A/N: Why don't we check in on some other characters?
Book Two: Corruption's End
Chapter 59: A Black Reckoning
"No one escapes the Inquisition. No one is exempt from its gaze, not even its members. Remember, only the Emperor is infallible." Inquisitor [REDACTED] to Inquisitor [REDACTED], marked for all eternity as Excommunicatae Traitorus.
Weary. Shaken.
These were the words that hung from Yang's slumped shoulders, the ones that colored her fake smile. Amat worried for his friend. Ever since their brief talk with Maion, a pall had hung from her frame.
Something to do with warp-craft, most like. He knew how Yang felt about her near-fall. How close she came to the abyss. Though he stood ready to do his duty should the time come again, the circumstances had changed.
A common theme for the final year of the Forty-First Millennium.
He watched the kasrkin settle uncomfortably upon the floor, trying to make a temporary home for themselves on the alien surface. Even from his modest loft, they seemed smaller. Wary. With good reason, a part of him reasoned. They were aboard an Eldar ship, bound for the most secretive part of the dying webway. The larger part of him felt pity for them. The part of him that was Amat. The part that had been growing for years, found manifest in the past months.
But the kasrkin had no idea the significance of the meeting on Gartenwald. Who Pyrrha Nikos was. What it meant that her legacy lived on in the Galaxy.
Several months ago, he remained in the dark as well. A tool for the Lady Inquisitor, her Ace in the Hole. The last line of defense should all else fail. But she had changed that. Enlightened him. Shown him Remnant.
Another universe.
The implications were colossal, terrible in their enormity. But they were beyond him. His hand flexed, and he watched the syn-skin stretch over his hand, silent and rippling. I am Vindicare. It was not his place to question things, to seek out answers.
Yet they itched at him anyway.
Months spent meditating and painting had done him well on Uriel, but meeting Maion and the Tou'Her had thrown his balance once more. Without patience, without balance, he was lost. Yang was quick to trust them, as was her nature… and Amat was inclined to trust her judgement. However, she had spent barely a year in the Imperium. With such a carefree attitude, it's a blessing she's lasted so long.
Carefree. Buoyant.
These were the words that described Yang Xiao Long. But only her surface, he knew. Under the wondrous, mischievous smile, beneath the glowing curls of golden hair, there was shades of Weiss. His Lady. The misery that poisoned her judgement, the terrible loneliness that had thrown her from her citadel of self-control.
Better since Uriel, he admitted. The time Yang poured into lifting weights and throwing dice with her friends had helped.
Their brief expedition to Gartenwald's mountain village.
Yet she still lacks purpose. He reached into his satchel for his materials, though he had no specific project in mind.
Taking his pen, he let it rest against a pad of sketch paper. Only time would tell if his scribbling today would bear fruit, become paint and canvas. He touched the pen to his lips, a delightful sensation, a new one. Yang did it whenever she wrote something on paper. Always left teeth marks on the cap.
It helped the ideas flow, let his soul take charge of his hands before his mind could strangle the creativity. His hand floated to the center of the page, ready to scribe a pointed halo. An arc. Sharp and quick, a flick of the pen across the page.
No. His hand returned to his side. That won't do. How many Saints had he drawn? How many illuminations?
The pen shifted, ready to define the bold edge of an astartes pauldron instead. He stopped. How many battlefields?
Silently, the paper waited for him to make meaning of it. Inspiration is a fickle mistress. Amat looked up. Something Mother used to say. Real-Mother, not Vindicare-Mother. Closing his eyes, he once more tried to call up an image of Mother. Once more, only Palla emerged.
She had hair though. Odd. Too murky to make anything real out of it though.
The Chariot of Salvation came to mind. His training suppressed the shudder that demanded to be felt. Perhaps a naval piece? A prayer to the God-Emperor that they could find the Chariot before Josephus?
Amat tried to make the lines of a majestic battleship, lances glowing red as they blasted apart a heretical cruiser. The pen refused to move. He frowned. He realized he was frowning, and pressed his fingers against the curl of his lip. Is this the first time I've frowned? Or the first time I've realized it?
