ORIGIN

Temperantia apologized—for what? Not like it could do anything for him now, or for Dawa; but they went on to assure they would protect others, prevent them from suffering as Dawa had. He snorted. If only it were so easy.

He had nothing more to say about the Collector. It wasn't really something under his direct control, nor did its comings and goings interest him. All that mattered was that the trials were being run again. Whatever else he chose to do with the gembounds was free-reign. The nest was producing. "If you think you have suggestions for different trials, I will hear them," he offered, gazing down into the hole.

They began to descend, but it did not take long before the shadows grew, reaching through Astraea to grab the angel by its surface and drag it down into the dark.

He waited, patient, curious; the Creator's words fell around him like hot spits of oil, reaching from the depths where Temperantia was.

A̸A̵A̴A̸A̸S̵T̶R̶A̸E̴E̷E̴A̶A̴A̵A̴

His head rose, body stiffened—

G̵O̴O̵O̷O̵O̷O̷O̵O̷D̶

The loudness of it was startling, even despite his closeness with the voice at all. It was the kind of rising shrill, heralding chaos, that would send shivers down anyone's rigid spine.

The rest of it was for Temperantia. Somewhere in there, in the black and in the oil, the angel was being torn from its lofty heavens and thrust straight into hell.

And it was not long, only moments, before it was spat back out to him.

Dontacael. The name made his gut clench, the bile rising in his throat and threatening to spit the name onto the unhallowed stone of the Hole.

He took a step back, giving Temperantia space, regarding the crisp edges and singed feathers—

"Dontacael," he uttered, half-aware and half-unaware that he had done so. He could feel the short fur along his spine bristle, hairline raising, the fungi rooted deep into his skin blushing and bursting with spores. Red eyes fixated on Temperantia. Would they do it? Become the Hand that rips the Hive from every crevice of the nest?

The fire opal eye cracked in that same instance, small pieces of it shattering and glimmering to the ground like falling stars. The stone swirled with darkness, diluting the color, hiding the gleam—and then Temperantia was being encased in its chrysalis, fire opal clouded with smoke, pops of shadowy ember and flickering purple-green consuming it all in one breath.

Temperantia would wake two weeks later, having had nothing but the mandate to think about the entire time:

T̶̟̩͇́E̴̟͍̳͔͕̫̺̘͔̓͊͝M̸̨̻̬̩̫̙͌̅͒Ṕ̸̛̙̟̩̔̓̒͐̇̚͜E̶̬̯͗̃̑Ŕ̶̝̙̹̖̭͍̒̿̒͆̿̚Ạ̵̹̙͎̀͑͠N̸̞̓̍̍͐͑͘T̸̜̺͉̻̲͗́̑̿̃́̀ͅĮ̷̣̠̝̿̽́̈́̀̈́͐͝͝A̵̭̗͓̳̤͖̒́́ ̴̝̲̥͔͈̖̏͆̋͊̽̕͜͠W̵̭͙͔͈̟̫͝I̸̻͒̌̽L̷̙̻̦͗́̃́͠L̷̡̩̫̺̱̳͍̭̃͝ ̷̜͇̺̫̝͉̞̅͜E̸̲͚̓̏̑Ä̵̬͔̫̩̺͊͗͌͠T̵̘̯͚͚͔̟̱͕̞͐͆̀̿͛̌̈́ ̸͎͗̽͆̄̀̃D̶̳͍̻̥͍̉͋̓͠Ờ̶͉̝̣͚̰̟̪̈́̔̽͐͆ͅN̶̢͉̱̹͕̥̤͓̄̈́̕Ț̸̨͈̝̑͛́̀́̄A̷̠͍͈̻͖̟̙̰̍C̵̞̤̀̀A̵̯͙̭̲̝͋̚E̷͙̮͎̞͕̔̂͛̐̈́̾̋ͅL̸̢̮̰͎̬̏͜


There was nothing more for him to do. He regarded the chrysalis one last time before turning, heading up the tunnel and righting himself on his original path: to Polaris to investigate the cold, to see what schemes Dontacael had conjured here in a place where he was not welcome.

And soon the Angel of Chaos would awaken, to consume and to smother every last bit of Dontacael's Order. He could not help but smile lightly; was this the conversation Temperantia had hoped to have?

"We will prevent anyone from suffering like that."

Indeed.

exit astraea