Gantrithor was as much his home as Aiur. It's walkways responded to his presence, lighting up as he moved, opening, shifting, bending to his will. It spoke to him, just like Aiur did. There was something about being in Gantrithor, surrounded by the endless black of space that made Tassadar feel at peace. It wasn't that he didn't feel at peace on Aiur with the song of the Khala at it's loudest, at it's most melodic. It was a different kind of peace when he soared the Khala was quieter when he took to his ship. There were his crew, the nearby ships and colonies that contributed, but it was the melody without the harmony; the soprano alone without the alto. He used to lament for the Khala and Aiur after long times spent in the skies with his crew, but these days, he was missing it less. New horizons lay before him now, new trials, new friends.
Tassadar leaned against the window of his cabin, his feet heavy on the floor. All his energy had been expended, but the last thing he wanted to do was sleep. All of his energy that remained was in the Khala, speaking with his people, seeking their guidance. There were few answers; most of what met his words was silence, heavy, lingering, unwanted. He spread a hand across the glass, staring at his faint reflection.
Where did we go so wrong? Are we truly so blind to our own failings?
The ship shuddered, it's thrusters powering up slowly. She had taken damage, and it would be at least a day until their warp drive was ready to jump to Aiur, and to his fate. He was ready, he thought. There was a linger of doubt that refused to leave, that he could not quell. Should he simply take his punishment without question? Whatever their judgement, he was ready to react. They hated him now. Once an Executor of highest regard, he now stood as a renegade templar, wielding powers of both the light and the dark. There had only been one before him who had done such a feat; Adun. And now, there was Tassadar.
He turned over his hand, flexing his fingers to a fist. The powers of light soared through him, mixing with the song of dark, and he had never felt more complete. Gone was his status as Executor; now stood a being of Templar and Nerazim. He was proud - well - he tried to be. There were few who felt as he did. His crew did, mostly. They tried to understand, and that was enough for Tassadar. They were faithful to him and believed in his choices; he had chosen well. But even with the support of his crew, every hour, countless times, he heard his name spoken in the Khala. 'Traitor!', 'Blasphemer!' they spoke, unashamed. Rarey there were words of support, of understanding, but they were shadowed by the anger, by the hatred for his name. He leant forward on the glass, closing his weary eyes.
All I do, I do for Aiur.
For Aiur. For the Khala. For his people. And if that meant stepping beyond the narrow path that his people had never strayed from for so many years, then that is what it must be. He glanced to his arm, where a thick, deep scar sat as a memory of his Shadow Walk. He drew a finger along it, remembering the trials fondly. He hadn't faced anything as dangerous in his life; except the Zerg, of course. He flexed his hand, remembering the feeling that had seared through his body and mind as he had passed; at that moment, he had beheld silence. There had been no voices, no Khala, nothing but himself. At that moment there existed only Tassadar. It had unsettled him. He had never known a feeling like it, and he still couldn't decide if it was right. When Zertaul had taken his hands and embraced him in congratulation, that had felt right.
He had grown up being told both were wrong. Unity is strength, solace is blasphemy and seek a woman as a partner, to strengthen the Khala and further our people. Tassadar had never judged those for whom they took as a partner, as a friend, as a lover, as nothing more than a nights passing. For who were he to judge anyone? There were many who believed they stood in a position to do so, and it was those that still looked upon Tassadar with disdain. It was those that still called for his judgement, for a trial, and some even called for his head. But none of them knew of that which felt right to Tassadar; they knew of Zeratul, of course. The blasphemer. The dark one. The betrayer. Zeratul had heard it all; and Tassadar hurt for him every time they spoke ill of his name.
And now they were returning once more to Aiur, to home; together.
The ship shuddered again and began to slowly move forward. They would drift in this sector for a day until they were ready to jump. Tassadar was glad for the delay. A day for himself. A day to stall the confrontation with the Conclave. He sat back onto his bed, the sheets crisp and unused. He hadn't slept properly for days. Instead he had spent hours beneath the moon, the sun, soaking up it's energies so he could assist in the fight against the zerg. But by the Khala, it was endless. They were endless. Was there ever going to be end? Retracting his claws, he slipped off his gauntlets, taking extra care with the one given to him by Zeratul, and set them by his bed. Piece by piece he began to remove his armour. It weighed heavy today, especially on his shoulders.
The voices quieted in his head to almost nothing but a whisper; a peace descended. In tandem, the lights of his quarters dimmed as the shadow appeared.
And from it, stepped Zeratul.
Tassadar didn't turn to greet his fellow, there was no need for the formality. He continued to remove his armour, unclipping his pauldrons slowly.
'There is a quiet within you,' said Zeratul, standing before Tassadar. He gently pulled his hands off his armour and retracting his own claws, resuming what he made Tassadar stop.
