IX.
The air of the room was that of tensity like steel as Cinder Fall entered Her chamber. Salem, rightful ruler to the throne of Remnant, and the despotic, behind-doors schemer that Cinder had been accustomed to, held a face of measured contempt on her face as the protégé entered. Her master sat tall atop her throne, amid a dark room lit by iridescent braziers, flames licking up from pits formed from the metallic imitation of men sentenced to the horrid death of a blood eagle. Horrid things, expertly moulded and crafted by eager servants and artisans of the Empyrean, they stood beneath looming, arched windows that wouldn't have been out of place in a cathedral designed by imperial architects. The oppressive aura of the room was only furthered by those damned braziers—a kneeling slave, ragged and without a pound of muscle on him, wrists bound by thick manacles from which hung ornate chains depicting bodies in the throes of violence, the back had been rent open, ribs detached from the spine, with the bright, multicoloured flames rising steadily from the space between the miniature statues' intricately carved lungs, pulled out like gory wings, each crackle of the fuel inside akin to the whispering of some immaterial creature from beyond the veil. If one listened acutely for too long, they could barely make out the screams that had undoubtedly belonged to the inspiration for the horrific fixtures, slaves dealt a painful death for outliving their usefulness, or for some miniscule punishment they may or may not have deserved. Salem was practically drinking in the discomfort generated by the awful things, and Cinder was not far from it herself as she entered.
From the vain, wealthy dressed form of Arthur Watts and his fingers drumming nervously against the handcrafted mahogany table, eyes darting about with a similar wracking of nerves, to the humble, stoic silhouette of Hazel Rainart, leaning back in the tall-backed chair constructed of bone and tar, trying desperately to appear large and unfazed, muscles tensed and drawn like prey attempting to seem deadly to a predator it has no business being near, they were all disturbed greatly. But a few years ago, the room bore a not dissimilar aura, yet lacking the tension that a sword would struggle to cut. The introduction to the Ruinous Powers had made such a marked change in Evermore Castle and the slowly expanding bastions surrounding it, per the instructions of a self-proclaimed Warsmith that ranted petulantly at them through an astropathic communique formed from the ritual sacrifice of a half-dozen servants and slaves. Cinder sidled up to the seat between her two apprentices without a word spoken, her mistress' eyes drawn over her with predatory and malicious intent. Cinder inwardly scoffed—the woman was certainly several measures of intimidating, but the protégé had seen far worse under the wicked sorceress. She wasted no effort in appearing unfazed, though kept a tidy posture about her, back ramrod straight and shoulders spread broadly. With her arrival, Salem proceeded, turning her gaze down the long table and its occupants.
Her inner circle were all present—Hazel, the poor, ignorant fool, accounted for and punctual as was expected. Watts—the idiotic fool, was 'fashionably late,' though a margin less than her protégé and the runts she was using as aides. No matter. Her gaze shifted down the length of the table once more to finish taking stock of present company. Tyrian, the useful, worshipping idiot, sat politely, with a manic grin plastered across a face carved with so many dark, arcane marks that it almost hurt her to look at—how the wretched subhuman hadn't been possessed by a daemon of any form was beyond Salem.
They were not the only ones present, and Salem was pleased to see the upstart witch from the Fang had been brought along as she had requested. Varus, his name was. An ugly sight of human flesh melding hideously with the scales of a piranha, with that greasy, slicked-back hair and air of unfounded arrogance, pomp and underlying psychic power, Varus would serve his purpose wonderfully. She was able to pick out other faces—nameless nobodies in the context of this meeting, but ones who needed reminding of whom and what they served. Salem cleared her throat, and the low buzz of tension was washed away as all eyes turned to her, some nervous, some eager, some simply bored of the whole affair already. She leaned forward slowly, leaning on her elbows and allowing the room to be filled with only the soft, tinny sound of the crystals hanging from her hair clinking together. It bred another layer of tension, thinner than the last, but enough to make sure these thoughtless whelps paid her the necessary attention.
