ORIGIN

Plans--so many of them just enacted--suddenly felt as though they were fluttering away, shreds of paper in a storm. He had spent the last couple of cycles carefully maneuvering--arranging for Astraea to visit Draco and teach interested Valkhounds to read; speaking to Isra to request little vacations in the palace for the ones who had best performed. He had laid out punishments, and rewards, so that all was structured--Ordered, one might say--to get the Forge flowing more powerfully. He couldn't always be the driving force; he intended to create a machine whose cogs and gears ran themselves. He had not one but three chrysalises growing--one for Lord Dhracia, two by Aethril's demand.

But now--with his Lord suddenly manifesting before him--he felt that cold drop in the pit of his stomach. Had he done something wrong..? Had it not been enough? Had he been too slow?

Was all that he'd been granted about to be torn out from under him?

The idea of being demoted back to Overseer was one worse than the looming shadow of death; the shame of such failure might have been the only thing that he was not strong enough to face.

He steeled himself. It was lucky his rigid face was not capable of a worried grimace. He had already turned to face her when she formed, the crawl of her magic strong against his skin. That faint fascination began to trickle back, that fawning blind loyalty.

"My Lord," he greeted; "of course."

Cold fear and hot ambition twisted through his veins as he regarded her.

For an instant he was balanced on a razor's edge--bleeding--unsure whether her smile was genuine good nature, or glittering stained glass about to shatter into shards that would cut into him a moment later. He didn't know--he couldn't tell; not with Lord Dhracia.

Her smile could hold the razor blade itself.

He managed to not exhale his sharp relief when she spoke. Performing to expectation. Good--perfect. More than enough. Vedette-... Again, his rigid face was his saving grace; he would again have grimaced, if he'd been able. Her foul mouth, so far as he was concerned, added nothing of true Chaos--it might have amused his Lord, but to him Vedette was simply an annoyance, and a potent one, at that.

As for Aethril-... Vargas was not the sort to stumble over his own words in a rush to appease his betters, if only because he had the self-respect and self-awareness to pause, and take a breath, before he spoke. But it was a very near thing. He could answer this: he could answer it well, and report in with only good performance on his end--no mistakes, no delays, no missteps on his own part.

"I have," he said, and then--hoping he was not overstepping, he continued, though he kept it succinct. "I checked with Isra to ensure she was a Hand, of course. I have given her a custom creation and there are two more developing, by her request." A blink--"It will not slow down my deliveries--yours is growing, as well."

He bit his tongue, then--metaphorically--hoping that she would be patient with his explanation. Or perhaps all she'd wanted was a yes, or a no-? Vargas was too businesslike to leave it at one word; his report had been short, and hopefully, not unwelcome.

Praise--more praise. The guillotine no longer dangled gleaming above his neck. The fear gradually bled away, replaced with his typical attentiveness, with the keen sense of duty and bestial cunning that had served him well--that had been his hallmark, even--for centuries.

Her next words nearly made him protest--to assure her that of course he knew that, that he was already obeying Aethril's every word--but luckily, his Lord gave him no time to insert that protest. Instead she was smoothing over even that, brushing past it, and Vargas wondered at her... mercy? Her sensitivity?

This was the Lord Dhracia who had quietly, privately assured him that she simply needed to hold up a facade. The Lord Dhracia who promised that he could have asked for so much more than he had. This was not the Lord who demanded a child to kill a world. Or the Lord who demanded that he kill another child, in turn.

For a moment, that image of Two hung brief and shining in his mind--not a beacon of hope, but a horrible reminder of his own betrayal. It was what made her next question nearly jolt him, threading that fear back into him--had she read his mind? His body language, even?

He struggled to consider her words as they were--genuinely, truthfully. 'Do you have love for anything in this nest?' Images of his spawn flashed through his thoughts as he considered--not bidden by the idea of emotion, but summoned and held deliberately as Vargas considered them. Do I love them? he thought, pondering. Had he held love for Beatris? For the child? The only ones he'd felt any warmth for were Nemean--a deferential amusement, a liking for her mocking laughter--and for Vakornol: an admiration and another sort of warmth, a contentment in her company he felt nowhere else. And in this era? He pitied Orthoclase-Alpha. He felt... responsibility..? Was there more?

