gossamer of starlight - antelopunny (2024)

Chapter 1: 6.105.010.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.105.010.M42

“I am going away,” Yrliet says, with such calm poise that her Rogue Trader almost doesn’t hear it. Nods along while reading her reports, as if the words slip past her like how the gossamer of starlight flies across the voidship window, before their meaning finally hits her with the intensity of being rammed starboard side.

Tiffney von Valancius jerks her head up. “Pardon?”

“I am going away.” Yrliet repeats herself with the exact same equilibrium in her features. Only when she sees the way her elantach withers like a rotting rose does Yrliet realise she should clarify. “For a while, elantach.”

“Right, right.” Relief floods back into her elantach’s face, colour returning like rebellious bursts of starlight. “Should you need anything for your journey, let me know. I’ll make sure you’ll be well-supplied for your journey. Food, weapons, or a small voidship…”

“Thank you, elantach. But that won’t be necessary.” Humans have a way of jumping to conclusions, even ones that seem utterly baffling to Aeldari. Her elantach, with all her brightness and unceasing wonder, is no different-- but, in their time together, Yrliet has found each instance of her human idiosyncrasies more endearing than divisive. “You will only need to bring me to the Webway Gate on the Lilaethan.”

Though Tiffney had just promised her anything she needed, a look of concern now crosses her face. “I suppose that means you intend to travel through the webway? Are you sure that’s all you need? Not even any reinforcements to help you in case you run into trouble?”

“Haha.” Her laugh is light and airy, almost lost in the rumble of the iron bird that Tiffney calls her voidship. “I appreciate your concern.”

“I’m glad you can tell I’m concerned,” is all the Rogue Trader can grumble in response. “I won’t pry into why you need to journey on your own-- I understand your Path can bring you to places inconceivable to human minds, but… isn’t this dangerous?”

“Of course it is dangerous,” Yrliet replies, with such gentleness that sometimes she wonders if she will always see her elantach in similar tones to how other Aeldari see herself-- young, naive, always walking a tightrope between glory or oblivion. “Haven’t you noticed, elantach? Everything I have done since I have met you is absurdly dangerous.”

“Okay,” Tiffney relents, rather quicker than usual. “That’s true. But--”

Then, she stops, as if not sure what to ask of Yrliet. Silence is unbearable to many humans, Yrliet has learnt, but to her, it passes over in a patient instant, little flickers in the endless light of her elantach’s soul. “I expect a full report of your journey when you are back, Yrliet.” Then: “You will come back, won’t you?”

“I will,” Yrliet reassures her, for the hundredth, or maybe thousandth time. “Of course I will, elantach. As I promised.”

Chapter 2: 6.032.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.032.000.M41

Ten imperial years ago, a strange mon-keigh with a horribly messy braid of blonde hair stumbled into the governor’s gardens on the Lilaethan, before meeting Yrliet in the eyes and going: “That is a very weird mutant.”

“...Shereen,” the accessorised mon-keigh behind her quickly rasped, “I hate to be the one to tell you, or the esteemed governess, but that… is a xenos.”

“Oh.” Realisation flashed across the stranger’s face, and Yrliet only realised she was the Rogue Trader at the moment she broke out into a smile, rather than the usual look of terror, or hatred. “Wait, a real xenos! I’ve never met one before! What kind are you?”

Behind her, the old mon-keigh with greying hair rubbed his temples in exasperation.

It would come as a surprise to many today, but Yrliet did not have a good first impression of Tiffney von Valancius. She was an oddball, even amongst her kind, but Yrliet did not find that to be within her favour-- most mon-keigh were dim-witted and cruel, which made them predictable. Even the schemers, like the mon-keigh Heinrix and his Inquisition colleagues, had clear paths to negotiation: if they provide them enough benefit, they will let you keep your head, or even show you the way forward.

Mon-keigh are enemies to the Aeldari, but more than that, the mon-keigh were enemies to each other, and an unsaid amount of people in the Koronus Expanse were more than willing to dirty their hands with xenos alliances if that meant gaining power.

“So…” Tiffney’s first real conversation with Yrliet, however, followed absolutely none of the rules she had expected mon-keigh to abide by. “Yrliet, right? Can I ask you a question?”

Firstly: the Rogue Trader hadn’t announced herself. It was Yrliet’s first time on a mon-keigh vessel, and the constant noise of its engines juxtaposed with screeching gears made the usually alert Yrliet unaware of Tiffney’s presence until the mon-keigh had the gall to tap her on the shoulder. “Can you hear me? Hello?”

Yrliet responded by leaping as far away from Tiffney as virtually possible. Which, in Aeldari terms, meant she nearly sent herself falling off the voidship bridge, only stopped by a paltry handrail.

“Do not touch me!"

“Noted!” Tiffney instantly brought her arms up, which Yrliet had figured out was a mon-keigh gesture indicating surrender. “Sorry, I won’t do that again.”

For a while, neither of them did anything besides stare. Yrliet composed herself relatively quickly: the crinkles of surprise on her face smoothed out into neutral plains, and taut anger in her lips straightened into calm repose. Her initial exclamation had, unfortunately, attracted the attention of a few mon-keigh, who were now leaning over the barriers to stare at the both of them. No matter; she had already expected to be the subject of ignorant curiosity the moment she agreed to set foot on this voidship.

In contrast, Tiffney was squirming under Yrliet’s gaze. “I’m really sorry,” she apologised again, and Yrliet hadn’t been around for long, but she could already tell that Tiffney was not the figure of authority expected of a Rogue Trader. “I wanted to ask you a question. Is that alright?”

On the hanger overlooking them, Yrliet could faintly spy the old Seneschal mon-keigh staring at them with obvious worry, while the accessorised mon-keigh named Jae appeared to be collecting bets for some sort of wager. It seemed that some people were enjoying the spectacle.

Yrliet drew herself to her full height, about three whole heads above Tiffney, before responding. “Speak.”

“Thank you. Yrliet… what do you eat?”

The simplicity of the question made Yrliet tilt her head ever so slightly. “I am able to consume whatever you feed to the rest of your mon-keigh crew, elantach.”

“That’s good. I was worried we might accidentally poison you.”

“Or intentionally,” Yrliet added, not entirely a quip.

“Not intentionally. I’ll make sure your food isn’t tampered with in any way.”

“How shall you do that?”

“I can taste your food first.”

“Forgive my intrusion, Lord Captain.” The old mon-keigh interjected, walking down towards them and clapping the Rogue Trader on the shoulder. “But I must say that many more people want you poisoned than even the xenos. If you are so inclined, I may arrange for food testers for your xenos guest, but doing such a job yourself is far beneath you.”

Somehow, the realisation appeared to take Tiffney by surprise. “I see. In that case, do that, Abelard.”

Abelard, as Yrliet now remembered, nodded firmly before his eyes glanced upwards to Yrliet’s gaze. There was enough vehemence in his one good eye to burn her with it. “And I understand you are… curious, Lord Captain, but you had best not waste too much time conversing with the xenos.”

“Advice disregarded,” Tiffney said, so swiftly and assuredly that Yrliet didn’t even have time to process the elantach’s first statement. “I shall speak to whomever I like!”

“That, you shall,” Abelard sighed, and he turned away, leaving them alone.

The onlookers on the upper deck began to disperse, clearly no longer interested once the shouting had stopped. “Ah, well,” Tiffney began again, slightly less confident than a moment before, “if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine too. I understand most Aeldari have no desire to speak with mankind.”

“I will not deny that.” Yrliet folded her arms, a product of copying mon-keigh gestures to blend in on the Lilaethan. She believed this one indicated annoyance, or perhaps tiredness. Mon-keigh were not exactly uniform in their communication. “However, since you have come all this way to ask me something… let me ask you something in return.”

Oddly enough, even a request for a question seemed to make Tiffney rather pleased. Yes, this elantach was very strange. “By all means, Yrliet. Go ahead.”

“I am certain a simple search of your innumerable cogitators that dot this iron bird would have told you that people’s diet encompasses and even surpasses what the ordinary mon-keigh could dare themselves to eat. So why come all the way here to ask me something you could have easily found out yourself?” Yrliet’s head remained slightly co*cked, having felt somewhat confused throughout the conversation. “Or is mon-keigh information about our kind truly so woefully inadequate?”

“I could have definitely looked it up. But I wanted to talk to you,” Tiffney answered, and it was both straightforward and baffling at the same time.

Chapter 3: 6.373.010.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.373.010.M42

Approximately ten-point-three Imperial years later, Yrliet follows an obscure webway capillary stretching over Dargonus and lands gracefully on the windowsill outside Tiffney’s quarters.

The familiar flash of alien blue light immediately catches her elantach’s attention. Yrliet can hear someone shouting, then the sound of stumbling limbs; for a moment, her hands fly to her rifle, wondering if Tiffney is under attack.

But, quickly enough, she appears-- shoving open the door to her room, still dressed in her white night clothes. “You’re back!” She races forward towards the window, quickly pressing the button to draw the glass open. The moment a sliver of a gap opens in the glass, Tiffney sticks her hand through, with the eagerness of a man on a Desert World finding an oasis. “How did you know I was here? Nevermind-- come inside. It’s freezing out there.”

“Are you not going to ask me how I arrived? I thought that would be the most pertinent question.” Yrliet, who may never tire of her elantach’s odd priorities, takes Tiffney’s outstretched hand. The skin of her human hand is far colder than Yrliet’s own, or even the air of Dargonus-- it is just a difference in biology, but Yrliet remembers the first time she touched the Rogue Trader’s hand in realspace; it shocked her, like interlocking fingers with a bath of ice. For a moment, she had thought she was holding the hand of a corpse.

“Now that you’re inside, sure.” Closing the window behind Yrliet, Tiffney immediately points to the sky above. “That blue light that heralded your return… was that a webway portal?”

“Exactly so, elantach.” Yrliet gestures at the place where she had slipped back into realspace. Now that the momentary tear in the vein of reality has sealed, it looks the same as any other patch of tranquil night sky. “I discovered a stable Webway entrance right above your palace. I had never noticed it before. It appears newly formed.”

Tiffney perks up. “Oh!” Then, her fascination immediately gives way to horror. “...Oooh.”

“Yes. I had planned to walk to your quarters… in a way more conventional to humans, but when I noticed this entrance, I immediately changed course. If the Dark Ones were to use this entryway in another raid of theirs… it would put them right at the heart of your capital.” With a heaviness that ill befits what should be a joyful reunion, Yrliet steps back, not bearing to think of it for much longer. “I fear you may have to shift your base of operations on this planet elsewhere.”

“I’ll do that tomorrow,” Tiffney shrugs. “Shifting a castle is a small feat for a Rogue Trader. We can even use this castle as an ambush point. As for you, Yrliet… I am still expecting your full report.”

Yrliet opens her mouth, about to begin, when her elantach proceeds to instantly change her mind. “Actually, no. Have you eaten yet? Is there any food you miss having? You were gone for ninety-eight whole Terran days.”

“...Which is not a long time,” Yrliet clarifies, gently amused. “Especially to an Aeldari.”

“It’s a long time to me,” Tiffney argues back. “Anyway, even if you’re not hungry, I’m hungry.”

“If you are hungry, then…” Yrliet lets fleeting memories of a thousand previous meals wash through her, sieving out her favourites. “...I have always enjoyed the produce from the Lilaethan.”

Within ten minutes, over a dozen dishes of all kinds were laid across the length of Tiffney’s office, all sourced from Janus. Yrliet sometimes finds herself concerned about how naturally she has come to accept human excesses-- the strict rules and enforced discipline on the craftworld where she had spent most of her life meant that anyone who had skipped the evening meal was certainly not going to get a bedtime snack until the next kitchen opening. Much less have an entire banquet prepared for you at a moment’s notice. But her elantach’s happiness at treating Yrliet to luxuries far outweighs the slight shame she feels, and Tiffney’s happiness is her own.

Over a dozen servants have entered the room, all draping white tablecloth over a long banquet table, clearly carved out from the bark of a single massive tree. “Thank you,” she still remembers to say, over ten years into a role that should have robbed her of all humility.

As the servants close the door behind them, Yrliet steps out of hiding with the grace of someone who has hidden themselves a million times. “You don’t have to hide, you know.” Tiffney pushes the platter of fresh fruit towards her, still remembering Yrliet’s preferences. “Everyone here is already well-aware that I spend time with xenos.”

“Even so, I prefer to avoid their gaze.” Yrliet seats herself to Tiffney’s right side. She gingerly folds a slice of cabbage over little savoury fruits and berries, enjoying the crunch of fresh green leaves. “As much as your kind has surprised me with your depth, I still find most humans to be miserably ignorant. It is never pleasant to be met with bloodthirsty glares from anyone, but especially so from a wild beast you can never hope to reason with.”

“I can kill anyone who glares at you,” Tiffney hums casually between mouthfuls of roasted meat. The cheerful brutality in her offer forces Yrliet to remember her elantach is still a human, no matter how exceptional. “That will teach them.”

Yrliet ties a little knot in the stringy cabbage leaf, wrapping the fruits into a ball before bringing it to her mouth. Tiffney, who has long become used to Yrliet’s very alien Asuryani table manners, no longer regards her simple act of polite eating with wide-eyed fascination, which Yrliet sometimes finds herself nostalgically reminiscing. “I would rather you not, elantach.”

“If you say so.” Any notion of violence is whisked away from Tiffney just as easily as it arrives. “Now, it’s time for your report, Yrliet. Tell me everything interesting you found during your journey.”

“If we are going by that criteria, elantach, I am afraid I do not have much to report.”

“Really? Surely you didn’t just flounder around the webway doing nothing in all that time?”

“One may ‘flounder around the webway’ for much longer if they are not familiar in navigating its labyrinthine veins and twisting capillaries.”

“So…” Tiffney raises her eyebrow. “You’re telling me you did nothing.”

“Not entirely.” Yrliet thinks about how she would never accept such a snarky response from anyone besides her elantach and smiles.

Tiffney’s fingers slip away from her nearly carnivorous plate of food and towards the platter of fruits. “What did you do, then?”

“While hunting for food, I managed to fell five creatures with a single shot, which improved on my previous record of four.”

“...Four?” Tiffney makes a murmur of slight disbelief. “And I thought that one time you killed three cultists at once was impressive. Here, Yrliet--”

Suddenly, her elantach brought up a ball of fruits wrapped in tied leaves, just like the one Yrliet had just made. “Did I do it right? The knot you tie is rather complicated. I had to practise.”

“This…” Somehow, Tiffney manages to surprise Yrliet, even to this day. It is one thing to make a cute imitation of an Aeldari dining etiquette and another thing entirely to replicate it almost perfectly. She had never taught her elantach about how or why she eats food the way she does; Tiffney must have learnt purely from years of careful observation.

“...It could be better,” Yrliet decides to say, even though the clear fondness in her voice obviously betrays her true feelings. “The final twist in the knot should be in the other direction.”

“How can you even notice something like that?” Tiffney huffs, only a little annoyed. “I never even knew a knot could be so complicated till I started trying.”

“It is complicated,” Yrliet admits with a chuckle. “I am already impressed at your accuracy, elantach. I had believed this knot would be impossible for a broad-fingered species to make.”

Tiffney’s eye twitches. “A broad-fingered… Yrliet, are you calling me fat?”

“I am not calling you fat, elantach.” Yrliet can’t even hide how funny she finds Tiffney’s reaction to be. “I am calling your entire species fat.”

“You are absolutely insufferable,” Tiffney responds, and she stuffs her ball of fruit into Yrliet’s laughing mouth.

It takes her by surprise, for a little while. Not Tiffney shutting her up, because she deserved that, somewhat--

--it’s the momentary feeling of Tiffney’s knuckle gracing Yrliet’s mouth, soft and very much accidental. It is scarred, Yrliet only now realises-- the ice-cold skin of her knuckles-- very slightly, noticeable only when touching the sensitive skin of Yrliet’s upper lip rather than the sinews of her thin hands. Those knuckle scars are punch wounds, most likely. Not at all unexpected for her elantach. Tiffney did have a bad habit of punching hard surfaces.

“Sorry.” Only when Tiffney apologises does Yrliet realise how quiet she’d gotten. “My bad. I didn’t mean to.”

Yrliet tries to speak, before she remembers that her mouth is full of food. She swallows it, quickly, knowing a few seconds of stress can feel like hours to a human. “I know, elantach.” It wasn’t a bad feeling, just-- and it’s not that Yrliet hates it, not at all, but--

“I don’t mind,” Yrliet finds herself saying, after every neuron fires off in her brain at once. “I… don’t mind. …Do you mind?”

“N-no,” Tiffney sputters. Yrliet doesn’t think she’s heard her elantach sound this nervous in a long time. “I don’t mind at all.”

“Good,” is all Yrliet gives as warning before grabbing Tiffney’s right arm by the wrist. She presses the back of Tiffney’s hand onto her lips, almost abruptly, like she knows she might change her mind if she dallies for too long.

Yrliet finds her scarred knuckles again: small, round, hardly noticeable. She knows very little about human physiology, but she would wager that there are many more new scars than old. Slowly, she shifts her head, slowly brushing her lips across the whole length of Tiffney’s right hand, memorising the dotted bumps on her hands, the way each scar juxtaposes itself against elastic skin.

Her elantach’s hand was… soft, so much so that Yrliet had to fight the churning wrongness that lurches inside her. Because hands are not supposed to be soft. Hands are supposed to be limbs of pure muscle, efficient and lightning-fast, not spongy and broad. Aeldari hands only get soft when they are dying.

But Tiffney is not an Aeldari. Her flesh gives way slightly when Yrliet applies pressure to her hand and that is normal. How did she fail to notice this before? She’s taken Tiffney’s hand hundreds of times. But perhaps there were always too many things going on for Yrliet to pay attention-- the low temperature of her body, or the tightness of her grip. Tiffney always held on a little tighter than she needed to. Like she expected Yrliet to be blown away by the wind, or the whirr of the voidship engines-- scattered across the galaxy and lost to a million stars.

…How long has she been holding Tiffney’s hand hostage?

Yrliet lets go, though the memory of human skin pressed against her lips lingers still. “You have many new scars on your hand,” she declares, totally matter-of-fact. “Is anything the matter, elantach?”

Tiffney does not answer.

Tiffney is staring at Yrliet like she’s grown two heads. Her face is a shade of crimson that Yrliet didn’t even realise was physically possible for her.

“I… yes? Come again?” Tiffney then blinks rapidly, as if she forgot to do so for a while. “What did you say?”

“Have you been punching walls again, elantach?” Yrliet tilts her head to the side, the way she always does when she is confused. “If there is anything troubling you… now, I am here to cleanse your soul whenever you wish.”

“How did you even figure that out?” Tiffney withdraws her arm, and she holds up her right wrist with her left hand, almost as if Yrliet’s touch had wounded it. Only now does Yrliet realise she’s shaking. “I don’t do it very often. Only a little bit, when I’m particularly frustrated. You don’t need to worry.”

“I will always worry about you,” Yrliet answers, and her words are so earnest that it seems to hit Tiffney with the sharpness of a gunshot.

Her elantach stands up from her seat. “I have to excuse myself,” she says, and Yrliet never stops Tiffney when she needs to go, but she has also learnt that humans cut their conversations short in this way when they are too emotional-- much like Aeldari. “Sorry. Yrliet, I… sorry.”

“Elantach?”

“I’ll shift the castle tomorrow.” Tiffney’s statement is too feeble to be a reminder. It feels more like an attempt at distracting herself. “We will talk tomorrow. I need to sleep. I have a lot of work to do.”

Then, Tiffney dashes into her room and closes the door behind her, with all the forcefulness of someone retreating. Yrliet sits in silence with only the mostly untouched banquet for company, as well as a sinking feeling that she has somehow done something wrong.

Chapter 4: 6.039.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.039.000.M41

For a mon-keigh, the elantach was a remarkably good shot.

“Tagged, now hit him!” Tiffney’s words were instantly met with a response from Yrliet’s own rifle, and the opposing rebel was brought down with her quick follow-up. “Perfect hit!”

“That should be the last of them.” The gaping maw to Sha’eil that called herself Idira retracted her staff before flicking a stray piece of mon-keigh innards from her nose. “Ugh, I cannot wait to step into the shower.”

Tiffney glanced down at her own armour and grimaced. “You and I both, Idira. Can your voices direct us to the nearest river?”

“Not how they work, Lord Captain.” Then, Idira’s head jerked suddenly to the side, and she pointed her staff in a seemingly random direction. “Nevermind. That way, apparently. Shall we go?”

The three-eyed one that was even more entrenched in Sha’eil nodded along in agreement. “I read that savage civilizations congregate around waterways. We may find the rebels there, and end this madness with a swift strike.”

“Is it just me, shereen, or is our sweet Navigator slowly becoming a little more, ah, how do I say this…” Jae took the elantach by her hands, and whatever they said, Yrliet did not hear. She followed them in silence while the mon-keigh talked amongst themselves about seemingly pointless and inconsequential things.

Not that Yrliet was being ignored, of course. They would be complete fools to ignore her. Indeed, she could feel the interrogator mon-keigh Heinrix’s eyes boring into her at all times, and the venom in his gaze made her almost miss Abelard in comparison. If she did not need all of them alive to stop the wickedness of Sai'lanthresh from consuming the Lilaethan, she would have shot him out of sheer irritation alone.

As the violent thought crossed her mind, she tapped her spirit stone to wish it away. No amount of senseless murder would help her situation, nor do good for soul; not even if the recipient was a mon-keigh. At the very least, Heinrix wasn’t the most annoying member of the Rogue Trader’s retinue (that would certainly be Argenta), though that was not saying much.

“Water!” Tiffney broke through the foliage and nearly slipped on the muddy bank, coming just short of the small river that cut through the forest in front of them. “Oh, thank the Emperor, get all of this blood and bits off me right now…”

Idira scooped from the river and splashed her face, all while watching Tiffney scrub herself with much more fervour. “Now, I understand wanting to get rid of the gunk, but you seem quite enthusiastic about cleaning yourself. Is the Lord Captain squeamish about a little blood?”

“It’s not a ‘little’ blood,” Tiffney argued, which didn’t exactly deny Idira’s question. “I’m an officer-- I kill things from a distance. And when I told Heinrix to cut that guy down, I didn’t expect his everything to go everywhere.”

“Any good commanding officer should be prepared to drag themselves through the mud,” Heinrix responded, taking his eyes off Yrliet to give Tiffney a levelled stare. “Unless the Rogue Trader sees herself above such duties.”

“I should be,” Tiffney grumbled honestly. “I didn’t even want to be the… Cassia, do you need help with that? I’ll hold your staff while you wash your hands.”

Cassia, who was trying to balance her staff against a tree without it falling into the muddy riverbank, looked rather embarrassed to be noticed. “Thank you, Lord Captain… I’m ever sorry for my clumsiness.”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed, dear Cassia!” Jae chimed in with a rather cheeky expression. “The Lord Captain is a gentlewoman. She would do whatever an esteemed lady of House Orsellio wishes.”

Tiffney rolled her eyes. “Not everything, Jae.” For emphasis, she flicked her hand up, splashing Jae ever-so-slightly.

In retaliation, Jae proceeded to splash Tiffney with enough force that the elantach was spitting water by the end. “Agh! Hey! I didn’t hit you THAT hard, did I?”

“What are you two--” Just as Heinrix tried to interject, Tiffney flipped her hand around and splashed the cloth of his armoured leggings, leaving them cold and sticky. “...Really, Rogue Trader?”

The way all the mon-keigh pattered around the water made Yrliet’s patience thinner than it already was. There was an active rebellion on the planet that was showing countless signs of Sai'lanthresh corruption, and instead of forging onwards to end the threat, they would let their momentum screech to a stop to-- wash up? Not even that-- they were just-- playing by the waterside?

“So--” And then, Idira made the choice of turning around to address Yrliet. “Your name is… Yrliet, yes?”

Though she knew it was the closest approximation a mon-keigh could make of her name, she still cringed slightly at the roughness of her vowels in their mouths. “Yes.”

“Sooo…” Idira gestured wildly in the air, as if trying to think up something to say. “Are you going to just stand there and stare at us joylessly? You’re even worse than the Inquisitor’s dog.”

Tiffney tilted her head back before Yrliet even processed Idira’s rudeness. “Idira…” Behind her, the aforementioned ‘Inquisitor’s dog’ cleared his throat loudly, though Heinrix looked less annoyed and more tired than anything.

“Alright, Lord Captain. Let me try again.” Idira cleared her throat, and when Yrliet stared unblinkingly at her, she seemed to take it as a challenge and stare back. Why are the people in this crew even weirder than the average mon-keigh? “I have to admit, I am extremely curious… what do you do for fun, Yrliet?”

Nothing to do with you, Yrliet managed to bite back. Though she processed the question at lightspeed, the words lingered on her tongue for longer than usual.

…What DID she do for fun?

There was meditation, but a necessity probably wasn’t what the mon-keigh thought of as ‘fun’. She used to enjoy performances by the Rillietann whenever they stopped at Crudarach, but that was a long time ago. In fact, she felt that she had well and truly parted with the comforts of craftworld life even before…

Idira leaned in closer. “Hellooo?”

“Nothing,” Yrliet ended up saying.

“Nothing?” Idira’s eyebrow arched. “Are you sure?”

Yrliet narrowed her eyes. “Yes, mon-keigh. I am sure.”

“You’re telling me we got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fight alongside a xenos, and we got the most boring one in the entire galaxy?”

Yrliet took great efforts to keep a scowl from stretching over her serene face. Behind Idira, Jae was laughing into the back of her hand, clearly just as amused by her response. “Yes,” Yrliet decided to double down, glaring at Idira the whole while. “What you call ‘boring’ is my focus on my Path. Fear not; my supposed lack of interests means I have had many years to hone my skills in killing those who cross me.”

Idira immediately took a step back, clearly getting the hint. “Yikes,” she muttered, turning away. “Point taken.”

“Be nicer to her,” Tiffney chided, and Yrliet gave her a rather confused glance. “We need to get along if we want to help save Janus.”

Though, at that moment, Yrliet truly didn’t know how she would ever get along with these mon-keigh.

Chapter 5: 6.374.010.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.374.010.M42

The next day, Tiffney opens her bedroom door and blinks in surprise. “Did you really eat it all, Yrliet?”

“I do not waste food,” Yrliet responds. Beside here, a dozen large dishes sat, empty and clean.

“That is… impressive.” Rubbing her eyes, Tiffney takes another look, as if she didn’t believe it the first time. She’s still in her white nightdress, crumpled from what looks like a night of restless sleep. “And terrifying. Just how can you put all of that away without ballooning to five times your size?”

“We Aeldari are able to metabolise food as quickly as we eat. That way, we are able to feast when food is plentiful and endure when famine strikes.” There is also the added fact that Yrliet hasn’t eaten in quite a while, but her elantach doesn’t need to know that. It takes a long time for an Aeldari to starve, but once their energy runs out, the body begins to eat itself very, very quickly. And Aeldari don’t have much of a body for themselves to eat until there’s nothing left.

Not something she would want to discuss with Tiffney. Especially when her mind was still lingering on the odd ending to their night.

“You really are alien,” Tiffney says to herself, and it is an obvious statement, but something about the way she says it makes Yrliet feel inexplicably sad. “I wish humans could do that. It would simplify our logistics if we could just feed everyone onboard at once, rather than go through all the work of shipping and preparing food. Just have a big party whenever we make planetfall. And, speaking of parties…”

She’s walking in front of Yrliet now, eyes focused on a data-slate in her hands. “It turns out that shifting a castle is not as easy as I expected. When I sent out the order last night, all the noble families started sending messages about how many ‘fond memories’ were made at this castle, blah blah blah, and how sad they would be to have meetings in a different place…”

Yrliet tilts her head. “Did you not tell them the reason why?”

“I don’t think a single of these highborn idiots know what a ‘webway’ is. And, if I started talking about the Drukhari again, they would spiral into complete panic. So…” Tiffney shrugs. “No, I didn’t tell them. It’s easier that way. Besides, my word is law, regardless of reasoning. Still, I should at least try to pacify their performative sadness about this change.”

“If I am assuming correctly, does that mean you will be holding a celebration here?”

“You guessed it. I asked the Master of Ceremonies to have one planned for tonight… short notice, yes, but it’s not like anyone in these families has anything better to do.” And then, Tiffney turns to Yrliet with a smile. “Would you like to join me?”

Yrliet straightens up slightly. “...In what capacity?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to make you talk to anyone,” Tiffney reassures her. Yrliet tries not to make her relief look too visible. “I’d just like to spend time with you. Additionally, there HAVE been a few more attempts on my life than usual.”

That definitely catches Yrliet’s attention. “Is that so?” Her elantach’s tone had been joking and casual, but the words alone are enough to make Yrliet feel a flash of rage wash over her face. “Then I will protect you with my life.”

“You don’t need to go THAT far.” Tiffney puts down the data-slate and sits opposite to Yrliet. Her fingers inconspicuously trace the back of her right hand, as if reminiscing. “And I’m not just inviting you to a party so you can stress out about guarding me, alright? You can have fun too. There’s going to be great music, performances, and food… if you’re even able to eat anything after last night. I also invited all the ground-side crew, but I’m not sure who’s coming yet. Probably Idira… Jae’s come back to travelling with us for a while, by the way. She got herself in trouble. Again. Actually, now that I think of it, I haven’t seen Abelard for ages, but I’m sure he’ll make time.”

Yrliet isn’t really paying attention. Yrliet is watching her elantach draw circles on the patch of skin where Yrliet had pressed against her lips to look for scars. She cannot see them, because they are small and Tiffney has access to medical care far beyond the norm, but those scars are still there, fresh and newly-etched in the scarce few months they’ve spent apart. What happened in the time between? Yrliet wasn’t gone for that long, surely? She knows that humans move fast, but…

It makes Yrliet think that something else might be going on. Like dark clouds ahead, or the rolling thunder of a storm brewing, too far away to see but still screaming signs of its existence.

“Tiffney.” Yrliet calls her name with emphasis, and Tiffney goes quiet, but doesn’t quite look up to meet her gaze. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Tiffney f*cking lies. Yrliet stares harder. “...I’ll tell you later, but--”

There’s a knock at the door. “Lord Captain? The Inquisitor requests your presence.”

“--Give me five minutes!” Immediately, Tiffney’s snaps back to business mode, and she dashes back into her room while saying something about getting changed. “Heinrix probably has something important to tell me, or he wouldn’t have come all the way down here. Let me talk to him first-- unless you want to?”

“You already know the answer to that, elantach.” Yrliet may not despise Heinrix as much as when they first met, but she isn’t going to go out of her way to meet him.

“Then you can take your leave first. Or stand menacingly at the doorway and stare daggers at him the whole time, if you’d prefer-- where is my bloody belt?”

When she opens the door, half of her uniform is still unbuttoned, and her hair is a complete mess. She’s so frazzled that she’s probably already forgotten about what Yrliet had asked her. Her question, if Tiffney had ever intended to answer, is left unattended like a toy collecting dust on the shelf.

“Elantach, you are…” Completely unpresentable, she almost says. Even by human standards.

With a sigh, Yrliet stands up and gently wraps her hands around the dishevelled blonde mop of Tiffney’s hair. Yrliet remembers the first time she grabbed a human by the hair, she was shocked by the coarseness of human hair. The way it went taut and almost gritted against the skin of her fingers-- so unlike the silken softness of Aeldari hair. Like animal fur, she first thought, all those moons ago. Tiffney’s hair in particular was utterly untameable; there were curls at every angle and knots all over, matted like a fur rug.

But when it came to Tiffney, the nature of human hair no longer bothered her. Instead, Yrliet slowly unties each knot with her spindly fingers, so delicately that Tiffney might wonder if she is afraid of hurting her by accident. “I fail to understand how your hair can become so tangled in just one day,” she mutters, pulling Tiffney’s hair back slightly to begin tying a braid.

“And I fail to understand how you can undo a hair knot with just your fingers,” Tiffney laughs, even though she should know the reason. Or maybe she can’t. Maybe the dexterity of an Aeldari is an inaccessible concept to her, no matter how hard she tries to understand. “But I know you tie the best braids. You’re amazing.”

What Yrliet doesn’t tell her: she was far from the best at styling hair. She had never been the type to care about her appearance beyond the barest necessity, but sometimes, she wishes she paid more attention to all her brothers and sisters in Crudarach. Had watched and learnt from them as they weaved their hair with glittering jewels folded between fine silks. She wishes she could do that for Tiffney: tie her hair in the intricate patterns of Aeldari art, like knitting tapestries with the very gossamer of starlight. She wishes she could show her elantach the pieces of her home outside the scattered remembrances in her soul, or the war-treasure of Tiffney’s predecessor. She wishes there was anything left of Crudarach besides a memory.

Instead, all she says is: “You think too highly of me, elantach.”

“Nonsense. It’s much more likely that I still underestimate you,” Tiffney hums, and only one person in the room believes that.

When she can run her hands all the way through, Yrliet begins parting Tiffney’s hair and tying her braid. She finishes up quickly, knowing that Heinrix does not like to wait (though he may be willing to endure it for longer if it was Tiffney). “That shall do,” Yrliet says, and when her fingers slip out of Tiffney’s hair, her elantach makes an almost imperceptible sigh. “At least you do not look like you have just tumbled out of a warp storm.”

“Lord Captain?” Again, there’s a knock on the door, significantly more panicked this time. “The Inquisitor is marching through, and we can’t stop him!”

“Just let him through!” Tiffney barks a command in response, and she brings herself to her feet. “Open the door!”

The doors to her chamber fly open with a slam, and Heinrix is standing on the other end. He looks a few decades older than Yrliet remembers. Has it really been that long? “Tiffney, is there not a single servant of yours with a modicum of common sense? Why do they not understand the urgency of an Inquisitor saying that there is business that the Rogue Trader must attend to…”

As Heinrix’s eyes fall on Yrliet, she stares back. His eyes widen ever so slightly in response. “And here I was thinking that she’d finally left,” he says, with less malice and more surprise. “I cannot believe I am saying this, but you may be what the Rogue Trader needs to come to her senses. At the very least, for the sake of self-preservation.”

“What do you mean?” Yrliet turned her head to Tiffney. “What is he talking about, elantach?”

Tiffney’s shoulders are locked stiffly, and she doesn’t answer Yrliet. “Heinrix…”

“The Imperium has been keeping tabs on your weaponised C’tan Shard--”

Is he speaking of the Yngir? Yrliet barely has time to process Heinrix’s words before a rare snarl rolls across Tiffney’s face. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Inquisitor van Calox. I am not getting rid of Nomos, no matter how much you tell me to!”

--Is that what this is about?

Yrliet steps back, knowing full well she has no place in this argument. Still, she remains her steely gaze at Heinrix as he retorts. “Mistress von Valancius, there will soon come a point where I will no longer be asking.”

“I don’t care about what the Imperium thinks! The Imperium never did a damn thing for me!” She’s shouting now, all while the doors are still flung open. Her voice resonates into the hallway, and the servants quiver with the tremble of her fury. “And you know damn well Nomos is more than a weapon to me! I will protect them with my life! You can go all the way back to the Golden Throne and tell everyone to take their ‘unbeatable fleet’ and shove it all the way up their--”

“I am not talking about that.” With a signal from his hands, the servants finally shut the door close, affording them a modicum of privacy. “I will keep this brief. If you want to keep your dynasty intact and the heads of all you care for firmly attached to their bodies--” --And he’s looking at Yrliet, now, with his voice lowering to a harsh whisper-- “--then you need to help me by at least pretending to be loyal to the Imperium. Put on a song and dance, whatever it takes-- it will allow me to report something remotely positive in the next cycle and buy me time to think up a more permanent plan to prevent a full-scale invasion of the Koronus Expanse. Or do you want a war with the Imperium, Tiffney? It’s your choice.”

The room falls silent. Heinrix’s words swirl around Yrliet’s mind with the consistency of creeping magma, burning her with the realisation of the situation.

“Oh.” Then, Tiffney scratches her head sheepishly, letting out a slightly nervous chuckle. “Hah. Hahah. Alright, alright. You should’ve just said that earlier, Heinrix. Sorry for the shouting.”

“I tried to.” All of the sudden, Heinrix’s rapid ageing makes a lot of sense. “Why do you always assume I am working against you? If you do not recall, Tiffney, I was on Epitaph with you.”

“You were?” The faux-confusion in Tiffney’s voice seems to fly over Heinrix’s head, and he gives her a pointed look before she laughs again. “Yes, yes, I remember, Heinrix. I just… a lot of things have changed since then. It’s been a long time.”

Yrliet tilts her head. Not really. I can recall those endless seconds of Nomos wrestling for control over the Yngir as if it happened just moments before. “It has been a long time,” Heinrix concurs, and his eyes fall onto the empty dishes over the banquet table. “Apologies, I can’t help but ask… do you two always have such a luxurious breakfast?”

“No,” Yrliet says first. “The elantach had--”

“Yeah, and I’ll have a dinner banquet a thousand times bigger at the party tonight!” Tiffney throws her arms open with a bark of laughter. “Speaking of which, want to join in the fun, Heinrix? Seeing that I need to put on a ‘show and dance’ and all about loyalty. Having the Inquisitor of the Koronus Expanse at a celebration of mine would be a great way to do that, don’t you think?”

Subtly, the muscles on Heinrix’s face tighten. It feels like he is trying to stop himself from saying something. “That,” he begins, failing to hold back, “must be why you are growing fat.”

Tiffney’s blade falls from the sleeve of her uniform and swings itself to the side of Heinrix’s neck in an instant. Heinrix, too, draws his gun and points the barrel right at her midriff with a single, unthinking swipe of his hand. Yrliet doesn’t react; this is hardly the first time Heinrix has pushed Tiffney to holding him at knifepoint.

“Care to repeat that, Inquisitor van Calox?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he says, accompanied with a grin and a heaping of sarcasm so thick that even Yrliet can taste it. “You were saying something about a party?”

“I have half the mind to disinvite you,” Tiffney grumbles as she draws her knife back into her clothes. “Or just kill you right now. I think that would make my life a lot easier.”

“Easier, perhaps.” Heinrix puts his gun back on his belt. “Quite a bit shorter, too.”

“Get out of my room and come back at the nineteenth hour, local time.” Tiffney waves Heinrix out of the room with a huff. “If you have any more bad news regarding the Imperium, please hold it until the celebrations are well and done.”

As Heinrix leaves the room and the doors shut behind him, Tiffney deflates into her chair and sighs. “Yrliet, be honest. Am I getting fat?”

“...As I said before. From my perception, all humans are--” Then, Yrliet watches Tiffney sink even further, and decides to say something else without disobeying her command to tell the truth. “But if you truly wish to know… I think you are beautiful as you are, elantach.”

Tiffney tilts her head back to look up at Yrliet. “Very elegant way of dodging the question.”

“You are as breathtaking as the ancient works of Arestheina, drawing such a galaxy of prismatic colours and lights that you leave none for all the blinking stars in the darkness.” Yrliet then smiles knowingly to herself. “Is that better?”

To that, Tiffney stares at Yrliet wordlessly for a few seconds, before compelling herself to look away. “Yes,” she whispers, suddenly quiet. “Yes, that will do.”

Chapter 6: 6.041.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.041.000.M41

Thoughts about not getting along with the mon-keigh all washed away in the torrential shock that the next enemies shooting at her were Aeldari.

A pointed note to take into account: before her time on the Lilaethan, Yrliet had never killed an Asuryani before. She had definitely seen them die, and she had certainly shot her fair share of marauding Drukhari. Her people had nothing to do with the war between Craftworld Ulthwé and the Jade Knife Kabal of Commorragh, but the fighting spanned across most of the webway, leaving Drukhari raiders scattered in every corner. Many saw a small band of Asuryani on the Path of the Outcast as easy prey. And she spared them no quarter.

“So--” Just hours after washing in the river, Tiffney was drenched in a whole new layer of blood and guts, all which looked sickeningly Aeldari. No, she wasn’t used to killing Asuryani at all. It made her feel ill in a way she never thought possible. “Any clue where your people are shooting at us, Yrliet?”

“No,” Yrliet answered, not quite paying attention. “I… they are aware of my duties and that I had been working amongst the mon-keigh. My mission was stated clearly by the Farseer to all. My word should have been enough to stay their hand.”

Tiffney looked away from Yrliet’s gaze. “Looks like something might’ve happened to your troupe while you were away. Judging by the signs of Slaanesh corruption everywhere…”

“Impossible.” Yrliet said that a little too loudly, like she was trying to convince herself. “We must find Muaran. I will talk to him. I will resolve this.” And now, she was certainly trying to convince herself, because for all her talents, being able to persuade anyone to do anything with words alone was certainly not one of them.

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise, when they find Muaran and he dismisses every one of Yrliet’s arguments, too blinded by hatred of what was right in front of him to accept the looming threat of the Chaos God that loomed beneath. Yrliet had never been good at words. It was obvious that she would not start being good even in the face of impending Chaos.

What was a surprise, then, was how deftly the Rogue Trader dealt with it instead.

“We shall do things another way: I shall grant my protection to this form of alliance between xenos and representatives of Humanity.” Tiffney looked extremely pleased with herself for saying that, as if totally blind to the way all her mon-keigh companions turn to stare at her in abject disbelief. “Together we shall destroy Vistenza and her associates, and then humans and Aeldari will flourish on Janus under my patronage!”

“Throne preserve me,” Heinrix muttered, quietly enough that only Yrliet could hear him. “Does she not realise that… this new Rogue Trader is either a tried and through heretic, or she is the stupidest woman I’ve ever met.”

As the mon-keigh reacted in shock, something else stirred in Yrliet’s mind. Tiffney von Valancius was perhaps not the stupidest, but the strangest mon-keigh she had ever met; she acted in a way clearly unbefitting of her station, and seemed interested in Yrliet’s kind in a way that didn’t involve the usual mon-keigh interest of wanting to kill them all. After all, she had gone out of her way to ask Yrliet questions about her food, offered to poison test it herself, and then she was willing to parley with the Farseer before giving her approval for an alliance, in spite of how he was controlling the minds of the mon-keigh rebels in his command.

--Alright, perhaps she was just a particularly stupid mon-keigh, but--

“Wait, elantach. Before you leave these forests forever…” Yrliet stepped forward, giving Tiffney a long, studying look, while Tiffney looked back with a friendly smile. And she had definitely seen a mon-keigh smile like that before, of course, but never at her, no; and definitely never because of her. “Take me with you. To the distant suns. The--”

She had thought to appeal to the elantach’s seemingly magnanimous nature with the story of Crudarach’s demise. Offer up a reward, if that would help.

Instead, Tiffney clapped her hands together while Yrliet was still mid-sentence and declared: “I have always wanted to add a xenos to my retinue! Welcome, welcome!”

“--I haven’t even finished,” Yrliet added with a slightly scathing look, and Tiffney, little elantach, could only respond with a laugh, bright and crinkled at the edges like blooming flowers. “I have something important you must do for me. To agree before hearing me out is utterly reckless, elantach.”

“It’s fine. Whatever you need, I’ll get it done for you,” Tiffney responded, with all the irrational foolishness that mon-keigh are known for-- and Yrliet had no way of knowing this yet, but Tiffney will absolutely, truly keep her word, to the ends of the universe.

Chapter 7: 6.375.010.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.375.010.M42

Jae arrives first, practically slamming through the front door before saying: “Shereen, you should have given me much more than a few hours’ notice for a party! I had to scramble to find something perfect!”

“I kept telling her that she could just wear anything,” Idira sighs, walking in behind her. “If I didn’t drag her out after she tore through her third wardrobe, we would’ve walked in ten days late.”

“I can definitely see that happening,” Tiffney laughs, all while reaching out to hug the two of them. “I’m so glad you two could make it! Did you manage to get Vigdis off the ship, too?”

Idira scoffs. “Lord Captain, you know damn well that the ship could start falling apart by the seams while setting itself on fire, and she would still refuse to get off.”

“That does just sound like the average day on the von Valancius flagship, Idira. Really, with all we’ve been through, shereen, I’m surprised it’s still in one piece.” Jae smiles. “Well, in theory. And, speaking of things staying in one piece… I am glad to see that you are alive and well, Yrliet!”

Yrliet stirs. She had been leaning against the wall, concentrating only on the air around her elantach and any possible points of entry for an attacker, till Jae’s words dragged her back to the present time. “I find joy in seeing you both again,” she replies courteously, and not dishonestly. The ensuing years had at least made them friends with each other, albeit ones that could easily begin shooting at each other without her elantach’s intervention. “Have your journeys through the stars been as exciting as you have hoped?”

Idira lets out a soft laugh. “You could say that. By the way, Lord Captain, Werserian should be here in about…”

As the door opens again, Tiffney jerks her head up with a gasp. “You’re here!”

Yrliet watches from the sidelines as Tiffney reunites with her old Seneschal. For a moment, she notes that Abelard had begun to age much faster once he had left her elantach’s service-- was the political scene on Dargonus even more stressful than the constant danger by Tiffney’s side?

Well. From the little Yrliet has observed, that did make sense.

“--And Mistress Yrliet,” Abelard greets her as well, fully revealing the way new wrinkles had stretched across the expanse of his skin, especially concentrated on the edges of his lips. Being with his family either gave him much more to smile or cry about. “I see you have returned from your journey. The Lord Captain has been expecting your return.”

Yrliet responds with a polite nod, but before she can say anything else, her elantach interrupts. “I told you, Abelard, you can just call me by my first name now!” Tiffney wraps her shoulder around Abelard, patting him on the back. “You know, like I asked you to when we first met.”

“With all due respect, Your Ladyship, it is difficult not to title you as per proper protocols of reverence, even on your direct orders--”

“You are retired now, aren’t you?” Tiffney laughs, a bit like an exasperated daughter trying to convince her stubborn old father of something they can never agree on. “Come on, let’s go inside. Clementia’s been waiting for you.”

When Tiffney brings the human guests deeper into the palace, Yrliet leans back against the wall, observing their backs as they disappear into the grand hall. For now it appeared that everything was going smoothly.

Until Yrliet heard the tell-tale opening of a webway portal from behind her.

With one action, she kicks the door to her elantach’s room open, leaping inside and closing it shut before anyone else notices. Her rifle flies to her eye level in a single moment. The scope zooms into the window, and she finds…

…Oh, of course.

Marazhai lands perfectly on the windowsill, fingers poised to punch through the glass. “Do not break it!” Their shared language slips out of Yrliet’s tongue harshly as she jumps to the side, pressing the button to open the window.

He slips through the opening gap, landing silently on the floor below. There are fresh gouges on his skin-armour, gashes dancing across the length of his back. It seems that he has just arrived from a fight.

“Dear cousin!” And being injured has never deterred him. In fact, he seems more energetic than ever, soul stuffed full with whatever horror he had just been inflicting on some poor lifeform. “And here I was thinking that you’d finally gotten bored of mon-keigh life and ran away.”

“Were you even invited?” Yrliet scans the wounds on his back. She shouldn’t ask what he’s been doing. Nothing good, clearly.

“What’s with the suspicion? Of course your dear ‘elantach’ had invited me!” He puts particular emphasis on Tiffney’s title, delivering it in human inflection and an obviously mocking tone. “Now, are you aware that there is a webway--”

“I already told her, Dark One. You can save your breath.”

“Oh, you are such a killjoy.” Marazhai sighs, rolling his shoulders as he waltzes towards the door-- from the confidence in his stride, he must still remember the layout of the palace from the day when he razed it to the ground. “You should have at least given me the chance to offer her any… alternative arrangements to--”

“I do not care.”

“You are so short-tempered today,” Marazhai points out, more amused than anything. It makes Yrliet’s face feel even hotter from building rage. “Dear cousin, is something the matter? You know, you can hardly afford to let yourself be consumed by your unchecked emotions when your soul is already being syphoned away as it is.”

His frank declaration of something she had been purposefully willing herself to ignore may just be the tipping point. “If you continue to try my patience, Dark One, I am afraid I may have to disinvite you by my own means.”

“Is that a threat?” A thrill flashes through Marazhai’s eyes. “If you’d like to wade through my blood so badly, cousin, you need only say the word.”

“What’s going on here?”

Tiffney opens the door to her quarters. Both Yrliet and Marazhai suddenly look away from each other, as if they were misbehaving siblings trying to hide that they were about to have a fight to the death. “Oh, you came, Marazhai! I, ah, don’t remember inviting you!”

Yrliet immediately feels a headache coming on. “So you weren’t--”

“I have decided to overlook your grievous oversight with the magnanimity of my presence,” Marazhai says, completely cutting Yrliet off. “It must have been a simple mistake. Right, Tiffney?”

“I actually gave specific instructions to not invite you, but if you’re already here, I guess I can schedule you in.” Yrliet must admit, Tiffney’s blunt dismissal and the way it makes Marazhai’s smile twitch is slightly hilarious. “And-- oh, by the Throne, what happened to you? Can you at least cover up those injuries before you track blood all over my ballroom?”

“No.” Marazhai’s frank reply is all they get before he practically struts out of the room and into full view. A few panicked screams from the nobles uninitiated by Tiffney’s eccentric companions is all Yrliet needs to know that this party is going to be a disaster.

Tiffney gives Yrliet a slightly worried glance, while Yrliet just shrugs back. “I will watch him. Or throw him out, whichever you prefer.”

“I think watching him would be more practical,” Tiffney sighs, before walking into the hallway behind Marazhai. “Alright, everybody-- weapons down, guards! This is-- this is my guest. It’s fine, he won’t kill you.”

“So now I am your guest?” As he looks around, he seems utterly delighted by the way the humans are regarding him with absolute fear.

Then, when Marazhai looks down the hallway into the main throne room, he gives Tiffney a suspiciously eager smile. “May I sit on your throne again, Tiffney? I am so very fond of that memory.”

Tiffney smiles back, though her grin stretches to painful lengths. “No.”

“Oh, don’t be so coy. What was that saying…? ‘Let bygones be bygones’, won’t you?”

“I’ll ‘let’ your life be a bygone fact if you don’t drop this topic right now.”

“Duly noted,” Marazhai laughs, though he doesn’t push any further. Instead, he continues on down the hallway with way more arrogance than someone who might get shot by a panicked guard should have.

Keeping her voice quiet, Yrliet leans into her elantach’s ear. “There is one positive thing to note. It appears that he has simmered down significantly in regards to his more intemperate behaviours.”

Tiffney blinks. “He has? Oh, well-- I guess I should trust your judgement on that, Yrliet.” Then, she rubs her forehead with a sigh-- it appears that her elantach had a headache from Marazhai, too. “Look, he can be here, he just needs to… behave. How did he even hear about this? Does he have spies in my palace? You know, I shouldn’t ask that. He obviously does. Yrliet, can I trust you to keep tabs on him?”

Yrliet bows her head. “I will carry out your orders to the ends of my life, elantach.”

“Really, you don’t need to be so dramatic about it. You’re starting to scare me.” Tiffney is chuckling when she says that, but Yrliet can tell that her words are the truth. “Alright, Yrliet. I leave him to you.”

With a nod, Yrliet follows behind Marazhai, keeping him within line of sight at all times.

His entry into a grand party meant to celebrate the end of a castle he once reduced to rubble goes about as well as one would expect. The reaction from the common rabble are a mixture of gasps and outright hysteria, which is not at all helped by Marazhai making direct eye contact with those most afraid and smiling at them. Abelard goes from chatting with his family cheerfully to complete silence as his jaw drops; Jae turns away from whoever rich noble she was just jazzing up and quickly makes sure all her guns are with her. Idira, meanwhile, just laughs to herself.

“You have nothing to fear.” Surprisingly, it is Heinrix who restores order to the party, voice booming over the crowd. “This specimen here is the Rogue Trader’s sanctioned xenos pet. It is here with the Inquisitor’s permission.”

“Ah, Inquisitor van Calox!” Marazhai regards his former ground-side companion with a grin full of bared teeth. “To think that you would one day vouch for my presence. Truly, the end of days for the Koronus Expanse must really be fast-approaching.”

Heinrix gives him a stolid look that even non-humans can easily decipher as ‘don’t push your f*cking luck’. “Rogue Trader,” he calls out, turning his gaze to Tiffney as she walks in next to Yrliet. “I would like a moment of your time.”

The moment he steps close enough, Heinrix rasps out: “Tiffney, what are you thinking? This was an opportunity for you to showcase your loyalty to the Imperium. Why is he here?”

Tiffney holds her hands up in surrender. “Sorry. It wasn’t my intention.”

“What in the name of Holy Terra do you mean this wasn’t your intention? Has your protectorate spiralled so out of your control that you are allowing mass murderers to simply stroll into your estate uninvited?”

“Ah, well… maybe?”

As Tiffney faces her fair share of Inquisitorial interrogation, Yrliet follows her orders to keep Marazhai within sight. As he and Abelard immediately begin descending into a discussion that greatly resembles a shouting match, Yrliet remains hidden in plain sight, sticking to the walls and unnoticed by most except a few surprised nobles.

A slightly miserable thought crosses her mind: years of being by her elantach’s side, and the vast majority of the humans under her charge still recoil as their first reaction to any non-human. Yrliet supposes that Marazhai of all people deserves such a reception, but she doubts that any of the nobles whispering to each other conspiratorially see her as any better than the Drukhari who had once turned Dargonus into a battlefield. They only act cordially to her because they know that anyone who is found to be less than kind to Tiffney’s favourite xenos is not treated with mercy.

Yrliet tilts her head with a sigh. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care about what any human besides Tiffney von Valancius thought of her.

“I’ve heard a lot of things about that… creature… in particular.” One of those said nobles began chatting to the person next to them, not quite noticing Yrliet leaning on the pillar behind them. “This might be just idle gossip. But I believe that xenos is less of a pet and more of a… project.”

A cough and a glance. “What do you mean?”

“The Rogue Trader wants to see if she can take the worst example of any enemy of humanity and turn it… good.”

“Turn it…? Oh, by God-Emperor’s light…”

Yrliet finds that their observation is, unfortunately, not wrong.

Though-- Yrliet’s eyes continue to scan Marazhai, watching the two open gouges on his back slowly stitch themselves together. For better or for worse, the Dark One had never been one to engage in human banalities. Much less a party that is being thrown for show, without nary a hint of excitement in sight.

To take the effort of finding out this was happening and then personally show up? He is plotting something, Yrliet thinks. Either that, or someone else is plotting something, and Marazhai has come here to put himself in the thick of it. But she hasn’t a single clue what it could be.

“...and you gave far too short a notice for Lady Orsellio or Sister Argenta to make it, but they have sent their regards.” Clementia Werserian’s words come into earshot as she brings both Tiffney and Heinrix back into the thick of the party. Yrliet feels a little saddened-- she had been hoping to see the Sha’eil seer again, though for her own selfish reasons. “Magos Haneumann did not send a response.”

“Leaving our guest list looking very heretical,” Heinrix quips in response.

Tiffney grumbles to herself. “Isn’t letting your loyal soldiers come into my palace and imbibe themselves on my liquor to their heart’s content enough of a bribe to keep you off my tail for a while?”

“Calling it a ‘bribe’ out loud is genuinely not helping your case, Tiffney.”

“Well, what in the God-Emperor’s name do you propose I do, Heinrix?”

Though Yrliet watches him like a hawk, Marazhai doesn’t show a single sign of suspicious behaviour. For a few minutes, he continues terrorising Abelard, until Idira chimes in and terrorises him back with a few mentions of 'stick insect' till he retreats. He looks at Tiffney’s throne for a while with an annoying amount of nostalgia until Heinrix walks by and elbows him hard enough in the ribs to make them crack, and Marazhai hilariously can’t do anything but stare at the Inquisitor. At one moment, he approaches the tables of food, and Yrliet keeps her fingers primed on her rifle in case he tries poisoning the fountains of amasec, but… he just takes a drink normally. No sign of tampering seen. In fact, he seems to be striking a conversation-- some of the braver guests clearly find him fascinating, and Marazhai has always been partial to showboating.

Yrliet slowly rests her head against the pillar. Is she being too paranoid? Did Marazhai really just come here as an old friend? Has her elantach’s extreme leniency on his unforgivable behaviour finally come to light?

Probably not. But Yrliet doesn’t get much more time to dwell on it when cheers start erupting elsewhere in the hall, and her gaze flits to a very strange sight.

First, the gleaming fabrics-- drifting against the marble floors, like the voidship dancing on the roiling edges of Sha’eil. Her elantach is wearing a dress, Yrliet realises, which is very, very strange in itself; Tiffney has worn a dress exactly one time and in the years they’ve spent together, and she changed back into her uniform in protest. It was a bit of shame, Yrliet found herself thinking, a few weeks after the event-- she had looked good in it, and she looks good in one now, like she was woven into a patch of sunlight, dressed in shining silken gold.

Secondly, she was dancing. And the last time Yrliet remembered seeing Tiffney dance was when she was very, very drunk at the bar in Footfall, which led to her falling and discharging her gun on accident (which would have been hilarious to everyone except the man she shot). Her elantach had always claimed she was a good dancer, but Yrliet never saw it for herself.

The final and absolute strangest thing was that she was dancing with Heinrix.

Yrliet didn’t react for a while. There wasn’t really any reason to. This was very obviously part of the plan for Tiffney to put on the show and dance, literally, to convince the eyes of the Imperium that she was still as much of their loyal servant through her friendship with the Inquisitor of the Koronus Expanse. The reason why Jae was cheering so loudly is because she’s playing along.

And when Heinrix passes by, Yrliet can hear him saying, very, very delicately-- “You are unbelievably terrible at this, Tiffney.”

“I am f*cking trying,” Tiffney hisses back, keeping her smile etched painfully onto her face the entire time.

So Yrliet doesn’t notice that she’s frowning until Marazhai slides into the space next to her and says: “The agony rolling off you is fit for an Archon, cousin.”

“Leave me alone,” Yrliet rasps back, bereft of all her usual eloquence.

“Why? You’ve been keeping an eye on me since I’ve arrived. But now that I’ve come right to you, you want nothing to do with me?”

Yrliet’s only response is hitting Marazhai in the chin with the butt of her rifle. He makes a rather surprised noise, before drawing his head back to Yrliet’s side. “There was real hatred boiling under that hit. Does this sight truly consume you with such jealousy? The last time I checked, cousin, you haven’t shown even an ounce of desire for such vapidity. Especially at the graceless, gauche hands of a mon-keigh.”

And Yrliet supposes he was right-- yes? No-- yes, she hadn’t ever thought about dancing with her elantach. She had imagined many things, often at Tiffney’s behest, because her elantach had once promised that she would do anything that Yrliet needed, and the word of the Rogue Trader is law; but a dance had never been one of those things. And it was not as though Yrliet would be any good at dancing. Maybe in another life. Many had expected her to walk the Path of the Artisan, if not the Warrior, and perhaps then she would have learnt many of their arts-- but she had never been very good at fulfilling others’ expectations.

She watches as Tiffney slips and smashes the edge of her steel-tipped shoes against Heinrix’s foot. Marazhai is right about that, too; this entire affair is utterly asinine and ungainly. Completely unlike the Aeldari need for perfection. The elders whom she once relied on for sight in a blinded world would look at the way Tiffney kicks the side of Heinrix’s leg while trying to do a spin and cringe in disbelief. Maybe even use it as an example of how humanity is incapable of accomplishing even a fraction of refined Aeldari culture.

But she is jealous. That part is undeniable.

“You should pay attention, cousin.” And then, Marazhai speaks again, pulling Yrliet out of the abyss of her own spiralling thoughts. “The real show is about to begin.”

And then, hidden behind the crowds, visible only by the light glinting off the barrel of their gun-- it’s pointed at the back of Tiffney’s head.

A shot rings out. Yrliet’s, of course, because she has always been faster on the draw.

The would-be assassin flinches back as her gun is blasted away, and Heinrix reacts in an instant. He practically tosses Tiffney behind him as he shoots his own pistol, and when the second shot rings out, the entire room breaks into pandemonium, with people screaming in every direction.

“Marazhai!” Yrliet shouts out at him, so frustrated that she doesn’t even realise she’s slipped back to Low Gothic. More shots are exchanged in every direction, but Abelard has already tossed Tiffney her weapon, and she is shooting back while barking orders with maximum efficiency. “Is this the reason why you arrived?!”

“Specifically, I was here on a mercenary job to assassinate Inquisitor van Calox,” Marazhai explains, lacking even an iota of shame. Somehow, he’s already covered in blood, having decapitated an assailant that had been positioned behind them just moments ago-- Yrliet will need a while more to realise he’d probably just saved her life. “But it is rather convenient to have an Inquisitor who is so helpfully lenient towards the supposed ‘enemies of humanity’, so I accepted the pay while planning a counter-hit on my employers.”

“Kae-morag! You could have told us that earlier!”

“And totally miss the party? Oh, cousin. You really don’t remember a single thing from your re-education. This way is much more fun,” Marazhai coos, before finally turning away and dashing right into the thick of the fight.

He creates an opening, allowing Tiffney to double back-- as she does, Yrliet grabs her by the wrist, hurriedly pulling her behind a pillar for cover as more shots follow her. “Yrliet,” she breathes, “are you okay?”

“I am fine, elantach!” Yrliet pops another shot, getting rid of someone trying to advance behind their cover. “Focus on yourself!”

The moment she’d confirmed Yrliet was unhurt, Tiffney immediately took a breath, sighed, and began cursing her lungs out. “For f*ck’s sake! Can’t I have a single party that doesn’t devolve into a fight for my life?!”

Chapter 8: 6.233.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.233.000.M41

“Brothers and sisters, I am begging you to stop!” Somehow, in the ceaseless noise of the voidship, Yrliet’s words drowned out everything except the sound of her own despair. “I am not held captive! We will help you! I will save you! I…”

A little bright light flashed on the cogitator screen, seemingly small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. One of the last threads of Crudarach burnt alive on the pyre of its own pride, right in front of Yrliet’s eyes.

Yrliet stepped back from the screen. She didn’t know how hard she was shaking till she tried to read the coordinates on her data-slate and saw how the numbers trembled. Avoiding the gazes of all the mon-keigh who stared at her, she hid herself away, but even in the darkness, she could not hide from her own despair. No matter how she tried, she could not still herself; her resolve wavered like the body of a songbird trilling a mourning cry.

For a few hours or maybe a thousand days, Yrliet felt the eyes of Sai'lanthresh eyeing the flicker of her very soul and wondered if the torture of Sha’eil was her punishment for her miserable failures. On the Crudarach, allowing oneself to sink into the depths of such emotion was absolutely forbidden-- from young, Aeldari would be taught to seek out the comfort of their kin to avoid being consumed by their outbursts, lest they put themselves at risk of being devoured by their eternal enemy. But there was no kin left for Yrliet to share her misery with. And the last thing she needed was the gazes of the surrounding mon-keigh, as she was hiding herself away…

Some were shocked. Others were pleased by the death of so many Aeldari. But most-- and this was a shock to Yrliet most of all-- most of them looked at her with pity, like she was a caged bird who had just watched her nest turn to ashes with one rebellious burst of starlight.

“Yrliet?”

The claws of Sai'lanthresh, usually unceasing and relentless during a warp jump, unlatched themselves for just a moment as Yrliet heard the elantach’s voice.

Tiffney von Valancius was standing there at the doorway, seemingly wondering if she should come in. Yrliet could already tell why she was there-- could hear the mon-keigh’s pity wrapped around every guttural syllable of her voice.

“...Yes, elantach?”

“Can we talk?” For someone who was meant to be ruling this voidship with an iron fist, her voice was remarkably gentle. Less like a tyrant and more like a shimmering light, slowly coaxing a scared animal out of the dark. “It’s okay if you want to be alone.”

Yrliet took a much longer time than usual to parse her words. An out, she realised-- the elantach was giving her an out, so she could freely return to the quietude with a swift rejection.

But, as Tiffney waited for her response in the silence, Yrliet found that even the company of a mon-keigh was better than the spiralling depths of solitary despair.

“What do you wish to speak about?” Her voice was impeccably calm, in the way that oceans can be calm while hiding raging undercurrents beneath the surface. She drew herself onto her feet, so that when Tiffney switched on the lights to bring visibility back into the darkness, Yrliet looked proud and presentable, as a Child of Asuryan should.

“I heard you had locked yourself into a storage room, and I became concerned.” Tiffney’s frankness, though, left no illusions to what Yrliet was right now: a soul that had, perhaps reasonably, been thoroughly shaken by the sight of her kin being so close to safety and yet impossible to rescue. “It could not have been easy, seeing… I’m sorry, I wish I could have done more.”

“You had done all that you could, elantach.” Realistically, Yrliet knew that this was true for herself as well, but it was not as easy to accept. Of course she should go to any lengths to save her people-- the life of a fellow Aeldari was worth more than an entire planet of humans. And if Yrliet was not enough to save them, then Yrliet herself had failed her kin.

The elantach, however, was only told to bring Yrliet towards certain coordinates. She was under no obligation to spite a fellow Rogue Trader or risk her own crew to try saving Yrliet’s kin-- yet, she had, telling the assaulting mon-keigh under Chorda’s banner to get out and gambling on the possibility that there were still Aeldari left to save. Truthfully, Tiffney had done far more than Yrliet had ever expected.

“My homeworld was destroyed too.”

At that moment, Sha’eil caught the voidship in its undertow, dragging it violently to one side. It was a coincidence, obviously, but a part of Yrliet found herself staring back at Tiffney, like the weight of her words was enough to make the warp shake.

“Your homeworld?” Yrliet, who had grown used to seeing Tiffney’s face scrawled with a smile, found that her expression now laid completely blank. That perturbed Yrliet far more than if Tiffney had looked furious.

Then, Yrliet finally understood-- Tiffney was trying to relate to her. And-- yes, there were a million things that a mon-keigh could never hope to understand about her-- but even animals knew the pain of losing their burrow.

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it, so I’ll start from the beginning. My homeworld was a planet called Cadia.” Tiffney finally stepped in from the doorway, closing it behind her. “It… sorry, I’m not good at explaining. Cadia is-- Cadia was a planet that served at Mankind’s first line of defence against a huge warp rift called the Eye of Terror. Cadia was so close to it that at night, you could look up and see the Eye of Terror right there in the sky, swallowing up the stars. No binoculars or anything.”

The name sounded familiar-- ‘Eye of Terror’. Likely an oafish mon-keigh name for something familiar to her people, but at that moment, Yrliet couldn’t quite remember.

“...To populate a world so close to an open gate of Sha’eil?” But she did find the idea of living somewhere visible to the warp as utterly ridiculous. “I know you had no choice of where you were born, elantach. To my ears, however, such a thing sounds like the height of foolishness.”

“Well, maybe. Humans do a lot of dumb things.” Tiffney leaned against the wall before sliding down, sitting on the floor besides where Yrliet was standing. Tentatively, Yrliet bent down and sat next to her, too. “But that’s not how I felt. When kids grow up in Cadia, we’re taught that our planet is the most important one in all of existence-- save for Holy Terra, of course. Our planet sat right next to the Cadian Gate, which was the only safe way out of the warp… and the place where big ships filled with the forces of Chaos would fly out, hoping to invade the rest of Imperium.”

Raising her fists, Tiffney thumped herself on the chest, as if reciting an old pledge. “And, as Cadians, our job was to kill them dead right as they popped their sorry asses out of the warp. They teach you that the moment you can speak, and when you start walking, they hand you a gun. I could disassemble a M36 Kantrael Pattern Lasgun in under ten seconds when I was five years old.” Then, she grinned. “Blindfolded!”

Yrliet converted those years in her head, and winced. An Aeldari would still be considered a newborn at that age, much less allowed to handle a deadly weapon. “I am sorry that you were forced on the Path of the Warrior when you were still in your infancy.”

“Huh?” Tiffney blinked. She hadn’t expected such a response. “Oh, it’s… thank you, Yrliet. I got off lucky, actually. I was born into a noble family, but--”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Being the bastard daughter of the seventeenth child of the Lord of the house’s brother is probably as far away from the mainline as you can get away with before you’re just a commoner. And… actually, why am I telling you this? I came here to try comforting you, not rant about my life story.”

“Your kind do have the habit of talking endlessly,” Yrliet admitted. Though, she did not find it in herself to also admit that she did not mind as much as she would have thought. The elantach’s words were a poor salve against the gaping wound that warp jumps tore open in her soul, but it somewhat soothed her all the same.

“Sorry. Tell me to shut up if I annoy you.” Tiffney said that as if Yrliet, the guest xenos on the voidship that she owned, was in any position to dismiss Tiffney so rudely. “Where was I? Right, Cadia. Well, long story short… there was an invasion. A greater invasion than any we’d ever seen before! But we were prepared. All Cadians were raised from birth for a purpose like this!”

Tiffney folded her arms, tucking her knees closer to her chest. “Then, we got betrayed.”

An inkling of curiosity and dread tugged on Yrliet’s tongue. “What do you mean, betrayed?”

“The Volscani Cataphracts were the strongest fighters on Cadia. Paragons of loyalty to the Imperium. But when they marched, they started marching on us, wearing insignias of Chaos.” Tiffney had begun reciting impassively, like she was no longer reading from memories but instead a storybook. “We expected attacks from everywhere, but not our own troops. So they managed to kill everyone.”

“So shows the infirmity of the mon-keigh, to let even their most elite soldiers fall to the temptation of corruption.” The words slipped out of Yrliet’s mouth before she realised that it wasn’t the best thing to say to someone talking about their lost homeworld.

But Tiffney didn’t mind. Tiffney tilted her head, then laughed, so light that it felt like dancing on the whistling wind. “Most people in my regiment fell apart once we learnt we’d been betrayed,” she said, and the oddness of speaking so cheerily about terrible things was contrasted by the glimmer of sadness hidden behind bloodshot eyes. It seemed like she had been awake for quite some time, but Yrliet did not notice until now. “So, yes, maybe you’re right. Some days, I felt like I was killing more heretics in my own ranks than the agents of Chaos. And some of those heretics said the strangest things! There was the usual ‘accept the truth and light of Chaos’ and other assorted nonsense, but there was a very fervent group of people that swore our salvation lay in the hands of being rescued by xenos, of all things. They were raving on and on about some weird death-cult of Aeldari uniting with us in our darkest hour…”

From all Yrliet knew of mon-keigh and their short-sighted hatred of all other species, that did seem odd. And, perhaps it was because of the elantach’s limited understanding, but ‘some weird death-cult of Aeldari’ did not describe any part of Aeldari society that Yrliet was aware of. Perhaps the Dark Ones, yes, but the mon-keigh must have been truly desperate to start hoping to see Drukhari. “Rescued by what your kind consider your mortal enemies? …I suppose it is not unheard of for people backed into a corner to begin creating threads of light in the hopeless fathoms of darkness.”

“That’s a nice way of saying our situation was driving us crazy, Yrliet.” Tiffney’s smile indicated that she was genuinely amused by poetic descriptions from the Aeldari, as compared to the blunt declarations common to mon-keigh lips. “I was probably a little crazy, too. Like I’d been abandoned by the God-Emperor and all. And I suppose I was-- don’t tell anyone I said that, by the way. I think Argenta would shoot me.”

Then why tell me, Yrliet almost said. But-- if there was anyone on this voidship who could understand feelings that were considered by most mon-keigh as warrant for execution, the lone xenos was likely high on that list. “I will not repeat a word of what you have told me, elantach.”

“Thanks.” Tiffney shook her head before continuing. “So, even if I felt abandoned, I still wasn’t going to defect to Chaos. You could tear me to pieces and burn every inch of my skin, but I won’t ever submit.”

“A good conviction to have, elantach. I pray to the gods that you will hold onto that.”

“I’m glad that the Aeldari hate Chaos just as much as we do.” Tiffney clicked her tongue. “Maybe that’s why some soldiers started hoping for a miracle in the form of Aeldari saviours. Hah, but that never happened. Instead, we lost more and more ground. Cadia was littered with the corpses of valiant men and women who had their last breaths screamed out of them by weapons of pure evil. Eventually, I was the last commander alive to lead just a few dozen men, and we realised it was the end. So I ordered them to break out all their rations and feast for the last time. The next day, we were going to charge at the enemy for the very last time.”

“Clochafarmore.”

Tiffney looked at Yrliet. “What?”

“It is what we Aeldari call what you would do.” Yrliet’s fingers make signs of bravery, heroism and unending brightness, though she realised that Tiffney would not understand. “It references an ancient event in our history. Translated literally… it means, ‘stone of a great man’. Even if death is certain, a true warrior will always fight to the end, and their death will endure like how a stone survives over ten thousand turns.”

“Clock-and-far-more,” Tiffney repeated, with clear and genuine effort. The way she butchered every syllable almost made Yrliet cringe, but the edges of her lips curled up anyway, slightly amused by her attempt. “Hah, yeah, I tried.”

“I did not mean to humiliate you,” Yrliet quickly clarified. “I can tell that you tried to imitate my words. But, elantach, I am curious… if you had meant to fight to the end, how are you here…?”

“How I survived, huh? Well.” Tiffney let out a long, slightly miserable sigh. “It’s because I got kidnapped.”

The abrupt twist made Yrliet pause. “Kidnapped?”

“Into the von Valancius dynasty!” Tiffney spread her arms wide, gesturing at both ends of the voidship. In truth, she was just gesturing at both ends of the storage room they were hiding away in. “Right at the dawn of my final charge, an emissary of my predecessor, Theodora von Valancius, came into my camp. He dragged me out of my bedroll screaming! I thought he was going to kill me! But instead, he brought me here, told me that my father who I’d never met was a von Valancius, and that I was a potential heir to a Rogue Trader house-- I didn’t even know what a Rogue Trader was! And Cadia--”

Tiffney shrugged. “Well, the moment I was brought to the Koronus Expanse, a massive warp storm opened up behind us. At first, I chalked it up to coincidence, but then, Cassia-- our Navigator-- we plugged her into the voidship, and she started talking really ominously about how the light of our God-Emperor was gone… sorry, I’m talking endlessly again, aren’t I? What I meant to say is… all those things pointed to one conclusion.”

Tiffney made a ball with her two hands by interlocking her fingers. “Cadia…” Then, she split her hands apart with a juvenile, ‘boom’ sound. “...has fallen!”

Yrliet didn’t quite know what to say. Her first instinct was reassurance-- if warp storms were interrupting the journey back to her homeworld, then she could not possibly say that Cadia was destroyed for certain. Such a thing should never be confirmed until seen with one’s own eyes. But, in the roaring seas of Yrliet’s own soul, she knew that one’s connection to their home cannot easily be understood by an outsider.

If Tiffney was so sure Cadia was destroyed… perhaps she had felt that severance, the same pit of despair Yrliet had found herself in when she realised Crudarach was gone, with no answers as to why. So she was likely correct, then-- that Cadia had fallen. Even an animal would cling onto hope until there was none left to hold onto.

“When that Farseer started talking about your Path--” Tiffney looked away suddenly, as if ashamed. “I got a bit angry.”

The segue in topic reignited Yrliet’s attention. “I did not sense your anger. On the contrary, you were far better at negotiating with my kin than even myself, elantach.”

“Well, I was just focused on getting the Aeldari on our side so we don’t have to worry about them while getting rid of the actual agents of Chaos brewing in the governess’ basem*nt, you know? But… I won’t pretend to understand how your Paths work, Yrliet, but I don’t think you would’ve ever abandoned your homeworld on purpose. You just happened to be following your Path, and I--”

Tiffney pointed to herself, and when she looked at Yrliet again, something about her smile was now immeasurably sad. “I just happened to be a von Valancius. So now we’re here. And our homeworlds aren’t.”

Chapter 9: 6.376.010.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.376.010.M42

Yrliet finds Tiffney on the balcony lighting up a lho-stick.

“I do not believe those are good for you, elantach.” Yrliet leans on the railing next to Tiffney. She raises her hand and gently plucks the lho-stick out of Tiffney’s mouth, and Tiffney does let her, though she still gives Yrliet a longing look all the same. “You should not get started on them.”

“That’s kind of a lost cause already, Yrliet.” Tiffney turns away with a sigh, eyes resting on the horizon. The sun is setting on Dargonus, washing the sky into burnt-orange hues. “Plus, after that disaster of a party, I could really use a smoke.”

Yrliet keeps the lho-stick cinched in her fingers. “Is your life not short enough without burning your lungs?”

“Damn, if you’ve got to put it that way…” Tiffney throws her head back with a tired laugh. Her braid, tied in the morning by Yrliet’s careful hands, has gone completely undone, draping matted blonde hair over the torn shoulders of her dress. “Alright, alright. I won’t smoke anymore. Promise.”

In the ruined ballroom behind them, Heinrix is shouting. Apparently, the assassination attempt had originated from his own retinue. A running trend, Yrliet had thought grimly but now knew enough not to say aloud. “I am sorry that your party did not go as planned.”

“Eh? Oh, don’t worry about that, Yrliet. To be honest, I didn’t really care about that whole deal. I was just happy to reunite with old friends.” When Yrliet drops the lho-stick onto the floor, it is Tiffney who stomps on it with her boot, extinguishing it. “Actually, it was pretty fun. But I should’ve known Marazhai was up to something. I asked Idira if he was here to enact some devious plan, and Idira told me that she might as well ask the voices if water is wet. Though…”

Tiffney tilts her head, popping her neck with a stretch. “Marazhai choosing to defend Heinrix was an… interesting development. I’m not sure how to feel about that. Happy, I guess?”

“You should feel cautious.” Yrliet glances back. Halfway through the fight, Marazhai had conveniently disappeared, leaving them unable to question him for details. “Though his interests had aligned with ours for this instance, his intentions could not be further from the selfless loyalty you possess, elantach. From what he told me, I presume that Heinrix remaining as the Inquisitor of the Koronus Expanse is necessary for him to continue his reign of terror.”

Her elantach’s eyes remain glued to the sunset. “‘Reign of terror’, huh.” The words are yanked out of her like pulling teeth. “Is he really still the same?”

“Elantach…” Yrliet leans forward. Tiffney’s face is adorned in golden hues, highlighting pale skin against vibrant red streaks of fresh blood. “It is in his nature to inflict pain and fear on whoever is unfortunate enough to come across him. Though Marazhai has not dared to raise a finger within your own protectorate, it is only because he knows you will have him destroyed once you no longer find him useful to keep alive. All he is concerned with is how to benefit himself.”

“I’m not… it’s not because he’s ‘useful’...” Tiffney sighs, long and tired, weighed down by ten years of carrying the von Valancius dynasty on her shoulders. “Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m talking about him. He just said something weird to me while we were fighting.”

For a moment, Yrliet stills. “What did he tell you?”

“That you wanted to dance with me.” Tiffney smiles to herself, mostly disbelieving and just a little hopeful. “No way, right?”

Yrliet looks away.

A stray wind blows over Dargonus. The door to the ballroom, hanging half-attached to the ceiling after the firefight, slowly drifts closed.

“Tiffney.”

Tiffney, too, doesn’t look up. “Yes, Yrliet?”

“Let me… delve into your soul.” Yrliet only turns her head now, and when she does, she finds Tiffney staring back at her, eyes wide like little mirrors of infinity. “It will be easier for me to share my thoughts that way.”

“Of course,” Tiffney agrees, always ready to give Yrliet whatever she needed. “Of course.”

Yrliet takes a step closer, and with a quick breath, she sends them both diving into eternity.

When Yrliet breathes again, soft mist and feather-step, she opens her eyes to the palace of this morning, before bullets had ripped scars across its facade. “Here we are,” Tiffney says, and they have gone a little deeper now than before: instead of a direct replica of real life, there are now flowering vines growing across the walls, and the ballroom is covered in a few inches of clear water. “Oh, this looks… a bit different.”

“That is good, elantach.” Yrliet feels the cooling water around her ankles and smiles. It does suit her, the water-- the lake, the river, the sea. “It means you are learning to cultivate aspects of your soul. Soon, this water will give way to a flowing river, and the vines shall break the walls to reveal a breathtaking forest.”

“Like yours?”

“If that is what you wish.” Then, Yrliet strides into the heart of the ballroom, bringing her feet across the still water. “But your soul is your own, Tiffney. You should fill it with what you adore. Now…”

Yrliet holds out her hand, fingers beckoning Tiffney closer. “May we dance?”

“Huh?” Then, “wait, really?”

The hopeful disbelief is followed by a splash of water, enthusiastic and loud around Tiffney’s feet. She takes Yrliet’s hand, and in the depths of the soul, her elantach feels warm-- undeniably alive. “Yes. Let’s dance.”

In realspace, this would devolve into disaster in an instant. But that is the beauty of the soul: here, intent and imagination come to life, replacing reality with boundless emotions.

Yrliet pulls Tiffney closer. Tiffney follows her cue, and much to her elantach’s surprise, they do not step on each other’s toes. Neither does she hit Yrliet’s leg with her own. Instead, they start dancing.

It is not like any dance Yrliet knows in life. It is a fusion, something created by the intersection of human and Aeldari memory. There is the gracefulness of Yrliet’s motions, like there is wind wrapping around her limbs, carried all the way from Crudarach-- and there is the passion of Tiffney’s dance, the way humans spin around each other like a tangled web of fleeting connections. If Yrliet is slow and thoughtful, then Tiffney complements her with fire and tiny supernovas, dancing the way a falling star shines: a short, beautiful moment. A song is playing in the background, soothing but quiet, just a vague, nondescript accompaniment to their lovely dream.

Tiffney kicks her leg back. The water droplets fly into the air and seem to stay there, framing the two of them in the watery reflection of a dream. Yrliet reaches out to take Tiffney’s other hand, and when she does, the tattered cloth of her elantach’s dress gives way to a riot of colours, blossoming on her skin like a breath of spring.

