Never Change

Book II: Chapter 47

The dark, foreboding chamber was bathed in the dim glow of flickering torches, their light casting eerie shadows that danced along the cold, stone walls. The scent of damp earth and the faint, acrid tang of ancient magic hung heavy in the air. The Goddess stood off to the side, her presence a terrifying mix of regal authority and malevolent power. Her eyes, a chilling crimson, surveyed the scene with a detached curiosity.

Around her, the room was filled with the soft whimpers of human children, their heads barely above the black, Grimm pools as they struggled to stay afloat. They had been from different parts of Remnant—some from the deserted sands of Vacuo, others salvaged from the abandoned slums of Mistral's lower levels.

Her perhaps most loyal servant appeared beside her, manifesting from one of the dark corners of the space. He was loyal out of both choice and insanity. Someone like him desired to fulfill himself by serving someone's will. It was not sheer luck that he fell into her hands.

"Goddess, have you found any prospects, yet?" Tyrian inquired.

"No. The Pool filters them. Not all survive, naturally," her voice was a silky whisper that carried an ominous weight. "Those who do come out much, much stronger."

"I see. Shall I mourn for them?" he asked in an excited manner, "Perhaps the absence of family creates an unwelcoming atmosphere for them, in which case I may be able to—"

"No. There is no need to mourn."

"Yes, Goddess," he pouted childishly.

"Man is destined to die," the Goddess floated across the floor, granting herself a better vantage point of the struggling children.

At first, they had screamed; they screamed and shrieked and bawled and cried. But their little limbs could not flail about, and soon they were deprived of their infant-like energy.

When the fourth day of the seven-day ritual had passed, they could only wail softly through their parched throats.

Listening intently, Tyrian followed her, like a dog heeling to its master. His footsteps were magnitudes louder than her own, indicating his mortality.

"Since man is fated to depart the flesh, why should we torture ourselves over that parting? After all, the living know that they will die. Whether that time is now or later is trivial."

"Goddess." She came to a sudden stop.

Her latest project knelt in front of her. For so long she had been an adversary, an irritating thorn in the side. Salem found her the best servant, above even the likes of Tyrian.

Perhaps it was because she did not speak much and listened more. Perhaps it was because she didn't have any outward thoughts or desires other than to serve her.

The scorpion faunus was unsettled at the sight of his comrade: his heart beating out of his chest, the blood vessels expanding imperceptibly in his eyes, his leg muscles trembling and twitching in preparation to assault her project.

The Goddess could see it all. The thought of losing his treasured position was apparent in his mind. Even though he held the rank of Upper Apostle Two, the threat of this newly-appointed Lower Apostle Four was clear.

It was all too much for him. He turned to the Goddess and opened his mouth.

"Goddess... if I may?"

"What is it?"

"Am I not your Adam?" Tyrian asked, his voice trembling. However, there remained a sliver of hope.

"No, I'm afraid you are not. My Adam is already in Mistral. And this is my Eve."