Draw the Lovers

by Quillfiend

Two cursed sorcerers, Ahzek Ahriman and Iskandar Khayon, chase each other in the deepest reaches of the galaxy.

It was raining. Not acid, not blood, just clear, mundane water thrumming against the mushy earth. Somehow it felt just, natural, that the galaxy would try and wash me and my sins away now that all had been said and done. I had succeeded in my task, killed what needed to be killed, broke what needed to be broken, and I did not see myself returning to stand among my brothers, not with the wounds I had sustained. I have told you before that my imprisonment brings me no joy, but that I cherish it in a twisted way for the distance it puts between me and Ezekyle's nightmares; the prospect of my death was similar in that regard. I did not wish to die, but I yearned for freedom. To be free of the whispers, of the torment, of Ezekyle's plated fingers closing around my throat, tighter and tighter. Just as your Inquisition fears and reviles witchkind, so do the Legions; bar the XV that sired me, we are always looked upon with contempt and distrust, and worse - we are seen as weak. Weak in all the honourable ways that matter so to the veterans of Horus' failed crusade, and were we not so vital to any form of travel and divination, we would be as hunted as we are in your gilded, rotting Imperium. Ezekyle afforded me a place among his elite - I was and I remain the Third of the Ezekarion, but at times none - not even Abaddon - made an effort to obfuscate the fact that to them I was the last and the least of it.

I did not want to fade into nothingness, to be undone and unburied on a nameless world, but knowing that I would never again stand before those judgemental stares brought me peace.

My senses gave out then, in the mud and broken ceramite; a last flash of light heralded my death, a lightning pulse I thought to have been born of the storm. I could not see my error then, but I was wrong.

So very wrong.

Before we continue this chapter, let me tell you more about my greatest brother, Ahzek Ahriman.

You know him from your records as the Black Sorcerer, Caller of Daemons, the Exile, the Unchanged, the Slayer of Worlds; you've undoubtedly afforded him a thousand other titles, each more ghastly than the last. You terrify your children into obedience by threatening them with the tale of the Man who eats the Stars, promising that this dark avatar would come and devour them whole. I understand you, of course - you'd be hard-pressed to find a man who can kill as many as Ahriman does with a single flick of his fingers, and I too hate him for the crimes he has committed and the misery he has sown.

But hating Ahriman is not so easy, so simple. It is never just hate, not after you've stood face to face with him, looked into his eyes, heard his laugh. You think I am trying to sound ominous, but I am not. Quite the opposite.

You see, all that blood and death and suffering implies cruel intent, but Ahriman - one of the galaxy's greatest murderers - is not a cruel man. He never was. He does what needs to be done, what he thinks is necessary, but he does not revel in it like so many tyrants that thrive within the Eye. Let me tell you what Ahriman is: he is the most powerful sorcerer to sail the dark tides. He is an arrogant maniac that will stop at nothing to achieve his goals. He is, fundamentally and at his core, one of the gentlest souls you will ever meet.

You've heard me speak of his naïvety, his courage, his foolishness. You've heard me speak of my hate for him and of my love for him, but never in great detail. The heroes of eld - of the Great Crusade - would tell you much of the latter, as they too have been woefully unprepared for his disarming charm. His reputation of great power always preceded him, but those tales rarely ever came with warnings of his enchanting voice, his arresting eyes, his precious naïvety. When the White Scars came to stand at our side in the Crusade, they readied themselves for dealings with smug warlocks, and were instead hit by my delightfully innocent brother. Within a week I'd heard tales of his sweet laugh thirty times from every Stormseer I came across, who in turn heard it thirty times from their Khan. It would've been hilarious were I not under the same spell.

Ahriman was, of course, completely oblivious to his inherent charm. To this day I maintain that he should've been our speaker at Nikaea, not our Father; Magnus has the engineered charisma of a Primarch, he beckons and commands affection, but Ahriman elicits it in natural ways. You cannot prepare for it. You cannot deflect it or shield yourself from it. He will find your base humanity and he will drown you in it, whether you're human or superhuman, man or woman, warrior or sorcerer.

You're laughing now because you think me infatuated with my brother. I have promised you that all I tell you would be the truth and only that, so I won't try to rebuke it. You know that I have tried to kill him. You know that I have failed. You now know why.