The grip on his pen tightened.
Why did everything have to get so complicated? Why me, Emperor? What great plan do you have for me?
He suppressed the urge to laugh at the thought. If there was anything Weiss taught him in his years of service, it was that there was no 'Great Plan'. There is no destiny or fate, nothing except the Emperor and the choices you make.
And what did Yang teach him?
The pen scratched at the paper, working furiously now. Life flowed into it, where it was once still. He drew, ignoring the ink that smeared, the ink that stained his fingers. It was only a sketch, after all. But it was good. It was damn good.
"Amat?" a voice asked. Chera. The Lady Lieutenant. His pen did not cease.
"How can I help you, Ma'am?" He asked. In the corner of his eye, he saw her wringing her hands together.
"I know Our Lady... showed you this world," she said.
Hesitant. Unsure.
"Remnant," Chera clarified. "Do you think she was lying? Did she... make it up? Exaggerate?"
Amat did not look up from his work. "I'm sorry Lieutenant, but my answer is not the one you're looking for. The Lady Inquisitor did not lie about her origins. She did attempt to..." he searched for the right word. "Distance herself from what she showed me, but the emotions tied to her memories were far too strong. In that sense, she lied. But she did not lie about Remnant."
Chera took that in stride, eyes downcast. Eyes so much like Yang's.
"And you know this... Pyrrha person?" A note of anger crept into her voice.
"I knew of her," Amat told the Lieutenant. "I do not know what would drive her to settle with eldar. On Remnant, she was a paragon of virtue and a powerful warrior. Here..." he paused, once more searching for the proper phrase. "She... arrived on Il-Kaithe. She had no way of knowing the Emperor's will. Regrettable, but the truth regardless."
"What are you hiding, Amat?" Chera asked. Soft enough to be a whisper, harsh enough to demand attention. Amat ceased his sketching.
"I have nothing to hide, Ma'am," he said simply. It felt like a lie, even though it wasn't.
"I know you pal around with Sergeant Xiao Long too much for your own good. In fact, I'd say you're damn near attached at the hip. What about her? What has she told you about this... Remnant?"
"She doesn't talk about it much," Amat answered. "For reasons she has made clear." His pen touched the page once more. "She is a good friend. And willful deceit is completely beyond her. Again, I apologize. I don't have the answer you're looking for."
"And do you really believe it's in... some other universe?"
"Yes, but I can't offer you an explanation for why I think that. I am Vindicare. Such questions are far beyond me."
"They didn't know about the Emperor there, did they?" Chera asked.
"They did not," Amat said. "As far as Our Lady knows, humanity evolved on Remnant." As did the faunus... but he neglected to mention them. "And there was no comparable figure in Remnant's history."
"No Emperor..." Chera hissed, her hand pumping, desperate confusion clenching and unclenching her fist.
"But remember, Lieutenant - Our Lady is an ardent devotee of the Imperial Cult. His Truth is evident to all that call themselves human."
Except Pyrrha, he thought, before willing it away, packing it away into a corner of his mind to examine later.
"I just thought I knew her," Chera admitted. "Better than anyone else," she said. "The night before I married Darron, I had a panic attack. 'What am I doing?' I kept asking myself. 'I can't get married. What if he dies? What if I die?'" She shifted her weight, radiating discomfort. "I confessed to the Lady Inquisitor my thoughts. Since she was the one performing the ceremony, I thought it would be best. You know what she told me?"
Amat shook his head, though he had already deduced the answer.
"Take what happiness you can, wherever you can. It doesn't matter if it all vanishes the night after. What matters is that you live without regrets. Without fear.'"
He didn't know what to say about that.
"After she told me that," Chera continued. "I thought she was about to burst into tears. And it was the closest any of us came to truly knowing her. But," she said, locking eyes with Amat. "I guess I was mistaken."
"Ma'am, I suggest not looking too deeply into this. Weiss Schnee and Our Lady are almost entirely different people," he lied. "It is not your fault you were born in the Imperium, while Our Lady and Sergeant Xiao Long were born on Remnant. They hail from another universe, but they serve the Emperor regardless. Is that not enough?"
