ORIGIN

Rather than accept his word, rather than step forward and embrace the Black Spire, Aethereal began to ask questions--to delve instead into philosophy. Master Vargas was the practical type--but that wasn't to say that he did not dip a crooked toe, on occasion, into the subject. It was difficult to spend thousands of years fighting and killing and Overseeing without at least a few times thinking about the "why." But he could not give Aethereal fact: only his own viewpoints, and what he saw as truths. Perhaps they were accurate. Perhaps they were not, or maybe there was no "accurate," no right and wrong, and there were only motivations, and perceptions.

He began his answers with a laugh--good-natured, but short, a grunted bark of a thing paired with a glance at the headless monstrosity. (Strange, how something could be so elegantly beautiful and so horrific all in one.) "It is good to ask questions," was what he started with: "This is a sign of a keen mind." And a useful one. "Dontacael does not live within these cave walls, child. Mother, or whatever it calls itself, is but a servant of his. A Harbinger? A creation, a weapon? All of those? I do not know. But his sphere is order. Do you understand what I mean by this-? Everything must be in a perfect place, ordered and arranged, crystalline and unmoving. His universe would be one of utter stagnancy. Cold. Empty! Nothing would change." Vargas gestured up toward the Black Spire, and then realized that perhaps she could not see it.

"The Black Spire that lays before you--what you must commune with, to calm the chaos--do not touch it," he interrupted himself, as an afterthought, "is a sign of our Creator's power. Our Creator is the enemy of Order. He is Chaos; unpredictability. Change! Struggle! Advancement! For how can we learn and grow, if not through change? How can things not improve, without the destruction of the old?" Vargas spoke almost heatedly, with true belief. And here, perhaps, was his philosophy. "There is pain in chaos, but there is freedom. Others are free to harm you. And you must be strong to repel them and to survive in their stead! But you are not chained and ordered, you are not a slave to another's will."

Vargas lowered himself to his haunches, staring almost reverently up at the Spire again. He seemed rapt, but at least turned himself, now, to Aethereal's other questions. "We Design, Create, and Oversee, to grant the Creator the creations--the soldiers and the power--that he requires to secure his hold, and to stop Order's heartless march. It is not he who gifts you with something that would tear you apart, child. It is the nature of Chaos to destroy, and you are, as is this ever-shifting stone!--chaos given form. Given life. If it builds, you must bleed it away. The stone will remind your magic of what it is to be more stable. It is only 'addictive' in the way that any power would be. One that tastes of strength and courage unfettered by order will always want more." Her final question had him tilt his head, and peer at her. The Creator, creating Dontacael-? That was a bizarre concept to him, and were it true, he had certainly never been told. "They are the powers that existed before us. One did not create the other. They are... their own concepts given form and magic." This, at least, was how Vargas understood it--whether it was true, for certain, was unclear but it was at least what he believed to be fact.

"Do not believe the whispers of the ice. Order dislikes Chaos. Stagnancy hates change. It would chain this Nest and subjugate it and kill the Chaos left within. That is why it is here--a clumsy move in a long war, or maybe a ploy. Or perhaps it is desperation. I do not know." Like others before him, he wondered, briefly, why this nest. But then, why did Lord Dhracia herself take an interest in this nest-? Long-stagnant, near-dead, and yet she had come here to lay down punishment and reorder the cave. Or perhaps it was simply his presence and his determination that had stayed her hand, long enough to give them a chance? After all, it didn't hurt her any to let them try again--and it might benefit her, in the long run. But was that the case, or was it something else?

Vargas did not know, and he supposed it did not matter: his work mattered. The incursion mattered. Survival was what mattered.

He had listened quietly, intending to respond at once--taking note of the questions, what to remark on, what to correct or to add to; what to teach. But James spoke first, and Vargas--though irritated--allowed it, turning to stare at him impatiently. Where he came from, one let the ranking beings speak, and spoke only if spoken to. This irked him but given the fact that the horse had brought Aethereal here, he tolerated it.

James's speech, though, indeed left Vargas laughing: the Leviathan broke into a guffaw of loud, darkly-amused laughter. "Is that what you imagine-?" he asked, laughter fading as he peered down. "You imagine 'love' to be some powerful mythical force-? You poor deluded creature," he said, and there was, surprisingly, no mockery in it. Only a faint pity, if anything, and the Leviathan shook his head, studying James. Is this what they are teaching themselves, these days-? "Find me the magic that 'love' can cast. Find me the enemy that it can destroy. It is an emotion, child--an evolutionary quirk designed to drive a social beast to reproduction, and beyond that, to guard your young. We are not all created with it because it is unneeded and worse than that--it is a chain greater than any that Dontacael or our Creator could ever form! It is an imaginary fantasy, a flood of chemicals to make you imagine yourself bound to another where there is no bond. A sweet fever dream, for some, but it always passes, in the end. It is nothing but hormones, James." He paused, for a moment, considering. "When you speak of others coming together to be stronger, it need not be love that binds them and draws them in! Strength is what does that! The fire in your heart! It does not matter what you fight for. And believe me, it requires those emotions to draw that strength from some--but that is the point of it. There are so many who are weak! They are weak, and only when those bonds of chemicals scream into their minds and fill them with fear for something greater than themselves--when they view themselves as less than others!--do they get back up and fight. Love! Bah," he finished, with a vehement shake of his head.

If only the winged horse knew. If only he knew what a chain love truly was. A chain to keep a mighty dragon bound--with but a word, but a whisper of a threat to his beloved. A weakness. A vulnerability.

Pathetic.

Vargas turned to Aethereal. "You take the risk because it is what you are created to do. Or rather, what most of us were created for. I do not know who made you, or why, but I can see and sense that you are formed of Chaos. And that would be your fate, as it is written; to serve and to die. But that is how all things live. To serve," and here he gestured at James, without looking at him, "the magic code written in his body, driving him toward brood and family, to pass that code blindly to others; or to serve the master who has formed you. Some have the luxury of choosing who they serve, or what goals to set themselves to. But we do not."

He looked up at the Black Spire, then. "If you touch it it will burn you. It resonates with your magic, and it is powerful. Strong enough to tear you apart, should you press against it for a moment or two. I would not recommend it," he added, dryly.

He had no doubt that they either misunderstood him, or understood only parts of what he said--but that could not be helped. They lacked the perspective to truly understand the truth of his words--and perhaps that was for the best. Let the child play his games, guided by the trickery of chemicals, while he can, he thought, and it was amiably enough, if pitying. It did not particularly matter. They would learn, and that in and of itself was... unfortunate.

He nodded, however, toward James as he made to leave. "The both of you--if you depart now, her fate is on your head. Do not let her fall back to the Hive, or the consequence will be your life." He was cold, empty, as he said this.

But it was not a threat to James--not really. Let the white one--the one with her own delusions of caring, it was clear (and had Dontacael done that-? Tampered with her, used her so? Disgusting.)--let her hear that her decisions would lay on another's neck, and perhaps it would steer her clear of 'Mother.'

"And you, you may need to return here at times, as your inner chaos dictates. We who dwell here are the Chaos Forge--should you desire to learn more of your abilities, or to hone them, I will see that someone teaches you." He did not think she would take him up on this. Her thinly-veiled desire to speak away from him was pleasing, though undoubtedly neither of them would have expected him to think of it as such. But it was, though he'd have never told them why.