Chapter 53: Mindscape
My Guardian is alive. My Guardian is drinking from a glass of red wine. My Guardian is laughing. He isn't dead. Not anymore. In no small part due to the elves. I owe them so much, these creatures, these neohumans, these natives, these...
They're just so strange! In general, but individually too. My Guardian thinks so. I think so. They're... far removed from everything we've known before. Which is saying something! It was easy to draw similarities between them and the Awoken just on initial reaction, but there's a marked difference between the two. One's blue, the other's got pointy ears. That's my take anyways. My Guardian's got a whole lot more to say, though.
Awoken are practically frozen. That's what he said. They're static - either from the get go, or until they get into the prime of their life. They've got the spark of gods in them and it doesn't appreciate the whole dying thing.
Elves, though, are more natural - according to him that is. And that's what makes them weird. Their natural affinity for magic stems not from Light and Dark, but dragon-magic and Harmony-song. Their bodies undergo continuous cellular rejuvenation to battle the rigours of aging. Elves have a startling level of control over their own biology due to this magic and it's something anyone - anyone at all! - with the right paracausal potential can harness if they learn the language by which these people cast their spells. But the elves are the guys who pioneered it, don't mistake me there.
This means my Guardian can change how he looks if the whim strikes him. He knows the rules of this ancient language. He knows a lot of its words. And he's got Warlock smarts to boot. I don't think he will, though. He never really cared for how he looked. We always have something bigger to focus on. Like big angry gods. Or big angry monsters. Or big angry-
You get the picture.
But these elves... it's not just the magic. They think differently. Not totally different, they're still human, but they don't follow the baseline norm. I guess immortality will do that to you. They're closer to Risen than I initially expected. Both live indefinitely. Both live those indefinite lives with magic sparking from their fingertips. Still different, but closer to each other than they are to any other human subspecies. Are Risen even a subspecies? Never been able to figure that one out. Some say yes, some say no, a certain someone flits between yes or no whenever the mood strikes him...
I digress; maybe that's why we think elves are odd. They don't act like humans, or like Exos, certainly not like dwarves. It's that closeness to Risen behaviour that's so jarring. Again, initially it's a jump, considering how inclined to hoard and roam Risen are and how elves just aren't, but the familiarity with raw power is there. Same with Awoken. Like three uneasy peas in a pod, each reaching far beyond what their mortal ancestors could have ever dreamed of.
But why them? I've asked myself this so many times. Not just me either; other Ghosts have done the same. Why humans? Why do they have all this magic?
Why is my Guardian a human? He's special, he's mine, but I'm not going to pretend there's no one out there even remotely like him. I've seen similar in other humans. In other species. I've seen him in the Eliksni priestess pouring adoration over her Servitors and allies alike. I've seen him in the Psion Flayer so fed up with war and death he strikes out at everyone around him - be they Guardians, Vex, or fellow Cabal. I've seen him in the Hive's unquenchable thirst to know 'WHY?'
Why am I not echoing the priestess's prayers? Why aren't I helping the Flayer escape his forced servitude beneath tyrants and monsters? Why can't I float beside a navigator of the primordial oceans of a gas giant, yearning for the answers to all the questions we can possibly imagine?
Why am I here, laughing and joking with my humanborn Guardian? Why him?
Some have said it's because humanity's got peace in their blood. Bull. I've seen my Guardian rip up Devils by the Skiffload. I've watched him throw himself body and soul into a Hive slaughter-plane just so he could kill everything inside.
Maybe it's the opposite. Maybe it's because of how ready they are for war - but no, that doesn't make sense. Cabal are the best of the best when it comes to beating something to a pulp. Humans are good, but they aren't at that level of warmongering. That's not why they were chosen.
I think it's because of how divisive the humans are. Eliksni are divisive too, but they are divided communally. Between Houses and crews. Humans are divided on more individual levels by instinct alone. So many different types of guns, ships, music, you name it. Humans can't agree on anything, because they all have different ways of seeing things. When it comes to humans, the norm isn't always the norm.
Just look at how many subspecies there are. Awoken, elves, dwarves, urgals, and then there's transhumans like Exos. But there's only one species of Hive. Only one species of Uluru. Only one species of Eliksni - Scorn don't count, they just don't. So many different humans. So much potential for everything.
Maybe that's why the Traveler stopped for them. They've got the freedom to be anything they want to be. My Guardian's a scholar. He likes to learn. Nothing's stopping him from learning. Nothing but the constant fighting. He hates that part. Well, maybe not the fighting part, but certainly the killing part. He admires weapons. He hates using them to end people. He hates seeing people end.
That's kinda how I got my name. Because I haven't ended yet. Oh, I remember it well. We were in a wrecked library somewhere far south of the Cosmodrome, and he was flipping through books. Philosophy and religion were the primary topics. Well, he found a word, looked at me, and called me Xiān. He said it meant 'immortal.'
I laughed and said something along the lines of "It should be your name then!"
My Guardian shook his head, all serious. All business. "No. You. You're immortal."
"But I'm not."
"You are to me. You've been my one and only constant."
And I've been 'immortal' ever since. It also means 'fairy', but that's not important. The point is my Guardian learned something and he turned that knowledge into a little gift just for me. I'm certain that's why he's my Guardian. Not the loving priestess, not the desperate Flayer, not the inquisitive navigator. Him. The gently generous scholar. And I think he's the best choice I ever made.
Am I rambling? Does it matter if I ramble to myself? Am I rambling to myself? Is anyone there? Anyone? If you're listening, speak up. Am I really the only one here? Hey, if you're Elkhon's Ghost and you're as corrupted as she is, screw you. Seriously. But if there's anyone else out there, Ghost or Guardian, we're here. My Guardian and I are here and alive and free. We're still standing. We're still kicking. We're still fighting.
You can answer us. We're not your enemies. Nezarec is where our aim's at.
My Guardian and I are listening. And we'd be glad to hear some friendly voices.
- Xiān, Ghost of Ikharos Torstil, broadcasting on Ghost-encrypted wideband.
000
There was air of camaraderie in the lodge. It was their breather - a chance to relax before they threw themselves back into the fray.
Ikharos himself couldn't stave off the future. He knew he was going to have to make his way back to the Cabal carrier and ensure the Hive A) didn't press outwards into the surrounding countryside and B) didn't recover from the grievous wound he dealt them. He was already looking at a posting that was potentially going to last for months. Brood exterminations were far from quick affairs; they took considerable planning, heavy firepower, and most important of all - time.
Time the Harmony would be unlikely to give him. Time Elkhon would be unlikely to give him.