'I never thought my return home would cause me such...pain,' he said, closing his eyes with the last of his words. Zeratul's touch was smooth, soft, careful. He knew the pride a warrior took in their armour. Zeratul, less so. He prefered a casual demeanour with the boon of freedom, of flexibility. But he did not look down upon those who favoured armour like Tassadar's; there was no shame in what one chose to wear.
Tassadar relaxed as Zeratul lifted off his remaining pauldron. The Nerazim set it by the neat pile on the floating bedside table before sitting next to Tassadar on the bed. Both were silent, bathed in the dimmed lights of his cabin. Zeratul was first to speak.
'You have surpassed what they could never be. Through their anger seeps envy,' said Zeratul, resting a hand on Tassadar's thigh. It was still armoured with the exquisite golden metal, detailed with his Executor heraldry. He glanced to the table where the removed pieces sat. The gauntlet he had given Tassadar upon passing his Shadow Walk sat by itself, etched in the heraldry of his homeworld.
'Do you truly think it is envy? They are so blinded by their traditions, so bound by their customs that anything - anyone - that steps beyond them is wrong.' He stared at Zeratul's hand, placed gently on his leg. It would stay there until he gave permission, until he touched him back, he knew. Zeratul had always let Tassadar have the thread of control. Only when he was ready would they take the next step; only when he was comfortable would he pursue. Freedom and individuality was what Zeratul knew; Tassadar had to learn to trust what he desired, and not be afraid to be who he was; not what he was.
Zeratul spoke, interrupting his thoughts. 'You have become something they cannot, if they do not change. With envy comes anger, with anger comes blindness. We must help them see.'
Tassadar brushed his hand over Zertaul's, then began to unfasten the armour on his legs. Zeratul shifted to his knees and helped remove the armour. Tassadar laughed gently.
'I am quite capable of removing my own armour, Zeratul,' he said as he ran his hands over the thick braids that hung at the side of the Nerazim's face. The tips were adorned with intricate metal clamps, similar to the ones that were on the end of his severed appendages. He always admired the beautiful detail carved in the clamps; swirls that echoed the shapes of Zeratul's armour, some held words of the Nerazim. He held one between his thumbs; it was new. He looked between his armour and the clamp; the detailing matched.
Zeratul removed the last of Tassadar's armour; all that remained was the cloth that hung from his waist. Tassadar rolled the clamp between his thumbs.
'It matches my armour,' he said quietly.
'I shall remove it if it makes you uncomfortable,' said Zeratul, clasping his hand.
Tassadar shook his head. 'No - no,' he said, interlocking their fingers. 'You honour me with the gesture.'
Zeratul held both his hands atop Tassadar's lap. He looked up at his lover, watching the blue hue of his eyes flicker. 'It is a simple token of you, and your presence in my life.'
There was a decadent quiet; a peace between them only they understood. The only thing Tassadar could hear at that moment was Zeratul. He had trained hard to keep himself separate from the Khala at their most intimate moments; he couldn't risk others reading his thoughts, seeing into their intimacy and exposing what they shared. But right now, he didn't even have to try, because Zeratul had his all.
'I want to thank you,' began Tassadar, gliding his thumbs along the prelate's hands. Zeratul waited patiently as Tassadar talked. 'We have treated you are your kind with such...disdain. Such nearsighted mistrust and prejudice - and yet - you return with me and my people back to the place that banished your kind.' He spoke slowly, kindly. He could hear the hum of the Khala return; his strength was waning.
'Our responsibility to Aiur has never left us, even if we are no longer welcome to step upon its land,' said Zeratul.
Tassadar freed his hands and began to unfasten the mask Zeratul wore. The deep purple material was soft to touch, detailed with the crest of the Nerazim. Tassadar let the purple silk cascade over his hand and slide to his bed. Zeratul leant into Tassadar's touch; it rippled along his face, pressing along the grooves of his skin, the small spikes of his crest and the curve of his brow.
'It still pains you,' said Tassadar, leaning forward until their foreheads met, gently. 'To return to a home that can never be.'
'My home is where I make it,' said Zeratul as he watched the hue of Tassadar's eyes shift to a deep, dark blue. Zeratul slowly rose from his knees and glanced to the door. 'And we are no longer alone.'
'I know,' said Tassadar, withdrawing his hands as he felt the quiet dissipate. The noise, the words of the Khala almost overwhelmed him as it returned abruptly. Was he truly so devoid of energy that he could no longer keep the words at bay? A polite knock on his door interrupted them. It was unnecessary. A High Templar, Rika, eager to rise to Praetor had already announced his impending arrival through the Khala. Tassadar knew it would only be a matter of moments before he would step inside after the small grace period to gather oneself had passed; he was polite enough to grant him such.
'You should sleep. I can feel your exhaustion. You must rest before… whatever will meet us when we arrive,' said Zeratul, glancing warily at the door.
'We will face it together, Zeratul.'
Tassadar stood from the bed and passed Zeratul his mask, letting their touch linger as a last goodbye before he slipped away into the slither of shadow from where he came.