Page 42 of Death’s Gentle Hand
The casual dismissal of Damian's life as acceptable collateral damage triggered something primal in Cael's transformed nature. All the accumulated rage and grief and desperate love he'd been containing erupted in a roar that shook the basin's foundation.
“Fuck your universal law!” he screamed, launching himself at the Wardens with fury that bordered on cosmic insanity. “Fuck your balance and your correction and your mechanical certainty! He matters more than your perfect order!”
The first Warden moved to intercept him, its faceless form radiating authority that made reality bend around its presence. But Cael was no longer the obedient servant of cosmic law—he was revolution given flesh, love weaponized against order itself.
His fractured scythe materialized in his hands, the broken blade crackling with unstable energy that made the obsidian walls of the basin ring like struck bells. Where once it had been perfect crystalline death, now it was jagged chaos, its edges bleeding starlight and shadow in equal measure.
The Warden raised its own weapon—a staff of pure geometric law that hurt to perceive directly, angles that shouldn't exist carved into reality itself.
When the weapons met, the collision sent shockwaves through every dimension, cracking the sky above Varos and making the city's time-bells scream in harmonious discord.
Cael pressed his attack, his broken scythe carving arcs of dissolution through the air.
Where the blade passed, reality itself frayed, showing glimpses of the void that existed between moments.
He was no longer trying to preserve cosmic balance—he was trying to shatter it completely, to tear holes in universal law large enough for love to slip through.
“You were my greatest creation,” the lead Warden intoned as it parried his desperate strikes, its voice carrying the weight of disappointed authority. “Death incarnate, perfect in purpose, unburdened by sentiment. Look what mortal weakness has made of you.”
“I was never yours,” Cael snarled, feinting high before sweeping low, trying to take the Warden's legs. “I was just too empty to know better.”
The second Warden flanked him, its approach silent as entropy itself.
Cael spun to meet the threat, his scythe describing a perfect circle of annihilation that would have unmade any mortal opponent.
But the Warden stepped sideways through dimensions, emerging behind him with its staff aimed at his spine.
Only instinct saved him. Cael threw himself forward, feeling the geometric weapon pass so close to his back that his borrowed flesh blistered from proximity to pure mathematical law. He rolled across the obsidian floor, cosmic energy sparking from his transformed hands as he came up fighting.
The basin itself was becoming unstable under the weight of their battle.
Cracks spread through the volcanic glass walls, each fissure glowing with temporal energy that bled off into the surrounding air.
Senra's ritual circle flickered and wavered as forces beyond her control warped the carefully inscribed symbols.
Cael could sense Damian's life force ebbing with each passing second, the soul-siphoning chains drinking deeper as the ritual approached its crescendo.
Desperation made him reckless. He abandoned all defense, pouring his remaining cosmic authority into a series of attacks that would have torn apart anyone less than gods.
His scythe became a blur of destructive energy, each strike carrying the weight of stellar collapse.
He carved through the lead Warden's staff, reducing geometric perfection to splinters of crystallized mathematics.
The entity staggered backward, its form flickering between states as damaged authority tried to reassert itself.
But the other two Wardens pressed their advantage, moving with coordinated precision that spoke of eons spent enforcing universal law. One struck at his left flank while the other attacked from above, their weapons weaving patterns of absolute order that made Cael's chaotic energy recoil.
A staff of pure law caught him across the ribs, and he felt something fundamental crack inside his transformed essence.
Not bone—he was beyond such simple mortality—but the deeper structures that held his consciousness together.
Golden light began bleeding from the wound, his life force made visible as it spilled onto the cracked obsidian.
“You cannot win,” the damaged Warden said, its voice distorted by the destruction of its weapon but still carrying implacable certainty. “You are singular chaos fighting ordered infinity. You are love opposing law. You are mortal sentiment challenging cosmic necessity.”
Cael laughed, the sound cracked and desperate but somehow still defiant. “Then I'll lose magnificently.”