Aeldari silks, Yrliet realises; she is being dressed in gorgeous regalia that she has not seen since her last day on Crudarach. As they dance, Tiffney slowly immerses herself in the depths of Yrliet’s own memories, wearing her happiness and wisdom like gems of every kind.

“You’re changing,” Tiffney breathes, and Yrliet notices that her reflection in the water is not the same as what she sees herself. “You-- huh. You don’t look half-bad in a corset.”

Much like how Yrliet is bringing Tiffney into her memories, Tiffney, too, drenches Yrliet in her own colours, redefining her in whatever way Tiffney considers beautiful. And it is beauty, Yrliet finds, that they are both seeing in each other; that part is undeniable. Especially when they are already tied within each other’s souls. She dances and dances until Tiffney is finally adorned in every beautiful thing that Yrliet knows.

“What are you making me wear, elantach?” But, even so, Yrliet cannot help but tease Tiffney slightly. “I hope it is something better than the gallimaufry of mismatched fabrics that your so-called noble guests today considered high fashion.”

“What-- what does ‘gallimaufry’ mean,” Tiffney replies, sounding so breathless that Yrliet lets out a long, melodious laugh. It reverberates around the chambers of Tiffney’s sound with the clarity of a song played quietly on the lyre. “No, seriously. I don’t know what that word means. Sometimes, I just think you’re making up sounds and passing them off as Low Gothic.”

“It greatly amuses me to think that I know more of your language than you do.”

“Wordplay isn’t my strong suit!”

“On the contrary, elantach. Your tongue is silvered enough to charm an Arrow of Kurnous from striking its fated target.” Yrliet smiles. “Or would it be more accurate to say you can talk the bloodlust out of a Drukhari?”

“Maybe,” Tiffney whispers, not quite listening. Her eyes are fixated on Yrliet, and she does not know what her elantach sees, but whatever it is, she must find it stunning. The thought makes Yrliet feel slightly embarrassed. “I am only glad that my words have been able to protect you when it mattered.”

Yrliet steps back, hands still clasped on Tiffney’s own. The water rises up, coating them all in cooling waves, and Tiffney leans closer--

“Rogue Trader?”

Yrliet is unceremoniously dragged out of Tiffney’s soul with the forcefulness of a tunnelling rodent being yanked out of their burrow.

Tiffney falls first. It turns out that her hand is also holding Yrliet’s in realspace, so Yrliet falls, too. Her elantach lands flat on her back, while Yrliet quickly stretches her hand out, palm slamming against the ground to keep herself from smashing straight into Tiffney.

The both of them stare at each other for a while before they come to their senses.

“You--” Tiffney blinks, then twists her head to the side with a snarl. “Would you mind?”

“I’m sorry!” The servant who interrupted them squeaks, clearly terrified of having his head chopped off for this slight. Yrliet takes the opportunity to push herself back onto her feet, trying to ignore how close she was to just falling on top of Tiffney. “It’s, it’s Inquisitor van Calox, he… he requests your presence to deliver his gratitude for, um, helping to, protect him…”

Tiffney pulls herself off the cold ground of the balcony. “Fine. Tell him I’m coming.”

With a nod, the servant immediately retreats. “Guess I need to get back to business,” Tiffney sighs, taking Yrliet’s hand as she helps to pull Tiffney back onto her own two feet. “I hope I’ll be done soon.”

The sweetness of Tiffney’s soul, framed by countless reflections of bright laughter, quickly gives way to bitterness as Yrliet recalls why she had come here to seek Tiffney in the first place. “Elantach, wait.”

“Yes?”

“I must leave again,” Yrliet confesses. Tiffney turns around on her heels, and the sorrowful shock written over her face is the worst part of this whole journey. “I am sorry, elantach. I must continue my search.”

“Your-- it was a search?” Realisation washes over Tiffney like a downpour. “Oh. For… a spirit stone.”

Yrliet nods. “...It cannot be delayed for much longer.”

“I understand.” Finally, Tiffney pulls herself away, as if trying to hide her misery. “I wish… I’m sorry I haven’t found anything yet. I’ll ask Jae again, and--”

“It is my journey to take, elantach. I cannot expect you to find another Crone World again. It is unfortunate that the one we found was…” The memory of House Orsellio’s corruption sets fire to Yrliet’s soul once more, but she quietens her anger while she is by Tiffney’s side. “There are many more left to find. And I am very good at searching.” Her elantach doesn’t need to know that most Aeldari will never find a Crone World in all their lives.

“I know. I know. I just… I had fun today,” Tiffney says, frankly and painfully sadly. “I was hoping… well, if you have to go, then go, Yrliet. I only ask that you return to me.”

“I always will,” Yrliet promises, once more, forever and ever. “But--”

When Tiffney waits for Yrliet to continue, her lavender-purple eyes seem to crinkle at the edges, like the reflection of water on the final few seconds of tonight’s sunset. “Perhaps I can stay with you for a while more before leaving, elantach.”

“You are so easily persuaded,” Tiffney sighs, gladdened and guilty and longing all the same. Yrliet supposes Tiffney is right, yes, but only for one person, whose soul shimmers like the gossamer of starlight and weaves itself directly into the whispering remnants of Yrliet’s own.

Chapter 10: 6.462.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.462.000.M41

The crew has been gossiping endlessly about whatever was going on between the elantach and the enigmatic Cold Trader.

Yrliet, herself, couldn’t care less. Tiffney had come over once and asked Yrliet what Jae might like as a present, and Yrliet, who was mostly confused she had been asked at all, gave her honest answer: any suggestion Yrliet had would be unobtainable to mon-keigh hands. It was an answer that made Tiffney look rather curious, and knowing Jae’s occupation, Yrliet felt a bolt of worry about whether she’d just set the elantach on the start of a hunt for an Aeldari gift.

“Well, well, look at that!” That, however, did not seem to be the case. In their darkened corner of the bridge, Idira has projected a photograph of sorts onto the data-slate in front of her, while Cassia leaned in to get a better view. “The Lord Captain took my advice above all others. Jae had better like it!”

“What a beautiful dress…” Cassia’s crimson eyes studied the dress, entranced by every little detail. “To think that one could find such a work of art in such a wretched place as the Expanse.”

Yrliet glanced over. Frankly, the dress looked like an absolute travesty to her, but what would she know of mon-keigh sensibilities? She wanted to retreat from this entire conversation, but they had started gossiping right at the bloody stairwell, and Yrliet couldn’t pass them by without bumping shoulders with them.

“What is the Rogue Trader doing, wasting time on such… material excesses for her of all people?” Argenta, as usual, showed her stark disapproval and earned herself a tired glare from Idira. “Imagine how many mouths you could feed with the worth of all that gold… wasted away as a gift to someone who walks the line of heresy every morning!”

Idira rolled her eyes. “Man, if you really think Jae is a heretic, I can’t wait to hear what you say about me when I’m not around to hear it.”

“Oh, I could say all of those things to your face directly, witch--”

“That was not an invitation, little sister!”

“I think this dress is a perfect gift,” Cassia said, trying to interrupt their argument by getting back on-topic. “Bold and blindingly bright, filled with all sorts of colours running from one end to the other… it fits Miss Heydari perfectly.”

Argenta shook her head. “I think it’s absolutely gaudy.” Yrliet could not believe it, but for once, she found herself in complete agreement with Argenta.

“I’m… split halfway,” Idira said. “On one hand, I know that Jae will LOVE this. This dress just screams ‘look at how much the Rogue Trader loves me!’ On the other hand… you could hold an autopistol to my head and start counting down, and I STILL wouldn’t wear this. I feel like even the voices will team up to start making fun of me.”

Cassia frowned slightly. “You can’t just sit on the fence, Idira. You must choose one way or the other.”

“Wait, is this a competition? Do we really need to set a collective vote to this?”

“We should inform the Lord Captain of our genuine thoughts if we feel this dress is not…” Cassia placed a hand on her chest, which Yrliet had figured was a mon-keigh gesture of sincerity. “...A wise decision.”

Idira thought to herself for a moment. “In that case… Yrliet!”

She nearly flinched at the mention of her name. Idira, who immediately marched all the way into her personal space, flashed the garish photograph right at her face. “Would a xenos wear this?”

Immediately, Yrliet felt offence stitch itself into her brow at Idira’s question. How dare she compare anything made by a mon-keigh to the arts of her kind? But before she could even say anything, Argenta rebutted: “We are surely not taking the xenos’ opinion into account!”

I haven’t even agreed to respond, Yrliet wanted to shout back, but she forced herself to swallow her biting resentment to maintain her image of tranquillity. “No,” she answered simply, and when Idira stared silently at Yrliet for further elaboration, she continued with a sigh. “It is far too short for an Aeldari to wear without tearing the fragile dress apart.”

“Okay, ignoring the logistics then--” Idira was not quite ready to let Yrliet go free just yet. Cassia also leaned in closer, unable to hide her curiosity. “--would a xenos wear something of this design?”

“Also no,” Yrliet repeated herself. “While it has all the makings of an Aeldari dress, it falls woefully short in many aspects. The colours are brilliant, but distractingly discordant, while the decorations are in all the wrong places.”

Argenta suddenly butted herself in, close enough for Yrliet to feel the mon-keigh's breath on her face. It made Yrliet want to throw up. “And what would YOU know of beauty, xenos?”

Idira made a face. “Oh, so NOW you are DEFENDING the dress?”

“I am defending a creation of man against the wicked words of a xenos interloper!” Argenta held her head up proudly, while Yrliet backed away and tried to find any avenue possible to escape this stupid situation. “Even the least impressive of our arts is more glorious than any other produced by all the galaxy! If you could even call the mad ramblings of xenos hands ‘art’ in the first place.”

“Well…” Idira turned her head back to Yrliet. “Care to make a defence?”

“A defence? I have no need to defend the art of my people against the fury of a blinded zealot,” Yrliet spat back, finally feeling some redness in her face. Cassia shrunk away, as if she could not bear to look at Yrliet for any longer.

Instead of being affronted, though, Argenta responded with a delighted scoff. “Hah! Just like that, the xenos kneels!”

Yrliet felt like every storm that she had ever weathered in her life was now gathering the pits of her soul, all screaming at her to smack that bitch.

But instead, she only allowed herself a split-second to scowl, before she snatched the data-slate away from Idira. “Fine! I will show you.”

She fumbled with its controls for a moment, cursing internally about the inefficiency of mon-keigh machinery, before finally activating the ‘draw’ tool.

Every dress from her memory flooded back to her with each stroke of her finger. Prismatic flashes of holo-bands refracted onto singing wraithbone backgrounds, embroideries of all their people’s histories, every colour that has ever existed weaved immaculately around the body of a general that had just returned from war. The limitations of mon-keigh programming meant Yrliet could not bring to life exactly what she saw in her mind, but it was good enough-- she doubted that the mon-keigh could appreciate a true view into Aeldari artisanship anyway.

After either a few seconds or a small eternity, Yrliet held the data-slate up. “I have redrawn this dress with a meagre semblance of Aeldari grace. You mon-keigh would do well to learn from it.”

“Heresy!” Of course, Yrliet did not expect a kind response. Argenta lashed out, clearly offended by the clear proof of Aeldari superiority. “Utter heresy! What a foul insult to the great minds of the Imperium! You would do well to retract your words, xenos!”

“It doesn’t look half-bad,” Idira muttered, and Argenta immediately smacked her over the head. “Well, f*cking excuse me, little sister!”

Cassia, on the other hand, squinted at Yrliet’s drawover with two of her three eyes. There was a strange expression on her ghostly, mutated face-- something that just vaguely resembled… familiarity? “...Yrliet, may I ask--”

Her question was interrupted by the sound of Idira throwing Argenta down onto the metal floor. The entire bridge suddenly stopped to stare at their scuffle. “Keep your goody-two-shoes, brown-noser hands off me, Argenta! I will not repeat myself, you sack of grox sh*t!”

Argenta promptly responded with a wild kick to the gut. Yrliet stepped back to give them more space to go at each other. “You keep your hands off me, vile witch!”

“Oh, yeah? You strike first yet cry foul! Just another example of--”

“What in the Emperor’s name is going on here?” Abelard’s voice cut through the din, forcing both Argenta and Idira to go still while mid-punch. “Why-- what are you ladies doing on the bloody bridge hanger?”

“They were gossiping about fashion,” Heinrix chimed in, a proclamation that seemed to confuse everyone except Heinrix himself. “And I know better than to involve myself in a fight I know nothing about.”

Now, suddenly, Jae had joined in, leaning over the railing with a smirk on her face. “What do you mean, gossiping about fashion? Without me, no less! Sister Argenta, I am positively wounded that you would sooner discuss my greatest passion with xenos than yours truly.”

Though Jae’s words were clearly said with jest, Argenta’s face grew deathly pale from the supposed accusation. “No! That is NOT what was happening! We were talking about the dress that the Rogue Trader--”

“Nooo!” Idira immediately pinched Argenta’s lips shut and whispered: “The dress is a f*cking surprise present, you lead-drinking moron! You’re not supposed to say it out loud!”

“I am… amazed,” Abelard said blankly before rubbing his temples with a sigh. “How could a proud Sister of Battle be reduced to a fist-fighting brute over a topic as banal as mere aesthetics?”

Yrliet felt every last ounce of her patience evaporate like water boiling in the presence of a volcanic eruption. “It was not just mere aesthetics!”

“Oohlala! It appears the xenos and I are in reluctant agreement,” Jae laughed. “Fashion is not something to be dismissed just because of its stereotypically feminine nature, Seneschal. Dressing to kill can make or break you in the world of underground dealings and high-polish politics all at once.”

What the f*ck was Jae talking about. “That is not that I meant, mon-keigh!”

The metal mon-keigh named Pasqal, who had somehow also joined in, stared at them with the beady glare of his one good eye. “Hypothesis: the topic of discussion supersedes barriers of species.”

Heinrix pressed his fist to his mouth. The stern lines on his face lightened slightly, and it looked like he was trying to stop himself from laughing.

“Alright, break it up, everyone!” Finally, another voice rang out, cutting through the nonsense.

Tiffney von Valancius marched down the bridge, before personally walking down the stairs to pull Idira and Argenta apart. Contrary to her usual cheery attitude, the scowl she was wearing now was enough to make a daemon shudder. “Enough fighting! Everyone, back to your stations! I will talk to you all individually!”

Immediately, the mon-keigh scattered like startled ants. Yrliet, too, backed off to give Tiffney space. “What a pain,” she huffed, before suddenly glancing at Yrliet’s direction. “You okay?”

Yrliet tilted her head. It took a moment to realise the elantach was talking about her. “The members of your crew are quick to anger and prone to violence. Such antics would not be acceptable on an Asuryani vessel.”

“Don’t I know it,” Tiffney laughed, far too fond to actually be considering changing the way things were.

Chapter 11: 6.885.013.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.885.013.M42

Yrliet’s return to Footfall was speckled with the delightful smell of rotting garbage.

She had hoped to never return to the twisted, overgrown spires of this overbuilt port. Human architecture was a pale imitation of Aeldari wraithbone structures: slabs of concrete and brick rose high overhead, blotting out the darkened sky above. Structures attempted to twist in unnatural ways that seemed remarkably crude to anyone who had ever witnessed the work of a true Bonesinger.

But she had not come here to gripe about the ugliness of the world. She had arrived for a very specific purpose.

As she quietly rounds a corner behind the trash heap, Yrliet scans the seemingly empty streets of Footfall. Seemingly, because she had seen one very familiar face hide behind a stack of oil barrels.

Soundlessly approaching the hiding spot, Yrliet lowers her head and whispers: “Do not shoot.”

“Void kraken slap my--” The cold kiss of a barrel presses against Yrliet’s head, and she quickly bats it away. Staggering, Jae leaps back, stops, and realises who has found her. “Oh, the Exalted One protects! Yrliet, you are the only xenos I will ever be so happy to see. Though, I can’t help but admit confusion-- why are you here?”

Pointedly ignoring Jae’s backhanded compliment, Yrliet turns her attention down the hallway. “I was finding my way back to Tiffney. Abelard said she was here, and so I came.”

She doesn’t quite want to go into detail-- she hitched a ride from Dargonus on a minor von Valancius trading ship that helmed a much less experienced navigator crew. When the talons of Sha’eil ripped a screaming sliver from a soul, Yrliet only realised then how fortunate it was for her to have first travelled with Cassia. But that isn’t the point. “I had begun making my way to her when I noticed you being chased down an alleyway.”

“But why would you find… of course! Because you cannot travel in broad daylight.” Jae straightens up and brushes the dirt off her clothes. The regal purples of her suit were stained by the day’s fighting. “So you stuck to the shadows and just happened to find the sorry silhouette of Jae Heydari, fleeing fearfully from her enemies.”

Yrliet co*cks her head to the side. “I did not find you fearful in the least. You appeared to be firing back at them while swearing the entire time.”

“You know, Yrliet, I’ve come around on you. Your bluntness is very charming,” Jae quips. Her comment makes Yrliet even more confused. “No wonder Tiffney is so taken by you! Speaking of which-- what happened to the people who were trying to kill me?”

Yrliet wordlessly points at her rifle. The answer is clear enough. “You are a reliable killing machine as always! Now, we should probably get a move on, because despicable cultists are plotting to ambush Tiffney. I plan to put a stop to them.”

Immediately, Yrliet draws herself to her full length, like a lyre string pulled painfully taut. “Why did you not say that earlier? We must go now!”

“Let me lead the way,” Jae offers. “At least, so people will not shoot at you without asking me first.”

Yrliet begrudgingly halts herself, letting Jae take the lead. It is not preferable; Jae seems to be taking her sweet time, brisk-walking through the streets instead of running like she should. Still, Yrliet cannot deny that Jae’s infamy is a protective force, much like her elantach’s-- once they break out into the streets, Jae makes sure all her weapons are in clear sight while declaring: “Make way! The Rogue Trader is expecting us! Yes, the xenos is with me!”

A gaggle of humans brush past them. All of them looked different, united only by their glares of hatred aimed right at her. “I would have hoped that the people under Tiffney’s protection would have gotten used to my presence.”

“Gotten used to you? You expect far too much from us, Yrliet.”

“You are right,” Yrliet relents. “I have grown to expect far too much from the average human.”

“Exactly.” As Jae weaves through the streets of Footfall, the sound of distant gunfire echoes out around them. “Looks like someone is having a firefight without us! Someone familiar, I might add-- I’d recognise the roar of that heavy bolter anywhere!”

Immediately, Jae races in the direction of the fighting, even though Yrliet isn’t sure if this is even related to the cultists threatening Tiffney. “Jae, you--” But being left out in the open without an entourage would be the surest way to a fiery death, so Yrliet grits her teeth and runs after Jae all the same.

Navigating the maze-like alleys with the ease of someone who has run through them a million times, Jae rounds the corner and starts shooting before she even takes a look. “Sister Argenta, you are truly a sight for sore eyes!”

Argenta’s reaction to them was a little less rosy. “Why are you here? And why do you have Tiffney’s pet xenos tailing you?!”

“It is good to see you too,” Yrliet replies blithely. She raises her rifle, which makes Argenta flinch, before Yrliet pops off one of the cultists crawling up behind her.

“Yrliet! Is that genuine sarcasm that I hear from you?” Jae lets a laugh ripple out of her mechanical voice box as she guns down another enemy. “I never thought I’d see the day!”

Once all the cultists in their direct vicinity were wiped out, Yrliet draws back, checking for any stragglers. “I suppose I must thank you for your help,” Argenta begins, and the years that have passed since their last meeting have done remarkably little to her: she looks just as healthy and deranged as she did when they first met. Why does youth always bless the worst candidates?

“A word of advice, Argenta: when you add a ‘I suppose’ to the start, it makes your gratitude sound insincere. But, fool as I may be, I would never take the sacred word of a Sister as less than fact. Now, onto the question I’m sure we’re both thinking about…” Jae smoothly moves them along. “Our beloved Rogue Trader has a meeting with Vladaym today, and it just so happens that I tracked a suspected voidship filled with cultists to Footfall just as she arrived. Not a good coincidence, as my boundless experience would advise me. I tried to land and warn her, but on the way, they intercepted me, necessitating my rescue from lovely Yrliet over here. Now, onto you, Argenta?”

Argenta seethes through her teeth in anger. “I, too, was tracking the repugnant heretics to Footfall. I caught wind of their activities through the watchful eyes of the young Sisters in our new Order. They are not yet prepared to face the foulness of true evil, so I have come to wipe them out on my own.”

“Very valiant. But you know, Argenta, you can always go to the Rogue Trader for help with that kind of thing…” Jae points to the end of the alleyway. “It appears our goals are aligned. I would like to ask, Argenta, that for the sake of our continued success, we should work together with Yrliet-- just until we can confirm that Tiffney is safe.”

“Fine,” Argenta huffs. She agreed to it with a lot less protest than Yrliet had expected. “But only until then! And if that xenos even looks at the Rogue Trader with her unholy gaze…”

Yrliet raises her eyebrow slightly, imitating the human expression for incredulity. “If you truly think I would ever bring harm to the elantach, then you must be so blind that I am surprised your aim is not even worse than it already is.”

“Alright, alright!” Jae held her hands up, putting herself between the two of them while they marched. “Let’s get along, ladies! Yrliet, you must understand that Argenta is simply worried for our darling Rogue Trader--”

Yrliet forces her lips to maintain a neutral, straight line. “Of course.”

“--and, Argenta, you must understand that Yrliet and Tiffney have basically been married to each other for the past twelve years, so Yrliet must truly be playing a fantastic long-con if she wishes to betray Tiffney now.”

“That is cor--” Then, as Yrliet actually processes what Jae had said, she bites her tongue in shock. “We have not been… repeat that?”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Yrliet. I’m not saying you two are married,” Jae clarifies, though it really isn’t a clarification at all. “I am just saying you two are PRACTICALLY married.”

What in Isha's f*cking name are you talking about, is what Yrliet might have said if human proclivities towards violence had rubbed off on her. Instead, all she responds with is a long, weighty stare, which would have made anyone besides Jae Heydari question themselves. “I said what I said,” Jae says nonetheless, giving Yrliet a curtsy to cap it off.

Meanwhile, the piercing glower from Argenta only becomes more intense the more Jae speaks. “How has the loyal, upright Rogue Trader been led so far astray by the wicked wiles of a single xenos…?”

“Now, now, dear Argenta, don’t act so sour! I only said ‘practically married’, after all-- knowing Yrliet, there won’t ever be any consummation. Or even a wedding pronouncement. You know, the whole ‘you may now kiss the bride’ moment.”

“Good,” Argenta huffs, overly relieved. Yrliet is trying to ignore her, but Argenta is not making it easy. “At least the xenos is too blinded by Tiffney’s radiance to dare lay a tainted hand.”

“If you truly wish to know--” Yrliet finally chimes in, physically unable to stay quiet while her inner fury runs circles inside her soul. “I have been laying my ‘tainted hands’ on the elantach for many of your human years, and she has been more than happy to accept it. So save your condescension for someone else.”

Argenta recoils in disgust, but Jae’s eyes instead begin to twinkle in piqued interest. “Wait, Yrliet! What do you mean by that? I humbly request for further explanation!”

“I owe you no ‘explanation’.” For some reason, Yrliet can feel Argenta’s relief at not needing to hear about her elantach’s supposed xenoheresies in excruciating details.

“Oh, well.” Jae winks conspiratorially. “That means I am left to simply assume the worst!”

…

“Perhaps saying ‘the worst’ is disingenuous. ‘The best’ is a much better way to spin things, isn’t it? Though it’s been many years since Tiffney and I were ever so intimately involved, she certainly knew how to make a lady--”

“Enough!” Yrliet’s interjection holds about 0.01% of how embarrassed she actually feels.

Jae, completely unperturbed, simply continues beaming at Yrliet with a saccharine smile. “I am very sorry, Yrliet, but my curiosity will simply kill me-- if you don’t kill me first. I had always wondered if Tiffney had meant anything when she told me that you delve right into the heart of her soul. Surely, that means you’ve advanced past the stage of ‘love’s first kiss’ and other associated manoeuvres.”

“I’ve not done anything your licentious brain is trying to imagine.”

“Then what have--”

“Nothing more than holding her hand!” And then, as Yrliet turns away with a huff, “I sometimes tie her hair. But nothing beyond that.”

Jae looks over at Yrliet before shrugging. “I am still no expert at reading your tells, but you do not seem to be lying. I suppose Tiffney must have been dreaming sweet hallucinations of her own creation when she spoke of that time you took her hand and graced your lips upon her skin.”

…What does that moment have to do with anything?

Still, Yrliet has no intention of making Tiffney come off as a liar. With a sigh, she adds, “That did happen.”

“--Really?” Excitement floods right back into Jae’s face. “So you have kissed! Just her hand, of course, but--”

“What are you talking about?” Yrliet’s embarrassment is now rivalled only by her confusion. “What do your pointless human affectations have to do with what I just said?”

Jae blinks. “You know, kissing?”

“Yes. What about it?”

Then, Jae brings the back of her hand to her lips. “You know? When you took Tiffney’s hand? And did this?”

“...Yes?”

“Yrliet, my very special xenos friend-- forbidden apple of the heiress von Valancius’ eye and scourge of all enemies who stand outside of the range of a heavy bolter--” Jae stops herself, takes a deep breath, and sighs for dramatic effect. “That is a kiss.”

Yrliet’s foot dashes against the floor as she stops dead in her tracks. “...Excuse me?”

“You kissed the back of Tiffney’s hand,” Jae states, far more bluntly this time.

“That was not a kiss.”

“You brought her hand to your mouth and pressed it against your lips. Yrliet, that IS a kiss.”

“I only… I meant to commit the scars on her knuckles to my memory!”

“Okay, let me rephrase. You brought her hand to your mouth and pressed it against your lips with enough tenderness to memorise the scars on her knuckles. Yrliet, for Throne’s sake, do you know what a kiss is?”

“Do not patronise me, mon-keigh!”

“Haven’t heard you call me that in a rather long time, have I? You must be fuming. And, to my credit, I’ve only heard you Aeldari describe ‘kisses’ in the context of extremely deadly weapons that can liquefy the internal organs of a human in under two seconds, so forgive my slightly condescending question.” Jae looks like she’s internally dying, both from secondhand embarrassment and hysterical hilarity at once. “So tell me, Yrliet: what IS a kiss?”

Yrliet glowers at Jae with enough anger to burn a hole through plasteel. “A ‘kiss’ is between two pairs of lips--”

“Aaand there we go,” Jae interjects, shaking her head dramatically. “My dear Yrliet, perhaps your people may define it that way, but… oh, Exalted One, give me the strength to explain this… for us humans, any affectionate touch of the lips is a kiss. Therefore…”

Then, Jae makes two obnoxious mwah-mwah sounds against the tips of her fingers. “You are, at the very least, comfortable with kissing! Now, that is a relief to hear.”

“Heresy,” Argenta mutters in the background. Yrliet had almost forgotten Argent was with them too. “Unspeakable heresy…”

“--This is a waste of time!” Yrliet breaks away from the two, unable to look at either of them without feeling like she’s about to lose her mind. “We need to concentrate on protecting the elantach from being hurt, not-- this complete inanity of a conversation!”

Argenta shoves forward. “It burns the very skin of my tongue to say this, xenos… but I agree.”

“Hold on, are you saying that I got the hallowed Sister and free-range xenos to agree on something?” Jae seems far too pleased with herself. “Miss Heydari, you have really outdone yourself this time!”

-----

“There they are!” As they approach the Liege’s office on Footfall, Jae ushers the both of them behind some cover. “You see that man standing on the stairs? Looking all posh and official, like a bodyguard? That’s the traitorous leech that betrayed me and plans to attack Tiffney. All those other people around him are his cronies.”

Yrliet immediately glances over at Jae with suspicion. “Elaborate on the ‘betrayed’ part first.”

Jae gives Yrliet a dramatic wink. It, shockingly, does not inspire Yrliet with any confidence. “You see, I had hoped to set up a new trading post somewhere closer to the Calixis Sector. Something of a go-between between the outer boondocks of the Koronus Expanse and inner sanctums of our beloved Imperium. A friend of a friend of a friend introduced me to a strange but rather competent man that he had come here to escape the hopeless drudgery of the Jericho Reach.”

“The Jericho Reach?” Argenta’s words hiss through her teeth. “That wretched corner of a galaxy is overrun with heretics!”

“Well, it seems I should have asked Argenta here for her insight before signing him on.” Jae’s smile wavers somewhat. “I’m sure you can figure out the rest from there. I took him on, he joined me on my ship, we met Tiffney a few times, he entangled himself into parts of her crew, and then turned out to be a heretic. And, before you start thinking anything, I’m normally rather astute-- perhaps I’m getting too old for this job.”

“--So it was you who led this beast to her. Invited a snake right into her midst!” Yrliet struggles to keep her voice down as she rasps. “Once again, your greed has put the elantach in danger. Why shouldn’t I shoot you here and now?”

“I came here the moment I realised.” Jae didn’t seem too interested in defending herself, just gesturing at the men on the stairs tiredly instead. “I won’t sugarcoat my mistake, dear, but I am not going to lie down and let myself be used as a red carpet on a path to hurt my friend. I will tell Tiffney the truth, and she will decide what to do with me.”

Argenta scoffs. “She’s just going to spare you. As always.”

As always, Yrliet also thinks, closing her eyes.

“Alright, now listen up.” Jae beckons them closer. “We are going to approach them by the back, and--”

“The back?” Argenta reloads her bolter aggressively. “How about I just run up and let the Emperor guide my hand to victory?”

Jae gives Argenta an even stare. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, Argenta, but isn’t that a tad reckless, even for you? Let’s just take ten minutes to--”

“There’s no time to waste ten minutes!” Yrliet raises her rifle to her shoulders. “If these Sha’eil-touched vermin have already infiltrated the elantach’s ranks, then we must strike immediately!”

“Seriously?” An extra tuft of white hair seems to appear on Jae’s head. “Now of all times, you two are getting along like a greenskin and a pile of groxsh*t?”

“Enough talk!” Argenta rises from their hiding place and charges forwards, guns blazing. “Die, heretics! For the glory of His name!”

Yrliet fires off two shots, splitting three skulls into pieces before dashing to another point of cover. Jae, in the meantime, decides to embrace the chaos and leaps out of her hiding place. “Salutations! Are you surprised to see me?”

If the traitor had anything to say, he doesn’t get a chance. Argenta whips around and puts an entire two rounds into him before he can react, sending his corpse hurtling to the ground. “I will rush the door!” With a roar, Argenta charges, lunging through the gap in her foes and towards the entrance.

Only for the doors to fly open and smack her right in the face, sending her sprawling onto the steps.

“Whoops,” Idira says, even though she clearly already foresaw that Argenta would be there and can hardly hide the grin on her face. “Lord Captain! It appears that most of the ambush has already been cleared for us.”

“So my crew aren’t all brainwashed, then!” And, right behind Idira, a head of blonde hair pops into view, matted with blood and in desperate need of a combing. “Oh, Argenta! Why are-- why are you…”

Tiffney’s eyes find Yrliet the same time an enemy’s visor shines on Yrliet’s forehead.

The next few seconds seem to play out in slow motion: Idira shouts first, but her forewarning is late; Tiffney launches herself down the stairs, steel-tipped boots skipping across the pools of blood and guts like a dancer across a polished ballroom floor. Maybe she would be good at dancing, Yrliet thinks; after all, her feet always take her wherever fate wishes.

The laser doesn’t hit Yrliet on the head, of course. She has not lived this long just to die to a stray shot from a sh*tty gun, clunky and vastly inferior to Aeldari equals. The first time she had seen a human lasgun, she had honestly thought it was a toy.

It does, however, grace the skin of her cheek. Yrliet winces as the particle-beam both rips open and cauterises a wound all at once, leaving a faint line where the edge of her lip curls up when she smiles. That’s about it.

Tiffney, however, didn’t care about how minor Yrliet’s injury was. She didn’t even f*cking blink. She hops over to the cultist that had fired at Yrliet and slams the entire blade of her chainsword into their gut.

Her mouth moves like she’s shouting, but Yrliet can’t hear anything over the ricochet of gunfire and how the promethium hisses out of Tiffney’s sword like a death rattle. She tears the teeth of her weapon across the cultist’s neck before smashing down on what remains of their chest. Yrliet didn’t have the chance to even glance at their face before Tiffney chewed their body beyond all recognition.

“Yrliet.” Finally, Tiffney says something she can recognise. Perhaps because it was the only word she wanted Yrliet to hear. “I’m sorry for the mess.”

“Elantach?” The sound of fighting dims to a still quietude, the one all battlefields fall into when accompanied by only the dead. Yrliet raises her head from the cover, and there are much more pertinent things to worry about, but all Yrliet sees is a new wrinkle to the edges of Tiffney’s face, crinkling with the passage of time.

The rest of the world seems to fade into a murmur as Yrliet paces forward. She brushes the bloodstained hairs out of Tiffney’s face-- she looks so small, her elantach, even shorter than Yrliet had remembered. So small for someone who wordlessly reduced a living being to meat paste just moments before. “Are you alright?”

Tiffney’s hand, too, flies up to the arch of Yrliet’s face, though they hover just an inch away from touching her skin. “I’m fine, Yrliet. I’m fine when you’re here? What about you? They shot you. They shot you, Yrliet.”

Yrliet tilts her head towards Tiffney’s hand. Her fingers leave flecks of dried blood on Yrliet’s face, but Yrliet doesn’t care. “I have lived through much worse in my absence, elantach.”

“Do not say that to me,” Tiffney snaps, in that angry way where she makes it clear that she still cares too much. “Do not-- I worry enough as it is, don’t you know? Don’t laugh! That’s not an invitation to laugh at me!”

“I will always return to you,” Yrliet sighs, a little breath of severity in-between her chuckles. “That is what I promised. But whenever I return, you always look at me as if you cannot believe I am standing in front of you again.”

“That time, I was only shocked because I noticed you were in danger.” Tiffney’s eyes drift away from Yrliet’s gaze. “But you’re right. I should believe in you. And I do! I do…”

Idira casually breaks into their world by tapping Tiffney on the shoulder. “I think what you want to say, Lord Captain, is that it’s been a long time, and you missed her.”

“I am not taking that matter of advice from you or your voices, Idira.” The levity in Tiffney’s swift rejection lifts the heaviness that had fallen over them without their notice. “But-- yes. I did miss you, Yrliet. And I’m a little embarrassed that our reunion had to involve you saving me again.”

“I would gladly save you as many times as the stars deign to put you in danger,” Yrliet replies, frank as ever. “But we should not talk here. We are standing amongst corpses made from the traitorous remnants of your crew.”

“And I told her they were bad news,” Idira gloats over Tiffney’s shoulder. Tiffney gently shoves her away. “I tooold you, Lord Captain!”

“She did tell me,” Tiffney admits. “Yes, we should not talk here. I need to hold an investigation. And maybe a purge. And a hot shower! I need a f*cking hot shower. And my hair… my hair…”

Yrliet ganders at the incidental clump of bloodied blonde fur that is probably Tiffney’s hair. “Whatever you have put your hair through is beyond even my capabilities at the moment.”

“So the skills of the proud Asuryani do have a limit,” her elantach giggles, and that combination of words could only sound as sweet as they do from Tiffney’s lips.

Chapter 12: 6.498.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.498.000.M41

Yrliet had never met someone as terrifying as Cassia Orsellio.

Learning that mon-keigh have only achieved space travel by implanting the gaze of Sha’eil into the bodies of their own young was surreal enough in itself. Watching Cassia pilot the elantach’s ship was like watching barbarians revel over a grotesque, savage ritual, and when Cassia smeared her hand across the canvas of paints that made up her maps, Yrliet sometimes imagined them to be the remnants of their bodies, ripped apart by the inevitability of the warp.

But, mostly, the part about Cassia that terrified Yrliet the most was how easily their entire retinue would fall to pieces without the guiding hand of a Navigator.

“By Calgar’s beard!” Abelard barely held onto his balance as the ship creaked to one side. Pasqal, meanwhile, went for a whole tumble, robotics clambering humorously against the floor before Argenta pulled him back upright. “Lord Captain, I do not believe the voidship is meant to take such a steep bank angle!”

Tiffney’s boot screeched against the floorboard as she very nearly fell flat on her face. “I’m aware, Abelard! I don’t-- we’re tilting in the other direction! Brace yourselves!”

Everyone on the bridge held their breath in unison while the voidship rocked all the way port side, nearly sending all the servitors careening off the ledge and into the Lower Decks. “Elantach!” Yrliet yelled over the moaning steel, trying to fill her voice with enough anger to hide her absolute terror. “Go to the Sha’eil seer and tell her to concentrate, before your iron vessel splinters into pieces and takes us all out with it!”

“Do not speak to the Lord Captain in such a frivolously demanding tone, xenos!” Despite Abelard’s reprimanding, the glint of nervousness in his normally assured demeanour betrays his silent agreement. “Besides, Lady Orsellio-- oh, Throne’s sake, I’m going to be sick-- is a distinguished member of the Navis Nobilite, born and bred for the sacred role of a Navigator! She is-- she is doing the best that she can against the ferocity of the warp, and she is not so amateurish that she would be-- as you implied-- distracted!”

Heinrix, meanwhile, dragged himself across the bridge and stared right at Tiffney. “With all due respect, I do think paying a visit to the Lady Navigator is a magnificent idea. I am sure your--” An unstrapped cogitator went flying, and Heinrix swiftly dodged to the side while a flying Tech-Priest raced after it with a panicked yelp. “--as I was saying. I am sure your inspiring words will give her the confidence to fight off whatever influence is affecting the… smoothness of her usual delivery.”

“Lord Captain!” Vox Master Vigdis’ voice crackled over the speakers. “Dire news! The crew have spotted shadowy figures lurking around the corridor to the Navigator’s Sanctum. Daemons from the warp, most likely.”

“Oh, as if this day couldn’t get any worse… alright, alright! I’m going!” Hanging onto the railings for dear life, Tiffney quickly beckoned towards her Seneschal. “Abelard, with me! Pasqal, Argenta, with me! Heinrix, keep Pasqal from falling! Jae--”

Tiffney whipped her head around and sighed. “God-Emperor only knows where in the bloody Immaterium Jae has gone too! Yrliet, you’re coming instead!”

Yrliet nodded grimly. The sooner they got back on track, the better-- Yrliet has had enough of the warp for all the millennia still left in her lifetime.

Marching down to the Navigator’s Sanctum normally took just under five minutes. But as the vessel’s artificial gravity struggled to keep up with its winding paths, their journey was lengthened to over triple that time, with most of it spent on scrambling back onto their feet after being tossed onto their arse. By the time they made it to the corridor in question, they were immediately greeted with the thick miasma of the warp, seeping through metaphorical gaps within the ship’s paltry armour. “There’s so many,” Tiffney gasped, her hands struggling to get a grip on her gun.

“Do not lose faith, Lord Captain!” Argenta, proud and blazingly bright as always, charged forward without fear. “I shall clear the way forward!”

“Lord Captain…” Abelard staggered forward, watching in slight awe as Argenta’s sprightly legs carried her into battle. “In case there are any… complications, I have already prepared an extra dozen Navigators to take Lady Orsellio’s place--”

“No!” The suggestion alone seemed to renew Tiffney’s fortitude, and she marched onwards in spite of the danger, joining Argenta in the fray. “Do not speak of such things, Abelard! I forbid it! I forbid it!”

“Understood!” Abelard bowed his head in apology, but the grimace stitched across his lips told Yrliet all she needed to know about his take on their situation.

They dispatched about a dozen daemons on their way to the Sanctum. Yrliet’s vision, though clouded by the vile breath of Sai'lanthresh upon her shining spirit, managed to focus on the figures of the damned and shoot them right through. “Good shot,” Tiffney whispered, just as the last one in their view crumbled into dust. “Come on, just a bit further! Damn it all-- I thought this warp route was safe!”

“The predicted risk of severe contamination was gauged at 0.00143%,” Pasqal contributed helpfully. Shrill buzzing took the place of the metal mon-keigh’s voice, and its discordance made Yrliet uneasy in the pits of her very soul. “Rephrased: a low chance does not mean there is no chance.”

“Truly my luck,” Tiffney rasped. Finally, she rushed to the doors of the Navigator’s Sanctum. “Okay! We’re here!”

“I hope you do not intend to just rush in there without a plan.” Heinrix lurched forward and held Tiffney back by the shoulder. “Lady Orsellio is in the midst of bringing us through the warp, meaning that her Third Eye is wide open. When we enter, she may cast her gaze towards us. And I am sure you know what happens to those who catch her gaze.”

Yrliet doesn’t know, so she leaned in close when Abelard delivered a clarification. “What van Calox means to say is that if you looked at Lady Orsellio directly, you may as well consider your soul forfeit.” Oh. Yes. Good to know. Of course it would be something immensely horrifying.

“I hear a lot of talking and not a lot of rescuing!” Tiffney, as usual, dismissed all concerns with just a wave of her hand. “Get in, protect Cassia, and get out! Close your eyes while shooting so she doesn’t accidentally fry you!”

What kind of command was that? “I am not trained in shooting blindly from the hip, elantach! Unlike some here!”

“Alright, then, just--” The voidship roared around them again, steel and iron screaming in rapturous agony. Tiffney bit her lip and pushed herself up to the doors. “Just don’t die! Argenta, take the other door, back me up! Three, two, one, GO!”

Tiffney and Argenta slammed the doors. It felt like the very tendrils of Sai'lanthresh burst through the now-open gap, forcing Yrliet onto her knees with a terrified gasp.

Forget about keeping her head down-- the heavy hand of Sha’eil seemed to choke all the breathable air out of the corridor, and Yrliet couldn’t even find the strength to look up, much less drag herself back onto her feet.

“Mistress Yrliet is down!” Abelard’s loud bark washed over Yrliet like a tidal wave of shame, but he was right. An Aeldari had no place here, enveloped in the gaze of a Navigator’s Third Eye. “Lord Captain-- Lord Captain, what are you doing?!”

The warp itself constricted around Yrliet’s windpipe, choking all sense out of her. Run, her heart screamed, its racing in her chest being the only thing tethering Yrliet to reality. But her legs were pinned in place, like they had been nailed to the floor. The only time she had ever felt this helpless was when she first laid eyes on the empty space where Crudarach should have been.

“Stop! Stop!” She could hear Heinrix shouting. The words didn’t quite register in her conscious mind, but her soul could still sense the panic in his voice. “Tiffney von Valancius, step away from the Navigator’s chair!”

“You do not give me orders, Heinrix!”

And then, all at once, the storm lifted.

Yrliet’s whole body jolted with the return of her senses, and though there had been no physical damage to her limbs, her legs still shook when she pulled herself back onto her feet. “What--” Yrliet continued to keep her head down, still wary of the risk Cassia’s Third Eye posed to her very existence. “What happened?”

“I got it!” Tiffney’s voice echoed through the spacious room. “I killed that son of a bitch! Cassia? Cassia, the daemon’s gone, I got it… are you okay?”

“Lord Captain…” Cassia’s trembling voice rang out, and palpable relief flooded the mon-keigh as they realised she was safe. “Lord Captain, that was… unbelievably dangerous.”

“Not you too!” Tiffney laughed, and a corpse tumbled onto the ground, entering Yrliet’s limited view just as it dematerialised back into the warp. From just a single glance, it seemed to be a Bloodletter, a fearsome beast killed by a single well-placed shot to the head. “It’s alright, Cassia! Killing a target while blindfolded is part of basic training for a Cadian Shock Trooper! Besides, what kind of Lord Captain would I be if I left my Navigator undefended?”

“A wise one,” Abelard grumbled to himself on the side. “A Navigator can be replaced. But a Lord Captain…”

Argenta responded by thumping Abelard rather forcefully on the back. “You fret for no reason! The Lord Captain’s hand is guided by the light of the God-Emperor. If she aims towards the forces of Chaos, then fate itself will bend the bullet into the skulls of all heretics who cross her path!”

“Er, I don’t think I’m that amazing,” Tiffney chuckled nervously, seemingly put on the spot by Argenta’s fervent praise. “I just wanted to save my friend.”

“Inconceivably foolish,” Heinrix quipped, and even without looking, Yrliet could imagine the look on his face-- though, the tone of his voice rumbled with something that was beyond just exasperation. It would take many more years for Yrliet to realise it, but that ‘something’ was an undeniable, uncontrolled sigh of fondness. “Now, Lady Orsellio, I despise asking so much of you after such a taxing ordeal… but I trust you are able to right our vessel’s course through the warp?”

“After I had been so valiantly rescued by the gallant Lord Captain?” Cassia’s tone was full of jest, but a part of her also sounded genuinely dazzled. “I would do a great disservice by not bringing our journey to a safe conclusion. Worry not, I sense the worst of this warp jump is over. But… I’m sorry, could you please bring the xenos away? The stark terror in her colours is blinding me.”

Yrliet suddenly realised all attention was redirected to her, and she turned away from Cassia with a scowl. “Very well. I am more than happy to leave you well alone.”

But, before Yrliet could even gather the pieces of her shattered pride, Tiffney stepped into her line of view. The elantach bowed her head down, eyes still squeezed shut, as she stepped blindly into Yrliet’s path, stopping her in her tracks. “Sorry,” Tiffney said, not aware of how close she was standing next to Yrliet, or how Yrliet pulled away from her with as much grace as a frightened animal. “I knew you were afraid of Cassia, but I didn’t realise…”

“I am the only one with enough sense to fear her,” Yrliet retorted, and when she stormed out of the Navigator’s Sanctum, she wished to every star ever charted in the galaxy that she would never have to lay eyes on the damned Sha’eil seer ever again.

Chapter 13: 6.141.015.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.141.015.M42

“What…” Tiffney’s smile drops. Yrliet has never seen her elantach looking so desperate before. “Farseer! What do you mean, these spirit stones won’t work?”

“Is there any ambiguity to my words?” Eklendyl looks very different from the day they rescued him from Commorragh. The terse lines of his face, once etched with needle-marks and dried blood, now look remarkably healthy after years of recovery on the Lilaethan Janus. His eyes are staring at the spirit stones cupped in Tiffney’s hands, both indescribably precious and utterly disappointing at the same time. “They will not attune to Outcast Yrliet’s soul. I can tell from just a glance alone.”

There is a flutter of cloth. Yrliet turns her head, and Cassia has unravelled a delicately-wrapped box of silks, revealing even more spirit stones tucked within. “We retrieved all of these from one of your Crone Worlds. I made sure to consult your kinsmen in our extraction, and they suggested we collect as many as possible to maximise the chances of a successful replacement. We lost countless soldiers fighting off the warp demons that ambushed us, and even so, we could only keep a quarter of our earnings when your kinsmen took their share. Surely-- surely, just one of these stones are usable?”

Eklendyl stares, as if momentarily lost for words. Yrliet finds that she, too, has no idea what to say.

When Tiffney had received her so happily that morning-- when the Sha’eil seer returned to their voidship with her neck looking a little longer and her veins looking a little redder, Yrliet had assumed her elantach was happy to be reunited with an old friend.

“Child…” Eklendyl then turns to Yrliet, his hands moving in a stiff, mechanical way that communicates silent disbelief. “I understand your desperation. But did you not explain the very basics to the mon-k… the elantach… before you sent her right into the embrace of a daemon-infested Crone World?”

“I did not send her!” Tiffney sent herself, Yrliet realises, and it only made her feel worse. She couldn’t have imagined the ‘gift’ they had prepared for her. And how helpless Yrliet felt, looking upon Tiffney’s ecstatic grin and knowing full well that their efforts had been utterly wasted.

She sent herself because she thought it would help me. I did not… I should not have underestimated the brightness of her kind nature. And now…

“You’re bluffing,” Tiffney suddenly says, and Yrliet’s eyes widen in surprise at Tiffney’s sudden mirth. “You must be bluffing! Of course, I get it! You hate Yrliet, so you won’t help her… alright, fine! Bring Muaran to me so he may try instead!”

An almost inaudible yet long sigh escapes from Eklendyl’s lips. “I am afraid that Muaran, or any other Farseer you may be lucky enough to encounter, will not be able to change this outcome.”

“Elantach--” Just as Tiffney’s mouth opens to yell something else, Yrliet places a hand on her shoulder. Tiffney stops, looking back up at Yrliet, and though her elantach still maintains a barely-composed expression, she can feel Tiffney’s body shaking with rage underneath her fingertips. “Let Eklendyl speak. I… failed to give me proper knowledge of our rites surrounding the spirit stones before this, and I… I am sorry. He will elucidate this matter with much more clarity than I.”

Amongst her people, Yrliet had been taught that the other races were incapable of emotions as powerful as their own. But her time amongst humans has made her question this unshakeable teaching. And the devastation slowly dawning over Tiffney’s face-- it was more heart-rending than even the death of a star, like watching something that had held strong for millions of years fall apart in just one instant.

“Alright,” is all Tiffney manages to say, tearing her eyes from Yrliet’s gaze as she does. Tiffney’s refusal to look her in the eye burns Yrliet more than any supernova could.

Eklendyl steeples his fingers, finally beginning his explanation. “There are only two points in the life of us Aeldari where a spirit stone will bond with our souls without resistance. The first is when we have just been born, which is why the number of children allowed in a craftworld is dependent solely on the number of spirit stones we have left to spare. Connecting the soul of a precious newborn to a spirit stone is the most essential step of any birth, and is undoubtedly a joyous occasion for all.”

“...Well, we’re obviously long past that, Farseer.” Tiffney can’t even hide the impatience bursting through her sadness, but Yrliet is not inclined to scold her. Not when the reason for Tiffney’s impatience is because she cares far too much about a problem that only Yrliet herself is responsible for, and not when every action her elantach takes to help Yrliet is already far more than she deserves. “What’s the second point?”

“The second point is when an Aeldari is on death’s door.” Though Yrliet already knew that, the confirmation from Eklendyl’s lips still leaves her crestfallen. “No matter how savage, how depraved or how unforgivable an Aeldari’s offences in life… the souls of our ancestors would never allow any of our people to fall into Sai'lanthresh waiting maw. Attuning a spirit stone to the dying is a last act of mercy for even the most wayward members of our kin.”

Tiffney’s mouth twists in disbelief. “Are you f*cking serious? Birth and death? Those are the only points when you can attune a spirit stone?!” She lunges at Eklendyl with a sudden bout of fury. “That doesn’t solve our problem! Yrliet’s still got a hundred thousand more years to live, we can’t just wait that long! And you aren’t possibly suggesting that the only way to save her soul is to kill her!”

A hundred thousand? Yrliet will have to correct Tiffney on that later. But for now, she puts herself between her enraged elantach and the last Farseer of Crudarach, stopping Tiffney from laying her hands on his neck with clear intent to strangle him. “Elantach, calm yourself! There is more!”

Tiffney forces herself to stop when she feels Yrliet’s grip around her wrist. She is holding Tiffney harder than she should; bruises will soon form where her fingers are now pressed. “There is more,” Tiffney tells herself, though what Tiffney really hears is that there must be a solution. “Right, okay-- so, if Yrliet is neither newborn nor dying, then what other way can she replace her spirit stone?”

“The Aeldari helpers explained to me that spirit stones are thrumming with the hopes of your ancestors,” Cassia says, calm and steady despite the gloom written all over her face. “From what I can see… every stone has its own myriad of colours, a little fount of blinding brightness sealed within frozen time. Are these stones alive? Will the stones… should she keep them on her person, will they grow to like Yrliet over time?”

Eklendyl regards the women’s questions with the same air of someone regarding two very stupid children. “You are partially correct, three-eyed one. Spirit stones are made from the crystallised memories of our ancestors who lost their lives in the Fall. They are not alive as you would understand, and your language is woefully inadequate for explaining many parts of our lives… but they are alive in the sense that they maintain aspects of their lived lives. In an ideal situation, an Aeldari newborn would be attuned to a spirit stone, and the memories of our ancestors would oversee the child over the course of their life. While a spirit stone cannot communicate by speech, it shines like a guiding star, willing a Child of Asuryani to follow in the wisdom of their ancestors…”

Then, he gives Yrliet a pointed look. “...and, much like a guiding star, their wisdom can be easily ignored by those who pay no heed. Even so, making mistakes is part of one’s journey, and our ancestors are accepting of most missteps. But on the rare occasion where a Child of Asuryan falls too far-- into debauchery, or bloodlust, or even the Path of Damnation… once they have crossed the threshold of any possible forgiveness, their spirit stone will abandon them, shattering into a thousand broken pieces.”

“That is what the Dark Ones were trying to achieve when I was under their yoke,” Yrliet states. “But they did not succeed. My spirit stone had survived our time in the Dark City. It is… I am not beyond forgiveness.”

“You are certainly not beyond forgiveness,” Eklendyl reassures her, and though Yrliet already knew that, she breathes a sigh of relief all the same. “But you are not easy to accept, either. Outcast Yrliet, you have spent too long amongst the mon-keigh, and over time, you have drenched yourself in their stench.”

“Charming,” Tiffney mutters from behind Yrliet. Her obvious annoyance brought just a little joy to Yrliet’s suffering soul.

Unmoved, Eklendyl continues. “Even for a normal Child of Asuryan, replacing a spirit stone in adulthood is a monumental task. For they have already grown into their own personhood, with their own dreams, experiences and histories-- all things which make them harder to accept. Think of how young, bright-eyed children can make friends with one another upon first meeting. After that, imagine how difficult it becomes to form genuine connections with a stranger when you have lived for fifty, five hundred, or even five thousand years. To replace a spirit stone, one must not only retrieve them-- one must also find a spirit stone that shares similar memories with their own person. An Exarch, for example, is likely to forge a kinship with a spirit stone made from a brave warrior; on the other hand, a Bonesinger will have no luck with such a spirit stone, but perhaps one from a brilliant architect will be a suitable replacement.”

Eklendyl takes the box of spirit stones from Cassia’s hands, and for a moment, he allows himself to look rather impressed. “Certainly, you have retrieved many pieces. Most Asuryani would be able to find a replacement amongst this collection, unless they are absurdly unlucky. Or very peculiar.”

Tiffney’s brows knit in cautious comprehension. “Very peculiar… and, you would say…”

“The Path of the Outcast is already isolating on its own. Though, our ancestors have always had their share of thrill-seekers, exiles and adventurers. It is through the bravery of our forefathers that we once conquered the stars.” Eklendyl turns his gaze to Tiffney. “What makes Outcast Yrliet’s search far more difficult is how deeply enmeshed she is-- with you.”

“I do not regret it,” Yrliet immediately says, trying to catch Tiffney’s heart below it falls to her feet in despair. “So do not feel ashamed.”

“But--!” Tiffney raises her head with a shout. “If it’s me-- then-- you’re saying she needs a spirit stone from an ancestor that could understand her, so--”

“An ancestor who is able to comprehend Outcast Yrliet’s absurd affection for you, elantach.” It is the sheer displeasure in Eklendyl’s voice that really makes Yrliet grind her teeth in rage. “If any of that description even exists, you would likely not find it on a Crone World. You will have to search the far-flung reaches of the known universe, and likely even beyond that. Yet, despite their distance, they must have still been attached to our once-grand empire-- or else, they would not have died in the Fall. This confusing, contradictory set of characteristics is the only chance she has of a replacement. Yrliet, my child… you have truly set yourself up for an impossible task.”

Yrliet stares back, forcing an impassive expression. She will not show her emotions here-- not to Eklendyl. He does not have the right to see anything from her besides cold indifference. “I am used to making things difficult for myself, Eklendyl.”

“I know.” Eklendyl, too, gives her only brusque bluntness. “Does that answer your questions?”

“I see now,” Cassia breathes, and Yrliet is glad that she has learnt to control her powers over the years apart. Despite the clear disappointment on her face, Yrliet feels no crushing sensation emanating from her hidden eye, when once even a mild disagreement from Cassia would be enough to knock all the wind out of Yrliet’s lungs. “It is a most monumental task indeed… but it means that we simply have to continue searching.”

“Yes!” Hope floods back into Tiffney’s face in an instant, and she clasps her other hand over Yrliet’s own. “We’ll just have to search further than ever before!”

Eklendyl’s mouth straightens. “If that is what you took away from my answers…”

Yrliet, on the other hand, looks at the renewed determination on her elantach’s face with relief and a measure of confusion. “I should have told you all of this earlier, elantach. You would not have had to waste your time searching for me.”

“And mine,” Cassia interjects, just a little miffed. “It was I who poured years of my free time into finding the routes we needed.”

“--And yours,” Yrliet adds, and when she allows Tiffney’s brightness to infect her with a smile, she gives Cassia a slight smile. For whatever reason, it makes Cassia flinch, like she just had a flashlight shined straight into her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Save your thanks for when we succeed!” Tiffney nods confidently, as though this vague and fantastical hope was all the fuel she needed to keep searching for another hundred years. “I will admit, I had hoped that these spirit stones would be enough, and you would no longer need to go on your own journeys… but, as long as you keep looking, so will I.”

And then, Tiffney proceeds to shove all the spirit stones she had into Eklendyl’s hands. He scrambles not to drop any of them. “Keep these! If they are not suitable for Yrliet, then we have no use for them.”

Cassia startles. “Lord Captain, you should at least negotiate a price instead of giving those spirit stones to them for free.”

Yrliet’s smile drops. “I am grateful for your help, Cassia, but that does not mean I am willing to overlook such greed. Spirit stones are not commodities to be traded and sold!”

Tiffney blinks. “Well, Cassia, in fairness to your hard work--”

“Elantach!”

“--I will provide you with plentiful food for your journey home and replenish your ranks with competent soldiers.” Tiffney takes out her data-slate, keying in commands to be executed immediately. “The Aeldari here are under my protection. So I will be the one to pay you.”

“Oh, Lord Captain. You have not changed one bit,” Cassia hums, all while surrounded in a light-meadowy sensation. Cassia was wrapped in nostalgia, she realises, for a time that Yrliet feels was not that long ago.

Chapter 14: 6.555.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.555.000.M41

“Level with me, Abelard.” Tiffney leaned in to whisper, but she still spoke loudly enough for Yrliet to overhead. “How about… I just kill every noble family except yours?”

Abelard, already used to such suggestions, does not fluster. “That would be a terrible idea, Lord Captain.”

Tiffney folded her hands with a grumble. “Guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

Between palatial hallways of polished marble and grand rooms adorned with massive windows, Yrliet found herself immersed in a world of excess. Though Dargonus glittered like a sun cresting over dark horizons, Yrliet knew enough about the mon-keigh to guess that its facade was as real as the illusions of a Rillietann’s splendid dathedi.

This planet was rotten from the inside-out. And it took just a few seconds of talking with a native to learn that.

Yrliet was not doing any of the talking herself, of course. Khaela Mensha Khaine take her heart, she would rather go toe-to-toe with an Avatar of Sai'lanthresh than be forced to make conversation with the nobles on Dargonus. These materially pampered mon-keighs were especially infuriating, even when compared to their kind, and they tainted the elantach’s impressive castle with their sordid existence.

“And that must be the new Lord Captain’s pet xenos!” A shrill voice had the audacity to announce itself in Yrliet’s presence, and she winced in genuine pain. The source of the grating sound was a mon-keigh standing behind the banquet table. His neck, quite like Jae’s, was built out of unfeeling steel. Its mechanical nature likely contributed to his highly unpleasant speech. “Fascinating! Look, dear, look! How is it able to maintain its balance with such gangly, overstretched limbs?”

Yrliet’s patience, already pushed to its limits, boiled over completely when she heard the mon-keigh refer to her in such deprecatory language. “I wager that I am much better at walking than you are at speaking,” she snapped back, and the entire table of nobles recoiled in horror.

“It-- it talks like a human!”

“I don’t like how it’s looking at me. And I’m not a fan of how it’s walking around without a leash.”

“A xenos speaking perfect Low Gothic? Amazing! The Rogue Trader must have trained it well!”

There were a range of reactions, and none of them were good. Inexplicably, Yrliet found herself looking over her shoulder, eyes searching desperately for the elantach’s figure in the crowd.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Tiffney was nowhere to be found.

Before Yrliet could run off to look for her, one of the nobles walked a little too close to her. Immediately, she darted backwards, maintaining their distance. “You can’t approach a xenos like that,” the original mon-keigh chided. “First, you need to introduce yourself to it.”

Though the concept of introductions first wasn’t necessarily wrong, Yrliet watched as the nobles huddled together, apparently clueless on how to go about it. “I heard you needed to let them sniff you first. Stretch out your hand; let it learn your scent.”

“Let a xenos sniff me? I would rather eat the back end of a grox’s arse! Someone else do it!”

Yrliet was no stranger to being treated like a freak show. Tiffney’s crew had no shortage of gawkers that went out of their way to see the voidship’s resident xenos guest.

But, this… was far worse than 'just' being stared at.

“Elantach?” Yrliet called out Tiffney’s title with slight hesitation. But then, a mon-keigh wearing a ridiculous wig of coiffured white hair stretched out his hand to her, all while cooing obnoxiously. He was acting as if-- as if Yrliet was some kind of domesticated animal that they were trying to play with.

“Closer!” The other nobles egg him on, pushing him towards Yrliet. “Come on! Closer!”

As his hand swiped closer to Yrliet’s face, she lost all remaining uncertainty and shouted: “ELANTACH!”

For a moment-- nothing. The mon-keigh’s fingers nearly touched the skin of Yrliet’s chin, and she felt tempted to just shoot him dead on the spot.

That thought was quickly erased with stark confusion when Tiffney bolted in between them and bit the noble’s fingers.

There wasn’t really a graceful way to say it. Tiffney’s teeth dug into the offending noble’s skin like a rabid beast hungering for flesh. Her eccentric method of choice evoked an-- understandable, but rather satisfying-- scream from the bitten mon-keigh. By the time Tiffney let go, her canines drew spots of red blood from his shaking fingers.

“It looks like someone here is a little overly curious.” Tiffney sounded cheerful as usual, but Yrliet knew better. There was a glint in her eyes that only appeared whenever Tiffney was about to slaughter someone with her bare hands. “You’re putting your hand in places where you shouldn’t, but don’t fret. Just say the word, and I’ll have all your pesky limbs removed for you!”

“No!” Immediately, the noble retreated with his bleeding hand, expression filled with both horror and complete befuddlement. “If-- if I had known you would be displeased, I would not have dared, Rogue Trader! Forgive me!”

Tiffney licked the blood off her lips. “What was your name…? Esmond? You are from House Gaprak, are you not? I advise you not to upset me further than you already have. After the loss of communications with Kiava Gamma, I may not have much goodwill remaining for you or your family.”

“I tried to stop him, Your Ladyship!” One of the nobles tried to wash her hands of any responsibility, though Yrliet remembered her being among the spectators who were egging on the so-called ‘Esmond’. “While some people are bereft of manners, most of us know better to lay their hands on your property.” The people next to her began nodding furiously.

Yrliet seethed through her teeth, finding it ever harder than usual to maintain her composure. “That is a pathetic lie, even for your kind, overly powdered mon-keigh.” Yrliet’s direct observation of her appearance elicited scandalised gasps from across the table, as if it were some kind of insult. “And I am not the elantach’s property!”

“So now there are people who dare lie to the Rogue Trader?” Tiffney leaned in closer, a fake smile stretched across her face. “Would you prefer to have your mouth sewn shut, or your tongue cut out? Make your choice.”

The nobles were quickly reduced to blubbering, all while Tiffney leered at them. As they began to beg for mercy, though, whatever satisfaction Yrliet felt at their expense soon dissipated into general disdain for their wretched display.

“Enough, elantach.” Yrliet’s voice was soft, soft enough that she was surprised Tiffney had even heard her. “My need for vindication has been sufficiently met. Punish them if you must, but I have no desire for unnecessary suffering.”

“Oh?” Tiffney nodded, before turning back to the nobles. “Then, I suppose that will be all. But keep your hands to yourselves; should I hear of anyone bothering Yrliet again in the future, I may not be feeling so magnanimous.”

“Yes, of course!”

“I won’t do it again, your Ladyship!”

With a final stolid glare, Tiffney spun on her heels and turned to Yrliet. “I didn’t realise we lost track of you. I’m sorry,” she sighed, all her rage gone. Instead, she sounded genuinely apologetic. “Honestly, I can’t stand these people. I’ll make sure we wrap up and return to the voidship post-haste.”

Then, Tiffney reached out and clapped someone on the shoulder. It was the old mon-keigh Abelard, who had rushed over upon hearing the commotion. “Abelard, keep an eye on things while I finish my business here. Make sure no one bothers Yrliet. Let’s avoid any more incidents today.”

“Understood.” He gave Tiffney a courteous bow. The moment she left his sight, though, his face immediately fell into a deep frown, and he massaged forehead like he was nursing a terrible pain inside his skull.

Yrliet stepped forward, within Abelard’s earshot. “I was under the impression that biting others is not a usual method of conflict resolution, even amongst your kind.”

“It isn’t,” Abelard responded flatly. “But the Rogue Traders of the von Valancius dynasty have never been deterred by concepts of normalcy.”

Chapter 15: 6.312.018.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.312.018.M42

Yrliet finds Tiffney on the balcony, talking to no one.

“And that is why supply chains are the most important part of fighting a war!” She sounds rather jolly, for a woman who is shouting into the open sky. “Haha, yeah, surprised, are you? Does that answer your question?”

For a moment, Yrliet hesitates, wondering if her elantach had finally gone mad during her absence. But then, with a shift of her head, Yrliet sees the cogitator in front of Tiffney. Though there is no verbal response from anyone, there are words being typed on the cogitator’s screen, even though Tiffney’s hands are nowhere near any input device.

“Oh, this… is a lot more philosophical than the other questions you’ve asked!” Tiffney barks out a laugh, filled to the brim with motherly fondness. Yrliet begins to hazard a guess about who Tiffney is talking to, but only confirms it when she says: “But I’ll do my best to answer, Nomos.”

Tiffney brings her hand to her mouth, clearing her throat loudly. She still hasn’t noticed Yrliet standing there-- and Yrliet, too, did not have it in her to interrupt. Over the years, she had grown to accept that the Yngir-- this terrifying, terrible being who she had once believed was consigned to the words of old legends-- was a child. A child of unspeakable power, yes, but precocious like any other.

Most importantly, the Yngir called Nomos-- they were Tiffney’s child. And, in spite of everything, Tiffney treated them with such gentle care that Yrliet almost found it a shame that Tiffney had no interest in raising human children of her own.

Almost, because Yrliet did not know why she had those thoughts, and she did nothing to voice them to anyone, much less Tiffney herself.

“I am sure I told you before, Nomos, but in truth… I did not want to be the Rogue Trader. When Abelard tried to coronate me, I screamed at him to stop. When he didn’t, I spat at him.” This time, it is Yrliet’s turn to be surprised. Her elantach had hinted before that her ascension was a shock, yes, but never about how vehemently she tried to reject it. “Hah, he took it like a champ! …I never did apologize to him about that.”

Tiffney reaches out to the stars, and Yrliet finds that she recognises the gestures she makes with her hands. It seems that Tiffney had subconsciously begun to mimic Yrliet’s Aeldari hand signs, even though she had never taken the time to explain them to her. “But eventually, I slept off my initial feelings of hysteria and took some time to think about it. Most people in this universe can’t even fathom having the amount of power that was suddenly thrust onto me. And maybe I could use this power favourably.”

Redemption, Tiffney signs, with the way her fingers interlock over her thumb and bend back her hand. It is fitting, Yrliet thinks; perhaps her gestures are not made unknowingly, after all. “I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, Nomos. You know of some, but the worst of my deeds… I committed them long before I found you. And even before I received the mantle of Rogue Trader. They were… well, all you need to know is that they were bad. I was… bad. And maybe I’m still bad, but I’d like to think I’m less bad than I was back then. A lot of people were hurt because of my… past decisions.”

Even now, she dances around vaguely at the spectre of her past sins. Yrliet has always found that odd-- how Tiffney was capable of facing up to the worst of herself, except for the part that existed before she became a von Valancius. “I thought that, if I could put my newfound powers for good, it could help balance out the scales. That means… hopefully, I’ll have done more good than bad by the end of my life. That’s… hmm, yes, that’s my answer. The reason why I am so worried about doing the right thing is because I have too much power not to worry about it.”

The cogitator whirrs. Yrliet leans her head against the wall, and she can read the words on the screen, typed in full caps: 'AS NOMOS UNDERSTOOD, THE MORE POWER ONE HAD, THE LESS THEY HAD TO WORRY.'

“Haha, I guess that’s true for some people!” Tiffney pulls out a data-slate, projecting an image of a familiar human face. “But, Nomos, do you remember that there used to be more Rogue Traders in the Koronus Expanse? The Chorda and the Winterscale dynasties were grander and larger than even my own. Now, though?”

She waves her hand through the hologram of Incendia and Calligos, consigning them into the void. “They worried too little about doing the right thing. So Incendia Chorda lost her mind in the pursuit of dogmatism, while Calligos Winterscale was duped by the shadowy hand of hereticism. And now, they no longer exist. The von Valancius dynasty rules all that they once controlled… a conquest that took only about-- fifteen? Sixteen years? That’s very short. Relatively.”

A moment of quietude, followed by more words on the screen. 'SO IT WAS ALL TO MAINTAIN POWER?'

“Nomos, I…” Tiffney looks away. “There was an aspect of selfishness in all of this, yes! I wanted to prove myself a good person. But the reason why I cared about that… how do I explain?”

You are a good person, Yrliet almost interrupts. Her long fingers wrap around the satin curtain she stood behind, fidgeting as she tries to think of something good to say. There is not a single soul I have ever encountered that shined brighter than yours.

“Nomos, there are some people who say that shadows only exist because there is light.” Tiffney places a hand over her chest, on the skin above her heart. “But if there is anything at all that I have learnt from my time within the Imperium, it is that we are not beholden to the laws of the universe. Everyone who says that kindness cannot exist without harm, like how light will inevitably cast a shadow-- they are trying to find rules to follow in a reality that is prone to falling into chaos. Cultists preach they must let no good deed go unpunished, and the Imperium, too, adorn their weapons of war in symbols that once meant peace while calling their bullets the Emperor’s Mercy.”

Then, she brings her hands up to the cogitator. Her palms press onto its mechanical sides, as if she were trying to cup the cheeks on Nomos’ metaphorical face. “There is really nothing more to it,” Tiffney sighs. “I want to be happy. Others, too, want to be happy. And I do not feel happiness is a phenomena restricted to humans alone. I cannot make everyone happy, because the rifts between the souls scattered around this universe existed long before I was born, but-- at the very least, I try to give everyone a chance. Everyone deserves a chance, I think. Even aliens beyond my comprehension, or hopeless sinners like me. That is why I… hmm, I must really sound crazy to everyone else, but I think you’ll understand me, Nomos. That is why I have, whenever I could, forgiven the unforgivable. Some people are monsters because they simply had no other choice. With the power vested in me, as the Rogue Trader of the von Valancius dynasty… I want to make a place in this universe where there are more choices than just different executioner titles.”

'WE WERE RIGHT ABOUT YOU.' The words imprint themselves on the screen with confidence. 'YOU ARE LIGHT EVERLASTING WITHOUT BLINDING DESTRUCTION.'

“Hah! No, no, stop it, Nomos! You’re praising me too much!” Tiffney blushes at Nomos’ response, turning her head away from the screen. Yrliet smiles to herself too, watching as her elantach frets over the Yngir’s flattery; it is not too different from how Yrliet praises her, too. “Alright, alright. You’ve had enough fun. I’m an old lady now with crinkly old bones, so I need to sleep soon. Is there anything more you’d like to ask?”

Tiffney’s head moves to the side, blocking Yrliet’s view of the cogitator screen. All Yrliet could surmise next was that Nomos’ last question must have made Tiffney feel rather confused-- she stops, mutters to herself, and straightens up her messy head of blonde hair before saying: “I didn’t expect a question like that from you. But of course I’ll answer. I… ah, why am I feeling so embarrassed?”

Her elantach’s face, reflected on the polished steel railing, was turning even redder than before. “The answer’s simple, Nomos. I wait for her patiently because I love her.”

Yrliet’s spine pulls itself taut, and her head arches up in shock. It takes an inordinate amount of time for Yrliet to realise that Tiffney must be talking about--

“Eh?” Tiffney’s shoulders lock up. “Wh-- what do you mean, she’s right behind me? Hah! Hahahah! Very funny, Nomos! I’m glad you’re learning to make… jokes…”

Tiffney’s head whips around, meeting Yrliet’s startled gaze.

Her elantach proceeds to jump right out of her skin, nearly sending herself toppling over the balcony railings.

She doesn’t fall, of course, because Yrliet is there, and Yrliet immediately pulls her back to solid ground by the belt on her hip. Unbalanced from the shock, Tiffney lurches forward, and Yrliet brings her arm around Tiffney’s waist to stop her from falling face-flat onto the ground instead.

“Y-Y-Yrliet!” But Tiffney is not concerned with her balance. Tiffney is stammering out Yrliet’s name while her face burns like a red dwarf star. “How… how long…?”

“I did not want to interrupt,” Yrliet answers honestly. Her own gaze flits away from her elantach with an appropriate amount of shame. “But I could hardly wait to speak with you.”

So I eavesdropped on everything. Yrliet bites down on her tongue while her soul does frantic somersaults in her chest with how embarrassed she feels. She doesn’t even have the capacity to process what she’d overheard.

“I, um, ah-- ahem!” Quickly clearing her throat and then slapping both hands on her face, Tiffney appears to forcefully return a semblance of calm onto her face. “I… could hardly wait to speak with you too, Yrliet. You’ve been gone for quite a while.”

Then, more quietly: “I missed you.”

“Elantach…” The tension in Yrliet untwists itself, leaving her body as she says Tiffney’s title. “I missed you dearly.”

She does not say what she is thinking, and, mercifully, Tiffney does not bring it up. Instead, Tiffney smiles back, happy enough just to see Yrliet back. “I expect to hear your full report again on your adventures! What stars have you visited on your lastest journey? Any Desert Worlds?”

“Why are you so taken by Desert Worlds, elantach?” Yrliet laughs, and it is just barely enough to mask the three words she keeps repeating in her head. Those words taste tart on her tongue, said with lips pursed shut and sounding only like any other soft exhale. Tart and yet sweet enough for her to burn them into memory.

I love you, Yrliet thinks, and those words linger far too long on the outline of her soul to not be anything but the truth.

Chapter 16: 6.574.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.574.000.M41

All across the von Valancius flagship, every vox-transmitter suddenly roared to life in perfect unison.

At first, Yrliet scrambled for her weapon, expecting that there was an emergency that needed attending to. It certainly wouldn’t be the first warp jump they’ve had that ended in gunfire and blood. But as her fingers curled around her rifle, Yrliet heard no call to arms through the speakers.

Instead, the vox-transmitters rumbled with strange, breathy sounds, as if someone was running a marathon and huffing right into the receiver. “Is that the Lord Captain?” Cassia was the first to raise her voice over the odd transmission-- for once, she was not seated in the Navigator’s chair, having been given a break after many arduous jumps in a row. A break that she would very soon regret accepting, but for now, Cassia spun around in a panic. “It sounds like she is being ambushed in her quarters! We must hurry!”

“Cass--” Idira, however, could barely eke out a single word before collapsing into peals of shrill laughter. “Hahahahaaa! No, nonono. It’s not… hahaaa, you really did it! The crazy son of a bitch!”

“What?” Cassia’s eyes flitted around the bridge in confusion. Yrliet, too, found herself puzzled by the varying expressions made by the mon-keigh around her, all of which did not signal urgency, but instead… embarrassment? Or even… glee? “Idira, you… no, not just you. Everyone around me is awash with starbursts of yellow hues, with striking purple spots of disbelief. There is something shocking here, but I do not understand.”

Idira immediately swallowed her laughter before doubling back. “Ahem,” she coughed, surveying the people around her. “Anyone else care to do the honours of elucidating this matter for our beloved Navigator?”

She found Yrliet, first, who immediately responded with an expression that crossed all boundaries of intergalactic species: a look of utter bewilderment. “Definitely not Yrliet. How about you, Interrogator?”

Heinrix, whose stern countenance seemed impregnable, flinched slightly at Idira’s call. “I believe I should leave such an important task to the ship’s Seneschal,” he answered, deftly deflecting all responsibility onto the nearby Abelard.

Abelard, who, at that moment, had buried his face in his hands. The vox-transmitters were only getting louder, and Tiffney’s feverish panting seemed to be accompanied by another voice, dancing in motion with the strangled sounds from Tiffney’s lips. It… sounded like… Jae?

Wait.

The sharpness of Tiffney’s gasps. The shuffling of fabric against forceful motions. The fever-pitch of ecstasy being drawn out of Jae’s mouth as she moaned, “Shereen, shereen--”

No.

Surely not…

Yrliet shook her head in disbelief. It can’t be!

Even the mon-keigh cannot be that shameless!

“Lady Orsellio…” Abelard bowed his head to Cassia, as if apologising in advance for what he was about to say. “Please ease your worries. The Rogue Trader is not in… distress. She is…” Then, he faltered, unable to continue.

“What?” Cassia narrowed her two reddened eyes. “She is…?”

“This unit has recorded and analysed the current transmission against vocal data-banks.” Pasqal suddenly entered the conversation, his steel tentacles click-clacking as he spoke. When the word ‘recorded’ slipped out of his metallic throat, Abelard suddenly went even paler than before. “Conclusion: the titled Rogue Trader Tiffney von Valancius is currently broadcasting the organic and unoptimized process of her copulation with unit designated Jae Heydari.”

“Co-- copu--” Cassia’s bafflement broke away in an instant, replaced with a torrential flood power that burst out from every pore of her body. Everyone around Cassia was knocked to the floor by the sheer force of her shock. Which, for once, Yrliet actually welcomed, because she dearly wished that she could just hit her head, black out and wake up when this broadcast was over. “You’re-- no! You jest! That… I can’t… how-- how crude!”

“God-Emperor preserve me,” Argenta contributed helpfully, making the sign of the Aquila over herself as if trying to make sure her mon-keigh deity did not mistake her for enjoying this… debacle. “In thy light I shield myself from wicked sins and revelry…”

“This is the funniest damn thing that’s ever happened in my life,” Idira cheered, popping open a bottle of amasec that no one even knew she had on her. “Bottom’s up! Want a drink, old man?”

Abelard’s steely gaze redirected itself to Idira and the two golden goblets she was casually levitating around her. “Idira, is this really the time?”

“What? You mean you don’t want to drink to the joyous occasion of our Rogue Trader--” Idira was cut off by an excruciatingly loud screech of pleasure, courtesy of Jae. Yrliet, who had already huddled herself into a corner while trying to escape the sound, briefly contemplated shooting herself. “...As I was saying. Isn’t this a cause for celebration? From the sounds of it, Tiffney will have no problem creating more heirs for the von Valancius dynasty!”

The old mon-keigh’s already white hairs began to fall off his head at rapid speeds. “Idira, I don’t know what you were taught on that-- that lightless, backwater planet Theodora found you on, but I hardly think this-- union-- between Mistress Heydari and the Rogue Trader is going to result in heirs! They don’t have the-- necessary functions!”

Heinrix plucked one of the goblets from Idira’s psyker orbit. “Pour me a drink. I need it.”

“Say no more!” Idira waved her fingers and uncorked the amasec bottle without touching it with her fingers. When she tilted it to pour into Heinrix’s goblet, though, that’s when it began to wobble and splashed slightly onto Heinrix’s sleeve. “Sorry. Still working on that.”

“Levitation, amongst sanctioned psykers, is an extremely rare ability only available to the most skilled.” Heinrix accepted the half-spilled drink while the vox-transmitters blared out a series of disgustingly wet noises. “Most impressive. Impressive enough to almost make me forget what our Rogue Trader--”

Jae proceeded to howl Tiffney’s name with the melodious quality of a dying animal, interrupting everyone’s conversation. Yrliet had retreated to the corner to try escaping into her soul, but it was no use. Every breathy moan and shrill gasp kept her tethered to reality in the worst way possible. “...what our Rogue Trader is doing to us,” Heinrix finished, before taking a rather violent swig of his amasec.

“Yes…” Idira glanced away from Cassia’s explosive panic and suddenly found Yrliet, who stared back at her with a thoroughly pained expression. “Well, I never knew a xenos could look so… pleading. Yrliet, are you alright?”

Yrliet didn’t need to answer. Heinrix, instead, gave her one single look of rare sympathy before shaking his head. “Do you really need to ask that? One does not need to be a member of the Ordo Xenos to identify the universal appearance of abject misery.”

“Is this--” Yrliet rasped, barely able to speak over the escalating volume of Tiffney’s voice as she carried out acts of such degenerate perversion that even She Who Thirsts would blush. “Is this normal?”

“No,” both psykers replied, which Yrliet supposed gave her some measure of relief in this dark, dark time. “I would offer earplugs,” Idira continued, “but I doubt any of mine would fit in yours.”

And Yrliet also supposed she appreciated that sentiment. But no amount of earplugs were going to save anyone on this voidship from the magnificently-preserved vox archeotech, now finely-tuned to catching every minute detail of the elantach’s bedroom exercise.

It took about ten more minutes, or perhaps ten years, for the sounds to die down. The ship’s vox slowly quietened into sighs and sifting cloth. The torture, as it were, seemed to finally be over. A blanket of crushing shame was lifted off the bridge; courtesy of Cassia, no doubt. “Finally,” Cassia sighed out, and Yrliet had never seen the Sha’eil seer’s pale cheeks so colourfully red. “Finally…”

“Buckle up, everybody! Show’s not over,” Idira warned, and Cassia immediately turned to her in alarm. “Well, the strenuous part is over. I bet Jae’s inner contraptions need rearranging after whatever the Lord Captain just put her through. But what really matters…”

Idira pointed her finger to the elevator connecting the bridge to the Lord Captain’s chambers. “...Is how we applaud them for their performance when they come out of their bedroom to greet us!”

