Book Three: The Heart of Yang Xiao Long
Chapter 90: A Place Called Home
"Woadia isn't that special. Sarge said it the best - just some podunk agriworld. Wasn't a massive one. Funny that we bled for it." - Caolin Roriksson
Silent. Peaceful.
Like his life before Yang.
Amat held her gently, as softly as he dared. The Living Saint Yang Xiao Long, now fast asleep in his arms. He knew what had transpired on White Horses. How could he not? Her glory was deafening, a birth-bellow that echoed defiantly across the warp, echoed in vivid color across his canvas.
Now everything was complicated again. Like it wasn't before.
She wasn't snoring.
Unusual. Troubling.
Normally, she slept as loudly as she lived, a constant grinding roar that was as comforting as it was annoying. Amat sighed and carried Yang to the bed. The pair of mattresses they'd pushed together.
Their bed.
I shared a bed with a Saint. Emperor protect me.
He laid her down, checked her vitals. She made a noise of complaint, but was otherwise well. Just battered, bruised, and spent after her ascension. Exhausted as she'd never been before. Her soul ebbed and simmered, a golden glow that colored his witchsight.
Selfishly, Amat pondered his fate for what felt like the millionth time since the Black Library. Everything served to remind him that he was no longer whole. His missing leg. His psykery. His aura, a constant comforting ache that told him he was no longer Vindicare.
What was to become of him?
What am I to make of my life? Yang and Weiss had stolen him from his service, from the Holiest Temple. Then Yang had the gall to kiss him, to find comfort and solace in a shell of a person.
Amat sighed, combing a lock of filthy golden hair behind Yang's ear. "I guess we'll have to have a talk when you wake up." He didn't want to call her by her proper title. Made everything too real.
Your Holiness.
An avatar of the Emperor Himself, a scion of unwavering faith and conviction. Yang. Hours earlier, she had swaggered out of his barracks, a lustful promise on her lips. Amat looked to his easel.
On the canvas, Yang stood triumphant over Josephus' broken body, the Emperor's glory radiating from her, a choir of angels heralding her arrival on the galactic stage. He hadn't realized what he was painting until it was too late.
His head hurt. He had nightmares now, and thoughts he shouldn't. Would everything had been better if he'd been chosen for another mission? Was a mind truly worth everything?
"Endless fucking questions," he breathed. He liked cursing, though he didn't know why. There were still parts of him missing. Yang was no help, curling up like she always did when she finally surrendered to sleep. Yang the Living Saint.
Regardless of the future, Amat knew he had a duty to fulfill. A small one. But it would let him think, let him ponder, meditate. Emperor knew he needed to.
Making his way to the bathroom, he filled a tub with hot water and a few drops of Munitorum shampoo. Swiftly reconsidering, he emptied the entire bottle into the tub, squeezing it dry. He noticed he was crushing it. Ah. Tossing it aside, he made his way back to Yang. She slept so soundly, Amat imagined he could have blasted his music without fear of waking her.
Carefully gathering a tangled, matted mass of hair, he filled the tub with it, let the water soak into it, scour it of impurities. Retrieving a thick-toothed comb, he ran it through her hair, a struggle that left him sweating.
Soaking his hands with suds, he brought his fingers to her scalp, massaging it with curious, unknowing fingers. He had no idea what he was doing. Yang made a pleased noise anyway, a low and gentle hum that filled the barracks. The kind she made when he draped his arm over her while she snored, when she pressed her back to him in her sleep.
Amat made to rinse her scalp, but noticed the water was nearly black. Congealed. He carried the tub back to the bathroom, emptied it into a toilet. While the tub was filling in the sink, he looked at his reflection in the mirror.
This is beneath you. His teeth ground against each other, and he shook the thought away - it wasn't his, after all.
Whatever Yang was now, whatever the two of them were, she deserved this much. Not like she'd allow anyone else to do it, after all. And there was no telling how long she'd be out of commission. Uncharted territory after all.
Unfamiliar. Confusing.
Returning to his work, he rinsed her hair out, ran the comb through it again. It was easier this time. He teased out the knots, the lingering globs of clotted gore. He hummed a song he didn't know.
Yang let him continue. She smiled in her sleep, the sight just as beautiful as the first time he'd seen her impish grin. Back then, he thought her incorruptible, pure. Now he knew better. Or at least, he'd thought he did.
She was holy. Yet she'd almost fallen. She was an avatar of the Throne. Yet she came to him seeking comfort. Familiarity. These were not things Saints were known for, but Saints were rarely concrete figures. Despite her gentle yet total repose, Amat could still feel the power radiating from her, from the locks of hair that sifted through his fingers. What a bizarre fate.