Since the fateful Rubric, me and my brother have not met often, both being exiles in our own right. I hated him for what he had done, he hated me for abandoning him when he needed me most; we were both bitter and unwilling to reconcile in any meaningful way. This long silence ended at Drol Kheir, when he found me broken and bleeding on its fields and took me away. He was the sole reason Iskandar Khayon did not die at Drol Kheir, but Iskandar Khayon could not look into his face then and so he fled as soon as his flesh had mended.

I never did have Ahriman's brave spirit. Defiant, yes. But not brave.

I came to his aid much later, after I had become the Lord Vigilator of the Black Legion, to buy him time for his second Rubric. I learned there that despite our genetics and our indoctrination, despite everything we've been told, Astartes could feel fear. I felt genuine terror as I stood aboard my iron giant in the warp-torn skies; not for the fire swallowing my ship, not for the powers tearing reality asunder, but for the hearts that beat once, twice - and then no more. Somewhere far beneath me, Ahriman had died, and I felt as if I had died with him.

Then the Changer of Ways breathed new life into him, and I came the closest I ever was to faith. Ultimately, for better or worse, it did not sway me to genuine worship, but I do in great shame admit to sacrificing many slaves and artifacts to Tzeentch to thank the Architect for what she had done.

And now, at last, we come to our next reunion.

I do not know if it was by chance or by Ahriman's machinations that we'd been brought together again; I want to believe that, in times when he had not been desperately trying to repent for his sins, he had stalked me and me alone across the stars. We're both sentimental souls, kindred in our maudlin ways; such grand, soppy shows of devotion never were beyond Tizcans and they certainly weren't beyond Terran princes raised amidst courtly romance. I detest divination and talks of prophecy, but - being the greatest hypocrite to ever be held in this cell - I delighted in the idea that Ahriman spared no effort in auguring my fate. There was no other way he would've found me at Drol Kheir. There was no other way he would've found me on that muddy, nameless world, surrounded by my victims.

When I next came to my senses, I had not been a soul lost in the Immaterium as I had expected, but a captive aboard a ship I did not recognize. I had not been chained or bound, and my aching mind expanded outwards as soon as I had awakened, scouting for danger and for those who had detained me. The very air around me was heavy with psychic power, and my venture was quickly cut short by the first sorcerer I had come upon; less than thrilled by my presence, he batted me off and back into my body. It was not a pleasant experience.

The first familiar face to greet me was not that of Ahzek, but Ignis' presence was enough to guarantee that Ahriman had been nearby. He rarely let his favourite protégé wander off on his own, overbearing as he was. Ignis never complained - I doubt he was even aware of Ahriman's nursemaiding. He cared little for things outside of his graphs and calculations.

"Iskandar Khayon," he spoke to me in his toneless, mechanical voice, "vital signs stable. Metabolism stable. You are healing well."

I did not see him; the bright lights of the medbay-turned-ritual-chamber strained my eyes too much, and I needed time to adjust. The process was remarkably slow; a lot of things inside me didn't feel quite right, a telling mark of psychic mending. "Ignis. Why am I here?"

"Because you sustained near-fatal damage."

"That is not what I meant."

"Then you will have to ask a better question." There was no malice in his voice, just utter disinterest in reading between the lines. "Can you move?"

I could. It was painful, but I could. My bionic arm was the least problematic part of my body, retaining all its strength; I leaned on it as I tried to stand, still dazed by the burning light. Walking felt as if I was moving a puppet, my legs not quite mine; whoever forced my wounds shut and helped rebuild my crushed organs was not a master of psychic fleshcraft.

"Excellent," Ignis noted as he watched me pace about, "motor skills stabilizing. You will be able to fight."

"Fight?" I repeated after him. That did not bode well.

"Yes," he affirmed almost cheerfully, "I will summon the arming serfs. We are being boarded."

As I should've expected, the Prodigal Sons weren't the only warband to come after me; the head of the Lord Vigilator of the Black Legion was too great a prize for any of our rivals to ignore, and one such scorned enemy managed to trace my steps all the way to my saviours' fleet. The Emperor's Children were a hateful sort - hateful enough to incite a civil war within my Legion when me and Telemachon let our petty squabbles bloom into violent spite - and they forever bore a grudge against me for having ruined their Primogenitor's finest project. I did not know if this particular band followed Telemachon's direct orders, or if they were an independent force enacting bitter vengeance; it did not matter.

They were, however, very foolish to launch an attack against a warfleet of the Thousand Sons.