He reached deep into the core of what he'd become, past the transformed flesh and borrowed mortality, down to the fundamental essence that had once been pure Death.
There, in the space between heartbeats, he found reserves of power he'd forgotten he possessed—not cosmic authority granted by universal law, but something older and more primal.
The raw force of ending itself, the entropy that existed before order was imposed upon chaos.
When he drew on that power, the Wardens actually stepped backward.
Cael's form began to shift, his borrowed humanity burning away like mist before sun. For a moment, he was what he'd been in the earliest days of existence—not Death the cosmic function, but Death the fundamental force, the necessary ending that made all beginnings possible.
His scythe reformed, whole and terrible and singing with harmonics that made reality weep. This wasn't the orderly tool of cosmic law he'd carried for eons, but something wilder, more dangerous—a weapon that could cut the threads that bound existence itself together.
The first strike severed the second Warden's connection to universal law, sending the entity screaming back into the void between dimensions.
The second cut opened a wound in time itself, making past and future bleed into the present in a cascade of temporal chaos that sent Senra stumbling away from her ritual circle.
But drawing on such primal power came with a cost. Cael could feel himself unraveling, his consciousness scattered across too many states of being to maintain coherence. He was becoming pure force without form, ending without purpose, death without the mercy that had defined his service to love.
“Damian,” he whispered, the name barely audible over the cosmic storm raging around him. The sound of it—the memory of gentle hands and patient voice—pulled him back from the edge of dissolution. Love, it seemed, was stronger than entropy when it had something specific to preserve.
The remaining Wardens regrouped, their forms more solid now as they adapted to his new level of threat.
They moved in perfect synchronization, weaving barriers of crystallized law that his chaotic strikes couldn't penetrate.
Order was reasserting itself, cosmic authority adapting to contain even this primordial rebellion.
“You delay the inevitable,” the lead Warden said, its voice carrying notes of what might have been sadness. “The mortal dies. The ritual completes. Balance is restored. Love ends, as love always ends.”
“No,” Cael said, his voice carrying harmonics from every being he'd ever guided across the threshold. “Love transforms. Love endures. Love finds a way.”
He raised his scythe one final time, not to strike at the Wardens but to turn the blade upon himself. The weapon that had ended countless existences hesitated for a heartbeat, recognizing its wielder, before obeying his will.
The cosmic authority that still clung to his essence shattered like spun glass as he drove the scythe through his own transformed heart.
The power that had made him Death, that had bound him to universal law, that had kept him separate from the mortals he served—all of it poured out in a cascade of liquid starlight that made the basin's obsidian walls ring like temple bells.
The Wardens froze in apparent shock as their greatest enforcer committed cosmic suicide, choosing love over law so completely that he was willing to unmake himself to preserve what mattered most. Their perfect formation wavered as authority itself struggled to comprehend such absolute rebellion.
In that moment of cosmic confusion, reality hiccupped.
The careful balance of forces holding Senra's ritual together collapsed like a house of cards, temporal energies seeking new channels as their primary focus suddenly ceased to exist. The soul-siphoning chains binding Damian flickered and went dark, their power source severed by Cael's sacrifice.
But the cost was everything he was and most of what he hoped to become. Fully mortal now—his cosmic senses long gone, his body marked by the slow weight of linear time—Cael understood what he had truly traded. He'd given up ultimate power for the simple, staggering ability to choose love over duty.
His sacrifice created a moment of chaos in the ritual's precise mechanics, the sudden absence of cosmic authority disrupting the careful balance of forces Senra had assembled.
The Mirror Offering stuttered, its incantations faltering as the universal law it depended on suddenly found itself with one less enforcer.
Freed by the disruption in cosmic forces—if only for a heartbeat—Damian summoned strength he didn't know he possessed.
Blood streaming from wounds carved by the soul-siphoning chains still biting into his flesh, he slammed his palm against the basin's anchor-stone, inscribing the symbols his mother had taught him in childhood with crimson ink that blazed with power older than the Time Exchange.