He finished his work. Rinsed out the last of the shampoo. Carefully, he wrapped her hair in a towel, tied the cloth into a turban like he'd seen her do when she emerged from the shower. It wasn't a very good turban. But it'd help. Memories of her returning from the showers played in his mind.
Languidly, insistently.
Amat recalled the sensation of her body pressed against his while she slept, the way she looked at him, her eyes half-lidded, pupils swollen and all-enthralling. He willed the thoughts away, but they returned.
They wouldn't go away.
He sat on the barracks floor, his back against the cold metal frame of their bed. Nothing would be decided until they spoke, but Amat couldn't stop torturing himself with what the future could hold.
"I feel sick," he told her. But Yang didn't respond. The Living Saint slept on, oblivious. Her hair free of impurities.
Il-Kaithe was quiet, welcoming its war-party back with a silence that sounded like contempt. It was in the middle of the night-cycle, and the mustering fields were silent. No lamenters greeted them, for no one was lost. No revelers celebrated their return, for their failure sat heavy and plain upon their shoulders.
Maion scratched at her arm. Damnable, persistent itch. She could still feel the daemonic claws that had rent her, the pain as red and raw as when they'd first violated her aura. Her ribs stood out from the sagging, scarred flesh of her torso, every ounce of muscle and flesh drained from her body.
"Caelus," Pyrrha said, tugging feebly at her husband's sleeve. "Is… is it still beautiful?"
"It has not changed," he answered her softly.
"It is so very quiet," Pyrrha said.
"It is the night cycle, mother," Garnet answered.
"Oh."
No one spoke about the mission. No one looked at Maion. Asillar limped beside her, blood-spotted bandages tied tight across his back. His fellow Swooping Hawks carried their exarch on a stretcher, their steps smooth and even to prevent Lossamdir's further injury. The damage wrought upon them was more grievous than previously thought.
Even the return of the Soul-Wielder could not awaken Il-Kaithe. With much of the craftworld mobilized for war, there was an emptiness that stretched across the entire ship, a quiet longing for those who had left to do battle against chaos. The Infinity Circuit echoed this lament, its humming still and subdued.
Pyrrha reached out for its nearest node, memory guiding her. As always, it rejected her, the blue crystal pillar remaining cool and dull like the skin of a corpse. For a moment.
Mom! It pulsed. A momentary glimmering, a drop of water amidst an ocean.
"Rhona," Pyrrha whispered, her withered, translucent hand glowing bright as she pressed it to the node. "I have missed you so much."
"Hey sweetie," Caelus said, joining his wife.
"Sis," Garnet said, his knuckles tapping the crystal.
Worry, concern, doubt, elation? The feelings - instinctual, deeply felt, pervasive - flitted from Rhona's soul, touching every member of the war-party. Mother. Unwell. Maion's aunt no longer had a body, so her nausea was felt by Maion instead.
Maion!
"Hey auntie," Maion said, touching her forehead to the node, attempting to smile. It would not fool Rhona, but she had to try. "We popped by the Black Library. Had a run-in with Ahriman."
You WHAT?
"We made it out," Maion tried.
No. You are hurt. More deeply than you realize.
"Obsidian certainly is," Garnet concurred. "We… we will survive."
Worry, worry, worry. Concern - problem at the Compound. The walls I sung into being ring with confusion.
"We shall be there shortly," Maion reassured her aunt. "Garnet will let you know what is happening." The Infinity Circuit did not suffuse the Tou'Her compound as thoroughly as the rest of Il-Kaithe. A condition of its construction.
Good, Rhona thought, mollified. Talk later? I have missed you all.
"Yes. Of course," Pyrrha said. "We have much to discuss."
Until then! With that, the node fizzled, Rhona's consciousness fading away into a black pool of quiet billions.
"We should hurry," Garnet said.
"Yes," Maion said, scratching at her arm once more.
"We need to speak to the autarchs," Pyrrha said, blinking back tears. "Though I dearly wish to see my home again, our discoveries need to be reported immediately."
"Thank you all," Caelus said, nodding at the war-party. A few blinks in acknowledgement were his only answer. With his words, the mission was over - they were dismissed. It was done. Warriors departed to their aspect shrines, carrying the wounded and nursing their pride. Maion would join them shortly, shamefully limping back to the the Shadowed Sword after the matter at the Compound had been resolved. Nelliphar's upcoming condemnations sat heavy in her shriveled stomach.
"Maion," Asillar said, stopping for a moment.
"Asillar," she replied. "Expecting a tearful thank you?"
A grin. "It would not go unheeded." His crimson eyes were filled with something Maion couldn't place. It looked like worry, but she couldn't be sure. She was much too tired. Her arm itched. Is he laughing at me? Why do I hear laughter in that smile? She shook the sensation away - his tone was light.