Chera's lip curled. "It's not that simple. They're just… extremely powerful witches. You know such power does not come without a price. What's theirs? What secrets do they have?" A growl of frustration escaped her, and Amat watched her try and piece her thoughts together.
"And about what the one half-breed said. That Yang could kill the entire war-party… is that true?" Chera asked.
"Mostly," Amat answered. "I've seen her fight. Maion exaggerated only in the amount of effort Yang would have to expend. She would struggle, but I do believe she could best them all. Maybe not the aura-wielders too."
"The what?"
"The hybrids," Amat simplified.
Chera grimaced. "Shit, man. Not even the Astartes are that good. Emperor. What makes her better?"
"Our Lady is equally powerful, yet better practiced," Amat reminded her. "And Remnant is not like other worlds. There, every human soul shines bright. They wear them like armor, wield them like weapons. There is no warp, no Dark Gods."
"No Emperor," Chera recalled. "How did they survive?"
"Carefully," Amat said, blowing a quick breath on his sketchpad to dry a spot of blotted ink. "Differently."
"They would be heretics then," she said. "A planet of witches and apostates."
"Yes. But only here. Different universe and all," he reminded her.
"You're assured of this?"
"I am. There is no other explanation. Even if we had the means to travel between galaxies, beyond the Emperor's light, the warp would still exist there," he reasoned.
"Then… are they even human?" Chera asked.
"Magos Prexius confirmed it herself," Amat answered. "She had to reconstruct most of Yang's stomach region after all. Can't make lasting bionics if you can't match the recipient's DNA."
"Huh," Chera grunted, considering that. "And do you trust Magos Prexius?"
"Not if she's interested in me," Amat joked, forgetting who he was speaking with. He paused his drawing for a second. "But about Yang? Certainly."
Training and hypno-indoctrination under the Vindicares had steeled him against the worst of what the galaxy had to offer, but even he found the gorgeous plastic face of Magos Ada Prexius unsettling. Her trembling excitement over Yang did not help.
"One last question, Assassin," Chera asked, her eyes darting to the cargo bay door in a flash of purple.
"How may I help you, Lieutenant?"
"Do you trust these eldar?"
"Of course not," Amat replied. "However, I don't think they actively mean us harm."
At that, Chera frowned and tucked her hair behind an ear. "And how do you know that?"
"I don't," he admitted. "Merely my best guess." He looked at his drawing. It was… coming together quite nicely. "But if they did betray us, they would die. Make no mistake about that."
It doesn't matter if they're Pyrrha's children, he realized. I don't owe her anything. I didn't belong to that world.
But Yang did.
For her sake, he prayed Maion meant every word she spoke.
Leafing through her journal, the Lady Highest scribed another note into the data slate.
'There is no grey. Only white and black. Us versus them.'
It had been a day since she had arrived on Kastile Secundus, yet another day spent wasted while Josephus ran free. There was nothing she could do. The conclave was too important, and the Chariot of Salvation would no doubt be a keystone item of discussion. She had faith tt would be resolved. For now, however, she was the only other Inquisitor present - the rest still sailed through the warp, heeding their master's call.
The Hallowed Inquisitor and Ira were engaged in deep discussion elsewhere in the Headquarters. No doubt her master was evaluating him for eventual promotion. But the Lady Highest was confident in her pupil. He was ready.
With no one to instruct and no Yang to deal with, she was left with little to do. So she turned to her pet projects instead. Once more, she examined the title she'd chosen.
'The Sacred Flame'.
She took a sip of wine from a thrice-filled glass. It was a working title, it would do for now. There was little else to do besides some minor additions and editing polish, so she returned to her other text - On the Machinations of War, by Saint Macharius.
Infantry tactics and small-unit maneuvering had been instilled in her since the days she called Schnee Castle home, the lessons only strengthened in decades since. However, pure strategy, the movements of armies and divisions, tides of muscle and armor, how to keep them supplied, how to move them... all things remiss in her education, something she hoped to repair. Ever since that horrid dream in the Archives of Saint Totha, the text called to her, demanded her attention.
