After breakfast, the table is cleared and Pluma happily brings all the bags of paint over. There’s a wide variety of colors, but two noticeable problems. The first is there are no paintbrushes to paint with and the second is there’s no canvas to paint on. Just pallets upon pallets of paint.

“Oh, so you need little brushes to paint?” Pluma asks, feathers dropping, “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t spent so much time picking colors-,”

“It’s okay,” he says, and honestly it is, he’s just happy to have paints again. It had been a while since he had painted, work and family obligations taking most of his time, and the few scraps of free time he had, there wasn’t any desire to create. But now the itch was back the need to spread color across something. Everything was so perfect in this house, made him afraid to touch anything or cause a mess. So, this room was the perfect place, it had a lived-in feel, nothing like the showy designer living room or crystal-carved dining table. 

He pops open a bright yellow paint bottle, keeping an eye on the System as he turns it over straight onto the table.

“Master?” Pluma asks nervously eyeing the paint like he’s afraid it's going to come alive and bite him, “Are you mad? I can go get-.”

“I’m not mad,” he says, rolling up the gauzy blue selves of his robe, “I’m improvising. We have no canvas to paint on and no brushes to paint with. So, we shall do this instead.”

Cadeyrn snorts, doing nothing to hide his amusement and judgment, “Master is going to paint the table with his bare hands?”

Pluma fluffs up, tail lashing, “You-!”

“I was.”

The System goes a little red on the edges, and William knows he’s pushing it, but he needs to paint. Work the frustrated and confused emotions out of his chest before he breaks character in a way he can’t hide.

Carefully he dips his fingers into the yellow paint, enjoying the familiar feel of it coating his skin, “Sometimes there is joy in doing things simply,” he swipes a bit of yellow in an arc across the faded wood, the System gets redder, “and I have no desire to wait any longer.”

The System’s red tint dims, [You are walking a fine line Host, be careful].

“Apologies little master,” Cadeyrn says walking over and popping open a bright red tub of paint, “I did not know you were so adamant about painting. Allow me to help indulge you.” And he adds a bright glob of red paint right next to his yellow.

His brain short circuits for a second as the demon leans over him, boxing him into the table, strong arms braced on either side of him. Carelessly tossing aside the red tube of paint, Cadeyrn reaches over him and spreads out the red, covering over the yellow William just put down. He can feel the muscled chest brushing against his back as the demon moves, and it is doing the exact opposite of helping him stay in character.

“Me too!” and Pluma saves him from an early grave, by pushing into his space, dislodging the demon at his back. “I want to use the pretty blue one!” and with another poof of feathers and white light, Pluma is back in the 10-year-old body, snatching up a sparkling navy-blue paint, “Can I help paint the table too?”

“O-Of course,” he agrees, shifting closer to the child angel and away from the demon, helping Pluma get the lid open, “paint as much as you want.”

[Host,] the System warns, edges red, [Asterius would have some reasoning behind doing this!]

He needs a reason other than wanting to paint? He scrambles, trying to find some excuse that might work here, he blurts the first thing that pops into his head out loud, “I was getting tired of the table, so think of this as an experiment nothing more. Color it however you want, we’re getting rid of it anyway.”

Pluma looks a little sad to hear that, but immediately dumps a large splatter of navy paint all over the table and himself. He laughs, voice like bells, happily sticking both hands into the paint and swishing the colors around.

For a second Pluma is a startling familiar sight, a younger sister trying her best to help, getting more paint on her than the canvas. William smiles, heart-tugging at the sudden memory of him and Beth as kids. He reaches over and opens a dark purple, adding it to the edges of Pluma’s sea of blue.

[System wants the green!] The window protests, hovering at the edges of his hands, making little arrows on its screen to direct him to the exact shade the floating codes wants. William decides to humor it and adds its pastel green to the canvas that is the kitchen table.

Cadeyrn seems content to watch the proceedings, circling around the kitchen and tilting his head this way and that, humming and oohing. Making little comments about the colors and structure of the work. His tone is cold and analytical, with a mocking backhanded compliment in every phrase, but as the painting continues and something semi-descent starts to form from the mix of color, his tone doesn’t warm per se, but it does lose its razor-sharp edge of intending to hurt. It’s not nice, but it is peaceful, and domestic in a way that makes him ache for his own family.