"Welcome. I needn't explain the why of your presences… only the how of it." Her thin, pursed lips upturned into a smirk, filled with devious intents. Her eyes dragged slowly across her gathered flock.
"We have come far in these past few years, farther than we could have ever hoped without the blessings of Ahriman, the Weaver, and Chaos itself. Without them, we would still be clawing at the dirt in the shadows, reliant on the ignorance and weakness of our enemies to survive," Salem purred out, her words honeyed as she slowly rose to her imposing height, taking slow, meticulous steps, moving to circle imposingly over her flock like a vulture. Her heels clicked loudly against the floor, echoing the silence so deeply that the nervous parting of cracked lips and calming breath exuded from the slimy abhuman guest became deafening. Dramatic pause suitably built, Salem took another step forward.
"It is that blessing, might I remind you, and my own benevolence, that allows you all the luxuries you enjoy. The freedom of morality… the power you will soon have, the vengeance you seek… all of it," she continued, eyes falling upon each individual as they were called out, "due to the grace of our benefactors, and the assuredness of our goals. That being said… our mission on this dreadful world must deviate from its current course if we are to remain in the good graces of our betters." Salem inwardly sneered at those concluding words. She would have no betters by the end of this bloody campaign, mark her damned words.
"This world is our gift to the Gods, to Ahriman, to Tzeentch, and it would not bode well to have this world corrupted by the machinations of upstarts." Varus began to visibly sweat as Salem made her approach, eyes failing to stay on him for longer than a brief moment, her intentions laid bare for him and him alone to deduce and see clear. Fear choked his expression, and self-preservation instincts begged him to run, but he could not. He was glued to that seat by his own terror. Salem stood opposite the hideous faunus, her hand gently gliding across the surface of the table as she closed the distance.
"Varus… you've served the White Fang most diligently for a near decade, served my interests and the interests of the Gods even more so for far longer… yet you sit here, on the verge of mewling like a beaten puppy," Salem loudly proclaimed. The faunus froze and stammered silently for a response, brain wracked as the sorceress approached. A gnat nipped at his skin, and on instinct, he swatted it away.
"You sit here, fearful like a child to be scorned, because you know what you've done. The treachery you've committed," Salem drawled. Varus only swatted away the slowly growing number of gnats and insects, hyperventilating as the dreaded Mistress of the dark continent, servant to the Architect of Fate, and Archnemesis to Ozma, came to stand behind him, her hands resting steadily on his shoulders, clasping onto them with blackened claw-like nails. There were so many gnats, biting, tearing. So many insects, writhing across his skin…
Salem held the thrashing psyker as the flaying swarm ate heartily of his flesh. Millimeter by millimeter, inch by inch, peeling away layers of skin and tissue, blood weeping freely from wounds, drunk up by fat mosquitos and nefarious bloodsucking things, immaterial. His thrashing stopped, and Salem allowed her hands to retract, the swarm encasing the faunus rushing to close the gap left by their master, his screams amplifying and echoing through the throne room, sending shivers down the spines of the wretched, man-shaped worms in the seats along her table.
"You will do well to remember your place in this… organization. Varus was a man who killed, maimed and backstabbed his way to the top. Anywhere else, I would have greeted him with the open arms of the Gods' mercy…" Salem allowed her words to seep into the minds of the present company. Cinder's younger, weaker wretch was shaking, tears streaking down her face. Pathetic. The words were bleeding in, nonetheless, and it was obvious on even Cinder's face, struggling to maintain its calm demeanor as the occasional gnat or tick came to peck at her flesh, as they did the rest of her circle, never more than one, but always sinking in the seeds of terror, the screams of the dying man reduced to a muffled gurgling as his throat was torn asunder, vocal chords chewed and melting in the slurry of gore that he became.
