"In act more graceful and humane;
A fairer person lost not Heav'n; he seemd
For dignity compos'd and high exploit:
But all was false and hollow. "
– John Milton; Paradise Lost, Book 2.
His expression grew glazed; that look of brazen boredom. Pale skin resting atop his back of hand, nearly slumped into the chair. It was hardly comfortable, yet to an inorganic being, comfort was meaningless. Stiff back, and marble crafted. Veinheim was exempt of the details which made a home, bare necessities alone. A stalwart fixture in an otherwise lifeless existence. The Lord's chair included.
Silence was strained until the moments shortly after. The Lord's doorway created a burst of light, head and shoulders glancing about the room until it created sound. Soft footsteps of a methodical sort, paced as of by a timer. For Kratos was the sort of man. The eternal soldier in formless ways, so long as war existed, and war has always existed.
"Lord Yggdrasill."
Knee bent to meet the floor, the soldier in all his ways grew silent upon address. To the listless gaze which settled upon his presence with a familiar pattern. The Lord's position made bare of a displacement, yet ever so carefully pushed that focus unto his solder.
"Kratos."
Words became senseless over time, and without speaking, it appeared the Lord was in a familiar mood. Hair stringent, pale face closed in upon himself until there was a distinguish between the prideful man and Lifelessness.
To spend time among the living, settled into a definition that resembles Death.
Ever so carefully, the Lord's fingers curled.
"I have business for you in Tethe'alla."
"The Church protesters, I presume?"
It was still in the middle, the Crux, of several winding ambitions. The humans grew an extra degree more distasteful this generation; intending to create another faith to oppose the One and Only. They so easily questioned and bit the hand that fed... A "sleeping" Goddess made for such poor faith, alone.
"I didn't give you permission to interrupt me, Kratos."
Only the buried frustrations knead into the tone of voice gave Kratos means to distinguish between old companion and the Inorganic Being he's placed an unwavering foot into becoming. Absent, but rarely missing. Lost, but surely to be found.
"As I was saying, the conflicts have continued to escalate and I cannot see Yuan managing this situation on his own. I believe that the angel's have a presence they need to uphold. It has been awhile, hasn't it Kratos?"
His tone of voice, his speaking pattern, veered so sharply towards his final words. His lingering question. As if life lit the blue eyes of the Lord, and created a juxtaposition that lingered by default in such a contrary being as he.
"Then you intend to evoke Judgement down upon the people."
He was so quick to read between the lines. The teacher was as sharp as always. Yet still, his voice did not waver, express an emotion other than what was necessary: a confirmation. The Lord, in all his ways, smiled. White teeth appearing for Kratos' sake alone, as they contemplated murder. Yet as always, his eyes placed one way, and his thoughts to another.
The Life expressed was the Lord's masquerade. How easily a piece of art can emulate...
"Their hearts are easily swayed, and should this continue, war might follow. You wouldn't wish for that again, would you? Kratos, I need you."
He had a soft voice he so rarely used. Gentle. Nudging. The Lord knew the strings to play for the expected results, and could play them well. Kratos was without a doubt, human too.
"...until they settle down again. The people are suffering. Let them see their Angels are both Just and Merciful."
Let the dead convince them a further path away is wrong. Let this be warning.
Stiff backed, as if still the perpetual soldier, he was the Lord's right hand. To the world, he was the angel of War. For Kratos was the sort of man. The eternal soldier in formless ways, so long as war existed, and war will always exist. Until her wish is fulfilled...
"As you wish, Lord Yggdrasill."
"Then you are dismissed."
Soft, timed footsteps paced across the room. Dimmed until the edges of his divine hearing caught heel against the immaculate flooring. The Lord remained, stagnant like the marble set upon which he rested. Devoid of the company to which makes Derris Kharlan considered a home. A stalwart fixture in an otherwise lifeless existence. The Lord himself, included.
He will live again, surely, once Martel returns home.