He forcibly dragged his focus back on the scene playing out before him and banished all thoughts of what's next?
The sun had already fallen away, plunging them into a darkness staved off only by the silver moon and the dim werelights illuminating the balcony. Oh yes, the lodge had a little balcony, which had fast become his favourite place in all Du Weldenvarden. Quaint could cover a lot of things in Cirrane, but it was the perfect word for his newest hideaway. The only furniture present were three wicker chairs and a small circular table upon which he rested his glass of something-something wine. It tasted like cherries. Sweet. Fruity. His mind was left slow and addled with the aftereffects. Not quite drunk, not yet, but inclined to do nothing else than sit still and dream. And oh, how he wanted to dream. To find for himself an escape from the all-consuming shadows of the carrier's innards.
When he closed his eyes, it was their green eyes he saw. When he moved, it was her knife that sank into his abdomen. He could still feel it - the all-consuming Darkness rippling around him.
Hive. Shades. Harmony. All in one night. They all saw him. They all knew what he was. And they would all gladly end both him and everything he stood to protect. He would have to destroy them - all of them. Otherwise he'd risk letting them ravage Kepler until nothing was left.
"Hive are more immediately worrying," he muttered to himself, "But the Harmony are too strong to ignore."
What was becoming increasingly clear was how underprepared he was. It wasn't just the lack of other Guardians that worried him; he hadn't the right equipment, nor the appropriate logistical support. Eris's expertise would have been extraordinarily useful. She would have found the weaknesses within both of the Dark sects and sent him to exploit them. Zavala's leadership would have been equally instrumental in dismantling his foes. Hell, he'd even have taken Asher's help if the annoying bastard was around. But none of them were.
It was just him and his Ghost and his guns.
"That's where I'm going wrong," he mused. "Guns'll only get us so far. I'm not climbing the ladder as I am."
"Your last sword broke," Xiān reminded him. "It wasn't good enough."
Ikharos scowled. "It was a fantastic sword."
"Sure. Still broke."
"I didn't make it to kill Hive demigods."
"Nah, just flimsy mortals."
"The only flaw I can see is... well, it was a mortal weapon. Ingenious design, lacking on the paracausal potential."
"Always links back to that, doesn't it?"
"Those are the rules we play under. We can only ignore them at our own peril."
"Peril with a capital P. Yep." She gave him a mental prod. "Gonna make another one?"
"I could steal a cleaver."
"Or the big guy's axe."
"Only way I could get that is out of his cold dead hands."
"Well, you almost got him the first time."
"He's got friends of his own. I doubt they'll be content to watch me kill their Darkblade."
"Repair Orúm?"
Ikharos gave the question some thought. "Orúm may be the best blade I've ever had the chance to wield... but it still wouldn't be enough. It's got potential, sure, but no power of its own."
"You could give it power."
He blinked. "That's... not a bad idea."
"Did I stumble onto something incredible?"
"You may just have... The Sword Logic dictates that the strength of a fallen foe belongs to the victor, yes?"
"You tell me."
"Yes, it does."
"Then why'd you ask?"
Ikharos ignored her. He was onto something. "That's the whole reason I was a candidate as Taken King."
"But you didn't. You didn't take the throne"
"Right, I didn't, but the option was there. A similar option is available to us, here and now."
"... To become King?"
"No. To take the power of a vanquished foe." He paused. Dread slithered in. "But... that's probably not the way to go about things."
"I'm pretty sure it's the only way. Best way to kill something Dark is to kill it with its own weapons."
"What if I start thinking it's the only way to do anything?"
"You won't."
"I'm not quite so certain."
"You're too afraid of corruption to fall. You know what it looks like when people go Dark. You know how to avoid it."
"Yeah, keep away from anything even remotely related to Hive. Couple of years too late for that."
"You're not one of their gods."
"No, but I'm certainly part of their mythology. I've had too many run-ins with their pantheon to escape notice."
"And they're afraid of you."
"Fear means little to Hive. A terrified Hive will fight just as fiercely as a brave one. They have no morale to crush. No spirit to break. Just as fearing their corruption won't stop it from happening."
"Alright, fine, I give up."
"Aw, c'mon, I need you to cheer me up."
"Nope, can't, you're a permanent grouch."
"Harsh." He leaned back. His wicker chair groaned in that satisfying wooden-furniture way. He plucked his glass of wine from the table and delicately sipped from it. The sweetness was dulled and yet ever-present. Perfect, as everything created by elves was.
The door to the lodge opened. Chitters and barks filtered out. It wasn't a party, per se, but it was close. It was supper, and what Eliksni partook of it delighted in the ingesting of something more solid than meagre ether portions.
Ikharos craned his neck around, saw who it was, and went right back to nursing his drink. "Lady Láerdhon."
"Lord Torstil."
He grimaced. Walked right into that.
Formora sat down on the chair beside him. No further words were exchanged. None needed to be.
"You sure?"
"Shut up."
"There's one thing that can be-"
Ikharos leaned forward quickly, almost spilling his drink. Xiān's voice faded away with an insidious laugh. Formora glanced at him questioningly, but when he didn't answer she returned to stargazing. He couldn't blame her for it. Even arrayed in unfamiliar positions, the distant celestial bodies were startlingly beautiful. Familiar strangers with whom he shared too many special memories to forget.
Formora lifted her hand and pointed. "The silver dhow."
Ikharos squinted. "Where?"
She guided his hand. "There."
And he saw it: a pale set of constellations arrayed like a curved arrow.
"We of Älfakyn love the ocean," Formora murmured. "There is a wild freedom in it we find... relatable. To us, the wide waters are the key to the world's wonders. It is our purpose to forever seek out the paradise waiting where the ends of the sea meet the sky, and we have been searching for millennia. All one needs to begin the search is a silver ship and a skilled navigator."
Ikharos nodded understandingly. "The need to explore is strong. There is a certain kind of satisfaction in never walking the same routes. Every day is different. Every choice is a new one."
"You know this feeling." It wasn't a question.
"I've traveled across Eurasia, across Australis, across the Saharan Contested Zones. I've roamed across the inner worlds of Sol, and of the outer worlds it was their moons I trekked across. I've sailed on solar winds and through dust clouds just to reach the Kuiper Belt so I could wonder if I should go farther." He looked down, to the village just below the lodge. "And I did. Here I am. Over a hundred light years from the place I began. Yeah, I know how wanderlust feels."
"What is it like?" Formora gently asked. "To sail across the space between worlds?"
"Quiet. It's just so... quiet. There's a thousand other things I could say, but it's always quiet."
Ironically enough, there was very little conversation after that. Ikharos was content to hold his tongue and he suspected Formora was as well. It was too pleasant a night to spoil with talks of war and conflict.