"Varus outlived his competency, and the plots against my life, against those of his superiors, will be treated as treason. Weave your schemes, your plots, and weave them against my enemies. Turn your teeth on the hand that feeds, and you will meet a fate worse than dear Varus by a factor of ten," Salem's acidic tone pierced through the ears of the gathered precession, embedding itself into their consciousnesses like the trauma it had meant to be. There was a wet, meaty thunk and a quiet release of a fearful, held breath as the carcass of the once-man named Varus slumped forward, vertebrae popping and cracking as they were eaten away by the swarm of immaterial bloodsuckers and her own delightful monsters, born of shadow and malice like all other Grimm. Salem returned to her throne and let the sound of buzzing insects, rending flesh and sheer, undiluted panic consume her followers for a long spell. Her message had been delivered, and only a fool would be blind to the cost of defiance. The deafening silence dominated the room for minutes more before Salem spoke again.
"With that handled, we will move onto more immediate matters. Reality, disappointingly ordered as it is, the Veil—it prevents us from opening the door for our benefactors, but to break the veil, we must destroy the cyclops—the Crimson King and his wretched legion. In destroying the thin veneer of untouchable energy between reality and the Empyrean, you will invite in the Gods themselves. Watts," Salem's gaze fell on the disgraced, overdressed scientist, whose eyes were glued to the rotting corpse across from him for barely a moment longer, snapping onto Salem's.
"Your theoretical research, valuable as it may be, has failed to produce meaningful results. I am giving you Atlas to be your playground, once the first move has been made. I know you have spoken to great lengths with the Warsmith Ghanshor over the matter of daemon engines and other such depravities. Your practical work has been valuable thus far, keep it so. Take whatever serfs and Fang that you may need and see to it that the skies of Atlas will be grayed by ash and warp-fyre." A brief nod and a murmured agreement was her only reply. Arrogant as the Atlesian rat may have been, he knew his place. Salem's eyes fell elsewhere.
"Hazel…" The man perked up vaguely at the calling of his name. Still cognizant of his surroundings, the fool. How wonderful.
"Taurus, for all his usefulness, has more skull to his head than brain matter. Do not allow him to exceed the very particular boundaries we have lain for him… lest you both become well acquainted with Vasanistor Siamon." A grunt was her answer. Man of few words he was, he said more with that mumble than he would have by speaking. Salem only smiled inwardly, not daring to break the subtle scowl that held across her features for a moment. Her eyes flicked, finally, to that of Tyrian Callows, his gaze fastened hungrily on the decaying body across from the ill-looking Watts.
"Dearest Tyrian…" Her most loyal, and easiest to control servant quickly brought his eyes to face his beloved mistress. His excitement proved more than his already poor and strained sense of tact.
"What is it that you would have me do, my goddess?! Rip the heart from the cyclops that plagues our dreams? Bleed the Valian heathens until their filthy rivers run red?! What, my goddess, my mistress, what!?" His excitement was only tempered by Salem's scowl furthering. Perhaps her assumptions to his lack of possession were not as accurate as they first seemed.
"The telepaths have planted their roots in Vacuo. See to it that they're… uprooted, burnt and put to the torch, to their very last… I am certain you'll find a way, my loyal servant, won't you?" Salem's words, spoken with false sweetness, convinced him well enough, and his awful cackling, alike to a rooster in how bloody obnoxious it was to her ears, riding that thin like as she knew what it meant. Vacuo would be lucky to survive a month from the maddened scorpion-hybrid. A few more intimidating words and calls for loyalty saw the precession of pawns and puppets dispersed and gone from her sight, save for three. Cinder Fall, Salem's beloved protégé, and her two apprentices, the gray-haired, yet youthful Mercury Black, and anxious, pale and green-faced Emerald Sustrai.
"Cinder… your training has proven valuable, and your formidability is unquestioned, but if I recall…" Salem began with a low growl to her voice, "I did not order you to waste time furthering your vainglorious pursuit of perfect swordsmanship. I ordered you to Beacon, and to assess how deeply rooted the cyclops and his bastards are in Ozma's schemes." Cinder only smiled.