All men revile what they do not and cannot understand, and I have told you that the other Legions do not treat us well for what they perceive as weakness and trickery. Even Ezekyle, who claims himself to be enlightened and above others in such matters, gave me no small amount of abuse he would never inflict upon even the lowliest, rowdiest members of the true warrior Legions. As cliché as it sounds, they hate us for they cannot be us; no blade, no matter its wielder's mastery, can match the destructive power of sorcery, and so they ban it from their honourable little duels and stomp down on our necks to assert their dominance. Given enough time, this instills them with the belief that we are indeed weak, lesser creatures they could take on and beat whenever they wished.

A ridiculous notion.

Even before its fall, the XV was - and I state this not out of misguided arrogance, but as a cold fact - the most powerful of the Legions. Our defeat took the betrayal of our own Father and a battalion of nulls, not to mention the full force of another Legion. We were the least numerous, plagued by defects and misfortune, though I am fairly certain we could've at any point obliterated every other Legion if we wished to.

They did not like that thought very much. It was what decided our future at Nikaea.

Ahriman's Rubric - as damning as it was - boosted the power of its survivors a thousandfold. To attack a warband consisting solely of sorcerer lords was suicide.

The Emperor's Children were made aware of the fact when their flagship disintegrated in orbit before it had even aligned to fire its first shots. It wasn't the Thousand Sons' cannons that annihilated it entirely; it was a focused beam of psychic power, so radiant that even I, rushing through the dark bowels of Ignis' ship, felt its impact. It was glorious.

Still the Legionaries of the Third were not deterred, pressing on in their futile effort to claim my head. The ship detaining me, the Pyromonarch, hovered on the outer edge of the Prodigal Sons' cluster, and thus was the easiest prey for boarding torpedoes. I do not know if your attackers knew me to be there or if they simply wanted to die taking as many as possible - or any at all - with them. In close quarters, they were still formidable opponents, striking out of the shadows like the malevolent daemons my old brothers so often bound to their service. They carved their way through the Pyromonarch's underbelly, its enslaved crew and beastmen hordes, until we came to put a stop to their rampage. I instinctively drew my blade, but then realized nobody had bid me to; I was not expected to fight in ways our misguided opponents considered honest. Ignis, still at my side, fried a warrior inside his armour from twenty paces away; the poor Legionary shouted insults at him all throughout, accusing him of dishonor, but Ignis simply did not care.

I had respect for bladecraft - I was a Khenetai warrior, after all - but centuries of it being forced upon me had soured me to the prospect of it. It felt liberating to simply reach for my deck of bound daemons and let the lesser of them tear through our assailants.

I quickly grew comfortable in my distant superiority. Far too comfortable.

I separated from Ignis in my hunt for rosy prey, scouring the iron corridors of the Pyromonarch for more Legionaries to vent my frustration on. I had forgotten that their hatred for me was just as great as my contempt for them, and their thirst for my blood had worked them into a frenzy that had seen them survive wounds that would've been lethal otherwise. One such husk - a warrior I had dismissed as dead far too early - came at me at an inopportune time, with all my minions scattered about in their own little hunts and my attention focused elsewhere. I had barely deflected his first blow with a kine-shield, but it still sent all my senses ringing. Something inside me burst again, and while my enhanced body worked quickly to repair itself, it had still been weakened from my fall and subsequent mending. I was forced to lock swords with the frothing madman, but only my bionic arm had enough strength to hold against his force, and not for long. I sent a psychic cry to command my deck of daemonic curiosities back to me, but there wasn't enough time. I had to direct the Legionary's chainsword aside, letting it slide down my blade and opening myself to a punch whilst doing so; the seething warrior took advantage of it and I was knocked back and almost out of my senses again, ripe for a clean execution.

That, as you can see, never happened.

As my would-be executioner raised his roaring weapon to claim his prize, a ribbon of azure fire coiled his ankles, exploding into a radiant blaze and consuming the screaming, cackling blademaster. I watched the sapphire flame with awe, anxiety, affection; Warpflame is a thing of emotion as much as daemons are and so reflect their summoner, and no two sorcerers' Warpflame is the same. I knew that deep cerulean hue well. It unmade my brothers, my oldest friends, my Legion. It was the fire of Ahzek Ahriman.