Alas, as the moon climbed its way up the sky, he had to force himself to break the silence. He was Risen and ultimately nothing without his wars, and what he had in mind was too important to let pass. She deserved to know. It was her decision to make, after all. "I have a plan."
"Oh? Should I say no?"
"You haven't even heard it yet."
"Your plans don't work." Formora said flippantly.
Ikharos straightened. "My plans are brilliant."
"They almost always consist of going somewhere and killing something."
He hesitated. "Their simplicity belies their brilliance."
Formora exhaled slowly. "Of course they do. Well, what's your new plan? Does it involve killing something?"
"No it... Oh." Ikharos sighed.
"It does?"
"... Yeah. In a way."
"'In a way'? What does that even mean?"
"It's already dead-ish. I'm just finishing off what remains. Maybe. I'm not entirely sure."
"What's the purpose of this... is it truly a plan?"
"Something wrong with calling it a plan?"
Formora scoffed with good humour. "Calling it a plan insinuates the use of careful consideration."
"Well, I'm considering you, so it's a plan."
"I don't... what?"
Ikharos took a breath. "We're heading off on a tangent. Let's start from the beginning. I have a plan - yes, a plan - and it hinges entirely on you giving me the go-ahead."
"What is it?"
"I need to make a sword."
Formora nodded slowly. "Ah. But you once told me firearms make swords obsolete."
"When did I say that?" Ikharos frowned.
"It may have been in Ceunon."
"Oh. Well, that's where the Cabal are concerned. I mean a sword to take to the Hive and Harmony. To use their Sword Logic against them."
"Would any sword work?"
"In theory. But a sword needs power, not just a strong hand."
"What happened to your blade? Your Edge?"
"Broodqueen shattered it."
"Unfortunate."
"Very." He shifted. "But I have this new sword already laid out. I know how to make it, I just..."
"What do you need?"
"Brightsteel."
Formora furrowed her brow. "Brightsteel is exceedingly rare."
"I know. Rhunön said the same."
"The only brightsteel left are those of Rider blades."
"... Yeah." Ikharos confirmed with a little hesitation.
"You're not telling me everything. Say what you have to say, Ikharos."
"I want to reforge Orúm."
Formora stilled. "Orúm?"
Ikharos winced. "Yes. But it's entirely up to you. If you refuse, I won't do it. I'll... try to find an alternative."
"Reforging Orúm. Not mending."
"Yes." Ikharos bit his tongue. He should have gone about telling her in a less obtuse manner.
"And... would this sword remain as Orúm?"
"... No. It wouldn't."
"Why Orúm?" She sent him a piercing, searching look.
"Because I've never wielded anything quite like it. It fits me like no other weapon ever has." Almost. The cannon at his hip was the sole exception. "And it... it hits all the criteria."
"And what if you were to mend it instead?"
"It's a spectacular blade of immeasurable quality," Ikharos carefully admitted, "but there's no power in it. Not as it is."
"Rider swords can split wards in twain. Is that not enough?"
"Wards aren't the only defenses to worry about," Ikharos explained. "Our enemies wield greater magic. Darker magic. Physical prowess is only one aspect of this war, and it'll only go so far. To strike down a god, one must employ godly powers."
"You would worship the Sword Logic?"
"The Sword Logic isn't a fanciful religion. There are no muttered prayers or pointless rituals. All my fears about it stem from the fact that it is a proven pillar of the universe. Yes, I am an unwilling and inadvertent worshipper of the Sword Logic." Ikharos looked away. "It's how we killed Crota. It's how we killed Oryx. It's how we killed Xol. And, when it comes to it, it'll be how we bring down Nezarec."
Formora's jaw tightened. He could see it out of the corner of his eye. "It's my brother's sword."
"I know. The choice is yours."
"Do I even have a choice?"
Ikharos shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Maybe I could work with another. But that would defeat the purpose."
"And what purpose is that?"
"Working the power of those I'd slain into the blade that felled them."
Formora stared at him. "The Aphelion."
Ikharos solemnly dipped his head. "Yes."
"... You intend to turn my brother's sword into a monument to murder."
"Yes."
"If I give you another blade, could you power it with something else? Hive?"
"Nothing short of the Darkblade could come near what the Aphelion offers. And he's got too many friends around for me to catch him out."
"Psekisk. Thornessa fyrn er malabra. Vaet fjandeya hrinda theirra daeamr ástarnan äthr nosu."
"I wish it were otherwise," Ikharos mumbled.
"Is this necessary?"
He hesitated. "It's... the easiest way to hijack the Sword Logic."
"What are the other ways?"
"Stealing Nezarec's very own spear or mastering control over Hive Soulfire. I don't know where the spear is, or if I can even wield it, and as for Soulfire... well, I'd need to ask a Wizard to teach me, but no way is that happening." The idea of petitioning Dûl Incaru for some lessons briefly popped into his head. Ikharos swiftly shot them down, quick as he could. Even if she was willing (and he most certainly wasn't), he'd have to wait another year or so for the Dreaming City's curse to restart all over again. Kepler's time dilation was not working out in his favour.
Or maybe it was. He could look forward to not seeing a Witch in his sleep for a whole year. Yay.
"And," Ikharos continued uncertainly, "a death-empowered sword might just be what I need to put Elkhon down." He put his now very empty glass back on the table and held out his hands. "I understand if you don't want me to. The sword is yours, so-"
"No." Formora cut him. She looked pained to say it. "It's yours. I gave it to you."
"You don't-"
"We all have to make sacrifices. And... I think Kialandí would have agreed with you."
Ikharos inclined his head. "Thank you," he said softly. He waited for a few moments before asking, "What was he like?"
"Kialandí? I don't know. He was my brother. He was calm. Where I was headstrong, he was collected. Where I was reckless, he was methodical. He cared. For everything and everyone. And Galbatorix... broke him for it." Formora's hands balled into fists. "Broke both of us. Only, Kialandí couldn't suffer the thought of pretending all was well after we were absorbed into the Wyrdfell. Not like I did." She sucked in a deep breath. "He was my friend."
"You still mourn him."
"I'm the only one who will."
Ikharos didn't know what to say to that. Exile was one thing, but complete ostracization? He had never been so unlucky as to draw the universal hate of the people he called his own. He'd made more than a few enemies of fellow Risen, but he'd drawn friends and allies too. The City had been good for that.
Loss, though, was something he knew only too well. How many times had he buried a loved one? How many times had he watched others fall around him? Far too many. And he'd learned nothing from it. Even immortality couldn't snuff out the human need for social interaction. He was naught but an indestructible vehicle overly laden down with all sorts of mortal weaknesses. Same went for Formora, in a way. And all supposed immortals.