Yrliet would sooner ‘applaud’ a frag grenade to make it blow up and take her head off. Frankly, she could live the rest of her theoretically possible twenty thousand year lifespan and still never forget this moment. What a terrible curse the mon-keigh have wrought on her. “No,” was all she managed to force out of her strained throat before retreating into a storage room to finally meditate away the overwhelming disgust and despair.

Just as Yrliet slipped away, she heard the voidship fall into complete silence as all shock and laughter was extinguished into quiet staring. “What?” The elantach’s confused voice rang out, and Yrliet would probably never see Tiffney the same way ever again. She was such an idiot for thinking Tiffney might just be different from the rest of her sordid kind. “Why’s everybody so quiet? Did something happen?”

Yrliet shut the plasteel door behind her, granting her turbulent soul some distant measure of temporary peace as the world outside was closed away.

Chapter 17: 6.001.020.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.001.020.M42

“Yrliet!”

Tiffney greets Yrliet’s return by drunkenly stumbling towards her with a big smile and two half-empty bottles of vintage amasec. “Yrliet, I’m so glad you’re here, but you just missed it!”

Yrliet tilts her head, before gently taking Tiffney’s arm. She begins to guide her back to a chair so Tiffney doesn’t trip over her own wobbly legs. “What did I miss, elantach?”

“The new year, my dear Yrliet!” The answer comes not from Tiffney, but from one of the guests sitting around the table. Jae Heydari looks a little older than the last time they met, with just the slightest hint of new wrinkles in places where even the latest aesthetical medicae can’t touch. “Good fortune has brought you to us with the gentleness of the summer breeze. And just in the nick of time!”

Yrliet makes sure Tiffney is seated before looking back up. There is a half-played game of regicide on the table, with haphazard pieces strewn over the board with a pair of drunken hands. Idira, too, is here, which is no shocker; she has been by Tiffney’s side for many, many years.

It is the inclusion of Argenta that takes Yrliet by surprise.

Argenta, dressed in white prayer garments, sits next to Idira while holding a tankard of absolutely foul-smelling booze. “Of course the xenos is still around,” Argenta sighs, before taking a gulp out of her tankard.

Yrliet stands stiffly behind Tiffney, letting the Rogue Trader’s drunken head lay against her midriff. “That is the most polite welcome you have ever greeted me with,” she says plainly, and Argenta turns away with a huff.

“The little sister has softened over the years.” Idira, on the other hand, lets out a soft laugh as she levitates a jug of booze. She tips the massive pitcher over without a hitch, swiftly refilling Argenta’s tankard. “And she’s also gotten a lot better at drinking.”

Jae eyes the malty brown liquid in Argenta’s tankard and smiles tersely. “Most impressive indeed, Argenta.”

“Yeah,” Idira chuckles. “Especially seeing how the only alcohol you can get your hands on is the vilest piss available on this side of the galaxy’s open arsecrack, Argenta.”

“Save your insults to yourself, witch.” For all the harshness of that word, Argenta delivers with gentleness that sounds wholly unfamiliar to Yrliet.

“Well, I must admit…” Jae watches at Argenta chugs back the newly-refilled mug. “If all I had to drink was this rotgut booze, I think I’d make the difficult choice to be a teetotaler.”

“Liar! You’d-- you’d drink anything, expensive amasec or bottom-of-the-barrel pondscum.” Tiffney hiccups as she speaks, half-consciously slumping further against Yrliet’s body. Yrliet holds Tiffney’s head to stop her from falling off her chair, and at the touch of Yrliet’s fingers, her elantach lets out a sweet laugh. “Hah, that tickles.”

“I would not, shereen!” Jae places a hand on her chest, pretending to be offended. “Believe it or not, even a conniving criminal of the dark Imperial underbelly will have standards.”

“No you don’t,” Tiffney laughs. “I mean, you dated me once.”

The sudden callback to what should be long-bygone days suddenly stirs up memories in Yrliet that feel fresh as morning dew. “I remember that,” Yrliet hums, quietly, a little sternly. “I doubt I will soon forget.”

Idira hides her laughter behind a not-very-convincing cough. “Red, the way you say that makes it sound like a threat.”

Yrliet tilts her head in confusion while the rest of the women-- even Argenta!-- laugh in unison. “What do you mean by that?”

“Please, Yrliet, spare me!” Jae holds up her hands dramatically in faux-surrender. Yrliet notices that, at some point, her one organic arm had been replaced with bones of metal, matching the other in cold steel. “I may still be a dazzling jewel of the Expanse and one of the most beautiful women to have ever graced the Rogue Trader’s eye… not the most beautiful, of course, I wouldn’t dare claim that mantle while the only shining paragon of virtue in this unholy land is seated right next to me…”

Idira elbows Jae in the ribs. “Cool it.” Both Yrliet and Argenta totally overlook Jae’s compliment to the latter.

“What I mean to say, dear Yrliet, is that you needn’t worry about the past dalliances between Tiffney and I!” Jae winks at Tiffney, and Tiffney, too besotted with alcohol to respond properly, just waves her away like shooing a stray animal. “See? My case, proven in point. You are far too valuable to the Rogue Trader for her to risk it all on some backwater merchant such as myself.”

Argenta raises a brow. “You go from describing yourself with lavish compliments to scathing insults rather quickly.”

“It’s important to balance out my image, Argenta.” Jae bats her eyelids in what Yrliet believes might just be a flirtatious human gesture. “Something that a being as radiant as you has no need for. Only the blindest of fools would not see your grace from a million miles away.”

“Cooool it,” Idira repeats, elbowing Jae harder. Argenta just continues drinking without any qualms about how Jae’s words danced around about her. “And, yes, Yrliet. You don’t have to worry about a thing. Jae’s obviously distracted by other pursuits, and Tiffney would have given you her surname by now if she could.”

Her… surname? The strange saying made Yrliet pause to think. “Does the act of giving a surname carry a great significance? I was under the impression that it simply denoted your allegiance to a certain establishment.”

Idira shrugs, though a coy smile plays on her face. “Weeell, you’re not wrong. If the ‘establishment’ you’re referring to is bonded by--”

“Marriage!” Jae interjects with a loud laugh, and, inexplicably, Yrliet finds herself far less embarrassed by the idea than the last time Jae had teased her with it.

Still, though, she is embarrassed enough to turn away. “I am sure I rejected the notion of us being bound by vows of human trivialities the last time you brought this up.”

Jae blinks. “I brought this up before?”

“You humans have such poor memory.”

“I remember,” Argenta grumbles. “And I’m entirely unsurprised that xenos lack the loyalty to even think of marriage!”

“I’m surprised the little sister is not frothing at the mouth upon the mere suggestion that the Rogue Trader be wed to a xenos,” Idira replies. “But Yrliet, do the Aeldari really not have anything like marriage?”

“How tragic,” Jae comments. “And wise. Much wiser than humans.”

Yrliet lets out a soft, exasperated sigh. “We Children of Asuryan do have rituals that serve a similar purpose to human marriage. But they are far more binding than a few cheap words shared over a cold stone altar.”

Tiffney, who has remained suspiciously quiet the entire time, perks up. “Really?” Yrliet looks down, her hands still gently cupped around Tiffney’s head, and she notices that her elantach is blushing. “What are they like?”

For a time, Yrliet goes quiet. What are they like? How can she possibly recount it in human words? Like… a million starbursts of joy, singing through countless lengths of wraithbone. Like the penultimate greeting of two immortal souls completed only with the presence of the other.

Like the acceptance of transient happiness before the eventual inevitability. Because Aeldari live for a long, long time, and the Paths they take will bring them ever-further.

Humans consider divorce a tragedy, or a series of poor decisions that have led to a poor outcome. But to an Aeldari, such tragedy is stitched into the fabric of their existence. Even the Dance Without End is enmeshed with the end of the Aeldari Empire, like a little spark of irony in the ten millenniums of despair that has followed. Without question, the dance of two souls will eventually leave divergent tracks in the fresh snow. It is only the penultimate greeting because the final bow will come when the curtain on the stage shutter to a close, and the miraculous play that was once all-consuming will, too, become a mere memory. All love between Aeldari will be consigned to nothing but a footnote in the pages of one’s history.

But it is beautiful, Yrliet thinks. It is beautiful.

“I... you will have to give me some time to find the words, elantach. Such things are not easy to describe in your tongue,” Yrliet answers, painfully honest.

Tiffney snorts. “Cop-out.”

Undeterred, Jae continues egging them on. “Well, Yrliet, if words will not suffice, you can always show the Rogue Trader through demonstration--”

“Shh!” Tiffney shuts everyone up with a hiss and a wobbly wave of her arm. “Stooop! I’m too drunk for this! Change the topic!”

Idira is the one to come to the rescue. “You know, a lot of things have changed over the years.” She presses her elbows onto the table, and when her face leans forward into the fluorescent lights overhead, those new age spots on her skin suddenly tug Yrliet away from her thoughts and back into the present. “But your ability to handle your drink is not one of those things, Lord Captain.”

Tiffney rolls her eyes. “I can drink just fine, thank you very much!”

“Are you sure?” Idira raises her eyebrows with strong scepticism. “You’ve drank half as much as I have, and I think you would’ve passed out by now without Yrliet to hold you.”

Then, Argenta brings her head up, asking: “Can Yrliet drink?”

Two things. First, it is the only time Yrliet has ever heard her name from Argenta’s lips. In all the years before this, Argenta has referred to her with some variation of ‘the xenos’ or ‘scum’. That in itself made Yrliet parse Argenta’s words more carefully than ever before.

Secondly-- what kind of question is that? “I can drink just as well as you, Argenta.” She does, however, have the courtesy to use Argenta’s name in return.

Idira whistles tauntingly. “Did you hear that, Argenta? Are you going to take that sitting down?”

With a scoff, Argenta shoves her tankard. It slides over the polished table, and Yrliet stops it from falling off the edge with the palm of her right hand. Tiffney, who had practically been glued to Yrliet for the past five minutes, nearly topples over from the movement. “Drink it, then.” Argenta points at her half-empty tankard. “Show me, Yrliet.”

“Ohoh!” Jae brings her mechanical hand up to her mouth in scandalised excitement. “You don’t need to respond to Argenta’s challenge if you don’t wish to, Yrliet. I would hate to see the Rogue Trader mourn your untimely demise.”

Jae’s words, delivered in sweet tones, insulted Yrliet a lot more than even Argenta’s snubbery. “You think I cannot handle a mon-k-- human beverage?”

“Uh oh,” Tiffney giggles. She would have normally intervened at this point to protect Yrliet from idiotic wagers, but she appears too tipsy to do so. “She had to catch herself there. That means she’s mad. Yrliet, are you mad at me?”

“Not at you,” Yrliet whispers, her left hand still carefully holding the side of Tiffney’s head so she doesn’t tip out of her chair. “Why would I ever be angry at you, elantach?”

When Yrliet’s fingers grace the skin of Tiffney’s cheek, her elantach giggles even more, Idira covers her eyes with her hand, like she’s looking at something she shouldn’t see.

“Alright, alright, you two are really adamant on rubbing salt in the wound, aren’t you?” Jae, meanwhile, does an exaggerated swoon of despair. “I know I was joking about marriage, but there’s no need to act like that in front of three chronically single ladies.”

“Moving! On!” Idira claps her hands to try redirecting everyone’s attention. “Let’s get to the fun drinking part.”

“For once, I agree with you wholeheartedly, Idira. Go on, then!” Argenta spreads her arms in revelry, smiling co*ckily at Yrliet. “Prove me wrong, and I may just offer you another serving of mankind’s glorious invention.”

“Please do not mistake Argenta’s drink for an example of mankind’s glory,” Jae clarifies quickly.

Yrliet picks up the tankard. The handle is sticky, which already makes her grimace. As she brings it close to her face, she can confirm that the contents of this drink smells about as pleasant as an aborted bruul parasite. Still, she does not back out; this is a challenge, after all. Though her kinsmen have turned their backs on her long ago, Yrliet is still their only representative at this table, and she will not have the Aeldari seen as lightweights.

So, with the pride of her race hanging onto her shoulders, she chugs.

Then, she immediately bowls over and spits out the entire mouthful of booze onto the floor.

“This-- ugh--! O, merciful Isha--!” Somehow, the drink managed to exceed all of Yrliet’s worst expectations. It burns like molten magma, while somehow also being syrupy enough to coat the entirety of Yrliet’s mouth with the bitter aftertaste of a decaying carcass. Tiffney, who had been balancing against her the whole time, suddenly sobers up at the sound of Yrliet gagging and starts slapping her in the back. “What-- what is this?”

“Clearly, too strong for you!” Argenta laughs haughtily, all while grabbing the entire pitcher of the gunk and pouring it straight into her mouth, just for show. “The proud product of my young Order, the One Star! And now, I can confidently say it burns with enough righteous fury to destroy any xenos that dares to indulge in our creations!”

Idira smirks. “Most people buy it just to show off the fact that they can stomach the damn thing.”

“Though I was once relieved that some Orders of the Sisters of Battle take no oath of sobriety…” Jae turns a horrified, but still amazed eye towards Argenta as she continues to drink the gangrenous fluid without needing to stop for a break. “...I now wonder if such an oath is actually meant to protect us from the… blinding brilliance of their exquisite taste in fermented alcohol.”

“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” Tiffney chimes in, taking the tankard out of Yrliet’s hands while she continues to try expelling the taste from her mouth. It’s not working. “I love it. I’ll order another hundred dozen barrels!”

Then, Tiffney chugs down the remaining booze in the tankard, which terrifies Yrliet more than it impresses her. “Besides-- there’s a lot of Aeldari wine that would kill a human. It’s probably the same thing the other way around. Maybe. I bet Yrliet could drink whatever the Aeldari equivalent of this is.”

I most certainly hope there isn’t an Aeldari equivalent, Yrliet thinks silently. Perhaps in the Dark City. But Argenta would not be happy to hear her Order’s creation compared to the poisoned liquors of Commorragh.

“Tiffney, I have grown to accept that the God-Emperor’s glory is so all-encompassing that even a willing xenos may be made to walk the path of service to mankind…” Then, Argenta thumps the table with her first in protest. “But no Aeldari will be able to recreate the tireless work of my Sisters!”

Yrliet huffs. “Perhaps not an Aeldari. The Orks are much more likely.”

Argenta’s face flares with anger. “You dare compare our brew to the work of greenskins?!”

“Alriiight!” Tiffney immediately puts herself between them. “Break it up, break it up! Yrliet, I trust you are more than capable of drinking us under the table if we had Aeldari brew, and Argenta… your… uh… excellent recipe also serves an important purpose in serving the interests of humanity.”

“Specifically,” Jae adds, “it is currently the cheapest and most efficient way to get an entire crew drunk off their arses.”

Argenta, for some reason, takes Jae’s words as a compliment, raising her head in joy. “My Sisters do important work! Strong alcohol is the lubricant that oils the cogs of the Imperium’s galactic machine.”

Tiffney leans in closer. “Have you been speaking to Pasqal recently? That sounds like something Pasqal would say.”

“I regret to inform you that I have not spoken to the esteemed Archmagos for over a decade.” Argenta tilts her head towards Jae. “I believe Jae is the only one who can find him.”

“And only barely.” Jae shrugs her shoulders. “He spends his time traipsing around in the most absurd of places. The last time I saw him in person was over two months ago. That’s when he fixed up my second mechanical arm for me.”

Argenta startles. “Your right arm is the work of Archmagos Haneumann?! Why did you not tell me earlier?!”

Jae looks at Argenta’s expression of shock and winks. “Perhaps I wanted to see the shame fall across your face when you realise you called Pasqal’s handiwork ‘garish’.”

Tiffney narrows her eyes. “It is a little garish.”

“Shereen!”

“Rogue Trader!”

“What an intellectual conversation,” Idira comments, wearing an amused grin. “I’m glad I stopped drinking with the voices in my head.”

“Yes, now you drink with us instead,” Tiffney chuckles. “And we are not much better.”

“But you guys are more fun,” Idira laughs in return. There is-- Yrliet does not know if she is imagining it, or still misinterpreting human subtleties-- but there is something deafeningly sad, buried under the rumble of Idira’s voice.

Tiffney, however, either doesn’t see it that way, or is too drunk to notice. “We should have a toast!” She lifts up the rotgut-stained tankard in her hands, beckoning at Argenta for a refill. “For the new year!”

“We’ve already had one, shereen. Do you not remember?”

“Nope,” Tiffney admits. “But Yrliet is here now, so we can have a new one, can’t we?”

Her elantach begins to shakily lift one of her bottles of amasec, before trying to pour it into an empty glass. From the glow around Tiffney’s hand, it seems like Idira is quietly using some mild telekinesis to make sure Tiffney doesn’t spill everywhere. “For you,” she hums, passing the glass to Yrliet. “You don’t have to drink. It’s just for toasting.”

“A toast…” Yrliet tries to recall what Tiffney is talking about. “...It is when you drink together while wishing for something good, correct? What shall we ‘toast’ to?”

Tiffney tousles her already-messy hair to try looking good. She always looks good, of course, but making her hair even more tangled doesn’t help her case. “Why, to me, of course!”

“Sure,” Idira readily agrees, raising her cup. “Ready your well-wishes, everybody!”

Tiffney blinks. “No, no, I’m joking…”

“You’ve already given your orders, elantach.” Yrliet brings her hand to the top of Tiffney’s head, gently unravelling the knots in her hair with nimble fingers. “How could we possibly refuse you?”

Argenta raises the entire pitcher. That’s her drink now, apparently. “This is why I have grown to accept you, Yrliet. Complete deference to the will of the Rogue Trader!”

Not having the energy to address Argenta’s hilarious interpretation of their slightly complicated relationship, Tiffney just lets out a breathy sigh. “You shouldn’t waste all your good luck for the new year on me.”

“It’s hardly a waste if it’s for you, shereen.” Jae refills her own cup, readying for the toast. “Now, who shall start? Will you do the honours, Sister Argenta?”

With a nod, Argenta thrusts the pitcher high into the air. “A toast,” Argenta declares, “for the von Valancius dynasty! May you forever shine splendidly with the God-Emperor’s light!”

“A toast! May the voices of whimsy and fate not steer you astray from the victory you shall forge!”

“A toast! For the splendour of riches and to the sweet, sweet luxury of life!”

Yrliet brings her cup to the others, glasses clinking together. “A toast,” she repeats, and she says the well-wishes that all Outcasts hear when they leave their craftworld:

“No matter how far the thread of fate leads you, through endless darkness and eternal unknowns, may there always be a gossamer of starlight to guide you back home.”

Chapter 18: 6.580.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.580.000.M41

Yrliet found Jae on the Lower Decks drinking herself half to death.

The sight hardly surprised her. Yrliet did not care to pay witness to it herself, but the elantach was less than pleased with having her most intimate moments broadcasted throughout the voidship. From what Yrliet overheard from Abelard and Cassia, Tiffney had put a brave face in front of the crew, merrily joking about the quality of her ‘performance’; but once Tiffney turned away from the crowd, she wore the most dour face the Seneschal had ever seen on her.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…” Idira pries away a bottle from Jae’s hand, labelled ‘Flames of Purity’. “I think you should stop drinking.”

“Is it not enough that I am already being wistfully tossed about on the turbulent open seas of love and loss?” Jae laughed, which Yrliet thought was jarring; strained, in a miserably forced way that even a mon-keigh could detect, much less one who has completed the Path of Awakening. “Now my good friend is nagging me about imbibing in a perfectly reasonable amount of amasec to cauterise the open wound.”

“Look, Jae. I know I am being a hypocrite when I say this!” Idira pointed to the dozens of bottles already scattered across the dusty section of hallway they’ve occupied. Whether they enjoy drinking in odd places away from other’s prying eyes, or Jae just couldn’t bring herself to continue and started popping open the bottles right then and there, Yrliet doesn’t know. “But getting so drunk that you start staring into the open warp is not going to help you. It’s just postponing your misery for a later date.”

Jae tipped another bottle towards Idira. “You are right. In that you are a complete hypocrite for saying those words. Hah! I may not have paid personal witness to it, Idira, but I know full well where too much alcohol has brought you. If the Lord Captain was here, she would’ve laughed-- though, whether at you or myself, I have no idea.”

“Well, I warned you about it.” Idira sounded a little smug, but in a contradictingly sad, sympathetic way. “I warned you that pulling such a stunt probably wouldn’t get you into her good books, Jae. And I didn’t even need to consult the voices to tell you that, but I did, and they concurred.”

In all other times when Yrliet had accidentally stumbled upon a motley gang of drunken fools skulking about the voidship, she swiftly made way or turned around. But, this time, of all times-- she presses herself against the corner, unable to hide her burgeoning curiosity.

Not in Jae or Idira, specifically. The former was clearly an expert actor hiding her true story behind big smiles and a well-manicured appearance; Yrliet had already seen right through her. The latter, meanwhile, whispered to Sha’eil with every step, and Yrliet had no intention of courting She Who Thirsts through a mon-keigh conduit.

Instead, Yrliet found herself eavesdropping because she wanted to know what they had to say about Tiffney.

It was unlike her. First, she had never expected the word of a mon-keigh to ever carry weight-- and then, as Yrliet found herself surprised by Tiffney’s unexpected thoughtfulness at every turn, she instead thought that only the elantach’s opinion mattered, besides her own. She cared little for the narrow, simplistic and disingenuous views of others.

“Idira, when you saw into the Lord Captain’s past…” Yrliet reasoned it away. When walking the Path of Awakening, the first thing one learns is that the truth can come from the most unlikely of sources; most of the galaxy is filled with white noise, but beads of knowledge could be found from anywhere amongst the stars. That very philosophy was what motivated her to continue looking for her lost kin from Crudarach.

So it’s normal. No, it’s correct. Of course she would want to learn more about the elantach’s past from the mouths of her kind. Loathe as Yrliet may be to admit it, a fellow mon-keigh may have better insight into Tiffney than herself, even with all her sharpness and scrutiny. Indeed, her opinion on their kind has gone through substantial changes throughout her time in the Rogue Trader’s retinue. Though she found herself indicated on most of her preconceptions, they were not… as simple as she had expected.

“You want to ask me about her past, Jae?” Idira leaned forward, voice lowering. “In all honesty… you know better than I do. You spent a lot of time in the Calixis Sector, didn’t you?”

“But she was not at all what I expected from her!” Jae laughed again, airy and hollow. “Imagine, Idira-- a woman like our Lord Captain was once called the Carver of Calixis.”

Yrliet focused on the unfamiliar title. She knew of what the mon-keigh referred to as the Calixis Sector-- it was similar to the Koronus Expanse, if everything was worse. “You know, Idira, I thought I’d gotten the wrong person at first. Tiffney von Valancius, light of the forgotten Expanse and saviour of the downtrodden!”

Jae uncorked another bottle, and this time, Idira didn’t bother trying to stop her. “Now, there are times when the legend whispered into rumours grows far beyond simple reality. But one does not gain a reputation for being a cold, heartless butcher overnight.”

As Jae spoke, Yrliet closed her eyes. Heartless? Butcher? None of those words she ever heard assigned to the elantach-- and they were never words she would choose for Tiffney herself.

“Especially when you are a loyal Astra Militarum Commander in service of the Imperium. Heartless brutality is a necessity in such a role, so to be recognised amongst all your peers as the worst of the lot… that certainly takes a bit of effort, doesn’t it?”

“Why are you telling me this now, Jae? Don’t tell me you’re disappointed about how nice the Lord Captain was to you.”

“She stuttered when she asked me to be her partner, Idira! Stammered like a little girl!”

Idira, resigned, took a swig of amasec and sat cross-legged next to Jae. “Did you want her to be more assertive, then?”

“I didn’t look for any of that, Idira. I would have liked it, yes, but most of all, I wanted Tiffney to make sense. But, you know--” Jae puts down her bottle, before leaning forward to stare Idira right in the eyes. “I caught her out in a lie, once. I did not point it out to her-- Exalted One knows how many of my own lies I have told her myself!-- but it was such an odd thing to lie about. Odd, and easily proven untrue.”

Yrliet and Idira both inched closer at once. It seemed they were both undeniably curious. “What lie?”

“Tiffney insisted that she was taken into the von Valancius ship while on Cadia.” That name-- Cadia. Yes, Yrliet remembered. Tiffney said it was her home-- “But when I asked Abelard, he acted all holier-than-thou while confidently telling me that it had been decades since they last entered the Cadian Sector, and that the previous Rogue Trader had hated it. No, they picked Tiffney up in the Calixis Sector-- and even if I hadn’t asked Abelard, the rumours tell a very different story.”

“Ugh, come on, Jae. Don’t keep me hanging! Tell me the story!”

“In the nine-hundred and ninety-ninth year of the forty-first millennium, Cadia was under attack.” Jae shrugged her shoulders. “I did not pay much attention to the details. Frankly, I just assumed Cadia was under attack every other weekend. But it seemed that this time, the situation was… more severe than before. Cadia immediately called for all its commanders and officers who were off-planet to return, and we saw a mass exodus of Imperium forces from the Sector, all desperately rushing back to Cadia’s aid. Being able to work without any prying eyes, even for those short few months-- it was a good time to be a Cold Trader, for sure!”

“When does Tiffney come in?”

“I’m getting to it, Idira. Do you not know how to set up a good story?” Jae cleared her mechanical throat. “Among the returning crew was the famous Carver of Calixis. Her real title, untouched by the heretical whispers of those who hated her, was Lieutenant General Tiffney Scipio-Grimald, Commander of the 8th Army of the Scanthian Janissaries.”

Idira grimaced. “What a mouthful. I think the ‘Carver of Calixis’ is much catchier.”

“I must admit, I do not know much about her old regiment, but I do know that Janissaries never return to their homeworld. Their endless mission is to press ever-onwards into the lost and distant stars, returning the Exalted One’s light to infinite constellations that sprawled across the galaxy. All fine and dandy, except it meant that Tiffney-- or the Carver of Calixis-- had little to no warp routes leading back to Cadia. While the planet fought against horrors unknown and its other faithful servants returned to its side, she was bumbling around the outskirts of Calixis, her Navigators desperately lost while barely hanging on to the dimming light of the Astronomicon. Soon, the prolonged time they spent in the warp began to affect the minds of even her most hardened soldiers.”

“Sounds familiar,” Idira muttered.

“Does it? I would hope not. I do think our dear Lady Orsellio, for all her eccentricities, makes an excellent Navigator. But getting lost is hardly a remarkable story. It is how one responds to such trials and tribulations that mark them as legend.”

Idira tilted her head. “If we’re really talking about the Lord Captain we know, then I would bet my whole amasec collection that Tiffney managed to rally the crew together with sheer willpower alone.”

“That does sound like what she would do, doesn’t it?”

Does it? Yrliet thought to herself. Yes, perhaps. The elantach is exceptionally persuasive and skilled at inspiring comradery.

“Well?” Idira hurried Jae along. “How does the rest of the story go? What did Tiffney do?”

“The Carver of Calixis,” Jae said, very purposefully avoiding Tiffney’s name, “went mad, and killed her entire crew.”

“That’s groxsh*t,” Idira immediately rebutted, not even allowing silence to blanket the shock. “Not a chance. This is the woman who couldn’t even bear to destroy Rykad Minoris-- I know you weren’t around, but the situation was bad. No one would have blamed her for committing exterminatus and getting rid of the whole planet. And even so, she ordered as many people saved as she could.”

“Idira, why do you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”

And Jae was correct. Yrliet had heard it, too-- the slight escalation in Idira’s voice, sharp and loud and somewhat fearful. “You…” Idira rasped, before placing a bottle down on the floor with a little too much force. “You’re not being fair to me, Jae. I know damn well you keep a million secrets, but you always pry me open for the truth.”

“Dear Idira, I never force you to pour your heart out to me.” Jae paused, like she was trying to find the right words, something less like her usual bravado. “It is… how do I say this? I feel like you are not the kind of person who enjoys keeping secrets. They weigh on you, like rocks falling onto a cliff face, until it can bear no more and collapses on itself.”

“You’re right, unfortunately.” Idira sounded genuinely annoyed about being cracked open so easily. “No, I don’t like keeping secrets. But I will if I have to.”

“If you are under orders not to share, I understand--”

“Not really,” Idira sighed. “Theodora… the last Rogue Trader. She asked me to look into the pasts of all the von Valancius strays she’d found to see which one would be the most suitable successor. And she didn’t say I couldn’t share. In fact, she told me to warn people if I ever felt suspicious of anyone.”

Jae quietened down, and Yrliet could barely hear her say: “And do you feel suspicious of Tiffney?”

“I know you hardly see the voices of the warp as substantial evidence of anything beyond whispers of madness.” And Yrliet shared that view; the lost souls screaming within Sha’eil could hardly be trusted. She straightened up, very quietly moving her feet away, feeling that there was nothing useful left to overhear. “But, that story you told me…”

Yrliet had almost begun to leave when Idira blurted: “--A cacophony of souls dim to only one. She stood with blood drenched on her hands and even more spilling from her mouth. The walls close in, the stars crash down, and the Dark Prince stands at the wound she’d made.”

Then, Yrliet jerked her head around so quickly that she almost gave herself away by knocking into one of the overhanging pipes.

“You’re not…” Jae sucked in her breath. “Is the ‘Dark Prince’ a coincidental metaphor for something else, or is this just as bad as I think it is?”

Worse, Yrliet almost yelled, but even if she had tried to, there was a lump in her throat that choked her silent. You do not realise how grave this accusation is. To associate the elantach with our eternal enemy is unthinkable! She has not shown a hint of corruption. How could such a thing slip my… no, a servant of She Who Thirsts could never hold their insatiable selves back for long. I have no faults in my observation. This is all a mistake. No, it’s a lie. It must be a lie!

“Hunger overwhelming strangles like snake-vines.” Idira continued, as if possessed, and Yrliet knew her words were nothing but ramblings from the insane, and yet-- “The dark begs for its tithe, but the last soul withholds its payment. A faint star approaches, postponing the date of its due. Will it be a chance for redemption, or the final step into the surging abyss?”

“That’s enough!”

Jae’s shout was just enough to break Yrliet out of a horrified stupor. “That’s enough,” Jae repeated, softer this time. “I don’t want to hear anymore, Idira. Let us… leave such foreboding prophecies to the realm of the mad, where they belong.”

Idira let out a long, long exhale, like her soul was returning to her body. “There are some whispers that are less grim.”

Jae clicked her tongue. “Do I really want to tempt fate?” It would be wise not to, Yrliet thought, like a miserable hypocrite. As if she had not tempted fate by listening in on a conversation not meant for her. There was always a chance of seeing something that you can’t, or hearing something that you shouldn’t. “Ah, damn it all. Give it to me, Idira. Let nothing be left uncovered!”

Yrliet found that she, too, could not turn away.

“She is a beast, a wild beast that screams from the bleeding maw in her throat and rips the stars to shreds with her ten-thousand teeth. She is a beast, and she is also… a little girl,” Idira said, without a hint of judgement or fear. It appeared that she was simply repeating what she was being told. “A little girl who dreams of little fairytale endings, and-- oh-- she so badly wants a happy ending.”

Chapter 19: 6.002.025.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.002.025.M42

“A toast,” Tiffney says to no one, raising her cup into the empty sky. “To… hah! I’m not drunk enough for this. Throne preserve me, I’m never throwing a new year’s party for these ungrateful noble brats ever again.”

“Elantach,” Yrliet whispers, “your hair.”

Blonde hair billows onto the cold balcony floor, much longer than the last time Yrliet had returned. Tiffney is sitting on a grand chair, likely not meant to be dragged out onto the delicate balcony floor, but who would say no to the Rogue Trader? “I know,” her elantach replies, soft and very, very tired. “Fix it for me, please?”

When Yrliet runs her hands down Tiffney’s hair, she notes how the colour doesn’t seem quite right. It is a discordance most likely naked to the human eye, but Yrliet can just, barely, see it-- the yellow sheen isn’t exactly the same kind of yellow, and the brown undertones are a little too bright.

“You’ve been dyeing your hair.”

“Huh?!” Tiffney almost chokes. “sh*t, how could you tell? Oh, God-Emperor, could the guests tell? I’ve already had enough rumours of my rejuvenat not being up to par. I’m going to fire my aesthetician.”

“That would hardly change things.” Yrliet rubs her fingers on the knots, and though the colour in her hair is not exactly the same, it feels just right, giving way to Yrliet’s touch as easily as ever. “I have walked the Path of Awakening, elantach. Even the smallest details make themselves known to me, from the angle of water falling on verdant leaves to the number of dust motes floating besides our window at the morning light.”

“Oh, no.” Tiffney presses her head against her balled fist. “Well, I guess there’s no fooling you, then.”

Somehow, Tiffney’s words dug down Yrliet’s throat and twisted into a pang of sadness. “Was there… ever need to fool me, elantach?”

“Hmm, I guess?” Tiffney chuckles to herself, and swirls the wine glass in her hand without ever drinking. “I just didn’t want to make my white hairs that obvious.”

“White hairs…” Now that Yrliet is looking closer, she can see it: the way artificial paint mixes onto her elantach’s real hair, like armour-plated scales trying to hide the truth of soft skin. If she really wished to, Yrliet could probably rub the dye off each strand of her hair, but what good would that do? Tiffney had already deemed it shameful, to be hidden.

So Yrliet thinks on her words, and then says: “There is no need to hide such things, especially from me. Your ability to change both yourself and the world around you is part of your strength, elantach. And it is essential that all things change over time. As surely as drought must be one day followed by rain to return life to a meadow, you, too, must follow the passage of time. The transient nature of your being, including your appearance, is part of what makes you undeniably beautiful, elantach.”

Tiffney coughs loudly. “Th… thank you.” Then, she swiftly drinks every last drop of amasec left in her glass, just a little fretfully. “If that is the case… maybe I should leave my hair undyed.”

“Do not stop doing something just on my word alone. I understand that there are good reasons why humans are not as comfortable with the concept of impermanence and change.” Yrliet’s fingers continue dancing down the length of Tiffney’s hair, and she knits them in a new pattern she’d learnt from another Outcast-- a Striking Scorpion from Biel-Tan, searching for a Path away from the militarism that was prescribed at birth to every child in her Craftworld. Yrliet had pulled her out of the wreckage of her crashed ship, and she sat on the gunner’s seat of Yrliet’s Vampire Hunter as they flew to the outpost she had been bound for. Her legs were broken, but her spirits were high, and when she asked how she could repay Yrliet, the only thing Yrliet asked for was any knowledge she had on braiding hair.

An odd request, she no doubt thought. Indeed, she did not ask for Yrliet’s name, and Yrliet did not ask for hers; when Yrliet dropped her off, she flew off quickly. She needed to leave before the other Outcasts realised her craft had been stolen, or recognised her as the stray child of Crudarach that was now said, with great shame on every tongue when they told her story, to live amongst the mon-keigh.

“Not just your word.” Tiffney speaks again, gently bringing Yrliet out of her thoughts, of her lonely journeys where she shared the starlight with others of her kind but could never share the same lives ever again. “Idira told me not to dye my hair when I got old, too. Mine and Jae’s. Said that white hairs give ‘character’.”

“A different way of saying it,” Yrliet hums, “but I agree.”

A beat of silence follows, suddenly heavier than before. “Wish we could meet up for the new year again,” Tiffney finally says, thick with misery. It coats Yrliet’s own tongue with a bitter sadness. “Goodness. It’s been over a year, and I still don’t know where they’ve gone.”

Yrliet does not have anything to say. Or rather, nothing she could say would be a comfort. They have gone where fate has guided them, she almost said, because that is exactly what happened, isn’t it? One fine day, just before Yrliet was supposed to set off again, Tiffney woke up to find Idira gone from her post, and Jae missing from her office in Footfall. The only thing they left was a note, hidden inside a locked drawer in Jae’s remaining possessions. It had been meant for Tiffney’s eyes only, but from what Tiffney had told her, they had gone on a journey. One that took them far, far away, and with no promise of returning.

It had been their choice to go. Their time with the von Valancius dynasty had ended, and, just like how sunset inevitably follows sunrise, or how ageing brings countless white hairs, the next stage of their life beckoned.

And yet, Yrliet remembered the despair written in her elantach’s face when they were gone. Realised, distressingly, that she herself would constantly leave Tiffney in a pit of nostalgic longing, because her search would always demand continuance, and until the day it ends-- if ever-- Yrliet can never stay by Tiffney’s side the way that she had promised to.

What could she possibly say?

“I am sorry, elantach.” So Yrliet says the truth. “For what it is worth, I know you loved them.”

“Did I?” Tiffney presses the back of her hand against her mouth, stifling a small sob. “Damn it. I guess I did.”

Yrliet tucks a strand of hair behind Tiffney’s ear and feels her jaw trembling. “You do not need to hide your tears from me either.”

“I’m not hiding them from you,” Tiffney gasps, still holding back. “I don’t want to ruin my make-up.”

“The celebration is already over.”

“Did you enjoy it? The new year's celebration.” Tiffney’s pain turns into a laugh. “Hah! I don’t know why I’m asking. I know you hate parties. And I hated it, too. The only good part was having an excuse to invite Abelard over again, but his… even all the rejuvenat tech we can get our hands on isn’t working for him anymore. He looks so old, Yrliet, did you see him?”

“Elantach…”

“I’m already fifty. Of course, I know being fifty doesn’t mean anything to you. I’m still a child in Aeldari years, right?” Tiffney shakes her head. “Well, I guess a lot of people would still consider me a child. I definitely felt like one when I became the Rogue Trader. And a f*cking Lieutenant General before that. People rarely get appointed to any role in their thirties unless they’re a genius. I don’t think I was one. That’s probably why I messed up so badly.”

“Elantach,” Yrliet repeats, finishing Tiffney's braid before stepping in front of her, “I enjoy spending time with you, regardless of what we are doing.”

“Sorry,” Tiffney apologises, biting down on her knuckles. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? Especially not Abelard. The… reason I have white hairs is because I’ve been telling the Tech-Priests in all my territories to spare all their very best rejuvenat treatments for him.”

“For…?” Yrliet cannot hide her frown. “I do not believe he would be happy to hear that.”

“I know!” Tiffney’s throat almost goes hoarse. “I know,” she repeats, softer. “I just don’t want him to die.”

“I… understand,” Yrliet replies, dancing around what remains unsaid about the both of them.

Tiffney turns her head. “That’s… I know you understand, Yrliet. That’s the worst part.”

Yrliet slowly kneels down on the balcony, bringing herself to Tiffney’s eye level. She raises her hand to Tiffney’s cheek, before gently turning her head. “Look at me, elantach.”

Tiffney’s skin is freezing, even more so than before. They have spent a little too much time sitting on the cold balcony. “I’m a disaster,” she laments, letting the first few tears fall on her cheek.

“We had a saying in Crudarach. Tragedies can be found in both our history and in our future without an ounce of effort, but beauty only survives in the present.” Yrliet’s free hand curls into a gesture of grief. Her other hand continues to cup Tiffney’s left cheek, and Yrliet’s thumb wipes away at her tears. “Do not let the inevitable rot away what you have today. Whatever good you have, is already… too precious to let waste.”

“Can you stay?” The request slips out of Tiffney’s lips rather desperately, like it had been tucked behind her teeth, waiting, for years on end. “For… longer than just a few months spaced between long years, Yrliet. You say that beauty only survives in the present, so I… I do not want to spend more time in the present missing you than with you.”

“Then I will stay with you,” Yrliet promises, and palpable relief blooms over Tiffney’s face. Her elantach does not know what she is asking of Yrliet, and Yrliet does not know how to tell her, but it is nothing. She would do anything for Tiffney, she realises, with a pinch of terror and love overwhelming. “For as long as you ask, elantach.”

“I always ask for too much.”

“You do not ask for enough,” Yrliet counters. “I would give you whatever you wished for, elantach.”

Tiffney drops her empty class onto the floor. It shatters without either of them caring. “Are you sure?”

The surprise in her elantach’s voice is almost hurtful. “Have I given you any reason to doubt me?”

“I’m sorry, that was a stupid response from me. I’m just--” Tiffney cuts herself off, before bringing both of her hands to her face. She presses the back of Yrliet’s hand onto her cheek, keeping her there while she sobs openly. “Tired. Tired and sad and just a little drunk but not completely. I don’t distrust you, Yrliet, and I hope you know that.”

“You are apologising so much.” Yrliet tilts her head. “And I knew, elantach. I have always known. Even if we cannot find the words, your soul bares the truth to me all the same.”

“I haven’t…” Tiffney brings her head back, taking in a deep breath. “I’ve been rather selfish, haven’t I?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“All the previous times we’ve meditated in the last few years, we’ve just been going into my soul.” Pulling her hands away, Tiffney brushes the last few drops of her tears before composing herself. “I despise asking for more when I’ve already been granted so much, but… may I see yours, today?”

Yrliet’s fingers grace the arch of her elantach’s face, beckoning Tiffney to look her in the eyes. “I would like nothing more than that, elantach.”

Then, Yrliet brings her hand around the back of Tiffney’s head, before pulling her in towards infinity.

When she next opens her eyes, Tiffney’s face is now clear of tear marks and red eyes. “Oh, my hair!” They’re standing in still water surrounded by towering trees, and Tiffney finally catches notice of her braid. She takes a moment to admire Yrliet’s work, before looking up with a smile. “Thank you, Yrliet. I must get my maidservants to learn how to tie my hair like this.”

Yrliet lets a playful smile grow across her face. “You asked me to stay, and now you are already planning how to replace me?”

“No!” Tiffney flusters in an instant, splashing water around her as she whips her head around. “I’ll always let you fix my hair! I’ll-- why are you laughing? Oh, you’re joking. Ugh, Yrliet, you’re insufferable!”

“I’m sorry,” she chuckles. “I should not tease you like this. I know you are already upset. Will you allow me to make it up to you?”

“I owe you much more than you owe me, but… alright. I allow it,” Tiffney huffs.

Yrliet spreads her arms wide open, waiting.

Tiffney looks at her.

“...Yes, Yrliet?” Her elantach smiles politely. She only looks like that when she’s completely lost and confused. “Is something supposed to happen now?”

Yrliet co*cks her head to the side. “I was under the impression that humans open their arms wide when they are offering an embrace.”

“OH!” Tiffney’s joy surges forward, hand-to-hand with her embarrassment. “Oh, of course, that’s so obvious. I’m such an idiot!”

Then, she dashes towards Yrliet, very nearly toppling her over into the water when Tiffney hugs her, so tightly that Yrliet almost goes breathless. They are in her soul, but even so, Tiffney feels just as she does in realspace-- over time, Yrliet’s soul has slowly accepted every part of her, the coarse and the bright and the unfathomably alien, until Tiffney’s visage was almost perfectly reproduced within her inner world.

“I never thought I could ever embrace you,” Tiffney admits, clear and honest. “What changed?”

“I have just told you, haven’t I, elantach?” Yrliet’s voice drops into a whisper, and when she wraps her arms around Tiffney’s body, only then does Yrliet notice how slow her elantach’s heart beats.

Comparable to an Aeldari on their deathbed.

Her fingers dig into Tiffney’s back as she tries to expel the intrusive thought, but it latches onto her soul like a tumour. Around them, the beauty of Yrliet’s inner world withers ever-so-slightly, invisible to anyone but Yrliet herself. It seems that she is no good at following her own advice. “I would give you whatever you wished for, Tiffney.”

Because I love you, the forest around them faintly sings, and she can only hope that Tiffney can hear it.

Chapter 20: 6.603.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.603.000.M41

Idira’s disquieting prophecy was still simmering in Yrliet’s soul when Heinrix stuck his f*cking hand into the corrupted data-vault.

“I can feel your very obvious hatred simmering on my skin, xenos.” None of the mon-keigh were courteous to her, save for Tiffney and sometimes Idira, but Heinrix was particularly scathing. Rather than the usual short-sighted anger, he spoke to her like someone sticking their hands through the cage of a wild animal-- not because of curiosity or stupidity, but in a taunting way, begging her to bite him so he could have a reason to be rid of her. “I am heartened to know that my mere presence is such an affront to you.”

Yrliet slowly tilted her head, all while giving Heinrix an austere, unblinking stare. “Says the helplessly foolish mon-keigh who would have sold his soul to Sai'lanthresh if not for the elantach’s intervention.”

“Stop it,” Tiffney groaned, elbows on her thighs and her head in her hands. “My head hurts.”

Abelard immediately straightened in his seat, completely ignoring the massive, bleeding gash on his abdomen. “As the Rogue Trader commands, you two are to cease your bickering at once!”

Argenta, who was the only person completely unscathed from their terrifying excursion into Kiava Gamma, slapped Heinrix encouragingly on the back. It ripped open the wound on his shoulder he’d already been working on healing. “Fear not, brother! Should the xenos raise its filthy claws against you, I will be right there by your side!”

Heinrix attempted to disguise his pained grimace with a polite smile. “You have my eternal gratitude, Sister Argenta.”

The last person in their ragtag crew raised her head. “The burning red,” Cassia gasped, trying to cover her eyes with her hands. “It cuts into me, like pieces of bloodied glass. Digging into my eyes. The screaming anger from Yrliet is… overwhelming…”

“At least one of you mon-keigh can comprehend the depths of my displeasure,” Yrliet replied. “But I am not angry at you, three-eyed one. Despite your closeness to Sha’eil, you control yourself admirably.”

Then, Yrliet turned her gaze back to Heinrix, who glared back at her just as oppressively. “Unlike another in your retinue.”

Heinrix, seemingly at his limit, argued back despite Tiffney’s orders. “I am more than willing to face the scrutiny of humanity’s enemy. It is the best possible indicator that I am carrying out my duties satisfactorily. Additionally, if you are plotting to kill me, I advise you to postpone such plans till we are off this dropship. You owe the Rogue Trader too much to bother her with the mess your corpse will leave on her clothes.”

Yrliet’s instant response was to shout: “And you assume that I would lose?”

Tiffney buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God-Emperor.”

“Would I lose, you ask?” Something fiery twinkled in Heinrix’s deep-set eyes. “If we were to break this down by scenario, I would win against you readily in close-range combat. At mid-range, I would be able to close the distance between us faster than you could shoot me, and your life would be forfeit.”

Abelard narrowed his eyes. “I expected disobedience from the xenos, but not you, van Calox. Cease this useless diatribe!”

“I’m almost finished,” Heinrix retorted, with an impatience that could only come from a mon-keigh with something to prove. “Now, I loathe to admit it, but you would certainly have the initial advantage in a long-range encounter. If you were to ambush me, like I would expect from a honorless xenos, I may very well be shot in the head before I could retaliate.”

Argenta gawked in disbelief. “Do not concede, Heinrix! Not even in a hypothetical!”

“I am not conceding,” Heinrix clarified. “As you may have figured out, should you possess even a modicum of intelligence, I am able to survive injuries that even your Aspect Warriors would be felled by. A shot to the head would not be enough to kill me, and I would find my way to you before you could land another blow. So, there you have it.”

Yrliet, slowly and deliberately, tilted her head all the way to the other side. “Excellent,” she replied. “Now I know to prepare two rifles to shoot you in the head with simultaneously.”

Tiffney made another sound of discontent. “Yrliet, you can’t keep complaining about ‘mon-keigh this’, ‘mon-keigh that’, and then go around participating in conversations about how you could hypothetically assassinate my entire ground-side crew!”

“Not your entire ground-side crew,” Yrliet corrected. “Only Heinrix van Calox.”

Heinrix shuddered slightly. “I do not like my name on your tongue, xenos.”

“Well, Heinrix van Calox,” Yrliet purposefully repeated, “I have decades of experience in combat over your short-lived species. I suspect that I am far more prepared for all of your hypothetical scenarios than you could possibly imagine.”

And then, a look of surprise flashed across Heinrix’s face… followed by understanding, then poorly-hidden smugness. “Very specific wording, dear Yrliet.”

The sudden confidence in Heinrix’s posture unnerved her. “What?”

“Decades, you said…” Heinrix then leaned closer, and with how cramped the voidship already was, Yrliet could see the whites in his eyes, along with the amusem*nt in his gaze. “...and not centuries.”

“I do not--”

“How old are you, Yrliet?”

Heinrix’s pointed question finally informed Yrliet on what he was getting at. “I have no intention of answering such a pointless question, mon-keigh!”

“You are young for an Aeldari, aren’t you?” All at once, Yrliet felt all the mon-keigh on the dropship turn to stare at her. “No more than a mere child. Little wonder why you were so lamentably inept at talking sense into your own people on Janus. They simply afforded you the same respect I would give a tantruming child: none.”

Yrliet bit down on her own tongue with enough force to draw blood. But even that was not enough to distract her from how her soul practically exploded with lava.

“--AH!” Suddenly, Cassia shrieked, and the dropship veered dangerously to one side. Yrliet slid to the left, while Tiffney nearly slammed right into her. “The crimson… it sets my skin aflame! I’ve never-- I’ve never seen such fury before!”

Argenta reloaded her gun. “If the xenos’ unnatural emotions are bothering you, Lady Orsellio, I will switch off her lights with haste!”

“No!” Tiffney blindly waved her arm, smacking Argenta’s bolter away. Instead of falling from her hands, though, it was pushed back into Argenta’s body.

It appeared that Sisters of Battle are not taught any trigger discipline, because Argenta’s finger was pushed right into the mechanism, discharging the gun inside their cramped voidship.

Yrliet’s anger vanished in exchange for shock. She ducked immediately, but the bullets went nowhere near her. “sh*t!” Tiffney swore like a banshee, and Yrliet expected to see new wounds on the elantach-- but instead, Tiffney’s eyes were wide like discs, and staring at Abelard in horror. “Oh, f*ck, I’m so sorry, Abelard!”

Abelard steely dug the freshly-embedded bullets out of his left arm with naught a sign of pain besides a look of minor disappointment. “I am fine, Tiffney. Do not exert yourself with concern over my well-being.”

“I did not foresee this outcome,” Heinrix remarked blithely. He did not afford Yrliet another glance. “I sincerely apologise for engaging in ridiculous power struggles with the xenos, Lord Captain. It will not happen again.”

“It better not,” Tiffney grumbled. “And, Yrliet, please. I do not expect you to follow human niceties to perfection, but I expect you to not provoke the very people you do not want to be bothered by. I don’t care how unwise you felt Heinrix’s behaviour was-- but I am the one who decides what is acceptable and what isn’t. I have judged his actions as acceptable, so you must accept them as well, whether you like it or not. Remember that you are being brought on my voidship on that very same mercy!”

Yrliet gritted her teeth, slowly wrapping up the turbulent feelings in her soul like pressing down thick cloths to dampen out a fire. “Understood, elantach.”

“Soothing sunset hues, like a blanket over a sleeping child…” Despite the outburst of chaos, however, Cassia seemed much more relaxed now. She was even smiling. “Dear Seneschal, the warm colours wrapped around you release the burden on my heart.”

“Well,” Abelard sighed, “I am glad that there was at least one good outcome from me getting unintentionally shot.”

Tiffney rubbed her black eye and turned to Abelard with a weak smile. “I can always count on your unwavering candour, Abelard. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

And then, the elantach bent down to rest her head tiredly on her own thighs. But even so, Yrliet could hear her faint muttering:

“Oh, no, is Yrliet really a xenos child? Then, what does that say about me…?”

Chapter 21: 6.081.035.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.081.035.M42

Thiry-four-point-five standard Imperial cycles after their spat, Yrliet grabs Heinrix’s collar and pulls him away from a plasma explosion with mere inches to spare.

“Pull yourself together, van Calox! You will not slip into silent death here!” Yrliet can barely hear her own exclamation over the sound of gunfire. The very earth of the planet shakes with successive bursts of hot plasma, and she haphazardly snipes an incoming enemy cultist with her one free hand.

Heinrix, fading in and out of consciousness, bleeds freely onto the metal scaffolding Yrliet is dragging him across. “Give me a gun,” he rasps, more furious than he was worried about the two crushed stumps where his legs should be. Yrliet is trying to rescue him from the firefight, but it seems he is more than willing to put himself right back in the thick of it. “I said, give me-- a gun. I will not suffer these heretics to live.”

“You are in no position to be issuing orders! Do not even think of handling a weapon in your current state--” A flurry of new explosions slowly caught up with them, but Yrliet couldn’t possibly bring herself to flee. Not when there was still someone else unaccounted for. “--Elantach!”

“I’m just behind you, Yrliet!” A rain of bullets hailed Tiffney’s arrival. With a swift-footed march, she charges down the trembling scaffolds towards their location, before grabbing Heinrix’s blood-soaked arm and carrying him together with Yrliet. “Quick, into the tunnel! We need to get out of their sight!”

Following the path of the scaffolding into a dusty cave, Yrliet only stops running when Tiffney collapses behind her, body falling against the rock walls in exhaustion. “God-Emperor be damned! Heinrix, you’re fortunate beyond words that I was close enough to intercept your distress signal! If you’d gone missing, I wouldn’t have ever thought of looking at this shambling ruin of this abandoned Mining World! Really, Heinrix, how’d you end up in this situation?!”

If Heinrix responds, Yrliet doesn’t hear it. The only answer that reaches their ears is an earth-shattering bellow of fury that roared over the chaos, too deep for a human and too animalistic for an Aeldari. It resounded so clearly and with such crystallised bloodthirst that Yrliet felt her very veins narrow in alarm.

“That… isn’t the sound of normal cultists. Heinrix, what-- what was that,” Tiffney gasps, more terrified than curious.

This time, Heinrix answers, so assuredly that both of them can almost forget his lower body is in twenty separate pieces. “That is the cry of an Ork.”

“Of course,” Yrliet hisses. “As if we have not met with enough resistance already!”

“An… Ork. An… an Ork… greenskin… Ork…” Tiffney’s disbelief was barely audible over the sound of thundering footsteps. Although it had been decades since Yrliet last encountered the repulsive species, she remembered their kind well, and the frenetic hunger to their violence could not possibly be attributed to any other being in the galaxy.

At least a few dozen Ork were running on the ground above them, shaking plumes of rock-dust from the cave ceiling and on top of them. Not a large enough number to put a platoon of skilled soldiers at huge risk, but more than enough to ensure that this world was doomed to be overrun by the raving beasts for all of eternity. “I came to this world to investigate terrifying, yet credible rumours of a burgeoning xenos population, whose members were said to be tall and green-skinned…” Heinrix grits his teeth while speaking.

The fleshy mess below his hips were slowly reforming into the vague outline of two legs. He appears to be regrowing his limbs as they spoke, and Yrliet does not know if Heinrix has always been this skilled in biomancy, or if he is simply so enraged that he is doing everything in his power to get back into fighting shape. “It was foolish of me to not connect the dots till my people had been ambushed. I lent far too much credit to the clearly unsound minds of depraved cultists. Those self-same cultists who we have both been hassled by as of late… they were also the source of this greenskin tirade. After they somehow located a few Orks, they brought them to this old Mining World with hope they would use it as a spawning group, creating an army for the cultists to weaponise.”

“Kae-morag! Do your kind not know the slightest thing about any species that is not your own?!” Incredulous anger descends upon Yrliet’s entire body, making her skin flare with rage. The only balm against her own fury was the sound of cultists screaming in fear on the ground above them-- being slaughtered by the very own Orks they brought forth. A sweetly ironic end that all worshippers of Sai'lanthresh deserved. “These loathsome fools would bring ruin to an entire swath of stars, all while beguiled by the mad visions of Sha’eil!”

Heinrix glances at Yrliet with a harsh, yet pained and unfocused stare. “I do not know strings of logic have entangled themselves across the universe, but they must have made a truly terrible knot for the both of us to agree with each other so wholeheartedly. It has been many years since the last time we saw things eye-to-eye.”

“Orks…” Tiffney, still repeating to herself, stares out of the opening to the cave. “Greenskins…?”

Yrliet nods grimly. “He is correct, elantach. I have encountered these demented creatures before on the battlefield. If we are to escape with our lives, we must approach this situation with the utmost caution.”

“...I’ve…”

Then, Tiffney swishes her head around, looking at Yrliet and Heinrix with… joy? A look of… child-like wonder? “...I’ve never seen an Ork before! Yrliet, come with me, let us go take a look together!”

Yrliet’s ensuing stare is so severe that Tiffney winces like an Arrow of Kurnous had just slammed itself into her head. “No.”

“But--”

“No,” Heinrix quickly concurs. “I understand that reckless wanderlust is practically stitched into your job description, Tiffney, but this is not the time to satiate your curiosity.”

Tiffney purses her lips together, making her lavender eyes look as big as possible. In the dim light, she looks even younger than she did thirty-five Terran years ago, stumbling into the governor’s courtyard on the day they met. Her life extension technologies, which were finally focused on tunnelling all the best rejuvenat resources onto herself, had certainly put in work.

“Just a peek?” She bats her long eyelids in an unsuccessful attempt at being persuasive and coquettish. “Pretty please?”

Yrliet, tired and disoriented from dozens of explosions and completely covered in grimy space-dust from the cave they were hiding in, cannot help but scoff. “Elantach,” she says, her voice rolled in that lovingly exasperated sound that only a spouse who has put up with their partner’s antics day-in-day-out is capable of making, “do not make me repeat myself.”

Tiffney deflates with the grace of a Haemonculi’s specimen being poked full of holes on the operating table. “Alright…”

“Born too late to fight in the Great Crusade, born too early to see the Cicatrix Maledictum sewn shut…” Heinrix pulls himself into a standing position, and though there is still an unsteadiness to his gait, his biomancy continues to stitch his broken body together with impressive quickness. “...And born just in time to watch the Rogue Trader laid low like a henpecked husband by a mere withering glare from her xenos pet.”

Yrliet looks at Heinrix scathingly. “Do not try my patience further. Impressive as your self-healing may be, I suspect that I would be able to snap your bones faster than you could mend them.”

Heinrix raises a mostly impassive eyebrow. “And I suspect I could wring your neck before your fingers even twitch anywhere near me, even in this state.”

Tiffney wrinkles her nose. “Why is it that whenever we meet up, the two of you always start discussing hypothetical fights to the death…?”

The Lord Inquisitor, still bleeding in more than a dozen places, says: “Would you prefer if we discussed the time we stopped you from putting a Halo Device on yourself, Tiffney? Because that was certainly memorable.”

Yrliet’s face falls. “I remember this. That was the previous time we agreed on something, van Calox.”

Tiffney has the audacity to look affronted. “That-- that was DECADES ago! And I didn’t know what it was!”

“We warned you,” both Yrliet and Heinrix grumble in unison, before looking away from each other.

With an embarrassed wave of her hand, Tiffney changes the topic. “Not the point! Forget it! Back to the urgent situation at hand… Heinrix, are you sure you’re able to stand? There’s no shame in sitting this one out.”

“I will need a few more minutes, but after that, I will be combat-ready. My people are still under enemy bombardment,” Heinrix answers. “If not from the cultists, then from the incoming Orks. They are in a disadvantageous position, while we had the good fortune to hide from enemy sight. The only chance they’ll have of survival is if we set up an ambush from behind.”

“You speak sense,” Yrliet admits, before finally passing Heinrix’s weapons back to him-- an imposing sword that whispers with the many mouths of Sha’eil, and a simple shotgun pistol that seemed like the same one he’s had since their time together in Tiffney’s crew. “If you insist on placing yourself in harm’s way, I will not stop you.”

Heinrix looks somewhat surprised. “I appreciate you holding onto my possessions, Yrliet.”

“Alright, planning an ambush… ambush to see the Orks…” Tiffney psyches herself up for battle, and most certainly for the wrong reasons. “Very well, Heinrix. Give us all the information you have about your squad’s position, and I will use my data from scanning the planet surface to coordinate a suitable plan of attack with the back-up forces on my ship. We will get your people out of here!”

-----

“That’s them!” Tiffney whispers harshly behind the cover, staring out at the huge pit just ahead of them. At the very bottom, a fortified telekine dome stood strong, while shots rang out in all directions from it, scaring off the remaining cultists trying to hone in on them. “Damn, your team is putting up a pretty strong fight.”

“A strong fight? Hardly.” Heinrix looks at his surviving squad with barely-concealed disappointment. “They’ve chosen a terrible place to go on the defensive. Choosing a low-ground position to make your last stand is about as effective as huddling for warmth during a blizzard on an Ice World. Eventually, they’ll run out of strength or ammunition, and the pestilent cultists will descend upon them like starving animals.”

Tiffney’s smile vanishes. “Heinrix, you can afford to be a little less of a hardarse sometimes, you know that?”

While the two humans talked about nothing important, Yrliet scans the battlefield for any signs of green skin or massive tusks. “The Orks have not found them yet,” Yrliet notes. “We should retrieve these humans quickly, before more enemies appear to block our path.”

“Time is of the essence, huh?” Tiffney presses her finger to her ear, pinging something to her flagship orbiting above. “Guess there won’t be any waiting for back-up! Yrliet, Heinrix-- are you ready to kill all of these motherf*ckers with just the three of us?”

“Just like old times, Rogue Trader?” Heinrix checks his gun, and grips it firmly in his hand. “Very well. Lead and I’ll follow.”

Tiffney chuckles. “You afford me full rein over your person, Lord Inquisitor? Isn’t that a breach of the chain of command?”

“Are you pretending to have ever cared about such decorum?”

“Alright, alright…” Tiffney puts her rifle snugly against her shoulder, getting ready for battle. “Yrliet, you will advance forward. Take cover behind that rock piece to have a clear shot of the cultists. Heinrix, you will cover Yrliet until she reaches her destination, and after that, charge the targets to the left while I take the ones on the right. Clear?”

Yrliet nods, imitating the human gesture. “Clear.”

Tiffney straightens her back, legs kneeled in a pose where they’re ready to spring into a run at any moment. “Then move it!”

Yrliet moves first: faster than any of the humans could ever foresee, she bursts out of her hiding place and sends two well-placed shots right into the heads of unsuspecting cultists. When they sluggishly turn around in shock, Heinrix is the one that grabs their attention, charging forward with his Force Sword thrumming in his hands.

He cuts them down with a burning vengeance, breaking up enemy lines. That’s when Tiffney ambushes them from behind, throwing an entire belt of grenades onto their scattered forces before laughing like she’s watching a comedy play out in front of her. “Hah! How could these pathetic fools have brought you so close to death, Heinrix?! They barely have any fight in them!”

“I am asking that myself!” Heinrix shouts out his response over the sound of his gun booming, taking out another hapless victim. Suddenly, three of the braver cultists rush Heinrix altogether, brandishing their rusty shotguns and knives.

Before any of them can lay a hand on him, though, Yrliet takes them out: all at once, with a perfect shot fired only at the moment they lined themselves up in front of her rifle. As their bodies collapse with gasps and spurting blood, Heinrix flicks their blood off his coat and nods at Yrliet. “Much obliged.”

“That’s four kills by Heinrix and five by Yrliet!” Tiffney yells excitedly at them, more entertained than terrified. “And seven by me! Hurry it up, everybody!”

“If we are competing, then hasn’t the scorekeeper given herself the most favourable position?” Heinrix’s words are less caustic and more amused. “After all, we are corralling enemies into your position, Tiffney.”

“Hmph! Fine!” Tiffney pretends to be annoyed while grinning from ear to ear, chainsword buzzing as frantically as her own bloodthirst. It was rare to see her so happy to be killing people; but worshippers of Chaos had the unique position of being equally hated by humans and Aeldari alike. “I shall dock my score by ten percent-- sh*t, Yrliet, duck!”

Yrliet connects the human phrase to its meaning in the nick of time. The moment she lowers her head, she hears bullets whizzing above her, and she whips around to see a gaggle of green, bulbous bodies, all accompanied by rows of fanged teeth.

“They’re here!” Both Yrliet and Tiffney say it together, but the latter is far more cheerful than the former. Yrliet immediately loops behind her rock cover, far more willing to take her chances with the dwindling cultists than the charging Orks.

Their devastating presence makes itself known instantly. Salivating with anticipation and armed with weapons that shouldn’t work, they somehow manage to use their wooden cut-outs of firearms to spray the battlefield in ricocheting bullets. “Look!” The one at their front-- their leader, maybe, if they could even have leaders-- broke through the cultists with a hefty swing of his makeshift axe. He looked much older than the rest, and scarred tatters of his lips were a seam that would never quite meet. “A fresh load uv new bodiez ta kill!”

In her shock, Yrliet almost forgets to keep shooting. Were they-- were the Orks speaking… Low Gothic?

“Sir, I have no idea what you just said!” Tiffney, meanwhile, regards their butchering of her language with ecstatic glee. “By the Throne, though! You guys are just as big as the legends foretold! How fantastic! How bold!”

She hops out of cover, racing right towards the Orks. The cultists take the cue to run away, while Yrliet surges into full panic mode. “Elantach!” Yrliet tries to lurch forward and pull her back, but Tiffney is long gone, so swept up in excitement that she’s outrun the Aeldari. “Elantach, come back!”

“Orks, greenskins, whatever your names are!” Tiffney throw her arms open wide. “Welcome to the Koronus Expanse!”

Her enthusiastic greeting was immediately met by about five simultaneous gunshots from the Orks.

But Tiffney, dressed in the best armour money could buy, took their attacks like they were just glancing blows. “Oi!” The leading Ork at the front stops short in confusion. “Why's da 'umie still standin’?”

“Ladies and gentlemen! Actually, probably just gentlemen… ahem!” Tiffney makes an exaggerated curtsy, although the gesture only baffles the Orks even further. “I have never seen fighters of such great prowess! Please, allow me a moment to speak with your leader, warrior-to-warrior!”

Yrliet stares.

Is--

Is Tiffney…

Is Tiffney trying to make friends with the Orks?

“She’s trying to make friends with the Orks,” Heinrix deadpans, just as the thought crashes through Yrliet’s mind with the sharpness of Cegorach’s own shrill laughter. And yet, Heinrix makes no move to stop her, as if entranced by her sheer audacity. “God-Emperor save us all.”

“Too much talk'n!” One of the smaller Orks pipe up, but he’s immediately smashed in the face by the leading Ork. “AUUUGH!”

“Da 'umie wants ta talk ta da LEADA, ya gitz!” The leading Ork straightens himself to his full height, and it becomes abundantly clear he the biggest and baddest of them all. “I'z 'da warboss. Speak fast, ‘umie. We 'ent got no time fer namby pamby rubbish.”

Tiffney smiles charmingly at the Warboss. “Let me make this short! Do you know what a duel is?”

“Elantach!” Yrliet’s expression contorts in horrified understanding. “Do not challenge an Ork to a duel! These creatures… they do not comprehend the faintest notion of honour, or fairness!”

“Not talk'n ta yer, pointy-eared panzee!” The Warboss’ insult would make Yrliet’s blood boil, if not for the extreme concern she was currently overwhelmed with for Tiffney’s sake. “Yeah, I know a fing or two about duels. But yer say'n yer wanna fight me one-on-one, squishy 'umie?”

“Absolutely!” Tiffney ditches her rifle in favour of the oft-unused chainsword strapped across her back. The Eviscerator unravels itself from its bindings, almost eagerly, as if its revving teeth were all jumping at the chance to taste Ork flesh. “So: duel or no duel?”

Heinrix coughs. “At least discuss what will be your reward for winning.”

“Eh?” Tiffney blinks, slightly taken aback. “Oh, right, right, winnings. Hmm… if I’m not misunderstanding, you guys decide your leaders over who beats who, right?”

The Orks all nod impatiently. “Dat's right, 'umie!” The Warboss points to himself proudly. “Only da meanest an’ greenest get ta be da Warboss!”

“So, if I win…” Tiffney places a hand on her chest, as if trying to look sweet and delicate. “That means I’m the strongest of the lot, right?”

“Hah! , da dumb 'umie actually finks dey'll win. Doesn't get dat we’z gunna krump it.” As the Warboss speaks, all the Orks begin roughly elbowing each other in what Yrliet can only guess is considered subtle snickering. “Yes, 'umie! Dat's how it works!”

“Well, if I beat you--” Tiffney flashes a co*cky grin. “--That means I get to be your new boss!”

…

“No,” Heinrix declares, just as all the Orks burst into raucous, disbelieving laughter. “I am vetoing that. Try something else.”

“Ugh, then…” Tiffney snaps her fingers as she tries to think of another reward. “How about: I get to keep one of you guys on my ship as part of my ground-side crew!”

“Elantach…” Yrliet doesn’t need to say anything more. The implied disapproval is already enough to make Tiffney change her mind.

“Alright, nevermind the rewards!” Tiffney seems to lose her patience even faster than the Orks, restarting her chainsword with a huff. “We will fight for the thrill of fighting, and that shall be all! Now, come at me!”

A toothy, bloodied grin stretches across the Warboss’ scarred maw. “Dis 'umie knows how ta have a roit ‘n’ propa fight!”

“I suspect I have no need to tell you this, Yrliet, but…” Heinrix watches as Tiffney spins around the large Ork, courting death with every flurry of his blows. The other Orks show a surprising amount of restraint, sticking only to the sidelines and cheering madly. “Stay here while I use this distraction to rescue my people. If Tiffney shows even the slightest hint of being on the backfoot, wipe them out. It would be a shame and also a terrible embarrassment to lose a Rogue Trader because of something as frivolous as an Ork duel.”

Of course you do not have to tell me this, Yrliet almost replies. “Have more faith in the elantach’s skills,” is what Yrliet decides to say, and Heinrix gives her an unexpected look of wistfulness before turning away, leaving them only with the sounds of furious duelling.

“Not-- not bad!” Tiffney’s voice rasps out of her with exhilaration, and she barely avoids a nasty hit from the Ork’s jagged ‘choppa’. Barely, she manages to scratch the skin of his leg with her chainsword, evoking an enraged roar. “You move a lot faster than what I’d expect from your size!”

“Yer're jus slow as a lugga stuck'n da mud!” Then, as if looking for payback, the Warboss pulled out his wood-carved ‘gun’ and fires it at Tiffney’s midsection with the force of a fully-loaded blunderbuss. However, she manages to sidestep it, so the magicked bullets end up embedding itself in one of the spectating Orks. As he fell to the ground with a scream and began actively dying, the other Orks just kicked him aside so he wouldn’t obstruct the view. Grim. “Stand furtha away from ma shoota stick, ya brainless gitz! Or don’t, HAAAHAHA!”

Though the Orks are more sprightly than they look, they are still far clumsier than even the average human. A trained fighter like Tiffney has no problem dancing circles around her opponent, letting her chainsword slowly bite into him with a thousand cuts. But it’s not enough-- it will take far more to kill an Ork, especially a Warboss. Something riskier.

“Yrliet!” And, of course, Tiffney happily ropes Yrliet into said risky plans, without even asking if she was willing to play along. “Boost me up!”

“--What?” Without any further clarification, Tiffney turns her back on the duel and makes a full sprint for Yrliet’s position. They’re both lucky Yrliet’s mind processes things as fast as they do, because if she were a human, Tiffney would have just ran into her, they would have crashed to the floor, and the Orks would probably eat them both.

Instead, Yrliet immediately drops her rifle and interlocks her fingers together, making just enough space for Tiffney to step on. And step on she does-- Tiffney leaps forward, right boot landing in Yrliet’s hands, and Yrliet flings her elantach into the air with every last ounce of her might.

Tiffney backflips upwards, looking almost graceful. She arches her back as she flips around, braid fluttering in the wind. The noise from her buzzing chainsword was the only thing differentiating Tiffney’s movements from that of an elegant dancer.

The Orks, not used to such a manoeuvre, all stop to stare as Tiffney falls from the sky like a crescent moon dropping down the horizon.

And plunges her chainsword right into the open, gaping mouth of the Warboss she’s duelling.

The sight is gruesome enough to make Yrliet turn away on instinct. Fountains of blood burst forth along with clumps of desiccated Ork meat, spraying onto absolutely everyone and everything in the vicinity. Tiffney, however, isn’t bothered; Tiffney has grasped the handle of her Eviscerator with both arms and is performing a handstand on it, hair dangling downwards into the pulsing wounds she’s ripped into the dying Warboss’s gurgling body. She appears intent on pushing her oversized chainsword even deeper, perhaps until it splits the Ork in two.

When her opponent finally collapses into a heaping pile of still-twisting flesh, Tiffney finally lets go. She does half a cartwheel to land back onto her feet, and though she tries to give her chainsword a tug, her weapon is very clearly embedded into the dead Ork’s intricate innards. All the while, the remaining Ork stare at her in a mix of pure shock and creeping disquiet; without their leader, crude as he may have been, what are they meant to do now?

“Sorry, Yrliet. I might’ve gotten carried away,” Tiffney hums, as if the layers upon layers of gore painted upon her armour and face were not indication enough. “But, hey… I won!”

Wasn’t it meant to be a duel, elantach? Yrliet’s concern entangles itself with her confusion. Asking me for help surely counts as cheating.

Tiffney turns back to the Orks and yells: “That means I’m the strongest one here, right?! Cheer for me! Cheer for the strongest of them all!”

What happens next is the most unexplainable thing that has ever occurred in all of Yrliet’s years by her elantach’s side.

The Orks actually start cheering.

“WE GOT A WINNA OVA ERE!” “Da ‘umie's got kunnin’!” “OI, ME NEXT! ME NEXT!”

“Oh, you guys are making me blush!” Tiffney makes another exaggerated curtsy, and little bits of sliced Ork organs slip off her bloodied face as she bows deeply. “Thank you, thank you! And now, for the encore…”

Tiffney shifts to the side, looking at someone Yrliet can’t quite see. “Heinrix, if you would!”

Heinrix, who had hidden himself behind the Ork’s backlines, sighs deeply.

Then, he snaps his fingers, sets himself on fire, and walks into the Orks.

Chaos erupts immediately. The flames roaring from Heinrix’s body devours the Orks in an instant, and while most creatures of flesh tend to be flammable if the fire is hot enough, the Orks born on this arid world appeared particularly susceptible. “Time to keep my distance,” Tiffney wisely surmises as she almost gets set alight herself. “Where’d I put my--”

Yrliet drops Tiffney’s rifle into her hands. “Oh, thank you, Yrliet!”

“Do not just leave your weapons unattended on the ground, elantach!” Yrliet would pull Tiffney’s ear for that, if not for how both her hands were concentrated on shooting Orks in their heads. Sometimes, she wonders how Tiffney survived for long enough to meet her.

Heinrix's surprise attack sends the already-disorganised Orks into full disarray. Yrliet finds that they are tougher than humans and Aeldari alike, but their defences ultimately crumble under their inability to dodge. “Let me try this,” Tiffney chirps, picking up the dead Warboss’ wooden ‘gun’. “...Huh? It’s seriously just made of wood?”

“Ork weapons only works in the hands of other Orks!” Heinrix barks out an explanation while stabbing an Ork in the neck. “Their ‘technology’, if you could even call it that, is fuelled on belief alone. Each Ork has a level of psychic ability, which becomes stronger the more Orks there are together in one place! Should enough Orks believe in something, then it will come true, no matter how ridiculous!”

“Amazing!” Tiffney’s face lights up in fascination. “So, theoretically, if I had enough Orks around me who all believed I was the strongest being in all the galaxy--”

Yrliet bonks Tiffney on the head with the back of her head. “Do not continue down that thought, elantach! Lest you fall prey to the same foolish wiles and that sent these cultists of your kind into oblivion!”

“Ow, alright, alright…” Tiffney sighs and continues firing, though her disappointment was clear to everyone around her.

The three of them whittle down the Ork numbers, but they are tough, and the surviving remnants seem to fight even more fiercely when their kin are turned to pulp in front of their eyes. “They look pretty cheerful while they’re being slaughtered!” Tiffney’s observation rings out just as one of the burning Orks break through, howling in fury as he charges towards Yrliet. Tiffney immediately empties her gun into the back of his head, stopping him from laying a hand on her. “Yrliet! Are you alright?”

“Elantach!” Yrliet isn’t at all worried about herself. Instead, her hands are pointing to the Ork coming up behind Tiffney, swinging its crude blade above her head. “Behind you--!”

Then, the Ork behind Tiffney explodes into a fine mist of blood, though neither Yrliet nor Heinrix had fired a shot that could dispatch him in such a thorough fashion.

Indeed, the remaining Orks all begin to dissolve, collapse inwards, or even explode. The air grows thick with the miasma of Sha’eil, and Yrliet redoubles her wariness, watching as a pack of humans walk into view. But they are not the cultists-- they are dressed in armoured plating and uniforms that signal their allegiance to the Imperium.

“Ah!” Tiffney shoots her head up. “Heinrix, is that your team?”

“You all certainly took your own sweet time to join us.” Heinrix’s remark is harsh in words, but tonally, it is swaddled in relief. “Come! Finish the xenos off, then we will talk!”

“And not this xenos,” Tiffney quickly clarifies, pointing to Yrliet. “She’s with me!”

With the new back-up, the final few Orks are swiftly dispatched. As the last one falls, Yrliet takes a deep, miserable breath before slumping against a rock, tired beyond belief. “Haha, damn,” Tiffney chuckles, sitting on the floor next to Yrliet. She is still covered head-to-toe in Ork gore, but Tiffney hardly seems to care. “That was fun.”

Yrliet gives Tiffney a look of utter exhaustion. “Your notion of what counts as entertainment continues to astound me, elantach.”

“Interrogator Bosworth, reporting!”

Heinrix’s Interrogator-- a sophisticated-looking man whose face carried an even more severe expression than the Lord Inquisitor himself-- appears sufficiently harrowed from the day’s events. His armour is riddled in gunshots, and from the injury on his face, Yrliet is not sure if he still has his left eye.

“Interrogator Bosworth,” Heinrix acknowledges, looking at him with a surly expression. “I see you are still well.”

“I do not like him,” Yrliet whispers into Tiffney’s ear. Tiffney looks up, eyes wide from Yrliet’s sudden comment. “The gates of Sha’eil are flung open inside this man’s soul. I would suggest van Calox be cautious around this man…”

Bosworth, not hearing Yrliet’s words, salutes Heinrix. All the people behind him follow suit, though whether out of duty or fear, Yrliet cannot tell. “Lord Inquisitor,” he breathes, before finishing his salute and making the sign of the Aquila instead. “Thank the God-Emperor for his protection. I am hearted to see that you have returned to us safely.”

“I have,” Heinrix replies coolly, and nothing in the usual surliness of his face or the confidence in his gait betrays what he is about to do next. “No thanks to you, Interrogator Bosworth.”

Then, Heinrix raises his pistol and shoots his own Interrogator’s head off.

“f*cking--!” Tiffney yelps in shock as the Interrogator’s body slams onto the ground right next to where she’s sitting. “Heinrix, we didn’t go through all that bullsh*t to save your men just so you could kill them at the end!”

“I know there is a mole among our ranks,” Heinrix explains calmly. Yrliet takes a moment to connect the human phraseology to what she understands-- a mole, a snake, a traitor. “This was meant to be a routine clean-up of heretical activity. We should not have been routed so efficiently, and especially not by these cultists. The Rogue Trader herself noted that they lacked any combat prowess whatsoever.”

Realisation crosses Tiffney’s face, along with the rest of Heinrix’s surviving squad. “Wait, so…”

“Not only were we beset by their attacks, they intentionally isolated and cut me off from the rest of my men.” Heinrix cast a suspicious glance over the rest, and all of them cowed under his scrutiny. “Had it not been for Tiffney von Valancius’ intervention, I would have been slaughtered. Which, perhaps, was what someone here aimed for.”

Heinrix turns his head back to the Interrogator’s twitching body, and Yrliet notes-- with some degree of horror-- that he is still alive, though barely. His skull has been split open by the force of Heinrix’s bullet, and his brain laid barely on the blood-soaked ground, with little chunks scattered around where he laid. “The cultists knew we were coming,” Heinrix concludes, pointing his gun at Interrogator Bosworth as he wheezes wretchedly with a painful, hissing sound that only a dying man can make. “And no one else could have informed them of our plans except the one who I shared them with in advance.”

“You…” Somehow, the dying man manages to raise his hand, pointing an accusatory finger towards Heinrix. “You… son of a… bitch…”

“My mother was a very respectable woman, but she would be pleased to hear a heretic cursing her name.” Heinrix slowly reloads his gun, allowing Bosworth to continue writhing in agony for a few seconds more. “Any other last words?”

With a final gasp, the Interrogator’s jaw swings wide open, and Yrliet immediately sends another shot into his head.

“Away, van Calox!” Yrliet can sense it, just before it happens-- it claws at her, the whisper of Sha’eil, like little meathooks embedded into her soul, slowly tearing her asunder-- but there is not enough time to stop the summoning.

A Screamer of Tzeentch tears itself out of the dead traitor’s mouth, and Heinrix’s first response is to cleave right into it with his sword. It strikes true, but one blow is not nearly enough to kill a daemon of such power. The sky-shark shrieks in anger, before staring right at the Lord Inquisitor--

“She said MOVE, HEINRIX!” --It is not Heinrix’s men, but her elantach that kicks him out of harm’s way, before sticking her gun in the Screamer’s mouth to fire blindly into its insides. It’s effective, but short-lived; the Screamer’s Warp Jaws crunch down on Tiffney’s gun, snapping it in half. “Oh, sh*t.”

Yrliet shoots through one of the daemon’s many eyes, distracting it just enough to wrap her arm around Tiffney’s waist and yank her to safety. “Why do you insist on throwing yourself into harm’s way, elantach?” Yrliet’s voice trembles with both fear and quiet adoration. “Have you not stressed me enough today?”

“Sorry,” Tiffney hums, legs shaking.