"Master, you needn't worry yourself. When the time comes, we will be ready. Emerald has gained much knowledge on the Sons from simple sleight of hand, not to mention Mercury's close eye to the Guardian and his freshest round of victims for their fetid little auxilia," Cinder reported, standing to match the gaze of her master, barely less than a foot of height difference between them. Salem only scowled deeper.
"Do not mistake my words, Cinder, for scorn. Read my face—your vanity will see you dead, if you do not obey me. You are only a sliver more valuable than the rotting corpse of the Faunus at the other end of the table. Do not forget that," Salem snarled, her psychic talents brought to bear, forcing Cinder back into her seat with a pulse of terror that left the arrogant protégé reeling. Dark thoughts projected into her mind, and any misplaced confidence melted away at the horrific images that flashed through the Fall Maiden-to-be's mind, her fingers digging into the rim of the table, a thin stream of smoke lifting from beneath her palms as she singed the edge on impulse.
"Y-Yes… my lord. I will not disobey you," Cinder blurted, tears starting to form as she gripped the table, teeth grinding. Salem only scoffed and turned from Cinder, retracting the psychic hex that had done well to terrify her protégé into compliance, as it had done many times before.
"Pathetic. You're stronger than that, girl. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind on your inherent value…" Salem hissed. Cinder took no time, looking as pathetic as a dog with its tail tucked between its legs after doing something terrible to a beautiful, white Persian rug as she scurried out, apprentices in tow. Salem sidled to the arching, gothic window that loomed behind her thrown, gazing out at the dark fortress that was being built by the enslaved whelps taken from frontier settlements and drunk tanks, the easily forgotten masses that had numbered remarkably high. All that was left now was to wait for the response as she made her first moves.
OoOoO
Silence, how beautiful that mistress of lack and utterly blissful noiselessness. Jaune Arc, young, inexperienced and way out of his league, leader of Huntsman Cadet team JNPR was thinking only that as he sat beside his friends alongside the long, jagged cliffs mirroring the hilly coastal city of Vale scattered with docks, further scattered with Bullhead VTOLs, urgently rushing to and from the city to provide aid. Dark pillars of smoke rose from the residential district of the city, thick plumes that were growing narrow and thin as relief arrived or as their fires lost fuel and burned out.
Jaune never felt so grateful to have a moment of silence as he did, sitting there with his armour battered, beaten and gauged with cuts, fresh scars and, surprisingly enough to the young huntsman cadet, burns. Grimm didn't regularly use fire—nor did they glow, or were covered in ugly, calligraphic moon runes that made the eyes hurt if one gazed upon them for too long. The ones that had flooded Vale, however, did much of that, more than Jaune ever wanted to see in his life, period. It took much of the bloodied blonde boy's energy to not simply lay back and allow sleep to embrace him like an old, ostracized friend. Being beside his teammates in much the same state certainly did its part to keep him awake—they were all injured, especially himself, with bandages thrown over nasty wounds and spare clothes tossed on after their battle uniforms had been stolen away by a near-manic Glynda Goodwitch, muttering and grumbling about tainted blood and other manners of madness, inappropriate amounts of battle damage… he didn't bother keeping track after that. Glancing back to his friends, he found them in a daze not unlike his own. RWBY had seen the most fighting, so Jaune figured it made sense that they seemed the most shaken. His teammates and himself were not much better off, though their bubbly, orange-haired explosives-obsessed paragon of the word 'smile' in Nora Valkyrie was helping keep them in good spirits.
Yang Xiao Long ignored the sideways glance her fellow huntsman cadet sent down her way as she lounged back with her teammates. Jaune was good people, but he was something of a savant. Brave as all get up when he wanted to be, but otherwise lacking in skill, performance… the list went on. A brief smile crossed Yang's face as she heard a bout of laughing from the champion of Mistral herself. The redheaded, Amazonian-like girl sat between Jaune, Ren and Nora, and the four of them seemed to comfort in each other's presence.