"May I have it?" Formora quietly asked.
"Orúm?" When she nodded, Ikharos had Xiān transmat both parts of the broken sword into his hands. In the dim night light the shimmering purple blade looked like liquid shadow, writhing just as a real serpent would.
Formora took both parts and delicately fitted them together. "How vastly would you change it?"
Ikharos shrugged. "The framework and dimension would be the same, but what soul it has will be different."
"Weapons don't have souls. They are only tools."
"Tell that to the Hive."
"They are horrible, twisted, evil creatures. Their beliefs are not mine."
"Oh yeah, you fought some." Ikharos jumped on the chance to change the subject. The Orúm talk had been more troublesome than he'd envisioned. "And you killed a Knight?"
"I did." Formora offered him a blank look. "What of it?"
"Did... it go alright?"
"No."
"Oh?"
"It almost killed me." She took a deep breath. "But I won't make the same mistake again. The Hive are stronger than I predicted. Now that I know how they fight, I will fare better in future."
"Are you alright?"
"As much as I can be," Formora muttered unhappily.
Ikharos winced - again. "I'm sorry. Well, for this... can we call it a conversation? For this troubled discussion if not anything else." He gestured to the door. "Me lumping all this on you was probably a... yeah."
"Your mastery over word craft never ceases to impress me," Formora deadpanned. Her tone softened. "I understand. I do. And I don't begrudge you your efforts to better our chances. Your intentions are pure. Even if I disagree with you, know that I recognize that."
"Thank you."
She reached out and briefly touched his shoulder. I hear you. "Now hush. We were supposed to leave all worries and preparations for the morrow. Tonight we delight in simple joys."
"I think the morrow has already arrived." Ikharos glanced up at the moon. "We're well past midnight."
"Hush, I said. Let us forget our woes and meet the stars."
He closed his mouth and didn't dare utter another word. Ikharos listened and watched as she introduced him to all the major constellations that shone through Kepler's darkened skies. Sleep was a distant memory - unnecessary, forgotten, and unwanted. Especially when he had this to attend in its stead.
The Skiff that was to collect them was to arrive at midday. Nyreks had called it in. Bereft anything else to do, Ikharos took the chance to wander around Cirrane at his own leisurely pace. No one bothered him. No one stopped him. No one called him out. It was nice.
That wasn't to say he went unnoticed. Though the resident elves were quiet and quick, he could always pick out the stray movement on the corner of his vision betraying a watcher. Ikharos came to recognize how fascinated he was with elves. An uneasy fascination, certainly, but eager too. They were... just so different. In a way, he felt a sort of kinship towards them. They were immortals in the land of the short-lived, living hand-in-hand with forces beyond physical scope. They weren't quite as showy or powerful as his own kind, which was probably for the better, but they were far from helpless. Even without the magic, they drew his eye. Their bodily speed outpaced his by quite a margin. A part of him - the anthropologist - came to the conclusion that not only were they sporting less biomass than other human species, but their bones were lighter. Their strength belied their thin frames, and though it wasn't on the level of Risen it was largely beyond what other humans and neohumans were capable of.
Those boosts in physical prowess never ceased to surprise him. Ikharos was used to encountering either equally powerful Risen or less able humans - not something in between. It was... disconcerting in some ways. It paved the way to the realization of having underestimated how far the Lightless could go, even if only subconsciously.
"These your perfect people?" Xiān teased.
Ikharos mentally shrugged. "Don't mistake my fascination for admiration. They aren't flawless."
"Just in terms of foreign relations or..."
"In how they drift through life, seeing only to themselves and utterly content to let everything else be driven into the ground. It's their attitude I take issue with."
"Maybe that can't be helped. What would Guardians at large do if there weren't any Hive or Eliksni to fight?"
"Fight each other, undoubtedly."
"So we're more violent?"
"We are, yes. We were designed to be weapons for a dying god. Violence is intrinsic to the birth of every Guardian. We wake up with roars on our lips and hands grasping at weapons we shouldn't possibly know how to wield."
"And what of the elves? If the Harmony really had a hand in their creation, as they did with the dwarves, what do you think it was for?"
"No idea. Gardeners, maybe. Elves are good at that."
She fell silent. Ikharos idly strolled on, taking in all the warped sights of elf-touched forest. The lull in conversation didn't last forever.
"Ikharos."
"Xiān."
"Can we talk?"
"A serious discussion?" He smiled - gently, warmly, adoringly. Though she couldn't see it, he made sure she felt it. "Of course."
"You like Formora."
"Oh..." His smile fell. "That kind of talk. I've changed my mind."
"Wait, wait, shut up, let me say my piece. I like her too. I mean, probably not in the same way."
"Is this... Is this the start to a jealous rant?"
"You know, I can't physically throw up, but if I could now would be the opportune moment. Wow, imagine throwing up... All those delicious sensations..."
"Please stop."
"Anyways, yeah, I think she's cool. I mean, she's killed a Knight and two Ahamkara. That's badass."
Ikharos tried so very hard to evict the other voice in his head, but she had her claws dug in deep. "Stop."
"We need to talk about this. I decided now."
"Stop."
"Ikharos, buddy-"
"Don't call me buddy."
"-you've only ever had one other real relationship and... well, you were a fumbling idiot. Still are, by the way."
"That really hurts. Now leave me alone so I can work out my feelings."
"'Fraid not. We're discussing this."
"No. We are not."
"Have you any idea what to do? Because you're going to need a whole lot of help."
"Okay, that's actually hurtful."
"You have no charm. No suave. Nothing. And you're not pretty enough to let your looks do all the work. All you really have going for you is a killer honesty and kicked-puppy personality."
"Seriously, shut up."
"Can't. I'm your wingman. No, wing-Ghost!"
"I'd rather ask Melkris."
"He's an Eliksni."
"And you're a Ghost."
"Are you saying Ghosts are inferior to Eliksni?"
"I never said that. You're twisting my words."
"But you insinua-"
Ikharos groaned. "Honestly, Xiān, stop. Just stop! I really, really DON'T want to talk about this with you."
"Well, I have to live with it. Your pining is driving me mad."
"Pining sounds so... pathetic. It's not pining."
"Then what is it?"
"Attraction. Affection. Admiration."
"Triple A, cool. And all of 'em are synonyms for pining."
"Ghost is a synonym for headache."
"Ha. You're pining."
"No."
"Fine. Longing."
"Sounds desperate. I'm not desperate."
"Yearning?"
"Still a tad weird. But closer to the mark."