’20 years’ he reminds himself frowning down at the kaleidoscope of colors on his hands. ’20 years and I get to go home.’

[System advises Host to try and not think about the before.] The text reads, [Host will adapt quicker and easier if Host focuses more on being Asterius].

Easy to say. It’s quite a tall order to change one’s thoughts, but he had to. The System had already been fairly generous with his OOC warnings and had told him if he didn’t start getting into character, he wasn’t going to ever return home.

‘But how do I get in character?’ he thinks watching Pluma stick a bright purple handprint onto the table with a giggle, ‘I can try to understand him, but there’s still a lot of information I’m missing.’

[System will do its best to provide Host with the necessary details…] A half dozen more screens pop up before quickly disappearing, [System will provide them later, when Host is not in danger of being OOC] He silently thanks the System for finally being concerned about timing. [But first System suggests Host refer to himself as Asterius, System’s database shows that being comfortable with your new name can help.]

It’s a dangerous thought, pushing away his identity as William to fully become Asterius, but… what else can he really do? ‘It’s worth a shot’, he agrees.

“Master?” Pluma asks, snapping him out of his thoughts. The angel is frowning down at the table, his white robes smeared with paint, “When do we know it’s done?”

“Whenever you feel like it,” William- he catches himself, 'Asterius' he corrects, testing the thought. It’s not as jarring as he thinks it should be, which only coils the tension tighter.

“Then I’m done!” Pluma declares, raising his hands high, like he’s proving that he’s not painting anymore.

Asterius laughs and raises his hands as well, “Then let’s go get cleaned up.”

He can feel more than see Cadeyrn lean over him, a careful hand on his shoulder, peering over him to look down at the table, “Shall I move it outside so the paint better dries master?”

He slips out from under him, tugging a glaring Pluma along, “Do what you like. I have no need for it anymore.”

And he quickly escapes upstairs, hoping his sudden departure wasn’t labeled as too out of character.

Cadeyrn watches the new god of stars leave.

There’s a red handprint on his back, stark against the blue gauze of his robes. It was a whim, another one of his tests. This new Asterius didn’t even seem to notice the mark.

Again and again, this new god was surprising him.  

The paints in and of themselves were odd, he had made sure not to get brushes or canvas, wanting to see how this new god would react to an order underperformed. He never expected the refined God of Fate to use his own hands to color a table. It was childish, it was spontaneous, and it was something different from the rigid routine of the old god.

And not just with the paints, the letter too.

Normally he would have thrown the letter away, even if it did contain important information, such as the Royal Sun nearing his end. He had hoped the scumbag would die by his own hand, but there will always be another king to topple.

No, he revealed the letter’s contents to gauge this new Asterius’s feelings. Surprise had been the prominent emotion, followed shortly by confusion and worry. But not concern and worry for the Royal Sun, for himself. This new god held no warm feelings for the God Emperor, though his dislike seemed less like hate. (One sentiment him and the old Asterius shared.) No, this one… almost seemed scared of him. And considering…. If this new god held pieces of the old Asterius’s memories, that would be the reaction he would expect.

He held no distaste for the original Asterius, in fact if anything he had a begrudging respect for the God of Fate. Over the years Cadeyrn had pieced together the fragments of the mysterious god he was bound to; he had learned that the Celestial’s god story was not too far from his own. Though he still hated the chains that kept him, his plans always spared the Star God.

Now his plans had to change, for all that this new Asterius was doing a decent job at pretending, his mannerisms were all wrong. The old Asterius was a statue, unmoving and sparkling like a doll behind glass, forever unreachable even when sitting right next to him. This one however, while just as beautiful, had a touch of something… mortal. A liveness and flare, words unsure but filled with emotion.