After a moment, he gave up, shaking the thought away and giving as honest a response as he could.

"I do not think I was made to love," he answered gruffly, "I enjoy my work. There is... enthusiasm in that. Pleasure in a successful creation, or in a hunt. I feel that this nest is mine to push toward success, and to guard. My spawn, the members of my Forge, are mine to guard and encourage growth in." And to punish, when needed. He paused, considering, hesitating. Was that all-?

Is she looking for something to use as leverage-? came the awful thought, a cold knot of realization rising in his gut. Blackmail? Threat? He had told his spawn many times, himself, that such softness was an invitation for such things. That it was a weakness to be exploited. He'd seen it result in the deaths of plenty in their Trials. Was that why he held all of it at arm's length, himself?

And Vargas had very, very long arms.

But to his Lord, in this, he would not lie. There was no need to, in any case. "Is any of that love-? I would tell you, if I knew." He withheld the urge to ask his Lord why it was she'd asked. She'd tell him, if she wanted to. And if not?

It wasn't his place to make demands.

Her words were...

...They were not what he'd expected. Some part of him wondered if this were some trick, some snare she was attempting to get him to slip his own neck into. But try as he might, he couldn't see what it might be--and the way she was phrasing things... dancing around them; speaking, without saying a damn thing with meaning; hinting, without laying anything out--it spoke of a caution that would hardly be needed were this a trap.

Or would it?

Was it a ploy, intended to drop his guard..? Or-...

Had Lord Dhracia decided that she loved the child-? As he had decided to spare Two--as he had decided he could not, even on pain of death of all that he... cared for, even if he did not love... that he could not kill a child?

He studied her, fear gone, and what was left was a strange, solemn thoughtfulness. He looked at her as though she were one of his creations, nothing to fear and everything to examine, to pick apart with his Overseer's mind, to look at empty face and see through to the ambitions, the desires, the strengths and the failings.

Vargas grasped, then, what it was she was asking--if only vaguely, but it was enough. And his answer came surprisingly easily. But he didn't speak it; he turned it over in his mind, for a moment. Would he abandon duty, reach for his own purpose--past the purpose for which he had only just been reforged--for something that he desired?

The logical answer was twofold, and so the answer he gave her did not belong to the question that she had asked--not at first.

And it was matter-of-fact, blunt and fearless.

"If a servant of Chaos--any servant--feels they have outgrown their purpose, they may try to stretch out a hand and take what they want." It was how he would have spoken to his creations--a lesson, and did he dare-? He did; a warning, a challenge, an agreement. "If they have the strength to succeed, then whatever would have opposed them does not deserve to exist. Victory is all that matters. Survival is all that matters." That was the first half. But Vargas was not done. "If there is something that you so desire, then grasp for it. Do not let it go again, and again; why do you exist, if not for yourself? I serve, but I do so because I enjoy my work, and because those stronger than I demand it. Beyond that?"

He leaned a little closer, peering, taking scent--what was this about? It was the way he had pressed just-too-close once before, before she had snagged him, sharp-nailed in warning, but there was no test in it this time. Only... scrutiny.

"You're asking if I could be more? I could be whatever I want to be," he said, bluntly, six eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly in that scrutiny, "if I survive the attempt. But without knowing what it is you want from me--without a straight question, I cannot give you a straight answer!" He leaned back, a little, eyeing her. "Do you need help with something? Something outside the scope of my normal duties-?" Was that the key to her strange secrecy, her shadowed wording-?

Acid eyes studied her, flicking across her face, gauging her expression--or lack thereof. If he'd expected more, he was disappointed--it was like speaking to the Orthoclase with the expectation of a conversation.

To his words she gave only a simple request.

But... unlike the Orthoclase's silence, this small hint of a request was swollen with possibility. Would it be temptation, a trap? A test of his loyalties, now that he was Master? Or had she heard of Two; or maybe she suspected--maybe all this vulnerability was a false facade, a worm on a hook, a secret to be revealed in the hope that he'd speak of Two in turn.

He resolved not to, no matter what she said, in that moment. But what would she tell him? He'd hold his own secrets close to his chest, then, and hear hers--he just hoped that his response did not spell his doom.

And if it did? Well, maybe he could bite her head off before she melted him to Oil.

"Speak it, then," he said bluntly, quietly. He would listen.