Book Three: The Heart of Yang Xiao Long

Chapter 92: Gifts Wreathed in Glory

"Behold, the Hammer of the Saint!" - Laukr, [REDACTED]

After a frigid shower, Yang felt refreshed. Hungry, too. She smiled, tying her towel around herself. As she'd washed herself, she watched her bruises fade away before her eyes. If I lost my arm, would it grow back?

Yang decided she didn't want to know. Power always came at a cost, and she prayed she would never discover the nature of that cost. It had already nearly cost her Amat. Though maybe I'm just being a bit dramatic. Amat would always be her friend, but now that she had a taste of him, it was difficult to imagine going platonic again.

Peeking out of the bathroom, she watched him wrap his exitus rifle in canvas. Each move, each fold was perfect. Practiced, ritualistic. She knew his prayer, though he was utterly silent.

Emperor grant me guidance, he pleaded. Emperor, I am lost and adrift. Emperor, direct me as I would a shell. Send me to strike true. Yang, please stop.

"Hm?" Yang blinked. "Oh. Sorry. Accident."
"I know," Amat sighed, completing his work. He tied the canvas closed with a string, pressed a steaming wax seal to the fold. "Do you hear everyone's prayers?"

"Sun-Yi-Sat in Shao-La wants me to bless his rebuilt house," she said, eyes closed. "Magnus Mikkelsson in Harja Platoon asks for me to guide his lover's spirit to the Emperor's side."

Amat said nothing.

Yang refocused, brought herself back to the barracks. "There are thousands more. It's… strange. They're silent, but I can hear them." A pause. "It sounds like singing. A bit. Now they're gone."

"Ebbs and flows, like the tides of the Warp," Amat said. He looked at her. "The Lady Highest has returned from the Chariot."

"She's okay?" Yang asked. Why is knowing that beyond me, but not prayers from across the Segmentum? A question for later.

Amat nodded. "She requests our presence aboard the Scythe of Morning."

Yang grinned. "Awfully bold of her to make requests of a Saint," she said.

"Yes," Amat replied. "Better put some clothes on."

Padding over to him, she pressed a kiss to one of his studs, watched him shiver from the sensation. He smiled. Their talk had gone better than she'd expected, but it was not the end of the matter. Amat needed to see the woman beneath the Saint. Yang needed to respect his hesitation, his reservations. An idea struck her.

"A quick prayer together while we wait on Chung?" Yang asked. Amat took on a countenance of utter confusion. She giggled. "I interrupted you before," she explained. She didn't feel the need to pester the Emperor again, but she knew Amat would appreciate the opportunity.

"I… uh… hm. Very well."

Yang always found the halls of the Scythe of Morning to be discomforting. There was something domineering about them. I guess that's the point. It's an Inquisition ship after all. The ceilings were too tall, too clean. The walls were too sparse. Given the size of the ship, she expected thousands to flit about it, fill it with life.

But it was just her and Amat.

His shrouded exitus rifle was slung across his back, over his bomber jacket. His pistol hung from his hip, ready at a moment's notice. The only noise he made was the clanking of his leg. She knew it pained him, but the only comfort she could offer him was her hand. He accepted it.

"Don't worry," Yang said. "We'll get you back in that catsuit before long."

"I like the jacket," he reassured her.

"Well yeah, but it can't turn you invisible at the flick of your wrist."

"True." He squeezed her hand. "That reminds me. I have another gift for you."

"Besides the painting?" Yang asked. "You really know how to spoil a woman."

"A garment for a garment," he said, his free hand patting his jacket.

"Oh, you sew too?" Yang asked. "Any other passions I don't know about? Are you a master chef? Do some sculpting on the side? Maybe some acting?"

"Only when I'm bored," Amat said.

"Psh," Yang said, leaning into his shoulder. "You're a smart-ass, Assassin-man."

"Learned from the best," he shot back. "But if you're going to mock me, I guess my gift can wait."

"Not fair!" Yang protested.

"This is a grave of your own making," Amat said, utterly solemn. Yang grinned, nestled into his arm.