He emerged from the dark, radiating an aura of calm. You see, warlords of the Eye - even those sure in their positions, like Ezekyle - always add a sense of grandeur to their gait, a projected confidence to dissuade their rivals from challenging their power. It is all part of their posturing, but Ahriman never needed to posture, never needed to appear taller than he was. He didn't adorn his chestplate with enchanted rubies to make them seem as a myriad ominous eyes judging his enemies; he did so because they reminded him of home. He didn't wear his baleful horned mask to appear as a terrifying demigod; he did so for he had truly loved and respected the man he took it from, honouring his memory.

Ahriman didn't need to threaten or terrify his enemies. If he needed them dead, they died. Nobody challenged his power, for nobody could.

"Why are you here?" he asked in his mellifluous voice, casually incinerating the remains of another frothing Legionary clawing his way out of a bloodied corner, "trying to immediately undo my meticulous work, azizi?"

See, and here we come to what I told you about earlier: his weaponized charm. He immediately went for my throat, made sure I would not flee so easily this time. I will not bother trying to translate that word from Tizcan; I am sure you can find its approximate meaning in some ancient dictionary.

"Let me guess," I struggled to keep my voice void of emotion as I bound my scuttling daemons back into my deck of cards, "you were the one to pull my innards together."

He walked past me and towards the other end of the metal chamber, his robes of Sortiarian silk draping after him. "I did not have a Pavoni on hand."

"If you did, maybe I wouldn't struggle to stand my ground against one half-dead mongrel."

"A strange insult, coming from you."

I smiled, and I felt him do the same. His mere presence was invigorating, much like our Father's was, yet so different; his unbound psychic power empowered mine as did that of Magnus, but there was more to Ahriman's nearness. Despite all that had happened, it brought me comfort.

I would've been content standing there for hours, sinking into the subtle concerns lacing his surface thoughts, but our work was not done yet. There were still enemies aboard the Pyromonarch, and so we went after them, though admittedly I had little to no part in the rest of the cleanup; Ahriman was overprotective of both me and Ignis and used his nebulous power to sweep away anything and anybody before we could even see them coming. He doubled down on his overbearing efforts after he had brought us to the ship's bridge; I felt the weight of a hefty kine-shield being drawn over me, though I did not complain. Not with so many eyes looking at me with such open hostility.

My betrayed brothers were not thrilled to have me among them again.

"How are we faring?" Ahriman asked as if he hadn't known the answer already. We could see through the ocular that there was nothing left of our attackers' fleet, only debris floating helplessly in the emptiness of space.

"Excellent," a familiar voice answered him. I remembered Gaumata from fallen Tizca; he had been an apprentice to Khalophis, and no less hot headed than his master. It came as no surprise that he spoke first. "We would be even better off if we did not have to fight unnecessary fights on behalf of traitors."

And there it was. My brothers' scorn was palpable even without their accusations. Frankly, I had not expected anything else from them; I could've argued that I was an apostate rather than a traitor, but it would've made no difference.

Ezekyle would've met such a boisterous remark with his blade; Ahriman merely gave his brother a tired look.

"We have not fallen so far that we would let our brothers - runaway or not - die for no reason," he said, "I will hear no more of these complaints. Align the fleet and set course for Agiris Zeta."

"But—"

"Set course for Agiris Zeta," Ahriman repeated. He didn't need to raise his voice; in fact, he rarely did. I have heard him cry out in pain or frustration, but I have never seen him lose his temper and just mindlessly yell at somebody. As I have said before, he didn't need to; this man was effectively a demigod, and to argue with him was pointless. Either you fell in line, or you were removed and replaced with a more useful tool.

It was refreshing. I was glad to be free of the theatrics of Ezekyle's court, even if only temporarily. I was also glad to stand among my gifted brothers, even if they despised me. Why? The reason is more mundane that you might imagine, my dear Inquisitor. It was not for our lost bonds of brotherhood, our shared mastery of the Art or the opportunity to speak my maternal tongue again; it was for our physical similarity. Us Tizcans were never known for our statures, and our induction to the ranks of the Astartes did little to correct that, at least compared to the other Legions. I tower over you now because you are an unaugmented human; I can assure you I did not tower over Lheor, over Telemachon, over Sargon or any other member of the Ezekarion save for Moriana and they made sure to remind me of the fact every chance they got. Nobody could mock me for it aboard the Pyromonarch however, none save for the Terran-born Ahriman, and my dearest brother rarely stooped to mockery. It was beneath him.

"Iskandar," he finally turned to me as the Pyromonarch readied its warp engines, "I would speak with you."