It was interesting seeing the face that used to be so guarded be so honest. He had seen more expressions on Asterius’s face in the last day than he had in a century. He flustered easily, and seemed to hold no hate for the demon, in fact, he had caught the god staring a handful of times; curious eyes full of genuine interest. It was flattering in a way. 

Made it easy to tease and taunt, to keep pushing and see where this new god finally drew the line; he had yet to find it. Which wasn't terribly surprising. This new god had such a basic understanding of the world, and Cadeyrn was beginning to believe the answer to that was rather simple, he was a Godling, a god not fully grown into their divinity.

For all his fumbling and curiosity was just that; a child doing a poor impression of being a grownup. It was cute in a way, but even kittens one day grow into their claws. For now, he would pose no threat, but one day that little god would learn the cruel truths of the heavens, of the war that raged against the hells, and would need to pick a side.

If he played his cards right, Cadeyrn could push the little god into a similar stance as his predecessor, indifference and neutrality. With the God of Fate abstaining from endorsing the actions of his kin, he had steadied the hand of heaven’s blade, chilling the war between Celestia and Gehenna. Having him completely support the hells would be better of course, but was an impossible feat, and… and that path would likely end in this new Asterius being replaced or…

Cadeyrn forces the thought to end before he thinks of it. What the Celestial Gods do to their own kind in the name of peace and justice was far crueler than anything he’s seen in Gehenna. Just the reminder stokes the flames of rage in his heart. Soon he would enact his plan, just a bit more time and he would never need to worry about Celestia again.

“Cadeyrn?!” a familiar voice calls, saying his name that the original had never once uttered. Truly he was doing a terrible job pretending to be Asterius. But Cadeyrn had time to kill in the heavens and at least this new Asterius would make his stay interesting.

Pluma knows he’s young. Barely a mortal-year-old, frighteningly young compared to the centuries and eons his compatriots have lived. Knows he’s just another replacement, the newest seraphim to the God of Fate. If he is lucky, he will last maybe 50 years. Unlucky, and tomorrow could be his last day. He knows what the other angels whisper about, about how his master had ruthlessly killed all the seraphim before him. How only one mistake was enough to clip the wings of angels far more powerful than he.

And then Asterius had carefully torn his essence from the song of creation, and all those thoughts and fears vanished once he actually met his master.

It was a full moon, the light spilling across the grassy planes. Asterius was the feared God of Fate, but in that moment, as he carefully shaped Pluma into the small and soft body he exists in now, he looked like a man one breath away from breaking.

And as his seraphim, Pluma knew instantly. This was not a god that killed angels for joy, not when his hands shook as they slowly made his form, not when dozens of smaller angels clung to his hair, not when his hoarse voice whispered promises of keeping him safe. He was not crafted to perform a duty, was not made to be a tool, not even made to help support Asterius in his duties. Asterius had made him unthreatening, something soft to hold, something small to protect. (Even though it was his god that needed protecting).

Pluma vowed to do his all for his god that day, even if he only lasted a year, he would still be the luckiest seraphim. As long as he could perform his single duty, keep his master company.

As a seraphim he is young, naïve, and too quick to prove himself, he knows, so painfully does he know how truly worthless he is. But he was made for only one purpose. A desperate wish of a god so in need of something to call his own. And the god who had forged him, was not the god who held him now.

Anger was all he felt at first. How dare this imposter pretend to be his master!? But then he realized what that meant. If a new god was here in his master’s place, then his first master was somewhere else, away from the pain.

Then came the sadness. Pluma had failed, his one job was to stay by his master always, and now his master was alone. He was made to be comforting, and now he was being comforted by the false god with his master’s face. If he kept pretending maybe it would really would be his Asterius again when he opened his eyes.

But then he really looked at this double and… and Pluma realizes something else. This god was so much like his original master, aloof and unreadable in most moments, strict but not harsh. The sadness that used to linger like a haze about him is gone. This Asterius smiles far more openly, calls his name so happily, makes mistakes and does not hate himself for them. In another life, that could have been his master, happy and proud of his godhood.

So Pluma makes a new vow, tightening his grip on the blue gauzy robes worn by a god that was his and not. Pluma was made to be protected, but this time, he would be the one to protect.