The Revered Saint's writings had served her well during the cleansing of Uriel. It had answered her questions and more - how to best employ combined arms in order to crush one's enemies, how to support the advance of armor with regiments of infantry. Saint Macharius had conquered a thousand worlds in seven years. An unparalleled genius.
Her hand inspected the simple cover. Only the corners were encased in bright gold. There was no better teacher, though she found herself wishing she could have spoke with the man himself on occasion. Reverently, she opened the text and flipped through the pages. Each word was familiar.
A dollop of blood blossomed on the page, soiling the work she'd studied. Another. Gingerly, she brought a finger to her lip, finding a stream of blood flowing from her nose. She closed the text before any further damage could be done.
Finding a rag of cloth, she pressed it to her nostril. A deep frown etched itself into her features. An ache struck the side of her head, pounding, tolling.
Urgh. What is it this time?
Shaking her head, she stood from her desk in her temporary quarters. It was a functional room - typical of the Recongrators, and sparsely decorated. Only a desk-borne cogitator, bed, and bookshelf adorned the metal walls. The Hallowed Inquisitor was expecting her later to address discussion points at the conclave, but it would have to wait.
This pounding in her head was no common ache.
She made her way to the medical wing. As she strode down the hallways, it worsened. Her steps quickened.
A lance of pain struck her head again, and she winced from the sheer force. Red soaked her fingers, and she realized the rag she had pressed to her nose was sodden and wet with blood.
The other hand laced through her hair, pulling pulling pulling at her perfect ivory locks.
What's wrong with me?
Suddenly sapped of strength, her legs collapsed from underneath her. She curled into a ball, froth spurting from her lips.
She screeched, hands locking against the side of her head. There was nothing, nothing she could do to abate the horror that assaulted her. Wheezing and weeping, she crawled on her hands and knees, desperate to flee the pain.
In the corner of the hallway, she curled into a ball, hands making the sign of the Aquila.
It did not help.
She did not know how long she suffered there, only that when Ira and her Master approached, her throat was sore, rent and bleeding from her screams.
"My Lady!" Ira said, her Master hustling close behind him. "What's happened?"
She couldn't answer her pupil, no matter how much she wished. Tears of blood spurted from her eyes, meeting the river from her nose.
"Oh Omnissiah protect us," Ira mumbled. With gentle grace, he scooped her off the floor, cradling him in his arms. "Can you summon a medicae?" He asked the Hallowed Inquisitor.
His green eyes were wide with shock, but he nodded. "I'll get someone from the medical wing. Stay with her in case it's… witchcraft related."
The Lady Highest screamed once more, ignorant of why. Her bloodstained fingers pulled at Ira's robes, desperate for something to hold onto. An unseen force pulled at her, drove her from the confines of her mind.
It was like being ripped apart, torn limb from limb, rent mind body and soul and
Ruby it felt like when Ruby died oh Emperor so much blood why her why her why her why her
why not me
why not me why did I have to live
WHY NOT ME WHY DID I HAVE TO LIVE
I DIDN'T WANT TO LIVE NOT WITHOUT HER
WHY NOT ME
WHY NOT ME
WHY NOT ME
Ira hustled her to her quarters, humming a prayer in binary.
"Ira," she whispered, trembling, trembling all over.
"Yes my Lady?" He asked, brushing a mess of white hair away from her eyes. Her mouth opened to respond, only to let loose another shriek.
"Why not me?" She demanded. "Can't you see?" She filled her hands with his red robe. "I taught you better than that! What are you doing?"
"My Lady…" Ira tried.
"Do you have any idea of the damage you could've caused?"
Ira's mouth opened, but no words came forth.
The Lady Highest just laughed, all sense and reason abandoning her. He's coming, she realized. He's coming, and that will be the end of me.
At last, I'll be free.
A/N: Uh-oh. That smells like trouble to me...
Next chapter, we'll be back in the Webway with Yang and company... complications await.
Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and let me know what you thought! A lot of you either disappeared or stopped leaving reviews. The latter is totally fine, I'm just puzzled as to why this story went from 30-40 reviews per chapter to barely 10.
Until next time!