A similar, warm feeling passed through Yang's heart as her younger sister idly bickered with the Ice Queen, heiress to the SDC and overall cold bitch at the best of times in their teammate of Weiss Schnee. Yang's eyes fell on Blake, who sat away from them by a few paces too many. The girl had been quiet since this whole mess started back in Mount Glenn—not to say they weren't all quieter after that ordeal, it was a special kind of awful—and though the raven-haired faunus was normally something of an introvert, the slight panic and reserved anxiety in her eyes made it hard for Yang to ignore. She was their teammate—and though recent events had given them plenty to question about the enigmatic girl's elusive past, they were there for each other, no matter what. Petty squabbles or no. Yang sidled over to her friend and slumped beside her in a heap of singed, dirtied hair, sweat and exhaustion. Silence held a choking grip over the two for the longest time before Yang gathered the words and courage to speak.
"Man. What a wild couple of days, huh?" Yang winced inwardly at her poor attempt at small talk, though it lessened at the slight, amused twitch at the corner of Blake's mouth, eyes flicking over to her with an expression that practically begged her to dig herself into a hole of awkward, one-sided conversation and social suicide, all for her own amusement. Despite the look, the raven-haired Belladonna replied in kind.
"Quite." Short, bittersweet and barely hitting the point. Yang chuckled to herself—at least the poor girl hadn't been replaced by one of those 'demons' that Hastar had brought up on the way back, she could assure herself of that. Yang allowed her mirth to settle as the air grew somber between them.
"I… Hm. I know it couldn't have been easy. Sticking with us through all that," Yang blurted. Blake's head spun and her shy, quietly mulling demeanor was replaced with surprise and mild offense, her mouth babbling before her brain even got the words out.
"I would never turn on you girls, never like that. The White Fang—" she hesitated. The White Fang… they were once her family. She was struggling to connect that the braying, violent horde of soldiers were the same as the pristine-robed members of the old guard.
Over the course of but a few years, that humble organization had gone from civil rights to something dark. As to what, she could only speculate, although Hastar's considerable and very present anger was certainly helping her get a good idea. She had questions—so many questions, but she kept them close for now. There would be time for digging later. They were all beat and a long night of sleep in her bed was calling to her.
The girls had a small banter with one another as they watched the reconstruction effort from the edge of the docks. They were close—and Hastar could only give a small smile from his place away from the hustle and bustle as his psyche picked up the warm, positive emotions radiating from the four amidst a sea of misery. Were it not for the grievous warning glyphs that screamed at him from inside his helmet, he'd keep an eye on the girls for a while longer. Damage needed to be repaired and the correct spells and rituals for proper ferromancy.
His suit whined uncomfortably as he skulked through the alleys and secret passages along the outskirts of Beacon, his form concealed by a psychic shroud at any sign of students or uninitiated teachers, his destination looming overhead with its uniquely gothic architecture and menacing size. A quick dart behind his desk and a whispered spell had the stone floor melting away, his armoured form sluggishly dragging itself down into his hidden study for a long session of practice with psychic metalworking.
OoOoO
Beacon had largely calmed down in the week following the attack on Vale. The fires had been put out and reconstruction was on track to be finished within the allotted timetable. Newspapers were scarce for more details, Ruby was disappointed to learn as she walked with her teammates to Hastar's "classroom," although a few survivors had attributed their survival to a huntress team and some 'big red robot.' Hastar was certainly displeased with the information leak, but Ruby couldn't quite tell what the big deal was, herself. She got the secrecy—really, she did, but it all seemed a little silly. Three words wouldn't sell them out, she figured! Three descriptors of which, the only two distinctive ones being 'big' and 'red.' Ruby shook herself of the distracting thoughts as Yang pushed open the large, metal-reinforced wood doors.
