"Maybe it isn't a mistake," Caelum said very, very quietly, words soft in their stumbling. It was as if every word was a footstep warily traversing upon thin ice, only the ice had already broken, he had already fallen into the cold deep. "Maybe I just want it to be one. That would be better, wouldn't it, Hadrian? Somehow that would be better than believing it was a thing destined, my role here now a thing long determined and my goddess could be so cruel to even her most beloved."
He fell quiet, not looking at the young scholar, but instead at the scattered sheets of paper on which every hour of his existence since his fall was charted, scrawled into a pathetic idea of a quest.
"As much as I want to believe it was a mistake, I am forced to accept the possibility that it might not have been and, thus, I am here for a reason, that the Bright Lady let me slip her grace and her grasp in order to achieve some portent purpose. But if that is true, then that purpose must exist beyond the confines of my own soul's advancement. I was already ascended. I am now less. And we do not exist to suffer. So what am I to achieve? Or is it only to outgrow my own hubris?"