AN: Back with a double-length chapter!
Book Two: Corruption's End
Chapter 71: Wanderers
"Have you brought your library card?" - [REDACTED], ERROR: [NO_ !dnqd2rthn 21dHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEHELPMEPLEASEPLEASEPL=]
Chera stalked the halls of the Black Library, unsure of what she was searching for, lacking a reason to put one boot in front of the other. But she continued on regardless. One nod from Darron was all it took to convince her to go aboard the ancient xenos vessel - keep an eye on Yang. Ensure mission success.
Her fingers wrapped around her hellgun, tight enough to turn her knuckles as white as her mask. This place was... well, nightmarish wasn't the right word. It was simply wrong. The geometry of it was skewed, didn't conform to conventional standards. It made her head hurt, but she pressed on anyway. Each time she tried to follow Yang and Pyrrha, a stiff mental poke had turned her away.
Whoever this Pyrrha person is, she's certainly powerful. And a heretic.
A witch that openly consorted with aliens, flaunting her half-breed children like she wasn't a traitor to the entire human race. The fact that Chera felt a nauseating pang of sympathy for Pyrrha's grief over her son did not help matters.
She reaped what she sowed, Chera thought, even though she didn't feel it.
"I fuckin' hate this mission," she said to no one. She spun on her heel, hellgun aimed the way she came. There was only an empty row of bookshelves. "This place can suck my asshole," she cried.
The Black Library did not respond. She shouldered her hellgun, spitting a wad of phlegm onto the polished black-marble floor. A part of her wanted to let loose with her weapon, cook the endless walls of books in holy flame. The image of the Harlequins stopped her, as did the notion that most of these books were kept so that they may serve the enemies of chaos.
I hate this. I wish Darron was here too.
"Why did they let me in and not him?" She asked the books. This time, the Library responded.
A single book tumbled from the shelf ten meters above her, a black-leather bound tome. It smacked against the floor and laid still. Chera's kneepad slammed into the floor, her hellgun aiming directly at the disturbance.
Nothing else moved, or even made a sound. It was so quiet, Chera could hear herself thinking. Fucking eldar. Fucking xenos. Fucking Pyrrha. Fucking Yang.
The book waited for her.
If twenty years serving an Inquisitor taught her anything, it was not to open strange books. Especially ones in a creepy-as-hell Library run by psychotic xenos clowns. Chera kissed her boot to the cover and kicked it under the shelf to her left.
It appeared once more from underneath the shelf on her right.
"Oh so that's how it's going to be, huh?" She asked the Library. No response. Huffing, she pressed onwards, past the black-bound book. Twenty paces later, it fell again. The exact same book from the exact same height.
The roar of a single super-charged lasbolt filled the Black Library, shattering the silence. Where the book once sat, there was a pile of cinders. With a smug grin, Chera sauntered past the book's smoking corpse.
Two more of them fell in her path. She hurried past them, her smile gone. The books began to rain down upon her, the same damnable black-bound pages, one after another. They rang off her carapace armor with increasing fervor. First it was one or two, then three. Then five. Then ten.
Chera stormed down the alley, desperate to escape the deluge of paper. She let out a wordless roar, battering her way through a pile of identical books.
Duulamor was waiting for her on the other side.
"The book wants you to read it," he said, plucking one up from the floor. "Persistent little shit."
Chera snarled, her hellgun braced to claim the Harlequin's life. He did not flinch. In fact, he didn't even seem to notice she held a weapon.
"Are you trying to kill me? What's the meaning of this, xenos?" Chera demanded.
"Pointing a weapon at people and asking questions yields poor results," Duulamor said. "In your future endeavours, I advise against using threats and insults."
"Fuck you," Chera said. "Fuck this Library. Take me back to the Void-Whisper."
"You're not even curious?" Duulamor asked, licking his thumb before flipping through a few pages. "How laughably spurious." He tossed her the book. She caught it - her reflexes wouldn't let her do otherwise. "At least read the first page."
"Fuck that," Chera said. Her hellgun was still pointed square at center mass, despite being held one-handed. "Books like this only lead to heresy and ruin," she insisted.
"No need for rage," Duulamor said, holding his hands up defensively. "And there is a wisdom in your dogmatism, something truly sage." He giggled madly. "But worry not your head my pretty, this book is little more than a petty curiosity."