Of course he would. I told you before that I admired his courage; I admired it even more in that moment. I knew we needed to face our past eventually, but I was content running from it for as long as possible.

"About?" I tried to deflect him, "you have my thanks for saving my life, and I hereby consider your debt paid. There is no more us two should or need to speak about. You will leave me at Agiris and that's that."

"I will most certainly not leave you at Agiris," he resolved, "the nearest Black Legion stronghold is at least six systems away from Zeta itself. If your enemies could track you all the way out here, they would certainly find you there."

That is none of your concern, I wanted to say.

"Why do you care?" I asked instead. I cannot tell you why; if you had loved before, dear Siroca, you know the answer.

"Because we will not have a repeat of Drol Kheir, not when it is easily preventable," a hint of anger crept into Ahriman's tone, "I have other things to do than save your hide."

"I never asked you to do it in the first place," I tried to escalate our hostility.

"I will do it regardless," he thwarted my attempt and raised his hand to draw a Mark of Thothmes above us to prevent his cabal from hearing us. If I was not going to follow him elsewhere, then he was going to speak to me there. There was no weaseling out of his attention.

"And then?" I asked, "if you will not leave me at Agiris, what are you going to do? Hold me hostage and hope that, eventually, I agree to wear the colours of the XV again? Because that will not happen. Even if I wanted to - and I do not - Magnus would not stand for it."

"I know," he said, much to my surprise, "I will see you safely returned to your brotherhood. But I need to see something first."

We jumped. The fleet of the Prodigal Sons slid into the Warp, its seers and navigators guiding it through the raging waves. The Gellar field held fast as the first wave of daemons crashed against the hull of the Pyromonarch, Ahriman's well-trained cabal burning away any greater threats. I had never felt so safe sailing the treacherous dimension.

"What is it?" I inquired after a while of silence. I didn't want to bargain with him again, but I had no choice.

"Show me your brotherhood," he surprised me again, "I want to see your new kin. Not their secrets, not their plans - Abaddon's aspirations do not interest me. I want to know how you forged the bonds that made you abandon your Legion."

I didn't know how to answer. His request was simple, so simple that I struggled to comprehend it. There was no jealousy in his voice, no sorrow, no accusation. Still I suspected deception, a hidden caveat to that plain appeal, something he was going to use and abuse. I dismissed my instinct then, and to this day I wonder if I regret or cherish that lapse of judgement.

"As you wish," I finally said, establishing a link between our minds. A bittersweet wave washed over me; I remembered all the bonds drawn and cut between me and my brothers, the loss of Ashur-Kai, the fires that fell us at Prospero. Ahriman's psyche pressed against mine, offering comfort, but I pushed it away. Those were my burdens to bear, and mine alone.

I showed him my days with Lheorvine and Telemachon aboard the Tlaloc. I cherished the months spent hunting the Vengeful Spirit, no matter how perilous they were; I was lonely then, lacking purpose, but I was among brothers. I had Nefertari. I had Ashur-Kai.

I had Gyre.

I moved on before my sorrow could overwhelm me. I showed him how we discovered Abaddon, how we helped him make the first steps towards establishing the First Legion. I showed him, with great pride, how I dragged the Vengeful Spirit through the Warp, how I hurled my old warship at Canticle City, how we faced the clone of Horus Lupercal. I showed him how Gyre died. I showed him how Mekhari died.

I had lost control then. I had not even realized it.

I showed him the earliest days of our Legion. I showed him what we had to do in order to just survive, how I took on the role of an assassin. I showed him our wordless councils. I showed him…

...I showed him something I never should have.

After helping him found his Legion and my stellar performance at Harmony, Ezekyle treated me well. I had become a member of his Ezekarion, as had Lheor, as had Telemachon. But Lheor and Telemachon were warriors, they were Ezekyle's kin, albeit of different Legions. I was not. Six times he had sent me to fight Thagus Daravek. Six times I had failed. It was my trial, a trial I should never have been made to endure. Why did I have to prove myself when Lheor did not have to, when Telemachon did not have to? When Ceraxia, Valicar, Moriana did not have to? All my doubts lay bare before Ahriman, but it was not them that caused the cataclysm that was about to follow.

It was my duel with Ezekyle.

He made me stronger, he made me able to face Daravek and emerge victorious. He reminded me of the vindicta, of the meaning of vengeance. Do you think, Siroca, that Ahriman cared for his lesson in that moment? No. He saw how the Warmaster had almost choked me, how he threatened to break my spine for failing him, despite everything I had done.