"Wistful?"
"Sounds too passive."
"You are passive," Xiān retorted.
Ikharos blinked. "What?"
"You. Are. Passive. For such an honest, upfront guy, you're way too subtle about this. Way too... lax."
"And? That's just who I am."
"Be... not-passive."
"Aggressive? That's-"
"No, not aggressive. You only get aggressive with things you want to kill."
He grunted. "Astute observation."
"Somewhere in between... How about assertive?"
"Still sounds too aggressive."
"Sweet Traveler above, I'm not a damn dictionary. You know what I mean."
"I... honestly don't. The hell do you want?"
"For you to stop beating around the bush and say something!"
"I'm not sure if I want to."
"Oh, you're nervous."
"Uncertain."
"But not of acceptance?"
"If she doesn't reciprocate, that's fair and I'll cease every effort on that front. What I'm worried about is... is the wisdom of even trying."
A short silence stretched between them. "I miss Zahl too. He was kind."
"Immeasurably."
Blue skin alight with shifting rays of starglow. Two gold eyes, full of healing. A man who could cause no pain, no damage, no death.
It made him feel like a monster. He sought redemption in every act of goodwill towards those who sheltered in the bunker. It never felt like it was enough.
But the healer tried to convince him otherwise. Delicate whispers, tender embraces, a kiss.
"But that was a different time and a different place. And... a different person." Xiān's voice was soft. A familiar warmth accompanied it. He embraced it.
"Zahl's gone. Josef is gone. Lennox is gone. People end. The endings always hurt."
"They do. I guess that's the cost of living."
"This isn't Eden." Ikharos gradually slowed to a stop. "Simply living encourages pain. It's unavoidable."
"Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself."
"I don't know anymore. I like to think that I deserve a break from all this... hate. All this violence."
"You do. Which is why I'm saying go ahead. Nervous or not, take this chance. Go."
"... No. I'll need to think about it. And many other things."
"All you ever do is think. It gets so loud in here."
"Feel free to leave."
"Nah. You'll need my input."
"Debatable. Highly debatable." A flicker of motion caught his attention. Ikharos sharply turned around, fingers dipping into the nullscape for scraps of nothingness, but it was nothing more than an overconfident blackbird scouring the ground for tasty insects. He muttered, aloud, "Fethrblaka, flauga eom iet lam. Eka weohnata néiat haina onr."
The bird lifted its head, regarded him with one beady black eye, and decided why not? with a very avian chirp. It fluttered to his hand and tilted its little head expectantly.
"I haven't any food for you," Ikharos patiently told it.
The blackbird filled his ears with a series of disappointed whistles and flew off.
"Nice."
"Shut up."
The Skiff landed in a nearby field, not even attempting to be subtle. Ikharos and Formora followed Nyreks and his soldiers aboard. Melkris excitedly yapped about all the times he'd crashed while in identical vessels, right up to the point he was told to shut his trap. Beraskes glared at him from across the ship's hold, clicking under her breath about how she'd get even with him. All in all, it went about just as Ikharos hoped it would - no ambushes, no storms, no nightmares. The universe was finally cutting him a break.
The flight itself was just as uneventful. The weather was light and calm, making for smooth sailing. Ikharos found comfort in the gentle tremble of the Skiff around them. It almost lulled him to sleep. He'd always felt more at home in a jumpship than what tiny apartments had been provided for him in the City and the Vestian Outpost. There was something to be said for the safety of one's own personal spacecraft, out of sight and out of reach of all worldly foes.
It couldn't have been more than a couple of hours later that the Skiff set down. The rear opened up. Ikharos disembarked, marveling in the din outside of roaring engines and alien barks. A camp had been erected on the edge of Du Weldenvarden. Eleven other Skiffs had been left nearby, idly standing on insectoid docking stilts like fat wingless dragonflies. His first thought: there were a lot of Eliksni. More than a couple crews' worth. Barring those with Palkra in Surda and Drotos in Ellesméra, it was all of Tarrhis's loyalists gathered in one spot. The ground was dry and cracked with having been harvested for ether and glimmer. Some tents had been set up, all red and gold.
Ikharos sucked the fresh air and stretched his shoulders. This was something he understood. Something he knew. Something he could handle. He understood Eliksni far better than he did elves, and he found a strange sort of solace in being among them again. When he listened to their calls, when he saw their eyes blink and mandibles shake, he understood.
Maybe these were his perfect people.
A pity he was never going be able to forget the horrors their sister-Houses had inflicted upon innocent men, women, and children. Some things couldn't be forgiven, and it was hard not to write off an entire race for the deeds of a couple of bloodthirsty clans.
Still, it was nice to hear Eliksni again. Human languages were perfectly reasonable, and the ancient language was direct and impactful, but the twin dialects of Eliksni were malleable. It was capable of forminginto the most terrifying warcries ever bellowed, or lightened to a gentle lullaby. It was basic, and still more sophisticated than even the chief dialect of Ulurant. Plus, it was just plain easy to comprehend. For him in any case. At the very least, his time spent slaughtering Devils taught him how to read Eliksni expressions, and that was the key to the entire language.
"You're cheerful," Formora observed.
Ikharos shrugged and gestured to the small town of tents, burrows, trenches, Skiffs, and Walkers. "This is familiar territory. These are familiar people. And familiarity doesn't stress me out. Mostly."
Their arrival hadn't gone unnoticed. The Eliksni treated it with the same casual attitude any warband would for a returning scout vessel, but the moment Ikharos and Formora had disembarked there were surprised chirps from the nearest technicians. Three spear-toting Vandals approached, outer eyes fluttering and heads lowered.
"Velask, Ikha Riis pak Kirzen," the first greeted with a bow.
Ikharos answered with a much less formal, "Vel." He looked around, scanning for anything familiar. Nothing, nothing, and then two wing-like horns sprouting from an ivory and gold helmet reared over the heads of the Vandals. Kiphoris was just the same, appearance-wise. Still clad in immaculate armour and cloak. Still bright-eyed and with a healthy sway to his ether-rich limbs. A part of Ikharos had thought that maybe, maybe, the Scar Captain wouldn't have come out of their trip into the carrier without a few wounds of his own, but Kiphoris stood unmarked and whole.
"Ikha Riis," he rumbled with a slight inclination of his head. His outer eyes briefly closed. "You are not dead."
"Seems not."
Kiphoris turned his head a fraction. "Formora pak Zeshus. You are more lively than when we left you."
Formora touched her lips. "Atra esterní ono thelduin, Kiphoris-Vor. I have had ample time to regain my strength."