Despite herself, Chera was curious. And the clown's words made sense, despite all evidence to the contrary. Why would the guardians of the Black Library let her have something that corrupted one to chaos? Perhaps... perhaps she could look at the first page.
Her armored thumb opened the cover, revealing a simple block of text illuminated with Imperial skulls and bordered in the livery of Kasr Kraf.
'Major-General Chera Marius was born on M.41.955 to Jon and Seras Keller, two staunch servants of the Emperor in the Cadian Eighth. Her career and service is something of legend, one that easily matched her loving and devoted husband's - Major-General Darron Marius. During Abaddon's Thirteenth Black Crusade, along with her husband and children-'
Chera slammed the book shut, heart pounding, each breath short and labored. What the fuck.
"What is this?" She asked the Harlequin.
"A vision, Miss." Duulamor replied. "Something that has long since come to pass, yet never happened at all. A reality that your thoughts brought into possibility, but could not be brought into actuality ."
"Why are you showing me this?" Chera asked, holding the book out before the eldar. "What purpose could it possibly serve?"
"Partially to educate you," Duulamor answered. "Mostly to amuse me, true."
"Your amusement certainly caused a mess," Chera said, tossing the book over her shoulder. The instant she did so, she regretted it, wished it back into her hands. She wanted to read more. Devour the pages, take them into her soul and never let them go, hold them like Darron after a mission.
"Did it now?" Duulamor asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm going to turn around and find an empty alley, aren't I?" Chera asked.
Duulamor shrugged, a frightfully human gesture. "Turn around and you shall see, one can never know until she is free."
Chera didn't want to know the answer, so she stared up at the Harlequin instead, daring him to make another inane rhyme or throw another book at her.
He did neither. Rather, he stepped aside to let Chera pass. A long arm extended, beckoning her forwards. His fingers were a knuckle too long, and it made her sick to her stomach.
"What's this then?" Chera asked.
"An invitation," Duulamor said. "The Black Library's mysteries and many and more, but it can be a daunting place for the child of a kasr."
"An invitation to what?" Chera demanded. Keep him on track. It's the only way you're leaving this place with your sanity intact.
"Just some light theatre," Duulamor said, as if he was a child caught stealing sweets.
"It's not going to be a play about my life is it?" Chera asked. "At this point, I wouldn't be surprised."
"I would certainly hope not," Duulamor said, shocked and aghast. A histrionic display if Chera had ever seen one. "But you are in the correct mindset, I would say. Ah hee hee hee. Ah ho ho ho."
"Being ambiguously creepy isn't exactly the best foot to lead off on," Chera said. She desperately wanted to squeeze the trigger of her hellgun, melt this fucker's face off. "You really need lessons on how to talk to humans."
"And what makes you think I care about that?" Duulamor asked, his voice fell and full of menace, his smile reaching his pointed ears.
"Feh," Chera spat, marching past the Harlequin. "I'll play your game, xenos, if only to shut your mouth."
And maybe see the book again.
Duulamor cackled at that, his voice echoing to the vaulted ceilings, wrapping Chera in a blanket of black mirth. She turned to see if he was following her, but he had vanished completely.
As well as every single copy of the book.
"Un-fucking-believable." Chera muttered, stomping onwards. Her path led her to a bulkhead with a single Imperial skull emblazoned on it. There was a single door handle on it, with a tiny note attached above it.
'Chera - pull me', it read in standard low Gothic block print. Chera pulled on the door handle, but the bulkhead didn't budge. The letters on the note shifted around. 'Just kidding - it's a push.'
Chera pulled on the door handle again, and it swung open.
Fucking alien clowns, she thought, frowning. The interior chased such thoughts from her mind. It was a perfect replica of the kasrkin's living hall commons aboard the Scythe of Morning - the ceiling was tall and hewn from new metal, while the lounging chairs were cushy black leather, polished to a mirror shine and studded with red pillows. The same fireplace crackled on the right wall, the logs slowly turning to ash.
"Take your coat?" A Harlequin asked, bowing steeply. She was a lithe creature, her teeth filed into points, her bodice a livery of checker-print and neon tartan. Not a great look, Chera thought dumbly.
She ignored the xenos, walking over to her favorite corner and sitting down in the plush leather seat.