And then, she collapses backwards into Yrliet’s arms as she’s brought away. It seems that the both of them are deathly tired, even though Tiffney refused to let it show. “That’s just how I am,” she laughs, tilting her head backwards to rest against Yrliet’s chest.

“It is,” Yrliet acknowledges with a sigh.

The Screamer is swarmed on all sides by Heinrix’s surviving team, having gathered their collective wits to begin fighting back. It dies, soon enough, with the last piece of the Interrogator’s betrayal defeated. “It appears I will need to find a new Interrogator,” Heinrix states, as if that was the only thing of concern at the moment. “What a pity.”

“Heinrix…” Tiffney cracks her neck tiredly, before wobbling back onto her feet. Yrliet feels strangely empty, now that her elantach is no longer leaning against her. “Why do you always seem to be harbouring traitors in your midst?”

Heinrix grimaces. “I do not have the best track record with finding deserving students, I’m afraid.”

“You should be more selective.”

“I have always been selective. However, the candidature of persons that come to this far-flung theatre of the Imperium Nihilus tends to be far from perfect.”

“Imperium Nihilus…” Tiffney repeats the words as if they were poison. “Is that what we’re called now…”

Straightening up, Tiffney pings the flagship. “In any case, you can come onboard. We’ll send you back to your ship, or drop you off whenever you like. --Yes, Vox Master, we’re ready for pick-up! No, cancel the reinforcements. We finished up without them, thanks to their sluggishness. By the way, we ran into Orks out here. Crazy, right? Orks!”

Then, Tiffney’s face falls. “Huh? What do you mean, we’ll need to be hosed off for any Ork spores? They can-- they can get in our armour? Hold on, does that mean we’ll need to get naked? All together?! Wait! There must be another way we can arrange that!”

Heinrix and Yrliet watch as she waves her hand around frantically. “I can never understand how she can get flustered over the most standard decontamination procedures while happily staring down an Ork Warboss and demanding a duel.”

“I have long since stopped assigning conventional wisdom from either of our kinds to the elantach’s actions,” Yrliet confesses. It would sound scathing from anyone else’s lips, but from her, even Yrliet herself finds her tone unbearably fond.

“A wise decision.” If Heinrix feels any emotion over his Interrogator’s betrayal, he does not show it. Instead, he carries himself as usual, turning to Yrliet with a sidelong glance. “Thank you for your help.”

Yrliet huffs. “I am glad that you have learnt some basic manners.”

Heinrix, long since used to Yrliet making civil conversation between them as difficult as possible, simply shrugs. “I know an asset when I see one, Yrliet. And, on that note… I have a favour to ask you.”

Immediately, Yrliet narrows her eyes. “We have already saved you. What more could you want?”

“You may be more interested in this than you suspect, Yrliet.” Then, with a casual nod, all while Tiffney walks away to beckon a dropship to their location-- “It is about Marazhai.”

Yrliet goes still. “Speak.”

Chapter 22: 6.685.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.685.000.M41

“Damn it all!” Tiffney’s fist crunched against the voidship wall. On the screen above her, planetary scans showed fields strewn with red, almost like a meadow in full bloom-- but when Yrliet inched closer at the elantach’s outburst, she quickly realised that the colour was not from flowers, but from a mass of bloodied corpses. The gruesome injuries on their bodies indicated that they had all been tortured before their agonising deaths. “Again! We were too late again!”

The incursions from the Dark Ones have only become bolder after their raid on Vheabos VI. Mere hours after they found the prisoners being used as toys for Drukhari entertainment, the elantach received a distress call and headed to the newfound colony on Foulstone, chasing reports that their dreaded ships were spotted in orbit.

Somehow-- whether by tactical genius, or sheer force of will-- the elantach managed to defeat all six of the Drukhari Cruisers that rushed towards them. Yrliet did not participate; as oddly welcoming as Tiffney has been, the other mon-keigh began frothing at the mouth at the mere suggestion of letting a xenos man any of their crucial space combat systems. Whenever they encountered trouble amongst wild stars, Yrliet would be sequestered away into a holding station, left only to wonder at the current state of battle by the urgency of the orders Tiffney barked over the vox-system and how severely the iron bird that hid them was shaking in the astral winds.

“Lord Captain.” Abelard often spoke up on the bridge, but it is the first time Yrliet has ever heard so much gentleness brushed over the stern contemplations of his voice. “It is never easy to see harm come to those under your protection. However, I can confidently say that you have reduced the casualties by an astounding impressive margin.”

Yrliet’s shock whispered out of her before she can stop it. “This is reduced?”

“Why bother faking your outrage, xenos?” Argenta’s words were posited to Yrliet with a mixture of bitter hatred and incredulity. “You can pretend all you want, but I know you are cut from the same cloth as every other abomination. Rest assured that I will always be keeping watch on you, so that when you try to turn these good people of the Imperium into ribbons of flesh, I will be there to stop you.”

“Shush,” Idira hissed, shoving Argenta to the side with a harsh bump of her shoulder. “Get away from the bridge, you oaf. The Lord Captain is feeling devastated, and your toothless sermons will only pour salt into her open wounds.”

“You--” Argenta cut herself off, sparing Tiffney a sympathetic glance. Then, she turned away, but not before giving Yrliet one last glare of seething suspicion.

And, in truth, Argenta was right, loathe as Yrliet was to admit it. She should not be surprised; she knew that her dark cousins were in a constant arms race to commit the worst atrocity possible, all in vain hope of distracting She Who Thirsts from their waning souls.

But-- the only other time she had encountered them was with the proud Children of Asuryan. Her people were well-versed in their cruelties, and exceptionally skilled at either evading their notice or bartering a deal without bloodshed.

The elantach’s kind, however, stood no chance against a Drukhari onslaught. They were marked like cattle and butchered like livestock. And in a sense, they were, to a Drukhari; just pieces of meat to feed on. Turn inside-out with the nonchalance of gutting a grox.

“I--” Tiffney turned away, unable to bear the sight of her dead people for any longer. “Switch off the screens, please. Give me… give me a moment.”

She pulled back, practically stumbling away from the bridge. The haunted look in her eyes transcended all boundaries of species.

For a moment-- Yrliet turned around, too, and the nerves in her limbs flared, ready to follow her. Why she wanted to follow Tiffney was a different question-- she wanted to defend herself, maybe. She knew that mon-keigh were notoriously poor at differentiating different Aeldari from one another; Drukhari and Asuryani were all just ‘xenos’ to them. Did she want to make sure Tiffney knew the difference, then? No-- Tiffney already knew. Yrliet had made that clear when she regarded her dark cousins on Vheabos VI with haughty airs and disgusted scowls.

So no. It was not to defend herself.

Then, did she want to comfort Tiffney?

She supposed that, if there was anyone else on this wretched voidship that understood the pain of watching your people’s lives slip away like little loose grains of sand between blood-stained fingers, it was Yrliet herself.

“Idira, a word.” Heinrix’s tone did not contain anything but neutral platitudes, but somehow, Yrliet could sense a strange urgency in the tremble below his voice. It was something unsaid. Maybe Heinrix didn’t even realise it himself.

Yrliet showed no reaction. She let Idira walk to the Interrogator, and only moved when she heard the both of them start leaving.

As they left, Yrliet watched Tiffney’s back as she disappeared into the lift towards her quarters. Yes, Yrliet realised-- she did want to comfort Tiffney, oddly enough. Or perhaps it wasn’t odd. The elantach had been an exceptional host to her, even by Asuryani standards. Though there could be no peace between their people, Tiffney sought to protect her own with a fervour she had not witnessed before in short-lived mon-keigh, and perhaps Yrliet found that impressive. Relatable, even. In the Rogue Trader she sensed a kindred spirit, even if her soul was watered down a million times compared to Yrliet’s own.

But right now, she shelved that thought away to memory.

Heinrix had something important to talk about. And Yrliet, who had already been kept in the dark for most things, could hardly be blamed for wanting to seek out more.

Eavesdropping on mon-keigh was a simple matter. She had noted Heinrix was smarter than most of his dimwitted kind, and far more sensitive to the brightness of Yrliet’s soul. She had to conceal herself with utmost care to not be noticed by him. The rest of the crew, however, were so woefully inadequate at detecting Yrliet’s presence that she could spy on them for hours without even a single person glancing her way. Most of the time, though, she found that their conversations were about inane and unimportant nonsense. That time she had listened in on Idira and Jae was the only real conversation she had gleaned any insight from, despite Idira’s contributions being riddled with the taint of Sha’eil trickery.

“Yes?” And Idira, Yrliet had noticed, was just as cold towards Heinrix as Yrliet herself. She found that Idira tended to the more sensible side, when she was not ripping Sha’eil open and summoning daemons upon her own body. Heinrix, as Yrliet surmised, was considered suspicious even within his own people.

Yrliet silently slid into a room just next to theirs, pressing her sharp ear against the plasteel walls. The foundations were thick enough to be considered soundproof by mon-keigh, but for Yrliet, her heightened sense of hearing meant that eavesdropping this way was a simple matter. “I won’t take much of your time,” Heinrix said, and his tone was forcibly even, like he was purposefully ironing out his feelings from every syllable. “I’d like to ask you a question, Idira.”

Idira scoffed. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead, Interrogator. And feel free to report this whole conversation to your boss, too. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Heinrix did not respond to Idira’s snark. “Did you notice the look on Tiffney’s face?”

The two mon-keigh went terribly silent.

Yrliet pressed her head closer to the wall, wondering if they had moved away. “No,” Idira barked, and Yrliet nearly jerked her head back from the harshness in Idira’s response.

“You, Idira Tlass, are talented in many aspects.” The sudden praise seemed to come as a surprise to Idira most of all. “Very, very talented. But you are also terrible at lying.”

Then, Heinrix opened the door. “I have asked my question. You are free to leave.”

“Hah! ‘Free to leave’? You never had any right to keep me in here,” Idira retorted. “And, no. I’m not leaving.”

“No?”

“Not after your… question.” Idira punctuated the last word with heavy distrust. “What the f*ck is that about? Is this another one of your fancy Inquisition secrets?”

Heinrix walked closer to the wall Yrliet was leaning against. “There are no secrets I can keep from a diviner of your aptitude,” Heinrix admitted, and then came the sound of his hands gripped around the hilt of his sword.

For a moment, Yrliet expected him to somehow notice her presence. Notice her, and stab right through the wall between them. Her imagination was enough to almost make Yrliet flee-- almost. Her morbid curiosity, as it appeared, won over. “And certainly not from someone perceptive enough to notice there was something strange with Tiffney. Something even her Seneschal did not seem to realise.”

“Abelard’s just a wrinkled old man,” Idira muttered, sounding hardly convinced herself. “It’s normal for him to overlook things at his wizened age.”

“You say that, Idira, but I wanted to speak to you specifically because you are the only person who would have a chance of noticing. You, and the xenos.” Heinrix’s confession of Yrliet’s awareness came as both a pleasant surprise and a damning realisation-- this mon-keigh was even more observant than she had thought.

But whatever Heinrix was referring to, Yrliet hadn’t noticed either. Perhaps the sight of Drukhari handiwork was enough for Yrliet’s usual insightfulness to dull in the face of horror. “And you’ll certainly not talk to Yrliet about it,” Idira laughed, and… was that a hint of… irony? Did…

Yrliet paused. Did Idira know she was here?

“But I’m sure you didn’t just bring that up to lavish me with sweet platitudes, did you?” If Idira did know, she certainly hadn’t said anything. Perhaps she was waiting for the perfect moment to expose Yrliet. Or… perhaps she was letting Yrliet listen in on purpose. “You can save your honeyed words for the Lord Captain. I know how you love to dress her up with your obvious--”

“Idira.” Heinrix interrupted with a fresh sternness.

“Well, go on, then.” Idira, too, slipped back into a serious mood. “Yes, I did notice that… ‘look’, as you called it. The way a smile broke through her horror like sunlight peeking through clouds of acid.”

Yrliet narrowed her eyes. Did she hear that wrongly?

“If it were any other Rogue Trader, or even any other person, I would not have taken such note of it.” Heinrix leaned against the wall as he continued. “It isn’t unusual for the day-to-day horrors in our lives to give us a grim sense of humour. Or even for frequent trips into the warp to eventually leave a mark of madness in a less disciplined mind. But Tiffney would not… that smile. At a massacre she did her utmost to prevent, no less. It did not… it was not her.”

“What are you implying?”

“Something… slipped,” Heinrix said, and Yrliet remembered Jae’s claims-- that Tiffney was a liar, yes, and perhaps once was also a bloodthirsty cur, even for her savage kind. Was she lying, then? About being kind? About caring for her own people?

But if she was truly lying, Yrliet would have noticed by now. She must have. No, no; she could not have overseen such a grievous stain on one’s soul.

“Alright, I’ll take the bait. What do you mean by ‘slipped’, ice-man? Are you saying she’s hiding the truth about herself?”

“No.” Heinrix’s answer should not be the only thing Yrliet hinged on, but it was also the only answer that made sense. “No, she is not lying. It would be too obvious. The things she has lied about are so childish and poorly-planned that it is impossible she could pull off such a thorough deception. Unless she is a secretive genius who has let herself be caught in useless lies to sell said deception, but something about all of Tiffney’s other demeanours tell me that isn’t the case.”

Idira barked out a shrill laugh. “Hah! Are you calling Tiffney an idiot?”

“Much like you, she is incredibly talented in some disciplines and less so in others.” That seemed about as nicely as Heinrix could call the elantach an idiot. “Also much like you, she has no skill in the art of lying. She absolutely does believe in her own words, and she does not fake the depth of her emotions.”

“‘Believe in her own words’ is an odd way to avoid saying that she tells the truth.”

“As I had said, Idira. Perceptive of you.”

“Stop smacking around the spinethorn, ice-man. Get to the bloody point, won’t you?” Idira’s voice raised in union with her growing uncertainty. “If the Lord Captain is not lying, but her words are also not the truth-- then what is it?”

Heinrix let out a tense exhale. “I believe the Rogue Trader has been mind-cleansed.”

Chapter 23: 8.050.M42

Chapter Text

----- 8.050.M42

As a favour to the Lord Inquisitor and to sate her own selfishness, Yrliet has taken the time on her journeys away to follow up on a most peculiar rumour.

The Koronus Expanse is a vast, and mostly unmapped ocean of stars. If one imagined the Koronus Expanse to be a single, massive tree, then the von Valancius protectorate only occupied the lowest fruit-bearing branches. Pirates flitted amongst the higher levels to hide from the overextended arm of Imperium law, while the most adventurous of humans (and the occasional thrill-seeking Aeldari Corsair crew) sought out the furthest branches. An incredible mass of untamed verdancy bloomed overhead, bringing promises of untold treasures, discoveries, wonders… but mostly just excruciating deaths in ways inconceivable to even the most seasoned explorer.

And, amongst one of these uncharted stars, it was rumoured that a beautiful Garden World had been discovered. Some said it was another lost Lilaethan, while others said the long-missing Jae Heydari had been the first sentient being to touch down on its blooming meadows.

Whoever created or found it first didn’t matter much, though. And Garden Worlds were rare, but hardly unheard of.

What was unheard of was that it was apparently open and hospitable to both humans… and all manner of Aeldari. Two species that should be at each other’s necks as sworn enemies instead traded goods and hosted grand balls together on the surface of this so-called peaceful paradise. A fairytale chapter in a book full of tragedies.

And, when Yrliet heard that the governor of the planet was said to be Tiffney von Valancius’ former pet Drukhari, that was when she figured that all of those rumours of paradise were nothing but a honey trap laden with white lies.

The moment Yrliet’s feet touch down on the docks, she is approached by a sour-faced Outcast with his black hair strung into a topknot. “You,” he begins, and Yrliet finds herself growing disturbingly unused to being addressed in her native tongue, “my friend, needed to send your vessel in for maintenance approximately twenty solar months ago. It is a miracle that your Vampire Hunter has not fallen apart yet.”

“I am aware.” Yrliet does not have the wits or the patience to go into details of her precarious situation with her own people right now. At the very least, this Outcast appears unaware of who she was, regarding her with the same airs as any other polite greeting between their people. She makes a hand gesture of inquisitiveness, tilting her head as she did. “Where may I find the governor?”

A look of piquant curiosity crosses the Outcast’s face. “The governor? What, are you another assassin? I must say, waltzing in through the front door and asking the dock workers is certainly a novel approach…”

“No,” Yrliet clarifies, “but I am not at all surprised to hear that he has assassins flocking for his head. He attracts trouble to his side with the ease of a sun pulling wandering stars into its asteroid belt.”

The Outcast’s fingers bend in the meaning of amusem*nt. “Or mayflys buzzing around a corpse,” he says. The metaphor suits Marazhai perfectly. “In any case, you are asking the wrong person, sister. I am merely a stray vagabond seeking a few days of relative sanity and familiar work amongst forsaken mon-keigh worlds. If you hope to find information about the governor, you had best start at the grand casino.”

The word ‘casino’ slips out of the Outcast with rough edges, like uttering a single human word was as painful as grating his tongue with jagged knives. “Casino,” Yrliet repeats, vaguely aware of the gambling establishments humans love to revel in-- Jae often spoke about owning one, when she was still around. Perhaps, if Yrliet were to believe the rumours, it was even this very one. Tiffney never brought Yrliet to visit it. For the best, most likely-- even her elantach’s presence would do little to soothe the stench of lust and rancour that infested such a place. “Thank you, kin.”

“May you be met with good fortune in distant stars, sister.” The Outcast looks away. “I suspect you will need it, if you have genuine dealings with the governor.”

As Yrliet leaves the docks, she spots the first human on-planet: a squat little thing, standing out like a sore thumb between the Aeldari. Her kin take great pains to completely ignore the man, but, very conspicuously, do nothing to obstruct him or chase him off. Whatever the rules of coexistence here, they must be enforced harshly.

She does not need to look for long before finding more. The ‘grand casino’, which proved as frivolous and overdone as Yrliet had expected, was filled with them: humans and Aeldari sat around decks upon decks of gaming tables, cards in hand or regicide pieces clasped in their fingers. Both species shared the same table more often than not, and the staff seemed to be a mixture of humans and withered, weaker Drukhari that have been roped into servitude. Even decades after living amongst humans, the sight is fantastically strange to behold.

“Madam!” A human suddenly accosts her, stepping rudely in her way. Yrliet makes no effort to hide the displeasure in her face. It takes Yrliet a moment to realise he had addressed her in stilted Aeldari tongue, and his fingers wrap around themselves in clumsy gestures asking her to hold. “My apologies, but you must leave your weapons with the staff at the entrance…”

“Save your efforts.” Yrliet glares at him, and her hands make no effort to remove the old Drukhari rifle strapped to her back. “I am more than capable of speaking your language, so spare me the torment of hearing you butcher mine.”

“I hear you, I hear you.” He seems to bow to her in deference, but there is obvious discontent in his voice. He must have various insults for her tucked under his tongue, held back by his paltry show of hospitality. “You are very knowledgeable, madam! But, please… weapons at the front.”

Yrliet glances around the casino hall. It appears that people really have allowed themselves to roam around without their armaments-- the sight was disconcerting. This was no Asuryani craftworld; no matter how strict the rules are, there was no telling when someone decided themselves above it. Especially, as Yrliet noticed, when there are numerous Drukhari around you, roaming around in realspace without a care in the world. “I have no time for that, human. Where is the governor?”

The human stares back at her blankly. Partly because of her question, and partly because she very deliberately avoided calling him a mon-keigh. “My deepest apologies, but I cannot allow you inside or answer your questions if you do not follow the rules.”

“I am Yrliet Lanaevyss,” she states, and she watches in annoyance as not a single shred of recognition passes across the casino bouncer’s face. “I used to travel with Marazhai.”

“Ah, right…” He waves his hand dismissively. Yrliet feels her skin prickling with irritation, and a few passers-by begin staring at her as they overhear the commotion. “Listen, let me make this very clear. I’ve had about a dozen people come in just this morning talking about how they are personal friends with the governor Aezyrraesh. All of them expect special treatment for the privilege of once huffing the same air as him. And many of them use these convenient anecdotes of unproven friends in high places to try weaselling past our very, very important rules, or even to gain access to the governor’s upper levels! I am politely reminding you, right now, that these rules cannot be bent for anybody, and should you continue to try your luck, I am afraid I must kick you out.”

With a heavy sigh, Yrliet turns away. “It seems I am no good at persuasion without the elantach around. Very well. Then, you leave me no choice…”

Swiftly, Yrliet pulls out her knife. The bouncer immediately jolts in alarm, and moves to stop her--

--before watching in utter confusion as Yrliet stabs herself.

She drags her dagger up the length of her left arm, on the faint line where a scar still remains. Her skin splits open in painfully familiar fashion, and though the wound she makes is nowhere near as deep as the original, it serves its purpose. The onlookers both gasp in horror and laugh with glee. “There,” she says, which explains nothing to the completely baffled human. Her blood drips freely onto the floor. “If he is here, then he will recognise this pain and come to greet me. If not, then he is away, and I will return to find him another day.”

The bouncer draws his head back with a frozen smile of forced politeness, before slooowly leaning his body to one side to another human coworker. When she comes close enough, the bouncer whispers, with enough loud urgency that Yrliet can clearly hear him: “Should we just throw her out?”

“Technically…” The woman seems to think about it thoroughly. “If she were Drukhari, this would hardly warrant expulsion from the grounds…”

“But she’s not--” His eyes travel to the design of Yrliet’s gun, and shrinks away slightly when he notices her still staring at him intently. “Okay, she might be Drukhari. But she’s got all those fake spirit stones things the Asuryani wear.”

“She might just be a really crazy Outcast. One of those lone ranger types. Seen too many things out there, you know. Remember that one last month who came back from a Halo Star and started eating people?”

“Oh, yeah. She seems like the type… so, do we kick her out or not?”

“Let’s get some back-up, and--”

The humans are cut off by the screeching sound of grand doors being kicked upon.

Somewhere above them, a very familiar gallop of footsteps ring out loudly enough to reverberate over the hundreds of shuffling cards and clicking game pieces. Many stop what they are doing to look up in curiosity, while others will not be distracted from their very important games of chance unless something dire occurs.

‘Something dire’ then comes with rapid immediacy in the form of Marazhai dropping down from several storeys and slamming feet-first right into one of the game tables, snapping it in half. The patrons barely even have time to back away in shock before Marazhai casually boots them away with his heels and leaps towards the entrance. “Oh, cousin!”

Yrliet sheathes her dagger. “Marazhai,” she greets, noting how happy Marazhai looks. A little too happy. He has been feeding well, it seems, and also was surprisingly ecstatic to see her. Any surprise that has to do with Marazhai, however, tends to carry ill tidings. “So you still remember.”

“Do you really believe I would ever forget that pain of yours, cousin?”

As Marazhai saunters towards her, the entire casino seems to part in two, like the sheer-film of reality being pulled apart for a webway gate. Very peculiarly, he addresses her in Low Gothic instead of their shared tongue; perhaps to inform the humans of who she is.

Or, no-- Marazhai would not give a damn about what the ‘mon-keigh’ rabble think. This usage of Low Gothic, and how he’s avoiding the use of her name… instead, he may be purposefully hiding who she is from the other Aeldari.

In that case, Yrliet… appreciates his thoughtfulness. Though, from the looks of his patrons, Yrliet is hardly the most shameful member of their once-proud race.

“Of course the saccharine-sweetness of your agony has imprinted itself into my precious memory.” He looks just the same as she remembers: red scar-paint is still dashed across his right eyes, and his cheeks look much fuller than when he was still working with Tiffney, though no amount of eating would hide the sharpness of Aeldari bones. “Dearest cousin, I will always remember how I had so easily touched your flesh and split you open.”

There was no need for you to say it like that, Yrliet thinks, sourly frank and with a heavy heaping of disgust. “While you are recalling the ‘precious’ memory, I hope you do not conveniently forgo the part where I sustained this injury from you while saving your soul from the gaze of Sai'lanthresh.” You still owe me, being the implication that one does not need to walk the Path of Awakening to realise.

The very explicit reminder of her favour for him causes a few whispers to break out between the guests, and even the workers. “A moment,” he tuts, before pulling out his gun and shooting one of the gossiping workers right in the throat.

She falls to the carpeted floor gurgling on her own blood, and Yrliet grimaces in obvious revulsion-- clearly, Marazhai remembers many things, but does not recall even an ounce of the humility he learnt from the long years in Tiffney’s service.

“Agh-- ah, ah…! Gck… hah, haghh…”

The remaining human workers, wisely, flee as much as they would be allowed to without getting shot. But all the Drukhari in Marazhai’s service instead lick their lips, entranced by the woman’s agony. A mixture of twitchy, wide-eyed fear mixed with excited, even salacious glances towards Marazhai with silent begging for more.

While thrashing about in her death throes, the dying human spits a mouthful of blood at Yrliet’s direction, with some splashing on her shoes. “I apologise dearly for the mess,” Marazhai rasps, while very clearly not being sorry in the slightest. “Now, you must have come for a reason, cousin. But I suspect that discussing your business right here in front of a thousand dazzled guests is not what you would prefer, unless you have finally developed an enjoyment for occasional grandstanding. Though, I doubt it. Come! Let me give you a tour of the upper levels. We’ve recently renovated, and I must say that the new decor is ravishing…”

With a snap of his armoured fingers, a motley selection of both human and withered Drukhari servants rush towards him. One of them, ironically, is the bouncer who first stopped her, and he fearfully avoids her gaze. “She is my personal guest. Treat her with the utmost care. If I hear word of any of you cattle stepping out of line, I will personally add you to tomorrow’s menu.”

“I do not need to be waited on,” Yrliet objects. “Enough with the facetious fanfare. I only need to speak to you in private.”

“Facetious? Oh, Yrliet…” Marazhai shakes his head with slow, exaggeratedly disappointed motions. “You have not changed at all.”

Yrliet lets an arrogant huff slip from between her teeth. “Neither have you, Dark One.”

“Good,” Marazhai replies, though there is a measure of genuine relief in his voice.

-----

Somehow, the upper levels manage to be even more ostentatious than anything Yrliet could have possibly imagined.

Forget the gold-plated pillars of the ground hall: on the upper levels, every corner was adorned in some sort of priceless and likely looted artefact, all mismatched against a backdrop of torture tools. In all honesty, it feels like Marazhai has transported a little piece of Commorragh here. She wonders why he does not just go back-- but perhaps his time in realspace had made him fond of the Koronus Expanse. Which is a terrifying thought to have.

“I once believed that mon-keigh could contribute nothing that we Aeldari have already created. But then, I learnt of the casino!” Marazhai’s airy laughter rings through the grimly-decorated hallways. “A marvellous place where the heights of exhilaration and the depths of despair can be extracted from the living without even needing to make them bleed! Unfortunately, the average vatborn drudgery in Commorragh owns so little and the poorest highborn owns so much that a casino would not generate even a quarter of the pain that a low-effort arena fight would. But within the realms of mon-keigh, it is perfect! They have created their own finely-tuned torture device, and they do not even know it!”

Yrliet blinks slowly. “So you found a way to feed your soul without murder? That is… impressive.”

“Yes,” Marazhai confirms, rather delightedly.

“But you… still murder.”

“What?” Marazhai shrugs his shoulders in imitation of the human gesture. “Just because one learns how to enjoy a well-made appetiser does not mean they will forgo the main dish.”

“I see.” Yrliet doesn’t know what she expected.

As they round the corner, Marazhai stops to point excitedly at something. “This one is my favourite,” Marazhai hums, and he is referring to a taxidermied head of some unfortunate human, his final expression of terror contorted grotesquely across frozen muscles. “He joined my crew and bided his time over several of his Terran decades. A paltry handful of time for us, but to him, it was more than half of his entire existence. All in an attempt to find an opportunity to kill me. He looked so happy when ambushed me, all while mewling about how I’d killed his wife in front of him over thirty years prior. Until the point where I began to bend him backwards till vertebrae in his back cracked one by one like falling dominoes. That was when the screaming began.”

“How wonderful,” Yrliet mutters, her voice practically drowning in miserable sarcasm. Marazhai, on the other hand, grins madly with the realisation that Yrliet has learnt to be sarcastic. Her bandaged arm, where she had stabbed herself to summon him, still aches despite the swift medicae that was administered. “My elantach had been hoping that you were behaving well while outside her supervision. I did not ever hold such vain hopes myself, but somehow… you have still managed to disappoint me.”

“Oh, cousin! The burning scent of your scathing disapproval is enough to make me blush,” Marazhai coos. He is most definitely not blushing. “On that note, how is Tiffney? Still possessed of sound mind and all four limbs? On further thought, the former might be pointless to ask about. And is she in the market for an Ork pet?”

Shock blazes across Yrliet’s face. “How do you know that, Dark One?” And then, with escalating alarm: “Do not even think of encouraging her, Marazhai, or so help me--”

Marazhai cuts her off with a loud, rumbling laugh. “You are always so quick to assume that I am mere moments from causing you trouble! Have I not been sitting pretty and far, far away from her-- and perhaps your, I should add-- beloved protectorate? I have obeyed all of her innumerable and, frankly, ridiculous terms. Not a single soul living within her borders has been harmed by me. In fact, I have oftentimes granted safe passage through the most treacherous stretches of deep space to those I know are working under her banner. I have saved many more of her people’s lives than even the illustrious Rogue Trader could possibly imagine. Which makes me wonder…”

Strutting forward, Marazhai gestures vaguely at a twin set of massive doors, decorated in intricate patterns of shimmering metals. The servants behind them rush forward to open the doors for him, pushing against the huge steel-set frame with all their might to barely just shove it open. Yrliet’s hands fidget into a sign of confusion, old Aeldari communications coming back to her even as they speak in Low Gothic. “How impractical.”

“Very much so,” Marazhai agrees. “Though I do enjoy the spurts of aching pain the servants must endure in order to open something as simple as a door. But this was not my invention. You may thank our old friend Jae Heydari for that. After all, this grand establishment was made by her hands. I am simply… taking good care of it while awaiting her return.”

So it really was Jae who first found this planet? Yrliet looks back around at the bloodied weapons and preserved raid trophies hung across the corridor. She highly doubts Jae would be happy with what Marazhai has done with the place, much less the implication that she had willingly handed the Garden World into Marazhai’s waiting hands before bringing Idira along on her faraway adventure. It was far more likely that Marazhai had simply realised her absence and got rid of any successor Jae may have appointed. “Then you have done an exceedingly poor job,” is all Yrliet says in response to his words. “Even by your loathsome standards.”

“What would you know of our standards?” Marazhai walks into the open room, and Yrliet, quickly glancing around, decides to follow. Even after all they’ve been through, she cannot dismiss the possibility that he would still backstab her. Thankfully, the building is riddled with escape routes and entry points, clearly designed for grandiose pleasure and not defence. “My soft-hearted cousin, you are as lost in my world as any other mon-keigh you have somehow come to see as equal. If only you had paid attention during your brief re-education…”

Yrliet stares at the back of Marazhai’s head. “I do not use that word anymore.”

“I noticed.” Marazhai gestures his hand back, and the servants slowly close the door behind them. “Yet another of your idiosyncrasies.”

The moment they are finally afforded privacy, Marazhai drops back to the old, lyrical tones of Aeldari language. “It must have taken quite a while to locate me, Yrliet.”

Yrliet nods. “Yes. It was not easy for me to find this place.”

“Good. It shouldn’t be.” Then, he turns back, and the cheerfulness in his face has been scrubbed away, leaving only the muscles in his face pulled taut with suspicion. “So, Yrliet. As I was wondering. Why are you here?”

She supposes there is no use lying. After all, she has never been any good at talking her way out of things.

“Marazhai, I will be plain with you, for our journeys together have at least afforded us the right to honesty. So I hope to receive a truthful answer from you.” She pauses. The lights streaming through the stately windows flits onto the skin of her face, illuminating her the greens of her eyes like the shade of aurora borealis on glimmering solar winds. “I have heard that you are harbouring a dangerous fringe sect of Aeldari. The ones who call themselves Ynnari.”

“Ah, the death-cultists?” The ease of which Marazhai acknowledges Yrliet’s words both comforts and worries here. “What a funny lot, aren’t they? They come by preaching every so often, trying to recruit more to their suicidal cause. They also come bearing gifts and make the best fighters, so drunk on their death-madness that they no longer have any fear of dying at all.”

Yrliet narrows her eyes. “Marazhai… have you looked beyond their usefulness to you? Have you heard what their so-called preachers have been saying?”

“Are you genuinely expecting me to have wasted my precious time listening to their useless sermons? You think so little of me, Yrliet.” Marazhai lounges back on a plush chair that is covered in old bloodstains. “Furthermore, their lack of fear and allegiance to an apathetic god of the dead makes them terribly dull targets for torture. I once took to carving my name into one of the Ynnari I’d employed after his carelessness had led to our spoils from a raid going up in flames. He gave no reaction-- so assured he was that death was the greatest he could provide in worship of his deity-- that I simply threw him out of the airlock in boredom.”

“So you know a little,” Yrliet notes. “I do not know if you Drukhari have such beliefs, but the Asuryani had long held onto the hope that, when our race breathes its last sigh and all our souls are placed into the Infinity Circuits of the craftworlds, the god of the dead will rise to correct the terrible sin that caused our Fall. Ynnead, the Whispering God, will burst into the palace of She Who Thirsts and kill our eternal enemy at the cost of all our people. Doing so, Ynnead will redeem us, and we may one day be reborn anew.”

Marazhai presses his elbow against the couch arm and leans his head onto his hand. He is already looking a little bored. “Are you one of their preachers now, Yrliet? Have you come to tell me of your new fantasies? Of course the Drukhari do not hold such ridiculous beliefs; how are we supposed to be ‘reborn anew’ if the conditions for summoning this new god is the death of our entire race?”

“It is a fairytale,” Yrliet admits, with a slight twinge of pain. “A fairytale told to young children in the craftworlds to shield them from the horror of realising that they have been born aeons after their ancestors had doomed them.”

A fairytale Yrliet’s father was ever so fond of telling. But now was not the time for reminiscence. “So you are right, Marazhai. It is ridiculous. That is why I must ask you to rid yourself of the Ynnari.”

Just like that, a spark of interest flashes through Marazhai’s eyes. “It has been quite some time since I have heard some conviction in your voice, cousin. But they have become some of my fiercest warriors, so you will have to give me a very good reason to do as you ask.”

“You may not have heard, so I shall tell you. The Ynnari are not the beacons of hope they pretend to be.” The terrible knowledge of what they have wrought circles Yrliet’s mind. She swallows her incumbent anger to maintain a facade of stern calmness. “They came to the craftworld Biel-Tan during a time of great strife against the wicked forces of She Who Thirsts. Taking advantage of the chaos, the Ynnari forced the Asuryani of Biel-Tan to enact their deranged plan to tear out a crucial piece of their Infinity Circuits for their own purposes. It went just as well as such a foolish plan possibly could-- it destroyed Biel-Tan. Their relentless dash towards the realm of death has caused the craftworld to fall apart entirely, with its inhabitants barely surviving on shattered remnants. Such a travesty cannot be forgiven, or overlooked.”

Marazhai gestures the Aeldari equivalent of a shrug. “So?”

Yrliet’s skin flashes hot, and her composure falters. “What do you mean, ‘so’?”

“I need a better reason than that.”

“A better reason?!” Now, Yrliet bites at Marazhai with unhidden anger. “You may not care, Marazhai, but I have met Outcasts from Biel-Tan-- Outcasts who all tell terrifying stories of their once magnificent home splintering into shards of ruin!” Her hands twist into signs of rage, disbelief, and once, melancholy-- she remembers the Outcast she rescued from her crashed ship, the way she taught Yrliet how to tie a beautiful braid.

The far look in her eyes when she told Yrliet what had become of her craftworld. All of Biel-Tan’s Aeldari, raised for battle from the day of their birth, were unable to hold their precious craftworld from breaking apart into a trillion more pieces. Many lived, yes, praise be to Asuryan-- but how many millions were lost to the cold darkness between the stars? And how many billions of old souls, screaming within Biel-Tan’s Infinity Circuits, had their remnants turned into ashes, dissolving like sugar upon the tongue of She Who Thirsts?

For what? All to summon another false god from their collective consciousness? As if that very act was not what created Sai'lanthresh in the first place?

How many more craftworlds must die before their own people realise the folly of their arrogance?

“I know,” Marazhai answers plainly, a smile inching back onto his face. It enrages Yrliet even more. “Incredible, isn’t it? The price they are willing to pay for the faintest outline of hope.”

“Marazhai, stop thinking of the world merely in terms of what amuses you and look at the truth of the situation! Our race has already destroyed itself on the sword of our own hubris!” Yrliet is shouting, now, and if anyone else can hear her, she doesn’t give a damn. “And to think we can accelerate our redemption-- to think that we could will yet another god into existence to defeat the previous god we created that caused our downfall-- that is the very height of arrogance! We must learn from the grave sin of our ancestors, not rush headlong into repeating it for ourselves!”

“Remember Asdrubael Vect?”

The sudden segue in topic makes Yrliet pause. “Of course I remember the Dark Lord of Commorragh.”

“Vect absolutely despises the Ynnari, and I thoroughly enjoy the idea of harbouring anything that vexes him.” Marazhai ends his simple explanation with a smirk. It makes Yrliet see red. “Besides, how did you even hear of this in the first place? I certainly do not broadcast having such dreadfully passionless persons among my retinue.”

Yrliet bites down on her tongue. It would not do to tell Marazhai that it was Heinrix van Calox that informed her. “Nothing can remain a secret when you surround yourself with only the worst scum that this universe can offer,” she says instead, dodging the question.

Marazhai looks at her, not saying anything for a longer time than usual. Yrliet curses internally; she has never been good at lying.

“That is true.” Then, he accepts her answer with surprising indifference. “Many of the recent assassins sent my way bore a particular symbol. The insignia of Kabal of the Black Heart.”

Yrliet recognises that name immediately as Vect’s Kabal. “So you already risk your life to shield the Ynnari!”

“I already said, Yrliet. I enjoy the idea of Vect being so enraged with me that he would take the time out of his immeasurably busy life to pull a dozen disparate strings, all to send a few assassins my way. The attention is… intoxicating.”

“I have no interest in whatever fantasies you have about--”

“If you despise them so much,” Marazhai interrupts, “then why not go on and kill them yourself?”

Yrliet stares coldly at Marazhai. “You mean to say…”

“I will arrange for all the Ynnari that are enjoying the luxuries of my planet and within my employ to gather in one place,” Marazhai explains. His tone carries a slightly crazed air, one that only emerges when he is imagining something that sounds most tantalising to him. “I shall trap them within the confines of an inescapable room. There, I shall place you at an excellent vantage point-- the shooting range. You will be protected as you kill them all at your own leisure.”

The rage in Yrliet’s soul simmers itself into nothingness as disgust takes its place. “You have just told me that Ynnari make for poor targets of yours,” she whispers, watching as the smile on Marazhai’s face only widens. “So why arrange for such an elaborate show?”

“Oh, no. No, no. I don’t care about their suffering. Even all of their paltry terror collected in one place would barely fill the inside of my cheeks.” Marazhai tilts his head casually. “But I would love to feed off yours, Yrliet.”

“Enough.” Yrliet forces herself to turn away. “You have given me your answer, and though I am dismayed by your response, it is the norm for you to evoke such feelings from me. I can only hope that you may come to your senses before the death and ruin that these Ynnari bring will claim you, too.”

“Hm?”

Though Yrliet is not looking at his face, she can practically see the sound of his merriment. “Did you truly come all this way just to warn me about the Ynnari? Because you are… worried about me? Oh, cousin! You are the most adorable--”

Yrliet whips around and puts a bullet hole in the couch cushion next to Marazhai’s head.

“Tell your servants to open the door, Marazhai.” Then, she pulls her rifle back, scowling uncontrollably at the sh*t-eating grin now stamped across Marazhai’s face. “I am leaving.”

Marazhai tilts his head in the other direction, and-- perhaps Yrliet is just imagining it-- his smile wavers ever-so-slightly. “So soon?”

“I cannot bear to be around you for too long a time… cousin.”

“Come, now-- you intrude on my hospitality, make demands of me, and just leave without giving anything in return?” Marazhai’s stalling makes Yrliet reassess her surroundings, just in case she needs to make a run for it. “I can see where your eyes are going, Yrliet. Fret not, cousin; I have no intention of trapping you here, and you need not plan an escape route. I only want to ask you a question.”

With a heavy, heavy sigh, Yrliet relents. She haunches her shoulders and glares back at Marazhai. “Fine. Ask your question.”

“So…” He presses his fingertips together almost playfully. “Tiffney von Valancius.”

“...Yes.” Yrliet does not like how Marazhai is intentionally gauging her reaction. “What about Tiffney?”

“‘My’ elantach.”

Confusion presses down on Yrliet’s brows. “What?”

“You said she was your elantach,” Marazhai states, and Yrliet… supposes she may have? “When the both of us were walking here. I had honestly assumed you would be bored of her by now, but it seems you have only become more possessive of her as time passes. And yet, despite all that closeness…”

The whites of his fanged teeth shine when he asks: “Are you ever going to tell her the truth, Yrliet?”

“What do you mean?” Yrliet feels fire dancing behind the forcibly calmed lines of her face. In truth, she already knows what Marazhai means, but-- “Besides that one occasion when I was urged by your wicked deception, I have never again lied to Tiffney.”

“Lies by omission are still lies, dearest cousin.” Marazhai licks his lips, now, obviously gorging himself on the distress burning within Yrliet’s damned soul. “All those years you have spent by her side, within realspace-- and all the terrible trips through Sha’eil that eat away at your very soul-- long stretches of slow drought, only broken up by pathetic little trips to barely-distant stars, in the vain hopes that you will somehow strike gold in the form of a spirit stone that shall grant you salvation…”

“Clarify your question,” Yrliet seethes. She does not like how Marazhai knows so much about her, but even more so-- what he is implying.

“I could still help you, Yrliet. I could still teach you the ways of the Drukhari, the ways our ancestors truly lived-- the salvation you so desperately seek can be found right here, in this very room, delivered by my hands. But you will not accept my generous offerings, so what am I left to do?” Marazhai sighs, and now, Yrliet can sense a hint of genuine disappointment on his tongue. “I am left to watch as you grind yourself to nothing, all to make a short-lived mon-keigh happy.”

“That isn’t a question!”

“All I ask is…” Marazhai stares back, and the jade-teal of his eyes burns against Yrliet’s own. “Does Tiffney realise the cost of your company, Yrliet? Does she realise how much of your young life you have already thrown to the grasp of She Who Thirsts? Better yet-- does she realise that you are dying?”

Chapter 24: 6.742.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.742.000.M41

Hours after she watched Dargonus burn, Yrliet took the elevator to Tiffney’s quarters.

It was hardly as simple as Yrliet had expected. The elevator did not just lead to the elantach’s dwelling, but also multiple other levels that Yrliet could not differentiate from Tiffney’s room. And what would Tiffney’s room look like? She had seen the slums of the Lower Decks, but surely, the room of a Rogue Trader would be like a palace in comparison. So unlike the equal partitioning of craftworld dwellings, made in perfect duplicity for the strongest of Aspect Warriors to even the most shunned of Outcasts.

It took her a while, but when the elevator pulled itself into the forty-fourth floor, she spotted a grand portrait of a brown-haired mon-keigh she did not recognise. It was a step up in luxury compared to every other sight on the iron bird. This room must be it, then.

There were other trophies lining the hall, but, just for today, Yrliet paid them no heed. She rushed into the main atrium of the room, and though she could not find the elantach immediately, she did notice a few other things: a half-played board game, a large desk backdropped by the stars, and a little poster tacked to the wall. It was a military recruitment flyer, yellowing with age and yet preserved with precise care. The grandiose depictions of armoured mon-keigh, clearly meant as tactless propaganda, was accompanied with a passionate scrawl of red marker on top: CADIA STANDS!

Before Yrliet could look further, the sound of familiar footsteps echoed behind her. She turned around, green eyes searching for Tiffney.

The first thing she was greeted with, though, was the sound of a fist thumping angrily against the wall. “God-Emperor be f*cking damned!” Biting fury strangled itself around Tiffney’s voice, and Yrliet found herself sharing slightly in Tiffney’s pain-- the blood of mon-keigh corpses still felt cold on her skin. The Dark Ones had split a Guardsmen right in the middle, spilling everything onto the ground by Yrliet’s feet. He didn’t even have the time to scream.

Yrliet took one step forward.

Tiffney, alerted by the noise, sucked in her misery and rounded the corner.

“...Yrliet?” Blonde hair laid dishevelled over her shoulders, and though she looked up, Tiffney didn’t quite meet Yrliet in the eyes. “Is that you?”

“Elantach, I finally found you in this dwelling.” Yrliet drew her hands up into a curled fist over three fingers, representing the outstretched trident of Khaine looming over Isha as she sobbed over her mortal children. “This symbol has many meanings-- humility, grief, loss, shame, regret. I hope that you will accept them all. Because I am sorry for what happened to your world, to your subjects, to your palace... and for what my kin did to them.”

Tiffney looked at her, unfocused lavender eyes like little pieces of starry midnight, without much reaction. “Why are you apologising?” Then, Tiffney walked closer, too tired to even smile. “It is not your fault.”

The cold indifference in Tiffney’s usually carefree voice was enough to make Yrliet shudder. Even if mon-keigh did not experience the world half as intensely as she did, Yrliet could still recognise despair when she saw it, regardless of species. “My words will not heal the wounds nor bring back the fallen. And they will not restore your protectorate. However…”

Yrliet felt the uncertainty in her own conviction wrapping around her own words. With a quick exhale, she gathered her resolve and spoke plainly. “Look, elantach. The gaze of a Child of Asuryan can penetrate deeper than a mon-keigh's. And I can see all the heaviness that has accumulated in your soul during our travels.”

Tiffney gestured at herself numbly, as if unsure. “My soul? How can you tell?”

“I... see it. In your gestures. In the tilt of your head. In the change in your scent.” On that last note, Tiffney gave Yrliet a strange look, mouthing ‘you can smell me?’ before turning away in slight embarrassment. Yrliet thought it odd, but continued. “If you will allow me... I will help you cast off this burden and cleanse your soul and mind of worry.”

“How…” Tiffney was trying to understand, Yrliet could tell. But the process was undoubtedly alien to her, and the tiredness in her body did not help. “How exactly are you going to help me?”

“It is difficult to describe, elantach.” Yrliet steeples her fingers and bends them in a gesture of light breaking through shadows. “But your soul shines bright and your mind is strong enough for you to be able to immerse yourself in your own mind and cleanse it of unnecessary cares.”

“Really?” Tiffney took a step closer. “I… thank you. Though, this is an Aeldari thing, isn’t it? So…”

Yrliet nodded in acknowledgement. “I am still not sure that your species is capable of such a thing... but it is worth a try. If nothing comes out of it, then the only thing you will lose is a small fraction of your time.”

Uncertainty bubbled up again, mingled with the guilt and discomfort that Yrliet had shoved aside when she first ascended on the elevator. She wanted to help the elantach, yes-- that much was true. Tiffney von Valancius, despite being a mon-keigh, had exceeded all the common failings of her kind and treated Yrliet as an… equal. Not a superior, which Yrliet thought she would prefer, but rather-- yes. She did prefer being seen as an equal.

And that was the part which made her skin go cold. Why did Yrliet prefer it? Why did she want this mon-keigh to regard her as equal, even though they were clearly leagues apart, separated like a gulfs of starlight that lay between a sun and its moon?

“And I will be your guide on this journey. I will help you enter the meditative state, to get to know yourself... of course, that is if you let me.” Yrliet tried to her brewing disconcertion, but Tiffney, who was always so blind and yet so perceptive about the most inconvenient things, tilted her head in that curious way she does when she observes something interesting. “Immersing yourself in your soul is a deeply intimate process, but you will not be able to do it without me. And I promise you, elantach, that I will not judge you-- you, your world, or anything that takes place inside it.”

But--

Why was Yrliet so undeniably curious about what was inside Tiffney’s soul?

Was it because of the elantach’s mystery? Yes, that could be it. However, Yrliet knew even less of everyone else’s past than Tiffney. So was it because Yrliet wanted to sift through the grains of truth in Tiffney’s soul to find out what really happened in her history? Why she was once named the Carver of Calixis, why Idira had sought answers from Sha’eil and found the worst that the universe had to offer?

Or does she just want to see if Tiffney deserved to be considered her equal?

Yrliet’s thoughts scrambled within her mind at lightspeed, all while the rest of her words sigh out in slow melody. “We will see only what you want to see.”

Tiffney raised her head, finally looking up to meet Yrliet in the eyes.

“Very well, Yrliet.” Then, a familiar smile returned to her face, easy and curious and just a little entranced. “Show me my inner world.”

In all honesty, Yrliet had not expected her to agree. Even taking into account how foolhardy the elantach was prone to being, she still did not think Tiffney would be open to a ritual that was undoubtedly alien to her. The trepidation, now roaring out of Yrliet’s soul with the force of a shotgun round, was almost enough to make Yrliet get cold feet and go back on her word.

But she was not a liar, and she would not be known as someone who made promises and withdrew them, So, with a slow, confirming nod, Yrliet spoke again. “Then we need to find a suitable place. Somewhere quiet and serene.”

“Quiet and serene… hard ask on a ship like this,” Tiffney chuckled, bits of sunlight breaking through a very, very heavy rain cloud. “But I think my room has the only place that fits the description. Come here, I’ll show you.”

Leading Yrliet around the corner, Tiffney opened the doors to an enormous bathroom: a mirror reaching towards the ceiling, a luxurious velvet sofa with uneaten snacks strewn about, and a water fixture that looked more like a fountain than a bathtub. “In all honesty, I rarely use this,” Tiffney admitted. Somehow, she seemed awed by the sight of her own bathroom, as if she didn’t remember it being so big. “I’m too used to hosing myself off with a burst of cold water to appreciate such glorious facilities. I tried to take a hot bath in here once, but instead of enjoying it, I fell asleep and almost drowned in it.”

“This shall do.” Yrliet placed her feet on the bath’s stone steps. It radiated coldness onto her skin, similarly to the meditation mats she used to have when she still lived amongst her kind.

Tiffney followed her, kicking her boots off as she did. She took a while to sit cross-legged beside Yrliet, her limbs so tired that they no longer cooperated.

“Let go of everything, elantach. Doubts. Fears. Emotions.” Yrliet settled into her usual routine, and soon, even the sound of water could not be heard over the gentle beat of her own heart. “Cast off the weight of your body. Clear your mind.”

“I’ll try,” Tiffney replied, honestly. With a heavy sigh, the elantach’s sadness left her body in tired tones as she pulled herself into Yrliet’s meditative state.

It was acceptable. Yrliet could just barely see it-- the entrance to Tiffney’s soul, glowing like a little spark in a damp cave, alight despite all odds. “Good. Now try to look inside your soul. Look at it, shining timidly, and... dive in.”

In a moment, the world was swallowed in swirling-cold mist. Yrliet felt herself being pulled back, away from her body, with little threads of starlight, before she plunged head-first into the depths of Tiffney’s very being.

The differences between Tiffney’s soul and her own captivated Yrliet. When Yrliet entered her own soul, it felt like walking into a hurricane of fire-- like the flames of her being were what burnt away her burdens, leaving nothing but ashes to be blown away with the dandelion sprouts in the whispering wind.

But Tiffney’s soul was not bathed in fire. It was not even hot. Instead, it was gently cold, in the way that water was after a long day of work. Rather than ashes, the dust and grime of her emotions melted away with the washing of the waves, rippling into the bottom of the lakebed where they joined the mud.

And when Yrliet’s head breached the water surface, she opened her eyes and the contents of Tiffney’s soul.

“…We did it, elantach!” Unable to contain her own amazement, Yrliet leapt off the stone steps, now no longer cold in the expanse of Tiffney’s soul. “We are within your inner world!”

Tiffney pulled herself back, opening her eyes. She did not seem even half as excited as Yrliet was, but even so, she let out a smile, as if Yrliet’s emotions were infectious. “Kind of looks like the real world, doesn’t it?”

“For now. As you learn to cultivate your inner world, it will take whatever form of your choosing.” Yrliet stepped tentatively on the floorboards, and found them to be wonderfully solid. Much better than Yrliet’s own first attempt, when she took one wrong turn and accidentally tumbled all the way back to bitter reality.

Tiffney took the lead, her curiosity growing as she examined what her soul had in store. As she stepped out of the bathroom, she rounded the corner and-- stopped short, a little surprise. “Is that… me? Holding the voidship’s steering wheel?”

“In appearance, yes.” Yrliet took a closer look, green eyes examining the wisps of wistfulness around the image’s outline. “But do not be tempted to see things only for what is on the surface. Look closer, elantach. You are better than your short-sighted kin… you will be able to see more than that.”

The edges of Tiffney’s reproduction were soft and melancholic. And yet, the spectre of her hand was gripped tightly onto the wooden wheel, with such tension that the very veins of her arm were visible. Coldness, isolation, duty, consequences-- loneliness.

“Standing at the helm, peering into the darkness of the cosmos…” Yrliet let out a soft and understanding sigh. “You feel as lonely among the stars as I do among my own kin.”

“I… suppose I do,” Tiffney whispered. Her hand stretched forward, just a little hesitantly, and if Yrliet were leading a younger Asuryani to the windows of their soul, she would have taken their hand and guided them to confronting their sorrows. But instead, her fingers twitched by her sides; it was rather daunting for Yrliet to touch even another Aeldari. Much less a mon-keigh.

So she watched. And Tiffney, as ever, fumbled her way to success and found her spark in the darkness.

With a gentle, and then confident hand, Tiffney dispelled her loneliness, leaving the image to melt away into the unfeeling stars. “Huh,” she gasped, quiet and surprised. “That does make me feel better. Thank you.”

“You have only scratched the surface of your woes.” Even with a cursory glance, Yrliet could sense much more hiding in the mists, bubbling corrosively under the surface. “Continue, elantach. You are doing exceptionally well.”

Even though they were within the confines of Tiffney’s soul, Yrliet could still spot the hint of red spreading across the elantach’s face. “If you’re being this encouraging… I’d better do my damndest.”

Tiffney stepped deeper into the clouds, and they took familiar, expected shapes: the others in Tiffney’s ground-side crew. They all spoke to her with imagined, though still understandable admonishments, digging into the depths of Tiffney’s buried insecurities.

“Unit Tiffney von Valancius' crimes against the sacred laws of the Omnissiah have been logged. Retribution is imminent.”

“Am I here to kill you? To betray you? To serve you? Am I friend or foe? What do you think, Tiffney?”

“Putting on airs, Lord Captain. You are as distant from the common folk as rusty old Footfall is from Terra.”

“Of course I'm with you only because of your throne and your power, shereen! You didn't hope my feelings were genuine, did you?”

That last one, with Jae-- it lingered longer than the rest, with Tiffney scoffing in amusem*nt. “That’s probably true.”

Yrliet knew better than to comment on the accuracy of Tiffney’s doubts. Instead, she said: “The fear of being used... we all have it. But the more we have to give, the stronger it grows.”

“The more we have to give…” Tiffney brought her hands to the ghostly visage of her desk, staring at the mirror of herself slumped over its lacquered oak corners. Darkness, heavy, whispering, yearning-- this apparition spoke of exhaustion. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Tiffney’s fingers pressed against her double’s scalp, and as she lifted its head up to look back into mirrored purple eyes, the misty image dissipated into nothing but cold dew.

The bedroom was next-- Tiffney’s eyes drew straight towards her satin sheets, stained in hallucinatory crimson. The sight of Tiffney’s mangled corpse, although completely imaginary, still left a strangely sour taste on Yrliet’s tongue. “That’s nasty,” Tiffney whispered, before reaching over to cover the wide-open purple eyes of her dead reflection.

“All sentient beings are afraid of death.” Yrliet spoke over Tiffney’s quietude, lending her solidarity. The fake corpse dissolved into rose petals, melting back into the bedsheets. “You have to accept the fear first before you can get rid of it.”

In the last hallway, they found the darkest plume of fear: Marazhai lounging there, on the remnants of Tiffney’s own throne, looking almost bored as he surveyed the lingering wraiths of her agony. “You just got lucky, mon-keigh.” Though just a false reproduction of the real thing, he still managed to meet Tiffney’s gaze, willing her to stare back at him resolutely. “But luck is the only thing you have. You are weak... so prepare to suffer!”

Yrliet reached out, helping Tiffney to dispel this ugly stain for her. “Only the mad and the foolish never doubt their strength,” she reassured, letting the Dark One’s suffocating arrogance disappear into night clouds. “The wise are full of doubt, but they know how to let go of them.”

“Heheh, you think so?” Somehow, the surroundings of Tiffney’s soul grow ever-colder around them, as if Yrliet’s words had somehow wounded her further. “How to let go…”

Then, Yrliet felt something stirring behind them.

They both turned around, and there, Yrliet saw it:

In the middle of the atrium, a single door stood. It seemed much more solid than the other apparitions of Tiffney’s soul, and Yrliet could almost see the glossy plasteel texture reflected on the doorknob. It was slightly ajar, not enough for them to see what was on the other side, but also enough for ghostly hands to creep through, placing their gnarled fingers on the doorframe.

The rather tangible nature of this last image indicated more than just a strong fear. There was something genuinely substantial about it-- while there was no literal door within Tiffney’s soul, all these apparitions were created by Tiffney’s mind to represent something real. Or at least, something real to Tiffney. And this one…

…The mists seemed to roll onto their feet, beckoning them closer. Mysterious, tempting, ghastly, concealing-- the unknown, and the fear of it. Yrliet had overheard from Heinrix that the elantach’s had been ‘mind-cleansed’; that she has had her memories stolen from her, for some reason or another.

Yrliet did not believe it-- did not believe most things out of Heinrix’s mouth, really-- but there was something truly hidden behind that door. Something lurking, old, forgotten, but never fully gone.

“...Elantach.” When she glanced towards Tiffney, she could see the nervousness scrawled all over her body-- she was completely unsure of how to approach this last obstacle, this last burden on her timidly-burning soul. So Yrliet’s voice took a more gentle tone, less advisory and more encouraging. “Whether for shame, or guilt, or even simple diffidence… all who have ever lived have something to hide. Accepting every part of yourself, from the joyful memories to the parts that you would rather keep hidden, is not a failure, but the first step to growing from our past.”

“Our… ‘past’.” The mention of her history bounced around Tiffney’s tongue and even the corners of her soul with heavy uncertainty. Yrliet supposed that Heinrix could be right.

Maybe Tiffney doesn’t even know her past. Maybe that part of her… the Carver of Calixis, the one the Warp whispers to have stood at foot of She Who Thirsts, the woman of monstrous reputation who massacred all the crew who she now holds so beloved… maybe that is what creeped out from behind the door, ghostly and withered and begging to be freed.

But-- why? Yrliet found her own soul turning circles in both sympathy and apprehension. Were the elantach’s memories suppressed because of someone else’s selfishness? Jealousy, perhaps? Or for another reason entirely?

Because of kindness? Or even because of fear?

And how would Tiffney possibly be able to accept what she does not even remember?

“Alright.” Then, Tiffney marched forward, making the decision that only she herself could have made. Yrliet looked up, preparing for the moment Tiffney wrenched open the door, sent all the ghosts and skeletons spilling out like a fountain of blood--

--only to watch as Tiffney raised her barefoot leg and kicked the door shut.

It really did sound like a solid door being slammed. The fingers that have been holding onto the doorframe splay open, as if actually caught in the hinges. And with that, the final image faded, carrying away Tiffney’s doubts with it.

“Phew!” Tiffney pulled her neck back and laughed. Yrliet supposed that she should have seen this coming-- Tiffney was hardly the type to dwell on such matters for long. Even if her memories had truly been stolen, perhaps the elantach hadn’t even figured out yet. “Hah, I really do feel a lot better. Thank you, Yrliet! But, hmm…”

Her hand reached out for something Yrliet herself could not see. “There’s something else in here. One more thing I’ve got to do in my soul before I’m all settled.”

Yrliet nodded. “Lead the way, elantach.”

Tiffney walked around for a moment, just slightly aimless. She could sense an unresolved piece, and so too could Yrliet, but it was just a little harder to unravel.

Still, unravel it she did-- and Yrliet would have felt slightly proud of how quickly Tiffney was coming to understand the basics of meditation, if not for the shock in seeing an echo of herself reflected onto Tiffney’s soul.

“What is this, mon-keigh?” The facsimile of her own voice was much harsher than Yrliet thought herself to be. It made Yrliet go deathly still-- was this how the elantach saw her? Her shock gave way to confusion, and then the vaguest curiosity as Yrliet glanced towards Tiffney to see her reaction.

Tiffney, as it were, did not have any reaction at all. In fact, all she did was stare at Yrliet’s echo, as if hypnotised. Every one of Tiffney’s crew had their own appearances, having imprinted their marks onto Tiffney’s very being, so perhaps Yrliet should not be so surprised.

But she… she didn’t think a simple mon-keigh would have space in their soul to fit in a xenos.

“Yrliet?” Then, Tiffney called out to her, smiling faintly. “Why are you so surprised by these particular echoes of my world?”

Yrliet could sense the humming of Tiffney’s soul. She was not being accusatory; just curious. “...I did not think there would be a place for me inside a human's soul,” Yrliet answered honestly, looking away from Tiffney’s warm gaze and instead staring at the mirror of herself in the elantach’s soul. And it really was a mirror; there were no monstrous elements added to her visage like the dark plumes clouding Marazhai. “And the memory itself... clean. Not distorted. This is something I must reflect upon. And ponder in solitude.”

In contrast, Tiffney’s answer came swiftly and easily. “Is it really surprising? When you strive to know someone, they inevitably become a part of you.”

Yrliet could detect no hint of dishonesty, both from Tiffney’s voice and the mists of her soul. She was telling the truth, then-- but Yrliet still wasn’t satisfied. Was it really that easy for Yrliet to eke out a place in Tiffney’s soul?

Was it unfair, then? That Yrliet herself could not imagine eking out a place for Tiffney in her own? Even if she was a human with a spectacularly bright and wondrous soul, she was just that-- still human.

Still a mon-keigh.

“Your words trouble me with their sincerity, elantach.” Yrliet simply regarded Tiffney with sincerity in return. “Your mind is... much cleaner and loftier than I imagined. To become a part of someone…”

Yrliet trailed off, unsure of what else to think or what even to say. That was when Tiffney slipped into the body of her own echo.

To be honest, Yrliet had hardly expected Tiffney to be able to control her own apparition so quickly. Immediately, her thoughts went quiet and she concentrated fully on Tiffney’s apparition, wondering what-- when Tiffney would do something with it.

Tiffney twitched her fingers, as if testing. She tilted her head. The messy blonde hair of her mirrored self fell over her shoulders. The echoes of Tiffney and Yrliet both stared at each other in awkward silence.

Then, Tiffney put a smile back on her face, and the light of her soul warmed slightly. The silence became gentle, almost comfortable.

But: Yrliet was no fool.

She was within Tiffney’s soul, after all. And perhaps Tiffney did not know it herself, but Yrliet could sense the shades of her thoughts and desires. Not as clearly as reading them as words on the page, but as colours flitting across the imagined corners, interpretive yet telling.

And the way Tiffney’s hand had moved… the elantach wanted to touch Yrliet. Very, very much. Even so, her hands stayed by her sides.

I did say that I would not judge you, Yrliet thought, sadly and very much hypocritically. She knew full well that if the elantach had acted on her wants, even within the confines of Tiffney’s own soul, Yrliet-- no, she couldn’t even bear to think of it. The mere thought made her shudder.

It was also strangely heartwarming, to realise that Tiffney would still respect Yrliet’s wishes within her own imagination.

Finally, the two echoes began to fade as the final extant knot in Tiffney’s soul untied itself. “It is time to return, elantach. Your soul is not yet strong enough to endure prolonged immersion.” With a wave of her hand, Yrliet guided Tiffney’s soul back to its original state, nestled deep within Tiffney’s mind. “Take a deep breath and…”

Yrliet pulled Tiffney out from infinity, before placing the both of them back in realspace.

Tiffney moved first: her head jolted up as if she’d just breached the surface. “Hah! Wow! That… was that real?” She looked down, then turned towards Yrliet. “You’re still here… that was real, huh?”

“Tiffney, you are awake.” Yrliet paused, tasting the sound of Tiffney’s name on her tongue. It was the first time she’d said it, and without thinking. It wasn’t bad. It felt slightly sweet. “It was very real indeed. Tiffney, your soul shines too radiantly for a human, despite all the litter that had accumulated in your soul.”

Tiffney was looking at Yrliet like she’s sprouted another set of eyes. Yrliet tried to remember that Tiffney could not see the same thing she did. She stopped for a moment, trying to explain in terms that Tiffney would understand. “You can get rid of the litter, but the light... try to preserve it, Tiffney.” Yrliet watched as the purple sheen in Tiffney’s eyes dilated ever-so-slightly. “It draws the eye like bright stars in the night sky.”

With a start, the elantach opened her mouth, closed her mouth, opened her mouth again, and still stayed completely silent. The only reaction Yrliet saw was the redness intensifying in Tiffney’s cheeks.

“Of course, your world is not as beautiful and serene as mine…” When Yrliet said that, Tiffney broke out into another smile, amused and a little less stressed. “...But I was glad to see it.”

“Then…” Tiffney’s smile turned a little expectant. “Will you help me with meditation again?”

“I do not know. Perhaps.” Yrliet thought again on the strangeness of the door, and how she had learnt so much-- yet so little-- from delving into Tiffney’s soul. She could not deny it to herself anymore: she was still extremely curious. “Someday?”

“It’s fine. This one was already far more than I could’ve asked for,” she laughed. “Just… hm. Yrliet, will I be able to see your world?”

Yrliet immediately shook her head, imitating the refusing human gesture. “I do not think so, elantach. It is impossible to know everything in this world, no matter how much we would like to.”

In truth, the way Tiffney’s soul swept around her-- the way she realised how much the elantach wanted to touch her-- it was too much, to let Tiffney peer into her soul.

Though, Yrliet did not want to end their conversation on just a rejection: she had learnt much, after all, and she appreciated how readily Tiffney took to meditation. “And still, my heart sings, for I helped you find peace… even if only for a short while.”

With that, Yrliet drew herself back onto her feet. She had much to think about, and she could not think very well when Tiffney was gazing up at her: soft, quiet, longing for something she cannot have and Yrliet cannot give her.

“Until we meet again, elantach.” And yet, Tiffney’s longing did not burn Yrliet like she had thought it would. It did not feel the same as that previous showcase of human lust-- being stared down by a wild beast, undressed with their eyes, torn apart by drooling teeth. Instead, Tiffney’s strange yearning seemed as bright as her small, sparkling soul, estranged from brutal desire. It was… different.

And Yrliet found herself to be pondering it in her head, with the same curiosity one gives a beautiful flower, or a singing bird. “May the stars guide us along the safe roads,” she says at the end, walking out of Tiffney’s bathroom. As she turns her head away, she can just barely detect the sound of Tiffney’s giggles, and it will take a long time yet for Yrliet to realise, but Tiffney had already been smitten with her at that very moment.

Chapter 25: 6.262.056.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.262.056.M42

“Elantach.” When the doors slide open, steam billowing as old gears creak, Yrliet already has her head bowed in shame. “I searched every spire and staked every tunnel. But I could not find Marazhai anywhere within his old domain. From what little I could gather, he left the grotesque Pleasure World behind long before I began my search. But, with your word, I will hunt him to the very ends of the galaxy--”

“Yrliet, now’s…” Tiffney turns around, very briefly, from the balcony. It leaves Yrliet with just enough time to catch the wetness of her cheeks and the reddened skin around lavender eyes. “Now’s not the time.”

Curtains of beautiful yet hair-thin fabric blow wide open behind her. They drape over Tiffney with the gentleness of spider-silk over waiting prey. “Tiffney?” Yrliet’s concern leaps out of her, sounding so panicked that it may as well be a barely-strangled scream. “What happened? What has stricken you with such grief?”

And then, realising that only one thing could make Tiffney so upset: “Is it about Abelard?”

Tiffney finally faces Yrliet, and though the smile on her elantach’s face is clearly pained, it isn’t entirely faked. “You’re so perceptive.”

Immediately, the worst of all possibilities presents itself to Yrliet, and her face grows dark. “Is…”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that, Yrliet.” Somehow, Tiffney’s response to Yrliet’s severity is a little spark of joviality. Or perhaps that’s just how Tiffney responds to Yrliet herself. “He’s not dead. Not yet, anyway.”

Yrliet’s shoulders lighten somewhat. “But there is something ailing him still,” she points out, stepping through the spider-silk curtains to join Tiffney on the balcony. The cogitator she uses to speak with Nomos is plugged in today, though Yrliet does not see any words on the screen. “Or there would not be tears dotted on your cheeks like crystalline speckles on a riverstone.”

Tiffney leans against the balcony railing. Her captain’s coat hangs heavy on her shoulders, with all its exquisite furs and exotic jewels only serving to exacerbate the burden on her body. “He’s alive, yes, but not doing well.” Her words are purposefully cryptic. “And I didn’t realise. We’d just met a few days prior…”

In truth, Yrliet has not seen Abelard for a great many years. She had spent decades by her elantach’s side, but after his retirement, the former Seneschal rarely appeared to them outside of formal functions, many of which Yrliet purposefully avoided. As the years have gone by, Tiffney has also held less and less parties. Many of their former companions had been pulled away by the string of fate into the humdrum of their own lives, and it must be melancholic, to think through a guest list before remembering that half of your invitees are people you will never see again.

But she had heard of what occurred within Abelard’s family. After all, it formed the reason for her latest departure.

“Abelard’s never really been the same,” Tiffney sighs, and though every preserving chemical in the Imperium has been injected into her glossy skin, no amount of technology can hide the weight of memories, entrenched deeply into the waning curve of Tiffney’s smile. “Since he learnt the truth of what happened to poor Astartia.”

Even now, the name of Astartia Werserian may only leave Tiffney’s mouth when wrapped in shame so thick that it dripped off her tongue like bloody viscera. “You are still guilt-ridden,” Yrliet states, frankly and yet very, very lightly.

When Tiffney looks away, Yrliet raises a hand and places it on her elantach’s shoulders. “You are not to blame for sins committed by another’s hand, elantach.”

“Don’t say that sh*t to me, Yrliet.” Tiffney’s bitterness binds her like snake-vines, or maybe spider-silk in a predator’s web. It only softens when she speaks Yrliet’s name. “You know damn well I should’ve killed him earlier. You even urged me to do just that in Commorragh.”

The mention of the Dark City dredges up memories Yrliet would rather keep buried, and even a brief recollection of their time trapped there made her shudder. “I did,” Yrliet admits, “but you were wise to use a Drukhari to navigate the twisting labyrinthe they had carved from their own sordid machinations.”

“Then I should’ve killed him the moment we got out.”

“If that is your argument, then I should have killed Marazhai upon our reunion on Jae's former planet.” Though the hand on Tiffney’s shoulder remains gentle and comforting, Yrliet’s other hand balls itself into a fist so tight that she can feel her veins thrumming under the force of her own anger. She still remembers the day she saw him-- and how quietly she left, thinking on his questions. She should have killed him. Her elantach would not be so devastated now if she had been strong enough to do what she should have finished off decades ago.

“No, no.” Tiffney shakes her head. “You were surrounded by his people, right? He would’ve killed you. And besides, you couldn’t have known. At that time, we still… I still thought…”

Tiffney trails off, before lowering her head into her arms, gripping onto the balcony ledge. “I’m such a f*cking idiot.”

“Elantach.”

“I really thought Marazhai was capable of being good!” If the balcony frame were not so solid, it would be trembling under the force of Tiffney’s rage. “I knew he’d always have soul thirst, but I couldn’t possibly blame a wolf for killing a goat. And even a wolf can be tamed to sate its bloodlust on enemies and not their owners. Because of that, I thought I could-- I don’t know! I thought I could train him!”

Tiffney’s hands drag through her messy scalp. “But he wasn’t a wolf, was he? And he was definitely not a pet, no matter how much he play-acted the role of one, always begging to be collared and so on. Even with all the signs pointing against it, I put him on a flimsy leash and let him run wild. I really, really believed that he was going to follow my rules forever. Like he hadn’t already made it clear to me a million times that he only ever willed himself to show subservience because he still thought himself in control!”

Yrliet’s hands rise from Tiffney’s shoulders to the fresh tears on her face. Her long fingers rub them away, only to be met with more and more. “Tiffney…”

“What kind of Rogue Trader am I?” Tiffney continues to sob, as if deaf to Yrliet’s presence. “I’ve let my former Seneschal’s family fall victim to a former companion! One I kept alive to satisfy my own selfish vanity! And the Expanse--”

Yrliet slowly pulls Tiffney’s head back. “I’ve turned the Koronus Expanse into an Inquisitorial nightmare! It feels like I can’t do a single thing without incurring the scrutiny of some shadowy agent that’s collecting evidence against me! The only thing holding the Imperium of Man back from launching a full-blown invasion is Heinrix’s word! If that happens, what’s going to happen to my protectorate? My people? God-Emperor forbid, what-- what would they do to Nomos? I don’t know if--- Nomos are strong, but against an entire fleet? I can’t let the Imperium take them! Would they even understand?! Would Nomos--”

Finally, Yrliet wraps her arms around Tiffney and pulls her into a hug.

“Hold for a moment.” Yrliet has grown used to the coldness of Tiffney’s skin. She only shivers because Tiffney’s grief rocks her own soul, like a lost ship swaying on rogue seas. “There will always be pain inscribed in one’s future. Right now, however, you are in the present. In the present, your protectorate and your people are safe from harm. You are safe from harm.”

For a time, Tiffney doesn’t respond. Then, she raises her arms, slowly embracing Yrliet as tightly as her tired body allows. She presses her head to the middle of Yrliet’s chest, where her heart lays, beating slowly against her fused ribs.

At least, it was slow by Yrliet’s estimations-- it always sounds like your heart is racing, Tiffney told her once, while her fingers danced on the edge of Yrliet’s clavicle, always so entranced by the width of her shoulders. Like a little bird fluttering across the blue, blue sky.

“Sorry.” Tiffney coughs out an apology while she sniffles against Yrliet’s coat. “It feels like I’m staining your jacket with my tears and snot every other day now.”

“It is hardly the worst thing you have gotten onto my clothes,” Yrliet hums. She tilts her head when Tiffney’s sobs are interrupted by a few giggles. “Did I say something humorous?”

“Nothing,” Tiffney lies through her teeth, still giggling away. “Nothing. It’s just… you’re very cute, Yrliet.”

Yrliet blinks, and then involuntarily looks away. “Cute?”

“Have I not called you cute before?” Tiffney shifts her head to look up at slight blush on Yrliet’s face. “Huh. I guess I’ve just been thinking it silently all this time.”

Yrliet’s eyes travel the horizon. What was once concrete courtyards have been ripped open and turned into lush green meadows; likely for Yrliet’s sake, she realises. She’d never liked Dargonus much-- too built up, too cramped in. Now that it is slowly turning into the capital of the entire Expanse, Yrliet finds herself disliking it more and more, save for the parts where Tiffney can be found. Those are some of her favourite places in the cosmos.

“Any more long-unvoiced thoughts you would like to share with me, elantach?”

“Hm…” Tiffney makes a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. “Maybe. Maybe… but not tonight.”

Yrliet looks back down at Tiffney. Her fingers trace the back of her elantach’s scalp, through her thick hair. “You do not need to hide anything from me, elantach. I will not judge you for anything you say.”

“No, no. It’s not about that.” Tiffney shakes her head, still hugging Yrliet tightly. “Some things are better said when I’m happy, not when I’m snivelling pathetically.”

“You are not pathetic.”

“I am a little pathetic.”

“Elantach…”

“And I am,” Tiffney hums, “very, very happy to see you, no matter what the circ*mstances. When the darkness between the stars seems vast and unending, the mere thought of you sparkles brightly in the… abyss...”

Tiffney’s warm adulation is punctuated by a loud, shaky yawn.

“You are also very tired,” Yrliet points out, feeling Tiffney’s weight sag into her arms. “How long have you been awake? Unless you have received augmentations I am not aware of, I remember that humans require at least six of your Terran hours a week…”

“A week?” Tiffney laughs openly. “We need six hours a day.”

“That makes your odd tendency to stay up for multiple days on end even more concerning.” Yrliet’s single raised eyebrow is loaded with unsaid meaning, and Tiffney looks away sheepishly. “Go to bed, elantach.”

Tiffney clings onto Yrliet, smiling cheekily. “I don’t want to.”

“Are you playing coy?”

“Maybe.”

“Then…” Yrliet bends her knees, before sliding one of her arms under Tiffney’s legs. With one swift motion, she picks her elantach up in a bridal carry, evoking a surprised squeak from Tiffney’s lips. “You will have to be brought to bed.”

“Ah-- oh, um, yes, alright!” Tiffney’s hands fly to her own face, cupping her rapidly-reddening cheeks. “That’s… that’s fine. I would not mind if you, um, got used to… carrying. Me.”

“Do you enjoy this?” The act of carrying anyone was extremely infantilizing between Aeldari-- something only done between very young children and their parents. Yrliet does not know what part of Tiffney’s fancies are human oddities, or just Tiffney herself being endearingly strange.

Tiffney smiles up at Yrliet with a slightly dazzled expression. “Yes. I do.”

Yrliet presses her knee against Tiffney’s bedroom door. “Then I shall carry you whenever you like.”

Before Tiffney can respond, they walk into her bedroom and are greeted with a strange sight: a maidservant servitor milling right next to the door, giving Yrliet a right shock as she enters. “Oh,” Tiffney says, looking up. “I must’ve accidentally locked her in.”

With mindless eyes, the servitor stares at them blankly. “Go on, get out…” Tiffney beckons at it impatiently, and Yrliet will never quite get over how poorly humans treat their own people, or how macabre their punishments can become. “Shoo, shoo!”

The servitor stumbles past them absently. With that, Yrliet closes the door behind them, before walking towards her elantach’s bed. Wordlessly, Yrliet places Tiffney on top of satin sheets, watching them crumple around her elantach’s frame. “Sleep,” Yrliet tells her, almost commandingly.

“I can’t just snap my fingers and fall asleep.” With a chuckle, Tiffney pulls off her fur cape and jewelled shoulder epaulettes, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. Without all her accessories, she looks smaller than Yrliet remembers: not as muscular as before, and just a little lither. Though age does not show in Tiffney’s face, there are barely-noticeable signs of it etched elsewhere on her body, visible now that she is dressed down to her undershirt. “...Are you just going to stand there and watch me change, Yrliet?”

Yrliet jerks her head away, as if yanked. “I do not always recall your human sensitivity towards nudity,” she confesses. Behind her, Tiffney laughs again, before reaching over to her cupboards.

After a moment, Tiffney clears her throat. “Sorry, sorry. You can look, I’m done now.”

Yrliet looks back. Tiffney has slipped into her nightgown, which looks just as expensive and soft as her sheets. “Then I bid you good night,” she says, pressing her hands together in a symbol of restfulness. With that, she bows her head and turns to--

“...Wait.”

Yrliet stops. “Yes, elantach?”

“Will I still see you?” The question is whispered out of Tiffney’s lips with a revealing amount of longing. “In the morning. Will you still be here?”

“...Tiffney?” Yrliet tilts her head, slowly and a little sadly. “I will still be here. I will not leave your side when you are facing such arduous trials…”

Then: “Do you think I would leave without saying a farewell?”

“No!” Tiffney’s voice rises in pitch. “No, no. Just… I’m sorry, I’m tired and I don’t know what I’m talking about. I only… I’ve been staying up so much because it’s hard to sleep. There’s too much going on, and I’m always plagued with nightmare after nightmare. Of course, I should still try to sleep, but…”

Tiffney glances away. Her fingers grip onto her bedsheets. There’s something she wants to say, Yrliet notices. Something she’s struggling to articulate.

“Would you like me to accompany you till you fall asleep, elantach?”

Tiffney looks up. “...Yes,” she agrees, quickly and guiltily. “I would like that very much.”

Yrliet sits on the foot of Tiffney’s bed. “Then you need only say the word, Tiffney. I will stay.” Dargonus’ moon looms overhead, illuminating Yrliet in pale-blue hues, water rippling on the edges of grassy-green eyes. “There is nothing in this galaxy I would not give you, elantach.”

“That’s my line,” Tiffney complains, chiding and eternally grateful.

“Then it is a promise we both have for each other.” Yrliet smiles knowingly. “But for now, all I ask of you is to sleep, elantach. Sleep well. And in the morning, when you awake, I will still be by your side.”

“Okay,” Tiffney sighs, and fifty-six years of growing exhaustion floats away from her in an instant. “Okay. Good night, Yrliet.”

“Good night.”

Yrliet sits, unmoving, as she watches Tiffney fall asleep. Once her elantach is able to close her eyes, she begins snoring rather quickly-- her body had obviously been waiting desperately for slumber, while her mind still raced with all its countless anxieties. A few times, Tiffney tosses around in her bed, as if her half-asleep body is searching for Yrliet’s presence; and when her foot bumps against Yrliet’s back, or swings close enough to feel the weight of Yrliet sitting on the bed, she relaxes immediately, subconsciously content that she is not alone.

When Yrliet is confident that Tiffney is fully asleep, she slowly lifts herself back onto her feet, careful as to not disturb her elantach’s slumber. With one last glance, Yrliet looks at Tiffney sleeping under the bedsheets, framed by the moonlight.

“Good night,” Yrliet says to no one. The three words that she knew Tiffney could not bring herself to say aloud begin to well up in her throat, before singing out of her lips with the ease of a nighttime melody. “I love you.”