The door to Weiss' office stood before them, two obdurate slabs of steel emblazoned with the sigil of the Ordo Hereticus. Two kasrkin stood a rigid guard. Though they wore their grimm-masks, Yang knew Darron and Chera when she saw them.

Yang and Amat's brief lapse into the banter of old faded away. Business time. Releasing her hold on Amat, she swaggered up to the kasrkin.

"Heya."

"I refuse to call you 'Your Holiness'," Chera said.

"Chera!" Darron hissed, as quietly as he could. "We talked about this."

"Hmph."

"Nah," Yang said, throwing her hands up. "It's all good. We saw some funky shit together. It'd be weird, wouldn't it Lieutenant?"

Chera Marius sighed, yet her practiced posture never wavered. "Perhaps," she allowed. "Have you been dreaming of that… play?"

"Yes," Yang said. "Some of the creepiest shit I've seen in awhile."

"I would rather not return," Amat concurred. Yang liked hearing him chime in.

"Look," Yang said, turning to Chera. "I'm sorry I threw everything out of wack. You guys deserved the truth from the start, but… hell. Knowing who to trust in the Imperium isn't easy." She extended her hand. "You two… you and your kin kept my friend safe for twenty years, and we both treated you like dirt. I'm sorry. For both of us."

Chera shook it reluctantly. "I still don't have to like you," she said.

"Fair. Just say your prayers, huh?" Yang asked, throwing her a wink. She got an annoyed chuff in response.

Darron opened the door for them, admitting them inside. A few seconds after it closed behind them, Yang heard a half-laugh escape Amat.
"What is it?" She asked.

"Darron said 'you know you just got an apology from a Living Saint?'. Chera replied with 'Crazier shit has happened in the past month'."

Yang chuckled too. "I like them. Nice ears, by the way."

A shrug of his wonderfully broad shoulders. "Another talent of mine."

"Mind using those many talents to deduce what the fuck is going on here?" Yang asked, gesturing at Weiss' office. Servo-skulls flitted about the place like hornets after their hive had been kicked into a methamphetamine manufactorum, and veritable towers of books had been piled precariously atop the Inquisitor's desk. A holographic display of the Imperium spun lazily in its place, the icons upon it flickering erratically.

"Weiss?" Yang called, peering around the many bookshelves and relic-cases.

"Yang!" Came the reply. Weiss emerged from her armory, looking even worse than when she'd landed on White Horses. Her hair was frayed, and dark circles hung under rheumy, exhausted eyes. Bits of red-stained tissue paper hung from her nostrils, and she clenched a cup of steaming recaf between her hands as if it would warm her entire body.

"Emperor, Weiss," Yang said. "What happened down there?"

"I…" Her eyes sank. "It's a lot. I'll let… the Chariot explain."

"The what?" Amat asked, a single note of surprise in his voice betraying his total, utter shock.

A tech-priest emerged from behind a bookshelf. A pretty one with vibrant orange hair and an angular, freckled face. But Yang had learned her lesson with Magos Prexius, so she kept her mouth shut. Until she looked closer.

"Penny?" Yang whispered.

"Not quite," the tech-priest said. "Greetings, Yang. I am Japheth-Series-Zero-One-Omega. In the breadth of my existence, I have taken the name Ohma."

"Ohma?" Yang asked. "You're… the Chariot?"

"Yes," Ohma said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "This body is merely an interface I have built for myself. I am not Penny. But I am not discounting the possibility that she played a hand in my creation. It would explain this," she said, pulling at her face. "It is good to meet you."

"Nice… to meet you," Yang said, extending a hand. Ohma shook it awkwardly, grasping her fingers and yanking the limb up and down.

"Yes," she said. "Weiss has… told me so much about you."

"All bad, I hope," Yang said, a terrible joke. Ohma still smiled. It looked like Maion's smile.

"Far from it," Ohma said. "You are a Living Saint, no? Despite your origins, you have been chosen. A sliver of the Emperor himself."

"I… yes," Yang said. "I'm sorry Ohma, this is just… Golden Throne, this is weird," she said.