"The show's about to start soon," the Harlequin purred. "Please turn off all mobile devices, and be respectful to other members of the audience." Naturally, the common room was empty except for Chera. The sooner I'm off this ship, the better.
Asillar marveled at the Black Library as his wings carried him through its halls. His great Grandfather had left Il-Kaithe to dance with the Harlequins for the rest of time, but he never imagined that he would one day see its halls for himself.
Why did they let me in?
Admittance into the Library was not a lightly-given privilege, one that he neither earned nor deserved. And why does the half-breed have the most ardent soul? What did Duulamor mean by that? Did he not see what she was? What they all were?
Or, more troubling, did he not care?
Asillar shivered, despite the comforts provided to him by his armor. A question better left unanswered. He supposed it was inevitable that the Harlequins would host odd members, but even still... Duulamor was beyond even those standards. There was something off about him, something uncanny and wholly unnatural. Like he was laughing at a joke only he could understand.
This whole mission sat ill with the Swooping Hawk. It was odd enough that Lossamdir deigned it worthy of his time, and that Asillar had been selected for service. He did not think himself any more capable than his brothers and sisters of the Plummeting Strike.
His lip curled in disgust.
I'm no better than those damned humans. The fact that the blonde and that damned assassin could turn him and most of the war-party to paste annoyed him greatly.
To say nothing of the Soul-Wielder.
Legends of her prowess were a popular subject of gossip on Il-Kaithe. He remembered the way his parents would whisper about the half-breeds, their tones oscillating between fear, disgust, and bitter awe. The Soul-Wielder was pariah and celebrity in equal measure - a terrible vision of Khaine's fury and unparalleled might wrought in the flesh of a mon'keigh.
Her soul still reeked of power, terrible and eldritch. Trans-universal.
What has she been searching for all these years?
He retracted his wings, and he rolled against the floor of the Black Library, falling into perfect stride. Its halls were nearly endless - what could a mon'keigh hope to find here?
Asillar turned a corner, coming across the entrance to a stasis chamber. Cautiously, he stepped inside, marvelling at the milky translucent spheres that lined the hallway. They were contained behind panes of simple glass, but still seemed within reach. Each one contained some artifact or relic, each one powerful beyond measure.
One in particular drew his attention - an orb that contained an elegant mask, one not unlike the Harlequin's. This one was far more esoteric however, as it was covered in runes and encrusted with precious gems.
What was the story behind it? Who brought it here? Why was it sealed away?
"Ooh, wouldn't touch that if I were you," Duulamor whispered into his ear.
Asillar jumped, bracing his lasblaster against his shoulder. The Harlequin had startled him, and he could feel his heart hammer against his chest. The Harlequin stood inches behind him, grinning his psychotic smile.
"You frightened me," Asillar said, wings fluttering in annoyance.
"You should be more aware," Duulamor said. "Are you not a Warrior?"
"I am," Asillar sniffed. Why had the Gatekeeper cornered him? A current of fear prickled his skin. Have I offended the Harlequins in some way?
"First one in your family, no? Is that not so?" Duulamor asked. He retreated slowly, dragging his long fingertips against the glass. The stasis orbs responded, flowing according to his touch.
"First one in many generations," Asillar admitted. "Though my Grandfather left Il-Kaithe to serve Cegorach," he said with a whiff of pride.
"Quite so," Duulamor purred. "And serve he does. Who knows? I might even be him. Wouldn't that be a laugh?" He giggled, his face - his mask - peeling its lips back to display an array of pointed teeth.
"You are not him," Asillar said. Hoped.
"Quite certain, are you?" Duulamor asked. "That's new. You fancy the mask though?"
"It has..." Asillar paused, searching for the right word. "Sparked my curiosity."
Duulamor clucked his tongue, a sound that filled the hall and echoed again and again and again. "You are a warrior, said as much yourself, no more. What drove you to such boundless rage?"
Asillar frowned. "I would rather not discuss it."
"Sensitive are we?" Duulamor mocked. "I implore you..." his face molded into one of nightmarish horror, his eyes blacker than the death of a star. "Tell me."
Suddenly, the stasis bubbles seemed muted, the hallway tight and suffocating. The Swooping Hawk gulped.
"A former lover of mine," he whispered, eyes flooding with memories. "She walked the Path of the Warrior, where I was but a Dreamer. She fought as a Swooping Hawk for decades, until a mission arrived that required the help of our Commorrite cousins. When she returned, she was not herself."