Yrliet tears her eyes away from the Rogue Trader, knowing that she will never be able to leave if she doesn’t. Quietly, she pushes the bedroom doors open, silently slipping out--

--and nearly slams her head against the wall when she notices the servitor still there, staring straight at her.

“Away with you,” Yrliet harshly whispers, making sure Tiffney is not disturbed. “Is there something wrong with your mechanisms, machine-human? Why are you standing there with such… purpose?”

Then, with a twitch of its arm, the servitor… does an Asuryani greeting, hands moving with clumsy yet clear intent. “We apologise for our intrusion,” it-- she-- they reply, also keeping their voice low and quiet. Yrliet’s fingers move towards her gun, unsure how to respond to a sentient servitor. “We did not mean to overhear your conversation, but we felt curious.”

“What are you…” Realisation bursts across Yrliet’s face like a grenade. “...Nomos. You are Nomos.”

The servitor, or rather, the servitor being controlled by Nomos nods in confirmation. “We are Nomos.”

A note: Yrliet has never actually spoken to Nomos one-on-one. She learnt of Nomos relatively late compared to the rest of the crew-- understandably, considering her alien status and the secretiveness that would normally surround a mystery as planet-shattering as a burgeoning Yngir child.

But after they had returned from the Dark City, Tiffney had all her crewmates speak to Nomos. It reminded Yrliet of how an Asuryani child would be dragged along to learn about all the Paths open to them. Teach them, Tiffney had said, smiling and warm and brimming with parental protectiveness. Tell Nomos of your life, your convictions, your hopes and regrets. You do not need to share what you wish to keep hidden, but… there are no wrong answers.

And to Yrliet, and her confusion, Tiffney said: I want them to understand the galaxy we are fighting to keep safe. That includes your people, too. …Plus, you don’t want Marazhai to be the only Aeldari that Nomos has met, do you?

“You are Nomos.” Yrliet straightens to her full height, unsure of what to say. She knows well enough that Nomos has nothing but good intentions towards her elantach, but… that still made possessing a servitor and apparently eavesdropping on them the whole time an exceedingly bizarre thing to do. And-- no matter how dear a child Nomos was to Tiffney-- Yrliet could not overlook the fact that they were still a Yngir. Star devourer, world shaper… an ancient, long-unknown enemy.

But, uncertain as she may be… Yrliet loathes to wake Tiffney up when she is already sleeping so soundly.

“Nomos,” she repeats again. “You said you were… curious?”

Nomos nods again. “We have many questions, Yrliet.” The servitor speaks her name in perfect Aeldari intonation; something Tiffney took decades to master. Nomos has been practising. “Questions about life, and death.”

Not entirely surprising. Yrliet supposes that everyone will have questions on such stark concepts at some point. “Your mother is asleep, Nomos. You may ask her in the morning.”

Then, the servitor shakes their head. The human gesture is accompanied by a simple Aeldari gesture of opposition to an idea. “We do not wish to ask these questions of our mother.” Though Yrliet had clearly referred to Tiffney as such, the acknowledgement of her elantach’s role to Nomos was still a little jarring.

“There are no questions Tiffney will not answer for you, star-child.” A pause. “There is a human saying, an old friend once taught me. ‘She would move heaven and earth for you’. An ancient idiom from Terra, originating from the times when the nearest of stars were still seen as heaven, and they could not fathom forces strong enough to rip planetoids from their orbit. But the meaning still stands. And Tiffney would do anything for you.”

“We know.” Yrliet may just be imagining it, but the servitor’s lips move ever-so-slightly, as if trying to smile. “However, Nomos believes our questions will make her sad.”

Understanding begins to dawn over Yrliet’s face. “I see,” she replies. “And so, unable to bring yourself to ask your mother, you come to ask me instead.”

Nomos nods one more time, and there is a hint of gratefulness in their actions. “You are best able to answer the questions that we have, Yrliet.”

“...I will do my best to answer you,” Yrliet decides to say. There are no wrong answers, as Tiffney had reassured her. “But I am curious as to why you have assessed me as the most suitable person to ask. Have you not been surrounded by humans for most of your conscious existence, star-child? Do you seek an outsider’s perspective?”

“Not any outsider’s perspective. We wish to seek yours.”

The certainty in Nomos’ words catches Yrliet by surprise. “Before you arrived, we were speaking to our mother. We sensed a great sorrow from her, emanating from her words and actions. We learnt of Abelard’s illness, and our mother’s terror at the thought of his passing.”

Terror? Yrliet notes that mentally. She had more than expected Tiffney to be devastated, but being terrified is… different. “Her emotions now are far greater than even the time her friends Idira and Jae had disappeared. Yrliet, may you explain the reason for this difference from your own perspective?”

Such an innocent question, Yrliet thinks. “That, I believe, is simple to answer. The old Seneschal is like a father to her,” Yrliet explains, with the gentleness of anyone speaking of such grave things to a young child. “My… the elantach. Tiffney. I do not know if she has shared this with you, but she recalls little of her past life, and never knew her biological father. In absence of her memories, Abelard Werserian took the role of a mentor, whilst still deferring to her judgement as Rogue Trader. From the appointment till this very day, he has remained by her side, shining with the brightness of a guiding star.”

Now that she has verbalised her thoughts, Yrliet realises that her elantach’s terror is not so surprising after all. “When someone has been by your side the way Abelard has for Tiffney…” A familiar verse rolls onto Yrliet’s tongue, thick with the scent of old memories. “...they inevitably become a part of you. It is never easy, losing a part of yourself. Especially when it is torn away with the death of one you love.”

She pauses, examining the blank expression on the servitor’s face. She wonders if Nomos would be capable of truly understanding her words-- after all, tales of Yngir power place them at such a high level of existence that even the oldest and wisest of Autarchs must seem as insignificant as insects to them. Perhaps the plights of mere mortals are simply beyond what a Yngir can come to comprehend. But Nomos has surprised all of them many times before.

“Yrliet, we shall speak plainly with you.” Nomos moves the servitor’s hands into symbol Yrliet has only shown rarely-- transience, wistfulness, the sad beauty of impermanence. “We chose to speak with you because you will long outlive our mother.”

Yrliet allows the surprise to pass through her before gently accepting the wave of sorrow that comes next. “I will,” Yrliet sighs. “And so shall you, star-child.”

“Yes,” Nomos replies, and the reason behind this conversation finally comes to light. “So shall Nomos.”

How long does a Star God live, Yrliet wonders? “For aeons more than even myself,” Yrliet guesses aloud, and Nomos makes another slow, pensive nod. “And aeons more than when the last vestige of us all is turned to dust floating amongst solar winds.”

“We are afraid of our mother dying.” Now, Nomos’ frank admittance no longer surprises Yrliet; it only twists the knife of realisation that has placed its blade in her heart. “We have only come to understand this with your answer, and upon witnessing our mother’s sorrow. We are afraid as she is afraid. She has become a part of us as she has made us a part of herself.”

Yrliet stays quiet, listening patiently to Nomos’ declaration. “We are sorry,” Nomos suddenly says, and Yrliet tilts her head with a slight frown. “We wished to ask if you knew a way to overcome this sorrow. But we see the light in you flickering in pain. We have made you sad, too.”

“There is…” Yrliet catches herself, reining back her own despair to assuage Nomos’ guilt. Assuage the guilt of a Yngir-- oh, if her father could see her now… “There is nothing to be gained by rejecting one’s sorrow.”

“We do not like it.” And now, Nomos really does sound like a child, only beginning to understand that their mother will not be by their side for the rest of time. And it really will be the rest of time, for Nomos; for aeons, and aeons, and aeons more. “We do not like it, Yrliet.”

“In Crudarach, my home, we shared stories of your kind.” Yrliet’s hands move slowly, not knowing if Nomos can understand the depth of their gestural meaning or if they are simply trying to be polite with her. But they have tried to communicate with her as an Aeldari, and so, Yrliet shall try, too. “To us, you were an ancient and eternal foe, long since consigned to legend. The tales of your origins differed… some said the warriors of iron came first, and the Yngir had manifested as their patron gods of destruction. Others claimed that the Yngir had formed from the very beginning of existence, created as the very will of the universe, wild and dangerous and as hungry as the cosmos itself.”

Nomos acknowledges Yrliet with a sign to continue. “There was another story,” she recalls, “of Aeldari creation. That we are the mortal children of our god, Asuryan. He commanded that we were to live without deific intervention, and to find our own way within the stars. But there were two, Isha and Kurnous, who could not bear to follow Asuryan’s edict. Isha sheltered us, and her warmth banished all sorrows, while Kurnous protected us, giving us no need to feel anger nor fear. But Asuryan would not suffer being disobeyed… his brother, Kaela Mensha Khaine, took Isha and Kurnous away from us, imprisoning them for their defiance. Because we had lived joyously under their care, we could not overcome the depths of sadness that consumed us. Our despair sent our gods into tumult, delivering unto us the War in Heaven.”

To that, Nomos tilts the servitor’s head, in direct imitation of Yrliet whenever she is confused. “We do not remember the War of Heaven being as such.”

“What?” And then-- “It is a story,” Yrliet clarifies. In truth, she really doesn’t have the mental capacity to hear about what Nomos has to say about Aeldari creation. Do the C’tan have genetic memory? Do they even have genetics? Beloved Isha, does Yrliet even want to know? “A story that seeks to explain why we are cursed with sadness and blessed with joy in equal measure. In joy we find meaning in our existence; and in sadness we understand the sweetness of joy. And, for all our pride, Nomos, even we Aeldari are foolish creatures at heart. We, too, have sought to rid ourselves of all sorrow, even when we knew of our gods’ folly. When the Aeldari race united in a ravenous desire to shed all sadness in mad pursuit for endless excess… we created a monstrosity that will plague the galaxies until the last dying breath of our disgraced people.”

“Slaanesh.” Even the name alone, said impassively from the servitor’s lips, makes Yrliet shudder.

“But long before our Fall,” Yrliet continues, “in the story of our creation-- when we were ripped away from our gods-- the Aeldari people felt their first true emotion.”

“What was that?”

“Fear,” Yrliet answers. “Our stories say that we were the first being in all the universe that understood fear.”

Nomos tilts the servitor’s head in the other direction. “But that is not true.”

“You are correct. That is not true, because you feel fear as well.” Yrliet brings her palms together conclusively. “You are afraid, star-child. You, the primordial breath of the cosmos, the first heartbeat of time. If even you feel fear, then the rest of us mortals are hopeless against it. And that… is alright.”

“What do you mean, Yrliet?”

“You are afraid of losing your mother because you love her,” Yrliet surmises, and Nomos nods, more firmly than before. “So do I, star-child. I love her while knowing, from the very first day we met, that she would long become ashes before I would ever show a sign of growing old. She is a part of us both, my elantach. The thought of her loss weighs heavy, as it should. But it is inevitable. It is inevitable, and…”

Yrliet returns Nomos’ symbol of beauty in impermanence. “It is just as it should be. Your mother had told you, once, to reject the notion that light cannot exist without shadows. And I do not wish to say Tiffney is wrong… instead, I wish to say that we are only able to appreciate the blinding light of her soul because there are shadows lurking in every corner. I do not know if there was any conscious force that existed before the birth of your kind, and if there was, why they have chosen to create a reality with such darkness within it. But perhaps those creators were only reproducing what they themselves knew. And, for all their cruelties, they have still ensured that even the darkest of nights may be dispelled with the light of dawn.”

Nomos takes a moment to respond. “Is it good, then? This fear, this sorrow.”

“I would not say it is good,” Yrliet breathes, “but it is proof you are capable of good. That your mother was right to place her hopes on your power. And, on the day of reckoning, when you are wracked in sorrow that may seem all-consuming… remember that it, too, shall come to an inevitable end. Even at the height of despair, you will… not be alone. I will grieve with you.”

“But Nomos will outlive you, too.”

“And when the time comes for me to go, you will not be alone, star-child. Soon, your mother will have to bid farewell to her old Seneschal, and in that very moment, countless more farewells will be bid across the stars. You will…” Yrliet stops short, bringing her fingers to her face. At some indiscernible point, she had started crying. “You will grieve, and long after the grief has whittled from a hopeless scream to a lamenting whisper, you will still be accompanied by the memory of us.”

Chapter 26: 6.815.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.815.000.M41

In the thick of a particularly difficult warp jump, Yrliet found herself in the elantach’s quarters. This time, she made sure to take a better look.

Grim keepsakes decorated the entranceway. Somehow, Yrliet had overlooked their distasteful quality on her previous visit, and she found herself grimacing at their grotesque presentation. The grandest display of all, however, was definitely the massive portrait hanging over the altar, depicting an unfamiliar brown-haired mon-keigh. She does recall seeing the woman from her painting within Tiffney’s inner world, and if Yrliet squinted, she could see the barest hint of a passing resemblance to Tiffney… or maybe all humans just looked alike to Yrliet. Still, she must bear some significance, to have her image portrayed in such an conspicuous way. A family member, then? An old friend?

Even so, there was no need to create in such an over-the-top fashion. Yrliet could not help but tut disapprovingly at the sight. “Instead of admiring themselves, mon-keigh should direct their gaze to the world around them more often.”

Predictably, the portrait stared impassively at her, giving no answer. Honestly, Yrliet would not have been surprised if it did respond to her; with how loud the whispers from the warp were, Yrliet found herself more surprised that she hadn’t yet gone slightly mad.

Turning on her heels, Yrliet strode into the inner chambers. She scanned the room briefly, hoping (perhaps?) that the elantach would be there to greet her. Instead, all she found was empty halls and an entire room filled to the brim with even more spoils of war.

Yrliet’s eyes landed on a hideous-looking weapon made of both flesh and steel. She dearly hoped it was not a lingering Chaos artefact, or-- even worse-- a Tyranid trophy. Yrliet had only heard tales of their apocalyptic hunger, and she had no intention of knowing more than that. Besides, the--

--and what in the name of Asuryan was that? Yrliet stepped forward carefully, eyes widening in surprise. Was that the preserved head of… a marine creature? Some sort of predator? How many rows of teeth did it have? Just how did Tiffney get her hands on such a thing? Though, knowing the elantach, she likely got lost on an Ocean World and ended up having a grand adventure--

“Before I leap to any conclusions,” Tiffney said calmly, “explain what you are doing here.”

Yrliet tore away from the wall of artefact and turned to Tiffney. She did not hear her approaching-- a poor display of awareness from her, inexcusable even when considering how the whispers of the warp were deafening her.

“Why are you asking me this, elantach?” There was a smile on Tiffney’s face, as if she had hoped to run into Yrliet, too. “Is this place forbidden?”

“No. If it was, I would’ve driven you out the first time I found you here. But…” Tiffney raised a slightly amused eyebrow. “That still doesn’t answer what you’re here for.”

Yrliet stared back, and the parts of her that were glad to find the elantach are sequestered far, far away from the expression on her face. “On my craftworld, we all held to a simple custom-- you may set your foot wherever your Path requires. Sacred ground was the only exception to this rule.”

“This is the room of the Rogue Trader. For all you know, maybe it is sacred.”

The amount of doubt written on Yrliet’s face was enough to make Tiffney laugh. “Is there anything sacred in this room, elantach?” She cast another sweeping glance around gaudily-decorated corners, and she does not hide the judgement on her face. “I do not think so.”

“Alright, alright.” Tiffney shrugged her shoulders casually. “I am somewhat surprised, but I am not opposed to such visits. You may come here anytime you like.”

Yrliet tilted her head in confusion. “Do I need permission to do so?”

“Most humans consider asking for permission a polite first step that usually comes before breaking into their chambers,” Tiffney stated. “But what do I know? Besides, I understand you’re not beholden to our customs. And… I do not mind you looking around my worldly domain.”

“But is your entire world contained within this tiny metal cage, elantach?” All these souvenirs plundered from countless, tucked into one collection… it seemed like whoever furnished Tiffney’s quarters was trying to create a kaleidoscope of the Koronus Expanse, tucked haphazardly into one place. “Your ship, these chambers-- they are but a speck of dust. An island. A temporary shelter in a world that is far bigger and more expansive than…”

Yrliet stopped herself, suddenly conscious of how much she was talking. Speaking endlessly without letting others chime in was desperately poor manners for an Asuryani, and even if the only person listening was a human, she had no intention of being a poor example for her people.

Besides…

“Well, enough of that.” Yrliet stepped back from her criticisms of the room’s ornamentation and into the real reason why she had been compelled to come here. Because it was not her Path that led her here, and it was certainly not the tasteful decor. Nor was it the incessant muttering of the warp, though it did not help her in the slightest. “Now that you are here, I wish to speak with you… about our agreement.”

Just like that, Tiffney straightened her spine, giving Yrliet her undivided attention. Though Tiffney has been exceedingly courteous to her from start to end, she always felt pleasantly surprised whenever Tiffney showed such willingness to listen to her. “Go ahead,” she reassured Yrliet, lavender eyes tracing Yrliet’s willfully blank expression with politeness and a dash of pity.

Yrliet did not like being pitied, and especially not by a human, even if it was the elantach. But-- as the voidship creaked around them and Yrliet felt a ghostly hand lecherously gracing the back of her neck-- she supposed that there is something pitiful about an Aeldari being forced to reckon with the grasp of Sha’eil, all while the humans around her frolicked about as easily as they would in realspace. “I have travelled through the veil many times inside your steel-winged bird, and every time Her voice torments me, trying to drive me mad…”

She stared right through Tiffney, her fingers reaching for her spirit stone on instinct. The vile touch of She Who Thirsts was briefly repelled, but not forever, and never for long. “Her whispers fill my ears each time I enter the warp. Inescapable and incessant, poisoning and inflaming every single emotion and thought, making them uncontrollable.”

Yrliet continued to speak, if only to drown out the countless taunting words that Sai'lanthresh. The proximity to her eternal enemy, something that terrified her as a child, now seemed like such a routine occurrence that it was almost laughable. “I have… learned to shut myself off,” Yrliet explained. “As best I can. Just so that I might have a chance to… search for what I have lost.”

The sympathy surfacing on Tiffney’s face might just be enough to drive Yrliet mad. “We found everyone we could, elantach, and all of them--” --ghost ships that told of a terrible kidnapping, broken lights illuminating corpses upon corpses, the final burst of starlight consuming her kin as they trusted the embrace of death over Yrliet’s trembling words-- “...were dead.”

“Yrliet…” Tiffney spoke, very softly, barely louder than the rumbling laughter from Sai'lanthresh. Yrliet’s suffering must be delicious, damn it all.

“But the thread of fate is broken and I no longer know how to help my people.” Yrliet hushed out her confession, and her fingers were shaking, now, gripping around her spirit stone so tightly that she may just break it in two. “I failed to save anyone.”

Tiffney stepped forward, and, for once, Yrliet did not take an equal step back. “You did all you could--”

“And I failed to learn the truth about Crudarach’s demise.” That was the worst of it. All that death, all that despair, all the darkness chained into the depths of her soul, pouring out all at once-- and still, despite everything, she had no answers for why her home was gone. “I… have lost my way.”

No answers, and no more leads. She was now as lost as the elantach and any other mon-keigh in the galaxy on what to do next.

And, just like any desperate lost soul, Yrliet threw out her last lifeline: “And I thought you were the only person on this ship who might understand.”

The surprise on Tiffney’s face made Yrliet pause for a moment. With a wave of hesitation, Yrliet lowered her head. “I was not wrong to think so, was I? No matter what, you… tried to keep your promise,” she stammered, and it was the first time in a long time that she had felt so unsure, and yet so intent on moving forward. She had already asked the elantach of so much, and… her people would never forgive her for seeking solace from a mon-keigh… but when one is drowning, they no longer feel picky about who saves them from the storm. “Even if your species loves to stamp out any life form they find undesirable…”

For a long, miserable moment, there was only silence. Silence, and the unending song of She Who Thirsts, begging Yrliet to succumb to her overwhelming despair.

And-- merciful Isha, she was considering it. It would be so easy, to just give up.

“Do not give up.” As if Tiffney could read Yrliet’s thoughts, she grabbed onto Yrliet’s drowning soul, dragging her above the surface of her tumultuous sadness, if only for a moment. “You will find what you are looking for.”

Yrliet let out a tired, almost grateful sigh. “What is this, elantach? Consolation?” She raised her head, looking back up. “What do you--”

--it was the colour that caught her eye, first.

Colour like nebula-purple, then galaxy-blue, fire-red. Like the fabric of the universe torn out of reality and cut into one jagged piece. Like a shining gossamer of starlight, guiding her back home.

No.

No.

Is this a f*cking joke?

There--

There must be a mistake.

A shattered shard from a wraithship? No, no no, the structure, those holes, it had been part of a domestic system.

Another-- another craftword? Not even that, Kaela Mensha Khaine take her-- not even that, horrifying as it may be, it would have been better than--

--there is no mistake.

Hanging just over Tiffney’s head, tacked onto the wall among the other spoils of war, was a vital piece of Crudarach’s very wraithbone walls.

Another realisation: something was wrong with it. Something had-- something had eaten away at the wraithbone, melted it like starlight swirling into a black hole. Something dark, depraved, deceitful enough to outwit and devour the very bones of Crudarach.

Something evil.

Yrliet’s emotions screamed out so piercingly that, for just a heartbeat, Yrliet thought she might really die. But as Sai’lanthresh pleaded for its fill, Yrliet seized every haywire thread of emotion, pulling them back with exacting, necessary precision. Every blinding explosion was tucked into the deepest part of her, an impenetrable box.

And she was slamming the box shut with all the bursts of starlight trapped within.

Everything except the unfathomable chill of quiet fury that flooded her voice as she demanded: “What is this, mon-keigh?”

Tiffney looked surprised again, without the previous pleasantness. She turned her head, as if searching for what Yrliet’s eyes were fixated on.

“Is it…” Tiffney tilted her head in an imitation of Yrliet that felt utterly mocking. “...a piece of something Aeldari?”

--Something--

Something-- Aeldari?

“So you do not even care enough to know what objects adorn your dwelling?” The box’s lid rocked open, and Yrliet’s sorrow rushed out and struck Tiffney like an Arrow of Kurnous before she was able to seal it back inside. “Truly?”

“I’m sorry!” Tiffney gasped, and the genuine confusion in her voice blasted Yrliet like a bucket of cold water. “I’m sorry, Yrliet. I really don’t know what it is.”

Yrliet took a deep, silent breath.

Tiffney was telling the truth. Or was she just that good at lying?

…No. No, she should not be shocked.

It all made sense now.

After all, Tiffney…

She had spent enough time with the elantach to know:

Tiffney was not evil.

But the Carver of Calixis just might have been.

“Enough.” There was nothing more to say. Yrliet turned away from Tiffney, just quickly enough to hide how the irises in her eyes began trembling. She was on the verge of tears, but whether from sorrow or rage, she did not know. She supposed that most people would feel both, when they have been betrayed. “I have lingered here too long. From now on, I… will avoid entering places you would prefer to keep hidden from me.”

As Yrliet left, she almost hoped Tiffney would try to stop her. At least, that would give Yrliet a reason to kill her.

But Tiffney did not even afford her that single piece of mercy. Instead, Tiffney let her go, consigning Yrliet to sink under the sea of despair and drown all alone.

Chapter 27: 6.954.059.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.954.059.M42

“Lord Captain.”

“Yes?” Tiffney’s slightly-frantic reply cut over the sound of whirring cogs, constantly humming with the tireless efforts of life support devices. And there were many of them; so many machines, crammed into a single, sanitised room, scrubbed down to only pure white floors and walls. All to keep one person alive. “What do you need, Abelard?”

Yrliet stays by the doorway, gaze fixed on the window by Abelard’s bedside. The perfectly-manicured garden that bloomed just outside was much easier on the eyes than the complicated medical machinery, every one of which made Yrliet feel incredibly nauseous just to look at. “I need you to read this,” Abelard sighs, and though what remains of his body has mostly been turned to cold iron, there is still a confident depth in his voice that can only come from a living soul. The young man accompanying them, apparently one of Abelard’s many great-great-great-great-grandsons, walks forward with a box in his hands.

“Of course I’ll read it.” Immediately opening the box, Tiffney pulls out its contents and glances over the documents. “Wait… this is…”

“A shortlisted compendium of the most suitable bachelors in the Expanse.” No amount of old age could hide the frankness in Abelard’s words. “I have already cut down the number of candidates in half since your feedback on our previous review. I trust that you will take this comprehensive shortlist into account, Tiffney.”

“Excuse me?” Tiffney turns her head and stares at Abelard with familial adoration mixed into loud exasperation. “You’re on your deathbed, and you’re still going on about how I haven’t popped out a baby yet?”

“Lord Captain, it is exactly because I am lying on my deathbed that this matter has ascended to one of utmost importance.”

“Come off it, old man! I’ve half the mind to just unplug you right here and now!”

Abelard’s great-great-great-great-grandson, perhaps never having met the Rogue Trader before this, jumps back in shock. “This is normal,” Yrliet whispers, and he stares at her in slight disbelief. “To an unfamiliar eye, the two of them will always look like they are at each other’s throats.”

The room is then filled with the frenetic shuffling of papers. “Oh, f*ck, what happened to this poor man’s face?”

“That, Lord Captain, is a portrait of the esteemed Castequio Otto Merimos, a rising star within the Navis Imperialis and distant relative of our own House Drivestem royal family. As for his features… he was born that way.”

“Abelard! You know I can look past appearance, but not entirely! And… who’s this? Adeptus Arbites?! I’m not going to marry someone just so the Imperium can get direct access to my coffers! Or, God-Emperor forbid, get nagged to pay my taxes!”

“If there ever came a day where the von Valancius dynasty would need to be ‘nagged’ for such a matter, I would personally return from the dead to strangle the Head Prefectus for allowing such a grievous oversight. The payment of the Imperial tithe is a proud act of loyalty that not only encompasses the very reason behind the creation of a Rogue Trader dynasty, but also serves the very important task of getting Inquisition eyes off your protectorate.”

“Abelard, you know better than anyone that no amount of bribery is going to make the Imperium overlook my literal C’tan child.”

“I don’t think…” The young man gulps, and when Yrliet’s eyes catch onto his, he seems to shrink under her gaze. Even though Yrliet is not glaring at all-- perhaps the towering presence of an imposing xenos twice your height is enough to frighten most humans. “Um, I don’t think Lord Werserian should be straining himself like this…”

“Straining himself?” Yrliet tilts her head. Though Yrliet will never pretend to know the first damn thing about human medicae, she knows well enough to expect what a man on their deathbed should be like: lethargic, listless, mottled skin and half-closed eyes. And Abelard had fit that description, right up until the point he realised Tiffney had come to visit him.

As she stands by his bedside-- hands on her hips, bickering with him with comeback after comeback prepared for every argument-- no, Tiffney was not straining Abelard.

Instead, her very presence breathes life back into old bones. It brings Abelard back to a temporary snapshot of a time long past.

After all, who wouldn’t be happy to see their daughter?

“On the contrary,” Yrliet notes, “it appears to me that their pointless argument has returned several decades of youth to Abelard.”

The man pauses, thinks about it, and then slowly nods. “Now that you say it… he does seem a little more… spirited.”

“Mistress Yrliet?”

And then, Abelard calls out her name, just as Yrliet looks up to catch the mortar-grey of his one good eye. “Is my eyesight finally failing me, or is that you, Mistress Yrliet? With all honesty, I always find myself disbelieving Tiffney when she says you are still around. Despite all that you owe her, I would have hardly blamed you if you had given up on Tiffney and ran off by now.”

“Huh?” Tiffney huffs with indignance. “What’s that supposed to mean, old man?”

Still, Tiffney steps aside, beckoning Yrliet to come closer. Even so, Yrliet… takes a moment to step forward.

In all honesty, Yrliet is not entirely keen to come closer. When she returned to Dargonus and heard that Abelard’s life was finally coming to its final stop, she had accompanied her elantach here because she loathed to let Tiffney visit Abelard on his deathbed all on her own. But… even having Tiffney by her side did not make Yrliet feel any less disturbed by this entire experience.

To watch someone wither from old age like this is a foreign, and wholly uncanny concept to an Aeldari. The very sight of Abelard’s sunken face is enough to make her feel vastly uncomfortable, not to mention the noisy devices that were strapped to him in varying and grotesque ways: cables punctured in every limb, needles pierced into pale, wiry flesh.

Would Tiffney look like this, is what Yrliet will always and inevitably end up thinking. In four hundred years? Or even three hundred?

Barely clinging onto a beggarly existence, sustained only by the whims of their so-called machine spirits? Flesh looking like thin sheets of cloth draped over a corroding skeleton? Forced to breathe when every breath is pure agony?

When she finally comes close enough, Abelard lets out a gasp. “By the Throne, you look the same as the day we first found you on Janus! Not even the hint of a wrinkle or a strand of white hair. I have always known you Aeldari were a long-lived species of xenos, but I’d never thought…”

“I know, right?” Tiffney laughs, and when golden sunlight streams through the window, it highlights the soft planes of her face. She looks a little older, but not by much-- as though the passage of decades had melted into short years on her skin. Still, Tiffney’s ageing was far more material than anything an Aeldari had to contend with, up until the very end.

Then, with an almost imperceptible breath of sadness, Tiffney mutters: “Quite unfair, isn’t it?”

To that, Yrliet has nothing to say.

“Mistress Yrliet,” Abelard repeats. When Yrliet suppresses her discomfort to give him her full attention, he nods in turn, and the slight movement is already torture on his desiccated muscles. “I have something to ask of you.”

Yrliet’s confusion likely showed on her face, but she agrees all the same. “Speak.”

Abelard turns his gaze to Tiffney. “Do tell the Lord Captain to take a desperately-needed break from lingering mournfully at my bedside.”

The request seems to take Tiffney aback more than Yrliet. “What? I just got here!”

“You just got here. Today,” Abelard emphasises, putting much effort to let everyone know that his mental faculties have not deteriorated with his physical ones. “Only the God-Emperor and I know all the sleepless nights you’ve spent here before this! I am forever grateful for your utmost care, Tiffney, but a Rogue Trader is not a candle to be burnt down to a flickering wick. Though I have no right to advise you in the role of a former Seneschal, as the still-ruling Lord of House Werserian, I humbly ask that you take a good half-hour’s walk around the gardens to give yourself a rest.”

When Yrliet hears that, she gives Tiffney a genuinely anxious look. “Elantach…”

“I’m fine!” Tiffney waves off everyone’s unease with a blisteringly-bright smile, stretched to painful lengths across her tired face. “I’m fine, Abelard. I just want to spend time with you.”

“Do you see what I mean, Mistress Yrliet?” Abelard casts a tired glance across the two of them. “I have no power over Tiffney, but seeing how fond she is of you, perhaps she will do your bidding instead.”

Tiffney’s smile drops into a slight pout. “That’s…”

“Tiffney.” Yrliet sighs her elantach’s name with enough authority to make Tiffney straighten her back. “Do as Abelard says.”

Now, her lavender eyes grow large and pleading. “But, Yrliet…”

Yrliet continues to look at her-- not coldly, but firmly. It is her wordless way of letting Tiffney know she won’t back down. “You are tired, Tiffney. And you will only grow more tired the longer you resist your own needs.”

Then, while thinking through the reasons behind Tiffney’s reluctance: “He will not die while you are away, elantach.”

“I--!” Tiffney’s voice catches harshly in her throat. Her true fears burst open like a book being thrown to the ground on its spine, pages flying from the force. “That’s… you don’t…”

“Come now, Lord Captain.” Abelard continues to urge her with equal parts annoyance and fatherly concern. “I am sure I have at least a good few weeks in me left. Take a walk.”

Tiffney looks to Abelard, then to Yrliet, before her shoulders finally fall with a heavy groan. “Alright, alright! I’ll… I’ll take a walk. Just… page the healers if you feel even the slightest bit unwell.”

“Lord Captain. I am almost five hundred years old. I always feel unwell.”

Tiffney stops short, hesitating at the doorway. “That does not make me feel better!”

Abelard glares at her steely. “Leave this blasted room and take care of yourself, Lord Captain, or I am unplugging myself from this machine and chasing you out myself.”

“I’m going, I’m going!” With a stagger, Tiffney finally left the room, though she clearly lingered at the doorway for a moment more before disappearing from sight.

Then, Abelard snaps his wrinkled fingers, summoning his great-great-great-great-grandson’s attention. “Stellan, follow the Rogue Trader and make sure she is going on her walk.”

The young man looks rather uneasily at Yrliet. “Lord Werserian, would you like for me to call a chirurgeon to accompany you--”

“Are you hard of hearing, boy?” Abelard commands him much more harshly than Tiffney, and he cowers slightly under the old man’s staunch glare. “Follow the Rogue Trader!”

“Yes! As you wish!”

Dashing out, he leaves the door slightly ajar as footsteps slowly disappear down the hallway. “He has potential,” Abelard grumbles, and now that Yrliet is alone with him, she can hear the guttural rasp of his voice more clearly. It crunches under every syllable, like grains of sand sifting underfoot, or falling through the gaps in your fingers with no way of saving them all. “Young Stellan. Astartia’s only child.”

The familiar name of Marazhai’s victim stung its way through Yrliet’s memory. “She absolutely spoiled him rotten,” Abelard huffs, before his irritation gave way to resigned chuckles. “He’d throw a tantrum if the servants didn’t layer the syrup on his slice of pie the right way. You should have heard the way he talked back at me when I first took him in! Hah, but he’s much older now. Much older…”

He trails off, before raising his mottled left arm to point at the open door. The tubes stabbed into his flesh follow the arch of his hand. “Close that for me, won’t you?”

Yrliet nods, silently moving towards the door. “And stay inside,” Abelard clarifies, and Yrliet narrows her eyes in surprise, but she complies all the same. “I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

Ah. Yrliet clicks the door shut with a hiss of sealing steam. “Is that why you sent the elantach away?”

“Yes, but I assure you when I say that she needs that walk, no matter what the reason for it.” Abelard slowly rotates his head to the other side, his eyes wandering to the window and the blooming garden beyond. “Tiffney von Valancius… I’m afraid I will be worried about her till the very end of my life.”

Yrliet follows Abelard’s gaze. It appears that he’s waiting for Tiffney to come into view. “It is not unusual for you to worry for her, is it not?” Yrliet’s question is said less out of inquisitiveness, and more out of a slightly desperate need to fill the air with something that isn’t just the constant chime of moaning machinery. “You see her as a daughter.”

“Pah!” To Yrliet’s surprise, Abelard makes a noise of protest. “Why does everyone say that? I am her former Seneschal, nothing more. I would not dare to call myself anything beyond the responsibilities bestowed upon me by my previous duties.”

“You say this, Abelard…” Yrliet traces the flecks of sunlight on trimmed trees, slowly turning golden-burnt-orange as the sun begins to dip under the horizon. “...But everyone is able to see how much you mean to Tiffney. The love she holds for you stretches far beyond the bounds of duty.”

“You are right,” Abelard sighs. As he speaks, Tiffney finally appears in the garden, walking with a skip in her step between rows of flowers. “Yes, Mistress Yrliet. Despite all my claims to the contrary, I know very well how the Lord Captain sees me. And I do believe the same thing applies to you.”

Yrliet has to purposefully pull her eyes off Tiffney as she processes Abelard’s words. “To me?”

“Don’t you play daft with me, Mistress Yrliet.” There’s a strictness to Abelard’s tone, a sign that he won’t be entertaining any nonsense from her. “No ordinary xenos would stay by a human’s side with such staunch loyalty for so many years.”

With that, Yrliet begins to understand the reason Abelard sought to talk with her privately. “You wish to interrogate me on my loyalty to my elantach?”

“I am not ‘interrogating’ you,” he sighs, a little gentler now. “Though I should be. There is no better time to be channelling the Lord Inquisitor van Calox than when your… ah, ‘daughter’s’ maiden heart is at stake.”

Yrliet does not respond immediately. Yrliet is watching her elantach through the window as she pushes a particularly large daisy into her face, takes a big sniff, and begins coughing pollen all over her dress. “If you seek to compare me to my dark cousin, then let it be known that I will never raise a hand against Tiffney’s protectorate. And I will certainly never commit any sort of atrocity, much less one as depraved as Marazhai has.”

“That is… good to hear. But no.” Abelard clears his throat loudly, and the needles rattle with the tremble of his body. “Perhaps it is my years finally catching up on me, but I do genuinely believe you have learnt your lesson from the first time you betrayed the Rogue Trader.”

Even decades after, the mere hint of their time in Commorragh is enough to make Yrliet shudder. “It is still a mystery as to why she spared your life at all, but I can see that you have made a real attempt to redeem yourself.”

“‘Attempt’?”

“Mistress Yrliet, there is no forgiveness for an act that puts the Rogue Trader in any danger.” As they speak, Tiffney beats the pollen out of her clothes, while young Stellan slowly inches into view. She appears to be beckoning him over. “Or even an act that slightly inconveniences her. Tiffney has absolute authority over every soul within her domain, and with her word, any person and even their whole bloodline can be executed in the most excruciating way possible…”

While Abelard recounts Tiffney’s authority, Stellan grabs the hem of Tiffney’s dress and tries to flick the pollen off. It ends up blowing a gust of yellow dust right back onto Tiffney’s face, and she sneezes right on him. “What are they doing,” Abelard grumbles, before forcing himself back on the topic at hand. “Ahem. As I was saying--”

“I know there is no forgiveness for my past actions,” Yrliet interrupts, turning her head away from Abelard to fix her eyes solely on the window. Tiffney, unbothered by the mishap, simply laughs as she pulls Stellan’s nose. He appears utterly terrified of her, but she does not notice. “As I have admitted many times before. Had… had I been in my elantach’s place, I would not have forgiven myself either. Yet, like a ray of light defiantly shining through storms of sleet and ice, she granted me her forgiveness with immense ease.”

“With immense ease and in spite of everyone’s loud protestations, no less.”

Yrliet takes a deep breath. “Idira was in favour of sparing me.”

“Idira…” Her name seems to unseal something from within Abelard, and he lets out a sigh too bone-tired to contain the misery of just one human lifetime. “I always hoped I’d live to find out where she’d gone.”

To Sha’eil, Yrliet cannot help but think. To the ends of existence, to be consumed by the warp that always yawned wide within her. She had held out for far longer than most of her kind, driven with a great determination that barely overcame the dark shadows roiling within her soul. But it would never last. The sun must one day set, but the storm would never pass.

“She had tried to kill Tiffney once.”

Yrliet’s memories of Idira are snapped in two like thread splitting in the middle. “What?”

“It happened just a few weeks before we met you on Janus.” As if lightening the burden on his soul before the end, Abelard speaks freely of old secrets to Yrliet. “Tiffney’s predecessor, Theodora… Idira had adored her. We had all adored her, the ones who remembered. All save-- well, that is besides the point. It was not easy for Idira to cope with Theodora’s sudden loss, and the ensuing change to Tiffney’s leadership. Couple that with the baseline dangers that would come with any unsanctioned psyker, and… Idira was like a bubbling pot, held back only by a loose lid of porcelain-will. It was only a matter of time till the top came off.”

In the gardens, Tiffney brushes her fingers against another blooming flower, accidentally plucking away some of its petals with her touch. “And when a psyker boils over, Yrliet-- well, I hardly need to explain to you, do I? You are far more aware of the danger than most humans. It would have been easy for Tiffney to sentence Idira to death. Justified, even.”

Yrliet brings her head down. Abelard is wearing a wistful expression, less melancholic and more… appreciative of it all. “But my elantach would forgive even a sin as damning as my own,” Yrliet surmises. “So of course she would forgive Idira all the same.”

“In the end, I am grateful for the Lord Captain’s mercy. And that is why I am continuing to trust her judgement when it comes to you.” Abelard rounds the topic back to Yrliet, and he turns away from the window to meet the shade of aurora borealis in her eyes. “But, Throne preserve me, I still do not understand why she is so taken by you of all people!”

Yrliet can’t help but feel a little affronted. “Why would she not be taken by me?” Her old, haughty airs return to her, though she seizes them back quickly enough. “Tiffney’s soul shines too brightly for one of her kind. Other humans struggle to understand her kindness, while I see her for all she is.”

“You’d do well to bring down your pride by a few notches, Mistress Yrliet!” There’s a new kind of sternness in Abelard’s voice. Something akin to a warning. “As if you could know all about Tiffney, with your years-long absences and untimely returns--”

All of the sudden, a coughing fit wracks through his body, sending the various machines whirring in a shrill cacophony. Yrliet stills from shock, before she quickly holds Abelard down by his shoulders, if only to stop the tubes and needles from twisting out of his body. “Do I need to call someone for help?”

“No!” Abelard then bats away Yrliet’s arm with a surprising amount of force. “No. Mistress Yrliet, what I must say to you is far more important than salvaging whatever remains of my ailing body. Listen close-- if not for me, then for Tiffney’s sake. You shall at least do that, will you not?”

Yrliet pulls her hands back, and as the machine spirits calmed their furor, she slowly nods. “I will.”

“There are-- some things I do not need to tell you, Mistress Yrliet. That you are a xenos, far removed from our kind, and that both our people doubt any number of us could ever grow to truly understand one another… but that is the path Tiffney has staunchly chosen to place herself upon, spurning all other advances on her person. Even when it had been nearly a decade since you had last shown yourself, she still believed you would always return to her side… and when you did, she resumed her adoration for you as if you had never left at all.”

Tiffney’s fingers knit through her braided hair, leaving petals stuck in her fringe. Then, she looks up, and when she finally notices that the window looks into Abelard’s room, she searches for Yrliet’s gaze. When her blooming lavender catches a glimpse of aurora borealis, a smile spreads across Tiffney’s face, and she raises her arm to wave.

“And so you do not know what occurs during the time in-between.” The gravity in Abelard’s words rooted Yrliet to the spot. She waves back at Tiffney, a little too meekly, but whether Tiffney notices, Yrliet does not know; she can only hear the rasp of Abelard’s voice, louder than even the damnable beep of the machines. “Mistress Yrliet, I am too old to look out for Tiffney forever, and so, I must leave this task to you. Because she… you say that Tiffney’s soul shines too brightly for other humans, and to an extent, I agree. But that is not to say there is no darkness at all. It reaches out, from time to time, eclipsing all the light in shadows.”

“What do you mean?” Yrliet can no longer hide the panic in her tone. She can only hope she can suppress it by the time Tiffney returns. “What do you mean by the darkness in her soul, Abelard?”

“As you know, before Tiffney became the Rogue Trader of the von Valancius dynasty, she had another life-- but that was all erased.” Abelard moves his head back around, and it takes all his effort to wave back at Tiffney, too, but he does; he does it all the same, because there is nothing that either of them wouldn’t do for her. “She made the choice, long ago, to keep her old memories sealed so she may move forward into her new life unburdened. But Mistress Yrliet, you must be informed that mind-cleansing is not a perfect art. No matter how thoroughly the memories are scrubbed from one’s mind, they still leave behind stray pieces of residue, inked forever into one’s consciousness. And, in due time, the residue will float to the surface, creeping through her waking world like inexplicable flashes from a long-forgotten dream.”

Yrliet clenches her fist. All of this is news to her-- and why? Why is it news to her? Why wasn’t she told about any of this by anyone else earlier? “That means… hidden memories may break through the cracks in the walls that others have erected to hide her old self away. Correct?”

“You catch on quickly. Thankfully.” They both watch as Tiffney leaves the gardens, even though it’s been less than half of the time he’d told her to take a rest for. “Mistress Yrliet… despite all my reservations, Tiffney’s greatest moments of clarity come around the times when you are with her. So I implore you… stay by her side. Or else, I fear her old self will truly break free one day, and on that day, the von Valancius dynasty-- no, Tiffney herself may as well be doomed. There will be none left of the brightness you speak of if she is consumed wholly by madness.”

Chapter 28: 6.932.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.932.000.M41

Her father had taught her how to kill a snake:

Snakes do not carry the same meaning for Aeldari as they do for mon-keigh. A serpent was not just a reptile with venomous fangs or vice-grip scales; they were the bearers of all the galaxy’s secrets, a symbol for one’s constant journey to search for the truth. A myth, Yrliet thought, quietly, secretly; a fairytale they tell to young children when they see the Rillietann dance to the grand legend of Cegorach riding upon Dromlach’s own back. One way or another, the Cosmic Serpent shall elucidate all the mysteries that still hide in the shadows, and tucked deep within whispered confidence would be the key to Aeldari salvation.

But in truth, he said, normal snakes aren’t that hard to kill. They may look scary, but all you need to do is cut off their head.

The single burst of gunfire ricocheted through abandoned castle halls. Abandoned, save for Yrliet and the burnt mon-keigh she had followed right into the heart of the labyrinth.

Achilleas gasped first-- tried to run, feet twisting into a sprint even though Yrliet had put a bullet right in his hip. Perhaps he was made of more metal than bone, and the shot did not shatter his steel skeleton as it would have a woven calcium one; but even if he ran, what use was it for?

He had purposefully snuck away to a place where he could not be interrupted. So no one was around to save him, either.

Yrliet, inexplicably, found herself taking her time. She walked up to Achilleas with a casual yet purposeful gait, armoured boots clicking against dusty, crumbling marble floors.

From the terrified look in his eyes, she may as well have been Death itself, melting out of the shadows like a viper ready to strike.

“Away with you!” He pulled out a pistol, pointing it at her with a quivering hand. The other held his respirator to his face, though whether he could even breathe at all through his panic was unclear. He fired blindly while staggering desperately, and Yrliet barely needed to inch to each side to dodge every shot. “The Inquisition will hear of this, xenos. Should you kill me, they will not suffer you to live, but if you let me go… if you let me go, we can work out a deal.”

“I do not make deals with traitors,” Yrliet replied coolly. “Especially not those who have already sold their souls to ones as vile and deceiving as the Drukhari.”

Achilleas’ scarred mouth fell open, most likely to rebut Yrliet’s accusation with some silver-tongued lies-- but instead, the device in his hands crackled, delivering a familiar voice that was damning evidence in itself. “Oh?” Marazhai’s amusem*nt shone through the transmitter, and Achilleas slammed it in panic, trying to switch it off. “Are you in trouble, my little informant?”

Then, as if he were grasping at the foot of an unfeeling god, Achilleas brought the vox-caster to his trembling lips. “Yes! I’m in need of assistance, Marazhai-- Dracon of the Reaving Tempest, Eviscerator of Illiridos, Blaze of the Barkhag Kingdom--”

“Is that so?” He cut Achilleas off as he listed Marazhai’s garish titles in a last-ditch effort to curry his ego. “Then I wish you the very best of luck!”

“What?” Achilleas’ horror felt almost sweet to the taste, and Yrliet found herself pondering, grimly, the reason why she could taste it at all. “Wait. No, no-- ack, hagh! …I can still… offer you information. I am worth the effort of saving!”

“Quiet, mon-keigh.” There was true poison dripping from her words, now; previously, her hatred for the mon-keigh had purely been intellectual, inherited from ten millennia of historical strife.

But now, after Janus… after watching mon-keigh ships chase the last remnants of Crudarach’s survivors into fiery oblivions…

…After finding a heart-bone of her destroyed home in the elantach’s own chambers…

Light streamed through the windows, falling upon Yrliet’s face and illuminating the green of her eyes like boiling acid. It was sunrise; the first sunrise after Tiffney von Valancius’ coronation, a grand affair overflowing with the kind of feverish joy only possible when hiding an unbearable sense of terror. An era ended, a new one beginning. The downtrodden may rise and the powerful may be forced to bend their knee, or have it bent for them till the bones in their legs crack under the strain.

“Tiffney von Valancius will not be pleased with your actions!” Infuriatingly, Achilleas refused to listen to even one simple command, and even dared to invoke the elantach’s name. “The Rogue Trader will not forgive a guest acting out of turn in her own protectorate! I deserve-- a trial. She should hear my story. Bring me to her, instead, and I will grant you--”

“Save your breath. They will be the last few you shall ever take.”

Yrliet lifted her foot and kicked Achilleas squarely in the middle of his chest.

There was a slight crunch, like the sound of ribs snapping, so perhaps he was not all-metallic on the inside. The respirator clattered to the ground as Achilleas crumbled to the ground. His unseemly form made him look somewhat like a beheaded beast, muscles twitching with instinctive nerve-pulses clawing hopelessly towards survival instead of conscious thought.

However, he was still conscious. Conscious enough to look her in the eyes when she grabbed his arm to forcefully flip him around, knocking him flat on his back. She tried to avoid ingesting his fear, but when she breathed in, it still snuck its way into her mouth, dissolving like sugar on the tongue.

“Wait!” The burnt mon-keigh’s pleas sunk into Yrliet like stinging fangs, searching for a mercy within her that no longer existed. “I was forced--”

Yrliet slammed her rifle into the seam of his lips and pulled the trigger.

His body fell back, spilling blood all over her boots. Achilleas’ head laid on the ground, separated into nine misshapen pieces. The vox-caster still gripped in his hand was outfitted with modifications that looked undeniably Drukhari.

Without further hesitation, she stepped right through the blood and gunk to wrench the vox-caster out of the dead man’s hands. “Marazhai,” she seethed in Aeldari tongue, “I knew I recognized the sound of your wretched caterwauls emanating from Achilleas’ traitorous conversations.”

“Are you already so well-acquainted with me after two scant meetings? You must be obsessed.” Marazhai seemed quite pleased by Yrliet’s rage, which only made her madder. “I do tend to have that effect on people.”

“Enough!” The vox-transmitter creaked slightly under the force of her grip. “What other spies have you planted within the elantach’s domain? Tell me now, Dark One!”

“Oh, of course, dear cousin. Let me just lay all my plans out to you because you asked so very nicely…”

“I am not playing along with your games. If you refuse to speak, then I shall simply hunt them all down myself.” Then, Yrliet tossed the vox-caster to the ground, and it crackled from the force of her throw. “Ending with yourself.”

“Truly? What a shame.” Marazhai’s laughter rumbled as Yrliet raised her rifle to the vox-caster. “I haven’t even had a chance to tell you of your lost kin--”

Yrliet’s blood turned to jagged ice in her veins. “What?”

“What is it you said? Mmmm, that you did not make deals with traitors?” He paused, briefly enough for Yrliet to feel her heart skipping in her chest, and long enough for her to feel her lungs burn with anxiety. She snatched the vox-caster into her hands to make sure it did not fall apart before Marazhai could continue. “Perhaps my time will be wasted on someone like you.”

“What do you know, Marazhai?” Her own despair surged out of her throat, and her words sounded like a barely-constrained scream. “What do you know of Crudarach?”

Marazhai chuckled on the other end, and if Yrliet was not still clinging onto her own pride, hot tears would have run down her face from sheer anger alone. “Are you truly so blind to the machination of your own kind, Yrliet? There are clues towards your lost craftworld’s existence scattered all across our delightful conversations.”

“Just tell me,” Yrliet begged, and, oh, yes, she was begging now, like she was now the one pleading for Isha’s mercy. Or to be cleansed with fire in Kaela Mensha Khaine’s hands, reduced to nothing but ashes just so she would never feel so helpless ever again.

“Go to the mon-keigh that holds your yoke,” Marazhai said, almost bluntly enough to conceal his salivating excitement. “Ask her to go to the system they call the Atlassian Reach. You will find a drifting mon-keigh vessel there, devoid of life and seemingly innocuous. There, you shall find all the answers you seek.”

“Why there?!” Yrliet yelled into the transmitter all the same, her disbelief being drowned out by her all-consuming yearning for hope. “There, of all places? Have my kin been found there? Have they fled to the--”

Suddenly, the vox-caster began to rattle oddly. It sounded like a rodent scampering within its machinery.

It was going to blow up, Yrliet realised, and she barely managed to toss it away before its Drukhari components exploded into flames, singing the skin of her arm as it fell.

But Yrliet did not care. She barely even felt the heat licking against her, because her entire body felt like it was carved out of ice. Not even the tepid warmth of her own soul did anything to help; instead, it howled inside her like a mourning-dove, weeping hopelessly for people her words could no longer reach.

Then, after a few seconds or perhaps a thousand years, Yrliet pulled away from Achilleas’ corpse and began to walk. There was no time to be paralyzed by her own turmoil.

She still had to save anyone she could. It was a trap, of course-- as if a Drukhari would ever give up such information for free-- but it was true that her dark cousins would have a good chance of knowing where Crudarach’s survivors hid. It was likely, Asuryan curse them all, that the Drukhari have even taken them as captors… after all, the Asuryani make the best little fountains of pain for their wicked amusem*nt.

But if she could find them-- if she could rescue just a single soul from the clutches of cold death-- then all of this would have been worth it. Boarding a mon-keigh vessel, letting Sai'lanthresh whisper into her ear with every warp jump, placing her truth into the elantach only to realise she may as well have been the one who destroyed Crudarach without even remembering it…

Yes. Yrliet’s emotions settled like sand at the bottom of a tranquil lake, ready to be stirred at a moment’s notice but still staying in place for the moment. Yes, it would all be worth it.

She just needed Tiffney to bring her there.

Chapter 29: 6.999.059.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.999.059.M42

Abelard’s funeral is arranged on Foulstone.

“He would’ve preferred Janus,” Tiffney laments tiredly. The grand cathedral hall is adorned with thousands of candles, shining ornaments, and an endless array of red-stamped wax seals that preached of loyalty to an enthroned corpse. The high-vaulted ceiling is painted from entrance to end in painted art that Yrliet must admit looks too beautiful to be ostentatious. “But he insisted we hold it here to further cement Foulstone’s importance. ‘Foulstone may be a Shrine World, but to truly excel, it must become the beating heart of the Ecclesiarchy in the godless Expanse’... something like that. Even after he retired, everything he ever did was for the sake of the dynasty.”

Yrliet’s eyes linger on Tiffney, her shoulders slumped over a gold-plated coffin. It is the third time Yrliet has ever seen her in a dress; black lace were tried into intricate ribbons trailing down her back, and a bonnet hid her blonde hair under dark fabric. Yrliet had not been allowed to braid it for her. “Is that why you brought those flowers, elantach?” Her voice echoes with uncomfortable loudness throughout the large hall.

Tiffney’s fingers brush over a wreath of flowers. “He told me that he gave these flowers to his wife,” Tiffney explains, smiling slightly to herself. “Janusian lilies. They went extinct when Theodora ordered their native habitats to be razed for farmland.”

“A short-sighted choice.” Yrliet takes a good look at the flowers: white-purple petals, long and curled. Their colour symbolises prosperity, in the Aeldari language of flowers. Unfitting for a funeral, is what any other of her kind would say, scoffing at the tender gesture with mocking glee. “If they had gone extinct, how did you find this wreath?”

Tiffney leans her head back with a wistful look. “Would you be surprised if I told you that your people on Janus helped me reverse-engineer it from old photographs?”

“Slightly,” Yrliet confesses, a little ashamed. “Not because I did not feel they were capable of doing so. After all, the Lilaethan was cultivated by the hands of our ancestors.”

“You’re more surprised they would be willing to go through all the effort for us.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t be.” Yrliet’s gaze lowers to the wreath, noticing the complicated braiding of each stem. An Aeldari had helped to prepare this, too. “Despite all the odds, elantach, you have proven thoroughly that our kinds are more than capable of peaceful coexistence… with enough effort from both sides.”

“Or even govern a planet side-by-side with humans,” Tiffney hums. “Or… well, some of them like the idea of being ruled over by Aeldari.”

Yrliet finds herself feeling rather smug about that, but mostly confused. “Truly? Humans who are more than happy to be ruled over by those they consider their enemies?”

“You know, I have to deal with xenophile cults on Janus all the time!” Tiffney lets out a short laugh, amusem*nt breaking through a thick veneer of suffocating sadness. “Though, they are honestly more embarrassing than outright heretical.”

Yrliet deciphers her elantach’s words, then grimaces. “And, as always, it appears that some humans are unable to interpret any working relationship without a lens of salacious intent.”

“They’re not so bad. I just remind them to calm down and talk to them about consent.” Tiffney’s head tilts down. “Much to Abelard’s chagrin, who kept warning me they would become a much bigger problem if I wasn’t heavy-handed in dealing with them immediately. But, hey… that’s for future Tiffney to be worried about, right, Abelard? And I’m sure she’ll be able to handle it.”

“Lord Captain?” There is a voice coming from behind the grand doors. Even though the servant is trying to speak quietly, her words still reverberate around the cathedral. “The first of your personal guests have arrived.”

With some hesitation, Tiffney pulls away from the coffin, casting one last glance at the glass pane showing the man laid within. “I’m coming,” she calls out, before wiping the despair from her face and stretching a placid mask of calmness unconvincingly over it. “I hope it’s Cassia. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her in person, and not through Astropathic Choir-pal exchanges.”

Yrliet follows in-step. “Was that when you brought her to a Crone World to retrieve spirit stones for me?”

“Hah, yeah!” Tiffney shakes her head in nostalgic exasperation. “It would’ve been worth it if it actually worked to help you, but… oh, man. What a disaster. I’ve no idea how your people are able to retrieve them with just a single strike team. Damn near the most dangerous place I’ve ever been in, coming just second to that trash-heap I was dumped out to in Commorragh--”

Tiffney pushes the doors open, and before the gap is big enough for Yrliet to see through, she goes completely still. “Oh my God-Emperor.”

Yrliet’s hands fly to the rifle on her back, before Tiffney gasps aloud: “Jae? Oh my God-Emperor, are my eyes deceiving me? Jae, it’s you!”

There is a flutter of hurried footsteps, followed by familiar, lyrical laughter. “I’m positively elated that you are so happy to see me, shereen!” By the time Yrliet steps through the door, Tiffney already has her hands wrapped around Jae, damn near squeezing the life out of her. “I would’ve thought you’d have forgotten all about old Miss Heydari.”

“How could I possibly forget you?” Tiffney draws her head back, excitedly scanning the rest of the hallway. “Where’s Idira?”

Jae remains smiling, but even after decades removed from each other, Yrliet can still detect the twinge of melancholy in her expression. “Hah, see, Idira?” Jae turns her head, talking to no one in particular. “I told you that the Rogue Trader’s first question would be about you.”

The lack of a direct response is an answer in itself. Tiffney stands back, momentarily confused and then stricken by a brand new wave of grief. “Oh,” she breathes, just as her heart recovers from its latest bruising. “How long ago… did she…?”

“Idira had spent so long fighting daemons in the darkness. Strung about by every stray thread of evil and hate throughout the universe.” Jae speaks wistfully, in the way one talks about a fond old memory. “So, to balance it out, I brought her to see all the wonders this galaxy had to offer! The glow of a Frozen World glittering like a diamond in the orbit of a twelve-ringed gas giant, the bloom of radiation-waves streaking across nebulas after a supernova, and the sight of voidborn dragons roaring through the darkness between the stars with only the shine of their own sapphire-encrusted scales to light their way…”

Jae glances at Yrliet, and now she notices the odd stiffness in half of Jae’s face. Something had necessitated the implementation of new augments, replacing the bones of her skull with rigid steel. “But,” Jae recites, in the same way Aeldari storytellers do when singing fairytales that are only half-true, “there was nothing she loved more than seeing the void whales play.”

Then, as if making sure that the pervasive sadness does not overstay its welcome, Jae claps her hand and sharply declares: “And Idira would never forgive me if every mention I made of her was so depressing, shereen! She would rather I regale you in tales of our derring-do. Like the time we baited a Tyranid fleet into the pull of a collapsing black hole and barely escaped the ensuing destruction by the skin of our teeth.”

It is certainly effective in shocking the despair out of Tiffney. “You guys did what?”

Yrliet has other concerns. “Are you saying that the tyranids have breached even this corner of space?”

“Hmm…” Jae grins brightly under everyone’s scrutiny. “Perhaps that tale is better saved for another day. I can already imagine the old Seneschal’s spirit cursing me in shock and disbelief. After all, this is his day of remembrance; let’s not mar it with dramatic recountings of our very-much-not-Imperium-approved shenanigans.”

“But I would love to hear of them, Jae.”

All three of them turn their heads to the sound of Cassia’s voice. Yrliet sees it first: not Cassia’s face, but instead a royal palanquin, carried on the backs of four well-groomed servitors. Pale, elongated fingers stretched out of one side, even longer than Yrliet’s. “It has been quite a while, old friends. Forgive my secretive appearance… it is not easy for the Novator of House Orsellio to travel across distant cosmos without detection.”

“Cass!” Both Tiffney and Jae shout in unison before rushing towards Cassia’s palanquin. Tiffney takes Cassia’s hand with mild exuberance. “Cass, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you--”

“That’s a large palanquin, Lady Orsellio! Are you ten feet tall now?”

“Jae!”

Yrliet watches as they reunite from a distance. Though there remains a blanket of sombreness that would come with any occasion like this, Yrliet cannot deny the happiness that comes with a reunion. It is strange, how humans are able to handle grief-- they are drenched in it, yes, but not drowning. They allow sadness to pass through them without possession, and though sometimes their emotions overwhelm them, it is not nearly as difficult to break their spiral than for an Aeldari.

It is a good thing, Yrliet decides. That they are able to grieve and laugh at the same time. So different from an Aeldari funeral, which often sends its attendants down the Path of Grief. It is--

“Yrliet?” Suddenly, Cassia calls out to her, and Yrliet snaps to attention with wide green eyes. “Why do you linger so far away?”

For a time, Yrliet doesn’t answer. “I do not wish to interrupt,” she replies, polite and pleasant.

Jae lets out a laugh. “Yrliet, how many years has it been? Surely we count amongst your friends as well!”

“That is--” Not what I meant, Yrliet isn’t able to say before Tiffney reaches out, grabbing her hand. But I--

“Throne preserve me!” As Tiffney brings Yrliet closer, the comparability in size between the palanquin ceiling and Yrliet’s own height becomes apparent. Specifically, that the palanquin is nearly just as tall. “Are you sitting in there, Cass?”

“I certainly am,” Cassia chuckles, sounding a little shy from all the attention. In truth, Yrliet can’t really tell-- there are no longer waves of emotions washing out from her, sharing her state of mind with all around.

Jae snaps her fingers. “I knew it! She is ten feet tall now!”

Tiffney stiffs Jae with another stern look. “Jaaae!”

“Taller,” Cassia hums.

Then, Tiffney blanches. “Huh?!”

Jae is overtaken by another round of laughter, while the servitors place the palanquin on the ground for good measure. Although none of them say the silent part out loud-- that there must be a reason why Cassia still hides within even when among old friends-- they still speak joyously.

Once again, Yrliet takes a small step back, quietly watching from a short distance.

After a few more minutes of chatter, the servant returns, head bowed. “Lord Captain. The Inquisitor and Sister Argenta have both arrived at the docks.”

“Ah, Argenta!” Jae sprints away. “I hope you do not mind me joining you in greeting her, shereen!”

“Of course I don’t mind. But be on your best behaviour,” Tiffney chides. “I heard Heinrix got a brand-new Interrogator lately, so let’s not leave a bad impression on them. I have enough trouble to deal with as it is.”

“Ten minutes into our reunion and you are already nagging me! Truly, you have not changed a bit!”

“--Do you really remember me for nagging at you, Jae?”

“I shall wait here,” Cassia hums. “Do go ahead.”

Tiffney and Jae race towards the docks, while Yrliet moves to follow them. “Wait,” Cassia suddenly says, and Yrliet stops. “Yrliet, a moment.”

She turns her head. “Yes, Cassia?”

“I’ve forgiven you,” Cassia says, so honest that it makes Yrliet feel unbearably guilty. “You… know that, yes? I’ve forgiven you long ago. You do not need to be a stranger to me. To anyone.”

“Cassia…”

I do consider you all friends, Yrliet thinks to herself. That shall never be doubted. You have all done… far more for me than I deserve. Forgiven me for sins that are unforgivable.

But, I…

Yrliet’s gaze falls upon Tiffney’s face as she marches off to the docks, eyes tracing the smile lines by her lips. Wrinkles of old joy that even the most advanced rejuvenat cannot-- and should not remove.

…In an unavoidable, unchangeable way, I am still a stranger here. A guest floating through this human world with my elantach as the only guide. None of you would have forgiven me if she did not demand it. None of you would have reason to speak with me if Tiffney did not love me.

I cannot speak of this. To any of you. Not even after it has been nearly sixty of your years. I have learnt well enough that some thoughts are best kept to myself. And I… do not mind it. I have accepted this truth long ago.

“Thank you,” is all that comes out of Yrliet’s lips, genuine while still holding back an unfathomable amount of things left unsaid. “I will remember your words, Cassia. And I have not forgotten the lengths you have gone to in order to help me on my search for spirit stones, no matter the final result. I do not know how I could repay you.”

“Oh, Yrliet. That was ages ago,” Cassia sighs. But it does not feel like ages ago. Not to Yrliet. It feels like a memory tucked away a scant few chapters ago, separated from current day by a number of months, not decades. It feels like time is flying far beyond the horizon for everyone else while Yrliet stays just the same. “And if there is one way to repay me, Yrliet… it is to keep Tiffney happy. That shall be the only thing I ask for.”

“And it is the one thing I will always be able to promise,” Yrliet replies. Inexplicably, it evokes another chuckle from Cassia. “...I am not saying that in jest.”

“I know, Yrliet. I know.” Standing this close to the palanquin, Yrliet can barely see Cassia’s shadowy outline behind the blurry film draped its openings. She is nodding, with her neck looking a little too long, and the curl of her fingers looking a little too steep. “I am simply enjoying the wondrous tapestry of colours that shine from you whenever you are thinking of Tiffney.”

Yrliet turns away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Yes. I forgot that you are able to… perceive emotions on a visual level.”

“The first time I witnessed these feelings you both share, I was amazed by the silvery-blue hues. So unlike anything I have ever seen. All these years on… and I still find myself in awe.” Cassia almost sounds like an old lady, when she speaks this way; and then Yrliet remembers that she is. By human standards, she is the head of her clan, a leader, and a matriarch. “Once, I would have dismissed such an inspiring sight as mere machinations of xenos trickery. But after decades of working alongside other Aeldari to undo my own predecessor’s grave sin… I finally understand how precious it is, this bond you have. In all my time as Novator, I have never seen anything quite as wondrous.”

Now, Yrliet is feeling extremely self-conscious, but a part of her is grateful all the same. “...Thank you, once again. I am… happy to hear--”

“GUARDS!”

The serenity on Foulstone is devoured in an instant, like starlight swallowed in a black hole.

Yrliet immediately sprints forward, rifle drawn into her hands. But it was not Tiffney who called for the guards-- instead, Sister Argenta rushes forward, looking so much older that Yrliet almost gasps in shock. But her ageing is a non-issue; not compared to the alarm drawn across her face, and the way her hands grip onto her heavy bolter so tightly. “GUARDS, READY YOURSELVES!”

“Red lightning, blood crimson--” Cassia’s calmness is wrenched out of her, and she seethes through gritted teeth. “Argenta! We are under attack, are we not?”

“Lady Orsellio!” Argenta glances at the palanquin, and then Yrliet. Then, she nods quickly, before beckoning Yrliet to follow her. “I am afraid you are correct! We must prepare ourselves for a fight!”

“With who?” A million thoughts race through Yrliet’s head at once. What is the threat? Who is depraved enough to raid a Shrine World on the day of a funeral? Where is Tiffney?

“Come now, Yrliet!” And then, Argenta scowls, telling Yrliet all she needs to know. “I am sure you are able to guess-- it is your lightless kin who seek to destroy us! The Drukhari ships are already in sight, and they are led by the one Tiffney so foolishly wasted her time trying to reform!”

Immediately, Yrliet’s anger explodes thousandfold, eclipsing even Argenta’s own hate by countless magnitudes. “Marazhai,” Yrliet breathes, before her exhale transforms halfway in her throat into a scream. “Marazhai!”

Chapter 30: 6.999.000.M41

Chapter Text

----- 6.999.000.M41

By the time Tiffney finally had time to see her, Yrliet had practised what she would say over ten thousand times.

The doors creaked open. Yrliet stepped forward expectantly, and, infuriatingly, Abelard’s granddaughter stuck her hand out to block her. “Enough of this,” Yrliet fumed, but the mon-keigh stayed utterly indifferent to her predicament. “Move aside, or I will be forced to--”

“Yrliet?” And then, Tiffney pushed the doors open entirely, with enough force to almost swing them right off their hinges. “Sorry, I’m here. You don’t need to threaten the servants. Again.”

Yrliet’s spine shot straight like a rod, and despite all her practice, her words caught in her throat, fluttering with the beat of her heart. “Elantach--”

Then, for a reason Yrliet could not and did not want to identify, when she met Tiffney’s patient gaze, her nervousness melted away. Gone, like snow in the first spring rain, leaving fields free to blossom.

Her next words rang out in solid, rehearsed tones. “Elantach, at last you have left your ornate cage. For many a turn have I sought to meet you, and yet, your servant, the one who is like the silver-haired Abelard but twice as young, has no favour for the requests of a Child of Asuryan.” She gave that particularly irritating mon-keigh a quick glare, just for good measure, but Clementia only stared back. The nerve. “Take me to a place where the hearing of others will not steal the words intended for you.”

“Come, then. You are free to enter.” Tiffney stepped aside, beckoning Yrliet inside. The mon-keigh around them shuffled around, clearly hesitant, but none would dare to defy the Rogue Trader.

Yrliet walked past them and into Tiffney’s quarters. Unlike the one on her voidship, this area seemed far more tailored to opulence than bloodlust, which, if Yrliet had to choose, made it the better option. Closing the door behind them, Yrliet walked up to Tiffney as she sat at her desk, which was covered in an array of likely useless documents. “What would you like to talk about?”

“While you were mending the wound of this world left by the twisted ones' attack, I was able to discover…” Yrliet bit down on her words. Now that she stood in front of Tiffney, she became far more self-conscious about how suspicious her request sounded; how conveniently and suddenly it had arrived. “No, not Crudarach's fate. Merely traces of it. As Muaran found sanctuary under the boughs of the Lilaethan's forests, so did my other kin find refuge in a system known as the Atlassian Reach.”

“The Atlas Reach?” Tiffney began shuffling through her papers, before pulling out a crude map of stars, illustrated inefficiently on a flat surface. “You said your kin are hiding out there?”

“Yes, elantach. We must make a journey there with haste... before new dangers destroy the witnesses who can show me a way to the lost Crudarach, whose fate remains shrouded by the stars!” The more she spoke, the more her desperation bled out of her-- desperation that Tiffney, whose face slowly softened in concern, was far too aware of. “Their knowledge is the sole thread that may lead me to the truth, elantach. I ask that your metal-winged ship take me along that thread before it tears under the strain of time and circ*mstance.”

A simple question dropped out of Tiffney’s lips. “How were you able to contact those Aeldari?”

“No, I…” Yrliet would slap herself, if she wasn’t in full view of the elantach. Of course Tiffney would ask that! She needed to… something simple. Believable. And Tiffney, for all her merits, was oh-so-easy to deceive.

“...I did not contact the Asuryani. I have no means to do so. But I had enough time to explore the stone jungle of your world while you were preoccupied with your urgent matters.”

Yes! Yes, that… that would do. Tiffney was nodding along, with naught a hint of suspicion on her tell-tale face. “The Path of the Outcast has taught me to observe and listen to the world around me-- in this case, the throngs of mon-keigh at the port.” And Yrliet knew very well that no mon-keigh, even one as powerful as Tiffney, could know of everything happening on their planet; the idea of a few hushed rumours floating around seedy places was not a hard sell. “Errant conversations, rumous, chance words-- like parts of a speckled mosaic, they came together to form a hazy image.”

Yrliet dared to look the elantach in the eyes, now, spectres of flickering aurora borealis pressing against Tiffney’s lavender-purple. “My kin were seen in the Atlassian Reach, and now all we have to do is pull at the web of connections and possibilities to uncover whatever is concealed from the unseeing eye.”

Tiffney stared back. For a moment, Yrliet could feel her inner torment strangling her tightly, threatening to show on the calm lines of her face.

Then, the elantach nodded, immediately circling a few points on her map. “Give me the coordinates, and I shall take you wherever you wish to go.”

“You... will?” Yrliet could not hide the surprise that welled out of her throat, spilling out of her hand-in-hand with her relief. “Thank you, elantach. If this path indeed takes me to the truth... I will be indebted to you. A rare happening between our kinds.”

And that was not a lie; even if this likely-sad*stic trap set by the Drukhari that led to another dead end-- no, Yrliet could not consider that possibility now. Not when she was hanging onto hope like fingers dangling on an executioner’s noose. She cannot bear to have her heart break again just after she had willed it to continue beating.

It must lead to something. It had to.

“You always sound so shocked,” Tiffney hummed to herself, and Yrliet pulled herself out of her own despair to look at the elantach in confusion. “I did say when you first joined us, right? ‘Whatever you need, I’ll get it done for you’.”

“...You did say that,” Yrliet remembered. “But in truth, I did not expect you to recall, nor honour your word. To an Aeldari, the length of time between now and our first meeting feel as evanescent as the first rays of morning warming away the night’s dew, but to you, I suspect it may have felt like a very long time. And most of your kind have fleeting memories, along with a tendency to break their promises.”

In fact, how long has it been since the day Tiffney found her on Janus? Broke through the barriers between species with such earnesty that Yrliet had almost been fooled?

And-- perhaps she still was fooled, in a way. At least, Yrliet felt that she could-- trust-- rely on Tiffney von Valancius as she was now. The brightness of her soul was not something anyone could fake.

But the darkness that crept in forgotten memories… corpses hidden in the years erased…

“...But you are special among your kind,” Yrliet relented, and that was all she could bring herself to say.

Tiffney, as it were, took it with a bright grin. “Thank you, Yrliet. That means a lot, coming from you.” With a sigh, she turned her head out of the window, gesturing at a nearby servo-skull to bring her more ink. “But it really has been a long time for me. In fact…”

Outside the elantach’s palace, Dargonus bore the weeping scars of Drukhari cruelty. Even several solar months after they had been attacked, there were missing people still being found in forgotten corners of the capital’s grand estates, burnt to crisp, torn into pieces, left to rot. In some cases, there were not even any loved ones left to collect them.

And yet, despite the gouging wounds, Dargonus carried on as if nothing had changed, glittering as any jewel does underneath layers of filth and mud. “The new year is upon us. And with it, the new millennium,” Tiffney said, and she stood up from her desk with a resolute nod. “I suspect the clock will tick over before I’m able to round up our crew to depart.”

Yrliet paused. She did not know mon-keigh commemorated the start of a new solar cycle, much less that they were about to count a new thousand years in their calendar. To the Children of Asuryan, any reminder of the passage of time whittling down the dying breath of their race evoked little joy from them, but for a mon-keigh, it made sense; with such short lives, every year survived was cause for celebration.

“But I’ll make them wait,” Tiffney huffed, and Yrliet watched as the elantach strode past her. The ruffle of her long coat and skirt followed behind Tiffney, whisking her away like a gossamer of starlight flying across voidship windows for a short, beautiful moment. “After all, your request is far more urgent. They will simply have to pretend the new year has not ticked over until I return!”

I must express my gratitude, for you are not blind to the urgency that surrounds the survival of my people. That is what Yrliet should have said, but instead, she muttered: “There are to... pretend? That sounds rather unreasonable."

Tiffney’s ensuing laugh resonated with the melody of a bell-chime, lingering sonorously in Yrliet’s soul even after the elantach had walked away.

Chapter 31: 6.000.060.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.000.060.M42

“So--” And the first thing Argenta does, just as the first Drukhari ships crest the horizon, is point her gun at Yrliet’s head. “Answer me now, xenos: are you with Marazhai, or against him?”

The rage in Yrliet’s eyes slowly turns to sheer disbelief. “Do I truly need to answer that, mon-k-- Argenta?!” Then, she smacks Argenta’s bolter away with palpable resentment. “Have the last few decades meant nothing to you?!”

“Stop this!” Immediately, Cassia sends out a wave of emotional energy. Not enough to hurt anyone, but certainly enough to make both of them feel suitably admonished. “Now is not the time for in-fighting! Argenta, lower your weapon; Yrliet has given us more than enough proof of her loyalty. And Yrliet, sheath your fury, for Argenta has been left wary by this honorless attack.”

Yrliet still feels a barrage of choice words rush up, but she bites them all down, ignoring how her teeth still shook with anger. “You are right,” she concedes, before shoving past Argenta. “We must find Tiffney before the strike begins!”

“Hmph! Agreed,” Argenta grunts. “But I will lead the way, xenos. And, Lady Orsellio, you must get to safety--”

“Oh, Sister Argenta. Do you forget who you are speaking to?” Cassia’s hand gestures to the servitors, and, in silent unison, they lift up her palanquin. “I shall follow you into battle. Do not worry, for I have only grown more skilled in the art of war than the last time we fought together.”

Argenta, though still furious at the day’s events, managed to break out into a mad grin. “Very well! Then, we shall fight side-by-side, just like old times!”

Just like old times, Yrliet repeats internally, following Argenta as she charges through the throngs of panicked people.

As they rush towards her elantach, Yrliet takes the time to look at Argenta more carefully. She has seemingly embraced the passage of years when every other human had desperately worked to reverse the clock. “You are much older now,” she points out, and Argenta turns back, her eyebrow raising high enough to almost fly off her wrinkled face. “Are you still able to hold your own in a fight against my dark cousins?”

“You are asking if I would ever falter in a fight against the enemies of mankind?” Argenta looks so aghast at Yrliet’s question that it almost crosses over into utter bewilderment. “Just you watch, Yrliet.” At least Argenta hasn’t forgotten her name.

Cassia’s fingers tap sternly against her palanquin. “Behave, the both of you.”

Argenta bows her head. “Yes, Lady Orsellio!”

The grand cathedral of Foulstone makes it a gorgeous place, but also a rather small one-- there is hardly any distance between the edges of its colonised space and the docks situated right in its middle. The three of them make quick work of getting there, with a row of human dropships coming into view.

--Along with the burning remains of some Drukhari ones. As usual, they seem not to care about placing themselves right into harm’s way.

“I arrived with Heinrix,” Argenta explains, looking around frantically. “Tiffney and Jae were around here when I dashed off to ready the guards. But it seems the fighting has already started without us!”

“Elantach!” Yrliet’s first reaction upon seeing the piles of fiery wreckage is to yell for Tiffney. Her voice echoes off the crackling flames with little response. Especially not from the Drukhari corpses already scattered on the cold tarmac. “Tiffney, where are you?!”

Yrliet’s cries are soon answered, but not by the one they were meant for. Immediately, gunshots begin to ring out, slamming against the metal behind them. “Kae-morag, she’s not here,” Yrliet hisses, before bringing up her rifle and adeptly shooting one of the incoming Drukhari in the head. “We must find them, quickly!”

Argenta follows up Yrliet’s precision-strike with a hail of haphazard bolter bullets, spraying into the crowd. It seems that her technique has not changed in the slightest. “You are not the one giving orders here, Yrliet!”

“Then are you disagreeing?”

“Do not start this again!” Cassia’s harsh reprimand makes them fall silent. “I need the two of you to cooperate. Round the Drukhari into a group in front of me. I will finish them off, and you two shall pick off any remaining stragglers.”

Yrliet immediately does as she’s told. With a few well-placed shots, and a hail of bullets from Argenta’s end, they corral the Drukhari in front of Cassia. “There!” Yrliet yells in affirmation when they are done.

“Away now, the both of you. Take care not to cross my gaze!” Her words are accompanied by the flutter of her palanquin window being pushed open. Yrliet backs off, only managing to catch the long strands of pure-white hair, now the length of an average human’s body, falling around the veiny arch of Cassia’s jaw.

The Drukhari react immediately, far more terrified by the sight of Cassia than even the surety of death. And for good reason: in one moment, she incinerates them with a baleful glimpse of Sha’eil, sending their damned souls straight into the waiting mouth of She Who Thirsts. Just a mere second of exposure is enough to reduce them to bones, with not even a drop of blood left as a memory.

Then, Cassia withdraws her head, abruptly and resolutely shutting the palanquin shut again. “The way is clear. We shall advance.”

Absolutely terrifying. Yrliet finds herself once again grateful that Cassia is on their side.

Making their way past the enemies Cassia had vaporised, they quickly encounter another firefight. This time, the Drukhari guns were not turned on them, but instead focused on a barrier of telekinetic energy that Yrliet recognised to be human in origin. “There!” Argenta cries out, raising her bolter. “They must be behind that shield!”

“Yrliet, you shall take the high position behind this cover and pick off the main aggressors. Argenta, advance past the wreckage and flank them from the opposite side! We will encircle and overwhelm them.”

Cassia directs them expertly, and Yrliet falls into step, dispatching Drukhari one after another. Argenta closes in from the side, along with a few guardsmen who have been emboldened by the raging fire that surrounded her. Yrliet will never agree with the religious fanaticism expected from humanity, but when Argenta is at the helm and burning a bloody path to victory with nothing save for her own sheer will, Yrliet does begin to understand why she inspires such pride in her own kind.

Once they clear out the final Drukhari, the shield flickers away, revealing the people hiding behind. “My, Heinrix! I absolutely love your new assistant,” Jae laughs, and Yrliet spots an unfamiliar woman standing beside them, greyish-brown hair tied in a bun with psyker powers crackling in her fist. “When we win this, Tiffney, you and I will need to bring Heinrix’s Interrogator on a shopping trip. I suspect she’ll look like a princess once we get her out of those drab prison clothes you call an Inquisitorial uniform.”

“It’s not THAT bad,” Tiffney laughs, before she turns her head towards Yrliet’s direction. Yrliet is already running towards her, and perhaps Tiffney recognised the patter of her footsteps, because there is a smile on her face before she even locks eyes with Yrliet. “Oh, goodness, Yrliet! Thank the stars you’re alright!”