He brought two fingers up to his rebreather to mirror the gesture. "That is good. Come! Tarrhis-Mrelliks pak Denaan will want us to speak." Kiphoris looked back at Ikharos. "And there is much to discuss, yes?"
A pavilion had been set up in the centre of the camp. The walls and ceiling were formed from a massive banner of the House of Scar. Within, a portable holodesk and radio terminals had been set and wired up. Tarrhis stood on the far side, in all his massive glory. His helm's broad horns gleamed with polish, hanging over four burning azure eyes. A red-scaled pelt had been thrown over one shoulder. He was large, even for a Baron, and every movement rippled with incredible strength. Enough to tear an unfortunate human in two barehanded.
"Velask," Tarrhis boomed. His voice was deep enough to rattle Ikharos's bones. "Welcome, Machine-Envoy."
"Velask." Ikharos performed a miurlis salute.
The other Eliksni, Sundrass, offered Ikharos little more than a single disinterested glance. A cloak of dark Urzhad-fur hung from her shoulders. Her helm's wide, fan-like crest was just as polished as those of the other nobles. "Vel," she grunted unhappily. Ikharos didn't return it. He didn't trust himself not to sneak in a barb.
The tent smelled strongly, almost overpoweringly, of ether. Each breath invited a strange ticklish sensation at the back of his throat. A low hum emanated from the cables leading from the machinery to out from under the pavilion's far wall. He could feel the power flowing through it with his bare Light. The Arc-insulators weren't as tightly fastened as they should have been. It was like standing on a knife edge, so close to danger but still, miraculously, in the clear. In short: the place had Eliksni handiwork written all over it.
Kiphoris marched to the left of the holotable and took up position opposite Sundrass. They exchanged a series of subdued chirps and flashing blinks. Ikharos respectfully tried not to listen in to what was being said. It was of a personal nature.
But it reminded him not all present were of the same tongue. Ikharos turned to Formora. "Need a translator?"
She shook her head and crossed her arms. "I wager I can follow a bulk of what is said."
"Suit yourself." He switched back to Eliksni and said, to Tarrhis, "I have a gift for you."
"Oh?" The Baron leaned forward.
Ikharos held out a hand and summoned Xiān. She, in turn, transmatted the Broodqueen's head onto the table. It dropped with a wet smack. "Just what you asked for."
Sundrass and Kiphoris went dead silent. The latter gingerly tapped at one of the Broodqueen's horns with a claw and pulled away, as if afraid it would bite back. Tarrhis had no such qualms. He grasped the grisly trophy, held it up and bellowed with genuine laughter.
"A grand gift indeed!" Tarrhis roared. Ikharos's ears rang. Beside him, Formora flinched and muttered an obscure spell under her breath. "I treasure this, Kirzen. You have earned mine-respect. She must have been a mighty foe."
Ikharos hesitated. "The real issue was actually getting close enough. She had a big family."
Tarrhis sobered up. "Eia, so I understand. And some yet live."
"Some yet live," Ikharos echoed with a grimace. "I'd like to rectify that."
"You have scarcely recovered from death. You seek to throw yourself against the Maw's puppets once more?"
"Better sooner than later. Before the other Wizards start spawning."
Kiphoris made a clicking sound with his teeth and mandibles. "Eia, we have spoken of this already, Kirzen. It appears we are not alone in desiring an end to the Hive."
There was a question hidden within the statement. Ikharos picked up on it and sighed. "You want to know about Elkhon?"
Kiphoris tilted his head. "Is that its name? I thought-"
"It's a Shade. Not the same person as the original. Kelf's as good as dead." It hurt to say it. A multitude of bitter emotions boiled and frothed in his heart: disappointment, fear, and - yes, even shame. Shame that his people weren't strong enough. Shame that the Light he lived by all his life wasn't strong enough. Kelf hadn't just died; she'd handed Nezarec and his cult the most powerful weapon in her arsenal. Herself.
He idly wondered if he was on track to making the same mistake. I can't let that happen. No matter what, I can't let myself turn to the Dark. I'd sooner die than let them have me.
"Can you kill it?" Tarrhis questioned.
Ikharos still struggled to find an answer. "I don't know. I've tried, but we're... not easy to kill. Her being a Shade overcomplicates things. If she dies, she's got options. So... I don't know. Maybe."
Tarrhis clicked-clicked-clicked. "That is not encouraging."
"No." Ikharos's shoulders dropped. "It's not."
"Shade was not alone," Sundrass growled. "Silver warriors stalked among Hive. They slew many. They stole the Wish-Beast."
"The Harmony." Ikharos nodded slowly. "They're strong, quick, and probably have some magic up their sleeves."
"Magic." Tarrhis looked at Kiphoris. "How fares our negotiations with the elf-humans?"
Kiphoris straightened his spine and lifted his chin. "Slowly, mine-Baron. I... did not have a chance to press mine-offers. I imagine Drotos fares better than I."
"We need this magic. And we need more. More weapons. More machines." The Baron sounded wistful. "More Skiffs. Ketch."
Ikharos grunted. "Yeah, a Ketch would come in real handy. Demo the carrier from close orbit. Burn the Hive into the open for Skiffs to pick off." He looked around the table and cleared his throat. "I've been out a few days. What's the situation? What's the plan?"
"No plan," Sundrass hissed. "We have waited for you."
"How sweet." He tried not to smile too widely. If looks could kill, he would have been in dire need of a rez. "And the situation? Are the Harmony making themselves a nuisance?"
"From what we can tell," Kiphoris began in a careful, neutral tone, "they have pulled back. Many Hive are dead to their blades, but silver warriors have fallen too. Worms tear at their corpses. Wizards continue to scream. Knights roam their new nest with readied blades."
"Krinok?"
"Still quiet."
"Anything else?"
"Cabal live."
That caught his attention. He tore his focus from Sundrass to Kiphoris. "But... the Hive killed them all."
Kiphoris shook his head and pressed a button on the table's terminal. A blaring message in grunting Uurant played through the speakers, marred by static. "-authorizing relocation of all Imperial forces to Sector AE17. Repeat, Primus down, Flayers authorizing relocation of all Imperial forces to Sector AE17. Repeat, Primus down, Flayers authorizing-"
"I've heard enough." Ikharos frowned. Kiphoris dutifully switched it off. "So there's survivors. How many?"
"We do not know," the Captain reported, "but they will be desperate and angry - and soon hungry."
"That doesn't bode well."
"Nama. It does not. But we hold an advantage over them."
"And what would that be?"
"We have prisoners, Kirzen," Tarrhis muttered distastefully. "Cabal prisoners. Loud, unhappy, unspeaking prisoners."