She bowed. A painful, awkward endeavor. "My unending thanks," she managed, sweeping her good arm out. "My unworthy hybrid life was prolonged by your auspicious bravery. Where would we be, we crusaders against chaos, without the warriors of the Plummeting Strike?"
"Please stop hurting yourself in an attempt to mock me," Asillar said, still smiling. "It is unbecoming of a warrior of your caliber."
"A genuine compliment?" Maion asked, righting herself. Also painful. "You are too kind." She took a deep, rattling breath. "Allow me… to offer you an apology. I am not the comedic equal of your grandmother. That was in poor taste." Her eyes searched the floor. "I do appreciate you snatching me from my fall. I crowed and crooned about my duty, but…" The words were difficult to say, and they tasted like a chunk of salt in her mouth. "I did not truly want to die apart from the Circuit."
"And I must thank you as well. C-" Asillar caught himself. "Duulamor prodded me into a state I would rather not relive. Now that I see Il-Kaithe before me, I realize I missed it greatly. Though the majesty of the Black Library is unequaled, I am glad I did not don a mask to spend eternity within its halls." He looked over his shoulder at his departing comrades. "I should be off."
"Be well, Asillar," Maion said.
"Blessings of Khaine upon you," he replied. Maion watched him go. His gait was awkward and hobbled. Another wound that is entirely my fault.
Sighing, Maion returned her attention to her grandparents, who were quietly discussing something with Garnet. To run immediately to the autarchs when something agitated the Tou'Her compound spoke volumes about their discoveries. Their conviction. And the rapidly-burning cord that was her Grandmother's life. She scratched at her arm, but found no relief.
"Garnet, she said. "The Compound."
He blinked, and she realized that his eyes were once more their natural black - the colors he'd adopted to mimic his idol had faded away. "Right," he said. He shared a spate of words with his parents, then enveloped them both in an embrace. When he once more turned to Maion, she saw the flurry of emotions that warred across his features. Too open. Too open by half. Am I imagining them?
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Let us go," he said, his pace quickening. His wounds were far less severe than Maion's, and she found herself struggling to keep stride with him. Before long, she was panting and breathless. Pathetic.
The city of Dolone glittered in the light of the false moons, as majestic as ever. Its spires reached for the ceiling, tall and domineering. No fliers flitted between them, and the streets were bare. Lilting music spilled out from the concert halls, humming through the air, the sound lonely and mournful.
Maion longed for solitude and quiet. For the ringing of arms, and the shouts of sparring partners. The medics aboard the Void-Whisper had insisted she would only be convalescing for a few dozen cycles, yet the thought of weathering half of such a respite boiled violently within her.
"Maion," Garnet warned her. "Please, still yourself. I understand your frustration."
Maion kept quiet but for her wheezing. Garnet's normal cheer had evaporated as he had watched his mother deteriorate, and it was doubtful he could say anything that would rouse Maion from her red torpor.
"You did what you thought was best," Garnet said.
"I care not for your opinion on the matter," Maion managed through clenched teeth. Her good mood that had bubbled to the surface after her conversation with Asillar had plummeted upon seeing Dolone. Once she'd heard that awful, maudlin singing. "If the autarchs protest," she continued, "they can send a task force to White Horses to deal with the problem. Weiss and Yang will cut through them like a hot blade through dry grass. More souls disconnected from the Circuit, more lives pissed into the void."
"Khaine's balls, Maion," Garnet hissed, "what has gotten into you?"
"You are the warlock," Maion countered, "are you blind to it?" She asked, gesturing towards the Tou'Her compound, its distant wraithbone walls quiet and dark in the peak of the night-cycle. "Something's wrong. Not only did we fail our mission, but our clan suffers immeasurably in our absence. It would have been preferable if I had stayed a sculptor."
A sound reached her, piercing her spittle-flaked tirade. Weeping. A child's tears, spilled carelessly into the nighttime air, dried on the artificial breeze that rustled the trees and grassy hills.
Garnet broke into a run, chasing after the sound.
"Garnet!" Maion cried. She couldn't move any faster without doubling over and vomiting blood.
"It's Cellacar!" Garnet called.
Oh, hells. Cellacar had always been a bright and cheerful boy, his shock of blond hair and enthusiasm bringing joy to the Tou'Her compound. She cursed her earlier spitefulness, her ignorance, her stupidity, her bloodthirst, her shortsightedness-
She shook her head, willing the thoughts in her head to go away, go away, GO AWAY. Something was terribly wrong. The wind whistled once more, and she shivered despite the tightly-controlled temperature.
Cellacar was already bundled within Garnet's arms, his head buried into his uncle's chest.