"Ah hee hee hee. Ah ho ho ho," Duulamor chuckled. "So? Is it not the nature of eldar to change? To grow?"
"She liked their cruelty," Asillar spat. "Admired it. Where our talks would once be filled with wisdom and serenity, they were replaced with whispers of indulgence and dissatisfaction."
"You loved her still," Duulamor said, his words full of gentleness his face did not share.
"I did. I tried to steer her away." Asillar thought back to days he had long since buried away, back to the nights spent in Alynndra's embrace. Her beauty, her hair the color of nebulae. He closed his eyes, and could recall the softness of it upon his fingers. How it became polluted, unwashed. As she neglected herself, her nails grew long, her countenance sneering.
"She left Il-Kaithe," Asillar said finally. "She left me. She was meant to wake me while I dreamt, but she left me." Asillar paused, breath hiccuping. "I dreamed of dark things, wasting away, unable to awaken."
"So close to death," Duulamor said, nodding. "Enduring an unending nightmare."
Asillar clutched his lasblaster tight, a single lifeline on a turbulent sea of reluctant memories. "It felt like millennia. When I was eventually discovered, I... I..."
"Khaine's wrath was upon you."
"I savaged my rescuer," Asillar said. "In my grief and heartache and terror." He looked at the glass before him, and he could see his rescuer's claw-marked face, the sprays of blood, his anguished, confused pleading.
"How unfortunate," Duulamor purred.
"I nearly killed him!" Asillar said, anger curling his lip. "It was no unfortunate happenstance! It was unchecked rage. It was my own fault! I should have... I should have known!" He cursed, fist meeting the glass.
It didn't budge.
"The rage has not left I see," Duulamor said. "Wouldn't you like to be free?"
"No," Asillar said, adamant. "Not until my rage has been spent. Not until I have atoned."
"So close-minded, barbaric, rough," Duulamor said. His black robes rustled, and he withdrew an object from his sleeve. "Didn't your final dream show you enough?"
Asillar stared at the Harlequin, his suspicions confirmed - he was no common Harlequin.
"After all… laughter is the best medicine." Duulamor said, revealing the object he retrieved.
It was the mask, its grin wide enough to reach its wearer's ears.
Wondrous. Terrifying.
There were no other words that fit the Black Library. Though he desperately wished to speak with Pyrrha, Amat withdrew from her reunion with Yang. It was not his place to interfere in such matters. He knew this.
Though he did not know why he wept. Amat ran a finger across his cheek, retrieving a single tear. The brine-drop sat atop his synskin-clad finger. Within it, he could see himself. Unmasked. Eyes wet.
Is this grief? He wondered. Am I sad? Over what?
Amat did not lack for anything in life. He served the Emperor like no other could. He even had a friend. A good one.
What am I missing?
He noticed a Harlequin watching him. The xenos stood atop one of the titanic bookshelves, striding along a bridge of light nearly twenty stories up.
If he so wished, he could wipe it from existence. But he did not want that. He simply wanted to know. So many questions these days. Things were easier when his mind was blank, when his muscles were an instrument, his eyes a reticule, his weapon the Will of the Emperor.
He decided to follow the Harlequin. A mental map of this chamber was nearly completed, and Yang still had a microbead. The second she keyed it, he would be at her side. Amat would do nothing else in this alien landscape.
A whispered name called to him. A familiar name, one that brought back visions. Visions of a woman, a warm woman, a smiling woman.
Mother.
Amat checked his rifle, sweat beading his brow. Still yourself. Know that the Emperor is with you and you are His Judgement.
The name repeated, echoing softly. He picked up his pace, looking for the source of the noise.
He swiveled, checking on Yang and Pyrrha.
There was nothing but blackness, total and all-consuming. Amat swallowed. He turned around and found more of the same. There was only the light bridge far above his head, leading on into nothingness.
Emperor save me. Never could he not count on his own senses.
"Yang?" He called out, louder than he had ever spoken before. "Yang?" He repeated, keying the microbead. No response.
"Only me, I'm afraid," a voice called out. Duulamor.
"Duulamor," Amat shouted. "What's the meaning of this? Free me!"
Laughter filled the darkness. Amat followed it, exitus rifle braced. He hoped he was headed back towards Yang and the others, but there was no way to know. He could only pray.