The "classroom" was a modified sparring arena, with a floating platform drifting nearby as the doors closed behind them. Blake had figured someone had finally started listening to the big red librarian and made it no secret to her friends that those were her thoughts on it, with hushed whispers that bordered on sounding smug. The rows of desks along the walls to the left and right of the main doors had been cleared out, replaced by large, slate-coloured rocks on sandy islands amidst a common terrain of mud and dirt. They were raised ever slightly off the floor by some psychic construct the girls couldn't bother to understand.
Oh, that platform! Ruby's eyes caught onto it again. It was an interesting thing, a reverse pyramid made of rough concrete and stone, as if ripped out of the ground, with a flat top surface draped with fabric. A small, waist-height bookshelf was atop it, alongside many esoteric-looking items and alchemical supplies kept in vials and beakers. Very nerdy. Ruby's attention was immediately drawn away as she heard Yang yelp and trip onto her face—right over a reverse-pyramid shaped hole in the floor, with the carpet even severed too. That explained where the platform had come from, she supposed, although the rest of the sparring chamber was quite similar in its dramatic and uniquely Hastar aesthetics.
It was a recreation of some battlefield, Ruby now realized. A cantrip of some form had made the roof appear like an endless sky, darkened by clouds and staccato gunfire beats. Perhaps a hologram? She couldn't tell. She did notice the robed Hastar waiting for them at the back of the classroom-turned-warzone, patient and monolithic.
Weiss was unnerved by the man's silence. The unnatural stillness of his body, save for the occasional glimmer in his eye and static electric particles that bounced off as his pages turned by his… magic? Psyche? Whatever. It made her uncomfortable and reminded her of how inhuman he could be. As if the plugholes in his skin weren't enough of a reminder, and all that damned armour that he was… oddly lacking. She blinked the thoughts away as they grew closer.
RWBY soon stood in a misshapen line before their new teacher, whose book closed with a flick of his gigantic hand and sent fluttering back to the little book nook floating around the room.
"Welcome, my young proteges. Enjoy the scenery?" Hastar's mirth was audible in his voice, and Ruby couldn't help but indulge in it with a vigorous nod as her eyes drifted to what she figured again to be the hologram that was plastered across the ceiling, a foreign, ruby-red boxy aircraft streaking across the fake skyline.
"A bit… macabre, don't you think?" Weiss piped up after a brief silence, her contempt visible, although tempered by a degree of respect. Blake looked ready to scold the girl, but Hastar beat her to it with a hearty chuckle.
"Oh, Weiss! Thank you for noticing. I have used several charms, cantrips and a sheet of holographic display fabric to show you the world you now see! Right here, in the comfort of your own school. The name of this world long eludes me—but its dictator, Xaphan, his name is still familiar in my mind, old and frail as it is becoming," Hastar answered as he stood. Blake could catch what the others couldn't. Imperceptible to the human eye, but not to the enhanced senses of a faunus, the little hitched exhales and slight lean told her he was still recovering. She frowned inwardly at the revelation. Nice as it was to see that their new instructor was not immortal, she was nonetheless curious and a tad impressed at his sheer constitution, bringing forth another, very uncomfortable question she was hoping to avoid for longer.
If he was anything like how the rest of these… Astartes were, how resilient, she could barely fathom what an army, a legion of them would be like. Astonishing, but distracting. Her attention refocused as Hastar cleared his throat, urging the girls to sit on a soft, preserved patch of unnatural grass amidst an ocean of mud, blood and no man's land for terrain.
"Now, I know you girls must be curious, today I am going to teach you failure. I am going to show you weakness, in its purest and most natural of forms," Hastar began, a small grin crossing his face as confusion bled into the expressions of RWBY. He brought forth a writing utensil from the depths of his robe and began inscribing long, billowy words across the blackboard against the back wall, his tongue moving deftly in tandem.