He saw how I lost my arm just because I had to once again prove myself before Ezekyle.

He saw how I had to kill Gyre just because I had to once again prove myself before Ezekyle.

Make no mistake - I hated Ezekyle for all those things, but I still respected him for all he had achieved, for how far he had brought us.

Ahriman, however, did not share my sentiment.

I told you before that Ahriman rarely loses his temper. He cannot afford to. You cannot even begin to imagine what happens when the most powerful sorcerer in the galaxy loses control.

At first there was deafening silence. All voices had died, all the quiet whirring of the Pyromonarch's machines, the hum of its warp drives, the buzz of its artificial lights; sound simply disappeared. Time slowed, and a staggered shockwave rippled out of Ahriman, sending me and the entirety of his cabal reeling. Blood sprung from my nose, my eyes, my ears. Any psychically sensitive member of the crew on the bridge without the enhanced physique of a space marine simply died, their brain matter ground into paste. The Gellar field followed suit shortly after.

I suspect we only survived that day thanks to my brother's mastery of the Enumerations. He managed to regain his composure fast enough to prevent the Pyromonarch from being torn apart, but the crafier of the Neverborn were already inside. The bodies of the crew slain by Ahriman's outburst were perfect hosts for the malefic fiends; we were once again besieged, this time before we had even realized it. Were it not for my intervention, the sorcerer who had first accused me of treachery would've been swallowed by a bulbous mutant spawned into existence right next to him. My Warpflame burned it away before its corrupting touch reached him.

I didn't expect gratitude, and received none. But Gaumata let me be after, having deigned to ignore my existence rather than challenge it.

To Ahriman's credit, none of us died in the wake of his outburst. He revived the Gellar field and held it until we emerged in realspace near Agiris, all while maintaining a weak kine-shield over us. The danger was not over then; even after we had cleared the bridge of daemons, there were bound to be many more aboard the Pyromonarch, and possibly other ships of the Prodigal Sons' fleet.

Everybody assumed that to be my fault, of course. I had brought the warband nothing but misfortune since they had detained me. They did not act on their hatred out of respect for Ahriman, but they made their distaste painfully evident. I had to close off my mind entirely after the incident; the loathing they projected at me whenever I was near was unbearable. That I risked my life in aiding them in the purging of their ships changed nothing.

Ahriman withdrew after the accident, secluding himself entirely. The fleet lingered in the empty space above Agiris for days, shrouded in awkward silence.

I realized two things then. Firstly, I knew that my brother would be doing Ezekyle absolutely no favours in the coming century.

Secondly, leaving the Prodigal Sons was going to be very, very difficult.

Before I continue my tale, let me tell you of the first time me and Ahriman had met as more than brothers.

You now expect me to start spinning tales of old Prospero, of halcyon days spent loafing in our marble pyramids. I admit that we had begun growing closer under the Tizcan sun; it took us a single talk to know that we were kindred, the death of his brother weighing on his soul as much as Itzara's loss did on mine. We bonded over lost family, over that unique sorrow, and soon learned that we understood each other without words, that we could walk side by side for hours in absolute silence and still share more than most mortals do in a lifetime. We fought together and we bled together, until we were at last separated on the day Prospero burned. I was not with him during his last, brave stand, and thus I was not brought to Sortiarius when my Father teleported what remained of my Legion to safety. No, I choked on the ashes of Tizca's outer districts, and I would've died there were it not for Lheor's intervention. I have already told you this tale, and so I will instead skip to when I had at last reunited with my lost brothers on their new homeworld. Many Prosperines had survived the onslaught of the Wolves by simply not being present at the hour of their attack, but nobody expected those left behind in the burning city to return.

They thought me a ghost at first.

That I lived was a miracle to them, but more so to Ahriman. He had buried me as he had buried Apophis, believing that he had once again not made his affections obvious before it was too late. He saw my return as a chance at redemption being offered to him, and he took it with vigor I had not seen him show in anything prior to his dreadful Rubric. Astartes do not love and desire as humans do, and perhaps the less psychically gifted Legions do not love at all, but us of the XV - always in each other's minds, always linked in ways beyond your understanding - certainly do. I do not think I can explain it to you, but I will attempt to do so anyway - not because I expect you to grasp the concept, but because I want to relive it through my words. You will excuse my sentimentality.