"Amat, Amat," Duulamor's voice cawed. "Assassin-man, Assassin-man. Lost again? No creature from Remnant to be your beacon?"
Amat didn't like the alien's tone. He's mocking me. And not like Yang does. The way he liked, the way that made him smile.
"No, not like Yang, brother." Duulamor crowed, still invisible. Amat broke into a jog, chasing the sound, the only thing he could make out in this infernal darkness. "She's so much like her mother!" Duulamor added. "At least how you remember her. Bright and bubbly and full of life!"
"Raven?" Amat said. "That's... that's not right." Raven was red, red eyes and a red soul, her frown everlasting. Red like blood.
"Ah hee hee hee, ah ho ho ho," Duulamor mocked.
Amat struck an object, stunning him and knocking him over. He aimed his weapon at the mass, but could not draw a bead.
Duulamor's face emerged from the inky blackness, as white as a shattered moon. His smile sent shivers crawling up Amat's spine. Was this the first time he'd known fear?
A new sensation.
"Explain yourself, xenos," he said. "Before I am forced to fire."
"Oh come off it, you" Duulamor said dismissively. "I haven't trapped you two. What good what that do? If I stole you away, I would have a very angry, very blonde brute tearing my maze apart looking for you, her head all ablaze."
Amat frowned. "Then what is all this?"
"It's a library," Duulamor answered innocently, his face circling Amat. It moved as if there was no body to anchor it. "But that's not important right now."
"That's not funny."
"I disagree," Duulamor chirped. "You humans have a delightful wit when you care to practice it. Have you heard a limerick before?"
"I have not," Amat said. "Is it some sort of spell?"
Duulamor erupted into laughter. "If your soul wasn't so honest," he said, "I would think you were pulling my leg."
A leg emerged, just below Duulamor's smiling face.
"There once was a child from the Conclave," Duulamor said, his voice lyrical and flighty. "He was orphaned and taken away. Palla was kind, yet stripped his mind... before she made him a slave."
"The Conclave?" Amat asked. The word was... familiar somehow. An echo, but nothing more. Duulamor's rhyme ate at him. Gnawed at him from within. He knew he spoke the truth, but could not determine how.
Duulamor emerged in full, little more than an black outline and shining white face. He seemed taller in the darkness, his head soaring up to scrape against the ceiling.
"They stripped you of even that?" He asked. "I'm sorry my friend, quite unfortunate."
"What does it mean?" Amat asked. "Conclave... epitaphium. These words..." He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the close-cropped blond locks. The meanings behind the memories were close, close enough to taste - but he could not access them. The words, what they meant, what they stood for... they were all that remained.
His memories were simply gone.
Duulamor grinned. "Have a pict?" He asked. Amat didn't reply, so the Harlequin took one anyway. A brilliant flash beat back the darkness for a heartbeat moment, enough to blind the assassin.
Duulamor shook out the print, frowning slightly. "Damn things take forever," he mumbled. Amat couldn't speak. He could barely think for all the questions that battered him. "She's a sharp dresser," Duulamor said, handing him the pict.
Amat took it dumbly. It was himself, of course, clad in syn-skin and tucking his exitus rifle into his shoulder. But there was a uniformed woman flanking him. Where Amat was unmoving and unreadable, she wore a wide smile, the picture of pride.
"Mother," Amat whispered. It was her. He knew it. Never before had he seen this woman, but it didn't matter. It was her.
Her uniform bespoke a storied career - it bore the crisp black of the Imperial Navy, threaded with shining gold and studded with command ribbons. Braided headwires much like Instructor Palla's sat atop her shoulder, just under her flowing brown hair and amber eyes.
Amat's eyes.
"Mother," Amat said again. He couldn't believe it. It had to be some sort of eldar trickery, a quirk of the Black Library. His thumb caressed the pict, and he committed every inch of it to memory.
He would not lose it again.
"How is this possible," he asked the Harlequin. Duulamor only shrugged.
"It is impossible to know the entirety of the Black Library's content," he replied. "It contains nothing you could imagine, and everything you can't."
The pict in Amat's hands crumbled away, turning to ash and blowing away on a wind that did not exist. He watched it go, his chest feeling like it was being split in two.
Now he knew why he had wept.
"Who knows?" Duulamor asked, his own body turning to dust, his lips spewing cinders. "One could find anything here. Even their memories."