Tiffney runs right up to Yrliet, and the two of them meet in the middle. Yrliet’s hands fly to take Tiffney’s own, but Tiffney moves her arms just short of an embrace. The both of them stand awkwardly with Yrliet’s hands outstretched and Tiffney’s around Yrliet’s waist. Yrliet tilts her head, and Tiffney tilts hers in turn, looking at Yrliet with an expectantly wide-eyed expression until Yrliet simply chuckles and hugs Tiffney as she wishes, pulling her elantach close with an unconcealable sigh of relief.

Their hug is brief, of course, because they are in the middle of a f*cking battle. Heinrix clears his throat so loudly that it almost sounds like a chainsword being revved. “Let’s postpone that for when we are not in the middle of an active invasion,” he declares swiftly, and Yrliet’s arms pull away from the embrace just so she can stare at Heinrix firmly. Inside her palanquin, Cassia makes a muffled giggle.

Tiffney pulls away too, though she grumbles slightly before nodding. “Yes, yes, Lord Inquisitor! Forgive me for seeking a momentary distraction from the grim reality that my Shrine World is under assault during a most holy day of mourning when the planetary defence force should have been at its highest! I swear, when we are done with this mess, I will strangle the planetary governor with my bare hands, if he’s even still alive after this disaster…”

“If I may.”

The new face speaks with a voice that commands attention, and Yrliet turns towards her. This assistant of Heinrix’s looks jarringly familiar-- then, Yrliet focuses on her whole face and realises it is because she looks a lot like Tiffney. Disconcertingly so. “The xenos attack may appear indiscriminate, but I suspect there is a pattern to their motions. Unlike usual Drukhari raids, they do not seem focused on kidnapping civilians or satisfying their wicked amusem*nt. They are looking for something.”

Tiffney thinks through her words before agreeing. “Well observed, Interrogator…?”

“You can just call me Leikia,” she replies, and the resemblance is genuinely unsettling now. Yrliet fixes Heinrix with a puzzled and slightly perturbed look, which he proceeds to ignore. On that note, the Interrogator Leikia also seemed disturbed by the way Yrliet was studying her, and so, Yrliet ceased to do so-- this can be addressed at a later time.

“Right! Leikia! I definitely didn’t just forget your name… as for what the Drukhari are looking for, well. Probably me,” Tiffney mutters with resignation. “Or Heinrix. Maybe Marazhai has changed his mind about keeping you alive, Lord Inquisitor; he’s clearly proven himself as a paradoxical character.”

“Or someone has paid him enough to risk this attack,” Heinrix guesses. “It would not be the first time, but he has always managed to escape.”

“Not this time!” Argenta reloads her bolter with a resolute grin. “We will teach him once and for all what it means to face His most loyal!”

“That’s wonderful, all of you, but--” Jae fires two shots off to the side, killing a Drukhari that was sneaking up on them. “I humbly suggest that we move out of the open before we begin discussing this!”

“Right!” Tiffney raises her rifle, firing at more incoming enemies. “Let’s get moving!”

As they fight through the ambushers, Yrliet notices that they are not all Drukhari-- unsurprising, considering Marazhai’s reputation for building a crew with even less discernment than usual. Somewhat like Tiffney, Yrliet realises with a certain amount of concern.

“Is that another human fighting hand-in-hand with the xenos?!” Argenta voices her shock with a heavy undercurrent of disgust. “How has this foul creature managed to turn some of the Imperium’s children to his side?!”

“It’s probably not that hard,” Jae whispers conspiratorially. “Free room and board is enough temptation for a lot of people who have fallen through the Imperium’s grand and awe-inspiring cracks.”

“No comment,” Tiffney mumbles, very much aware of the hypocrisy of saying anything.

There is something else that Yrliet notices. Every shot, every enemy, every fresh corpse on the floor-- they were leading them somewhere. It was barely noticeable, like a single melody hidden within a cacophony of noise, but Yrliet could see it.

And it seemed that Heinrix’s new Interrogator could see it, too: “The cathedral,” Leikia announces, and everyone stops to process her words. “Look at how we are being approached. They are consciously herding us to the cathedral, and likely, right into an ambush.”

“But that’s where Abelard--!” Tiffney cuts herself off with her own panic, and Yrliet has to grab her by the arm to stop her from running off. “Is that why his ships only came into view when I’d walked away?! Void take him, the bastard! Motherf*cker! If he’s laid a single hand on Abelard’s casket, I’ll personally rip every limb from his body and piss on his corpse, even if it kills me!”

“Elantach, do not be blinded by your fury!” Yrliet says this as if her own fury isn’t strangling her from within. But, somehow, she always finds a way to maintain a cool head when Tiffney can’t, and perhaps it is the same in the other direction. “Abelard would never approve of you marching into a trap, even for the sake of his memory. Take a deep breath and we will work out a plan that does not involve you putting your life at risk!”

Tiffney stares at Yrliet, unfocused lavender eyes quivering in rage, but slowly, they sink against Yrliet’s gaze, dimming in anger and allowing rational thought to re-enter. “You’re right,” she sighs, before turning away in shame. Yrliet’s hands are still holding onto her arm. “I need to think this through. The cathedral, huh…”

“If they wish for us to be ambushed,” Cassia begins, “then we shall give them what they want-- on the surface. Tiffney, are there any secret entryways into the cathedral that we may exploit.”

“No. …Yes!” Tiffney’s head shoots up in realisation. “The hidden triforium! It's the top layer of the cathedral, built to tile the roofs. It was all sealed off with the dome finish once construction was done, but there’s still a gap between the roof of the cathedral and the visible ceiling of the chambers. If we could just get in without them noticing…”

“I may be able to help with that,” Jae chirps. “My dropship, which I had the foresight of moving far away from the docks so no one would steal from me when I was leaving it unattended, is equipped with an incredible reflex shield. Technology right from the iron forges of Kiavahr, built for the illustrious Raven Guard! It is not perfect, but it will cloak us as we approach, and I must say that I’ve gotten quite good at piloting. I’m confident that I can drop a few people onto the rooftop while evading detection.”

Argenta narrows her eyes. “And why, pray tell, do you have technology customised for the Emperor’s Angels installed onto your dingy dropship?”

“That is between me and God-Emperor,” Jae replies with a dazzling smile. If Argenta has anything more to say, she only shows it in her judgmental expression. “Now, who will be going onto the roof?”

“Yrliet, as the best sniper, you should go,” Tiffney immediately suggests. Yrliet nods in confirmation. “Cassia, your gaze can strike enemies from far away, so you shall follow her. And, you… Interrogator…”

“Leikia,” she repeats, clearly figuring that Tiffney has forgotten her name again.

“Yes! Yes, Leikia, your telekinesis will be perfect for a reverse-ambush. Jae, of course, will be piloting the dropship, while the three of us…” Tiffney points at Argenta and Heinrix. “We will draw their attention by marching through the front door.”

Yrliet is no stranger to either of them putting themselves in danger, but she cannot hide her worry all the same. “Elantach…”

“We’ve faced much worse before,” Tiffney says to reassure her, though nothing will assuage her fears until all of Marazhai’s men are either a thousand lightyears away or turned into pink smears on the ground. “Now, let’s put our plan into action! We’ve got no time to lose!”

-----

“We’re approaching soon,” Jae says, her hands deftly guiding the dropship towards the cathedral roof. Through the windows, Yrliet can see a decent but not overwhelming number of Drukhari gathered around-- a little less than she had expected, actually. “Get ready, you three.”

“Understood!” Leikia responds with a salute, which evokes a hearty laugh from Jae. Yrliet, on the other end, just sighs.

Cassia has tucked herself at the back of the dropship with a cloth over her body, still hiding her from sight. But nothing can really hide the length of her limbs, or the sharp jut of her bones; Yrliet, however, knows better than to comment on it. If Cassia wishes to keep hidden, it is a shame she feels that way, but that is her choice to make. “I do not see the others from here,” Yrliet states. “She may have already entered the cathedral to confront whatever threat lies within.”

“Already? Why is Tiffney always moving one step ahead? Even after all these years?” Jae shakes her head dramatically, before bringing the dropship to a slow descent over the grand rooftop spires. “A few more seconds… getting into place… there! Go on, ladies! Put on a show!”

Immediately, Leikia rushes out first, before Yrliet follows quickly behind her. Cassia lands on the roof, but nearly stumbles, and Yrliet draws back to grab her by the arm so she doesn’t fall right off the roof.

“Oh!” Cassia manages to right herself, and Yrliet cannot help but note the new digits in her fingers, the sharpness of her claws-- the clammy, almost amphibious feel of her skin. Still, she suppresses her shock, and keeps her eyes away from the rest of Cassia’s body. She only makes sure Cassia is stable before letting go. “Thank you, Yrliet. You are… very warm.”

“I am,” Yrliet replies, for lack of anything better to say.

Leikia quietly cracks one of the roof tiles, before leaping into the hidden triforium below. She drops inside, with Yrliet and Cassia going next, their shoes clicking against the false ceiling below.

Immediately, the sound of fighting echoes towards them. The high-vaulted hallways now rang out with gunfire instead of choral music. “They’ve already engaged!” Yrliet hisses to herself before brushing past Leikia, rushing towards where she thinks Tiffney is-- tracking the roar of her rifle, joining the symphony of blood muffled underneath them-- and goes down on her knees, searching for any hole to look through.

As luck would have it, she finds one: a small gap between the false ceiling and the wall, like an incomplete awning, well-hidden at the side. Yrliet immediately races towards it, and now, she can make out Tiffney’s voice, cutting through the din.

“Marazhai, get your f*cking hands off that coffin!”

“So impatient,” Marazhai replies, and he sounds just the same as when Yrliet first heard him all those decades ago, standing amongst the freshly-dead humans bleeding out by his feet. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

Yrliet peers through the gap in the ceiling and hurriedly grasps the situation at hand:

Tiffney, Argenta and Heinrix are all standing in the main hall. Both Aeldari and human blood is splattered on the once-pristine marble floors around them, and Marazhai is sauntering around the gold-plated coffin, fingers tracing the petals on the wreath of Janusian lilies Tiffney had laid for Abelard. He is seemingly alone, but none of them are foolish enough to believe that.

“And we should not give you the chance to!” Argenta raises her bolter, but Heinrix of all people pushes it down, gesturing at her to hold back. Yrliet cannot see it from here, but she suspects Argenta’s expression is that of utter scandal.

“Marazhai.” Tiffney repeats his name again, colder this time, like burnt-black snow. “I am going to give you one chance to explain yourself. Why are you doing all of this? Why are you attacking Foulstone on the one day we deserve our peace?”

“Can’t you already guess the answer?” Marazhai pauses, drawing out the silence like a knife being delicately traced along the thin skin of one’s neck. “Hmm, perhaps not. If you must know, Tiffney, it is because you are dreadfully hard to reach. I could have plundered your capital world again, but Dargonus has already had so much of me, and it would be terribly dull to simply repeat old performances. So instead, I chose this day, because I knew without a doubt that you would be present.”

“Well, I’m here.” Tiffney throws her arms open in barely-concealed frustration, stitched into her tumultuous fury. “But surely you didn’t do all of this just for my attention.”

“No, no. You are hardly worth the effort.” As Marazhai speaks, Yrliet sets up her rifle, focusing on his head. Through her scope, she can just barely make out the smirk on his face, and the strange glint in his eyes. Something that toed the line of crazed mirth teetering into frothing desperation. “I have come to parlay.”

Tiffney scoffs. “And your first step is to invade and slaughter my people?”

“Hostages are a wonderful negotiation tactic,” Marazhai coos in response. His hands flatten against Abelard’s coffin, as a reminder of what is within his reach. “Even the dead ones, in this case.”

“Abelard would gladly see his body destroyed if that is what it takes to bring you down,” Tiffney growls in response.

“Oh, I am sure he would. But here he lies, dead and unmoving, while you call the shots, Tiffney. And would you be glad to see it?”

Tiffney doesn’t respond. To the silence, Marazhai lets out a slow, rumbling laugh. “I suspected as much. After all, we spent years travelling side by side. I know all about you, Tiffney von Valancius.”

Not in the slightest! Yrliet’s fingers twitch near the trigger of her gun, sorely tempted to fire. You know nothing about my elantach!

“Now that we have established the groundwork, onto business.” Marazhai’s voice became devoid of all playfulness, taking on the full gravity of the situation. “You possess an object of great importance, Tiffney. A very special artefact of my people.”

Now, that made Yrliet narrow her eyes in confusion. Unlike her predecessor, Tiffney did not make a habit of collecting Aeldari artefacts, so what could Marazhai be talking about?

Tiffney, however, seems to have an idea. “How did you…”

“The Arebennian’s gift,” Marazhai declares, and Yrliet’s confusion turns to shock. “Hand it over, and I will leave your precious little planets with not another life taken.”

Leikia, kneeling next to Yrliet, grimaces in confusion. “What does the Rogue Trader have to do with a Solitaire?”

“We met one,” Cassia explains, perhaps for Yrliet’s sake. “Many years ago, when we were trapped in Commorragh. He was… surprisingly helpful, and guided our way through the wretched place so that we escaped with our lives.”

“Why do you want it?!” Tiffney’s surprise turns to an accusatory shout. “And how did you even know he gave it to me?!”

“I hear questions, but not an agreement.” Then, Marazhai pulls out a knife, before casually etching a mark over the top of Abelard’s coffin. Tiffney swears loudly and looks like she’s about to charge forward, but stills herself, just barely holding back. “My terms are clear. Hand me the Arebennian’s gift, and I will leave. Refuse, and… hmmm, well, would you like to find out?”

“I…” Tiffney straightens her back. “I will not be threatened by the likes of you, Marazhai. And I will not give up such an important gift. The Nocturne of Oblivion ordered me to hold onto it… and I trust him far more than I trust you. If that means you will destroy Abelard’s corpse-- so be it! Let it be his final service to me!”

“Exactly!” Argenta roars out in agreement. “We humans are not so easily cowed by your demands, xenos! And we will hold faithful, even after death itself consumes us!”

Marazhai clicks his tongue. “I see how it is. Well, then… how about this?”

Then, he snaps his fingers, and Yrliet hears a sudden gallop of footsteps behind them.

“Lady Navigator!” Leikia cries out first, though Yrliet responds faster: immediately, she whips her rifle around, shooting an incoming Drukhari point-blank in the abdomen. It buys Leikia just enough time to shove Cassia out of harm’s way.

But not Yrliet. Yrliet is shoved right through the gap in the false ceiling, but she does not tumble for long; a razorflail wraps itself around her legs, hoisting her upside-down while its bladed edges tore into her skin with agonising sharpness. Her rifle falls out of her hands, slamming against the cathedral floor with an echoing thud.

“No, Yrliet!” Tiffney’s gasp reaches Yrliet’s ears at the same time as Cassia’s swift retaliation. Yrliet cannot see it herself, but the Wyches that jumped them engage in combat with the two. Still, they cannot wipe them out fast enough to free Yrliet, and Tiffney’s panic rises to a peak in mere seconds. “Let her go!”

“Oh, cousin! Did you really think you could hide from me up there?” Marazhai can only cajole smugly in response while Yrliet desperately orientates herself: swinging like a chandelier, legs being cut into slices by dozens of curved knives, Tiffney’s voice reverberating inside her head like a bad dream-- “You should know better than anyone that I will always be able to recognise the scent of your terror.”

“Tiffney! I--” Yrliet can barely shout her name before she’s interrupted by a hand on her throat.

Another Wych has crawled down to her on the razorflail Yrliet was suspended by. Half of her body is freshly-burnt, likely by Cassia and Leikia’s efforts, but they were unable to stop her from reaching Yrliet. And now, the Wych holds a blade to her throat, clearly outlining the true stakes of this deal to Tiffney.

And, almost immediately, she capitulates.

“Fine!” Tiffney rips something from beneath her coat, and Yrliet cannot see well-- is too focused on the reflection of her green eyes in the Wych’s knife pressed against her neck-- but whatever it is, it makes a strange sound when brought to the open. Somewhat reminiscent of amused laughter muffled behind a thick mask. “You can have it, but let Yrliet go first. Let her go, now, and I will give it to you. Deal.”

“No!” Yrliet finds the nerve to yell out in protest. The Wych giggles and digs her knife ever-so-slightly into the thin skin of Yrliet’s neck, evoking a sharp cry from her lips from the pain. Even so, she doesn’t relent. “You cannot disobey the will of an Arebennian, elantach! Doing so would be tantamount to suicide!”

“I…” Tiffney falters, voice trembling with rage-- or fear? Even in the face of it all, she manages to continue, her following words confident. “I would rather face death than have harm come to you, Yrliet.”

Yrliet sucks in a breath, guilt overwhelming her with more pain than even the knife at her throat. “Tiffney…”

“Do you hear that, Yrliet?” Marazhai laughs again, and it matches up perfectly with the chuckle from the Arebennian’s gift. “Your elantach would do anything for you. However…”

Then, he turns back to Tiffney. “Fulfil your part of the exchange first, Tiffney.”

“I will kill you for this one day,” Tiffney rasps, and Yrliet hears her elantach step closer to Marazhai. “No more forgiveness. Not anymore. I really will kill you, Marazhai, mark my words…”

“I look forward to you trying,” Marazhai responds, chillingly genuine.

Tiffney ascends the steps to Abelard’s coffin.

And then, before she can complete the exchange, Cegorach himself apparently decides to throw a wrench into the fray with a perfectly-timed punchline.

“Not so fast, shereen!” Just as suddenly as she’d reappeared into their lives, Jae slams right into the action. Literally, because she is riding an Aeldari jetbike and she smashes right into the Wych holding Yrliet at knifepoint, sending her careening to the ground below. Immediately, she moves to slice the razorflail in half, unwrapping it from Yrliet’s legs and freeing her. “Don’t forget your trump card: me!”

Yrliet practically crumbles onto the jetbike, but she does manage to give Jae a grateful nod. “Oh, Jae!” Tiffney’s expression softens with great relief at Yrliet’s safety.

“Jae Heydari,” Marazhai calls out, smugness quickly replaced with seething anger. “I thought I saw the last of you when I killed your governor.”

“Ah, so that is what happened to old Ergan…” Jae’s handling of the Aeldari jetbike isn’t fantastic, but she does manage to keep it floating in the air. Which is much better than the now-broken body of the Wych that she’s flown into, who seems to have landed on her neck in her fall. “Perhaps you can imagine that I am here to avenge him! Him, and whoever else you’ve managed to kill in my absence. Do you have a list?”

“Forget it,” Marazhai finally accedes. “We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

With that, Marazhai lunges straight for Tiffney, blades in hand.

“No!” Even with her legs torn to shreds, Yrliet makes a grab for the jetbike handle, trying to defend Tiffney while heedless of her own state. And, as it were, Yrliet is not the only one-- practically their entire retinue leaps at once, scrambling to Tiffney’s side.

But Marazhai would never make things so easy. Immediately upon engaging Tiffney head-on, his back-up spills out of every unopened door, ripping away everyone else’s attention. Heinrix goes hand-to-hand with three Drukhari at once, while Argenta fires wildly at the flock of Scourges who fly into the hall with a battlecry. Cassia, too, is fighting back from her position, though whatever Heinrix’s Interrogator is doing, Yrliet does not know.

Tiffney is not unskilled at melee combat. Not in the slightest; she has gotten familiar with her oversized chainsword, and the Eviscetor screams into battle with Marazhai. But Aeldari are always quicker than humans, and in the few seconds before Yrliet can get there, he has already ripped two deep gouges into Tiffney’s right arm, and sliced a chunk of flesh from her left thigh.

Jae fires towards Marazhai, but he dodges them all, eyes in a frenzy as he takes in a million things at once. Yrliet-- f*ck, Yrliet doesn’t have her rifle, and she’s never been good at fighting close-range, but she wrenches a Venom Blade from a dead Drukhari’s hand before rushing to Tiffney’s defense.

A beat. Tiffney’s chainsword chews into the armoured plates on Marazhai’s arm.

Two seconds. Marazhai shoves Tiffney’s chainsword away without a care and thrusts a knife at her face.

Three seconds. Yrliet parries it away, just an inch from Tiffney’s trembling eyes.

Four seconds, maybe a dozen heartbeats. Marazhai kicks Tiffney’s legs with a low sweep, throwing her off-balance while she still tries to draw back her chainsword.

Four and a half. Jae shoots half of Marazhai’s right ear off, and he responds by fluidly drawing his arm back to elbow her in the ribs. He hits her with enough force to send Jae flying backwards, cursing.

Five seconds. Yrliet tries to slice the Venom Blade between the plates of Marazhai’s armour. It gets stuck. No use.

Five and a quarter, quicker than a human eye, he raises his hand, ready to bring a knife down onto Tiffney.

An imperceptible amount of time passes. Yrliet pushes Tiffney aside.

The last thing Yrliet hears from him before she feels the coldness of Marazhai’s blade tearing into the searing warmth of her own chest, ringing in step with the cathedral bell at the turn of a new year: “sh*t.”

Chapter 32: 7.001.M42

Chapter Text

----- 7.001.M42

And then, everything was gone, one after another:

First to go was touch. The Drukhari poison ripped through her veins, and Yrliet’s skin became number, and number, till there was nothing. She felt like she was floating, or falling eternally, unable to sense even the coldness of the ground. That was the second thing to go: temperature, drained from her body, until everything felt as detached and weightless as the wreckage of Crudarach drifting aimlessly in the vast darkness between the stars.

“No…” Her lips could still move, but barely. Even if they were moving, Yrliet could not feel it. All her sensations were leaving her, stars flickering into nonexistence one after another. “What have you... done…”

“Hmm? Are you dissatisfied, my kin?” Somewhere nearby-- and Yrliet cannot tell where, so lost she was, untethered to even the beat of her own heart, growing faint in the haze-- she could hear Marazhai cackling. It felt purposefully cruel, how Yrliet’s hearing refused to dim away as everything else did. “I promised that you would have your precious craftworld survivors. And so you will. I will take you to them. I might even be there to witness your jubilant reunion.”

Tiffney made a sound. Something between a howl and a whimper. For a brief, terrifying moment, Yrliet thought that it may be a death rattle. Strangled respiratory secretions from a dead woman’s body. Perhaps she had led her elantach to a miserable, hopeless end.

“I am the one... you need...” But instead, Tiffney spoke conscious, intelligible words, if agonised. She gasped between each inflection, even when every breath was fire being sucked into the lungs, burning her with invisible flames that she could not even expel with a scream. “Leave... my people... out of this…”

Next to them, Idira sparked with a cry from Sha’eil, a final defiant shout before the poison overwhelmed her. Jae and Argenta had succumbed long ago, possessing no such resistance to such sophisticated Drukhari toxins, and Cassia had followed quickly. Tiffney, as was always the case, was hanging on through sheer willpower alone.

“What a display!” And, to a show of genuine human perseverance, Marazhai could only muster a peal of shrill laughter. “Did you truly put your trust in my cousin? Did you think that, between a mon-keigh and her blood brother, she would choose you?”

Yrliet tried to form words, but the muscles in her face no longer responded to her. Motion, smell and taste leave her altogether in a little hop-skip into the abyss. “Remember this and never forget it: you are an animal,” he dictated, and Yrliet could just barely see Marazhai walking right over her to grab Tiffney by the chin. “When we have need of mon-keigh, we use you. When we require something more, we turn to our equals. Just as Yrliet turned to me.”

That’s not true, Yrliet pleaded, knowing full well that even if she could speak, not a single soul would believe her. Perhaps not even Yrliet herself. This is-- I only…

Then went sight, and Yrliet tried to drag it out, just a little. The world faded around her at the edges, fuzzy and worm-bitten. It felt a little like trying to recall a memory from childhood, recreating it once more with adult imagination, lacking all the colours and hues for nothing but the same slate of apathetic grey. Everything swirls and blurs and now Yrliet could only see the pitch-black of an unlit night sky.

“...need you for a purpose, Rogue Trader.” Marazhai’s voice drummed menacing against the darkness. Her hearing, too, had started to go, leaving Yrliet’s consciousness with no more anchors to hang onto. She was free-floating in the endless sea, drowning under roaring waves. “Commorragh awaits you, all of you. Mandrakes, take them. Leave none behind.”

No! Yrliet still managed to scream, if only within the recesses of her own mind. No, not the Dark City. I did not want this. I did not ask for any of this! My craftworld, my Path… elantach, elantach. Where are you?

Take me to the stars, on your metal-winged bird. The way you promised. I… not here, we cannot die here… anywhere but here…

Oh, merciful Isha. Oh, father, are you looking for me as I am looking for you? Elantach-- Tiffney, I have asked for far more than I ever should have, but please--

Yrliet did not even register the crack of a Mandrake’s freezing claws against the back of her skull, and with that, she finally blacked out, dropping lifelessly like a doll abandoned in a greying childhood memory.

-----

And when Yrliet came to, it was to the sensation of knives digging into her arm.

The fear was what returned first: the primordial emotion of the universe, the mythicized first thought of all living beings. Yrliet felt the pain in her arm like magma lashing against skin and pulled away, but she did not make herself smaller to try hiding; instead, her instincts willed her to fight.

She hit out randomly, not even sure of who, or what, was harming her. Somehow, her fists managed to find a jaw, but the only crack of bone she could hear was the sound of her own knuckles.

“Look, she’s awake!” Someone grabbed her wrist and pinned it down, while someone else slammed their scar-ridden hand onto her face to pull her eyelids up. The sudden flash of colours and lights almost made her pass out again, but the screaming adrenaline in her veins managed to keep her awake.

Red, green, black, white, eyes, teeth, smile-- Yrliet’s eyes began to ache from being forced open before she could understand what she was seeing. Gnarled belfries twisted with each other overhead, and the several pairs of eyes staring at her were undeniably Aeldari. But it was not like Crudarach, or any other craftworld Yrliet has ever heard of. This…

“Elan…tach,” she breathed, her lips forming the first word that came to her on instinct. “Where…”

“Lost, little lamb of Asuryan?” One of the strangers giggled. Her sharpened claws scratched against the side of Yrliet’s terrified face. “Allow me to elucidate you on your whereabouts. Welcome to Commorragh, dour-faced cousin!”

“You’ve had enough time. Move it!” A shove from another Drukhari sent Yrliet tumbling, dropped onto the ground by the people who were holding her. Immediately, she tried to pull herself onto her feet and make an escape, but then a hand gripped around the length of her hair, yanking her back as she made a cry of pain. “The Dracon did not just hand-deliver her for you alone. She belongs to all of us.”

“No!” With a surge of willpower Yrliet wrenched her head away, nearly tearing her hair out in the process. But even with all her might, she could not free herself from the Drukhari’s grasp. “I do not belong to anyone! Let me go! Let me go, or… or else…”

The only response to her desperation was a raucous cacophony of laughter.

“Or else?” Yrliet suddenly felt the force of something metallic smashing against the side of her face, sending her sprawling back onto the floor. As she tried to push herself back up, they stomped down on her trembling arm, leaving her unable to resist. “What will happen if we don’t let you go? Tell me! Tell me!”

“Will your craftworld kin come to save you?” The taunting reminder of her lost people speared through her waning resolve with a thousand times more ferocity than even the steel-tipped boot that was piercing her hand. “Imagine that! Brave warriors of Asuryan surging through Commorragh’s hall to save their wayward daughter! How many would give their lives to save you?”

“They…” Yrliet seethed out between gritted teeth, raising her head to look at the Drukhari stepping on her hand. She was licking her drooling lips, feasting greedily on Yrliet’s despair. “Where are they…? Where have you taken my kin, you monstrous, depraved--”

“Ah-ah!”

Another Drukhari tutted, before grabbing Yrliet by the scalp and hauling her head up. Dressed in the extravagant garb of a Wych Cult’s ruling Succubus, she seemed the most senior of the lot, and the most powerful, if her grip was anything to go by.

Now, Yrliet was staring into the Succubus’ searing red eyes, dilated in joy and crazed with bloodlust. “Let’s not give our lost lambkin any wrong ideas. After all, why would her craftworld kin go through all the effort of saving her when she was not even present for the destruction of their home?”

Yrliet’s mouth opened in rage, but when she tried to speak, no words could follow. “Speechless, my lambkin? Of course. You know better than any of us here that no one would come to save you, even if they could.”

“And they can’t!” Someone else cackled wildly, the sound of sharpened blades clanging against each other in eager anticipation. “We’ve taken care of that problem long ago!”

“You…!” Once more, Yrliet thrashed against all her restraints, but in her weakened state, it did little more than provide the Drukhari with further amusem*nt. “What have you done to the people of Crudarach? Answer me!”

“Oh, so after abandoning them for all those years, you suddenly bring yourself to care now?” The Succubus sang out her words for all to hear, savouring how every syllable brought immense suffering to Yrliet’s already-battered spirit. “Oh, my lambkin, it’s far too late to start pretending you are the virtuous Child of Asuryan you so desperately want to be. Not when you have turned your back on your people, and even stooped so low as to consort with mon-keigh.”

“Wait, wait!” Then, the first of her tormentors returned, grabbing the pale skin of Yrliet’s cheek with her unnatural claws. It tore lines through Yrliet’s face, but though her wounds began to weep with fresh blood, Yrliet found that the physical pain was becoming a welcome distraction from the anguish within her own soul. “Or maybe she doesn’t expect her craftworld kin to save her! Did you hear what she said when she first woke up?”

The Succubus clicked her tongue, not yet getting the point. “What? What did she say?”

“She called for her e-lan-tach,” the clawed Drukhari declared, and now, the trickling of blood was mixed with the hotness of tears on Yrliet’s face. “Remember what the Dracon said? She gave that dusty old title to the blonde mon-keigh who took her in. You know, the one he’s hauled off to prepare for the trial.”

“Trial?” Yrliet voiced out her confusion, knowing damn well no one would answer her. “What trial? Where has Marazhai brought the elantach?”

“Do you hear how fretful she sounds?!” Now, the clawed Drukhari let out a peal of shrill laughter, as if Yrliet’s despair was the funniest damn thing in all the universe. “Hahahah! It’s the mon-keigh! Can you believe it? She wants her favourite mon-keigh to come save her!”

Finally, the red-eyed Succubus laughed as well, before dragging Yrliet up into a kneeling position. “Is that true? My lambkin, is that true?”

Even in her current state, Yrliet knew what every sane Aeldari would scream. Whether you were a Child of Asuryan or Drukhari walking the Path of Damnation-- it mattered little when it came to humanity.

Any other Aeldari would deny such allegations on pure instinct alone.

And yet, Yrliet could not muster any verbal protest. She had always been terrible at playing pretend. Even when it came to lying to herself.

So, instead, Yrliet simply spat in the Succubus’ face.

“Hah, aren’t you a feisty little sh*t!” Immediately, the Succubus responded by stabbing Yrliet right in the abdomen. Yrliet screamed in pain as she, quite literally, twisted the blade, before letting Yrliet go. Unable to even hold herself up on her own, Yrliet crumbled back onto the floor, and the blade slipped out of her body with a steady stream of blood. “Don’t worry, it’s not a vital spot. After all, Marazhai took great care in telling us that you were not to be killed.”

Then, the Succubus tossed the blade onto the ground next to Yrliet, seemingly bored already. “You hear that, everyone? Have your way with her, but anyone who goes too far will have to answer to the Dracon of the Reaving Tempest himself. Perhaps we’ll be allowed to kill her after the trial, but for now, he wishes to have her alive to witness the proceedings!”

“Of course!” And then, the clawed Drukhari grabbed Yrliet by the shoulders, hoisting her up. Yrliet’s eyes, unfocused from the excruciating pain, could barely the mad grin of her face. “Don’t worry, dear… what was your name? Yrliet? We’ll do our best to keep you alive. Besides, you have so much potential! So much that will go to waste if you simply die here! Hmm-hmm, a little lost craftworlder who puts her life in the hands of a mon-keigh… or more? Even I shudder at the thought of indulging in such bestial vices. Perhaps…”

She brought her face close to Yrliet’s, close enough for Yrliet to feel the excited blood-tinged breath from her mouth. “...we can make a fine Drukhari out of you.”

Chapter 33: 1n.My.dr34M5

Chapter Text

----- 1n.My.dr34M5

Perhaps it is because Yrliet’s will to live is stronger than adamantine or because Marazhai’s heart has not cooled to stone from the centuries of debauchery that preceded this moment, but for whatever reason, his knife does not sink deeper. Instead, it slides out of Yrliet in the same way the sun slides down the horizon every dusk-- with Tiffney utterly helpless before it.

“Elan…tach,” Yrliet gasps, and it feels like all the blood in her body spills out of her along with Marazhai’s blade. Her hands are still clenched to hold a knife handle, even though it had slipped out of her grip when Marazhai wrenched away, blade still stuck between the plates of his armour. Besides her, someone is screaming; not Tiffney, her face still frozen in complete disbelief, Yrliet’s blood splashed in a thin line across her cheek. It’s Marazhai, and Yrliet is no longer lucid enough to be confused. She just breathes in his rage.

It feels like the air is escaping from her chest the moment she sucks it in. On second thought, it probably is.

“No,” Tiffney finally says, a quiet protest against an unbending reality. “No, no, no, no-- Yrliet!”

Tiffney clasps Yrliet’s pale hand the moment Yrliet falls backward, slipping on the wetness of her own blood staining the blood. She follows Yrliet to the floor, and Yrliet opens her eyes-- not aware of when she closed them-- to drink in the beauty in her elantach’s face. How strange it is, to see such despair curled over old smile lines. She marvels at the glow of Tiffney’s eyes. Yrliet has seen it before, a thousand times over, but it seems different now. More than itself, more than herself. A sheen of gorgeous lavender imprinted on trembling irises by the burning rage of Sha’eil. Her eyes are purple because ten thousand years ago the Aeldari had created Sai’lanthresh from the inferno of their own hubris, and Yrliet will pay for that ancestral sin, one day, or soon, maybe very soon. Her eyes are purple because the gossamers of starlight that threaded their strings of fate entangled themselves in a web tens of thousands of years before they ever met.

“My love, what have you done?” And Tiffney has never called Yrliet that before, but Yrliet likes the sound of it, if it’s from her lips. Yes, Tiffney’s lips-- she thought she knew Tiffney’s lips, but it is a different thing entirely to hear such words from it. Those lips were meant for laughing. She wants to swallow a laugh from those lips.

On a passing curiosity, Yrliet brings her hands up to Tiffney’s face, pressing her fingers against Tiffney’s lips. It feels so hot against her cooling skin. She leaves a thumbprint of ruby red blood trailing down Tiffney’s mouth.

Ah, Yrliet wants to kiss her.

“You feel warm, elantach.”

“You feel so cold,” Tiffney responds in turn. Her eyes, lavender, imprinted, they are wet. She looks furious and terrified and heartbroken. “No, no, don’t look at me like that. Yrliet! Just hang on till help arrives. You will survive! I demand it! Yrliet, Yrliet, my love… oh, stars, God-Emperor, anything above, why? Why did you-- you should’ve just let him kill me!”

“How could I, elantach?” Yrliet speaks, even as Tiffney’s hands press on the gaping hole in her chest. Maybe it’s to keep the air and the blood in her body. Unfortunate, then, that now of all times, Yrliet feels compelled to use her last breaths on things she should have said decades ago. “I love you, Tiffney.”

Tiffney’s mouth locks in place, speechless between sobs. Yrliet is faintly aware that her elantach is now backlit with the blue hues of the open sky, and then, the explosion reaches her-- the scream of the cathedral itself as it bends against an overwhelming force. Nomos, then. Nomos are here.

Nomos have ripped the entire roof of the cathedral off with a swipe of their arm. Nomos have crushed several Drukhari with the strength of one finger. Nomos will protect Tiffney, Yrliet hopes. Not just from Marazhai, or those who seek to harm her. From herself.

And, now that the ceiling is gone, Yrliet begins to feel death truly sinking in now. She can feel the cold grasp of She Who Thirsts inching into her muscles like a million shards of ice. Her fingers curl without her control and no matter how she gasps, she still feels entirely breathless. The empty spirit stones on her belt bite into her body like Sai’lanthresh’s final joke to her. Tiffney had told Yrliet to keep them on hand, ‘just in case’. She didn’t seem to understand that Yrliet would still need a Farseer by her side to complete the binding at the brink of death. How ironic. Would Cegorach laugh at this? Would he weep?

“I love you,” Tiffney cries. It comes from her so easily, melting into Yrliet like tears in rain. Was it always this simple? Was dying always this painful? For her father? For her mother? “Now stop acting like you’re going to die! I’m not going to give up on you! The medics are coming! So please… Yrliet, my love, darling? I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Tiffney folds Yrliet’s hands over her chest. What could you ever be sorry for, elantach? It is what Yrliet would say if not for how the cold freezes her jaw shut, sequestering every last bit of warmth into the slow beat of her own heart, finally matching Tiffney’s tempo. This is the choice I made. A terrible choice, perhaps, but I was never very good at making decisions.

I don’t want to die, she thinks, eyes fluttering shut, too tired to even comprehend her soul’s terror. I don’t want to be devoured. I don’t want to see you cry, elantach, mo chridhe, my heart. Tiffney, Tiffney, what good was my love if it only brought you tears in the end?

I love you. Maybe I understand what you are apologising for. Maybe it would have been better if we never met.

“Do you really think you can run away?!” In her last threads of consciousness, Yrliet can hear Tiffney’s voice, thrumming so loudly that it bellows over the hum of her own dying soul. There are hands on her, now, people are carrying Yrliet away, but Yrliet does not truly feel it. Does not really care, and tries to open her eyes to see her elantach, but they feel so unbearably heavy, weighed down by the cold hand of death pressed over her face. “When I am done with you, Marazhai, you will not answer to Slaanesh! You will not even answer to the God-Emperor! You will answer to Nomos-- no, you will answer to me!”

Still, Yrliet’s eyelids manage to flutter open, like the beat of a broken butterfly’s wings.

She does not see her elantach anywhere.

Instead, in the corner of the broken cathedral, she catches the motley coat of an Arebennian. The familiar sorrow in his silver mask was unmistakable.

The Nocturne of Oblivion stands there, unnoticed by all except Yrliet’s waning gaze, and, with one swift motion, he claps.

Like an enraptured audience witnessing a play on the stage.

And that is the last thing Yrliet thinks before the curtains shutter to a close.

Chapter 34: 1.c4n.M4k3.y0u.43ld4r1

Chapter Text

----- 1.c4n.M4k3.y0u.43ld4r1

Light returned to the world in tandem with the agony.

By the time Yrliet opened her eyes, she had grown used to the feeling of jolting awake from a nightmare, only to realise her dreams were the only escape from hellish reality. The sights and iron-rust-blood scent of Commorragh greeted her, along with the aching welts on her skin, half of them weeping with blood and the other half hastily patched up. They could not allow her to get too injured; after all, Marazhai still wanted her alive.

“Oh, are you awake now, sleepyhead? Look, look!” The clawed Drukhari that had taken a particularly sick liking to Yrliet grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her around. Yrliet’s eyes glanced around the large courtroom, spotting the imposing figure seated on the throne overlooking the amphitheatre. For a brief moment, he seemed to make eye contact with her, and she shrank away in unconcealable terror.

With a laugh, Yrliet’s tormenter pinched her cheeks like she was a particularly adorable pet. “Not there, silly! In the middle!”

Yrliet’s eyes focused, and her ears tried to make sense of all the noise. Someone was standing there, black hair tied back, red marking over his eye… Marazhai, Yrliet recognised, her heart dropping to the pit of her stomach. A highly unwelcome, but expected sight.

And then, she noticed the human within the cage.

“Elantach?” Yrliet’s breath hitched in shock. Tiffney, she-- she was hurt all over, blood pouring from numerous wounds, and that hole in her face was almost see-through. She looked lifeless. She looked dead.

Then, Yrliet caught the sight of her chest rising and falling. Tiffney was alive, but, from the looks of it, just barely. Still, it…

It was the only piece of good news she’d gotten since she led them into this trap.

“Oh, look at you!” Immediately, Yrliet’s tormentor shattered any relief she felt with the sing-song thrill of her mocking voice. “So relieved to see your favourite mon-keigh is still breathing. Well, don’t count on it, sweet; if the Dracon has any say, she won’t be breathing for much longer.”

Yrliet bit down on her anger. She knew well enough that any protest would simply end with new wounds dotted over my body.

“The illusion is taking root.” Marazhai’s voice cut through the din, and Yrliet, with great trepidation, tilted her head to look at him. He looked proud as ever, glib and arrogant at his victory, but something else was shrouded behind his features. Something that Yrliet’s Path of Awakening could barely sift out, like a gem hidden in rough sands. It peeked out, like a timid flicker of flames, only visible when his eyes flitted back a Drukhari woman that bore an awfully uncanny resemblance to him.

Marazhai, he… he was… uncertain?

“Soon, she will give the answers I have brought you all to hear. Answers that prove Yremeryss’ unforgivable crimes.” Even if he was, he did not want to show it. Marazhai’s booming voice rang loudly enough to drown out the sound of his own doubt. “...Here, listen. She is beginning to speak!”

“Wait,” Tiffney rasped, her words coming out of her raw-sounding throat like bubbles on magma: “Something is wrong.”

Now, Marazhai’s doubt was obvious, surfacing hand-in-hand with his fear. “Why are you all here?” Tiffney stretched her head out, as if to look around, even though her eyes were closed shut. “Where is Marazhai? What... what happened?”

The Drukhari around Yrliet took their eyes off her for a moment to gossip between themselves. “Excuse me? How is the mon-keigh breaking through the illusion?”

“Tervantias must’ve given him a dud,” another Drukhari chuckled.

“Tervantias wouldn’t risk his reputation like that. Someone else must’ve diluted it--”

Their words were cut off by a piercing gasp. It rang out like a guttural shriek, impossible to replicate with Aeldari throats.

It was Tiffney, her purple eyes wide-open and staring at the bloodied amphitheatre around her.

--At least, for a moment. Quickly enough, her eyes squeezed shut, as if pulled down by an invisible force. “A momentary diversion,” Marazhai laughed. Now, everyone could sense the anxiety fraying at the edges of his voice. “Now, Tiffney von Valancius. Cooperate. Tell us the plan.”

A spittle of drool rolled down Tiffney’s lips, mingled with the blood dripping down her nose. Marazhai’s words seemed to reach her, in some perverse, hallucinatory way; Tiffney turned her head, as if mulling over what he had said. Yrliet curled up inwards, fingers clutched around the tatters that had been torn in her long-beloved mesh suit. What ‘plan’ was Marazhai talking about? What did it have to do with this-- mad, deranged kidnapping, and whatever this farce of a trial was pretending to prove?

"The only xenos plan I am aware of…” Tiffney choked on her own blood, but even so, she willed her broken body to continue. “...is the one where they play foul games with my head!"

Yrliet could just barely make up the shape of Marazhai’s mouth, twisting into the foulest curses known to their shared language. The Drukhari around her, meanwhile, looked torn between laughing or looking away; after all, it still wasn’t certain who would rise out of this victorious, but whoever it was, they definitely won’t let their detractors leave this place alive.

“The attacks,” Marazhai growled, bringing his mouth close to the Rogue Trader’s ears. Yrliet wished she still had her gun with her; she would shoot that snarl right off his face right now, damn the consequences. “The ones you knew about. The ones Yremeryss whispered to you about!”

“--Enough of this circus, Heinrix!” Almost instantly, Tiffney responded with a raw shout of her own. She did not address her interrogator correctly, but even so, anyone with eyes could see how she struggled against the illusionary trapping before her. Without realising, Yrliet had found herself entranced by the sight of the elantach’s unbending willpower-- it shined strong, defying all that tried to crush her. Even in a lightless place like this, Tiffney’s soul found a way. “I did not set up any attacks!”

“Kae-morag… do not try to squeeze between the strands of the web, mon-keigh!” Unable to hide his next wave of fury, Marazhai grabbed a fistful of the elantach’s blonde hair, yanking it through the bars of her cage. It tore right off her scalp, and even in her hypnotised state, Tiffney made a cry of pain. “Do what you were brought here for!”

Yrliet’s tormentor clapped her hands on her shoulder. “Exciting,” she cooed, ignoring-- or perhaps revelling in how Yrliet shuddered in disgust under her touch. “He’s really going to kill her by the end of this. I hope we can watch, sweet. After all, you wouldn’t want to say good-bye to your favourite mon-keigh without a proper send-off, right?”

Yrliet did not respond. Yrliet’s full focus was on the way Tiffney’s lips were shaking. She drank in every syllable being mouthed from her bruised face, as if believing that, somehow, even in this desperate state, Tiffney would find a way to get them out of here. Break the illusion, crack open the cage, run towards Yrliet with guns-blazing and--

Ah. Enough of that.

A childish hope, of course. In reality, Yrliet knew full well that even if Tiffney could somehow break free, she would leave Yrliet behind to rot. After all, she was the one who brought them all here to die. All for a false, passing hope.

Minutes passed in tense silence. A few times, Tiffney seemed ready to speak, but her mouth remained sealed shut. Marazhai looked about ready to decapitate her and be done with it when Tiffney’s lips finally curled upwards in a swollen smirk, and, without warning, she declared: “I hope I succeeded in spoiling your little show, Marazhai.”

Whatever remained of Marazhai’s mask shattered right then and there.

“You... useless, arrogant, soon-to-be dead mon-keigh!” Marazhai was screaming, now, and the Drukhari woman that looked so much like him could no longer hold back her amusem*nt. When laughter barked out of her lips, the other Drukhari in attendance all joined in, sensing who the scales of fate were weighted against.

Still, Marazhai continued to howl at Tiffney. He grabbed the elantach’s arm and tore deep gouges into it with his hand, as if her blood would somehow right whatever wrong she’d dragged him into. “The trial is almost complete, and when the judgement is pronounced, I will gut you, fill your bowels with flesh-eating worms, and drag you through the streets--”

“Enough.”

The arbiter slammed his hand against the arm of his throne. All fell silent.

“A Dracon of the Kabal of the Reaving Tempest has been cast down by his own ineptitude in an attempt to take part in the thyllian ai-kelethril.” When he spoke, all turned to hear his demands, and Yrliet was no exception. “Never did I think my eyes were destined to behold the greatest disgrace for a Dark One, a trueborn humbled by a lowly creature before the Council of Archons.”

Marazhai sucked in a sharp, desperate breath. He forced composure back onto his face, but could not hide the terror in his gaze. “With the greatest respect, mighty Nazrakhei, Archon of the Kabal of the Black Heart, First Among the Chosen, Voice of the Overlord of the Dark City, Bringer of Demise, Conqueror of a Hundred Worlds--”

Nazrakhei, as it were, cut him off with a scoff. “The Council of Archons has heard enough platitudes, Dracon Marazhai, and no longer wishes to--”

“Sly intrigue's ruthless chill to jagged ice; turns lips, and tongue, and breath-- all in a trice.”

Yrliet’s eyes tore away from Nazrakhei, before spotting a man dressed in unfittingly bright colours, practically prancing into the courtroom like a performer entering the stage.

And then, she… no. It couldn’t be. She was going mad, surely; mad from all the pain, all the despair, all the… bloodloss, most likely. The theatrical words he was singing out behind the mask was a figment of her imagination. Yes, yes, it couldn’t be--

“The Great Puppet Master? Has... has Vect himself invited you to this chamber?” But Yrliet could not possibly have imagined the shock in Nazrakhei’s voice. “No matter. You may be our guest, Arebennian, but you are merely a spectator in this performance. And spectators do not belong on the stage, as you undoubtedly know. Do not interfere.”

He really was one, then.

An Arebennian. Yrliet felt the blood drain from her already-bloodless face. The beloved and damned chosen of Cegorach who play the most loathsome role of all. One of the strongest of their kind. And one of their gravest omens of death.

With a rather playful gait that almost seemed to mock Marazhai’s frenzy and Yrliet’s own anguish, the Arebennian placed a finger on the frown of his sorrowful mask. “A shadow in the shadows will I be.”

“Ugh!”

A familiar grunt of anger caught Yrliet’s attention, and then, she saw the elantach-- conscious, aware, and utterly livid. “Stop acting like I am not here!”

“Quiet,” Yrliet harshly whispered, even though she knew damn well Tiffney could not hear her from here. “Not when the Arebennian is here…”

Her clawed tormenter stuck a sharpened finger into her mouth, almost tearing a new wound along the length of her lips. “You’re so worried about her! Why don’t you ever show such cuteness around me?”

Yrliet kept herself deathly still, tucking her tongue away and trying to pretend the Drukhari weren’t there. Quickly growing bored from her cold reaction, Yrliet’s tormentor shrugged and withdrew her hand.

“It has been a long time since the Obsidian Court last saw such an... entertaining spectacle as this.” Nazrakhei very pointedly ignored Tiffney, and so the rest of the court ignored her, too. Only Yrliet gave Tiffney her full attention, but what use was it? “The accusations flung at Archon Yremeryss may be serious... but I see no reason to attempt to delve into their substance.”

“I…” And, just like that, Marazhai-- the one who had dragged them here, tricked Yrliet in her darkest hour, was the cause of all these welts in her skin, in Tiffney’s skin-- was rendered speechless.

Marazhai’s horror was a poor balm against Yrliet’s wounds, but a balm nonetheless. At the very least, the elantach denied Marazhai the satisfaction of using them for his own depraved success.

“The arena will make you answer for this insult to the court. The arena will strip you of your titles and your skin, and the contenders' blows will break your bones and your pride.” Every Drukhari in the chamber were revelling at the thought of Marazhai’s sentence. Everyone except Marazhai himself. “Nothing but blood and suffering will wash away the shame the Dracon has brought upon himself this day!”

Marazhai shrieked, so harrowingly that it sounded like he’d already been stabbed, before unsheathing his knives to fight for his life.

It made the flurry of gunshots that promptly knocked him out feel rather anticlimactic.

Nazrakhei savoured Marazhai’s brief agony before becoming bored. “Let us return to you, Yremeryss--”

“And all the masks upon their marks now stand: the slave of vanity the spire ascends; the thief and traitor cast downward by her hand.” Almost imposingly, the Arebennian spoke again, and he bled the very air out of the courtroom with his voice. Although all his mannerisms indicated that he saw this entire trial as a vague amusem*nt, there was something besides the usual respect an Arebennian commands-- a warning, Yrliet realised, though she was never very good at deciphering the twisted tongues of a Rillietann performer. “Unbeknownst to all, their fate depends; upon a lead unseen, a player green.”

With a great amount of horror, Yrliet finally noticed where the shadows fell on his face and where the light reflected off his sorrowful mask. He was looking straight at the elantach.

“Is this how you treat the hospitality of Commorragh, Arebennian?” Nazrakhei, meanwhile, acted affronted to hide his own terror. “I thought your words were worth more. You insult me by interrupting the trial again.”

“You, Archon, speak a just rebuke, in truth; fate's melodies in snarls fantastic have; entrapped me here, and when I heard them play, I could not keep my lips from grinning wide.” Now, he was undoubtedly intrigued by Tiffney, a fact that Tiffney’s confused expression indicated she did not understand the severity of. Nor the fact that it offended the Drukhari greatly. But why? Why would an Arebennian take interest in a human-- in Tiffney? “Here comes the hour for shadows to retreat: to where the curtain waits to rise, the laugh; with no beginning now sends forth the call.”

“Enough of this.” Nazrakhei waved his hand. “Be rid of the mon-keigh.”

Just like that, the Drukhari around Tiffney sunk their blades into her back, and she gurgled blood before falling forwards like a lifeless doll tossed onto the ground.

“No!” Yrliet’s remaining willpower concentrated itself in a scream. “Elantach!”

“Oops!” With a sing-song voice, Yrliet’s tormentor pulled her up by her red ponytail, letting all around them consume her overflowing despair. Was that it? Was the elantach really dead? Was there ever a hope that Tiffney could have saved her to begin with? “There your favourite mon-keigh goes! Down the rubbish chute!”

“--When I break free, you will be the first I kill,” Yrliet growled, and she truly was growling, now. She was on the verge of becoming the beasts she had sworn herself never to stoop down to, and she directed all her fury and hopelessness at the smug Drukhari holding her ponytail like she was yanking Yrliet’s leash. “You lecherous swine, salivating on me like a hissing snake in heat. I will take my time separating your head from your body-- you--”

“Perfect,” Yrliet's tormenter gasped delightedly, before using her one free hand to pinch Yrliet’s sunken cheek. “Just like that, sweet. You’re already becoming just like us.”

Yrliet’s anger extinguished itself on the weight of her own horror. Her hands, trembling from all the cuts they’ve ripped across her skin, reached for her spirit stone. But when she gripped it for comfort, all she felt in response was the wailing dread in her own soul. She could not even tap into the inner depths of her meditative world. The door had been shut, locked tight with Yrliet’s descent into damnation.

That was that, then.

She was never getting out of Commorragh.

Chapter 35: 6.017.060.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.017.060.M42

Yrliet wakes up with the jerk of her head, like a fish being pulled out of water, or maybe even torn apart by a gyrinx’s claws.

Her eyes fly open to white-on-white-on-white. It only disorients her further, and memories of what happened trickle back slowly, before rushing into her all at once.

The funeral, Tiffney, Marazhai--! Yrliet’s hands press against her chest frantically, but her fingers find no wound, and she feels no pain. She does, however, find a hole in her mesh suit, proving her memories were not imagined.

With a swift motion, Yrliet seals the hole tight with her basic psychic ability. She seems to be in a safe place, but she could never be completely sure-- who knows, she could’ve been kidnapped again, or--

In her panic, she can hardly register the softness of the hospital bed, or the von Valancius sigils stamped on the walls. She only pauses when she catches a hint of familiar features, standing near her bedside. In her current state, she could only make out the soft planes of her face, but that alone is more than enough for Yrliet to recognise her elantach.

“Tiffney?” Yrliet’s eyes try to focus, irises of aurora borealis streaming through the haze. She reaches out with the intensity of one pleading to the stars. “Elantach, I…”

Her vision begins to find its mark.

That is not Tiffney.

Standing there with arms crossed, Heinrix’s Interrogator stares back at Yrliet, clearly wondering how she should address this xenos’ confusion. Quickly, Yrliet withdraws her hand, hastily turning her head back into the bed she’d woken up on.

She felt angry, but whether it was at look-alike Leikia for unintentionally deceiving her or, at herself for somehow mistaking another person for her elantach… Yrliet did not know. She did, however, allow a few words to be tersely parsed through her lips: “Where is Tiffney?”

“A rather aggressive tone to use. Especially towards someone who helped save your life.”

Yrliet whips her head around, and Heinrix van Calox is sitting there. He is casually sipping at a teacup, complete with saucer in hand. As a biomancer, he has been mostly untouched by the passage of years, though Yrliet can spot a slight greying of hair; though, whether it was from age or from stress remains to be seen. “Saved my…?”

While Yrliet does not see how Leikia could have saved her, she must admit that she feels exceptionally well for someone who had been stabbed in the chest with a Drukhari blade. If the physical damage wasn’t enough to kill you, then the poisons that always laced their wretched weaponry would finish the job. For Yrliet to still be alive, there must have been a healer knowledgeable enough in Drukhari warfare to know what to look for.

And such knowledge did not come easily to humans outside the Ordo Xenos.

With a heavy sigh, Yrliet concedes that the Lord Inquisitor and their Interrogator were the most likely people to have saved her. “Then I am indebted to you,” she says, sitting upright on the bed. “But you still have not told me where my elantach is.”

“Tiffney von Valancius is physically well, and currently in her chambers resting,” Leikia explains coolly. Even the arch of her eyes matched Tiffney’s exactly, except her irises shined russet-gold rather than warp-touched lavender. “No doubt recovering from the arduous events you surely remember.”

“Then I will go to her,” Yrliet declares. She pulls herself off the bed, finding her boots placed neatly on the ground.

Before she even manages to wear them, Yrliet notices the way Leikia’s eyes glance towards the door, fingers twitching at her sides.

In a matter of seconds, Yrliet suddenly understood the stakes. “You wish to keep me in here,” she points out bluntly, and Leikia flinches in surprise. “I appreciate your help in my recovery, but I am well enough to leave. Unless you had less than pure intentions for your actions. In which case, I--”

“Yrliet,” Heinrix sighs, “relax. You have spent days recovering, and I am sure the Rogue Trader can wait a few minutes more. We will bring you to Tiffney the first moment we can.”

Yrliet jolts her head back to glare at him. Infuriatingly, he takes his own sweet time finishing his cup of tea before placing it back onto the saucer with a click. “We just want to ask a few questions,” he states, with calm frankness. In great contrast to Yrliet’s blaring alarm, because ‘questions’ from a high-ranking member of the Imperium was never a good thing, even if this one has been friends with Tiffney for over sixty of their Terran years.

Still, Yrliet conceals her suspicions behind a neutral expression. Despite the nature of this interrogation (and it was an interrogation, no doubts about it), Yrliet knew that her elantach would never let Heinrix harm her.

And, on top of that, she also knew Heinrix would not let harm come to Tiffney. For… not entirely dissimilar reasons that Yrliet did not exactly want to dwell on.

So she fixes Heinrix with a stern, discerning look, before slowly nodding. “Very well.”

“Thank you,” Heinrix replies, pleasantly surprised by Yrliet’s cooperation. “They are simple, I assure--”

“As long as I am allowed to ask questions of my own,” Yrliet interrupts, and Heinrix raises an eyebrow.

Leikia is the first to respond. “You are not in the right to make such demands of the Lord Inquisitor, xenos. You may be the Rogue Trader’s sanctioned pet, but never forget that the Lord Inquisitor functions at a level above even the von Valancius dynasty!”

“Fine,” Heinrix says, shrugging his shoulders. Leikia looks at him like he’s suddenly sprouted a second head and started bellowing out a sermon for Tzeentch. “You may ask your questions, if you are so deathly curious.”

“Good.” Yrliet straps her boots on and stands to her full height. Heinrix is not at all intimidated, but his Interrogator just might be. “I am glad we can come to an agreement.”

“First question.” Heinrix places his teacup away on the table nearby. It seems he has a whole tea set out, but doesn’t offer a drink for Yrliet. Rather rude (even though Yrliet would’ve refused to drink it anyway). “Were you aware of the Solitaire’s gift to Tiffney?”

Yrliet let her genuine confusion scrawl its way across her face. “No. She had not said a word about the Arebennian visiting her, or I would have definitely known.”

“Fair enough.” Heinrix leans his head against his hand. “Tiffney said she hadn’t told anyone about it either. Both of your accounts corroborate one another. Now, second--”

“Is it not my turn to ask a question?”

Leikia’s face twisted into a grimace at Yrliet’s repeated interruptions. Heinrix, meanwhile, remains entirely unbothered. “We did not agree that we would be taking turns, but very well. I will allow it.”

Yrliet turns to stare pointed at Leikia, who immediately looks away. “Why does your new Interrogator bear such a striking resemblance to Tiffney?”

“An understandable question to have.” Heinrix seems to contemplate his answer, or rather, contemplate how much of the truth he should be sharing. Leikia hides her face from Yrliet, but from the tautness of her skin, Yrliet can assume that she’s scowling. “It’s simple. She’s also a von Valancius.”

What? Yrliet narrows her eyes. “And Tiffney is aware of this?”

“Oh yes. It was the very first thing I told her, before Marazhai decided to interrupt our reunion.” Heinrix did not appear to be lying, but Yrliet also knew better than to take him at face value. Still, a lie like this would be easy to disprove once she asked Tiffney; most likely, he was telling the truth. “The Rogue Trader was absolutely thrilled to meet another relative, however distant of a relation she was. She took Leikia by the arm and chattered rather excitedly about dressing her up in all the bodices and petticoats she’d left gathering dust in her wardrobe.”

Leikia exhales rather loudly. “Still couldn’t remember my name, though.”

“You’ll have to forgive Tiffney for that, Leikia. She’s not exactly as young and sprightly as she used to be.”

“Hold on.” Yrliet, however, isn’t entirely convinced. “To an extent, I can accept that your Interrogator’s resemblance is due to a blood relation. But even human siblings do not look as alike as Leikia does to Tiffney. Much less a distant relative.”

“Is that another question?” Heinrix leans forward. “Shouldn’t I get to ask another of my own first?”

Yrliet considers arguing, but bites down on her tongue, knowing that it would only waste everyone’s time. “Fine. What is your second question?”

“Why did Marazhai spare your life?”

To that, Yrliet’s eyes immediately went wide. “He very nearly rendered you beyond saving, but at the last moment, he held back.” She had already suspected that, with a heavy heaping of disbelief. But to hear Heinrix say it as well… “Why?”

How could I possibly answer that, Yrliet mouths silently, all while Heinrix’s question reverberated around her mind. You would not dare suggest I was on his side, would you, van Calox? After all these years?

“I shall be honest. I do not know.” Yrliets stares evenly at Heinrix as she answers. “To scry meaning from Marazhai’s mannerisms would be akin to expecting a pattern to form out of the incomprehensible horrors that dot the darkness between the stars. Fairtytales may attribute shapes to a mass of swirling constellations, but you and I both know that they are simply vain attempts to make sense of a senseless universe. I could not tell you why Marazhai did not go ahead and kill me when he could have easily done so. Perhaps he feared my elantach’s wrath.”

Then, she finally looks away, slightly ashamed. “Or perhaps, unlikely as it may be, our shared journeys through Sha’eil had left him with a kinship towards me. One that extended beyond a Drukhari’s usual and sad*stic fascination with a Child of Asuryan.”

After all, Yrliet recalls, I had been the one to teach Marazhai. On meditation, and how he may use it to survive your perilous leaps through the endless expanse of the warp. He would not have lived to commit the sins he has now if I had not taken pity on him so.

“I suppose I expected that answer.” Heinrix pours himself another cup of tea. He appears to have accepted Yrliet’s explanation with unexpected ease. A potentially grim portent.

“Then, it is my turn to ask.” Yrliet looks back at Leikia. “You have modified your appearance to heighten any and all resemblances to Tiffney. Why?”

“...What?” Leikia brings her hands to her face, covering her mouth. “How did you…”

“It is well-hidden, if that is your concern.” Yrliet herself had only just noticed it moments ago. “I doubt any of your kind could figure it out without being told. But I have dedicated many of my years into seeing what often remains unseen. It is subtle, the way you wear my elantach’s face as your mask. The muscles on your face move as they should, but there is an artificial stiltedness to it. After following the thread of that observation, it was easy for me to find out.”

“Has she?” Heinrix does not sound surprised. “Then, it was likely done to endear herself to me.”

“Lord Inquisitor?” Leikia’s voice peaked slightly. “You knew as well?”

Heinrix takes another sip of his tea. “I do not take Interrogators under my wing without a thorough review of their history. Of course I knew.”

Yrliet tears her eyes away from Leikia’s scandalised expression to stare at Heinrix with a conspicuous look of disgust.

Her thoughts have not changed. She is most definitely not dwelling on this. “I see.” Then: “Forget that I ever asked.”

“Good. Now, stop picking on my Interrogator,” Heinrix chides, and Yrliet’s disgust turned to confusion. “I already had low expectations of your questions, Yrliet, but I did not expect you to be so intent on catechizing her. Or is the mere fact that she looks like Tiffney enough to make you obsessed with her?”

Now, that pisses Yrliet off. “Of all the people who could imply such a lecherous thing, you are in the worst position to make that assertion, van Calox. Not when your true feelings are so widely-known that your own assistants are tailoring their faces to suit your fancy.”

Leikia rubs her eyes. “Can we please move on from this?”

“Please do,” Yrliet hisses, along with a brief string of Aeldari curses to air out her anger.

With a sigh, Heinrix puts down his teacup before leaning forward. “My next question. What in the name of the God-Emperor did you tell Nomos?”

The change in topic strikes Yrliet as piercingly as an Arrow of Kurnous. “The star-child?” Their last conversation was years ago, but Yrliet still remembered it as though it was yesterday. Is that what Heinrix was asking about? “Specify.”

“I am the one asking the question, Yrliet.”

“And I am attempting to answer while clarifying what you seek.” Her irritation is tinged with a strong accompaniment of anxiety. She was rapidly losing consciousness by the time Nomos involved themselves in the battle, but from her brief recollection, they seemed-- furious.

Not that Yrliet could possibly blame them. After all, it was their mother’s life at risk. And, as Yrliet herself would know all too well, no one is immune to making horrible, horrible mistakes when consumed by fury.

“My clarification is that I wish for you to tell me everything.” Heinrix is not kidding. He is, in fact, far more unyielding now than any moment before. “So begin.”

“Insolent mon--” Yrliet stops herself and swallows her own anger before continuing. “So be it. I do not have anything to hide. In the years before Abelard’s death, the star-child sought me out to speak with me. They had… developed a burgeoning awareness of Tiffney’s brief lifespan in comparison to their own.”

Now, it is Heinrix’s turn to look alarmed. It flickers on his face for just a moment before he brutally crushes it down under a cold facade. “Continue.”

“The star-child asked me questions on life and death. Questions that would not be out of place for any child beginning to understand the cruel march of time, and how it devastates your short-lived…” Yrliet looks at Heinrix and corrects herself. “...your usually short-lived species. They asked me to explain why Tiffney feared Abelard’s death so greatly, and then confided in me their own fear at the thought of her eventual passing.”

Yrliet chooses her next words carefully. “They asked me how I could… come to care for my elantach, despite knowing that her short life would burn out quickly, like a timid flame sighed into ashes on a melted candle. To specify, as you so plainly requested, Nomos wished to know how I could overcome the overwhelming sorrow that came with realising that the length of Tiffney’s life would be a mere fraction of the time we would spend mourning her.”

Heinrix breathes out tiredly. “And?”

“I explained to Nomos that I had no grand secret to share. I despaired at the thought of her death just as they did. And that…” Yrliet breaks eye contact to stare at the white-tiled walls. Anything besides Heinrix’s questioning gaze. “...it was… alright, for them to despair. That it would be a hopeless or even dangerous endeavour to shield their primordial soul from sadness. Because experiencing sadness was proof that they cared for their mother-- my elantach-- and that they had risen above the merciless depictions of their kind, as told in my people’s legends.”

Yrliet sighs. “That was all.”

“Thank you for sharing,” Heinrix replies, with no hint of whether he was happy or utterly livid to hear all of that. “That shall be all, Yrliet. We will--”

“No,” Yrliet interrupts, for the last time. “I am owed another question, am I not?”

“Of course you wouldn’t forget about that. Make it quick.”

Yrliet, indeed, makes it quick. “Is the Imperium of Mankind going to launch an invasion on Tiffney’s domain?”

Heinrix goes deathly quiet, not even breathing.

And then, he turns to Leikia. “Go check on the Rogue Trader and prepare her for Yrliet’s return.”

Leikia’s eyes dart rapidly from Heinrix to Yrliet. Clearly, she is not comfortable with leaving the Lord Inquisitor alone with a xenos, even if Yrliet has been extremely cooperative. But, she holds back her reservations to give Heinrix a bow. “It will be done, Lord Inquisitor.”

She leaves the room rather quickly. Even after the door closes behind her, Heinrix remains silent until Leikia’s footsteps disappear completely.

“Listen, Yrliet.” And now, all of the sudden, Heinrix’s voice steeps itself in a thousand years’ worth of stress. Yrliet, for what it is worth, does listen. “You are not to tell a soul about what I am going to share with you. Not even Tiffney.”

“...You know perfectly well that I cannot hide things from my elantach if they endanger her safety.” And Yrliet is absolutely honest in her response. “Even if it ends with your head on a pike.”

“Not my head, Yrliet.” Heinrix glances at the corners of the room, and Yrliet’s eyes follow his. It is only then that Yrliet realises the room has been painstakingly soundproofed, though only in one direction. They are able to hear anyone coming from outside, but no one besides the two of them can hear this conversation. “I am placing trillions of lives on the line. And not to sate your curiosity, mind you-- I am hedging my bets on you, Yrliet. Unfortunately.”

The seriousness in his tone prompts Yrliet to overlook his ill-mannered ‘unfortunately’. “Speak,” she urges, no longer able to hide her growing concern.

“As you may have guessed by now, the Imperium has been seeking to launch an invasion on the Koronus Expanse from the moment we killed my predecessor on Epitaph.” It does not come as a surprise, but the damning confirmation does fill Yrliet’s soul with unspeakable dread. “But I have been… placating them.”

“How?”

“For many years, I have carefully fed curated reports of Tiffney von Valancius to the many ears of the Imperium. It was impossible for me to hide that she had somehow tamed a being of incredible power, so instead of denying Nomos’ existence, I obscured their true nature. The Imperium would never accept that Tiffney had killed Calcazar and then used all the work he’d done to create a Star God of her own, no matter how good her intentions or how much I personally agreed with her.”

That much, Yrliet can discern on her own. “You obscured…?”

“But they would accept that Tiffney had smited Calcazar on grounds that he had succumbed to heresy, and in the process, been blessed with the God-Emperor’s overpowering light.” It sounds all so simple from Heinrix’s lips. A single statement to describe decades of walking a tightrope, playing the fingers of the Imperium like actors on a stage. “To all except the few of us that followed Tiffney onto Epitaph, ‘Nomos’ simply represents the illuminating gaze of the God-Emperor, lending her a fraction of His omniscience so that she may lead the good people of the Koronus Expanse into boundless prosperity. All in the God-Emperor’s good name, of course.”

“...An illusion that would be shattered,” Yrliet breathes, realisation dawning over her face in growing horror, “the moment Nomos showed their true form to others.”

Heinrix nods, seeing that Yrliet fully understands the gravity of what has happened. “And what more symbolic way to reveal the truth than to have it destroy the grandest cathedral to the God-Emperor in the Expanse?”

“But Nomos had done to protect--”

“I know Nomos’ only intention was to help Tiffney.” Heinrix rubs his temples, trying to massage away the decades of careful playing pretend, all dashed in one moment. “I know… I know Nomos. Of course they only had the best of intentions. But good intentions, Yrliet-- as I’ve said, good intentions are not enough. In fact, they don’t mean a damn thing. So I-- I--”

He stutters, and there is fury, now, seeping into the edges of his voice. “We made a deal, damn it. Tiffney would control Nomos, so they would only be a silent protector of the Expanse; unseen and unheard of, besides the odd skyfarer legend. All threats that Nomos could eliminate without notice would be left to them, and all threats that could not be destroyed so conveniently would be dealt with by Tiffney. And Nomos understood this. Or, at least, Tiffney told me Nomos understood this. Nomos was not to interfere in any capacity that could be witnessed by those outside our direct control.”

“And they did.” Yrliet wonders what an Imperium invasion would look like. How many trillions of lives would be taken? How much of a chance did Tiffney have to survive it? “Nomos… interfered.”

When Heinrix stares her down, she notices that his eyes are very slightly different. Was it always that way? Is this the first time she’s giving him a good look outside of an argument? Even though he’s done far more to protect her elantach than even herself? “Do you know what Nomos told us, when all was said and done? When the cathedral was left in ruins and all upon Foulstone had gazed upon a true C’tan?”

Yrliet almost did not dare to ask. “...What did the star-child say?”

“That they love her.” Heinrix’s gaze softens, if only at the irony of it all. “Tiffney, their mother. And that they interfered because they knew she loves you, Yrliet.”

Yrliet chokes. “What? For that--”

“Because you are a part of Tiffney, whatever that means-- and it was not Tiffney’s burden to bear, losing you. It was your burden, Yrliet-- you were the one who was meant to be by her side till the end of her life while she would become a memory for the rest of yours. And that it was theirs, to outlive all of us, by aeons and aeons and aeons more, carrying Tiffney’s dream till the end of time.”

“Nomos did not interfere to save Tiffney.” Yrliet buries her head in her hands, but even in the darkness, she felt like she could no longer close her eyes to the tragedy that was about to play out in front of her. “They interfered to save me. And… and, now-- now, the Imperium--”

“The Imperium will not invade.”

The relief floods through Yrliet in equal measure with her shock. She pulls her head out of her hands. “What?”

“The Imperium will not invade,” Heinrix repeats, coldly, “because we have taken… preventative measures to ensure they will not hear of this.”

Moments pass. A brand new pit of dread forms in Yrliet’s stomach. “What were your… ‘measures’?”

“You do not need to concern yourself with that.” Nonsense! Of course Yrliet would concern herself with something as ominous as that! “Instead, Yrliet, I need you to talk to Nomos again. We may have gotten away with it this time, but we cannot afford another incident. Remind them of the importance of staying hidden, even if it comes at the cost of your life. And even if-- God-Emperor protect us-- it comes at the cost of Tiffney’s life.”

Yrliet grabs Heinrix by the collar before she could even put words to her rage. “You demand too much, van Calox! To sacrifice myself, I am more than willing-- but not Tiffney! How could I tell Nomos that? Tell a child that their mother is not worth saving? That my elantach-- my heart--”

“Because that is what Tiffney wants!” Heinrix wrenches her arm away, and he is stronger than her, but not by much. “Because she cares too much about even the most wretched of souls, and she has decided her life is less important than the safety of all within her protectorate. Because a Rogue Trader can be replaced, but a dynasty, once destroyed, will take all its trillions of lives with it!”

“Kae-morag! Do you even hear yourself?! Tiffney cannot be replaced, you--”

“I f*cking know!” Heinrix shoves Yrliet back, and she has never seen him like this before: distraught, yes, but never so resigned in his boiling fury. “Do you-- do you seriously think I don’t know that, Yrliet? It doesn’t matter how irreplaceable she is. Not to you, not to me, not to anyone. If you looked past your short-sighted selfishness for even a single moment, you would realise that immediately!”

Yrliet curses wildly in Aeldari tongue, spitting vile hexes that she hadn’t dared to speak since her childhood. “Ceiba-ny-shak, mallacht de Kaela Mensha Kaine-- the reason I fear an Imperium invasion is because I fear Tiffney’s death! You are asking me to allow the very thing I would do anything to prevent!”

“You admit it, then? That you don’t give a damn about what she actually wants?”

“No! No, no--” She feels it all too keenly: this anger. This sadness. It strangles Yrliet, leaving her unable to say anything beyond insults and denials.

When she looks back on this moment, she’ll realise that she was begging. Because the only thing she could count on in this cruel, miserable universe was that Nomos could protect her elantach. And if she could not have that-- not even that--

Well.

It doesn’t really matter, because in that moment, Leikia slams open the door.

The both of them startle, too absorbed in their screaming match to have noticed her approaching. “Lord Inquisitor,” she gasps, and what comes next will be even worse-- “the Rogue Trader, she’s killing everyone.”

Yrliet bites down on her tongue. “--Is that the ‘preventative measures’ you mentioned, van Calox? Killing all witnesses?!”

“Yes,” Heinrix admits without any shame. “Exactly, Yrliet, thank you for using your last remaining iota of intelligence. So, Interrogator, I don’t see why you needed to report--”

“No, she’s…” Leikia shakes her head, and now, Yrliet sees it: the blood, drenched into her clothes, all the way up to her knees. As if she had just been wading in it. “She’s killing everyone in sight. And Miss Heydari sent me back-- to get the xenos, Yrliet. To stop her.”

Chapter 36: 4nd.0nly.1n.My.dr34M5

Chapter Text

----- 4nd.0nly.1n.My.dr34M5

Yrliet would never forget her first victim. Never forget any of them, really, but the first one was the worst.

They had prepared a fresh vatborn for her: specifically made to be deaf, blind, and crippled. None of the memories normally given to vatborn were to be imprinted on this one; in all respects, it would be utterly helpless against anything and everything done to it. The Wyches who took Yrliet’s ‘re-education’ upon their shoulders explained that trueborn children would be given these feeble specimens so they could take their time slowly enjoying their first kill. A luxury, they purred, only for the most spoiled of our young. You are lucky.

Yrliet had not felt lucky. Yrliet had felt like the most wretched being in all the universe, carving deadly wounds into a screaming newborn that didn’t even understand what it had ever done to deserve this. She tore the fat from its skin and separated pulsating organs from twitching muscles for the simple, selfish reason of avoiding having the same thing done to herself.

She was almost relieved, when the next target the Wyches chose for her was able to fight back. At least Yrliet could pretend they deserved this fate.

Using Drukhari weapons came to Yrliet far more easily than she had wanted. Every single weapon, from the barbed handles of their most simple daggers to the sad*stically-engineered genius of their plague-ridden Hexrifles were designed to cause both wielder and victim the maximum amount of pain.

Though Yrliet no longer had access to guns-- the first time she was given one, she immediately fired it upon the Wyches who held her captive. The others thought it adorable, especially when they ripped it out of her hands, skin of her palm still caught on the flesh-hooks embedded on its pistol grip, and mangled the whole length of Yrliet’s arm till she became unbearably familiar with the colour of her own bones. Just your arm, this time. The Wyches caressed the tears from Yrliet’s face as she screamed. The next time you disobey, it’ll be the spirit stone you hold so dear. No matter, though; by the time your re-education is complete, you’ll have no more need for it.

It never ceased amaze her, how far her dark cousins are willing to go in their torture, and how much they are able to heal; for everything the Wyches themselves could not stitch together, a few minutes of work under a flesh-stealer was enough to leave Yrliet looking as if no one had ever hurt her at all. Ironic, because the healing work of a Haemonculi was even more painful than anything the Wyches have subjected her to.

By the time Yrliet’s bloodthirsty tutors tasked her with hunting her own prey, she no longer had a clue how long she had been in Commorragh. The Dark City was a land of eternal twilight, and Yrliet found herself missing the inane human rituals on the elantach’s iron-winged ship; even when trapped within the claws of Sha’eil, the Vox Master always took great care in announcing the supposed passage of days, even if wholly inaccurate. It was a way to maintain a semblance of sanity in a place where only despair ruled supreme.

The clawed tormentor who fancied herself as Yrliet’s owner ‘doted’ on her by gifting her an old Hekatarii Blade. “The first weapon I ever received as a proud Wych,” she cackled, pressing it into Yrliet’s trembling hands. “Now go! Find someone! And do not hold back!”

In the twisted spires of Commorragh, it was never difficult to find someone to kill. It took just a handful of minutes for Yrliet to find a shrivelled Drukhari, hiding away in the most damned corners of the Chasm. He was hunched over a days-old corpse, peeling away at rotten flesh before bringing it to his lips. With not a single thing to his name, the wretched soul had resorted to cannibalism.

Yrliet had once thought that there were things she would rather die than endure. But, as she grabbed the fearful man by the arm and dragged him away, she felt that perhaps she might be even more pathetic than he was. After all, they were both subjecting themselves to the worst the universe had to offer in a desperate bid for survival.

At least this man’s victim was already dead.

“Drag him out.” The Wyches by her side goaded Yrliet on, enjoying the taste of fear from her fresh victim, as well as her own hopelessness. “It seems like he’s mute, but perhaps with enough finesse, your blade will still be able to make a melody out of him.”

Yrliet followed their every directive, no longer able to tap onto her own spirit stone for strength. The very thing she was obeying orders to protect shielded her no more. Instead, it hung heavy around her neck, like a prison chain, or maybe an albatross. She had heard the Sha’eil seer use that saying once. When Yrliet expressed confusion, Tiffney admitted her own ignorance and had promised to learn of it so she could explain it to Yrliet at another occasion. Now, she would never have that chance.

“Make him kneel.” She kicked the back of his shaking knees, making him kneel. “Good. Carve your name into his back.” She forced him to kowtow forward, elbows pressed against the ground as she cut lines into his thin back. Even though his muteness caused him to suffer in silence, Yrliet realised that she could still hear it: his suffering, reverberating in her mind like the echo of an old, familiar song. Was this what the Drukhari meant, when they spoke of the melody of pain?

Was she any better than them? Sacrificing anything and everything for the sake of her own survival? Forsaking the only soul in the cold, distant cosmos that had ever shown her kindness?

She could really hear it now. The song. Its quiet notes were still so deafeningly loud that she almost didn’t recognise the sound of Tiffney’s footsteps.

Almost.

Yrliet ran her hand over her face, expecting the spectre of her past to disappear like every other illusion she had indulged in with her fits of madness. And yet, there she stood: lavender eyes, limp in her step, gun in her hands.

She met Tiffney’s gaze with so much shame that it drowned out all her shock. Tiffney’s gun was pointed towards her. It would be so easy, to just give into the elantach’s wrath. It would hurt so much less than this Path of Damnation she was being dragged down, no longer strong enough to kick and scream. “Elantach…”

“Yrliet!” Then, as though Tiffney had stolen one of the dying suns for herself, the light in her soul peaked over dark horizons like the burnt-orange sunset over unfeeling stars. “You are alive!”

Only when Yrliet noticed Tiffney’s smile did the disbelief finally hit her.

“Your voice... do I hear a likeness of jubilation?” If this was another trick of Commorragh, it was the cruellest one yet. Tiffney, however, did not disappear; she only came closer, pale skin streaked with her own dried blood. “But how can that be, elantach? Because of me, you…”

“Did the mon-keigh come for a taste of pain?” Immediately, the Wych by Yrliet’s side shattered her burgeoning hope, reminding her that she was still at their mercy. “Then you must have patience: our little guest still has so much suffering to extract from the first victim... your prey is far from empty, Yrliet! Do not hold back!”

Underneath her, the mute Drukhari began to weep, in tune with the song shrieking within Yrliet’s head. She pulled the knife away from her silent victim and gripped her spirit stone instead, as if it would somehow muffle the noise.

No. That was it. “The suffering... overwhelms me... no more!” Even if it came at the cost of her existence, she would not reduce herself to this. Even if all the elantach’s presence signalled was the end of her life, at the very least, it would come with the end of her pain. Perhaps Tiffney would even have the goodwill left in her to return her spirit stone to Crudarach’s children on Janus. “I cannot bear it any longer!”