Shortly after my arrival, Ahriman came to me with a strange request: he asked me to read his mind. He begged me to use every ounce of my Athenaean affinity to scour his thoughts and witness what lie there. He had not given a reason for this ominous plea, but I trusted him and so I heeded it, expecting the revelation of a great secret that could not be spoken out loud.

In a sense, I was right.

I have told you about how easily Ahriman charmed anyone he came across, but to think he would return that yearning was an impossible dream. Ahzek Ahriman loved his studies, his books, his libraries; he loved our Legion and our Father, but he was only truly devoted to the pursuit of knowledge. To expect that he would ever care for the mushy sentiments of those he met was foolish, and so I didn't. I was content being one of his many admirers, unwilling to taint our precious friendship with pointless confessions.

Once again, we come to the topic of courage. Specifically, my lack of it and Ahriman's overabundance of it.

I doubt he ever even considered anything of the sort. He just came to me, honest as he was, and had me read him like an open book, page after page of tender adoration reserved for me and me alone.

I hear you chuckle. You now know why he would almost tear a ship apart because the Warmaster dared lay a finger on me. I suspect that if Ezekyle had been present in the flesh, Cadia would still be standing.

After I had read him, my mind stayed within his for some time. Those gifted in the Art can touch each other in ways that render physical contact banal and unnecessary; in Tizcan, the word for one such union is azizire, though I struggle to translate it into the Imperium's sterile tongue. It is like fire, only it does not burn you. It is like drowning, only you can still breathe. It is like dying, only you do not die. It is everything.

I do not know if it lasted hours, days, weeks; time did not matter then. It was Ahriman's sense of duty that had torn us apart in the end, shifting our focus towards what would ultimately become his damning Rubric. We read the Book of Magnus and sought my Father's shards, fought beside traitors as the betrayed, tasted exile for the first time. Mutation ran rampant among us, and Ahriman grew more and more desperate. I was his only solace, his sanctuary, his comfort; I was there when he needed me, whenever he needed me, and I thought nothing could do us part this time.

Then came the day he slaughtered our Legion. My oldest, dearest friends crumbled to ashes before my eyes. I had tried to stop Ahriman, but I failed. I had tried to execute him for what he had done, but I failed again. In the end, I had done something far more cruel: I abandoned him. As he wept for his sins, in that rueful hour he needed me most he ever had, I simply walked away.

Siroca, my dear little Siroca, how lucky you are that you only have one heart to break.

We became true exiles afterwards, unwanted by the Imperium and unwanted by our Father. We drifted and scavenged, trapped in the bleakest of realities. But I still had what remained of my sister, and I had Ashur-Kai, I had the Tlaloc. Ahriman had nobody and nothing, only a scorned Legion after his head. Every now and then news would reach me that somebody had succeeded in their hunt, that Ahriman had been slain. I didn't believe them. I couldn't. I would've felt it, even across the stars, even after we had been so broken.

I knew he would survive. I knew he would prevail and reemerge as the king of the exiles. I knew that he would come after me, because once Ahzek Ahriman loves, he loves forevermore. That is why he will look for a cure for our Legion until he finds it; that is why he saved me at Drol Kheir, and why he will keep saving me whether I desire it or not.

Now that you know of our past, let me bring us back to the cold halls of the Pyromonarch.

We had waited and waited and waited, but Ahriman was not emerging. I didn't know what he was doing; I suspected he was scouring the Great Sea for my brothers and sisters of the Ezekarion, of which all had fortunately been far, far away. He barred anybody from seeing him, including Ignis, though the Prodigal Sons didn't seem overly bothered by Ahriman's antics. We of the XV have always been a patient, broody bunch.

But I didn't want to wait. I had to return to Ezekyle and to stand against Telemachon. I was needed as the Black Legion's Lord Vigilator, its most reliable assassin.

On the sixth night of Ahriman's seclusion, I had locked myself in one of the Pyromonarch's many ritual chambers and readied myself for a journey into the Great Sea. I had never struggled with separating my mind from my body, but I had usually done it to immediately possess another vessel; retaining shape with no clear goal was difficult for me, and I didn't know how long I could remain within the Great Sea before my focus gave out. Thus I worked quickly, not stopping to admire any psychic wonders thrown in my way.

Luckily, Ahriman had not been far. I found him in his astral form, in the shape of a great raven. The Corvidae have always been obsessed with avian symbolism; Ashur-Kai was no different.