"The source of your power," Ohma said. "Interesting that you use it as an exclamation."

"Still getting used to this Saint thing," Yang breathed. She spoke out of reflex, out of a need to fill the space in one of the strangest conversations she'd ever had. Well, in the past week at least.

"We are much more alike than you think," Ohma said. "Though your power quite eclipses my own at the moment. The colors in your voice are so very different than Weiss'. Than Amat's," she said, taking in the whole of the assassin with her lime-green eyes.

Amat shifted his weight, averted his gaze. Ohma grinned before shooting Yang a reassuring half-smile.

"Deep breath, beati," Ohma said. "I have no interest in him. At least not in that capacity," she added with a titter that sounded like broken glass.

"We're still working on... human interaction," Weiss said, taking a sip of her recaf, now cooled to drinkable temperatures.

"Weiss' guard is slipping," Ohma noted. "A joke is uncommon for her."

"Yeah," Yang said, unable to tear her eyes from the Chariot. From the woman. This galaxy can't stop one-upping itself.

"Even for a Saint, there are many mysteries to unravel," Ohma said. "Noted."

"Ohma will be departing soon," Weiss explained. "She will accompany Magos Tyrham and the rest of Uriel's forces in pilgrimage to Mars."

"Yes," Ohma said. "My existence is a troublesome factor for the Mechanicus. I must work hard to secure my continued operational success. There is much to be done."

Weiss took another sip. "Ohma is... it's difficult to explain what she is. But she understands us. We can trust her."

"I'm glad to hear that," Yang said. "Welcome to Team 'Fix-The-Imperium'," she added. "We've got a long ways to go, and we're way behind schedule."

"Yes," Ohma said again. "An understatement. A joke. Amusing." Her head cocked. "Magos Tyrham approaches. The true purpose of this meeting is at hand."

True purpose?

Darron and Chera swung the doors open once more, revealing a small host of tech-priests. Towering above them stood Magos Tyrham, his cobalt blue eyes meeting Yang's. His hood dipped slightly. She returned the nod.

Magos Prexius slithered out from behind him, her hundreds of legs tip-rap-tapping against the metal floor, a constant, horrid drone. Her face was different, but Yang couldn't place how.

Yang didn't like that.

The procession carried three tall canisters with them, veiled in opaque cog-patterned gossamer, born on the backs of a dozen skitarii. Droning in binary cant, the leading tech-priest bathed everything in heady clouds of incense, his censer swinging in perfect metronomy.

"All hail!" Tyrham bellowed, the sound of his metallic voice thrumming within the office. "All hail the Living Saint Yang Xiao Long! Avatar of the Omnissiah!"

"All hail!" The procession echoed, a chorus in perfect, uncanny harmony.

Yang gave them the sign of the cog, which they echoed as well, heads bowed

"What is all this?" She asked, turning to Weiss. Weiss smiled, but her expression did not last - Magos Prexius neared, needle-fingers drumming against each other endlessly.

"We meet once more, Your Holiness," Prexius purred. "Though your divinity came as a shock to many others, I noticed very quickly that your immaculate flesh was clearly touched by the Omnissiah."

"T-thanks?" Yang asked, her fingers digging into Amat's arm.

"And the assassin," Prexius said, sidling up next to Amat. "I believe we have an… appointment. No?"

Amat swallowed. "Regarding my leg?" He asked.

Magos Prexius giggled, the laugh of a decrepit schoolgirl as she was fed face-first into a wood chipper. "What else, child?" She asked. "Come along now, it is a grave sin to see you wearing such a crude contraption."

Amat looked at Yang. For a moment, it seemed as if he was seriously considering living with an aug for the rest of his life.

Be brave, Yang reassured him, squeezing his arm once more. He nodded, resigned.
"Lead the way, honored Magos," he said, the words leaking out his lips.

"Excellent!" Prexius exclaimed, clapping her 'hands' together. "Let us be off then." She spun around, the trunk of her abhorrent body curling on itself, unfurling, skittering, always skittering. Amat followed, with a final look at Yang. She watched him go.