He vanished into a puff of smoke, leaving Amat alone in the blackness. But the blackness did not last. It too retreated, revealing a great projector room.
On the screen was Amat's mother and a small child, their smiles resplendent and pure. She picked the child up, let him soar like the ship she commanded.
How the child laughed.
Maion stalked the halls of the Black Library, mind whorling. She could not bother to admire the beauteous energies that swirled around her, each one humming a sad song.
What Grandmother had asked of her... why couldn't she answer immediately? The choice was obvious - the Imperium could never grab ahold of an artifact so powerful. With the power of the Chariot, it would be disastrous for the eldar. Craftworlds would burn, their Infinity Circuits destroyed, the souls of billions scattered to the winds of excess.
But is that a certainty?
A glimmer of data streamed past her head, its voice melancholic and sweet. It spoke of entropy, the end of all things.
With the Chariot, however, the Imperium could do great things. Abaddon and his Planet Killer would tremble in the face of the Chariot's works. Each slave of the Dark Gods would scream in futility as their fleets disintegrated before them, they would scream before the void claimed them all.
But if the arch-foe could claim the Chariot for itself…
The questions battered Maion, drove her to wander without care for her bearing or direction. She wished she could hunt with the rest of Shadowed Sword and be free of this maddening choice. Only in the hunt did she feel truly at home, her war-mask freeing her from mortal burdens.
Now there was nothing to shield her.
One of the data streams brightened, brilliant enough to blind Maion. She winced, throwing her hand up to cover her eyes. But there was no relief. She hurried onwards, hoping to be free of the light.
It slackened, and she could peek out from between her fingers, find her path amidst the endless rows of bookshelves.
Where am I? What section of the Library have I stumbled into? She didn't remember leaving the residential area. Maion pressed on, desperate to escape back into the darkness.
"Having trouble?" Duulamor's voice sang out.
Maion froze, her hand flying to the handle of her chainsword. A sliver of black materialized into being from the white that surrounded her. His face was wide and grinning.
"Duulamor," Maion said.
"How's it feel?" He asked. "Weary? The weight of billions cannot be an easy burden to carry."
Maion frowned, but said nothing. It seemed only natural that the Harlequin would know of all that occurred aboard the Black Library.
"So many souls," Duulamor said, as if he cared for each and every one. "But they are mon'keigh, dirty and full of holes. Just like that old bag Pyrrha."
She opened her mouth to respond, but decided against it. The Harlequin was baiting her, tormenting her for an aggrieved response. Why is it so bright? Is there no more shade?
"No place to hide," Duulamor cooed. "Oh, this is so marvelously interesting! You alone have so much power! Life... or death! Or maybe neither! Don't cower! Ah hee hee hee. Ah ho ho ho. Only a few words, and the galaxy itself shifts."
"Shut up!" Maion exploded. Why is this light so damnably bright? "I know that! I know what Grandmother asked of me!"
"Do you? Do you understand, Maion Tou'Her?" Duulamor asked. "Worlds could burn! Craftwords too! What will you choose?"
"I don't know!" Maion shouted. "Let me be free of this light! I need to think! I need..." She grimaced, feet tumbling one after another. Maion could barely tell where she was headed. "I just need to think!"
"But you're no thinker," Duulamor said, the shadow of his being following her. She could feel him circling her, a flicker of black in the unending brightness. "Said so yourself, I figure. A warrior-woman, through and through. Khaine's deadly shadow." He laughed, a sound that drilled into her temples. "Pyrrha trusted you, you know. Not her own children. No, not them. You."
"I know!" Maion said. She tripped over her feet, crashing hard against the wraithbone floor.
"So what's it gonna be?"
"Why do you need to know?" She demanded, rounding about to face the shadow. But he was gone. Maion pulled her knees close, pushing her head between them. It was too bright. It was so fucking bright.
"I told you!" Duulamor roared. "It's hilarious! It's amazing! Pyrrha Tou'Her is truly one-of-a-kind. What say you, Maion? Do the humans get a chance at the Chariot?"
"Who's to say they will not turn it against us?" Maion demanded, still unable to lift her head. "They're stupid fucking animals! They hate us! They hate us and we hate them. Any chance we have to prolong ourselves, we have to take it!"