“Yrliet.”

But there was far more than goodwill brimming in Tiffney’s voice. “I intend to find a way out of this place,” she spoke, like clear water extinguishing the roaring flames of Yrliet’s soul. It washed against her, cooling the searing-red of her spirit stone, if only a little. “What about you?”

Yrliet took a good, long look at her elantach. “Are you... inviting me to come with you?” Despite everything, Tiffney grinned at her just as warmly as the day she found Yrliet on Janus. “Inviting me to the stars, elantach?”

The moment her spirit stone calmed ever-so-slightly, the Wych beside her grabbed her by the shoulders, making it flare back up in rage. “You are losing focus, sister!” His spittle landed on her face, and somehow, it disgusted her far more than even the tankards of blood she had been forced to spill. “Your spirit stone is at sta--”

Her time with the Drukhari was not all in vain. For one, Yrliet could now kill someone with her bare hands without an ounce of hesitation.

So she sank the blade into the Wych’s irritating throat. His blood burst across the floor like an overripe fruit.

“Enough!” She screamed hard enough to drown out the quieting song. “Enough of this senseless... aimless torture! This is not my Path, and it will never be mine!”

Yrliet drew back towards Tiffney, expecting the other Wyches to go on the attack. But instead, their full attention was focused on the death-throes of their companion, so entranced in his shocked, gasping melody that they seemed blind to the world around them. The mute victim took the opportunity to crawl away-- he would not survive for long, most likely, but for this small moment, he held onto a sliver of hope.

Again, Yrliet found, to not be unlike herself.

“...But first I must ask, elantach…” Once more, she could not bring herself to look directly at Tiffney. From just the corner of her eye, Yrliet could see the claw marks dragged across her elantach’s limbs, and the bloody stains all over her once-vibrant uniform. All physical proof of how Yrliet had hurt her, even if not by her own hand. “After what I did... drive away the night of my blindness with the morning rays of clarity. Have you truly found the strength to forgive me?”

Tiffney’s response came without any hesitation. “Even if you have lost your way, I will be near to help you find it again.” All the pain in Tiffney’s body could not cloud away the brightness of her lavender eyes. “As I said, Yrliet. I do not break my promises. And whatever you need…”

She patted herself on the chest, wincing slightly from the numerous wounds she was pressing onto. It still did nothing to dull her smile. “I’ll get it done for you!”

“Tiffney, you…”

Yrliet’s fingers flew back to her spirit stone, and this time, it managed to comfort her, just barely. For the first time since she realised Crudarach was no more, her soul soared. Even if it was fluttering on broken, bleeding wings, it persevered on, flying valiantly into the warmth of dawn.

This human-- her human-- her elantach. Tiffney. Yrliet can’t remember the last time she felt this happy.

“...My eyes were blind to overlook the generosity of your soul.” But her happiness came with a new wave of grief. How could she have done this? Brought the reason for her happiness to this forsaken place? “If only I had cast off my doubts that had coiled around me like venomous serpents. If only I had sought to share my pain with you... perhaps we would not be standing in the snare of the Dark City now.”

Then, in a smooth, practised motion, she hooked the runaway strands of her emotions and hid them deep within herself. This was not the time to wallow in self-pity. “I know you have many questions for me, Tiffney. And I vow to give you every answer. But please, let us first depart from this terrible place. Away... away from the nightmares that reach their stings into the darkest recesses of my hurting soul!”

“I probably won’t be able to bring you away from Commorragh immediately,” Tiffney laughed, and Yrliet could hear the crackling of her elantach’s bruised ribs, buried underneath the smile of genuine happiness she returned back to Yrliet millionfold. “But I know a place slightly less terrible than being out in the open here! Just don’t piss the Sslyth boss off. Or let him dangle strange worms near your ear. So--”

When Tiffney turned around to lead the way, she kept her head tilted at an angle, as if afraid that Yrliet would disappear the moment she left her sight. “--will you watch my back, Yrliet?”

“Whether it be the foulest beasts of Commorragh to the whispering ghosts within your own soul…” Yrliet stopped herself for a moment, unsure of whether her platitudes were only twisting a knife into Tiffney’s open wounds. But instead, they seem to fall upon Tiffney with the gentleness of a soft embrace, and she lets out a soft, barely audible sigh of relief. “...From this moment on I will protect you from anything that wishes you harm. This, elantach, I swear.”

Chapter 37: c4n.1.M4k3.y0u.l1v3

Chapter Text

----- c4n.1.M4k3.y0u.l1v3

The rivers of blood reach them moments before the smell. It is the closest reminder Yrliet has ever gotten of their time in Commorragh.

“What…?” Heinrix puts a voice to Yrliet’s disbelief before her mind, despite running lightspeeds faster, could even begin to process it all. The cathedral-- the ruined cathedral that they had fought in, that Abelard’s funeral should have been held in, that Nomos had destroyed in one single act of rage. They had never left Foulstone.

And now, it is bathed in more gore and destruction than even the vilest of Drukhari could dream of.

Hundreds of bodies laid ripped, shredded, or even squashed like bugs by an unspeakable force. “Here we are,” Leikia gasps, as if that is not the most f*cking obvious thing in the galaxy. “She’s been tearing through everyone. Even the nobles we’ve agreed to grant immunity to, and… your old travelling companions, Lord Inquisitor van Calox.”

“Impossible,” Yrliet finally says. She doesn’t know where to look: the red streaks that spilled across broken shards like a grotesque caricature of human art in stained glass? Or the flattened plains of ground meat that were clearly crushed to pieces by a C’tan’s hand? Which of the innumerable horrors would be easier on her wailing soul? “My elantach would crawl on bloodied knees and broken bones to the very ends of the universe for her companions. She already had once before. Even if they had stuck a knife in her unwitting back… even if they had betrayed her in the cruellest way possible… she would not resort to-- to this madness!”

If there is any consolation to be had, it is that Leikia does not know how ironic Yrliet’s talk of betrayal was. “That is what Miss Heydari reported. She, the holy Sister and the esteemed Novator have been trying to calm the rampage, but their pleas fall upon deaf ears. The Rogue Trader has been… unresponsive… for the past hour.”

“Hour,” Heinrix repeats, shock slowly being replaced by the same dawning horror on Yrliet’s own face. “An hour. One man cannot possibly cause this much carnage in an hour. That means…”

“Where are they?” Yrliet strains all her senses, and she thinks she can hear them: a muffled din of voices, deep within the ruined cathedral. They were still fighting within. “You said you found Jae. Where?”

“--Motherf*cker!”

Right on cue, Jae Heydari stumbles out of the devastation, none worse for wear except for the blood weighing down her solerets. She ducks behind a shattered piece of the cathedral’s facade, reloading her guns. “When I get my hands on the spineless little Inquisitor that has run off and left us holding the fort on our own in our darkest hour--”

Then, she lifts her head up, cedarwood eyes widening in shock before a dazzling smile spreads across her face. “Oh, our heroes have arrived! And just in time! Yrliet, you are looking far healthier than I expected, but I know better than to look a gift grox in the mouth-- come in, quick, quickly! Cassia and Argenta are putting up a valiant fight, but I’m not sure how long this stalemate will last before somebody kills someone in the process!”

“What do you mean, ‘healthier than expected’?” Yrliet, of course, is wasting no time. She sprints right after Jae, not even bothering-- or even considering the need-- to arm herself. Why would she? This is Tiffney they’re talking about, right? “Was the Lord Inquisitor’s assistant not tasked with informing Tiffney of my recovery?”

“His assistant couldn’t really do that, seeing that she was already dismembering people by the dozens when I got here,” Leikia retorts with a fresh and poisonous tone. “And-- you cannot blame us for the misconception--”

“Misconception, huh?” Jae’s smile wavers slightly. The sounds of fighting grow louder as they approach, and Yrliet can just barely make out her elantach’s voice, familiar yet so strangely discordant with all their shared memories that she feels like she might still be dreaming. “So, was your whole ‘Yrliet’s life is hanging by a thread and she might die at any moment!’ schtick another one of your convenient little lies that we’ve been talking about, Heinrix?”

“What?” Yrliet almost pauses in her frantic step to stare at Heinrix. “You--”

“It was not a lie,” he argues, charging forward with a power sword already unsheathed. “Yrliet had one foot in the grave when we dragged her out of the fight. We worked around the clock to save her life.”

Jae chuckles in a thoroughly unconvinced manner. “Then why did your Interrogator find it necessary to pre-empt us with an explanation about it?” At that, Leikia looks fit to burst into a string of colourful curses. “I can certainly believe she was knocking on death’s door. At first. Maybe not so much after the, oh, five long days you’ve kept us all in the dark? With not a word of communication?”

“--You were keeping your options open,” Yrliet says, coldly. Heinrix does not meet her furious gaze. “As a failsafe, in the case I gave you an answer you were not happy with. So you could get rid of me without raising suspicion!”

Heinrix finally looks her in the eye, and his anger comes second only to his melancholy. “You are free to hate me for all I’ve done. But all the steps I’ve taken in the past sixty years have been for Tiffney’s sake--”

“Hah!” Jae is laughing, now, with such candid wrath that it only fuels Yrliet’s own thousandfold. “Hah! Hahahah! All for her sake, you say? Look at this! You cornered the Rogue Trader like a wounded animal, demanded that she kill all the people she fought off the Drukhari to protect, lied about Yrliet’s condition so you could kill her yourself if you so pleased-- don’t you dare turn away from me, you sh*t-stained son of a sekhek and a sewer rat! The old man-- her father had just died, and she hadn’t even had the chance to bury his corpse before you told her she was to kill ten thousand more! Have you not seen the light fade from her eyes while you heartlessly calculated how many dropships you needed in order to discreetly dispose of all the bodies? Acting like you were a soulless little cog, worse than even the ‘Messiah of Discontinuing’ burning a path of fire through a million unheard lives! But you-- you, Heinrix! You and I both know that her mind-cleansing would never last, but I never expected you to be the one that pushes her across the brink! How could you do this to her?”

“Silence!” Leikia shouts over Jae’s words, but all it earns her is a mighty smack of the older lady’s hand across her cheek. She staggers back, seething but hardly surprised. “You… you have no right to speak to the Lord Inquisitor in that way!”

“Little ashmag, I will talk to him in whatever way I want,” Jae retorts. “This blood-- all this blood, it’s on your hands, Heinrix. Tiffney will think it’s hers, if we can even snap her back to normal, God-Emperor willing, but this is your weight to carry. And I know what you’ll say-- that you’ve shouldered greater sins for lesser victories-- though, I’m sure even you know how f*cking dire this sh*t is. You say you did this all for Tiffney? Not even for her protectorate? Alright, then-- then, get her back. Die for it if you have to! You…”

“I will get her back,” Yrliet says, one reclaimed promise that cuts across the din and leaves Jae falling silent. “I will save her. From the mortal men who wish her harm and the whispering ghosts within her soul. Even if it comes at the cost of my own…”

Yrliet shudders. The cold hand of Sai’lanthresh seems to pass through her, somehow materialising in realspace, taunting her with an obscene laugh as she steps closer to the crumbling inner halls. Tiffney is shouting, for something, or someone, in the same cadence that she screams Yrliet’s name whenever her elantach thinks she is in danger. It roars out of the still-echoing chambers with the desperation of a woman begging at the foot of an unfeeling god. Or maybe the righteous fury of a woman who controls one.

After all, those crushed corpses were the work of Nomos.

Yrliet shoves the cracked doors open, and the ruined cathedral remains seem to wail around her in tune with Argenta’s bullets.

“Lady Orsellio, watch out!” Argenta dashes backward with the grace of a dancer, entrapped in a deadly waltz with a beast. A beast with frazzled blonde hair, shimmering purple eyes and wearing her elantach’s face.

It lunges forward, wielding her chainsword, howling in her voice. “Take cover behind me!” Out of sight, Argenta slams something, and Cassia lets out a cry of shock. Argenta is left to face Tiffney on her own, and when her next round of shots miss entirely, she throws herself forward as Cassia’s shield, raising her gun above her head to shield against Tiffney’s savage blow.

Tiffney’s chainsword finds purchase, jagged teeth chewing through Argenta’s old bolter and sawing it in half. It cleaves into Argenta’s power armour, becoming momentarily stuck on its polished carapaces before Argenta kicks her away, sending her sprawling onto her back. “--Only a little longer! Back-up has arrived! Praise the God-Emperor! Everyone, we must return this lost soul to His grace--”

The reprieve is short-lived. Yrliet can barely get three steps closer before Tiffney leaps back up onto her feet like a puppet yanked up on strings, and if she did not know better, she would have thought her elantach was possessed by some sort of monstrous daemon. And perhaps she would be right, but this demon was of a personal, and not warp-based nature.

“Where the f*ck is she!?” Tiffney’s pleas ring through the shattered hall with the keening of a banshee. Yrliet recoils, as if struck, and so do the numerous innocents hiding in the dusty corners, attempting to make themselves small in the presence of their uncontrollable Lord Captain. “Show me to her! Show me to her, or I will gut you myself, cook your heart into her stew and leave your entrails to the bilge roaches! Where--”

She whips her head around, meeting Yrliet’s trembling gaze, and, for a moment, she stops. Her hair is an absolute mess. Yrliet wants to run her fingers through it and flicks the blood away from every strand, as if tenderness alone could somehow undo the damage done this day.

And then, in an action more painful than if Tiffney had simply killed her the day they reunited in the spires of Commorragh, Tiffney looks away.

Of course she looks away. She’s not looking for Yrliet-- she’s chasing old ghosts, ones that were flesh and bone when she was still Lieutenant General Scipio-Grimald, Commander of the 8th Army of the Scanthian Janissaries. Companions who existed by her side in the days where she earned the title Carver of Calixis, whose hands committed deeds so wicked and unforgivable that even the wretched voices of Sha’eil could not stop screaming.

There is no time for Yrliet to mend the bleeding wound Tiffney’s lack of recognition tears into her racing heart. At the end of everything, she had made a promise.

And Yrliet would sooner die all over again than break another promise.

“Elantach!” She calls out first, but it ricochets off the walls in utter vain. Tiffney pays more attention to the gunshots from Jae’s pistols than Yrliet’s long-beloved name for her. Her elantach stares Jae down like a wild animal, and Tiffney kicks Jae squarely in the stomach, sending Jae falling onto her back. The only reason the teeth of her chainsword doesn’t find purchase in Jae’s flesh is because Leikia blasts Tiffney backwards with a burst of telekinetic energy.

Yrliet’s heart stills, for a moment, thinking Tiffney might impale herself upon her own sword-- but no. She lands perfectly on her feet, not deterred in the slightest. “She moves like a f*cking cat,” Jae curses, before Heinrix helps her back onto her feet. “We need a plan, because we’re already tried tiring her out, and it’s not--”

“Hold her still for me.”

Yrliet’s command cuts through the panic. “I will delve into her soul and pull her back from its edges, but you must hold her still for me.” With that, she takes a step forward, not a bit afraid for her life. Not even when Tiffney roars at her and begins running straight at Yrliet. Even now, Yrliet knows her elantach would never hurt her-- she just needs to remember that. “Now, mon-keigh!”

Heinrix exhales sharply. “I thought you stopped using that word.”

And then, he runs right into Tiffney’s path, stopping her dead in her tracks.

Stopping a charging bull is not easy. This time, it comes with the cost of Heinrix’s right arm, now attached by only a sliver of flesh. But as her chainsword saws through his bone, he seizes the opportunity to restrain her, and his remaining hand grabs Tiffney’s right wrist.

He only holds her still for a split-second, but that’s all the time they need. Argenta comes in first, making a mad dash for the chainsword. She almost succeeds in ripping it out of Tiffney’s hands, but her elantach’s death-grip is too much to overcome. But then, Jae uses the distraction to come in, and she hugs Tiffney from behind. Not affectionately; it’s more like a chokehold, with enough force to pin Tiffney’s arms to her sides. “Need to get these arms replaced,” Jae laughs, her mechanical arms bending under the power of Tiffney’s rage. “Legs, legs-- get her legs!”

Leikia pins Tiffney’s legs together, but even with all the people desperately holding her back, it’s clear she won’t be restrained for long. Already, Tiffney almost frees her wrists from Heinrix’s bleeding grasp, chainsword shaking in union with her throes.

“Let me go, you animals! Pathetic, snivelling, fresh corpses for my pyre!” Of all the things that were agonisingly unfamiliar, Tiffney’s anger sounds just about right. It trembles in all the same ways as the Tiffney that Yrliet knows. “Where have you taken her? Where…”

Tiffney’s fury simmers down when Yrliet touches the side of her cheek. Warp-touched lavender flickers in Tiffney’s eyes, lighting up like sunset rays breaking through thick clouds when she finds Yrliet. “My wife,” Tiffney gasps out, and Yrliet bites down on her tongue to remind herself that Tiffney is not talking to her. Swallows down all her own misery as Tiffney searches for someone who no longer exists. “Where is my wife?”

“Elantach.” This time, Tiffney responds, genuinely meeting Yrliet’s gaze. Green shades of aurora borealis wash over darkened skies. “Look at me. Mo chridhe, look at me.”

A long, long moment of silence. Yrliet’s adrenaline starts to wither, and in the haze, her mind begins to entertain the forbidden possibility that this might not work.

But, just as quickly as the despair sets in, hope frightens it away: Tiffney’s gaze softens, and Yrliet can see it shining, the outline of her small, human soul, like a candle on the verge of blowing out. This is not at all the ideal venue to sink into meditation, but Yrliet doesn’t have any more time to waste. Not if she wants the Tiffney she knows to ever come back.

So, she holds her breath, and she dives in.

This time, the waves that wash over Yrliet do not feel cooling. They burn her, like fire, or maybe acid. Like a downpour of bloody tears.

Yes, tears. This poison burns like grief. Yrliet supposes this grief has always been here, hidden under a barely-concealed door, just as heavy as it must have been in the time when Tiffney still remembered.

“--Yrliet.”

Yrliet surfaces, and lets out a sharp gasp.

Tiffney’s inner world is beautiful. It is finally free from material memory, divorced from marble floors and iron walls. It is a garden, not so unlike Yrliet’s own, covered in flowers she has never before seen and trees that almost resembled the shape of human skyscrapers.

And everything is dying.

“Elantach!” Yrliet rises, and only then does she find Tiffney: kneeling there, on a shore of white sand, stained pink with murky red water. She’s wounded, she’s-- o, merciful Isha, she’s bleeding all over. This bloodied sea was hers. Her sense of self was crumbling into pieces before Yrliet’s very eyes.

Yrliet races towards Tiffney, and then, she sees it:

The door.

The door is open. Ajar on old, rusted hinges. Only slightly, but just enough for hands to curl out of the space, flesh falling off snow-white bones. A stray thought: Aeldari bones are the same colour as a human’s. They will not look very different, when the both of them are dead and gone and rotted into the soil till there is nothing but a tangle of old bones where love once was. “Begone!” Yrliet shouts at ghosts of Tiffney’s past, but they do not have reason to fear her. Because Yrliet is here now and these memories exist only in the time long past.

Yrliet splashes onto the white sands, ignoring the way Tiffney’s bleeding ocean burns against her skin. No amount of physical pain could overcome the panic in Yrliet’s soul. “Tiffney,” she breathes, and Tiffney’s face is buried in her hands, but when Yrliet comes closer, she looks up. Her fingers fall onto the sands, and though Tiffney’s face is almost unrecognisable-- raw, red, terrifying, melted away like sunset rays diffracting onto ocean waves-- Yrliet would recognise those eyes of hers anywhere. “Tiffney… Tiffney, mo chridhe.”

When Yrliet stretches her hand out, all of Tiffney’s old ghosts suddenly acknowledge her presence. All at once, they lay ashen hands onto Tiffney’s disintegrating body, trying to lull her away from Yrliet. “I will save you,” Yrliet promises, and her fingers linger close to Tiffney’s melting face. A piece of skin drip-drops only Yrliet’s finger, and it practically eats through her like magma. Yrliet smiles anyway. “Elantach, take my hand. I will take you away from these memories. I will chase these ghosts back into the past you have left behind, and I will seal them away where they belong. I will find every lost piece of you and return them, little by little.”

Yrliet waits for Tiffney’s response. It feels a little familiar. It reminds her of the day she let Tiffney back into her soul, walking with her across the garden, letting Tiffney’s breath flit across her leaves. She remembers holding her hand out to Tiffney, wordlessly, happily, waiting for her to take it. And she knew Tiffney would take it, shyly, rather excitedly, fingers curling against Yrliet’s own--

“Yrliet, let me go.”

Yrliet feels Tiffney’s inner world constrict around her like a viper. “What?”

“My love.” The purple of Tiffney’s eyes are the only thing that remains of her disappearing self. “My love, the door is more than just memories. In my soul, it’s… it’s tangible, real. It can hurt you.”

“Tiffney!” Yrliet yells, almost enraged. Not at Tiffney. Maybe, maybe-- a little bit-- but, as Yrliet reaches out and grabs Tiffney’s hands of her own accord, she realises that this anger boiling in her soul is directed at the cruelty of the universe playing out around them. “Do you think I am afraid of getting hurt, Tiffney? Do you think I would have come here, delved into the whimpering depths of your soul, if I was not willing to do anything to save you? Elantach, mo chridhe, I will save you from the past that threatens to take your future away. But I cannot do it alone. This is your soul-- you must take the first step yourself--”

“You know,” Tiffney sighs, and within the pulsing, fleshy vessels that made us her face, Yrliet thinks she can see a smile. “It cannot be closed forever. No matter how hard I try to hold it back.”

“So you will stop trying?” Yrliet wraps her arms around Tiffney’s limp body, and she grits her teeth as Tiffney’s melting flesh sears against her skin, but it is nothing, nothing at all compared to the fear of losing her to things behind the door. She tears Tiffney away from the ghostly hands that hope to drag her into the abyss to lie with them. “Elantach, you fool! We cannot postpone death for eternity, but that does not mean we should simply bow our heads and accept its kiss! Tiffney, I--”

It’s definitely strangling her, now. This grief. Yrliet never thought a human soul could sing with so much emotion. “I am not ready,” Yrliet admits, and her own tears roll down her face, like spring rain falling on still-smoking ashes. “To let you go. To see you melted down to nothing and remoulded with a past you have not faced in sixty years. Please, mo chridhe. Please…”

“Mo chridhe.” Tiffney repeats it on her nonexistent tongue. It echoes around Tiffney’s wilting forest, in the same way winds whistle through ashen trees to breathe life back into burnt forests. “What does that mean? I don’t have an elucidator in my soul.”

“...My heart,” Yrliet explains. She brings Tiffney’s body away from the door and all its crawling hands, instead laying her at the start of the lapping waves. The red of the sea seems to return blood into Tiffney’s body, rather than wash it away. “It means ‘my heart’, elantach. You are my heart.”

“Oh.” Tiffney chuckles, light and airy, yet so much older than the day they first met. “Oh, I see. It would be really bad if your heart falls apart, huh? I guess I shouldn’t disappear yet.”

Tiffney tilts her head up.

And, just like that, her inner world roars back to life, protesting its erasure.

Yrliet has seen this before: in her own soul, when she was a child and had just learnt that her inner world could look whatever way she wanted it to. She made it burst into flames, then become overgrown with roses, before washing it all away in the mud and rain. None of it fit, not yet; but the change was what Yrliet needed to go through. One’s inner world only shifts in such drastic ways when they have realised something vitally important, or have resolved themselves into something that encapsulates their entire being.

The flowers bloom back into thorns and long leaves. The trees and their branches curl like arms in an embrace. They twist themselves around the door of Tiffney’s decades-long mind-cleansing, pushing it closed gently, taking care to not stress its old, overwrought hinges. "I didn't know I could do that," Tiffney mutters to herself. "Huh."

When the door clicks to a close, all the old ghosts disappear in an eye-blink, along with the looming doorframe. It almost feels as if the entire ordeal was all a bad dream.

“I won’t be able to hold it back forever.” But of course not. Things would never be so easy. “I’m going to have to face it one day.”

Yrliet can see the shape of a mouth forming back onto Tiffney’s face, and the seam of her lips weld themselves back onto bleeding flesh with a smile. “We will face it. Together.” Yrliet’s hands, still wrapped around Tiffney, linger for just a while longer. “Now that I know your old memories must one day return, I will prepare. And in the future, when the sealing wards over a long-gone past finally lose their strength, we will be ready. But not now. Not here, when you are already wracked in grief, and can hardly stand to be reintroduced to old wounds.”

“You have such a way with words,” Tiffney says, dreamily. Yrliet chuckles, if only because she herself is so wholly smitten that she doesn't even mind the way Tiffney’s inner world bleeds into her own, shifting it in ways imperceptible to everyone except Yrliet herself. “And, Yrliet, I didn’t get a chance to say earlier, but…”

The soft planes of Tiffney’s face reassemble themselves, bringing back the one that Yrliet has known and loves entirely. She will have to be melted down fully, one day, and reshaped with bits and pieces, sewn together with old to new; but for now, for today, the door is closed, and they have no need to reckon with an unreckonable past.

“...I’m so glad you’re alive… you idiot!” Then, Tiffney stomps on the white sands, turning them into molten cinders. Ah. “What in the God-Emperor’s name was that, just throwing yourself in-between me and Marazhai’s knife?!”

Yrliet turns away, chastised. “I did not want you to be hurt, mo chridhe.”

“Yrliet, do you know how many medical facilities they have for humans?!” Tiffney points at herself incredulously. “Do you know how many spare organs, limbs and other bits-n’-bobs I carry around for myself alone?! My brain could get blasted out of its skull and it could still be kept alive on tubes and pure Imperial fervour while I get my whole body remade like a gory jigsaw puzzle!”

Then, Tiffney jabs Yrliet in the arm with irritation. “Now, with that said, do you know how many people I have on hand that can heal life-threatening injuries to an Aeldari? Not for lack of trying, mind you! I probably have the most comprehensive human-side medical team for Aeldari, with how I’ve integrated your people into Janus and all, but-- look, it’s literally just Heinrix, okay? It’s just Heinrix! So please, NEVER do something as stupid as that again!”

Yrliet finds herself suddenly feeling guilty for all the times when she’d dragged Tiffney by the ear and scolded her for similarly foolish actions. “I… am sorry, Tiffney. I was acting on instinct… Tiffney?”

“You’d better be sorry,” Tiffney sniffs. In the few seconds when Yrliet was looking away, she’d started crying her eyes out. “I’ll never forgive you if you die because of something as stupid as protecting me!”

This time, Yrliet can’t accept that. “Protecting you is hardly an unintelligent choice. It is a promise, elantach, that I would never go back on. Your life is precious, and I will protect it with my own.”

“But--!”

“That is non-negotiable.”

Then, bringing her hands up to rub the tears away from Tiffney’s reformed face: “You are putting yourself down because you feel you have allowed me to be hurt,” Yrliet surmises. Tiffney stares at her, still tearing up, before nodding slowly. “But that is not something you give permission for, elantach. You are used to governing all within your domain, but you cannot govern my choices. I love you, mo chridhe, my heart. So I will protect you with my life. That is my choice.”

Tiffney pauses between her sobs to choke. “You’re-- just-- going to-- say it like that?”

Yrliet tilts her head. “Say what, Tiffney?”

“The--” Tiffney gestures wildly, her sadness briefly interrupted by the surging heat in her cheeks. “You-- that you-- you… love…”

“I love you, Tiffney.” Yrliet tilts her head in the other direction. “Did we not share our vows when I was stabbed?”

“Share our what? I--” As Tiffney descends into a bubbling wreck, her inner world seems to regrow itself on her happiness. “I mean, yes, we did say that to each other when you were f*cking dying in my arms, but I didn’t… I, ah, uh, sh*t, I’m f*cking this up, what am I doing?! I…!”

Tiffney turns 180 degrees, smacks herself in the face, and turns back to Yrliet with a shaky smile. “Iloveyou,” she says, a bit too quickly, before taking a quick breath and repeating herself. “I… love you, Yrliet. Darling. …Is it okay if I call you that? I can just stick to Yrliet, if…”

“Continue referring to me by name in front of others.” Yrliet cannot even imagine the look on people’s faces if Tiffney started calling her ‘darling’ out in the open. It’s somewhat mortifying, in a sickeningly sweet way that Yrliet was unused to dealing with. “But, when we are alone… as we are in your soul… you may refer to me however you wish.”

“Okay,” Tiffney nods. Yrliet knows it is because they are within her inner world, but somehow, it seems like Tiffney’s youthfulness has returned to her all at once. She is glowing as brightly as the days leading up to her coronation, before they ever set foot in the Dark City. “Okay. Got it. …Ah, darling. Heheh.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“Of course I’m enjoying this!” Tiffney scoffs, slightly affronted. “You just told me you love me. And I love you too. I’ve… loved you for a long time. You probably have, too. …We should talk about things like this more often.”

“Perhaps,” Yrliet hums, enjoying the breeze. At some point, the bloodied ocean had cleaned itself to be as clear as the blue, blue sky. “When we return to the real world, elantach.”

Tiffney shuffles her feet. “Now? …Can we stay here a bit longer?”

“You have been through an exhausting event,” Yrliet states, and now, it’s her turn to chide Tiffney. “Your soul needs time to rest. And it cannot do so when you are hiding within it. As wonderful as it is, to experience the serenity you have found in your inner world… we must return to reality.”

“Alright, alright…” Tiffney shakes her head, before turning towards the blue sea. “I bet everyone’s fighting over our comatose bodies, anyway. Better go back before they start killing each other.”

“Then, take a deep breath,” Yrliet directs, for the thousandth time. And, for the first time, Tiffney takes Yrliet’s hand while she does so, and Yrliet is more than happy to entwine their fingers together. “And…”

Once more, Yrliet opens her eyes.

Tiffney is lying on top of her, slowly waking. Their clothes are both soaked in cold blood. “They’re waking up,” someone whispers-- Jae, most likely. “Good morning, my two sleeping beauties! Had a good nap? Slept off all your murderous tendencies?”

“Fff*ck off,” Tiffney slurs, pulling herself off Yrliet.

Jae lets out a crisp laugh. “That’s her, alright! She’s back!”

“And hopefully no longer chasing a spectre,” Heinrix mutters. He sounds exasperated, and yet, he pays Tiffney far more attention than the arm he should be focusing on reattaching to his body. “How are you feeling, Lord Captain?”

“Horrible,” Tiffney grumbles, pulling herself to her feet. Yrliet follows after her, already missing the intimacy of being alone in her soul. “But also, I have something to tell you.”

Heinrix straightens up. “Yes?”

“On the orders of Rogue Trader Tiffney von Valancius…” Tiffney slams her chainsword against the ground commandingly. “...we shall NOT be taking any more lives! All the witnesses to Nomos’ glory shall be allowed to live!”

All of Heinrix’s relief vanishes. “Throne take me.”

Chapter 38: f0r.t3n.th0u54nd.y34r5

Chapter Text

----- f0r.t3n.th0u54nd.y34r5

“Yrliet, I’m back! And I’ve got something to show you.” Whispering with a counterintuitive amount of loudness, Tiffney unbuttoned her cloak proudly. “Ta-dah! Look at all the food I managed to swipe!”

Yrliet’s gaze slowly lined up with that Tiffney was pointing at. In the dim light of the Pit that had become their unlikely refuge, she could just barely make out the handfuls of wet flesh Tiffney had stuffed into her silk-lined pockets. “I found a bunch of Drukhari gutting some kind of dead animal,” Tiffney chittered merrily, before producing a chipped iron pan from the bottom of her tattered rucksack. “And I managed to make off with this, too! We’ll be able to eat something besides the suspicious protein paste Malice throws at us like bird feed… let me just set up the heat source!”

Humming cheerfully to herself, Tiffney bundled a handful of cloth and ropes together before encircling the kindling with an assortment of random rubble. “Now I just need to start the fire.” Pulling out a strange Drukhari device that looked to be a cross between a gun and a hose, she tapped on its obsidian nozzle with a smile. “I’m sure I can figure out how to use this!”

She pointed it down at the kindling. “Elantach…” Yrliet pulled back, wisely, as Tiffney fumbled around to find the device’s activation switch. “Make some distance between--”

Tiffney clicked the button and proceeded to blast a ball of fire into the ground.

“Oh God-Emperor’s Almighty nutsa*ck--!” With a series of curses, Tiffney collapsed backwards, tossing the flamethrower away. It sputtered out without input, and Tiffney began to desperately slap away the small fire on her sleeves. “Is everything touched by Drukhari hands so overdone and excessive?!”

Wordlessly, Yrliet noted the flames creeping up the ends of Tiffney’s hair, and how she seemed completely oblivious to them. Yrliet reached her hands into a pot of water before splashing Tiffney’s head to extinguish the fire.

“Hey!” With a start, Tiffney turned her head back to look at Yrliet sheepishly. “I know my hair’s a mess, even more so than usual, but… oh, hey! It worked!”

The makeshift cooking fire Tiffney scraped together was, indeed, burning nicely. With a gleeful clap of her hands, Tiffney placed the chipped pot on top and began tossing handfuls of squelching meat into it. Behind her, some of the arena fighters were snickering; though Yrliet did her best to ignore them, she could not ignore the way her soul lurched in anger.

She knew very well that she and Tiffney were the most pathetic of the already pathetic souls that lived here. Feeding off drippings from the honeyed hands of Commorragh’s upper echelons, left to fight and die to fill a better Drukhari’s belly.

Tiffney, for what it was worth, didn’t care. Or was completely oblivious to it. Nonetheless, her elantach happily jabbed away at the mystery meat stewing on her pan, looking absolutely delighted with herself. “It smells good,” Tiffney chirped.

Yrliet leaned over. Truthfully, it did not smell good. It smelled like the vilest piss on this side of the webway. But Yrliet had been forced by her journeys through the stars to eat whatever edible item she could find, and even ignoring that, the Wyches who had been her ‘tutors’ until just recently had… fed her certain objects that would make eating raw animal flesh a luxury in comparison.

Stewing the meat in its own fat and blood, Tiffney poked at it with a repurposed Hekatarii Blade Yrliet had been carrying with her. How Yrliet’s captor would seethe, to know that the beloved knife she had gifted Yrliet was now being used as a glorified spatula.

“It’s done!” Then, Tiffney lifted the pan off the flames with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “At least, I think it’s done. I’m sure I’ve cooked the meat enough to kill whatever parasitic worms were living inside it. Anyway…”

Skewering the browned meat with the blade, Tiffney brought it out of the pan… and towards Yrliet’s face. “You should eat first. You must be starving.”

Yrliet stared at her elantach with an appropriate amount of disbelief for the situation at hand. “I…”

Even now? Yrliet’s eyes then moved to the smoking meat, too full of shame to look at Tiffney for any longer. After I have condemned you to rot here, in the bowels of the Dark City… you would show me this hospitality?

“Oh! Wait!”

Tiffney drew back the blade, changing her mind. “I should test it for poison first, right? That must be why you’re hesitating.”

“That is not the reason why,” Yrliet muttered. “I only… elantach?”

Before Yrliet could finish, Tiffney bit off a huge mouthful of juicy meat, chewing it greedily in her mouth.

And then promptly turned her head, ran to the side and began throwing up over the edge.

“Uuuurrrghaahack!” The inglorious sounds from Tiffney’s gagging mouth was joined in by the raucous laughter of other Drukhari. Even the Sslyth seated on his grimy throne joined in. “f*ck! Fuuuck! Kill me now! That was NOT what I expected it to taste like! I…”

Weakly, Tiffney turned back to look at Yrliet’s wide, worried eyes.

Then, upon noticing Yrliet’s concern, flashed her a fake grin and a shaky thumbs-up. “It’s… no problem! Let’s… let’s just stick to the protein pills.”

“Elantach, if you need anything…” Yrliet withdrew her hand, not quite realising her hand was outstretched in the first place. When Tiffney began gagging, Yrliet’s instinctual reaction was to reach forward and pat her on the back, but when her conscious mind caught up with her, Yrliet’s fingers stopped short before touching her body.

“I’m fine,” Tiffney insisted, wiping the puke from her mouth. “Really! I’ve eaten worse. Or at least, I think I have. Heh… good thing you didn’t eat that first.”

Returning to Yrliet’s side, Tiffney unceremoniously grabbed the pot and dumped the remaining meat off the edge, to land on whatever poor fool was walking below this layer of Commorragh’s spires. “I’ll find some real food,” Tiffney suddenly promised. “Eventually.”

“You do not need to concern yourself with that, elantach.” Yrliet splashed the cooking fire with muddy water, helping to extinguish them for Tiffney. “Besides, if you truly come across a better source of food, the one who should be indulging themselves is you.”

“No,” Tiffney denied flatly with a shake of her head. “We’ll both share whatever we find. We’re in this together, remember?”

The bright smile Tiffney put on did little to quell the turmoil in Yrliet’s heart.

But, for a moment, Yrliet did smile back, if only out of irony. “So, in the end… old promises have come to be fulfilled in the most unusual way. You did taste my food for poison.”

Tiffney blinked at Yrliet. “Huh?”

“It is what you offered to do for me,” Yrliet explained, oddly disappointed that Tiffney could not immediately remember. “During our first real conversation aboard your iron-winged vessel.”

“...Was it?” And Tiffney, in contrast, seemed delighted by the fact that Yrliet remembered. “Well… I guess you’re right. Of course. I’ll always make good on my promises.”

That declaration left a bitter taste in Yrliet’s mouth. She drew her knees closer to her chest, trying to quell the latest bruising it left on her soul. “You do,” Yrliet sighed, knowing that her elantach was right. “You do.”

Tiffney looked at Yrliet, somewhat confused, before glancing awkwardly at the ground. “Sorry. That wasn’t the right thing to say. I guess I haven’t… fulfilled the first promise I made to you.”

You have, Yrliet almost shouted, hiding the words behind gritted teeth. You took me to the stars, elantach. To every stray thread in the universe.

It was not your fault that the threads slipped like grains of sand between my fingers. That my kin were only to be found dead within them.

“Yrliet, I…” Tiffney took a deep breath. “I have something to confess.”

Yrliet lent Tiffney her full attention. “I will hear whatever you wish to say.”

“Do you remember all the things I told you about my past? About being from Cadia, and getting taken from my homeworld in its darkest hour.” Tiffney huffed loudly, trying to force herself into finally sharing the truth. “All of that was a lie.”

“I know,” Yrliet responded, a little too quickly.

Tiffney’s head whipped around quickly enough for her blood-matted hair to slap onto Yrliet’s arm. “What?”

“I also have a confession to make.” One of many, she thought, miserably. “I have been eavesdropping on the members of your crew, elantach. My… Path, before I had lost it, pushed me towards the pursuit of the unknown. But I could not ask anyone of the questions I held, although I realise now that I could have always asked you. So I kept silent in the dark and listened to what your crew had to say. And certain conversations… discussed the strangeness of your past.”

“That’s certainly one way to say it,” Tiffney sighed, sounding rather relieved. “So you know a little. Yes, Yrliet, you’re right; the stories I’ve told of my past are strange indeed. It’s because I don’t remember any of it.”

Tiffney clicked her tongue. “To clarify, I believe I remember some of it… my childhood and girldom, up until I was about fifteen years of age. After that, there are long holes in my memory, as though someone had hacked through the string of my life with the enthusiasm of an Ork with a cleaver. Hacked through them, and then filled the gaps with implanted memories that still feel so real I have trouble remembering they are not. I recall faint things… I recall leaving Cadia for the first time, and taking to the stars. I remember… hearing of its fall, but not when, and how. I remember…”

With an air of heaviness, Tiffney raised her hands. They are riddled with little cuts and bruises from their time in Commorragh. “The feeling of blood on my hands,” she whispered. “Warm, then cold, then warm again. Over and over. Faint glimpses of… things that would put even the horrors we have witnessed here to shame. Things that I’d done, for reasons I can’t begin to fathom.”

“I have heard of that as well.” Yrliet pursed her lips. “When I saw a shard of my home mounted on your wall, I had… assumed your past self had a hand in Crudarach’s destruction.”

“...While that piece of Crudarach was hung up by my predecessor, and I supposedly did not have the destruction of a craftworld tacked onto my long list of past sins, I… I can’t say in good faith that I definitely didn’t do it. Because I don’t remember.” Tiffney chuckled bitterly to herself. “Except I do, sometimes. Very, very briefly. It leaves me, quickly enough, but for those brief moments-- I’m a rather frightening person. And I don’t want to be one, Yrliet. I don’t. So when people offered to help me undo the locks on my box of lost memories, I refused them.”

Tiffney tilted her head to her side, and her hair slipped off the edge of Yrliet’s shoulder. “I don’t want to go back. To being a monster.”

“I would not like that either,” Yrliet responded, and Tiffney’s stiff body relaxed slightly. “I… like you as you are now, elantach.”

“You like me?” Tiffney laughed to herself in amusem*nt, though Yrliet didn’t quite understand the subtext to her little joke. “Sorry, sorry. Thank you, Yrliet. That helps to reassure me in my decision. It wasn’t exactly a hard one to make… but I do wonder, sometimes… if everything I remember is faked. If even my childhood dreams of home are fantasies.”

“Elantach…”

“But I guess it’s fine, right?” Tiffney leaned her head back, staring up at the needle-thin towers of Commorragh. “Even if everything I know is just a fantasy. Fairytales and legends, they all exist for a reason, right? To make us happy. To believe in the hope of something better. Better than the f*cking reality that we’re all living in the sh*t and struggle day-to-day just waiting to die.”

Tiffney bit down on her lower lip. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get all depressing.”

“You cannot hide everything behind a smile.” Yrliet felt hypocritical the moment those words left her mouth, but even so, she knew Tiffney needed the reminder. “You must face your despair, elantach. It is a beast you must pacify from time to time, and that can only be done by admitting its existence. If you attempt to hide it away… keep it chained to a leash within the chambers of your soul… eventually, it will break free. And when that happens, it will… overwhelm you.”

“Did it overwhelm you, Yrliet?” And, just like that, Tiffney asked the only question Yrliet could answer.

And answer she does, no matter how painfully the words burn her tongue. “Entirely.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I could have done something…”

“You could not have, elantach. From the moment I spotted Crudarach’s shard on the walls of your abode, I shut you out. I shut you out, and… I led you here. And I have paid the price for my foolishness with the destruction of my own soul.”

It was here now. The despair. It was always with her, of course-- from the very moment she realised Crudarach was no more than a whisper of a memory-- but it washed over her like waves on a turbulent sea, and now, she was sinking underneath. She tried to swim her way to the surface, but the seaweed tangled itself around her legs, as long as the whispers of She Who Thirsts now crawling their way into her mind--

“What’s next?”

Yrliet, temporarily dragged out of her mental spiral, blinked slowly. “Next…?”

“Yes, we are certainly in Commorragh,” Tiffney stated, totally frank. “Your home is destroyed, and I might not even remember mine. We cannot find any other members of my retinue, and we may be facing the wrath of the Drukhari on our own. We have been reduced to begging for mercy from the very creatures we once killed in droves. So… after this… what’s next?”

Then, pointedly, with a brand new smile that didn’t seem faked: “Surely you don’t mean to just give up and die here, right, Yrliet? You promised we would find a way out of this sh*thole together.”

“I…” Yrliet’s lips stayed parted, lost for words. “I did.”

“So we need to think about what’s next,” Tiffney commanded. “Whether it be revenge, freedom, or even returning home… it doesn’t matter if it’s all just a fairytale. All of those things exist for a reason. To give us dreams, right? Without dreams, humanity would’ve never come this far-- or fallen this low, I suppose. And your people, too, would have never conquered the stars. The stars, Yrliet-- it is said that humans once only lived on Holy Terra, but they dreamed of new homes amongst the stars. So, in the absence of our old homes, we now have to share fairytales about new ones. We have to, or we’ll never make it out of here-- humanity would’ve never made it off Holy Terra. Maybe for the better, but we’ve approximately forty thousand years too late to regret that now.”

Silence. If the people around them were listening in, they would have definitely started laughing again-- Tiffney’s undying optimism was not looked upon kindly by souls bereft of hope.

But, for a single, merciful moment, everyone seemed to share in the weighty silence. A silence that allowed Yrliet take in Tiffney’s word.

“So tell me about your home, Yrliet.” Tiffney was not asking about Crudarach. She was not even asking about the survivor’s hideaway on Janus, or the barebones room Yrliet had left behind on her elantach’s ship. Tiffney was asking Yrliet to dream, she realised; to think on what was next, even if the stairway to heaven was as immaterial as the whiteness of vapour-clouds. Her elantach was asking Yrliet to dream of a future-past that would never exist.

And, inexplicably, she indulged her.

“The flowers in the garden are in full bloom,“ Yrliet recited, mechanically, and then almost desperately, recalling the faded shapes of each petal sprouting from the flowerpots her father always had crammed in their quarters. “We live near the biome of eternal spring in pursuit of the everlasting meadows, but it means the heat of the artificial sun is always burning down our backs. Today, the weather is particularly abysmal. You… you are lying on the floor, complaining about the heat.”

“...I am there, then?” For all her powerful words just moments ago, Yrliet has now left Tiffney sounding breathless. “I am part of your home?”

Yrliet looked away. She was not quite looking at Tiffney at all, but now her eyes wandered purposefully, as if the twilight of Commorragh would somehow give her the answer she could not find within herself. For lack of a better response, she decided to say: “Do you not want to be, elantach?”

“No, no, I… I am more than happy to be a part of you,” Tiffney said, so easily that Yrliet almost laughed at the irony of it. “Sorry. Continue, Yrliet. Please.”

“You are lying on the floor,” she repeated, and she can almost imagine Tiffney there, sprawled out on wraithbone tiles with beads of sweat trailing down her pale face, dripping onto her golden hair. She felt so utterly alien in her memories of Crudarach, and yet, she also felt just at home. “You are complaining, elantach, and I cannot help but feel irritated by it. So I cut cooling herbs from the garden and stir them in the water. I tell you to drink. I place the pot by your side, but instead, all you do is giggle. You complain that your hair is a mess. So I take the strands of your hair, and I…”

Yrliet’s hand curled into a fist over her trembling heart. She was truly talking about nothing. She was talking about fairytales, like the ones the elders in Crudarach told her to shield her eyes from the horror of being born ten thousand years after the end of your species. She was lost in her own soul, unable to even peer into her inner world, and even with all her imagination, she could not find a path through the endless dark. She was going to die in Commorragh, and no one would be able to save her. Not her kin, nor her dead father. Not even her elantach.

“You would do it for me, Yrliet?” Despite everything, Tiffney’s voice was tinged with genuine hope. Even if this fantasy had not convinced Yrliet, it has at least convinced her elantach. “My hair?”

“I would,” Yrliet promised, and neither of them knew, but Yrliet would come to fulfil all her promises from that moment on, even at the cost of everything. “I would.”

Chapter 39: 6.037.060.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.037.060.M42

A week after leaving Foulstone and mere minutes before Tiffney is due to step out on a stage to address trillions of people, Yrliet does her hair.

“...Yes, we could not kill the xenos in charge, but we will track him down and… no, I’m not going to start on that downer. f*ck, I probably shouldn’t address Marazhai at all. Instead, I should say… as loyal citizens of the Imperium and our von Valancius protectorate, you must accept Nomos as-- no, not must. That comes on too strong. As the Rogue Trader and your beacon of light within this lightless Expanse… no, that’s even worse. Someone will think I’m trying to usurp the God-Emperor. I should… I should try…”

“Take a deep breath, elantach.” Yrliet’s fingers slip through the strands of Tiffney’s hair to gently massage her scalp. Though Tiffney smiles at the gesture, it seems to do nothing for the massive headache she’s experiencing. “There is no one else in this universe more silver-tongued than you. Upon hearing just the first of your words, mo chridhe, they will hand you their hearts and minds on a platter.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Tiffney chuckles, leaning her head back to rest against Yrliet’s midsection. It does nothing to help Yrliet tie her hair, but she allows it all the same, fingers subconsciously moving in rhythmic pats on the top of Tiffney’s head. “You make it sound like I’m going to eat their organs.”

Yrliet curled little bits of Tiffney’s hair around her fingers. “Did I?” It’s a pleasant summer’s day on Dargonus. Bright sunlight streams through the grand windows, but inside Tiffney’s palatial room, it can start to feel a bit like a hothouse. “Jae has a term of endearment similar to that.”

“Hah! I almost forgot about that.” Tiffney closes her eyes and hums to herself. “What was it? ‘I love you so much I want to eat your liver’, right? I remember… Abelard was so suspicious the first time she said that to me. He was always suspicious of her. Stupid old fart…”

The insult whistles from the seam between Tiffney’s lips, carrying so much fondness that Yrliet almost expects her elantach to start crying. And it seems Tiffney almost does, before Yrliet brings her hands down to cup Tiffney’s cheek, and she giggles instead. “It’s alright, Yrliet. I’m not that sad anymore.”

“Tiffney…” Yrliet pulls her elantach’s hair towards her, tying a braid that was loose enough to be painless while also tight enough to not fall apart within minutes. “You are sweating profusely.”

“Huh?” Obviously not what Tiffney expected Yrliet to say. “Really?”

“This room is too hot,” Yrliet grumbles, staring almost accusingly at the rays of sunlight coming in. “The warmth of Dargonus’ sun can shine on every corner, but there are no openings for the wind to bring in the crispness of cold air. All life that is kept in here will soon crumble under the onslaught of heat, slowly left to wither and die.”

Tiffney looks around sheepishly. “That must be why all my plants keep dying, then. I really should ask for improvements on the ventilation here…”

When she mentions them, Yrliet glances forward. Sure enough, there are plants there, kept in ornate pots at the end of her room: once-bushy growths that were slowly turning brown under the glare of the sun.

Slowly tying off Tiffney’s braid, Yrliet walks towards the dying plants. “You should not keep these in direct sunlight. Temperature aside, the soil will dry out too quickly, and for these plants, too much sun will burn their leaves.”

“Really?” Tiffney walked forward, examining the darkening leaf margins on her plants. “But no one told me that. Not even the gardener who I ordered to bring these in.”

“They were most likely too terrified to say anything to you.”

“...Oh.” Yrliet’s reasonable observation sends a twinge of pain through Tiffney. “That… makes sense.”

Yrliet gives Tiffney a look of sympathy. “I know you do not like it. You are too bright a soul, mo chridhe, to accept a position of superiority above others. But the truth of the matter is that to the people of your domain, you are the closest thing to the so-called God-Emperor that they can ever hope to see. You would… elantach. Elantach, don’t touch that--”

“OW!” Tiffney draws her hand back with a yelp. “The pots are burning! They’re hotter than lasgun mag after overcharging!”

“I was about to warn you,” Yrliet sighs, “that these decorative containers, while proudly displaying an artisan’s craft, are unsuitable for such a purpose. They trap the light under its shine and are quick to come to a boil.”

“I am really not good at this whole plant-keeping thing, am I…?” Tiffney chuckles self-deprecatingly to herself before switching her focus to a pot at the back. “But this one’s still going strong. Look!”

Tiffney is right: at the very back, a leafy herb continues to grow vigorously, as if revelling in the death of all its neighbours. From the look of its speckled leaves, it is a type of mint. “It appears at least one of your plants may enjoy this heat,” Yrliet says comfortingly, instead of mentioning how mints can probably survive through anything, even a bombing.

“I’m so glad…” Tiffney wipes the sweat from her brow, braid already becoming dishevelled before she even steps on the stage. To this day, Yrliet has no idea how she can become unpresentable so damn quickly. “Phew. This plant may enjoy it, but I sure don’t…”

Yrliet turns her head. On the desk beside where Tiffney was just sitting, a jug of water sits, completely untouched. “Then you should drink.”

“Oh, no. Don’t start nagging about that too.” Tiffney laughs to herself, and though she’s trying to hide it, Yrliet can sense the mild anxiety tempered under the surface, hidden behind her attempts at playing coy.

“What are you implying?” Yrliet fixes Tiffney with an apprehensive look. “I do not nag you.”

“Er…” Tiffney breaks eye contact with a knowing grin. “Sure.”

Reaching out to the mint, she snaps off a few leaves and bites on the edge. They are cooling, as she expected. Taking a sprig of the prettiest leaves, she brings it to the water jug and drops it inside. “Drink, and you will feel better.”

“Huh? You can put that in water?” Tiffney giggles to herself, more amused by Yrliet’s caring gestures than worried for herself. Something that only annoys Yrliet even more. “Alright, alright, don’t look at me that way! I’ll drink, I’ll drink.”

“Good. You cannot survive off amasec alone.” Even though the amasec Tiffney drinks is about weak enough to be water anyway-- something that Yrliet definitely isn’t going to say aloud. “Sometimes, elantach, I find myself truly wondering how you are able to survive when you ignore the basic needs of your body.”

“Me too,” Tiffney chirps. She pours herself a glass before drinking it greedily, clearly only just realising how thirsty she was. “Ahh. That hits the… oh, no.”

With another flick of her hair, her braid comes apart, resting her hair all over her back. “How does this keep happening? Hah, my hair’s a mess.”

“Elantach…” Yrliet takes strands of Tiffney’s hair back into her hands. “Try not to move your head so quickly. Your human hair does not hold its place as mine does.”

“Mine especially!”

“Yes,” Yrliet sighs, fondly, and with a sudden pang of nostalgia. “Yours especially.”

For a moment, Tiffney just holds still, staring at the mint leaves floating in the glass. “Hmm,” she hums, slowly becoming more contemplative. “Hmmmm.”

“What is it, Tiffney?”

“We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?” Tiffney’s voice takes a soft, slightly melancholic tone. “Or am I just going crazy?”

“What do you mean? We have not talked about…” Yrliet trails off, her fingers stilling in Tiffney’s hair. “We have.”

“In Commorragh.” Tiffney nods. “Yes. I remember. I was asking you about…”

“My home,” Yrliet finishes for her. “The one that would come after we escaped from the Dark City.” Here, in a sense.

“Well…” Then, Tiffney gestures widely. Some water sloshes out of the glass. “I would normally laugh at a coincidence like this, but this one feels a bit too specific, doesn’t it?”

Yrliet understands what Tiffney means. The coincidence feels rather theatrical, like they were simply two performers on a stage, jumping between acts of a play. And they may as well be. After all, she still doesn’t know why the Arebennian was…

“So, darling!” Tiffney lassos back Yrliet’s straying thoughts with a loud clap of her hands. “Is this home we’ve made everything that you’ve dreamed of?”

“…A rather sudden and loaded question, mo chridhe.” Yet, Yrliet cannot help but smile at the sudden expectant enthusiasm on her elantach’s face. “One that I might struggle to answer without time to gather my thoughts.”

“Ah, well, then, that’s an answer in itself, isn’t it?” Tiffney laughs, with a tiny sliver of bitterness, nestled under expected mirth. “It’s a ‘no’! This isn’t enough!”

Tiffney’s confident declaration both somewhat hurts and completely confuses Yrliet. “Elantach, it is more than enough to…”

“No, no no, it’s not about that.” Tiffney holds up her hand with a fresh air of authority. “I know what you’ll say. Yes, every day I spend with you, I am more happy than I ever deserve to be. That’s the truth.”

That melts away the hurt, but does nothing for the confusion. “As am I. I could not ask for anything more--”

“That’s not it!” Once more, Tiffney shakes her head, with enough force that her half-done braid undoes itself yet again. “I would have said that too, once. But I’ve changed my mind. Just because we’re happy where we are today doesn’t change the fact that we should also keep dreaming of something better!”

“That is…” Rather greedy, Yrliet thinks silently. A marker of endless human ambition. It rings with a beautiful tone from your lips, but your kind’s ceaseless need for expansion makes humanity easy to exploit. Be careful that it does not corrupt itself into selfishness, taking away the vibrant song of your soul.

It is also admirable. I made the choice to leave Crudarach because I could not bear to watch it wither like roots in stagnant water. It feels that your people have raced forward into the starlight while we Aeldari have stayed just the same. Just as I have.

“Yrliet, tell me your new dreams.”

For a species that supposedly thinks a million times faster than a human, Yrliet finds herself always one step behind Tiffney’s newest burst of inspiration. “My new dreams…?”

“Your dreams must have changed from then to now! Our needs, desires, regrets… they evolve, as we do. And I can tell what you want now is different from before.” Tiffney sees through Yrliet with such practised ease that she can’t help but shudder.

Perhaps feeling Yrliet’s apprehension in her trembling fingertips, Tiffney draws back a little. “Of course, you don’t need to tell me now. I mean, I’ve got to go give a speech soon.”

“Do you really wish to hear it, elantach?”

“What?” Tiffney looks up, eyes round and almost glowing purple. The mint leaves bob in the water nonchalantly. “Ahahah, come on, Yrliet. Of course I want to hear it. I love you.”

“Even if it’s impossible?”

“Yes,” Tiffney reassures her, not even pausing to think. Yrliet’s fingers, still in Tiffney’s half-done braid, have begun to tighten into a fist without notice-- but even if Tiffney feels pain from how tightly Yrliet is tugging on her hair, she doesn’t show it. “Besides, nothing is impossible when I’m the Rogue Trader! I can get you anything you want!”

Tiffney says that a little too loudly. More so to convince herself than Yrliet. “Not anything,” is all Yrliet says in response, gently but firmly. “Not everything. No one can, Tiffney. Even you.”

“But still, I…” Tiffney bites her lip, rethinking her approach. “...Listen. I don’t like talking about the past I’ve left behind, Yrliet, but… I should tell you. The pieces that I’ve remembered.”

Tiffney looks at the pale scars on her palms, as if she could still see the lost years of blood drenched on her skin. “I had a wife, as you know. And she had… a dream, of some kind. I don’t remember what that dream was… but I remember that I couldn’t fulfil it.”

The sudden mention of Tiffney’s old life makes Yrliet’s expression sour slightly. “That was before, elantach. You are not beholden to any promises from what may as well have been another life.”

“I know, my love.” Tiffney, picking up on Yrliet’s uncertainty, immediately addresses her adoringly. “You don’t need to get jealous over my probably dead wife.”

Yrliet’s eyes flash a little dangerously. “I am not jealous.”

“Okay, change of topic.” Tiffney wisely taps on the remnants of her self-preservation instinct and moves on. “What I was trying to say is-- I just-- ugh, why do I always trip over my words at a time like this? Even if it’s impossible, Yrliet-- I want to know.”

“But I do not wish for you to feel--”

“Sad?” Tiffney lets out a rather aggravated huff. “Disappointed? Regretful? Burdened by an impossible dream? Come on, Yrliet, I’ve already burdened myself with countless impossibilities that I’ve somehow managed to deliver into existence. Besides, didn’t we both agree that we should talk about things like this more often?”

Yrliet absentmindedly fidgets with Tiffney’s hair. “...We did.”

“So tell me, Yrliet.” It’s not said commandingly, though Tiffney has more than enough right to make a few demands of Yrliet. “Your dreams. New and old. Everything inane and everything so grand it would involve the death of a god. I want to… no, I need to hear them. So I can do good-- by you. Share them with me, darling. Tell me what you wish for. What you see in our home.”

There’s nothing else to say, Yrliet almost replies, her voice choking itself to hide away her sadness. The time we have together now is the most beautiful life you could ever give me.

And in the back of her mind, singing out like a mourning-dove, we are living on the Lilaethan. We are living in a spacious cottage on a hilltop, elantach, because I wish to live close to nature in quarters where I am familiar in every corner, while you are in desperate need for a large bed and the caress of the spring breeze. You have decorated the footpath to our home with rocks. White ones, smooth to the touch, more gorgeous than they are practical. I have filled the flowerbeds with lavender blooms the colour of your shining irises, and I make note of this similarity so often that you roll your eyes at me whenever I mention it again. You are lying on the grass now, Tiffney. You are lying on the grass with mud all over your dress instead of blood. Your eyes trace the stars in the sky and you are telling me stories about constellations that almost definitely do not exist outside of your imagination. When I point out the inconsistencies in your retellings, you laugh and pull me onto the ground so I may lay in the dirt with you. There are no grand speeches to be made, no star-child to shield from an invasion, and no duty to a thankless protectorate that would forget you just as easily as it did your predecessor.

It is impossible. Because you are the Rogue Trader, mo chridhe. You are the Rogue Trader and I am dying. I am withering into stardust with each day I spend in realspace by your side, but perhaps I have truly lost my mind, because I am still here. I am here because you are more precious to me than my own soul’s salvation. Because the thought of you disappearing into the darkness between the stars terrifies me more than an eternity in Sai’lanthresh’s jaws.

Even if we one day were laid in the ground together, your soul would turn to fragments in the mists of Sha’eil, and my soul would never be reborn to find any part of you again.

“Rogue Trader?”

Yrliet’s head turns. The door had opened, but neither of them noticed. “The people are ready to receive your exalted wisdom,” the young woman states mechanically, bowing to Tiffney as he spoke. Yrliet did not recognise him. She did not recognise most of the people around Tiffney anymore.

“Very well.” Tiffney’s warmth is drowned out of her in an instant. She rises to her feet, dignified and stately and suddenly sixty years older, as if the clock had suddenly caught up with the present the moment she slipped out of Yrliet’s grasp. “We shall continue this later, Yrliet.”

“I will wait for you here,” she promises, and Tiffney gives her a rather sad smile before the door closes behind her.

Yrliet does not need to go anywhere to hear the speech. It comes straight to her, delivered by the sudden chorus of cheers that erupt just outside the palace walls, ecstatic and terrified all at once. The moment Tiffney steps out into view, Dargonus itself seems to fall to its knees, enraptured by her very presence.

“My people, you have heard the rumours!” Tiffney’s words boom over the people. Yrliet knows she has a vox-aid for these speeches, but Tiffney’s voice really could carry like that, Yrliet thinks; it is little wonder that Heinrix was able to sell the idea that she was a messenger from their idea of heaven. “Some of you have even beheld the miracle with your own two eyes! Now, I am here to give you the truth. The real story behind our brave stand against the enemies of humanity upon the heart of Foulstone!”

“Outcast and Merchant once more, I behold-- risen above the darkness of one’s past, cowered at the thought of a future verse.”

Yrliet would have shot Nocturne, if her conscious mind didn’t catch up with her survival instinct in the nick of time.

Instead, she swivels towards him, gun in hand and shock written over her face. “Arebennian? What… what are you doing here?”

Nocturne of Oblivion stands there, just out of the gaze of sunlight, as if avoiding the judgement of the burning stars. “To sing a ballad for you, my dear kin-- deliver a preordained ode of truth.” He has saved their lives more than once, but somehow, Yrliet cannot let go of her dread at his appearance. “Brand-burnt fate, this gossamer of starlight.”

Tiffney’s speech continues on, unaware of the Arebennian standing just one floor above her head. For a moment, Yrliet almost considers running past Nocturne, bursting onto the balcony-stage to find her elantach and get her to talk to him instead-- with a great amount of shame, because Nocturne has shown himself in front of her for a reason. Not a good one, most likely, seeing that Nocturne was still doom incarnate given walking form.

But she owes the most damned of Cegorach’s puppet-souls at least the dignity of a captive audience.

“The truth?” Inexplicably, Yrliet finds her hands flying to her breast, looking for a spirit stone that has not been there for six decades. “Of what? The reason behind Marazhai’s attack? The nature of the gift you gave my elantach? Or better yet, Marazhai’s current whereabouts so I can kill him myself?”

“The Outcast sings! Drenched in blood and fury--” Nocturne brings his hand up to his mask, as if to hide a metaphorical chuckle. “Chanting in the tune of humanity.”

Yrliet stops short and covers her own mouth in disbelief.

“...My apologies,” she mutters, this time speaking in Aeldari tongue. She cannot believe it did not come to her naturally. Has she really strayed so far from Asuyran’s Path? “Arebennian, I… do not know why you are here. But I understand that you would not be here without good reason. Whatever it is that you wish to tell me, I will listen with my soul bared open.”

Nocturne’s face is not visible, but when he steps ever-so-slightly into the light, Yrliet watches as the sun reflects on the metallic planes of his mask in the lilted curve of a smile.

“The child of universe-born dreams of light, for fate-chanced mother holds back the vast dark. Yet stars only twinkle so surely there, on ink-stained pages between worlds abound, because the backdrop of their stage is still-- inevitably weaved from death itself.”

The child of universe-born…?

Of course! Of course he’s here for Nomos! Everyone is here for f*cking Nomos!

“Do you speak of Nomos?” Yet, Yrliet keeps her emotions in check, giving him a clear yet curt question. Nocturne tilts his head to one side, neither affirming nor denying. “The star-child is unlike those our people faced days gone by, Arebennian. If you are thinking of harming Nomos in any way…”

To that, Nocturne recoils exaggeratedly. “Not I, dear Outcast; peace shines my way through. But not all will be dancing so merrily-- to our Merchant Vagabond’s despaired tune.”

“So others seek to hurt my elantach? That in itself is hardly new information. To come all the way here to warn me…” Yrliet grinds her teeth, like the next words were magma on her tongue. “Then whoever wishes her harm now must be worse than all the others who have come before.”

“Child of Asuryan, bathed in starlight-dew--” Nocturne tilts his head up, and without being able to see his eyes, Yrliet still knows he is staring right into the aurora borealis shaking in hers. “She so badly wants a happy ending.”

Yrliet bites down on the urge to point out the obvious. “What must I do, Arebennian?” Instead, she cuts away to the most pertinent question. Behind her, the crowd of humans are roaring, just as Tiffney bellows Nomos’ name to the masses. “What must I do to keep Tiffney safe?”

“Stars may light the way onward, but your Path-- promises once made will now come undone; once twin roads now face divergence ahead.”

Yrliet truly hopes she’s misunderstanding Nocturne. It would not be the first time. “My Path runs alongside Tiffney’s own, Arebennian. That… that promise I made her… are you certain…?”

“Dance with her, once more, till night’s melody-- calls you away to the stars overhead,” Nocturne instructs, and it is an instruction, somehow. “When comes time to stand at the precipice-- a wise woman would know when to let go.”

“When to let go?” No, she’s not misunderstanding him. Nocturne is saying that Tiffney’s fate is-- “Wait, Arebennian! There must be another way! Speak to Tiffney-- speak to Nomos, I am sure she will allow it--”

“A hand in the shadows I must remain,” Nocturne says, and when he steps back into the long shadows, his holo-suit flickers with a rapid camouflage. It almost looks like he is melting into the darkness itself. “A fussy director makes a poor show.”

“No!” Yrliet reaches out at where Nocturne was just standing, as if hoping to grab the very threads of destiny to tie them to her own liking. “I still have so many questions-- you cannot just leave like this!”

Her fingers push through thin air, and Yrliet suddenly finds herself wailing, not even caring about how her grief makes her soul shine brightly for She Who Thirsts to take. “I love her, Arebennian! I know you are just playing another role in Cegorach’s unending waltz, but I beg of you-- do not let Tiffney’s story end in tragedy. Whatever result you wish to achieve from this dance you have drawn us into… there must be a way to achieve it without letting Tiffney come to harm!”

How ironic, that Yrliet struggled so badly to voice her impossible dreams with Tiffney, but screams them at Nocturne like battle cries against fate. “There must be a way,” Yrliet repeats to herself, like a mantra. Like how Tiffney would if she were faced with a prophecy so grim. “Arebennian…”

“Then, Child of Asuryan--” Just like that, Nocturne whispers right into her ear, and though Yrliet swipes around with the quickness of lightning, all she touches is the the hot rays of sunlight. “You must find it.”

Chapter 40: p14y1n6.pr373nd

Chapter Text

----- p14y1n6.pr373nd

Yrliet had not been happy to see Argenta again, but even she could not imagine a punishment for her as cruel as what had just occurred.

As they staggered out of the Arena, Yrliet looked towards Argenta’s direction, words of sympathy welling up behind her gritted teeth. “Argenta--”

“Do not speak my name with your accursed tongue, xenos.” That was all Argenta snapped back with, not even bothering to glance towards her. Yrliet’s commiseration died hollowly in her throat.

Tiffney, forging ahead, didn’t react. It was hard to make her elantach react to anything at all that wasn’t a knife in her arm or a gun pointed in her direction. In Commorragh, Tiffney had developed an absolute razor-focus on one thing only: the next step towards finding a way out.

So when Tiffney suddenly stopped in her tracks, a gasp escaping from her mouth, Yrliet immediately responded by reaching for her weapon.

But what appeared before them was too terrifying for any gun to dispatch.

An Arebennian-- the Arebennian, from the farce of a trial that sent Tiffney hurtling into the abyss-- waltzed out from the shadows and into the rusty air of Commorragh’s bloodied streets. “This crib of putrid flesh offends your taste?” Light fell on the metallic planes on his mask, and the dark holes where his eyes should look through turned to face Tiffney directly. “Oblivion comes now. Here its Nocturne plays.”

Yrliet’s heart stuttered into her throat. Of all the people in the universe who could have caught this Arebennian’s attention-- why Tiffney?

“I am that starlit strain that chills the soul, the piece that doomed throngs pitches into dance. You are among them, Merchant Vagabond.” His ominous words spelled out what Yrliet was already fearing. What horrible fate has Cegorach divined in the stars for her elantach? “So tread the steps I say, escape fate's grasp.”

Instinct kicked in, and Yrliet leapt backwards, face twisted in terror. “Arebennian! Doom incarnate! Of all the places in the galaxy…. you show yourself here!”

“Oh!” Recognition finally flashed through Tiffney’s eyes. Perhaps now, she realised the danger that she was-- “It’s you, Mister Clown! I’m so glad to see you again!”

…

Mister--?

“Is the light in your eyes for me, Merchant?” The Arebennian was not offended by Tiffney’s ridiculous title for him. Instead, he seemed rather dazzled by it, and Tiffney, too, was utterly delighted to see him. “Do wails of warning fall upon deaf ears?”

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you for saving me, Mister Clown!” And then-- in Yrliet’s escalating horror-- she grabbed the Arebennian by the claws of his gloved hand. The claws that hid weapons so deadly and brutal a single shot could liquify Tiffney’s organs in an instant. “Or-- was it Arebennian? That’s what Yrliet called you, right?”

“Elantach…” Tiffney’s title seethed through Yrliet’s pursed lips with a heavy amount of trepidation. She did not want the Arebennian’s attention on her-- but now, his head tilted at Yrliet’s direction, shadows and lights playing on his dathedi to make him look more sinister than he already was.

“The Outcast and the Merchant-- what a pair.” He called her out specifically, and Yrliet’s body froze involuntarily, as if commanded like a puppet on strings. “Bereft of blood and hope, without a path… the parent cloaks the cradle once again, and babe is doused in darkness as before. But death is near, Asuryan's child-- make haste.”

Yrliet supposed that woeful description was as clear as any could get from an Arebennian.

“Sorry, Arebennian, but I must interrupt your riddles for just a moment.” Tiffney jostled around the Arebennian’s arms like a particularly enthusiastic child, and Yrliet had half the mind to scold Tiffney herself for being so impudent. Of course, Yrliet was too terrified to do any of that. “I am looking for my missing companions-- do you know anything about their whereabouts?”

The Arebennian tilted his head backwards, facing up. “Whose life so dearly does the Merchant prize; to boldly now disrupt night's melody?”

“The psyker Idira, and a silver-tongued woman named Jae. Most urgently, my Navigator, Cassia, is missing. I doubt she will last very long here on her own.”

The Arebennian slipped his hands out of Tiffney’s grasp. He appeared to be genuinely thinking through her request; as if Tiffney were in any place to be making demands from him. “A melody of snarling agony, beguiling now, by rending flesh bewyched. Through sinew, bone, and grisly pageantry, it calls the blood-soaked drape to come unstitched.”

He gestured widely with his arms. The dathedi wrapped around his body flickered into a myriad of colours, but mostly that of blood. “A haggard chorus in the hall behind, their flesh employed to serve the maestro's art. No prayer for mercy slips from throats confined, the baton sets the beat of every heart.”

“Maestro…” Tiffney nodded along. Her eyes followed the Arebennian’s every move, enraptured by his performance. Argenta, meanwhile, scoffed at the whole thing, but lacked the energy to protest-- a rare mercy.

“And entrails are for him an instrument, and veins a living stave sans parallel, yet death to him is no impediment, for corpses tunes do carry just as well.” He seemed to have glanced at Argenta when he said that. If it was advice, however, his breath was wasted on the zealot mon-keigh’s ears. “Through spectacles of blood and gore forge past, should crave your eyes to glimpse sun's light at last.”

Tiffney closed her eyes.

And then she snapped her fingers, smiling from ear to ear. She took a deep breath, and rattled out: “Everything is perfectly clear. There is a certain 'maestro of flesh' who conducts experiments on the bodies of others. He has a laboratory that can only be accessed by fighting in the arena to draw his attention. With his assistance, I will be able to escape the Chasm--”

She paused to gasp for air. “Oh yes, and your name is Nocturne of Oblivion. Not Mister Clown. Have I missed anything?”

Nocturne of Oblivion, as he was called, came to a complete standstill. Not even the ruffle of his cloth moved from place. Only the lights of Commorragh changed around him, lilting the frown of his tragedy mask into a cackling grin.

When he finally moved, it was just to chuckle. His amusem*nt was low and quiet behind his mask. He slowly moved his hands together and clapped. “Brava.”

Then, as quickly as he arrived, the shadows of Commorragh cast themselves over him, swallowing into the darkness. Nocturne of Oblivion melted into the night like he was merely the lingering scent of a bad dream.

With him gone, Yrliet could breathe easy-- or, at least, as easy as one could ever me in the spires of the Dark City. “I thought some illusion had clouded my gaze when I beheld the Arebennian at the Archons' court,” she sighed, shaking her head in disbelief. “For he is an omen of monstrous things to come…”

“Huh, really?” Tiffney didn’t look alarmed by that information. Instead, she smiled ever-more-knowingly to herself. “I suppose I should’ve been able to figure it out from the way you curled up like a used lho-stick once he appeared. You fear him, don’t you?”

Yrliet answered crisply and honestly. “To the depths of my soul. If you are truly wise, elantach, you will do the same.”

“...Well, I hope that omen is for the Drukhari around us and not for little old me. Because I’ve had enough sh*t to deal with already, if I’m to be honest.” Tiffney let out a tired laugh, wiping the blood-- human and Aeldari alike-- trailing from her matted hair. “Why was he at the court? And did he call me the Merchant Vagabond?”

“Who knows?” She shrugged, finding even less reason to Nocturne’s actions than Tiffney did. At least Tiffney could somehow decipher his poetry. “Those like him see the world differently and see no need to explain their metaphors to others. But what is not hidden from my gaze is his interest in you, elantach. Tread carefully-- attention from an Arebennian bodes nothing good. Many believe that even speaking to one is tantamount to a death sentence.”

“Oh, I’m just so very popular here, aren’t I?” Tiffney’s sarcasm lashed out with burning bitterness. “In any case, he has helped me so far. He was the one who pulled me to my feet when I was left to die in a pile of bodies, and now he has shown the way forward. I’m fine to dance whatever jig he wants me to play along with, as long as I get all of our arses out here.”

“Going from one xenos trap to another…” Argenta grumbled to herself, and, shamefully, Yrliet found herself not entirely disagreeing with her. Cegorach may enjoy amusing himself, but he does not tug at the threads of fate without good reason-- to send an Arebennian to rescue Tiffney…

…At the very least. Yrliet was glad that Tiffney survived the trial, even if the help came with strings attached.

“Tiffney.” With that, Yrliet swallowed her pride and laid her thoughts bare. “I promised that I would never again hide my soul behind a frozen wall of hubris and doubt. But this place… has too many eyes and ears to be sharing such thoughts.”

“Of course. Let’s save the confessionals for later. I just want to ask one thing, Yrliet.” At Tiffney’s request, Yrliet straightened up at attention. “About what the Nocturne of Oblivion was saying…”

“I may not have the answers you seek.” Yrliet shook her head sadly. “The Arebennian weave their speech from shimmering threads of hidden meaning that even I cannot fully grasp--”

“How old are you?”

Yrliet’s already tangled thoughts managed to tie themselves into a dead knot at that question. “...Why do you ask?”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Tiffney clarified, though no amount of clarification could hide the glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Nocturne just… alluded to a cradle, and also referred to you as a ‘babe’, so I was just--”

“The Arebennian was being metaphorical, elantach!” The words snapped out of her far louder than Yrliet intended, and she found herself gnashing her teeth to hold herself back from continuing impulsively. “I am… not that young.”

“It appears we offended the xenos,” Argenta quipped. She was smiling now, and Yrliet’s previous sympathies evaporated away into an intense urge to punch Argenta in the face. “Rogue Trader, ask her again! Tell her to give us a number, this time!”

“I mean, I don’t need to know…” Tiffney said that, but the rather pleading expression on her face signalled that, yes, she needed to know or she would literally explode from curiosity and/or other reasons. “But it would be… conducive towards… ugh, nevermind that. Let me put it this way: I am your companion on this journey, Yrliet, and I just want to know so I can treat you appropriately. That is all.”

Yrliet took a deep breath. It appeared that there was no one out of this. Doing the math in her head, she reluctantly parted her lips and admitted: “I am aged at a hundred and twelve of your standard solar cycles.”

“You’re ancient!” Tiffney’s exclamation made Yrliet split between feeling relieved and offended. “I mean, sorry! You’re, ah, it’s young by Aeldari years, right? That should make you about my age of twenty-five when considering your people’s measure of time. So you’re an adult!”

The particular emphasis on being an adult made Yrliet even more confused. “I dearly hope I did not give the impression that I was a child, elantach. And that your boundless patience towards me has not been bestowed due to a misunderstanding of my years.”

“None of that, Yrliet. I will think no less of you because of something as irrelevant as your age,” Tiffney replied. “Now that we’ve settled my curiosity, let’s get out of the open before some stray Drukhari gang decides to gut us on a whim.”

“I agree,” Yrliet muttered. The rest of their journey back to the Pit was spent in silence, save for the vague humming of a happy tune on Tiffney’s lips.

Chapter 41: 6.048.060.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.048.060.M42

Yrliet did not know until much later, but Nocturne had left a gift for her. A ship.

“What a marvel.” Tiffney’s hands trace the cerulean hues of the Nightwing. The sleek aircraft was polished enough to reflect the glow of her lavender eyes, burning like ghost lights against solid wraithbone. “It certainly beats the piece of junk you were flying around before.”

“My Vampire Hunter was exceptionally reliable,” Yrliet argued. In her defence, it lasted an incredibly long time for how poorly she treated it. The fact that it fell into twenty separate pieces when Yrliet tried to switch its ignition back on yesterday was simply because of how the human tech-priests in Tiffney’s retinue didn’t do any real maintenance besides trying to appeal to machine spirits that clearly didn’t exist within Aeldari constructs (and even if they did, they would loathe to be ordered around by mon-keigh mechanics).

“Sure, darling…” Tiffney doesn’t even try to hide how unconvinced she is. “In any case, it seemed I wasn’t the only one who was worried about the state of your travel gear. If reports are to be believed, it was the Nocturne of Oblivion who brought this lovely ship into our docking bay. Unless there is another ‘strange Aeldari dressed up to the nines like a carnival clown who speaks in riddles and calls Tiffney the Merchant Vagabond’ out there.”

Even after six decades, Yrliet was not entirely onboard with comparing Nocturne to a human entertainer. Especially one that revolved around being silly and harmless. Still, she had to concede that Cegorach would likely find it hilarious, or at the very least, endearing. “I would dearly hope not,” Yrliet replies, walking up to the Nightwing. “One Arebennian constantly on our trail is more than enough.”

“I think he’s sweet,” Tiffney hums, and Yrliet gives her a rather captious look. “What? Don’t you think he’s sweet?”

“I would not call the dance of Nocturne in the darkness, or the way that he must hide all the intent behind his machinations… ‘sweet’.” Yrliet pauses. “Though I will admit that he has been more helpful than not.”

Nocturne’s last words still linger on Yrliet’s mind, in the same way a beautiful melody does when it halts halfway through without conclusion. You must find it.

“Extremely helpful!” Tiffney slaps the Nightwing with a smile. She has not told Tiffney about what they discussed. If it could even be called a discussion; Nocturne had simply thrown a few ominous-sounding prophecies at her and called it a day. “He’s even given you a brand-new ship! Hopefully, one that can fly at higher speeds, so you can continue your search at a quickened pace.”

Finish up faster and come back to me, Tiffney is obviously trying to say. Her cheerful acknowledgement of Yrliet’s inevitable need to once again depart stings her more than if Tiffney were outwardly upset about it. Her casual acceptance only signals to Yrliet that Tiffney has long internalised that any meeting with Yrliet will eventually come to an end, and only Asuryan knew how long it would take before Yrliet would return.

“...He clearly understands what I am most in need of,” is all that Yrliet can say in response.

“Mhm,” Tiffney agrees. “He always seems to know. How strange.”

It’s not strange. It’s very much not strange if one knows anything about how the ghosts of the webway dance to Cegorach’s laughter across the galaxy. Ten thousand years of hiding away has made Cegorach both uncontrolled and bitter in equal measures, plotting a revenge that is unknown to everyone except himself. A revenge that has as much chance of destroying the Aeldari as it has of saving them.

“Tiffney… I need to ask you something.”

Tiffney nods, immediately at Yrliet’s beck and call. “What do you need of me, my love?” Her tender words echo a little loudly inside the empty hanger. It would make Yrliet’s heart soften, if not for the hardened words forming under her tongue.

“...What did Nocturne give you?” Once the words leave Yrliet’s mouth, she stands unmoving, not wanting to budge an inch till Tiffney answers. “What gift given from the Arebennian’s treasury did Marazhai seek so dearly as to provoke your rage, mo chridhe?”