"Perfection! No warrior knows it, no man, no woman, no god. We are all imperfect creations in an imperfect universe. We have weaknesses, vulnerabilities, even in myself of the transhuman stock." A vast array of images and paragraphs took form across the board as he continued his monologue.
"A fluke of the Rubricanae Opus Magna has made us of the New Thousand to be… more-so, than our imperial cousins or our Chaos-stricken brethren under Ahriman. Human emotion is such a beautiful thing, and it takes a level of humanity few of our cousins could ever experience, save for… a select few," Hastar continued, pausing as he glanced back to notice Ruby raising her hand in a loud, wavy, obnoxious way that he could find endearing. Her poor teammates were not of the same thought process, as it were, and quickly became visibly annoyed. A grin widened across his face and he nodded to the young reaper. "Yes, Ruby?"
"Oh! Uh, so what is this… rubik's cube… opal—" Hastar cut off her amusing attempt at annunciation quickly.
"—Opus Magna. Rubricanae Opus Magna, it is… a long story. One we have time for, and one you should know, if you girls are to stand alongside us," Hastar explained. He nodded to the floor and the girls unsteadily took seats on the floor, surprisingly dry despite appearing like mud.
"The Rubricanae Opus Magna is a… hm." He paused a moment and thought for the briefest of moments on how to describe it to the young huntresses.
"The Rubricanae is a spell of sorts. It saved many members of our scattered legion during a time we called the Great Epiphany. It was a great spell, a powerful thing that I do not for a second believe could be replicated with even the greatest of magi." Hastar used his psychic talents to cast a beautiful show of lights into the air, implied colourful silhouettes dancing across a scar of perceived warpspace in brilliant blues and golds, transitioning quickly to magnificent bronze and crimsons as a great tide washed over them, cleansing away tendrils of agonizing energies and mutations from the greatest of psychics and wrenching dust from the suits of Rubricae that marched in robotic formation. The four huntresses-in-training were enamoured, and kept their eyes on the show, ears focused with Hastar as he spoke.
"Without the Great Epiphany, our scholars speculate our galaxy would have been burnt out. The Crimson King, upon the end of millennia of contemplation and failure after bloody failure, had been blessed with clarity. Not from the Weaver, whose fingers were clasped tightly around his throat, but from a great, golden soul that begged forgiveness of a wayward son. His vision and mind were cleared of taint, and in that moment, a great battle began…"
OoOoO
Energy crackled about in thick, divisive bolts as Magnus stood defiantly against the frail thing that bore the appearance of his father. Emotion raged through his mind and hatred bled into his heart as this… thing, this fragment, begged him for forgiveness. It was like something out of a fantastical dream, and yet it offended him. It was some joke—played by a humourless, heartless monster.
"You come to me, you beg me for forgiveness. Why?! For every moment I've known you in this wretched, cruel world, all you've ever done is feel apathy and contempt for me! Why now?! Why now must you come?!" Magnus' voice boomed across his great study atop the obsidian tower, glass rattling and psychic energies pooling at his fingers, ready to turn this damned fragment to particles of dust, like so many of his own sons. The fragment—the frail, cloaked man, with that awful, molting golden laurel crown, with the ratty black hair, his gaunt face…
It struck Magnus deep in ways he rejected. This was not the face of a tyrannical God-Emperor made manifest. It was that of a desperate man, one whose eyes spoke of such regret that Magnus could almost feel tears.
"Why… why have you come? Haven't you an empire to rule on your throne, you wretched corpse?" Magnus spat, his face curled into a snarl. The frail old man shook his head and coughed into his hand, hobbling to the far wall to admire a great painting mounted upon it.