"Too right you are, Maion Tou'Her," Duulamor said. "A dying star. That is the way of the eldar. Should it bother, the Imperium will break the craftworlds one after another. Biel-Tan will be the first, always a thorn in the humans' side. After that... who knows?" He cackled. "But is that even the choice they'll make? Who knows!?" He erupted into another fit of laughter, one that died suddenly. A long finger caressed Maion's chin, brought her bright green eyes to meet a pair far less mortal.
In them, she saw only madness.
"But even still, a choice must be made," he said. At this distance, his face looked... wrong. Like it was a mask that did not quite fit, or one that hid features wrought of scrabbling insects.
Maion realized she was crying, though she could not say why. "How do I know what to do?" She asked.
"I cannot answer that for you," he replied. "I can only ask a question. What matters most to you, Maion? Your family? Your race? Your craftworld? Your war? You?"
Maion blinked. She could barely see but for the blinding light. "I... I don't know."
"When you do, you will find two answers," Duulamor said. "But you must hurry - these are dire matters."
The light evaporated, as did the Harlequin. In the midst of the Black Library, Maion was alone, huddled against herself. Around her was a garden of wonders, of burnt-glass sculptures and grey flowers, their color rendered in a spectrum Maion could not see.
Looking at the beauty around her, Maion drew within herself once more.
What am I to do?
The fact that she debated at all was troubling. The choice should be obvious.
Yet it was not.
What did Duulamor mean? Why did he torment me like that? Why do I need to find what matters most to me? How will that help?
There were no answers.
Only more questions.
Yang strode the halls of the Black Library, power sword resting against her pauldron. Though dinner with the Tou'Her had been pleasant, she felt compelled to wander. After descending from the residential monolith, she set off on her own adventure, marvelling at the forbidden craftworld.
She knew she would not return. She did not know how she knew that, or what compelled her along those lines of thought, but she knew it regardless. This was a fleeting glimpse at something most could never imagine, let alone witness.
A small arch appeared between the countless rows of books, one that led to a hallway nearly a quarter of the size of the others. A dim blue light radiated from the hidden walls within, refracted light dancing across the floor
Eyes narrowed, she passed through the arch before coming upon the largest aquarium she had ever seen. Thousands of alien fish darted between iridescent coral formations, their movements swift and sure. A whale-like leviathan lumbered past, its skin brilliant and blue.
Didn't know the Harlequins liked fish.
Yang approached the tank, eyes wide as she took in the beauty of the place. She looked up to find that there was no ceiling, only more glass. The leviathan passed overhead, darkening the transparent hall for a moment.
Her fingers caressed the glass. There, she saw a reflection of herself, injured and awe-struck. Though she'd been at the Black Library for a day… Has it been a day? Her face was already recovering, the only reminder of her arrogance a slightly swollen eye, the skin around it purple and bloated.
This place is nuts.
A golden fish swam past her, elegant and graceful, its scales dotted with red. Yang smiled.
Seeing Pyrrha again was wonderful, yet, like all good things in her new life in the Milky Way, spoiled by complications. What Pyrrha had offered was... nothing short of incredible.
She still missed Ruby, and joining the eldar would sever all hope of a reunion immediately.
But isn't that what I need? I can't be happy until I move on. I can't live until I say goodbye for good.
She sighed, staring out at the schools of foreign fish. Fuck, that hurts to think. It was the truth though. Pyrrha was right. Wanderlust and thrill-seeking would only mean doom. Even on Remnant it didn't help. It only brought her more heartache.
Yang needed a purpose. A reason. Agency.
But she couldn't think of where to start. Only Pyrrha's offer seemed like a true beginning. A life among the eldar... what would that be like?
Could I end up like Pyrrha? Happy? Contented?
Could I leave humanity behind?
The questions came without end. As they always did. Yang turned to the tank next to her, watching an fish swim in its oversized prison. It was purple and slim, two long fins trailing behind it, gliding gently on unseen currents.
Once more, she touched the glass "And what kind of Library has a massive fucking aquarium?" She asked her reflection.
"Only the best kind," a voice said, sing-songy and full of spite. Yang knew the voice.
"Duulamor," she said. The aforementioned Harlequin was standing behind her, as if he had been there for centuries. He looked down at her, a conniving light in his eye.
Yang matched his grin. "Impressive library, ya know," she said, jerking her thumb at the end of the hallway. "Gotta admit it - quite decent."
