ORIGIN

It's quiet.

Terror itself has gone days without speaking before; alone in the depths, more beast than intelligent being. Stalking, killing, sleeping. Survival, yes, but a kind of survival that dulls the memory. One day blends into the next.

Its meeting with Samael has brought a kind of sharpness to the passage of time, each minute feeling distinct from the other as it crept along at a snail's pace. Waiting for him to return, cradling its hopes in its chest, hoping beyond hope that they would come true. It is not an optimistic creature. Some downbeaten, skeptical part of it wondered if Samael would come back at all.

But the rest of it trusted him to keep his word, and keep his word he did. Now, the two of them are side by side as he leads them deeper into Pegasus' forest, and it tries not to show too much how it dislikes the sensation of grass beneath its paws. Itchy.

There are already two chrysalises rooted between the trees. They are well-hidden, despite their glittering nature; it takes a moment to appreciate the skill in which Samael has hidden them from the world. Safe. They're safe here.

They're safe with him. What an interesting thing, to trust another Gembound so wholly. It treasures it.

"The other lifegiver must have quite a form for you to offer your magic to it," Terror remarks. "What does it look like?"

The blue stone is not of its magic, will never be. But it cannot help the curiosity, and the faint sliver of protectiveness that seems to coil in its chest. It is not built for the land, for the open air, but for these chrysalises it would tolerate even the grass against its paws.

It takes a moment to consider at the question. "I think I would prefer your magic. I am... not magically inclined." It has always relied more on claw and fang, the solidity of flesh.

And here, the solidity of stone. It does not want to waste time talking, not when it is so close to having family again. To having a child all its own. It will raise this one properly—it will love this one. If its child has to know fear, it will not be from its own stonegiver.

The stone does not come easy. Its bioluminescence pulses, sharply, once—one maw opens and it twists its heads around almost to the point of toppling its weight on its side as it tries to loose a shard of the stone from inside its mouth. Tentacles wrap tight around the back of its neck as a reflex as it shudders—coughs—nearly misses the stone, but manages to unwind one tentacle to catch the shining orange shard before it falls into the grass.

Its mouth aches.

"This clutch will have two serpents and a sea-beast. How interesting. I do hope the oil passes down to the child, it would make them quite fearsome," Terror replies, sounding equally as fascinated. It knows the growing process will take some time, but—it is simply excited to see the shape of the children! Especially its own... will it take more after its stone-giver, or its life-giver? Will it stand on two legs, or four? Will it have Samael's wings, or its gills?

...above all, it hopes its child is as fierce and as wondrous as Samael sees Terror itself. No—the more it thinks of it, the more it knows that this child will be both. It is simply impossible for it not to, not being the child of two hunters.

Its heart skips a beat as Samael reaches a small hand out to the shard of its stone. It is strange, seeing it out in the open; being on the roof of its mouth, it feels the smoothness of its stone more than it sees it. It glitters in a way that Terror had not expected it to.

It does not sense the spell cast, but there is magic in the air around them anyway. There is new life growing here. In a cycle, this new life will breathe, and run, and yes—yes, hunt. And until then, Terror will be here to watch over them, and guard them, and make sure it is there when the day arrives.

"This child will be wondrous," Terror informs him sagely.

And with that and the shard held tightly in one tentacle, it sets off; moving intently away from the two chrysalises already planted, eyes low on the ground as many pupils trace the twist and turn of tree roots.

There, in the fork between two particularly large roots, it finds its nesting ground. Its claws sink into the soil, and it begins to dig.

It is slow going. Soil torn away with its paws reveals more soil, packed tightly in with a thin lattice of tree roots. This, too, it tears away as it digs. Its strength is as intent as its eyes, and in the span of a minute it eventually has a small hole in the ground to hide the chrysalis away. It is careful about shoving the loose soil back in, not wanting to bury the stone completely; instead its tentacles sweep and pack and carefully, so carefully surround the chrysalis, so that all that is visible of it is a glimmering orange speck among the roots.

"There,"" it growls, satisfied. "It is done."

Its eyes flick up to the fairy at its side. A thought occurs to it, and it speaks, amused, "Will they be much larger than you, do you think?"

Of course the children will be larger than Samael, Terror thinks. The fairy is such a small, lithe thing—

—but that is not a detriment in and of itself. Small things are cunning, quick, agile. Small things can bring teeth and claws to bear, and often in deadlier locations.

No, whatever the case: their children will have to be quick, fast, sharp with their weapons, whatever nature sees fit to give them. Terror will make sure that is the case; Terror will make sure they are every bit as vicious as it is, no matter their form.

They will not lose another to the caves.

And Samael, a deadly thing himself, will be there alongside them.

The thought warms its predator's heart.