ORIGIN

Black listened, his brow wrinkled up in focus. Dead? That was not good. That was, in fact, bad. He gave a soft exhale of what was perhaps sympathy, tilting his head as he listened.

He did not ask how Aza'zel had died, though the impulse was there--even he, in his socially-stunted way, knew that it would not be particularly pleasant for the little one to answer. Maybe he would ask later. The description, though, of something falling from the roof--that made him curious.

"From the roof?" he asked curiously, his head swivelling up at the pull of memory to stare at Polaris' ceiling. "What was this creature like? There is a great bird that is made of ice and water; it fought the dragon here, with us. I do not know if there is another dragon that is ice." He looked back to Aure.

"What did this weird thing in Pisces ask? With what did it require aid?" Black always took interest in the doings of the elders, and he most distinctly remembered the moth tumbling from the ceiling, here. Did they do this frequently? Was there a resting place, in the roofs, from which the Elders periodically fell..? And what did this one want?

Either it would be a good creature, and thus merit aid, or a bad one that must be Watched. Curious as to which it might be, he peered to Aure, attentively waiting.

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Black tilted his head, listening, and made an immediate mental note to bring something to this stranger, to meet and to speak with him.

"I remember workers," he rumbled thoughtfully. "They came long ago, when the Throne was red as blood, and Nemean mocked their master. They came before we, long ago, though how long, I do not know. They worked in the room of stars." Beyond that, he knew little--not what they looked like, nor exactly what they'd been doing there. "Their master was large, and frightening. It sat upon the throne." He didn't know, either, what or who the master was. Only that it was big, and intimidating, and that though Nemean (or so he thought it had been) had mocked it, it had held authority nonetheless.

He turned back to Aure, tilting his head again.

"I am a guardian," he told Aure. "Should you ever require aid, I will be here. If you wish to learn, I will help. I do not know if you know how to hunt; how to use your magic. I do not know what you know of the caves, of who lives within, and where; and who will harm, who will not. Who is ancient. Ask, if you wish to know." The Dog then sat still, staring through wrinkled face at the hybrid before him, dutiful as ever.

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Black continued to sit, and to listen, dutifully patient as Aure peppered him with questions, spoke of magic, and pigeonholed all Gembound over a certain age, albeit questioningly, into the category of simply "nice."

He continued, one point at a time, to address these things in a manner befitting a Responsible Adult.

"Yes. There is a throne, of stone, in a place where the not-sky shines with pale. I do not know what it was for. Perhaps to sit upon, as a throne might be. I do not know who was punishing them," he said, still perfectly patient, if for the third time. "I do not know all that there is to know, of magic. I know shadows. They come to me; and I am void, and Black, and so at times, when I call upon darkness, it comes. When it must. When it does not, then it is not needed." After all, his magic had failed, but he'd never died from it, right? So clearly some other force must be at work, determining when and where his magic attempts should succeed. Some other force, which granted the shadows directly, and only with discriminating choice.

"I do not know why they are older than us," he went on, now addressing the Ancients. He shifted from one forepaw to another, simply to relieve weight, as he thought about this. "I know only that they are very old. I do not know if anything else holds us apart. They are Astraea: a stag. He has aided us. Tenzin, the ice-phoenix. He has aided us. Nemean is a small thing--pink, and winged, with light; she buzzes, and betrays, and leads others to their deaths. There is Skahan--he is large, with scales. He guards a room, but he does not harm. There is Aquarian. He is a large thing, who attacked us long ago in the water-room, when Nemean brought us there. But he did not kill us; for he was betrayed. I do not know why. But by Nemean." He paused, and then, thoughtful, added--"Nemean smells of copper, bitter and sweet, as blood." He didn't know why, but that's the scent he had learned to associate in his pursuit of her.

"You know only mushrooms?" Well, Black knew only shadow. But maybe they could work on this. "I have seen your mother use mushrooms to drive them back. Perhaps we can practice." Believe it or not, Black had never taught his children, really, to cast; it had never occurred to him. Gembound all--to him--seemed to learn on their own, and at their own rate, as he had. But this one, now, was asking him about it, and so he would offer his aid. "Perhaps you can drive back this darkness, as she did hers." He stared down, face wrinkling up in focus, as he attempted to draw the shadows together--to create a cloud of it around the pair of them, plunging them into darkness.

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Black stared, his face slowly wrinkling up in consternation. Surely having the mushrooms grow from one's own body wasn't-... healthy? But, in an example of what the exact opposite of a responsible adult should do, Black decided after a moment that since Aure didn't seem to be dying, yet, that everything must be just fine.

"It is working," he agreed, with a thump of his tail. "Can you attempt to create light itself? Some can. The Lightbringer can do so. And she began as you have: with the fungus which brings light. Yet she can bring true light, now."

He attempted to call on the darkness again, more thoroughly this time, but now nothing happened at all--a brief and shadowy flicker, perhaps, but then nothing. He took no real notice. It did this often; it came when he needed it, and so he was unconcerned. Instead, he set himself to the task, now, of explaining Envy to the little one. He couldn't remember if he'd met this other king himself--but he knew what Kings were.

If one had come up with a lesson plan for this tutorship, it might have been, "Kings and how their Titles are Meaningless, 101."

"Many proclaim themselves King. They will claim the title, with several followers. It binds them as protector, yet master. There was your Bone King. And there has been a stag by this name, though he was torn down and killed as a tyrant. There is Dragon in the room of mists, though he calls himself something other--I do not know what. There have been many. Many call themselves King; it is but a word. He who held the throne--he for whom it was created--has left echoes through the age, whispers of power, of those who served, of the throne red as blood in an era past. I do not think these Kings are the same." He was, in his own way, trying to helpfully explain that the Gembound in this modern age--they who took on the titles rather flippantly--were not the same, as Aure might assume that they were, as those who had come in an age past. The great beast on the throne who could command Nemean was most certainly not the same as the angry green weasel that roamed Orion today. Nor had Hasira, in his throes of madness, ever truly been a king.

But then, Black reflected, he had never known the "he" that had once reigned. Perhaps that, too, had been nothing but a brute.

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Black nodded, giving a firm "Good," to the hatchling's success. And then he listened, calmly attentive.

He peered at Aure, a little bit bewildered.

"Evil? Perhaps, but I think, merely misled. Foolish. Arrogant. Harmed; and wishing to harm, in turn. I do not know, and it matters little, for he pressed too far and has fallen."

He listened to the rest, then considered. He was silent for awhile, this time, thinking over his response. This, he felt, was an important lesson--one he had to ensure was taught right.

"Words," he began slowly, "are but sounds, to describe a thing. You must remember this. A claw is but a sound for the pointed things upon our feet. Stone, is but another word for the rock which forms our world. And so it is with King."

He stood, shaking himself, staring off thoughtfully at the distant dark before looking again to the child before him. "King is but a word. Master, is but a word. It is the meaning behind them that is of import. One may call themselves a word, but it does not make it true. What matters," he went on, and his voice took on a strong urging--as if this next bit was very important--"is purpose."

"If one's purpose is to guide, to protect, to orchestrate--then perhaps they are a king. If they are a tyrant, and care only for power--perhaps, too, they are a king. Yet they are very different. You may call yourself King, and Master; perhaps the word is to describe what you are to others. But it does not make it true. It is, thus, of no consequence. One may say, 'I am King,' as your father did; it is to denote a purpose. His purpose was to serve as king to his people. I do not know him beyond this, but it is but a word. It does not make it more important--or less important; but it is not as important, perhaps, as being a king." This entirely rambling line of thought thus spewed out, Black fell silent, watching Aure with an intensity to his gaze.

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