“I was wondering when you would ask me that,” Tiffney chuckles, not at all surprised. “But you’re actually quite willing to let me keep my secrets, aren’t you?”

A thought: Yrliet didn’t think Tiffney had any secrets to keep. Yrliet had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that Tiffney was always as painfully honest and true as she was the very first day they met. And it makes Yrliet feel rather miserable, to realise Tiffney did indeed have her secrets, and that her first thought upon seeing Yrliet was not to divulge them all to her. Not that Tiffney has anything to hide, no; if she did, she would have never let Yrliet back into her soul.

It’s just the realisation that Tiffney has changed, in some irrevocable way that she doesn’t show on the surface. That Tiffney has grown to realise that some things are best kept a secret, carried upon one’s own shoulders so the burden does not fall on those you love.

Yrliet doesn’t say any of that, obviously. Instead, she smiles to herself and states: “Since the day you extended your mercy to me in the abyss of the Dark City, I have never once needed assurance of your benevolent intentions. Anyone would be a fool to question your kind nature, elantach.”

“Flatterer,” Tiffney huffs, punching Yrliet lightly on the arm.

Then, with a sigh, she pulls something out of her pocket.

“Here.” In her hand, Tiffney holds some kind of rune stone. It is undeniably Aeldari in origin, but whatever meaning its design held, Yrliet could not say; it was too obscure or perhaps a little too ancient for a normal Aeldari to recognise. “It rattles whenever Drukhari from the Kabal of the Black Heart are nearby.”

…Now, it became very clear why Marazhai would seek such a thing. “How useful,” she points out, thinking of how Marazhai had admitted to her he was purposefully running afoul of Commorragh’s supreme overlord. Harbouring Ynnari when Asdrubael Vect himself had proclaimed his desire to wipe them out was likely reason enough for the Kabal of the Black Heart to come after Marazhai, even if Marazhai was ‘only’ a former, disgraced Dracon of a destroyed Kabal…

“And concerning.” Yrliet meets Tiffney’s gaze with an uneasy frown. “Why would Nocturne give this to you? Are you being targeted by the most wicked of my dark cousins?”

“You could certainly say that,” Tiffney confesses, and Yrliet tries to hide how her muscles tense in concealed rage. “But I don’t think they’re after me. All the assassinations we’ve thwarted and the attacks we’ve repelled seem to suggest that they’re after Nomos.”

“Of course,” Yrliet sighs, genuinely tired. “It appears there is no shortage of those who seek to gain your star-child’s power.”

“Nomos is upset,” Tiffney suddenly says, and Yrliet looks at her in surprise. “With me, I mean. About the… whole thing at Foulstone. I tried to tell them that they shouldn’t have intervened. Or, ah, they shouldn’t have… listened to me when I was… not myself. …Hah, why am I telling you this?”

Just as quickly as it comes on, Tiffney waves away her worries with a bright smile. “It’s fine! Nomos is much wiser than we give them credit for, and I’m probably just being a paranoid mother. Vect isn’t going to be able to land a finger on them!”

Briefly, Yrliet recalls Heinrix’s talk with her: about Nomos. Particularly, about how she should tell Nomos that keeping the peace within the Koronus Expanse was more important than their mother’s life. An impossible conversation, she thought-- at that moment, and even now. Yet, it appears that Nomos, despite being Tiffney’s trump card against all foes, was also what put Tiffney in the most danger. Perhaps if Nomos…

Yrliet looks away in shame. No, she was never going to suggest that Tiffney be rid of Nomos. That would be even worse than telling a child to let their mother die. Even if Nomos leaving would be the greatest protection Nomos gives her, Yrliet cannot possibly…

Promises once made will now come undone; once twin roads now face divergence ahead.

…Is this what Nocturne meant, when he told Yrliet to let her go?

“Darling?” Tiffney takes Yrliet’s hand, and she looks her elantach in the eye. Lavender eyes, like little pieces of the warp, almost glowing like the ring of stardust around a cloudy moon. “What’s wrong? Really, you don’t need to worry about me! I can handle myself against the Drukhari, no matter how cruel they are…”

It’s not that! Yrliet wants to scream-- rise from complete silence to total rage. It scares her, sometimes, how rapidly her own emotions can bubble out of control. It’s not that, mo chridhe. It’s not about Vect. It’s not even about f*cking Marazhai.

I have just come to a terrible realisation, elantach. That promises are not enough. That our love is not enough. Nomos loves you, like any child would love their mother, but their love for you is what threatens to bring your protectorate to ruin.

And now comes the Arebennian, the one whose dance we followed out of the claws of Commorragh. The one who watched as I destroyed my spirit stone to keep you safe. The one who stood unnoticed in the chaos of Marazhai’s invasion on Foulstone and clapped when I laid there dying.

Now, he comes, singing of Nomos-- and of you. Of me. Of me, letting you go. What am I supposed to think, Tiffney? Or perhaps, I should be asking if I even had any choice in this matter? Was it predestined that your love for me would destroy my life, and my love for you will perhaps destroy yours in turn? And for what purpose? Will either of us even live to know?

“Elantach.”

Tiffney’s hands find their way to Yrliet’s face. Her gentle touch ripples against the fire in Yrliet like cold water. Her soul was always like water, extinguishing the rage in her soul. Perhaps until there was no soul left to burn at all. “Yes, Yrliet?”

“I must speak to you about Nocturne.” Yrliet collects her mangled thoughts of her escalating despondence and presents them to Tiffney like a neatly-tied bow upon a terrible present. “Decades ago, Nocturne rescued us from Commorragh. If Cegorach wished for you to simply stay alive, that would be the end of it. But instead, Nocturne showed himself upon Quetza Temer, and… watched the ritual that would end in the shattering of my spirit stone. Like an expectant audience member, waiting for the next act in a scripted play.”

Tiffney’s gaze softens sadly. “Yes. I remember that.”

“For many years, I wondered why Nocturne never found the need to intervene. But the answer was obvious: this outcome was exactly what he planned for.” Yrliet’s fingers reach for the cold and unfeeling stone, still worn on her breast. “For whatever reason, Nocturne wished for me to be left without a spirit stone. And now, Nocturne still pulls the strings, commanding us to take the roles of his performance-- he appeared to me, elantach. During your speech.”

Now, Tiffney shows her first sign of concern. “...I suspected as much, but… what did he tell you?”

The truth clams up in Yrliet’s throat, and she finds that she cannot bring herself to tell Tiffney. “He warned me that there will be more who seek to harm you, elantach. Harm you, and Nomos.”

“Hardly new information,” Tiffney notes, much to Yrliet’s ironic amusem*nt. That was exactly what Yrliet thought as well.

“Before that, elantach-- he also appeared during Marazhai’s attack on Foulstone. After he stabbed me. I thought I may have been imagining things, in my delirious state… but now, I am certain what I saw was true. He was standing to the side, observing all the death that occurred around us.”

“So he knew Marazhai would attack?” Tiffney clicks her tongue. “Well, it’s mighty rude for him not to warn us, then. I’ll have some choice words for Nocturne the next time he--”

“Do not,” Yrliet snaps tersely, and Tiffney’s eyes widen in surprise. “I am aware that you feel at ease with Nocturne-- but you should not be so casual with him, mo chridhe. No matter how helpful he is at the moment, he is still an omen of doom. A reputation that was not formed in a single day, Tiffney, but through ten millennia of strife and bloodshed. Because… the Arebennian who play She Who Thirsts in the Dance Without End are the strongest of Cegorach’s warriors. With such fearsome ability, they are tasked with carrying out the most difficult of Cegorach’s plots. Everything that Nocturne has done for us… giving you the gift of premonition against Vect’s schemes, this ship that he has left for me, and even guiding us out of the Dark City all those years ago…”

In truth, Yrliet is terrified to say any of this. There is never any way to know if Cegorach is watching, either through his Rillietann or even through his own avatars. But, if they have been left to perform their roles so far, then perhaps even this conversation has been expected.

And-- even if it was not-- Yrliet is more terrified of Tiffney coming to harm than running afoul of her own god. An incredible statement that would either make Cegorach laugh for days on end or become very offended.

“Tiffney… we are playing into Cegorach’s great game.”

“And?” Tiffney’s smile, wide and genuine, is not as innocent as it always used to be. Yet still, she asks: “Surely, your Laughing God means well?”

“I don’t know,” Yrliet admits. “Maybe? He certainly wishes to do right by the whole Aeldari race, but-- not to us, elantach. And most certainly not to you. Cegorach willed his Arebennian to save you because your survival would prove useful to him. When that is no longer true… I…”

As if completely unbothered by everything Yrliet had just shared, Tiffney simply responds by slipping one hand away from Yrliet’s cheek to give her a cheerful thumbs-up. “Then I’d better make sure I always stay in Cegorach’s good books, huh?”

“Tiffney, that is… hardly a simple task. Nor a straightforward one.” This time of all times, Yrliet could not be reassured by her elantach’s relentless optimism.

Yet, Yrliet also had a feeling that Tiffney did indeed understand the gravity of what she was saying. Tiffney has, after all, changed in irrevocable ways that even Yrliet’s Path of Awakening could not discern. And perhaps she did know exactly how dire it was, to have your every move tracked by Cegorach’s ghosts.

“And I’m hardly a simple or straightforward person!” Tiffney thumps her chest proudly. “So I’ll figure it out. As I always have.”

“Elantach--”

“You have to trust me,” Tiffney suddenly states, and all of Yrliet’s protests die in her throat. “Okay, Yrliet? I already have Heinrix breathing down my neck, telling me that the way I’m ruling my protectorate is all wrong. Telling me to lie about this, or cover up that. Well-- I just told my people the truth! That Nomos is a xenos, yes, but also our greatest protector, a force of good against all who seek to do us harm. And they accepted it, Yrliet! They accepted it-- and if anyone else in the Segmentum Obscurus has a problem with it, they can come talk to me, and I’ll deal with them. As I always have-- as the Rogue Trader.”

“...I trust you,” Yrliet sighs. She isn’t lying. But letting go of the emotions running amok in her soul wasn’t exactly easy. “Of course I trust you, Tiffney. But you cannot ask me to stop worrying about you. I will worry about you for as long as I love you, mo chridhe.”

Tiffney snorts. “You don’t need to argue with me from that angle. Now I feel bad.”

Yrliet is unable to resist the urge to raise her finger and tap Tiffney on the nose. “Perhaps feeling slightly bad would do you some good, elantach. It would at least remind you that I would be devastated if anything happens to you, before you rush headlong at the next sign of danger.”

“Says the person who needs to fly off to God-Emperor-knows-where for years on end without any sign if you’re still alive,” Tiffney jabs back, and Yrliet flinches. Those words were not said purely in jest. “I-- sorry. I shouldn’t have… sorry.”

Tiffney pulls her hands away. Yrliet draws her head back.

The Nightwing sits unmoving, waiting for Yrliet to fly it away into the endless expanse of stars.

It doesn’t feel right to just leave on this note. But Yrliet knows that if she lingers for any longer-- if she keeps making excuses to stay-- she will never bring herself to leave.

And, if she stays for too long, allowing time to erode the edges of her soul away like a boulder being turned into nothing but disparate grains of sand, Tiffney may finally realise what realspace is doing to her. If Yrliet stays for so long that such a time comes to pass-- perhaps it may be impossible for Yrliet to return to her elantach’s side without disappearing entirely.

“...I will try to visit more often,” is all Yrliet can say. And when that is not enough: “For what it is worth… when I am floating alone between the sparks in unknown constellations, and even when I find other souls traversing the cold, distant moons… I miss you dearly, mo chridhe.”

“I miss you too.” Tiffney reaches back for Yrliet, and immediately, she reciprocates, pulling her elantach into a tight hug. “I miss you a lot. More than you could ever imagine.”

And she does miss Yrliet more. Because time suddenly begins to slip through Yrliet’s fingertips when she is travelling alone, without the sun’s orbit and the daily greetings of her elantach to ground her. It is so easy for her to spend one, two, ten years standing on dead rocks, admiring the glow of old, untouched nebulas. And when she comes back, to an ever-more prosperous Dargonus, to her elantach who has resisted the siren’s call of age upon the soft planes of her face--

It is easy to play pretend. That she never left, and that no time had passed at all. To pretend that the both of them are not desperately running out of time.

“I love you,” Tiffney sniffs, and Yrliet had just thought to herself that it would be preferable if Tiffney was outwardly upset about her leaving-- well, she’s crying now, and Yrliet feels no damn better about herself. “Please come back.”

“I will always come back,” Yrliet promises, again, even though she knows damn well that promises are not enough, that their love is still not enough. She cups the back of Tiffney’s head with one hand and holds her elantach to her chest with the other, just hoping that Tiffney will still be there for Yrliet to find when she returns at the end. “I love you, mo chridhe. Tiffney. Shhh… it is alright. I will return to you, no matter what. I will follow every thread that leads me back to your side. That is what I promised the day I first let you into my inner world. That my Path will run along yours, till the very end.”

“Till the very end,” Tiffney repeats, almost entranced. “Okay. Okay… as long as you’re with me in the end, I’m happy with that.”

And Yrliet, withering soul pulled in two different directions but very fervently wanting to stay right here-- nods, before letting go, turning to the ship that will take her far, far away. “Tiffney…”

“Go on.” Tiffney wipes away the tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I shouldn’t keep you here. And… besides… I promised Jae and Argenta I would meet them for dinner, so I can’t stay here moping for too long.”

Yrliet smiles slightly. “Very well.” At least she knew that Tiffney would never have a lack of friends by her side. She only hopes that, even if her elantach feels lonely without Yrliet by her side, she does not feel completely alone. “Then… I will be going. Good-bye, my elantach. Until the day I return to your side.”

“Until then,” Tiffney waves, watching Yrliet go. And when Yrliet begins to fly away, she cannot help but notice her elantach’s reflection on the Nightwing’s windshield, running after her ship as it takes off into the darkness between the stars.

Chapter 42: f0r.4.M4357r0

Chapter Text

----- f0r.4.M4357r0

Nothing could have prepared anyone for Tiffney’s first reaction when she stepped inside the Anatomical Opera.

After striding ahead, she suddenly came to a complete standstill, as if looking for something. Yrliet tilted her head, Jae tried to cough silently, and only Argenta was standing close enough to hear her clearly when Tiffney said: “I think I’m dying.”

“ROGUE TRADER!” Argenta’s screech of shock rebounded further than any bullet she had ever shot. Tiffney collapsed into her arms, and Yrliet went utterly still. How could Tiffney be dying? Yrliet hoped she was simply exaggerating, but the way her eyes rolled upwards to hide all the lavender and show only blood-streaked whites-- that couldn’t be faked. But she was fine-- she was just fine a moment ago-- “No, no, no…”

“Shereen?” Jae staggered forward, holding her now-fleshy throat with a look of terror. “No! We just met again! You can’t die and leave me in this sh*thole!”

Instantly clasping her hands together, Argenta practically screamed out her prayer. “O, God-Emperor! I bask in His glory and I plead for His aid! For even the faintest streak of His holy light to shine our way forward and heal His faith servant!”

As if on cue, a distant light from the ceiling seemed to snap off its hinges, and it fell from the sky before bouncing on the ground.

Rolling to a stop only at the feet of a Haemonculus.

Yrliet immediately recoiled backwards, as did Argenta and Jae. Even a mon-keigh would recognise true depravity when they saw it: a half-flayed face peeled over from the chest, an open cavity at the abdomen where organs used to be, and bones twisted at incoherent directions-- of all the horrors within the Dark City, the Haemonculi hidden within their covens were among the worst of the whole lot.

And this one was staring directly at Tiffney’s twitching body.

“Not him!” Jae reacted faster than either of them, tugging Argenta back. “He-- he’s the one that returned the carcina into my body! He’ll rip Tiffney into a thousand pieces and use her bones as cutlery! I need my implant back, but-- not for this cost! Don’t let that xenos ashmag take her!”

“I was not planning to,” Argenta seethed, before stumbling backwards with Tiffney looped around one arm and a half-empty pistol raised at the Haemonculus with the other. “Begone, wretched xenos! Or I will finish peeling all the skin off your body, you--”

“Give the elantach to him.”

Argenta, who has hated Yrliet all this time, still looked aghast at this newfound betrayal. “You would repay the Rogue Trader by giving her away to your vile, flesh-rotting kin to devour?!”

“That is the maestro of flesh that the Arebennian commanded us to work with,” Yrliet said, barely sure of it herself. “He… can help her.”

With a grunt, Argenta shook her head, backing up further. “You can’t possibly think I would believe that!”

In truth, she was no happier to give Tiffney to a Haemonculus than either Argenta or Jae were; but if Tiffney truly were dying…

Well. One of the only people skilled enough in Commorragh to save her would be a Haemonculus.

And now, the Haemonculus was looking right at Yrliet, the light burning upon his ashy skin like hellfire. “The Arebennian,” he hissed, and it sounded like a snake’s rattle, “is the one that urged me to pay attention to your alleged elantach. And I cannot pay attention to a corpse beyond an unimaginative retrieval of organs. So yes, mon-keigh. The Asuryani is right. If you value the life you have, slipping away in your arms, and want to stop her brain from being melted into a slurry of nerves… you would do well to give her to me.”

Or I can just take her myself, was what the Haemonculus’ face clearly showed. Yrliet soon realised that he was the Haemonculus that the Drukhari around her were whispering about during the trial: Tervantias the Archmachinator. The one that Marazhai’s Reaving Tempest was patron to. I can just take her myself and leave you as a red stain on the wall with a million other red stains. It would be as easy as brushing a stray hair out of sight.

Argenta’s finger dawdled near the trigger. For a moment, Yrliet expected her zealotry to blind her from all common sense, and that she would soon see Argenta turned into nothing but a few spare parts for Tervantias’ collection.

Instead, Jae stepped in, taking Tiffney off Argenta’s hands. “Take her.” She tried not to look afraid as Tervantias plucked Tiffney’s now-limp body out of Jae’s grasp. “Save her, or… Exalted One curse you all… just save her.”

“Good specimen,” Tervantias ‘complimented’, and Jae shuddered involuntarily. “Now-- you. Prepare the operating table.”

“Yes, Master Tervantias.”

Then, Jae went from disgusted to utterly enraged. “That’s… Idira? What… what have the xenos done to you?”

“The witch has simply found her place in heresy’s nest,” Argenta muttered darkly in response.

Tiffney was dragged away, and Idira, so strangely muted with her swollen skin stretched across a pale-grey face, obediently did as she was told.

Yrliet could not bear to witness what happened next. But she was familiar with the sound of a human skull being split open: white and red, from the shatter-shock of her rifle, splaying their souls wide open into the cold embrace of Sha’eil.

And she heard that sound play out a dozen times over the next hour. Over, and over, and over. Up until Yrliet finally heard the familiar colour of Tiffney’s voice, gurgled out in a gasp while half-choking on blood.

“The sample has been extracted. The specimen is alive.” Under the bright lights of the Anatomical Opera, Tiffney moved her head, eyes darting around wildly before they finally found Tervantias’ mangled face. “Body and mind expected to function within normal parameters, mon-keigh.”

“Are…” Tiffney’s first word since waking comes out in an airy, awe-filled breath. Yrliet, still drawn back in one corner, felt a weight lift off her chest with the relief that her elantach lives on. “Are you Tervantias?”

“You are absolutely correct, specimen. I am Tervantias the Archmachinator, Haemonculus and the conductor of this place that staggers the imagination and soul.” As he spoke, Yrliet soon deduced something that would be obvious to anyone, even without her heightened awareness: this Haemonculus was absolutely full of himself, even when compared to others of his wretched kind. “My Anatomical Opera.”

Argenta folded her arms and grumbled to herself. It was clearly taking all of her self-control not to start spraying the whole place with bullets, right then and now. Jae, too, had her hands on her pained neck the entire time, eyes gazing uneasily at Idira.

Tiffney, in the meantime, appeared to take the sudden change in situation in stride. “I see! So that means… ow! Ugh, what happened to me?”

“The control worm in your nervous system detected my proximity. It signalled it was dying by injecting a lethal dose of hallucinogenic euphoriants into your bloodstream.” Tervantias lifted the control worm he’d plucked from her brain, and Yrliet watched in thinly-veiled disgust as it burst open like an overripe fruit. “A resourceful individual. I grew this specimen specifically for you, mon-keigh. During your interrogation, it intoxicated your feeble senses to limit unnecessary resistance. What a curious experiment it was. I usually extract control worms from specimens posthumously. You possess some degree of bodily fortitude.”

“You grew it…” Unlike the rest of her retinue, Tiffney did not seem disgusted, or even surprised. Under the lights of the operating table, Tiffney’s eyes almost seemed to… sparkle? “...Just for me?”

…

…That… tone of voice… was not what Yrliet expected to hear from Tiffney. Especially regarding a Haemonculus.

And, as if feeling rather chuffed by Tiffney’s obvious amazement, Tervantias let out a spiteful cackle. The rare show of mirth rippled unnaturally through his overwrought and overengineered body. “Which made for an unpleasant surprise for Dracon Marazhai. Former Dracon, that is. That foolish whelp expected less of you, and you humiliated him. It gave me something to think about. A good specimen.”

“Good specimen?” Tiffney now sounded genuinely pleased with herself. Slipping off the operating table, she did not land onto her feet-- instead, she… knelt down, legs crumbled against the ground, peering up at Tervantias with a cloying smile. “This good specimen desires a reward for her impressive performance!

Yrliet grimaced, unable to hold back any longer. “And after all this, you decided to grovel before the master of flesh?” She was beginning to see Tiffney in a vastly different light. “How very... primitive, elantach.”

Tiffney did not seem offended by Yrliet’s words. In fact, she seemed to instead carry them with a sense of pride. She chuffed up her chest and sat obediently at the ground by Tervantias’ feet. A little too reminiscent of a pet waiting for treats.

“I rarely use positive reinforcement. But your behaviour has been obedient, so why not?” Tervantias shrugged, and with one of his smaller arms he began digging inside one of his various body cavities. After a few seconds of searching, his fingers extracted a frayed bundle wrapped in skin, and tossed it at Tiffney without looking. She grabbed it with a squeak of glee. “This no longer interests me. Take it.”

Tiffney ripped open the bleeding bundle with her shaking hands, and from its heart she extracted a cape that was definitely made out of living skin. In fact, the eyes stitched onto the back appeared to still be lucid and agonised. Grim. “Ah, what an incredible gift! How do you manage to keep your specimens alive even in this form, Lord Tervantias?”

“It’s Master Tervantias,” Idira corrected. Tiffney almost tumbled backwards from shock. Did she not notice Idira there at all?

Once she recovered, Tiffney repeated Idira’s words with renewed fervour. “Yes, of course! Master Tervantias!”

“Shereen…” Jae whispered to herself in exasperation. “Exalted One preserve me. If we manage to survive this mess, I’d best give her a few lessons on how to suck up to someone without having it come off as absolutely desperate. Not that I’m complaining, mind… better her than me.”

Argenta shook her head in sadness. “To watch a loyal servant of mankind, reduced to begging on her knees for succour… from a xenos, no less. It makes my blood boil. Mark my words, we will reduce this accursed place to ashes one day.”

Now, Yrliet did consider the possibility that Tiffney was just buttering Tervantias up to put herself in his good books. It would make perfect sense: Tervantias knew Commorragh better than all of them combined, and gaining the favour of a Haemonculus would certainly aid in their quest to escape from the Dark City’s depraved clutches. In fact, putting aside one’s pride in order to increase everyone’s odds of survival would be an extremely smart thing to do.

…But, somehow, Yrliet knew that all this… flattery… was not exactly an act on Tiffney’s part.

Tervantias, who was actually rather pleased with all this attention, continued to prattle on about how he needed them to fight in the Arena to act out some sort of proxy-war he was waging with its Wyches. Tiffney listened with a bright smile as Tervantias went through his entire laundry list of perceived grievances, unaware or completely uncaring about how insane this looked to everyone else who wasn’t Idira. Yrliet sat back, realising that they were going to be stuck in this place for a rather long time. Jae and Argenta, also realising they were not being monitored while Tervantias and Tiffney were caught up in their enlightening one-sided conversation, began to wander off.

After a while, Argenta started yelling with great fury. Something about Tervantias keeping an ‘Angel of the Emperor’. Jae slapped her hand over Argenta’s mouth in a vain attempt to keep her under control. Incredibly, Tervantias either didn’t care, or didn’t even notice what Argenta was doing.

Instead, Tervantias was busy surveying the chunks of flesh that Tiffney dragged out of her makeshift rucksack. Shockingly, Tiffney’s odd habit of collecting ‘meaty bits’ from the opponents they have faced thus far in a bid to find something remotely palatable to eat has finally paid off (and not in a cannibalistic meal, thank Asuryan): Tervantias seemed pleased with all that she was giving him. “Jae!” Cheerily, Tiffney turned around, waving at Jae. Jae, naturally, reacted with an expression of utmost concern upon being called. “Good news! Master Tervantias likes the spare parts I brought him. He’s willing to put your implants back.”

“Ah,” Jae replied, her face pale. Despite practically weeping at the entrance of the Anatomical Opera to be allowed entry so Tervantias could put her metallic parts to their original spot, she now seemed extremely reluctant to go under his knife once more. “S-splendid. I… thank you, shereen. Now… look away and spare my soul the meagre amount of privacy I can still have.”

They dutifully obeyed.

As the excruciating sounds of metal against flesh rang out again, Argenta corralled Tiffney into the same corner as Yrliet and immediately grabbed her shoulders. “Rogue Trader, this xenos has one of the Emperor’s Angels held captive within his squalid cages! We must find a way to free him!”

“Really?” Tiffney blinked in surprise. Argenta pointed towards the left, and Yrliet spotted a massive human that seemed more feral than even the drooling masses that occupied her elantach’s ship. He was, of course, also chewing on handfuls of raw meat-- why did everything in this damned place have to be so terrifying? “...That’s a Space Marine? Are you sure, Argenta?”

“Do I look like I’m not sure, Tiffney?!” Argenta looked fit to burst. “It is even worse than it appears on the surface, if that could even be believed. I spoke with him, and he claimed he was happy to be kept on a leash! Made to fight like a savage animal for the entertainment of xenos scum! The time he has spent in Commorragh have clearly eroded away his senses, and if we wish to salvage the light of His glory that remains burning within him, we must set him free this instant! We simply cannot allow this xenos to… to keep him! Oh, just the mere thought sets my soul aflame with righteous fury!”

“He does seem more than capable of holding his own in a fight,” Tiffney conceded, nodding sagely. “Don’t worry, Sister Argenta. I will… persuade Tervantias… to let him go. Him, as well as Cassia and Idira… somehow.”

Yrliet gave Tiffney a concerned look. “Do not overextend yourself, elantach.” Argenta glared daggers and holy fire at Yrliet for that comment, but she meant it. “The Dark Ones never intend to fulfil their promises. They are liars who wish for you to give yourself to them before they would give an inch of themselves back to you. And the Haemonculi are the most perfidious liars of all.”

Rather than heed her warning, Tiffney simply shot back with a sharp-toothed grin. “Don’t worry about me, Yrliet. I think I know what makes him tick!”

That only made Yrliet even more concerned.

Once Jae’s head was screwed back onto her metallic neck, Tiffney approached him again, not even waiting a moment once he was free. “I would like to speak with you about a member of my retinue who was delivered to you. My Navigator, Cassia, was with me when we were captured. Where is she now?”

“The female with an exceptionally strong connection to the veil as well as a number of rare mon-keigh mutations, most notably a third eye? I am studying the influence of complete isolation from the veil and the outside world on the specimen's abilities, sanity, and physical condition. She no longer screams inside her reservoir, but she is certainly still alive, and I am not yet ready to conclude the experiment.”

Tiffney’s eye twitched slightly. The first sign of mild discontent since she woke up under Tervantias’ knife. “Those from my retinue deserve better than to be confined by you. Relinquish them.”

Tervantias gave her a look of confusion. “Why would I, specimen?”

“Because…”

With dramatic effect, Tiffney fell back onto her knees, before smashing her head down on the ground in a show of extreme reverence. “I recognise your power over me and beg you for leniency!”

…Yes, there was no doubting it now. Tiffney was somehow enjoying this whole thing, and Yrliet had no idea how to feel about that.

“Very well.” For what it was worth, at least Tervantias was sufficiently ‘persuaded’ by Tiffney’s display. “I will release... one specimen. As for which one it will be, the choice is yours.”

Tiffney nodded proudly. “Release Cassia… please.”

With a brisk wave of his hand, Tervantias commanded the stairs on one side of his operating theatre to be lowered. Argenta quickly placed herself upon its steps, just in case his whimsical nature urged him to renege on his agreement.

“Next,” Tiffney chirped, “I would like to take the Space Marine you keep in a cage--”

“Enough.” Just like that, Tervantias extended a scalpel blade from one of his appendages and towards Tiffney’s wide-open eyes. It didn’t touch her, but its sharpened edge dithered close to her iris with obvious intent. “Do not waste my time, specimen. I have spared you far more attention than your work has earnt.”

Tiffney, forever undaunted, simply leaned back slightly before bowing her head down in exaggerated deference. “Is there anything I can offer to repay a being of such brilliance for the extra attention he may graciously grant me?”

Tervantias scoffed, which was about as nice a response you could hope for from a Haemonculus. “The rest of your paltry possessions do not interest me.” He fidgeted with the sharpened scissors on his fingers, slicing his own skin as he spoke. “If you had something more that could intrigue a master sculptor such as I… perhaps a remarkable piece of organics… then I might grant you a few short moments of my time.”

“But…” Tiffney bit down on her lower lip. “The Space Marine… we need his strength…”

With a sigh, Tiffney curled her fingers up. She was all out of ideas.

So Yrliet welled up what remained of her bravery and stepped forward. “If it is a sacrifice you want, artisan of flesh, then I am ready to offer myself as one.” Her voice shook a little more than she wanted, but she was able to keep her words clear, if anything. “Will you take my flesh?”

Tiffney looked at Yrliet like she’d just hit her with a thunderbolt. But Tervantias was not so aghast-- he was intrigued, which was the reaction Yrliet both sought and dreaded. “I will take more than flesh. I can extract something far more valuable from a single shred of your organics.” Tervantias smiled unnervingly as he spoke. “This does interest me. I will not remove much of her. Her functionality will not suffer.”

Before Yrliet could answer, Tiffney jolted up to her feet, no longer intent on playing cute and coy. “Yrliet, why?”

“This will be a step upon the path of atoning for the errors of my past, elantach. If my sacrifice will bring us…” Yrliet stopped and corrected herself. “...bring you closer to salvation, I will commit myself into the hands of this tormentor.”

“No.” Tiffney’s answer was stamped down more staunchly than any other command she had ever given. Yrliet drew back, and though she could not pretend she wasn’t relieved at her elantach’s choice, she still felt the cinders of shame lashing across her face. Her elantach may be finding humour in this ridiculous escapade, but Tiffney was still debasing herself to a whimpering animal while not allowing any of her companions to sacrifice their pride alongside her. If there was anyone who deserved to suffer under Tervantias’ hand, it was Yrliet herself--

“If you must take something, Master…” Tiffney straightened up to her full height, staring unflinchingly at Tervantias’ half-vivisected face. “What about my eyes?”

What?

Yrliet almost reached forward by instinct to grab her elantach and pull her away. Away from Tervantias, who was currently studying the shades of Tiffney’s eyes like they were ten thousand years of history stitched into one shade of purple. “Only Cadians have eyes like mine, Master. You would be hard-pressed to find another specimen quite like myself…”

“Shereen…” Now, Jae was shaking her head strenuously, trying to catch Tiffney’s attention. Her newly-returned implants creaked slightly from the rough movement. “What are you doing, you azhi-damned fool? We’ll think of another way that doesn’t have you blinding yourself!”

“She is right,” Yrliet immediately followed up, and she was panicking, now, thinking of the way Tervantias’ knife would slice into Tiffney’s eyes, drain out all the lavender and warp-whirled starlight imprinted within. “We will find other things to appease him on our journey. Do not rush towards the spectre of hope in the darkness, lest it lures you into traps unforeseen.” I would know, she decided not to say.

Even with their warnings, Tiffney stood steadfast.

And Tervantias stepped away with a shrug. “I have no interest in such minor phenomena.”

“Aw.” Tiffney turned away with a huff. She wore an expression of utter disappointment. “Fine. Guess we’ll have to find something else.”

“Sometimes, shereen, I’m not sure if I should be in awe or afraid of you.” Jae pulled Tiffney away from Tervantias with a yank, clearly not wanting her to be near him any more than Yrliet did. “By the way, are you going to talk to the guy that trapped us in this sh*thole? He’s been staring at you this whole time.”

“Huh?” Then, and only then, did Tiffney look up to notice Marazhai glaring scathingly at her from a platform above. “Oh! Well, Master Tervantias simply caught my eye first, so I didn’t realise.”

Yrliet pressed her face into her hands with total exhaustion. The day was only going to become more taxing.

Chapter 43: 6.825.065.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.825.065.M42

The room is too quiet. That is what Yrliet thinks, as the sound of Jae pouring another glass of amasec fills each corner of her darkened hideaway. It is too quiet, and Yrliet knows why.

“Now, Yrliet, I’d love to answer your question, but I’d like to ask mine first.” One of her eyes is gone now. In its place, a red augment is charred into the soft planes of her face, shining an ominous beam of crimson in the shadows. “How in the name of the Exalted One did you find me out here?”

“I followed the signs,” is all Yrliet says, and Jae cackles plainly to herself.

“Then I must not make a very good Shadow Baroness if there are signs pointing exactly to where I am.” Jae’s tone is jovial as always, but there is a caustic finish to her words. “So tell me again, dear Yrliet: how did you find me?”

Yrliet’s fingers tip-tap on the table, in that rhythmic way humans do when they are trying to test someone’s patience. And Jae, who is currently overfilling Yrliet’s cup with amasec till the point it spills over onto Yrliet’s lap with obviously unwelcoming intent, is sorely tested indeed.

Yrliet folds her arms over her chest, straightening her back till she is just as tall sitting on a chair as Jae is standing on her heels. “I simply asked the corsairs you work with in secret about--”

“The corsairs!” Jae almost slaps the table in overwhelming relief. “Of course it was the corsairs! And here I was, worrying that there was some human loophole in the cloak I’ve dragged over my spectral presence. Dear Exalted One, I am turning into such a paranoid little wretch in my old age! I’m sorry about the spillage, Yrliet-- let me clean that up for you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Yrliet immediately says, pulling at the tablecloth and drying her lap on her own. She nearly yanks the four bottles of amasec off the table along with it, but Jae holds her hands out and keeps them in place. “I assume, from your tone, that you do not want humans to find you.”

“You’re right,” Jae chirps. “I really don’t. You see, humans are so fickle, sometimes-- and I’m sure you know exactly what I mean, Yrliet. So fickle with who they trust, and who they decide would be better off dead in a ditch after being murdered in the most unpleasant manner while hogtied and screaming. They’re just as likely to caress the hand that feeds as they are to imagine it is actually holding a leash and thus biting it with the chew of a plasma gun blasting straight through a chest cavity. Don’t you agree?”

She gives Yrliet a dazzling smile as she speaks. Yrliet, in direct imitation of human expression, raises her eyebrow in doubt.

“Oh, you have gotten so much less fun to tease, haven’t you?” Jae laughs all the same, nudging Yrliet’s cup in an attempt to make her drink. “I’ve fed this amasec to my Aeldari allies, by the way. And they were all able to stomach it. So I’m certain you can too, Yrliet, unless you mean to tell me those corsairs with nary a hair on their washboard chest can drink you under the table with their youthful splendour.”

“...We Aeldari do not grow chest hair.” Still, for what it’s worth, Yrliet does take the drink. “And I am still considered very young for an Aeldari, Jae. Even with the years that have passed us by.”

“I know, I know, but even you’d baulk at the age of some corsairs! Some of them even have rounded faces. I didn’t even know Aeldari could have rounded faces. I thought you were all born looking like you’ve been dehydrated on a rack for twenty years.”

“Thank you,” Yrliet adds flatly. She drinks a sip of the amasec and grimaces. “Mhh…”

Jae looks just a mite bit offended. “Is it that bad, Yrliet? Surely it’s not the worst thing you’ve ever tasted.”

“It is not,” Yrliet concedes, thinking back. “That would be the booze Argenta had dared me to drink.”

Jae’s mouth parts. “What do you mean, the…” Her voice trails off, mild recognition trickling back into her tone as her lips straighten. “...You mean that party? At new year’s? That… that would be over thirty-- forty? Forty-five years ago?”

Yrliet sighs out the same thing she said over forty-five years ago. “You humans have such poor memory.”

Metal hands press onto the table. Forty-five years of scars and wrinkles show themselves only on Jae’s face, lightly shrouded in both shadows and faint blue-green moonlight. “You have a very funny definition of memory,” she hums, and perhaps she’s already drunk too much, because Jae’s remaining eye is glassy, staring off at something or someone that wasn’t there. “Is it really that easy for you? To remember?”

Yes, Yrliet wants to say. Your short lives and paltry memory would never be enough to understand the depth of Aeldari knowledge, if she were sixty-five years younger. You will live and then die with the same briefness of a solar eclipse, or the blooming of a flower. All too little, all too soon.

“You are my friends,” is what Yrliet says at the end, before giving Jae a slight smile. “So it is easier for me to remember.”

“Is that so?” Jae looks away, whites of her teeth no longer showing in her rather melancholic expression. “Well, I’m happy to hear that. And yet…”

Alien jades of moonlight flicker on their faces. “You never visit your friends without a very good reason,” Jae says, without malice, or bitterness. Just matter-of-factly, like one observes the weather, or the colour of the moon. “So what do you need from me, adash? What brings you to the Shadow Baroness’ doorstep?”

Yrliet glances down at the stirred surface of amasec. She seems to have inherited the irritating human habit of not going straight to the point.

“My elantach is dismayed over the disappearance of our friend.” Our, Yrliet says deliberately. It leaves a rather ashy taste in her mouth. Perhaps the remnants of that God-Emperor’s fury. “I wager that you would know where she has gone, Shadow Baroness.”

“Is that really it?” Jae sounds incredulous yet utterly totally convinced all at once. “Is that the only reason why you’re here? Just to know about where our beautiful battle angel has flown away to?”

Yrliet tilts her head. “Is it not a good enough reason?”

“Have you considered, Yrliet, that Argenta might not want to be found?”

Jae leans in closer, face fading in and out of the dim glow. No matter how good her rejuvenat treatments, there are a dozen more wrinkles on her face, pulled back at awkward angles against her skull in vain attempts to hide their existence. “I have,” Yrliet answers, plainly and simply. “But I know you would keep track of her all the same, Jae. You love her too much.”

“I--” Jae scoffs, in that exhausted, utterly bone-tired way that betrays her age. “I do not want to hear that from you of all people. And I am sure Tiffney told you why Argenta has left for the distant stars. She is always so eager to share anything and everything that has occurred in the last fifty-or-so years since you’ve last showed up…”

“I was only gone for five,” Yrliet argues, as if that were an acceptable amount of time for any human to be gone. As if that were an acceptable amount of time for Yrliet to be gone, whisked away into the astral winds like the stray pieces of Crudarach’s rubble, left to tumble forever into the cosmic tides. “And my elantach only told me that Argenta had exiled herself. That is all.”

Jae looks at Yrliet a little strangely. “Did Tiffney not tell you why?”

“I did not ask,” Yrliet admits. “She offers such information freely, when she wishes to share it. If not… I do not pry if it is not important.”

“Well, it is a bit important if you’re asking me to find her, adash.” Jae stares Yrliet down evenly with her mismatched red-cedar eyes.

Yrliet narrows her eyes. “Then tell me.”

“Not without Tiffney’s permission.”

“Then why even bring it up, Jae?”

“Don’t you think Tiffney is keeping secrets in order to protect you?” Jae suddenly takes a long sip of her drink, purposefully leaving Yrliet to ponder her statement. “Exalted One knows how badly people would want you dead if you knew all of my secrets, much less hers.”

“I am aware of that,” Yrliet says, unable to fully hide her apprehension. “But I do not see why Argenta’s reason for exile must be among those well-kept secrets.”

“Why not?”

Yrliet glances away. “Argenta was not very important.”

“Oh, you-- you can be so mean, adash. So very blunt and needlessly cruel at times.” Jae laughs at the end, but she isn’t lying, and Yrliet takes it to heart with a spoonful of bitterness. “Was she not your friend?”

“I do not mean it that way,” Yrliet tries to clarify. I don’t think I was ever a friend to her, she leaves unsaid. Even till the very end. “But she was not a performer in the political theatre. Not like Heinrix, who holds the armies of your own kind back with his acting, or Tiffney, who leads the reins.”

“Are you sure?” Jae sounds a little impatient, now, like she had just heard something only a particularly stupid child could think to say. “Yrliet, I won’t try to pretend I’m an expert on how Asuryani politics work--”

“You could not be.”

“--yes, that’s the point, I couldn’t be-- but I know what makes a human tick,” Jae declares, rapping her metal fingers against the tabletop. “And there is nothing stronger between humans than love. No, Argenta was no Lord Inquisitor or Rogue Trader, but the people of the Koronus Expanse love her, Yrliet.”

Yrliet sighs. “Yes, I am aware--”

“No you’re not,” Jae snaps back, and Yrliet quietens down. “You’re trying to say she wasn’t politically important, just because she held no gifted title handed down by the Exalted One. But humans do not need titles to gain power. Argenta is a heroine to the common folk, a radiant angel of light who appears in their darkest hour to deliver them to safety from the evil clutches of heresy. Do you know how many songs they’ve written about her? Oh, I highly doubt you would, but I have collected them all and saved their recordings in alphabetical order on my treasury’s shelves. Over eight-thousand-five-hundred-and-thirty, made by entirely different people, many of whom never even met Argenta their entire lives. And those are just the people who have the ability to write songs! Don’t even talk about the billions more who sang them! The people love her, Yrliet--”

Jae tilts her head backwards, her one good eye staring into the verdant moon. “And Argenta… she has always been loyal to Tiffney. Of course she would be, after all Tiffney has done for her, bringing Argenta to her destiny, supporting her every step of the way-- even allowing Argenta to create her own order.”

Silence falls between them like a knife. “Alright,” Yrliet acknowledges. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it’s the reason why I cannot tell you where Argenta is, my dear adash with nary a thought in her head which doesn’t revolve around herself.” Jae speaks on, while Yrliet frowns at the insult. “Because there are new winds blowing into the Koronus Expanse. Winds that bring grave tidings of conflict with the Imperium, and even a xenos should be able to answer who are the Imperium’s most devoted soldiers, can you not?”

“...Argenta,” Yrliet states, eyes widening. “She and her odd sisterhood was always the most zealous of the humans I’ve met. Surely she did not…”

“She did not betray Tiffney, which I know is what you’re thinking, judging from her expression.” Though it should be said with relief, the shake of Jae’s head is heavy with sadness. “But by right, she should have. When word began to spread that the Imperium may be taking up arms against the von Valancius dynasty, it sounded like a ridiculous rumour. But over the past few years, that age-old rumour has suddenly started to gain weight to it, what with Tiffney’s reckless reveal of Nomos and all. And when someone has fallen out of the Imperium’s favour, it is your duty as a servant of the Exalted One to denounce them to hellfire.”

Yrliet thinks she might be beginning to get it. “So Argenta needed to denounce Tiffney?”

“But she didn’t want to,” Jae concludes. She finishing her drink with one fell swoop, and then just succumbs to grabbing the whole amasec bottle and drinking straight from it. “See, that’s it. Argenta didn’t want to denounce Tiffney. She knew she should have, but the people of the Expanse loved her, so if she turned her back against Tiffney, so would all of Tiffney’s people. And yet, if she did not carry out her duties as the devout Sisters of Battle have sworn themselves to shoulder for all their lives…”

“Exile.” Yrliet’s gaze softens. “I see. Argenta exiled herself as punishment for not being able to fulfil her duties, because she could not bring herself to speak out against Tiffney.”

“So,” Jae states, “do you still think she’s ‘not very important’, Yrliet?”

Sixty-five years ago, she would never have accepted such reproach from a human. She would have shot Jae right then and there, before the air of superiority even had time to smother Yrliet with its overwhelming sourness.

But now? Now, Yrliet does something that would have her kin disown her a million times more than they already have: she bows her head to Jae. “I apologise for what I said,” she says, and her tone is terse, but sincere. “I did not know Argenta had disappeared into exile for Tiffney’s sake. I… wish that I was around to thank her before she left.”

Jae pulls back, half her body melting into the shadows. “But of course you don’t know. That is why you come to the Shadow Baroness. To learn what you possibly cannot bear witness to and hear what you will never be allowed to. And, of course, the goods-- the goods that no one else can procure but Jae Heydari herself. Speaking of which…”

Walking away for a minute, Jae slips into the hideaway’s hallway. After waiting in total silence, Yrliet sees Jae return with a little book in her hands, small enough to fit into a pocket. Emblazoned with the Imperium’s proud Aquila.

“It’s from Argenta.” She rifles through the pages with such gentleness that this prayerbook may as well be her own child’s hands. “All the annotations are hers. It’s the one thing she gave me, when she stopped to say good-bye.”

Then, Jae gestures at Yrliet, in a jarringly accurate depiction of Aeldari signs. She means to have Yrliet hold her hands up in waiting, and when she does, Jae presses the prayerbook into Yrliet’s hands with care, as if afraid if may simply burst into flames upon touching xenos skin.

Thankfully, it does not.

“Give this to Tiffney,” Jae says, and Yrliet looks at her in surprise. “I know you will be disappointed to have come all this way and left empty-handed, but I cannot tell you where Argenta is, lest Tiffney forces her to return and ruins all the good Argenta tried to do by leaving. Not that I don’t want her back, but… oh, listen to me ramble. Just take it, Yrliet.”

“Is this not Argenta’s gift for you?” Yrliet appreciates the gesture, but-- “Are you sure, Jae?”

“It is.” Jae rubs her eyes, almost sleepily. “And I’m sure. You see, I have so many incredible material possessions that keepsakes no longer mean that much to me. I shall simply hold onto my memories as my most precious resource!”

The smile Jae gives is so fake that Yrliet cannot help but grimace. “...I am fine with leaving empty-handed,” Yrliet says instead, because she would not feel right, taking this away from Jae. When Jae, of all people, cared for Argenta so dearly. Treated Argenta like she really was an angel, descended from her skeleton-god’s heaven above. “You do not have to force yourself to part with this.”

“You are still considered very young for an Aeldari, are you not?” Jae throws Yrliet’s words back at her. “So you will not be offended when I speak to you as the wizened old lady I’ve unfortunately become. Because at my age, becoming stuck in the past is the greatest mistake anyone can do, especially one in my line of work. You can’t afford to retreat to a history that no longer exists. And we have a lot of history, even if you may not think of it as much, my dear adash. We are…”

She tilts the wine bottle back. Its contents stream into her mouth, trickling against her some-golden, all-fake teeth. “We are ageing, changing and dying while you stay just the same.”

Yrliet folds her fingers around the prayerbook carefully. “That…”

“So bring my brilliant, beautiful and bygone past away with you, Yrliet.” Jae sits down slowly, taking care not to twist her one organic knee. “Before I go and do something stupid, like getting so caught up in my nostalgia that I actually act on my information and go find Argenta myself.”

To that, Yrliet blinks. “So you do know where she is.”

“Well, you were the one who said I loved her too much, weren’t you?” Jae leans back against the solid wood chair, and Yrliet remembers that she had maybe tried to love Tiffney once, perhaps loved Idira as family, but always loved Argenta, from the very moment she laid eyes on her, as hope that her Exalted One’s light may truly reach her after all.

And now Argenta was gone. Chased away by the very Imperium who made the God-Emperor their sole deity of worship. As if on cue, the alien moons dip below the horizon, plunging the hideaway into mostly darkness, save for the single archeotech lantern Jae has left on the table like an extraordinarily expensive paperweight.

“By the way,” Jae adds in, chipper and bright and carrying not a hint of her previous sombreness, “I saw what you arrived in. I must say, you have an excellent aircraft. Would you like to sell it to me?”

Yrliet’s lips flatten into a straight line. “No.”

Chapter 44: 0f.1ll.f473

Chapter Text

----- 0f.1ll.f473

“Everyone!” Tiffney spread her arms wide with such immense enthusiasm that even the denizens of Commorragh stopped and stared in wonder at whatever the f*ck was wrong with her. “I have someone extremely important to introduce to you!”

“BEHOLD!” And then, Argenta butted forward with such radiant happiness that it almost distracted Yrliet from the way she accidentally shoved Tiffney aside, sending her sprawling arse-first onto the ground. “THE GLORY OF THE GOD-EMPEROR’S LIGHT! THE ONE, THE ONLY--”

Tiffney shot back up to her feet before elbowing Argenta away with a big smile and clear annoyance. “Say hello to Ulfar!”

Ulfar waved with both of his oversized arms, before grabbing Argenta and Tiffney both by the backs of their armour like a mother cat picking up their young by the scruffs of their neck. “I am free from the cursed excrement named Tervantias! Once trapped in the writhing bowels of the xenos’ wretched city, I will now march the same path as the pure-hearted sister and the blessed Aett-Vater!”

Then, Ulfar let out a peal of laughter that sounded more like the bellow of a beast. The curious denizens of Commorragh promptly scattered to the winds in fear of their lives.

Tiffney brushed the dirt and bits of blood off her armoured epaulettes before continuing. “Ahem, ahem. Ulfar is our newest companion. For those who are unaware--” --and she looked right at Yrliet as she said this, in the nicest way as anyone trying to single one person out could be-- “--he is a Space Marine, His Angel in the flesh.”

“The righteous Astartes has no need to introduce himself to the rabble,” Argenta chimed in, “and especially not to the filth.”

“Sure,” Tiffney chirped, taking everything delightedly on the chin. “Anyway, with him on our side, our chances of survival have just skyrocketed. Which brings me to my most pertinent point…”

She clapped her hands together. “Be nice.”

“I don’t like him,” Idira immediately grumbled, freshly freed from Tervantias’ control and already seeming to regret it at every turn. “He calls me gothi. I don’t have a clue what it means, but from how the voices cackle whenever he jolts away from me and mutters it under his breath, I doubt he’s complimenting my hair.”

“His Angels are only to concern themselves in performing the art of combat to its highest level. It is natural for him to be less than thrilled with our own connections to the warp,” Cassia explained. Yrliet supposed that meant she shared a similarity with the enormous creature.

“The Exalted One has heard our pleas!” Jae, on the other hand, was either ecstatic on putting on a damn good show of it. “I may be a humble merchant, Ulfar, but once I am able, I will procure a suitable set of high-quality brushes to clean the stains and the putrid scent of death left by xenos on your most scintillating armour.”

Ulfar’s face, which was oversized with the rest of him, scrunched up in confusion. “Save your efforts, swindler. I am pleased with the lingering reminder of my triumphs over the Allfather’s enemies.”

Jae maintained her bright smile, but something in the strained edges of her face seemed to reflect genuine hurt at Ulfar’s rejection. “Of course, Ulfar. May your victories continue ever forward!”

“It’s alright,” Tiffney said, noticing Jae’s disappointment. “I am sure Lord Ulfar appreciates… the enthusiasm in your offer!”

As she patted Jae comfortingly on the back, Yrliet turned around, attempting to flee out of sight. “Hold it,” Tiffney suddenly declared, and Yrliet froze on the spot. Asuryan damn it all. “You’re not just leaving without introducing yourself, are you, Yrliet?”

Yrliet’s head turned around with such resistance that it may as well have been accompanied by the rusted creaking sound of unoiled metal. “Elantach,” she began, with an expression that crossed all boundaries of planets and species-- the expression of scrunched eyebrows, tight lips and narrowed eyes. The universal look of oh f*ck no was written all over her face. “I promised that I would do anything within my power to help you… and I do believe that staying out of his way would be part of that.”

“You’re not in the way at all!” Tiffney, who was either totally unaware or completely insane at this point, simply pointed towards Yrliet in a cheery and obnoxious way that caught Ulfar’s attention. The moment those russet-bourbon eyes moved down to stare at Yrliet like she were a particularly ugly stray cat, she felt her fight-or-flight instinct kick into gear. “Ulfar, this is our Aeldari guide, Yrliet! She will help to lead us out of Commorragh!”

“After leading us into it,” Cassia said not-so-quietly to herself. Yrliet did not grace her with a response, merely staring back at Ulfar while trying not to look terrified out of her wits.

Ulfar co*cked his head. Then scratched his chin, dry hairs and flaky dandruff and all. “The Aett-Vater keeps an inhuman to fight for her?” As expected, he was less than impressed by Yrliet’s appearance, though not miffed enough about it to start trying to eat her like all the other meals of Drukhari flesh he’d had. “She should keep you on a leash, xenos scum, so you do not forget your place.”

Yrliet gnawed on the inside of her cheek with growing irritation that soon swamped over her fear. “I am not a prisoner doomed to fight for my captor, unlike you--” And Tiffney was looking at her, now, hand on her chest and eyes widening. “--you bloodthirsty half-beast--”

“Okaaay!” Promptly, Tiffney leapt in-between them, waving her arms to redirect Ulfar’s attention. “Ulfar, may I kindly request your assistance in-- um, er-- let me think-- ah, I know! Please help Idira with some strength training! She is a great warrior when it comes to matters of grand sorcery, but requires much aid in the realm of physical combat!”

“What?!” Idira sounded more incredulous than when Tiffney was dancing circles around her while convincing Idira to remove Tervantias’ machine. “No thank you, Lord Captain! I’m not going to be a convenient scapegoat to get heat off Yrliet--”

“Train her?” Ulfar looked rather bewildered by the concept, before a confident smirk slid across his face. “A difficult request, Aett-Vater, but I live for a challenge! Come, gothi! I shall guide you with the wisdom of a pack’s leader, showing you the ways we teach weak and wobbly children on Fenris how to hold their first weapon!”

“Are you comparing me to a dog, or a toddler?!”

“Lord Ulfar!” Argenta joined in, suddenly jealous. “The witch will not appreciate your priceless teachings! Guide my path instead!”

“Oh, well, if you’re going to be like that, Sister-- come, big man! Show me the best way to punch a sh*t-eating grin right off some smug fanatic’s face!”

“Calm yourselves. There will be enough time for all to be taught!”

While Ulfar was sufficiently distracted, Tiffney turned back to Yrliet. “I just told you to be nice,” she sighed, pressing her hand against her aching forehead.

“Elantach…” Yrliet trailed off, both defensive and slightly ashamed. “The substantially-sized mon-keigh was the first to be uncordial.” The words were exhaled through gritted teeth, and Yrliet was painfully aware that she sounded little better than a petulant child trying to reason their way out of trouble.

“I know,” Tiffney admitted, sounding more gentle and understanding. “I know I’m asking you to hold back on your tongue while they lash out at you with theirs. But… hypocritical as it is, I still seek your cooperation.”

Yrliet turned back to face her, quietly grateful for Tiffney’s sympathy. “I understand. It was through my foolishness and ill-placed faith that we have now found ourselves in the realm of the Dark City. I will have to lower my head in order to slowly regain your trust--”

“You already have my trust,” Tiffney interrupted. To that, Yrliet’s face twisted into shock and an aghast look of guilt. “I just need you to work towards earning… theirs.”

She gestured at the bickering mon-keigh-- humans, who were currently engaged in some sort of competition. Idira was lifting a rather heavy-looking piece of melted steel, while Argenta raged in the background that her telekinetic powers were cheating. “I never had their trust,” Yrliet tried to argue. “And I have lost all chance of doing so when I trapped you all in Commorragh. Though, in truth, I doubt I ever had a chance at all, even on the bright spring day we met on the Lilaethan.”

“It was spring?” Tiffney, focusing on the irrelevant details, looked momentarily lost in her memories. “Spring, huh. It must be spring now. Or is it? How long have we spent here, I wonder…”

She tilted her head up, craning forward to search for a sun that was not there. It made Yrliet feel a significant wave of shameful misery. Like she did not deserve to feel the warmth of the spring sun on her skin, even if they did find a way to escape.

Even if they decided Yrliet was still worth keeping alive once she has exhausted her remaining usefulness as their lost little guide through the dark spires.

“I think,” Tiffney whispered, just loud enough to tug Yrliet back to reality, “it must be spring, somewhere on Janus. If we can even call the seasons of alien worlds by old human monikers. And I would love to see how it is doing, a year after we have intervened in its slow corruption. I hope Muaran hasn’t taken over the von Valancius government in the time I’ve been gone.”

Yrliet made a quiet sound of amusem*nt. “He would not have.”

“What makes you so sure, Yrliet?”

Yrliet thought to herself, and then said: “He would much rather exterminate the human government than covertly infiltrate it.”

“You are terrible at making people feel better!” She said that, yes, but when she laughed, all her worries flew far away for just a short, fleeting moment. “Well, we’d better make it back out of here to stop him from doing that, alright, Yrliet? So let’s all work together.”

“Alright,” Yrliet agreed, just as the sound of Argenta tossing something and Idira yelping met their ears. “And I believe you have another incident to attend to.”

“I certainly do,” Tiffney chuckled, before snapping to a more serious expression. “Oi! What in the God-Emperor’s name are you two doing?!”

From the tangled mess of interlocked limbs that seemed to be interrupted mid-fight, Idira and Argenta look up. “Ulfar gave us permission,” they both responded in unison, as the very first thing they could both agree on.

“Oh, so I turn my back for five seconds and you’ve already replaced me?”

“Aett-Vater, I would never dethrone my saviour from their rightful place. But in the harsh tundras of Fenris, we could not afford any feuds between brothers-in-arms. To settle their differences, I have allowed them in settle their differences in a holmgang, where they will defend their honour on the field of battle!”

“And you were taking bets, Jae?”

“What? Oh, shereen, you must forgive me. There is so little in the way of polite entertainment out here…”

Yrliet shook her head, unconsciously showing her disapproval in human actions. How could her elantach possibly expect her to get along with the rest of her crew if they can’t even get along with each other?

Chapter 45: 6.149.072.M42

Chapter Text

----- 6.149.072.M42

Yrliet slips through the window into Tiffney’s tearoom with blood dripping from a hole in her side. “Yrliet?” Tiffney jolts up, dropping her teacup onto the table and scalding her hands with hot tea. “Is that--? What happened?!”

“I’m back,” Yrliet says, smiling sheepishly before collapsing onto the expensive carpets. “Sorry.”

The next few hours pass in a blur and the faint sound of music.

When Yrliet finally wakes up, she almost forgets that she has made it onto Dargonus. The bright lights of the medical ward lamps looked so similar to a white dwarf star, consuming the galaxy above as Yrliet laid alone on the planet’s cold surface.

This bed, of course, was not cold. Rather, it feels a bit too warm. And there is a weight laying on Yrliet’s legs.

“...Elantach?” Lifting her head, Yrliet finds the source of the weight quickly enough. Tiffney’s head was lying there, resting on one side, messy blonde hair spread all over the sheets. She’s snoring, which is new, and very human of her. It seems she’s fallen asleep by Yrliet’s bedside.

…In retrospect, coming to find Tiffney while in her less-than-stellar state must’ve scared the living daylights out of her. But she was so close to Tiffney’s domain, and so focused on getting back…

…And who in Asuryan’s name was that?

Standing to the side of the bed, behind Tiffney’s snoring body, a complete stranger stands tall, perfectly straight and entirely unblinking. There were metal bits screwed into their skull, with little braids of dark hair tied into knots around each implant in a vain attempt to prettify a terrible sight. The slightly horrifying nature of this stock-still stranger made Yrliet recoil somewhat, and quickly, she recognised their spare guest as a servitor.

But of all the servitors Tiffney would allow into a private chamber with her and Yrliet…

Yrliet reaches out tentatively, watching as the servitor’s lightless eyes fail to track the movement of her fingers. “Nomos?”

Instantly, the servitor snaps to attention, so quickly that Yrliet can almost hear the metal creaking. “You are awake, Aunt Yrliet. Nomos are glad.”

“Yes,” Yrliet nods, absentmindedly brushing her fingers through Tiffney’s hair. “I am feeling better--”

--Hold on, Aunt Yrliet?

Nomos’ new and jarringly familial title for her runs circles around the inside of her skull. Why that title? Who told them to use it? Was it Tiffney? “Mother was frantic over your recovery. We were offering to bring another bed into this room so she could sleep properly, but she did not respond to us.” Nomos uses the servitor’s eyes to glance down at Tiffney, hunched over Yrliet’s bed and still fast asleep. “We suspect she will be complaining about her back for a week after this.”

“Did your mother…” Yrliet’s fingers pull through the knots in Tiffney’s hair, instinctively moving to untangle them. “Did your mother tell you to call me ‘aunt’?”

She didn’t need a separate bed, is another stray thought. Tiffney could have slept right beside me, if she was so pleased.

Nomos interrupts that thought with their answer. “No. We have been studying kinship terminology between humans and decided it would be apt to call you ‘aunt’ as a reflection of your closeness to our mother.” A tilt of their head. “Is it not to your liking?”

Yrliet wouldn’t say it wasn’t to her liking, just… “It was unexpected.” Beneath her hand, Tiffney begins to stir awake, muttering something incoherent into the blanket. “I do not think I could have ever expected to be called an aunt by a Yngir like yourself, star-child. But I do not mind.” Though I am not sure if that is an accurate title to put on our ‘closeness’, Yrliet thinks, slightly amused. But I appreciate the acknowledgement of it.

“Mmhh…?” Tiffney’s eyes slowly begin to flutter open, looking blearily at Yrliet. “Ah. Good morning, darling.”

Yrliet manages to hold back her laugh. “Good morning, mo chridhe.”

Tiffney closes her eyes again, before letting out one final snore.

And then collapses backwards off the bed from surprise.

“Yrliet!” Her hands fly back to Yrliet’s bedside as she wobbly pulls herself back onto her feet. “How are you feeling? Are you alright now? What the f*ck happened to you before you got here? I was worried sick, you-- oww, ow, my back, my back--”

“Nomos predicted this would happen,” they sigh, in a way that sounds so annoyed and affectionate that it must be human. Their servitor moves rather stiffly, bending forward to support Tiffney by her arms as she tries to straighten her aching back.

Tiffney grumbles to herself. “Don’t nag me. I know my back isn’t what it used to be, but I’m not liable to fall apart like a cheaply-made lasgun yet.” When she’s standing up-- and fully awake-- she gives Yrliet a concerned once-over. “And besides, I’m not the only person who others should be worried about.”

“I am fine, Tiffney.” To prove her point, Yrliet moves herself off the bed. Thankfully, she feels physically alright in every way-- Tiffney’s people must be getting familiar with treating Aeldari injuries, for better or for worse. Whether from Heinrix or Muaran’s help, Yrliet cannot tell. “As for what happened… it was a small matter.”

“A ‘small matter’ doesn’t end up with you stumbling half-dead into my teatime break with a gaping hole in your stomach,” Tiffney mutters, unwilling to drop the topic. “Who hurt you, Yrliet? Who do I have to eviscerate? Just say the word!”

“Elantach.” Yrliet shakes her head slowly, though it does nothing to dispel Tiffney’s anger. “I sustained those injuries in a brief fight with the humans you call Battle Sisters.”

“You mean Sisters of Battle,” Tiffney corrects, before a faint hint of realisation passes through her expression. “But the only Order within the Koronus Expanse is…”

Nomos cuts in with their guess. “The One Star. Right, mother?”

“Right.” Tiffney presses her fingers against her forehead and sighs. “Argenta’s people. Is that why you were so reticent about telling me, Yrliet?”

“That, and why I allowed myself to be… hurt,” she admits, gesturing to her with signs of humiliation. “I only killed those I absolutely had to.”

“...You’re trying to protect them. Trying to protect Argenta’s people.” Tiffney lowers her hand to her mouth and chuckles, just a little bit sadly. “Hah. And after all of those years of telling you to try getting along with her. Now… it’s a bit late to start caring about Argenta, my darling.”

Yrliet turns away. Her eyes land on Nomos, whose servitor’s furrowed brows seem to reflect their own curiosity. “I know.”

“In any case!” Tiffney claps her hand loudly, trying to dispel the air of sadness that’s invited itself around them. “I am ever so glad you are back, Yrliet. Please, you don’t have to hide the truth to protect people from me-- I will settle the matter peacefully and make sure they never lay a hand on you ever again!”

Nomos tilts their head. “A euphemism for killing them all, mother?”

Tiffney snaps her heels and glares at Nomos. “I mean it literally, Nomos”.

“Ah.” They nod, and the way Nomos puppets the servitor carries a nearly-imperceptible aura of childish cheekiness. “We will rearrange our logic processors to better detect and filter sarcasm.”

“Don’t talk like you’re a machine spirit, Nomos. You need to win the people over through highlighting your humanity, which doesn’t come through when you describe yourself in non-organic terms, no matter how accurate. And--” Tiffney reaches out to yank Nomos’ ear, or rather, the servitor’s. “Where’s your wig? You’d better not have walked outside without your wig!”

Nomos looks at Yrliet a little pleadingly. Yrliet blinks back at them in confusion. “We deduced that Aunt Yrliet would not mind seeing this body’s servitorization implants.”

“Yes, but no one expects a servitor to-- hold on, Aunt Yrliet? Nomos, I told you already! ‘Aunt’ is for your mother’s sister! If you want to call Yrliet anything besides her name--” Tiffney’s words suddenly catch themselves in her throat, and she briefly looks at Yrliet with hesitation before swallowing it down. “You should… call her by the title you give to your mother’s…”

Tiffney waves her hand around. “...partner. If she… doesn’t mind.”

“Of course,” Yrliet quickly agrees, smiling softly to chase away Tiffney’s doubts. Tiffney smiles back, with a lot more wrinkles around her eyes than before. “I am more than happy to be recognized as the one whose Path runs alongside yours, elantach.”

“Always so poetic about it,” Tiffney scoffs, trying to hide the blush that still finds its way on her face after seven decades.

Nomos looks left at Yrliet, right at Tiffney, and then nods sagely to themselves. “Very well. Then, we shall call Yrliet by the title Queen Consort--”

“No!” Tiffney punches Nomos lightly on their arm. “Try again.”

Nomos lowers their head. “...Dowager?”

“Nooo! Nomos, you can call her that when I’m dead, but not while I’m still breathing!” Tiffney flicks Nomos on their half-metallic forehead. “Try again. Serious attempt, this time!”

This time, Nomos thinks over it slowly. Or, at least, gives the impression that they are. “Then, we shall call her your Mistress--”

“Just,” Tiffney interjects, “call her mhathair.”

That word, so familiar and said by Tiffney with more accuracy than ever, takes Yrliet by surprise. “But you are their mother.”

“And you are my love,” Tiffney reiterates. “So-- by rules of kinship set by the Imperium-- you are, technically, also Nomos’ mother.”

When Tiffney notices the growing alarm in Yrliet’s face, she immediately clarifies. “Just as a technicality! I’m not going to make you swaddle them in a blanket or whatever-- not that you can, since Nomos is technically made of green air and all-- it’s…”

“Besides my mother, the one who has guided us the most was you.” Nomos chimes in with their own reasoning, and Yrliet gestures at herself in slight disbelief. “Though our meetings are few, the words you share with Nomos always open us to a new perspective… mhathair.” Nomos’ fingers curl into Aeldari signs of parenthood and harmony. They seem to chew on the new title, parsing its syllables slowly, like an unfamiliar dessert.

It melts onto Yrliet sweetly, too. Like candy.

“I like this.” At the back of Yrliet’s mind, memories of Heinrix’s warnings go unheeded. It has been-- well, it has been a short time for Yrliet, but a long decade for humans. “I am honoured to have guided you on your own path to meaning, star-child. And it fills my heart with warmth to know you have kept so well at Tiffney’s side.”

“Ah, yes!” Tiffney pats Nomos on the shoulders, pushing them forward. “This is a good opportunity for you to practise your introduction, Nomos. Go on, re-introduce yourself to your mhathair!”

Nomos stiffens up, more so from irritation than from the limitations of their puppet. “Must we?”

Tiffney narrows her eyes. “Are you playing coy?”

With a tired grunt that reminds Yrliet of her rebellious adolescence in Crudurach, Nomos stands as imposingly as their puppet can muster. “We are--”

“Singular,” Tiffney corrects. Nomos gives her what Yrliet can only describe as a stink-eye.

“...I,” Nomos repeats, “am Nomos von Valancius, first in line to the von Valancius dynasty. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Nomos von Valancius? They’ve took Tiffney’s surname? …First in line? Yrliet watches as Nomos makes their puppet slooowly bend the knee, sinking their gangly limbs into an awkward curtsy. As a Yngir…?

“Need a bit more practice on the finer motor skills, but otherwise, good job!” Satisfied with their performance, Tiffney slaps Nomos encouragingly on the back.

“I will not pretend to know much of your human traditions around succession.” Yrliet tilts her head curiously to one side. “But I do not think it includes a clause allowing us xenos to inherit your positions of power.”

“Heh, well, that’s the thing!” Tiffney pulls an over-the-top white wig and puts it on Nomos’ head as she speaks. “People don’t need to know Nomos is a xenos! To all who know ‘her’, she is a distant von Valancius relative who I have graciously adopted, and am training to become my heir apparent.”

“Mother tried to announce the truth of our existence to the public before,” Nomos recalls. And Yrliet can definitely remember that: blurred in with her near-death experience and uncomfortable encounter with Nocturne, she almost forgot how insane Tiffney’s plan to just be honest about Nomos’ existence was. “It went poorly.”

“Yes,” Tiffney confirms flatly. “It went… poorly… which reminds us of an important principle in decision-making!”

She snaps her fingers in front of Nomos. “When making important choices for the people of our protectorate, what are the three basic assumptions we must keep in mind?”

Nomos raises their hand. “One, that the people do not know what is good for them. Two, that the people have short memories. Three, that the people will be happy to believe anything you tell them if you intersperse the fallout of your decisions with grand acts of mercy.”

Yrliet frowns. That seems… slightly tyrannical, but she supposes Tiffney’s rule must be considered excellent governance by human standards.

“That’s right!” Tiffney claps gleefully. “You are coming along so well in your studies! With that said…”

Then, Tiffney gestures at Yrliet, taking her hand. Tiffney’s skin feels looser, now, a little softer from being worn down all these years. “My love has returned to visit us, which is a momentous occasion. And what better way to celebrate a momentous occasion than with…?”

Nomos nods again. “A public holiday?”

“Exactly. And you,” Tiffney says, while practically shoving Nomos out of the door, “are going to announce it for me!”

Nomos’ response is universally understood by all living things in every galaxy: “Oh no.”

-----

From what Yrliet can gather, Tiffney is taking Nomos’ preparation towards rulership very, very seriously.

In truth, Yrliet found the idea quite practical. As a Yngir, Nomos was capable to absorbing far more information than a human could ever hope to learn in their short lifetimes, and though most Aeldari legends spoke ill of the Yngir’s cunning, it can confidently be said that they are intelligent and capable of leadership-- if they do not become blinded by their own greed. Something that Nomos seemed unlikely to succumb to, at least, unless they change drastically in the next ten thousand years. And they certainly could, but long-lived species tended towards being stubborn rather than fickle.

But…

“Don’t worry, Nomos!” Tiffney, who does not trust anyone else to do Nomos’ make-up for them-- lest they discover her child’s true nature-- powders the servitor puppet’s nose and applies blush onto pale-grey cheeks. “I am ninety-nine percent sure you can handle it. Besides, you’ve got to get real practice some day, and what better way to practise than by announcing some good news? It’ll be much easier than announcing bad news, I’ll tell you that much!”

“We have not had time to memorise our script, mother.” And-- as is supposedly normal for an ethereal being like Nomos-- they are rapidly flitting between controlling the servitor, to inhabiting the nearby cogitator, and then to Tiffney’s data-slate to hurriedly highlight the script they’ve prepared for themselves. Yrliet isn’t sure whether she expected a Yngir to have picture-perfect memory, but she certainly never expected to learn of one desperately clinging onto a script like this.

It almost reminds Yrliet of those children with stagefright whose parents forced them into participating in school performances mimicking Harlequin troupes and their grandiose plays. An unbidden smile spreads across Yrliet’s face at the memory, without any of the usual bitterness at her lost past.

“Script?” Tiffney waves her hand dismissively. “You don’t need a script, Nomos! You’ll be fine! Just go up to the vox-receiver and announce a week of public holidays. Done and dusted!”

Nomos zaps back into the servitor’s body, and looks at their mother with genuine worry. “Are you sure?”

“Nomos, I’ve been ruling these people for… what?” Tiffney counts on her fingers, as if it’s been too long for her to recall off the top of her head. “...Seventy-two Terran years! Of course I’m sure!”

In contrast to Tiffney’s distaste of clothing not wearable to a battlefield, she dresses Nomos up to the nines in pretty lace dresses and glamorous accessories. It does serve as a strong distraction from Nomos’ rigid movements, but Yrliet cannot overlook the slight hypocrisy in how Tiffney is teaching Nomos to rule and how she rules herself. “All done,” she hums, voice tinged with pride. “Now get out there, Nomos!”

Out of curiosity, Yrliet picks up the data-slate, before her eyes widen at the eighty-page script Nomos had prepared. Even the most long-winded of Farseers do not prattle on for that long. She could not imagine Nomos going on for the whole eighty-page duration. “Elantach…” Yrliet reaches out to tug Tiffney’s sleeve. “Perhaps you should give Nomos some time to revise their… script. It is quite--”

“Already doting on them?” Tiffney gives Yrliet a confident thumbs-up. “It’s quite alright, Yrliet! Nomos has to get out there someday, whether they live it or not.”

Nomos looks pleadingly at Yrliet, before realising that there was no changing Tiffney’s mind once she’s set it on course. “...Thank you, mhathair.”

“Before we get to the podium, you should give Yrliet a tour of our grand palace.” Tiffney scans her fingers on the door seal, beckoning it to open. “I mean, we’ve already introduced you to the dining hall for some food, but there’s more to this place than just that! Hold onto the data-slate, Yrliet, it’ll pop up with subtitles as Nomos speaks-- latest in speech recognition technology, bless our Tech-Priests! Come, Nomos; I need you to be familiar with every nook and cranny of this place.”

“Yes, mother…”

Walking out of the inner rooms and out to the shining courtyard, Yrliet now realises that the heart of Dargonus has changed very much from what she last remembered. The gardens have increased thricefold in size, and entire buildings have been rearranged to suit Tiffney’s latest desires. Trees grew to the same heights as Tiffney’s towering spires, and luxury materials gathered from all across the Expanse tiled the floors or garnished the walls. “This is the imperial palace of the von Valancius dynasty,” Nomos retells, gesturing vaguely at the scenery. “A proud site with over a thousand years of history, we have--”

“A thousand years?” Yrliet raises an eyebrow. “Elantach, you only built this palace after demolishing your old one. That was a little over sixty years ago.”

“Shhh,” Tiffney hushes with a laugh. “Normal people don’t need to know that, Yrliet.”

“Continuing…” Nomos carries on, unfazed by the interrupt or the blatant lie. Leading them through the massive front doors, Yrliet watches as a few dozen people stop in their tracks to bow at them.

But that hardly catches Yrliet’s attention as much as the massive marble statue erected in the very middle of the large chamber. “Here is our tribute to the memory of esteemed Ulfar Thunderlung, revered Space Wolf and glorious angel of the God-Emperor. He once joined our Rogue Trader Tiffney von Valancius on her adventures to distant worlds, fighting by her side against wicked forces that would do us harm, thus proving her right to inherit His light…”

“I have been wondering where he had gone,” Yrliet mutters to herself. “When you say this is to his memory… you mean to say that in the vast emptiness of space, he managed to find an opponent so terrible that even he could not win?”

“Hmm, yes and no,” Tiffney answers, which doesn’t answer anything for Yrliet at all. “He’s still alive! …Kind of.”

Yrliet co*cks her head to the side. “What do you mean, ‘kind of’? I do not see how you can be only partially dead.”

“Nomos may answer,” they offer, suddenly enthusiastic. Yrliet doesn’t notice Tiffney’s concern as they speak. “Lord Ulfar was gravely wounded in battle against the enemies of mankind, but is kept alive through an incredible machine of flesh and metal called a dreadnought. Originating from blessed archeotech, the dreadnought is a holy weapon of war that not only mows down millions in a single battle, but also keeps the venerated Astartes within for thousands of years. The oldest one has survived from the Age of Darkness from over ten millennia ago…”

As Nomos goes on and on, Yrliet turns to Tiffney with a discomfited frown. “So you do not even grant your warriors the dignity of death?”

“Just for some people,” Tiffney chirps, before looping her arm around Nomos’ back and pushing them along. “Now come on, we've got a lot more to see, and we still have a speech to make! Nomos, show her to the Saint Werserian wing!”

The… wing? “For…” Yrliet can just barely recall whose surname that belonged to. “…Abelard?”

Indeed: from the lifelike paintings of Abelard basked in holy light to the preserved tatters that was once his battle gear, Abelard’s memory was now inscribed as Saint Werserian, whose faithful service enthroned his lineage as the most royal of Dargonus’ noble families. And that was hardly the only thing that has been recorded in very different tones to what Yrliet remembers. Along the whole of Nomos’ practised tour, Yrliet spots more and more fabrications in the von Valancius story. Strange new additions to the tales of old companions sprung up like intricate patterns of gold painted over old portraits, obscuring the original colours till it was almost impossible to make out what was once there.

Idira’s legacy was now intertwined with majestic stories of her heroism, as if her true exploits were not good enough on their own. Pasqal, according to the von Valancius exhibits, was the inventor of Titans, Imperial Knights, several high-tech plasma weapons that looked impractically fake and even drafted the blueprints for the f*cking Golden Throne. Argenta, too, now the actual Saint Argenta, whose blinding radiance would lead all to… actually, that one wasn’t too far off from what Argenta actually claimed.

Conspicuously, there was not a single mention of any xenos, besides the occasional comparison to bugs. Technically, Yrliet was not surprised by that; no matter how Tiffney treated her, she would always be seens as nothing more than a pet to the rest of the human world. Not worthy of a mention in the history books.

“So, my love?” Not that it would mean that much to be mentioned here, seeing that half of it was lie after lie. “That’s the whole tour. Any feedback?”

Yrliet turns her head away from the floor-to-ceiling window of Argenta rendered in stained glass, reaching out to a glimmering thread of starlight with fire burning in her hands. “Are you asking me to comment on the presentation, or the content?”

“Ah…” Tiffney shrugs. “Both.”

“In terms of presentation, it is splendid. In the way that atmospheric firestorms are splendid before setting you aflame and leaving you to burn with terrible pain,” Yrliet describes, and Tiffney snorts in amusem*nt at her metaphor. “In terms of content… I hope that the liberties you have taken with your history will not completely overwrite the memories of our friends.”

“That might be a bit of a lost cause,” Tiffney readily admits, now too old to try hiding her sadness. “But I have good reasons for all of this. They have… hmm. Things have changed a lot, in all the time you’ve been gone.”

Tiffney shifts her weight from left to right. “Politics stuff. I won’t bore you with it. In any case, this is the official tour we give to visitors from all over. I’ve… well, I’ve done a lot to clean up my image. Heinrix helped.”

“And yet here I am,” Yrliet points out. “Standing side by side with you, mo chridhe. What does that make me? The last stain on your record?”

“No!” Tiffney shakes her head wildly. “No, no, not at all. They… you’re allowed to be here, and no one would dare say otherwise. We are allowed to deal with sanctioned xenos, and by all definitions, you have been considered sanctioned for many years. And I’ve made sure that’s kept the same. Even as lots of things change, all the time.”

You are considered to be my obedient pet, is the implication Tiffney doesn’t say aloud. Yrliet supposes, by now, that it is a view shared by both of their peoples.

Yrliet stares upwards, at the intricate ceiling. But she is not looking for patterns in the ceramic. She is beckoning to the sky above, grey-white in this gloomy autumn on Dargonus.

Wondering if it will ever fill up with warships. If one day, Yrliet will return to her elantach and instead find nothing but ruin where her kingdom once stood.

“And now is the time to change the next week into one of celebration!” But Tiffney doesn’t give her time to dwell on future tragedy. Never ever has, because she’s always been rushing after the next solution, the next plan that will work, the next way she can save everyone. Now she’s taking Nomos by the arm and dragging them up the winding steps, up towards a familiar balcony which she once used to address her people about Nomos. They step through several guarded doors in order to reach their destination-- security has gone up, it seems. “I’ve already asked Stellan to prepare the stage for you. So go up there and kill it!”

Nomos looks at their mother in bewilderment. “Metaphorically,” Tiffney clarifies, grinning proudly from ear to ear. “Go, my child! Speak to the people! Announce that public holiday with gusto!”

“Very well,” Nomos says, resigning themselves to this fate. “We will do it.”

Mustering their courage, Nomos puppets their servitor up to the balcony door. A professional-looking man-- who was once a lost boy named Stellan, Yrliet remembers, by his ancestor’s deathbed-- bows respectfully, before opening the door for them. “Right this way, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Seneschal.” They nod to him before taking a deep breath-- physiologically unnecessary, seeing that Nomos is simply occupying the body remotely, but mentally important-- before stepping out.

The light from outside, usually dim at this time of the year, suddenly floods in with great force. Crowds of people, who have already gathered outside, wait breathlessly below.

“...Good people of the Koronus Expanse!” Nomos starts off strong, their voice bellowing through the servitor’s mouth so confidently that it sounds shockingly reminiscent of their mother. “I come with glad tidings! My mother’s secret lover has returned!”