"I do not like her," Ohma said, as if she was speaking to herself. Yang couldn't shake the feeling that those words were meant for her. Did anyone else hear that? Did I imagine it? Ohma's innocuous smile revealed nothing as Magos Tyrham stepped forward.

"The fruits of our Concordance," Tyrham said to Weiss, his long arm gesturing towards the canisters. "The confluence of stunning foresight and masterful engineering. Praise the Omnissiah."

"Praise the Omnissiah," his followers droned.

"Allow me to bestow the gifts," Weiss said, placing her recaf atop the stack of teetering tomes. She gave the Magos a swift bow. "Your work is treasured, but this is a personal matter."

"As is your right," Magos Tyrham said. At a silent signal, his followers placed the canisters on the floor. They made an about face and marched out of the office as one, legs pumping in perfect synchronicity, voices burbling an unintelligible hymn. Magos Tyrham followed, ducking so that his head did not collide with the doorframe.

The great doors slammed shut once more.

"Weiss?" Yang asked. "What the fuck was that?"

A weak smile. Ohma inspected Weiss' cup of recaf, prodded at the liquid, watched it drip off her finger. Weiss watched but said nothing. Limping forwards, she gestured Yang onwards.

Weiss opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't find the right words. She sighed instead. A long, laborious sound.

"Before you were a Saint in truth," she started, "I concocted a scheme to make you a false one."

"Weiss…" Yang said. This was all too much. And far too fast.

"My failings are clear to me now," Weiss said, hand on the first canister. She parsed the gossamer between her fingers. "I had Colonel von Longinus put Gamma on the gatehouse so you would be at the forefront. I waited to storm Hill Thirty Seven on Uriel until you were right beside me. So many things," she said, a shudder racking her frame. It was thinner than Yang remembered.

"Hey," Yang said, landing a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. It's okay."

"It's not," Weiss said. Her eyes were red, but no tears came - she was too exhausted. "So many lies. You're my friend, Yang. I-I wronged you. Deeply."

"Come on," Yang chuffed, a weak attempt at lightening the mood. "You're not just apologizing me 'cause I'm a real Saint now, are ya?"

"Yang," Weiss said, smiling despite herself.

"Weiss," Yang replied. "You only wanted to help. In a way that was kinda shitty, but we got here anyway, huh?" She asked, elbowing the Inquisitor. "Plus, you had Amat watching over me. That was a good call."

"It was," Weiss admitted. "Though not for the reasons I envisioned." A sigh.

Yang leaned in, lowered her voice. "Should we really be having this conversation in front of…" She paused, looking at Ohma over her shoulder. "You know."

"She already knows everything Yang," Weiss said.

"Not everything in truth," Ohma interjected, her attentions focused elsewhere.

"She does that," Weiss said. "Fitting that the only person I can't keep secrets from is an STC."

"Yeah," Yang said, throat dry. "You think she could be Penny? Penny's weird robo-daughter?"

"It doesn't matter," Weiss said, knuckles rapping against the canister. "Remnant doesn't matter anymore. There's only the here and now. The Imperium, and its future."
"Is it… bad that hearing that doesn't bother me?" Yang asked.

"You're not from Remnant anymore," Weiss said. "You're a reflection of the Emperor. Your soul is as the Imperium's." Another sigh. "We're getting off track. After everything went wrong on Uriel, I still doggedly pursued my designs for you."

"Weiss, what did you do?"

A wry grin. A tired one, but a grin all the same.

"I got you some cool stuff."

Turning a gear, Weiss opened the first canister. Seven servo-skulls sat within, lavishly engraved with holy script, gold filigree, and reinforced plating. Three of their mouths were fixed around laspistols. Two were flanked with heavy vox speakers, antenna sprouting from opposing lobes. One bore a massive scroll, a slim, coiled mechadendrite clenching a red-feathered quill.

The final skull bore a steel halo of its own, its left side engulfed by a massive red eye piece.

"Jorvis," Yang breathed. Weiss nodded.