Ahriman, I sent to him, making my presence known, Ahzek.

The Great Sea shifted, its immaterial waves crashing against one another in impossible ways. Ahriman took off, and I felt his power surging through me. He felt me struggle maintaining my shape within the celestial realm, and so he held it for me. He had taken me on many astral journeys before, always paving the road before us.

How the tables have turned, his tone was surprisingly sanguine, and here I thought I would forever be the one to come after you, not the other way around.

He was joking, but I sensed genuine happiness behind his words. I had almost forgotten what he had done then, disarmed by the purity and strength of that emotion.

You were right, I said, we do need to speak. You need to see that there is no other path for us, Ahriman. What was done cannot be undone. The XV is no longer my Legion.

I don't care, his projected voice changed from warm to chilling, I simply do not care, Iskandar. I do not intend to keep you as my prisoner, I never did. I never could.

Yet you hold us here, near to nothing, going nowhere, I pointed out, I am not going to just walk out of the airlock and tread the void.

The ephemeral sea ebbed and flowed around us as he pondered his answer. I afforded him as much time as he needed.

Come to me, he finally sent, in the waking world.

Our astral talk was over, whether I wanted or not. He let go of my fraying form, and I did not have the power to maintain it myself. My spirit sank into the waves and then back into my body. I felt sluggish standing up; one quickly grows used to the weightlessness of the astral sphere.

As expected, the ship now allowed me where I needed to go, doors opening and closing by Ahriman's invisible command.

I found my brother in a bloodied chamber full of dead, eyeless creatures; slaves, mutants, daemons. I could only guess what happened to their hollow faces.

Of course, I did not judge. I had eaten worse things in my many pursuits. One can learn much from another's heart, brain and yes, also eyes.

I was more concerned by the fact that Ahriman had set his crested helmet aside, showing me what had become of him since the Changer of Ways sunk her claws into him.

I told you before that his face was a screaming void. That is true, and I do at times miss his graceful features, but the mutation he so fervently denies robbed him of none of his allure. I could see the stars he had murdered in the blurred outlines of his visage, the horns of his stolen crown rising above him as shadowy shapes even after he had discarded it. A saturnine halo trailed around and above his unchanged eyes, lending him an air of divinity.

He offered me a hand. I took it.

As I had suspected, he wanted to feel my new limb. His psychic power ran through its synapses, scouting for faults.

"This wouldn't have happened had you stayed with your Legion," he chided me, "an unnecessary sacrifice."

"Do not preach to me of unnecessary sacrifice," I warned him, "you've no right to."

He let go of me and came closer. The shadow he cast over me was soothing, as opposed to Ezekyle's menacing shade.

"I have a proposition," he said, his fingers tracing the pointed star engraved on my chestplate, "if you would hear it."

Let me share a secret with you, Siroca. I knew that I had lost the moment I resolved to heed his request and come to him in person. I can be stubborn, but I cannot stand alone with Ahriman and not be swayed by his mere presence. Truth to be told, he could've asked me to tie myself into a knot and I would've, there and then.

"I will not ask your forgiveness," his hand slowly wandered upwards, "I do not know if I can forget what you had done, either. But I want to propose an armistice. Should you agree to it, you can request anything in return."

See, and this is why I ran after Drol Kheir. I knew that sooner or later he would make an offer I could not refuse; an offer I wouldn't ever want to refuse.

"You will not obstruct Ezekyle's plans," I said as his fingers crept up my chin, "or go after the Ezekarion. You will not exact vengeance on my behalf."

"Oh," he purred, amused, "and here I thought you would appreciate me taking the Warmaster's lesson on the vindicta to heart."

I have told you that we had no need for physical acts, gifted as we were, but you'd be wrong to think we didn't engage in them regardless. Ahriman never missed a chance to bring up something from the absurd romance novels he hoarded so fervidly, and there was no talking him out of little human shows of affection. I entertained his sappy demands a little too eagerly that time; I admit I was hellishly curious regarding the taste of the abyssal matter that now made up his face, and so I drank deep of it once I had the chance to.

Needless to say, I've had better ideas in my long life. I had seen some things then, things that are best left unseen.

It also took Ahriman a fair while to bring me back to my senses.

Only posting the first chapter here, as FF refuses to process my formatting from Google Docs. You read read the rest on AO3 here: /works/31343927/chapters/77505425