"I've come for forgiveness, Magnus. Not to beg, but to ask. I've traveled far across this… misbegotten plane of incomprehensible and immaterial gods and daemons so that I could ask you to forgive me, my son. So much wrong I have done, I…" he let out a shaky breath, and perhaps another nail smashed through Magnus' chest. Where was the bravado? Where was the defiance? The courage? The arrogance? His father was an all-knowing, proclaimed god to an ignorant people who worshipped his corpse. This man barely could stand on his own two feet.
"She was right." The words confused the crimson giant as he stared down at the frail man.
"Who is this she you refer to?" Magnus demanded, keeping his defenses up in case this was some elaborate ruse.
"Erda. She knew how cruel I was becoming, and though she doomed us… she was right. Perhaps I should have listened to her. I've sired so many children, yet never was I much of a father," the man said with a mirthless chuckle that devolved into a coughing fit. Magnus fought some urge to comfort the man, and quickly crushed the feeling. What was wrong with him?
"I don't… understand, why do you tell me this, you bastard?!" Magnus snapped, his pooling psychic energies manifesting into his great blade, a ball of cerulean death forming behind the curve of the Khopesh-tipped staff. The man seemed indifferent to the danger.
"Because you deserve to hear it. You and all the other sons who I've wronged. I failed you before you were even born, and your suffering, corruption, all of it… it is my fault." The man fell to his knees and looked up to Magnus with tear-streaked eyes. Magnus recoiled at the sight and for the briefest of moments, all the hatred he felt for this… shadow of his father, all the dreadful feelings and dark thoughts placed by the Architect of Fate were burnt away.
"… Father, you truly wish for my forgiveness?" Magnus hesitantly asked after a long pause. Rumbling filled the air and Magnus could hear the invasive thoughts of daemons scraping their way up his tower. Damn them all, he thought. This had a measure more of importance to him. A quick psychic charm saw them burnt aside as the outside of his tower glowed with the many hundreds of runes carved and warded into its exterior.
"I… I am but a fragment of myself, trapped away so that my great work could be done. I thrashed and thrashed against myself, but my pride made it impossible. I am responsible for everything that has happened to you, every mutation, every damning thing, and… I'm sorry, Magnus. You didn't deserve this. Not you, not Horus, not Curze, not Fulgrim… they are empty words now, I imagine, but… I only wish for your forgiveness. Please." Magnus paused and stared down at that frail man for a very long while, his beyond superhuman mind awash for minutes.
OoOoO
"… the rest of the conversation was lost to time. I think it is best it stay that way, best that the memory be kept private. Regardless of what was spoken, the King's mind was… altered by their conversation, and a shred of nobility and love was bled back into our father, once lost and cast aside by the Architect and the Fateweaver in their attempts to control us. A great battle soon raged in the legion, as daemons turned on us in droves alongside our forsaken brothers returning for their dark and terrible intention. At its climax, our father, trapped within his tower in a psychic power with the very god he had been tricked into dedicating himself to, crafted a spell and cast it. A great light washed over a vast, incomprehensible battlefield of warring psykers and soul-bound suits of armour as the Rubricanae was cast. The Rubric marines, souls trapped in suits of armour full of the ashes of their bodies, were broken from their chains and soon turned against their masters, pledging their loyalty to their father. The Final Rubricon saved our legion and freed our father's soul at a terrible cost that left him weak and wounded. Those of us loyal to our father quickly fled Sortiarius and the Warp in great ships while he healed. The rest is a story for another time," Hastar finished. The girls were all in various states of awe, still processing the information.
"We will reconvene at another time, once you have all had some time to sit on that. The class period as well is nearing its end. Take some time to think, I will see you all tomorrow." Hastar bid the children a goodbye, and the four girls stumbled out of the classroom, still dazed but quickly recovering, all feeling much smaller with another piece of galactic history presented to them. They diverted paths to their classes, with a renewed sense of purpose, if distracted by the history lesson.
Been a while, hasn't it? Don't worry, this story hasn't been allowed to die yet. Just needed to take some advice from some peers. I'll see this thing finished, don't worry. Au revoir!
-Commissar W