Yang took the skull, held it between her hands, inspected every detail. It was undoubtedly the skull of Veteran Sergeant Jorvis. The eyepiece was unmistakable, the jawline just as square as it had been in life. Months ago, this head had screamed orders at her. Forged a bunch of slack-jawed agri-worlders into something worth a damn.

Weiss was right - Yang wasn't from Remnant anymore. If she was, the sight of an old comrades' skull turned into a trophy would have sickened her. Now… she knew it to be a treasured reminder of the man, an honor bestowed upon a man for a lifetime of peerless service. Even in death, he would have her back.

"What does he... do?" Yang asked. Weiss' grin widened.

The jaw of the late Jorvis opened, revealing a stock of finely rolled cigars. Yang burst out laughing. She laughed until it hurt, until she cried. Emperor, she missed that crotchety old bastard. Yang cradled the servo-skull to her chest, sniffling softly.

"Weiss, I don't know what to say," she managed. "I think he would have loved this."

"Maybe more if you hold him even closer," Weiss said, as if to herself.

"Weiss," Yang said, chuckling. "What's up with you today?"

"Been a long day," Weiss said. Her thumb traced the eye socket of one of the skulls. "Longest of my life." Stopping herself, she returned her gaze to Yang. "Ready for door number two?"

"Are you so tired you're getting slap-happy?" Yang asked.

"I am an Inquisitor," Weiss said, neither a confirmation nor a denial.

Yang looked over to Ohma, who was watching them intently. There was something in her eyes Yang couldn't place. She looked like Penny, but only in the same way that Maion resembled Pyrrha. There was something... else there.

Something beautiful. Something distant and alien.

"The second item was not originally a part of our concordance," Weiss explained. "Though it has been swiftly cleansed and refurbished with Ohma's assistance."

Ohma turned her hand in a rough approximation of a wave.

"And generously donated by the Sisters of the Order of the Sacred Rose," Weiss continued. "At the effusive insistence of the Palatine of the Holy Mission Thanatos, Sister Katarina von Schlosshöfen."

"No fuckin' way," Yang breathed, realizing.

"Way," Weiss said simply, turning another cog. The canister's doors hissed open, this time spilling out clouds of dry ice. Yang knew what was coming, but her jaw dropped anyway.

Before her hung Palatine Naja's power armor, scrubbed clean of every impurity acquired on White Horses and repainted in pure, unrelenting black. A white sash embroidered with golden thread hung over the chest. The symbols perfectly matched the glyphs on Yang's shoulder.

The armor shone as new, each interlocked ceramite plate redefined and given new life. The pauldrons were sharp and elegant, embossed with golden aquila wings, while every edge had been trimmed in gold.

"Emperor," Yang hissed.

"You're drooling, Yang," Weiss said, smirking. "A significant upgrade from your flak armor, no? At least this suit will better accommodate your generous bust," she added, noting the feminine cuirass capped by fleur-de-lis.

"Weiss, shut the fuck up," Yang said, carefully inspecting the armor. "You're lying. This is a joke. The sisters just gave this to me?"

Weiss' smile shrivelled and died. "You are a Saint, Yang. Entire planets would set themselves ablaze to defend your name. Millions would march under your banner, and millions more will martyr themselves, their last thoughts of you and you alone. As long as the Imperial Faith persists, you will exist in perpetuity, a facet of the Emperor Himself." Weiss' glacier-melt eyes had shed their exhaustion, fatigue replaced with white flame. "Speak," she said, "and worlds tremble."

Yang blinked. "I… uh… guess I have been a bit flippant about it, haven't I?"

"The Emperor works in mysterious ways," Weiss said. "Today has proved that as never before."

"Clearly," Yang said, once more looking at the armor. Her armor. "I… I want to be worthy of that. I don't want to waste the prayers of my faithful."

"This armor will help," Weiss said. "Everything you touch is a relic, a sacred expression of your divinity. The sisters were honored when I asked. Ohma was… pleased to help restore it. I think. She's difficult to read."

"Thanks, Ohma," Yang said. Ohma was nowhere to be seen. "Hm."

"And though this power armor is quite something," Weiss continued. "It pales compared to what's next."