"Shhhhh," Garnet cooed, stroking the boy's hair. "What troubles you so, young one? Why have you left the compound at this hour?"
The young Tou'Her could not summon an answer yet, so consumed he was in his crying. Instead, he fled his uncle's arms, flitting over to embrace Maion's legs.
"Auntie," he warbled, throat working.
"Cellacar, still yourself," Maion said gently. "These tears are unbecoming of a promising warrior," she said, her best attempt at cheering him. Stupid, ignorant, pointless.
"I missed you two," Cellacar blubbered.
"We've been gone much longer before," Garnet said, joining them. Maion's hand alighted on her nephew's back, too stiff by half. She recoiled, her arm itching fiercely.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"It's… it's Bregediel, Uncle Dust's wife," Cellacar managed. "She… she was giving birth today, in the infirmary. And… and the noises!" He continued weeping, shuddering, shaking.
Maion and Garnet locked eyes.
Until today, Cellacar was the youngest Tou'Her. Garnet reasoned. He has never witnessed birth before. It is likely the trauma unsettled him deeply.
He has seen far worse, Maion countered. Juros, his own father - my brother, my flesh and blood… you saw the state he was in when the medics first carried him to the compound. And the boy was as steely-faced as ever!
Garnet blinked. Your thoughts are… sharp. Are you unwell?
Maion inhaled sharply, a biting report prepared, but left unsaid. I need to rest, she admitted. I am indeed unwell.
"The noises?" Garnet tried.
"The screaming!" Cellacar replied, as if that explained anything. "Everyone clutched their ears, and I could hear it, I could hear it watching!"
A gaping pit opened in Maion's stomach. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. The human curse rattled in her brain while her arm itched angrily. She scratched at it. No child should talk like that.
Maion stumbled onwards, onto the Tou'Her compound, legs aflame with agony. She reached the doors and hurled them open, the effort nearly snapping her in half like a useless, pathetic twig. Pain erupted down her flank, a daemonic spear twisting her organs into a pulpy mash.
A collection of Tou'Her filled the central courtyard, hissed whispers flicking between them, each sharing tentative glances at the eastern wing. At Mirdodir as he tried to corrale them. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles. they looked to Maion with shock, with horror once they saw the wounds she wore. She ignored them, clutching her side as she stumbled past them.
"The child," Maion spat at her brother. Mirodir pointed towards the eastern wing. His face was long, his frown etched into his face as if it were stone.
Maion limped onwards, a coughing fit seizing her. Bright blood spattered her hand as she tried to stem the noise.
"Maion," Mirodir tried.
She waved him away. The door to the eastern wing fell open, and she stomped towards the infirmary.
Within it lay Bregediel, frightfully pale, night-black hair matted with sweat and crystallized blood. She swaddled her newborn, the youngest of the Tou'Her, the first of the fourth generation.
The child was pure eldar, a living, breathing mockery of the Tou'Her, of Maion's hopes for her race. The child slept soundly, despite the laughter that suffused the compound. Deep, gleeful, joyous laughter, a music that was like sickly-sweet like corpse rot. Just as pungent. Just as fucking pervasive.
She hunched over, hands clasped around her ears.
"Maion!" Bregediel hissed, eyes wide, unknowing, ignorant! So fucking ignorant!
"Can't you hear it?" Maion screamed. "Are you deaf?!"
Louder now, a laugh that sucked down her anguish like it was summervine. Majestic and terrible, magnanimous and bloated, a beautiful, horrid laugh that split her head in two. It was so loud it shook the walls, melted them down around her until they ran through her fingers.
Why won't it stop?
A realization.
It's me it's me it's me it's me it's coming from me
The itch in her arm consumed her now, ate at her flesh like a billion chittering bugs. She she tore into it with her nails, scoring great, meaty channels into her flesh, crimson rivers that spewed rancid blood into the infirmary. She never heard Mirodir burst into the room. She never heard his cries of alarm.
She never felt him tackle her. She never felt the twins pin her arms to the floor, nor Garnet's hands affixing her ankles to the blood-slicked tile. She never felt the sedative they jammed in her neck.
She only felt the itching.
A/N: *Screen Rant Voice* Whoops!
Whoopsie!
In all seriousness, I have to give a huge shout-out to Spacebattler MrDarth151 who helped me tremendously with this chapter and the next. Can't thank him enough, as I was really struggling over them. Finally think I'm at a place I'm happy with - all thanks to him. I'm am also aware that this one was a little short (and very few of you were looking forward to the return of the Tou'Her).
However, next chapter is nearly twice as long, and has some juicy Yang/Amat bits as well as the return of everyone's favorite creepy, fully-sentient abominable intelligence - Ohma!
See you then!