Ikharos nodded, slowly. Prisoners was good. Prisoners meant getting some results. "I can make them speak, if you'll allow me."
"That would be..." Kiphoris looked at Tarrhis. The Baron motioned almost lazily: go ahead. "Appreciated, Kirzen. Mine-methods have not yet raised any meaningful answers." He reached to his belt and procured a small datapad. "Mine-Baron, may we see to this?"
"Wait," Tarrhis ordered. He looked not at Ikharos, but at Formora. "Zeshus, remain."
"Tarrhis-Mrelliks?" She questioned uncertainly in halting Low Speak.
The Scar Baron closed his outer eyes. "Eia, you. Events expedite around us. Perhaps there is wisdom in this scheme of Kiphoris-Veskirisk. I have decided to personally see it through."
"Mine-Baron?" Kiphoris tilted his head. He lowered it when Tarrhis's eyes flicked over to him.
"Eia, your grasp at power for our banner. There is truth in it, and I will not allow us to dawdle any further. Mine-Scars must have power. Must." Tarrhis rolled his upper shoulders. "I will make our demands myself before Islanzadí-kel."
"Tarrhis-Baron, with mine-respect-"
"Elf-humans are not our foe. You have extended a hand in friendship, yes?"
Kiphoris chittered. "Eia, I have."
"And Drotos-Achris has been given safe conduct?"
"He has. Elf-humans will not attack out of malice. But... they do not like others entering their lands without permission."
"Then ask for permission, Dreamer. Or have Drotos ask for it. Regardless, I will meet with these humans and barter for their secrets." He paused. "Eia, you may go."
Kiphoris bowed again. Ikharos did not. Instead, he gave Formora a meaningful, questioning look. She nodded and waved him out.
He and Kiphoris left awkwardly, neither truly satisfied with how the discussion had ended. They ducked outside the tent, and Ikharos followed the Captain's lead. Only when he was satisfied they were completely out of earshot, he said, "Psekisk."
Kiphoris chuckled. "Maybe," he murmured in English. Probably for the better.
"You don't think so?"
"What do you think Tarrhis is? Hungry for recognition like Skolas? Hungry for battle like Taniks? Hungry for blood like Solkis? Nama, he is the best of all nobles - truly caring for his people."
"What about other peoples?"
"He is no callous murderer. Tarrhis will not break laws of diplomacy. Even with those who are not Eliksni. I trust him not to."
"And if he does?"
"Then I have placed mine-trust in the wrong House." Kiphoris slowed his pace. "I have learned since Skolas. There is no one more reliable than mine-self. Do not presume me incapable of criticizing those who lead mine-blade."
"Would you do it openly?"
"... Only if certain lines are crossed and I believe them open to redemption."
"'K then." Ikharos exhaled. "So..."
"You have recovered?"
"Somewhat."
"Ah, it had shaken you." Kiphoris walked on. Ikharos sped up to keep pace with the Captain. "I do not see this as a defeat. It is a good thing we know what we face, rather than to walk blindly into an ambush."
"We have too many enemies. And all of them are more than capable of snuffing us out."
"Then you know what it is to be Eliksni." Kiphoris glanced at him. "To be set upon by enemies on all sides."
Ikharos held his tongue. The conversation was going a dangerous route he really didn't want to see through. Particularly not with Kiphoris of all people. The clever Captain wasn't someone he wanted to make an enemy of. Especially not when they had such a beautifully awkward partnership playing out between them.
"How'd you get the prisoners?"
"They were holding off Hive in the bridge. They could not hold off me."
"That's some bravado you got there."
"After all your posturing, surely I can do some of mine-own."
"Posturing?" Ikharos raised an eyebrow.
"Taking on the Broodqueen alone."
"You agreed with me."
"I did. Mine-mistake."
"It really wasn't." Ikharos jutted a thumb back towards the command tent. "You saw the head, right?"
"I did."
"She's dead. I killed her."
"How close was it?" Kiphoris looked at him. Through him.
Ikharos's good mood evaporated. He sighed. "Too close. I took too long. Her kin came to the rescue. The Harmony's distraction gave me the chance to finish her off, but without them... I don't know. Still, I almost got the Darkblade too."
"Is he at death's door?"
"Probably not. Just in tatters and burned to hell. He's not going to forget me anytime soon."
"The victory we struck may have been tenuous, but it was well-struck. You will be gladdened to know that I completed my task and," Kiphoris gestured to another tent, some distance from the one they'd left, "accomplished even more."
"You want a pat on the back?"
Kiphoris blinked innocently. "Nama, but I appreciate your offer." He stopped by the entrance. Two Vandals armed with shock rifles saluted them. A buzzing beacon had been embedded in the earth just outside the tent. "Shall I accompany you, or-"
"No, I'll do this alone." Ikharos paused. "Anything I should know?"
"They are of the Worldbreaker Legion. One of the Psions is a Flayer."
"Noted."
"And... one of the Uluru is quarrelsome. It has caused trouble in every interrogation I've pressed. If you need it silenced..." Kiphoris trailed off.
"I'll call if there's trouble," Ikharos replied non-committally. A thought struck him. "Are the Psions oppressed?"
"Oppressed?"
"Does their indentured service chafe? Are they slaves?"
"All Psions are slaves to Cabal."
"Yeah, but some take to the army life more readily than others. A dissatisfied conscript'll be easier to wring answers out of than a loyal officer."
"I do not know. None of them provide me with clear answers, even under duress."
"Then maybe duress is the wrong way to go about it." Ikharos took in a deep breath. "Right then," he said, and he slipped inside.
Seven Cabal. Four of them massive Uluru and the remaining three slender Psions. Their armour had been stripped from them, leaving them in protective biosuits only. Arc-bindings wound around their arms and kept them from attempting escape (or killing the guards). They sat upon the dusty, dry ground in a disparate huddle and glanced up as he entered.
Despite the alien features, despite the scowls and glares, despite it all Ikharos found it within himself to feel a shred of sympathy. They looked diminished and beaten. But it was just a shred. They were Cabal, after all. They signed up to fight and potentially die
One of Uluru made a choking, growling sound. "Merida-X8."
Scowls deepened. Glares intensified. One of the Psions, the farthest one, cowered under raised, bound arms.
"My reputation precedes me," Ikharos muttered in Ulurant. He caught a few surprised looks. "Oh yeah, I can speak."
"Murderer," one of the Uluru spat. Ikharos wondered if she was the troublemaker Kiphoris had warned him about.
"Funny. Didn't you attack and kill my people first? I smell hypocrisy." Ikharos crouched down in front of the first Psion. The cyclops wheezed from its spiracles. Its skin was wet with - what? Sweat? Mucus? Moisture gathered from the surrounding air? One of the three. "Hungry?"
