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There is something delirious in unleashing a carnage, and Savathûn bellows as her spell sends gravitational ripples across the city and levels everything in its wake. Beside her Rhulk splits the ground with his glaive and a sudden burning crevice runs in both directions, deep enough to reach the planet’s core, dark and ravenous; buildings and people slide in like sand through the neck of an hourglass, the rumble of earth folding in on itself drowning out the screams. The sky is a brilliant shade of purple-red. The species—the Iriani, was it? She can’t remember, and can’t be bothered to ponder it—had been a simple civilisation until the Traveler arrived and raised them from their caves and burrows into multi-storied houses of mudbrick and lumber, the brilliant terraces on spindly legs stretching from one bank of the river to the other, overgrowing it entirely like a spiderweb. For a flicker the busy port reminded her of Kaharn, even — in the way it burned, ships with outspread sails attempting to escape the slaughter only to collapse as fire took over the fabric and wood, angry waves swallowing the platforms when their charred pillars had failed to support the weight.
She had come here to observe, actually, but then Rhulk pulled her into what seemed awfully lot like a dick measuring contest, and she found some petty satisfaction in wiping that toothy grin from his face. It felt good to lose herself in the mayhem—they chased each other through the burning streets and under collapsing bridges, trampling the buildings, talons ripping the sky open. There is some primal thrill to it, a frenetic joy as she thrusts herself into the havoc blood-covered and screaming. They are a force of destruction—Rhulk laughs and laughs behind her—and for this small moment Savathûn doesn’t think about anything but the smell of earth and ash and charred flesh, the river standing ablaze, the warmth of blood splattered over her chest and arms up to the elbows.
It is a splendid sight as the planet’s artificial moon bursts into a flurry of metal and fire, shimmering in the sky. This is the killing blow. As the pieces fall down onto the surface, the Iriani are going suffer a nuclear winter which will lower the average temperature by ten degrees and, in result, obliterate them entirely. A slow death, and—unless they manage to somehow get off world with the simplistic technology that they’ve got—utterly unavoidable. Watching the spectacle from a barren plateau, the two assailants stand above the burning city.
“What was that for?” Savathûn asks.
“Finality.” Rhulk is leaning on his glaive, proud of the day’s work. The throbbing resonance is gone from his body, replaced once again with a collar now tattered and stained with blood and soot. He really should clean up, she thinks, but the haughty smirk on his face makes her suspect he will roll into the Witness’ chambers wearing the signs of battle like pitiful trophies.
“Is the Deep now satisfied by such cheap thrills? Or was it your own initiative to prove your usefulness to it by ruining a backwater planet?”
“Watch your serpentine tongue, Witch.” He straightens and spins the glaive—Savathûn scoffs at this—then points a finger at her. “So forgetful you are of the end we serve.”
“The end, or the ender?” She considers breaking that finger but refrains herself. “Do you think your pitiful servitude is truly what it cherishes?”
“Your attempts to set me against my saviour are pathetic at best.”
“Saviour!” Cackling with unrestrained delight, she settles herself on a piece of broken rock lying about in the tall grass. The sky is a beautiful shade, chatoyant with green fire, Luster, and the moon’s glimmering shatters. “You prefer to be bound by a gift you know you cannot pay back, and so you burrow yourself in submission like a worm in dirt and call that gratitude.”
“A worm, you say?” Rhulk smirks mockingly. She ignores him.
“Isn’t the finest worship to outgrow your master? To look into their bloodshot eyes as you twist the blade they taught you to wield and honour their power by outmatching it? Isn’t it love to hone them, to be the whetstone they sharpen themselves against until you finally make them break?”
One of his six eyelids twitches, betraying his petulance, and were they not freshly after a carnage Savathûn is sure he would be pulling Lubrae’s Ruin out of the hole in her chest by now. “The Hive and their short-sightedness. You cannot even comprehend the Shape’s perfection and already you brawl to imitate it.”
“Cut the Shape apart and show me its components there for the taking, and then we will argue who is really wrong.”
“Blasphemy.”
“Foolishness.” She tilts her head and the look she gives him is almost pitiful. “You’ve been subjugated, Subjugator. But, if you prefer your life to be subservient to the whims of another, I’m not one to stop you.”
“Your chains weight heavy dragging behind you.” Rhulk’s face contorts in a smile that is nothing but teeth and malice—it would have pricked her, hadn’t she heard that at least twenty times before. She stretches her neck back, eyes closed and face turned to the burning sky.
“Not by my own design,” she says calmly. “But you’ve always loved to call your shackles jewellery.”
“I will cure you of your ungratefulness.” He probably means this as a threat but it comes off rather weak, weaker still when he throws his glaive aside and lies down in the grass beside her perch. This has been a tiring day. The glow of the fire below dies down slowly and the sky begins to darken, pieces of the broken moon gliding through it like falling stars.
Somewhere out there her children are burning other cities, their might and mind tithing to her worm and feeding it richly. She feels Balwûr’s bitter poisons in the tips of her fingers if she pays close enough attention, hears the screams of creatures subdued under Malok’s halberd as they weave themselves into the universe’s resonant song and warp the chords discordant. The blood on her forearms begins to flake and dusts her lap red when she rubs it off.
Here, though, there are almost no screams anymore. Rhulk stretches his back and hums contentedly, nuzzling deeper into the grass and folding his hands behind his head. Savathûn feels his six eyes bore into her for a while, then close when it gets him no reaction. She just watches the stars.