"You're hanging noodles on my ears," Yang said, a Vostroyan expression she didn't know she knew. "What's better than my own suit of power armor?"

Weiss showed her.

The third canister opened, Ember Celica standing triumphantly before her.

But… not Ember Celica. A reflection of it, writ large in the language of the Imperium - powerfists. The gauntlets were massive, easily dwarfing the pair around her wrists, yet still slimmer than most of their kind. Wrought from black-and-gold adamantine, the upper plates were large enough to reach her biceps and decorated with spiralling, stylized engravings. Thorns. Flowers. Snowflakes. At the gauntlet's apex, above them all, a flaming heart simmered. Yang reached out for the weapon, caressed it. At her touch, the weapon hummed with recognition. Carefully turning a gauntlet over, Yang's eyes went wide. Wider.

The shotgun barrels were now belt-fed heavy bolter cannons.

"Guh."

"Force Fists," Weiss explained. "And the project that has consumed months of Magos Tyrham's time. It is his work, and his work alone. His masterpiece, the culmination of centuries spent as an artificer."

"I..." Yang tried. Gothic was hard. "I… uh…" She wanted to thank Weiss, but she couldn't make words yet. Words didn't seem adequate enough, so she wrapped the Inquisitor in a suffocating embrace. It was like squeezing a bundle of toothpicks.

Weiss accepted it, sinking herself into the hug, clung to Yang as if she was the only hold atop a yawning chasm. "It was the least I can do," she whispered. Her fingers dug into Yang's back, as solid as iron yet shaking and tremulous. "Your Holiness."

"Shhh," Yang whispered, wiping away the tear that ran down the Inquisitor's face. She pressed a gentle kiss to her friend's forehead. "Thank you. I love it."

Weiss sniffled. Yang beamed at the sound, clapped her friend's back.

"Come on," the Saint said. "There's a big girl."

"Yang," Weiss said, freeing herself from her friend's clutches. "Sometimes I just can't figure you out."

"Guess nothing's really changed since Remnant, huh?" Yang asked.

"Psh," Weiss said, wearing a wobbly grin. "So… yeah. Ember Celica two-point-oh. I figured you'd like it."

"I do," Yang said, though the name was… Hm. Off.

"What's wrong?" Weiss asked.

"Nothing really," Yang answered. "It's just the name." Despite the beauty laid out before her, the name didn't fit. Wasn't right. It was inadequate, a continuation rather than an evolution. Yang looked to Weiss. "Ember-In-Glory."

"Ember-In-Glory," Weiss said, turning the name over on her tongue. "I like it. There is something you should know, though."

"What's that?"

"See those indentations near the wrist?" Weiss said, pointing. "They're meant to be worn over Ember Celica. I didn't know how you would feel about exchanging Ember Celica for something else, so I requested this as a feature - 'Ember-In-Glory' will not activate unless Ember Celica is fitted within it. And yes, both will fit around your new power armor."

"You really thought of everything, didn't you?" Yang asked.

"Part of my job," Weiss said, an attempt at a joke. Yang chuckled anyways.

"I'll have to give Tyrham a big hug too. Can't believe he managed this so quickly."

"He labored day and night," Weiss said. "He only just finished when we returned from the Chariot."

"Damn," Yang breathed. "So… what now? Terra?"

"I-" Weiss' words stopped. The tissue in her nostrils turned wet once more. Yang's glyphs flared, and they looked to one another. "Yang?" Weiss asked.

"Something's wrong," Yang said, their moment of cheer flushed away. "I… I can't place it."

"An incoming missive," Ohma said, reappearing from behind a bookshelf. In her hands, she held a single tome - Weiss' copy of On the Machinations of War. The Chariot's expression was…

Decipherable. Clear.

Uncertainty.

"Cadia weeps," Ohma said.

A/N: Shit's goin' down.

As I've said before, I won't be covering Gathering Storm in this fic - it won't even be considered canon for the purposes of AWoBE - but I might be lifting elements from it as I see fit.

Interpret that as you will. ;)

Next chapter, It's Time to Say Goodbye.