"Decent?" Duulamor asked, his face unmoving. "Such a cruel word, that."
"It's tiny compared to the Library of Beacon," Yang lied. "The one we have back on Remnant. Way more books. Its guardians also have better fashion sense." A gleeful, spritely flame burned in Duulamor's black eyes, before it melted away into a savage grin.
"You're playing with me," he said. He giggled madly. "A fine joke, yes, yes! Almost had me!"
"Didn't think you'd be so gullible," Yang said, resting the point of her sword on the floor.
Still he eldar wanted something. To annoy her at the very least. Couldn't he see she was busy thinking? Or he could, and that's why he tracked her down.
"What do you want?" She asked carefully.
"There's no need for a tone like that," Duulamor said, clearly wounded. "I've simply stopped by for a friendly chat."
"What did you hear of my conversation with Pyrrha?" Yang asked, not trusting the glint in the Harlequin's eyes.
"Merely all of it." He giggled. "Such relentless audacity! Such furious tenacity! Remnant must be a truly wondrous land to produce souls such as yours."
Yang frowned. When she left it, Remnant was far from what Duulamor suggested. But he probably knows that by now.
"We must be pretty fascinating to your boss," Yang said, switching the subject.
"Master Cegorach?" Duulamor inquired. "Oh, quite, quite. Ah hee hee hee. Ah ho ho ho. Fascinating and dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Yang asked.
"Oh yes," Duulamor said, nodding sagely. "Master Cegorach has plans, you see? Plans your presence... disturbs."
"Are you threatening me?" Yang asked. She really didn't want to fight this guy - she didn't like the look in his eyes. To him, she was no more than a fascination, a curiosity. If he wanted to kill her, she would be dead.
Yang shivered.
"No, no, no, no, no, no... well... yes. Obliquely. Kinda. Really depends on what you do." He said, dancing around her. Yang kept both eyes on him at all times.
"Me?" Yang asked. "Does this have to do with Pyrrha's offer?"
"Not entirely," Duulamor answered. "Not even with her designs for Il-Kaithe, as bold and brash as they are. No, this has to do with a simple question - are the eldar your enemies?"
"My enemies?" Yang asked. "I... no. I don't think so," she said. "I wouldn't be thinking about Pyrrha's offer if I thought that."
"So the choice does interest you," Duulamor said, his smile an uncanny mirror of Yang's own impish grins.
"How could it not?" Yang asked. "I mean, I'm no fan of the Imperium... but it's not like I can just say goodbye to humanity forever."
"Pyrrha Nikos did," Duulamor noted. "She renounced her humanity and lived as an eldar. Mostly," he added with a snigger.
Yang opened her mouth to question that, but decided against it. She would rather speak with Pyrrha about stuff like that.
"Well I'm not her," Yang said eventually, running a thumb over Ember Celica.
"Quite true," Duulamor said. "You are more and yet less - in lieu of proper finesse." He tittered again.
"You still haven't told me what you want," Yang said.
"I'm here to extend an invitation. Not one as dramatic as your friend's, of course! Simply some light entertainment," Duulamor promised.
"That sounds super ominous," Yang said. "Is this the part where you betray us and suck the marrow out of our bones?" She didn't believe it was - or if eldar even did that - but she did want to know more. Was he telling the truth? What kind of entertainment could the Harlequins offer?
Duulamor cackled. "Why no, no no! It's a simple show! Truly, it is!" He shook his finger at her, an old nanny lecturing an impudent child. "You've been listening to too many Imperial sermons! They'll rot your brain, you know."
Yang knew.
"So why should I go?" She asked. "Today's been a long day. I'm tired."
"Do not lie to me, Yang Xiao Long," Duulamor warned. "I know you are curious."
Dammit.
"You didn't answer my question," Yang said. Keep him on track.
"It will reveal things," Duulamor promised. "Your wandering cannot last forever - at some point, a path must be chosen. Bridges must be burnt, connections severed, murders made, lives saved!
"And some 'light entertainment''s gonna help with that?" Yang asked. As if.
"You would be surprised," Duulamor said.
A/N: This chapter and the next two are the last ones taking place within the Black Library. After that, we'll be moving on. Where to? Well, you'll see.
I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Duulamor's an interesting character, I'll say that much.
Until next time!