yet he was pulling himself up nearer, dropping himself to his massive haunches, looking to her.

He would listen, at least. At the risk of his own damn neck, he would listen--he would give her that.

Their conversation, held behind the curtain of her magic, went on for hushed hours. It might have surprised her that the immensity of her revelations were not what gave him pause. Or maybe it didn't; maybe she knew him for what he was, a beast in the moment, and a pragmatic creature to the core. Yet it would be a lie to say "he accepted her words as his new truth," for every cell in his being waited for the knife to plunge up beneath his jaw, for her triumph and her hiss to mark him, 'traitor.' If he refused her, and her words were truth, he was dead. If he obeyed her, and her words were a falsehood--he was dead, and likely far more painfully. And if her words were a lie, and he refused? Or if her words were truth, and he accepted? Fifty-fifty for survival, then; but the question was, which reality would he have held preferable?

At first, he would have said the last, without question. Yet on the heels of her initial exposition came admissions of guilt encompassing far more than he had expected. Suffering he had seen firsthand--that he'd inflicted--had been her doing, and his initial soft remarks of wry humor and words of understanding became quiet, controlled rage. He had never felt fury toward Lord Dhracia before, but he did in those moments--as he quietly accused her, as he demanded to know if the wastes of life and fonts of pain had been by her design.

Admission, then--and had she shown anything but remorse, his rage would have kindled into flame. As it was he fell still again, the beast soothed at least somewhat. She would have killed him had he lashed out, and he would have regretted nothing of it, the sudden sense of injustice... unexpected.

It faded, half-forgotten, in the face of far greater revelations. Aeons and entire worlds slipped across her tongue: name after name, era after era, plans and mistakes and revisions. Despite himself he found himself wondering how he would have changed it, toxic eyes narrowing here and there in thought--but he committed it all to memory as best he could, returning to his quiet and only occasional questions interjected into her unfolding truth.

In the end--when he had asked much, and she had answered all--there came a moment for him to define his own side. She had not yet asked for his hand--she had not told him everything, right then. But she had fallen silent for a moment.

Lord Dhracia had told him what she would stand for. What she would want, and do, if it all unfurled the way she'd planned. It had seemed a surprisingly thoughtful moment--her words carefully chosen, as if she'd never been asked, before, his particular question. Hopes and dreams were picked forth and laid out, and offers were quietly made.

And he, in turn, went likewise silent. He considered all her words. The fragments of possibility. The likelihood that it was all a test. A pondering, a combing over, of all the Leviathan's options. In the end, he chose honesty: he looked to Lord Dhracia, acid eyes meeting her holographic own, and spoke in quiet tones. "I imbued the child--the world-ender--your ultimate creation--as best I could with mercy."

Her silence lingered, a heartbeat's fear, and then she offered but a nod; knowing and almost... grateful, he imagined.

Their conversation shifted, then. Turned from past and hypotheticals to planning and the future. Vargas--ever the analytical sort--considered obstacles and solutions, and offered quiet proposals of his own. Already his mind was working over their future, and what it was that they would do. What it was that they would aim for.

I have often asked myself 'is this the world I want to help build?' with doubt. But I have never had an answer to the question, 'what would I build instead?' It was a question he would need to think on.

The offered hand, in the end--her quiet question--made him wonder if he were about to lay his head in the noose, condemn his spawn to suffering and death, and run his name (the fearsome title of centuries) into the mud never to be repaired. Whatever little legacy he might have held would die here, and no more would he be remembered as the Leviathan.

Or perhaps Lord Dhracia was being honest with him, and everything would be... different. I am overthinking this, he realized, and reached out a spiked forelimb. His many-clawed hand rose, to set fingers into her own, as he pushed himself up--moving to help her stand as well, if she would take it.

"Whether you planned it out or not, I already was," he answered dryly.

For a moment, as they stood, as she touched his hand in lingering fashion, he did not see Lord Dhracia. For a moment, he allowed himself to look through her, past her, and imagine what this meant. All that the conversation represented.

He imagined--for that moment--what the future might bring. What it might mean--the difference between two different gods at the helm. He had never imagined it before. Not once, in centuries, in millennia of service, had he considered a future other than that which Chaos had carved out for them. And now-? With this holographic shine?

If Lord Dhracia made good on her promises, he might just grasp for hope.

Acid eyes shifted back to see her, again--her face, the sudden cold returning to her expression. Her words--that she could truly trust him--elicited a short, and genuine, laugh. "I think it's my place to say that, no? What you offer is worth the risk. I'm not sure if it's a curse or a gift--both, perhaps--but yes. You can trust me."

Of course, another possibility was briefly occuring to him; that her goal was merely power, sabotage, and her motivations were the lie. He held none of the compunctions she did about layering out threats, but he was in no position to make one--his next words, instead, were quiet, solemn. Pleading? Not quite--but close. They were earnest. "Just do not take back what you are offering." To dangle such a future before him, and then tear it away from them once she had the power to secure what she wanted--would she do it? He didn't know, and he didn't think she'd fault him for admitting as much. She had hidden her true self from him, one way or another, for millennia. There was no guarantee she wasn't merely doing so again. He had no way of preventing it, if she did. His words were, ultimately, meaningless--but that did not mean they could go unspoken.

But--was there anything he needed of her? He offered a brief dip and shake of his head, thinking. "Need--no. Not for this. There is little that I will need to do, to change. But if you find the time, perhaps, a favor. If I dare ask it." He glanced at her again. "One of my spawn is... ill. Behaving strangely. The Orthoclase--I think it is... emotional. Or molting. I am unsure," he admitted. "But if you know of anyone in the caves who might know more," and that was that, back to business, as if the world had not just rocked entirely underfoot.

She claimed to know of 'love;' maybe she'd have some clue as to what was bothering Orthoclase-Alpha. If not? Well, they both had much to do. "Ah, one last thing. I doubt it will come up. But if you were seen entering, and I am asked-? Shall I say we discussed my plans for the Forge?" He regarded her steadily, still wondering--still reeling--his tether to business dragging him relentlessly forward. He took step after step along that tie, dealing with what needed dealing with, too dazed by the magnitude of what now lay beyond.