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“Get away from me,” Sandalphon snarled, jerking his hand out of the rose primal’s grip. Sandalphon disliked being touched at the best of times, and persistent lack of sleep meant that his temper was shorter than ever.
The woman made a small, almost inaudible sound of pain and clasped her own wrist. Cuts had been laid open through her glove, spaced to the span of Sandalphon’s retreating fingers. They were beginning to bleed, dampening the dark fabric. Both of them stared at the injuries, too nonplussed to move.
Rosetta’s violet eyes tracked to the hand she had captured and Sandalphon automatically followed her gaze. Blood tipped his fingers with red. He defensively tucked them under, fisting his hands.
“I suppose that’s what I get for forgetting that roses aren’t the only things with thorns,” Rosetta said lightly, letting go of her arm and angling the cuts out of sight. Given primal regeneration, they would probably be healed in a few hours. “Be careful not to do that to Lyria, she doesn’t heal like we do.”
Sandalphon grimaced. The scenario was all too plausible. Maybe he needed full gloves instead of fingerless ones. Though those would require reinforced fingertips to do any good.
“Forgive me,” Rosetta said, delicate and interested, “but I wouldn’t have thought an angel would have claws.”
Sandalphon snorted at the implied question. “There are no angels in Pandemonium, only the fallen.”
Sandalphon's eyes had once been brown. Admittedly, the red-tinged color of cinnamon, but brown nonetheless.
Pandemonium had changed that. His eyes now lacked any hint of that old color; they were a pure crimson that announced his fallen status to the sky at large.
The changes hadn't stopped there. Pandemonium’s tainted, ruinous power had seeped into his core over long centuries and remade him in its image. His claws were short and translucent, almost indistinguishable from fingernails to the eye, but they were sharp and tough enough to mark metal- or the skin of another primal. His fangs weren't very prominent, but they were needle-sharp and eminently lethal when put to the test. Even the shape and span of his original wings had been warped, subtly shifting to resemble those of a raptor instead of a songbird.
If he hadn't hated himself so much, he might have been upset over the alterations. As it was, he couldn't muster up any more than a sense of bitter irony that the Supreme Primarch's white wings had been added to the collection, making a mockery of all of it. A fallen as the ranking primarch! It was so nonsensical as to be hilarious.
“Ah,” Rosetta said. Sandalphon narrowed his eyes at her, because there was too much to unpack in that single syllable. He wondered, abruptly, at what she thought she knew, at how this new knowledge fit into her understanding of their kind.
“What,” he stated.
The younger primal shrugged, a ripple of silken hair. “It’s nothing in particular. Just…” her voice went abstract and thoughtful, “old thoughts, old memories.” Softer still, “The Astrals have a long shadow, that’s all.”
“Yes.” None longer than Sandalphon’s own maker, as the wings now adorning his back would attest.