It didn't answer him. None of them did.
"I'll take that as a yes. Eliksni may only need ether, but the rest of us need our solids, don't we?"
Still nothing.
Ikharos clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Awful talkative. Here, give me a moment." A couple of seedlings transmatted into an outstretched hand. He pressed them into the ground. "Now, I've never done this before, so..." He closed his eyes and, in a low voice, whispered, "Eldhrimner. Máttr nosu vethr."
A handful of thin green stalks speared out of the ground and sprouted curling, reaching limbs. Leaves blossomed, forming a tiny little bush. Beautiful, succulent, red fruit bloomed. Ikharos picked a strawberry and, once he was sure he had everyone's undivided attention, took a bite out of it. The fruit's flesh crunched between his teeth. Rich flavour burst across his tongue. It smelled - and tasted - divine, overpowering even the stagnant smog of black oil.
He picked another and tossed it. The closest Psion deftly caught it between its bound hands. It stared at him. Ikharos couldn't tell if it was merely surprised or genuinely angry. Its facial features were just so... odd. Eliksni had four eyes and Uluru had two, and though both were far from human their expressions were relatively simple to understand. A one-eyed Psion? Miles apart.
It held the fruit up, studied it with its strange eye, and then looked back at him. "What is this?"
"Food," Ikharos said blandly. He held up his own ravaged strawberry. "See?"
"What is good for you, human," it began in its high-pitched voice. Somehow it sounded snide. "May not be good for me."
"You're clairvoyant, right?"
No response.
"Can you foresee yourself choking on strawberries?"
And yet more silence. Angry silence. Ikharos exhaled and sat down fully, crossing his legs. "Anyone who wants to eat can just ask. It's here if you want some. No tricks, no lies, no ulterior motive."
"But there is." Another Uluru roused itself. He was bigger than all the others. He reminded Ikharos of the Red Legion's Gladiators, all densely packed muscle and menacing glare. "You want something."
"Of course. I want answers to my questions."
"Your questions? Or Eliksni questions?"
"Same thing, I imagine. But I'm willing to wait. And, in the meantime, we can be civil with one another. We're all sapient. We're all capable of reason."
"Barbarians," a third Uluru muttered.
Ikharos pursed his lips. "And I could call you monstrous brutes, but that would be petty. We've all got bigger problems, and throwing around childish insults does no one any favours."
There was a soft squelching sound. The Psion had taken a small bite of the strawberry. Its eye flashed with shock. The other Psions called to it in their own strange language. It whispered back a reassurance: it was fine.
"See?" Ikharos leaned forward. "Not so bad, right?"
It still refused to answer him and nibbled away. The Y-pupiled eye never turned from him. Ikharos squinted at it - there was always something different about Psions, beyond the obvious. Something beyond the scope of mortal flesh and blood. A hidden power. A morsel of otherworldly reach.
And it was suffering. The orange-blue light behind the eye flickered at the edges. The manifested pupil (for it wasn't a physical thing, but a projection of its mind) shimmered uncontrollably.
Ikharos decided on a new tact there and then. He could already see the dangers in it. Formora would tell him off, if she had been there to hear it. Had anyone else proposed it, he would have ridiculed it. But since it was coming from him...
"Bad idea," Xiān told him. She sounded bored.
"Are you going to stop me?"
"Not a chance. I want to see where this goes."
"Comforting." Ikharos got to his feet and left the tent. Kiphoris turned around and spared him a curious look.
"You were quick."
"I'm not finished." He looked around. "Where's your neurojammers?"
The Captain ran a claw over the buzzing beacon. "Here."
"Move it away. Say... twenty yards. And move yourselves with it. You probably won't want to stick around."
Kiphoris halted in place. All four eyes were wide with disbelief, dismay, and something like disapproval. "That is a poor idea."
"Probably," Ikharos agreed, "but I think I deserve a lesson in humility, don't I?"
"What advantage could it possibly bring you?"
"They, and I, will come to an understanding. They fear consequences. I need to show them that the consequences of helping us won't hurt them."
"... I will not promise that." Kiphoris narrowed his inner eyes. His lower hands drifted to the blades sheathed at his hips. "I cannot."
"Then I'm going to have to formally ask you to deliver them into my custody." Ikharos crossed his arms. "I'll go to Tarrhis if I have to."
Kiphoris growled unhappily. "They are Cabal. Warmongers. Tyrants."
"I know. I know. And I know. Now please move those 'jammers."
Ikharos returned to the inside of the tent, sat back down and picked himself another strawberry. He ate in silence, waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Wait-
The Psions tensed. All three at once. They could feel it - the neurojammers moving away. Freedom flowing back into their minds. The Uluru were blissfully unaware, all content to grumble and snark in Ikharos's direction. He didn't listen to them. He just... waited.
The one eating a strawberry struck first. Thoughts as sharp as a needle and as heavy as a warhammer slammed into him. His eyes shuttered; Ikharos had to scramble his way into the nullscape and hold on tight as a wave of ice-cold Intention crashed against him.
His defenses held. But cracks appeared. And through those cracks filtered scraps of-
ꊰꋬ꒒꒒ ꊰꋬ꒒꒒ ꌦꄲ꒤ ꅐ꒐꒒꒒ ꊰꋬ꒒꒒ ꋬ꒒ꄲꋊꏂ ꃳ꒒꒐ꋊ꒯ ꒯ꏂꋬꊰ ꃳꋪꄲꀘꏂꋊ
Ikharos gritted his teeth and dropped his head into his hands. His blood roared in his ears. His skull felt like it was going to crack. NonononoIwontIwontIwontfallIwont-
ꌦꄲ꒤ ꅐ꒐꒒꒒ ꃳꋪꏂꋬꀘ ꌦꄲ꒤ ꅐ꒐꒒꒒ ꇙꁝꋬ꓄꓄ꏂꋪ ꌦꄲ꒤ ꅐ꒐꒒꒒ ꊰꋬ꒒꒒ ꌦꄲ꒤ ꅐ꒐꒒꒒ ꒯꒐ꏂ ꒯꒐ꏂ ꒯꒐ꏂ ꒯꒐ꏂ
IwontIwontIwontIwontjustlistenjustlistentheyareouttheretheywill-
ꋊꄲ ꇙ꒐꒒ꏂꋊꉔꏂ ꇙ꒐꒒ꏂꋊꉔꏂ ꒯꒐ꏂ
Shut up!
The nullscape rippled. Void roared - not out of anger, not out of fear, it just roared for the sake of roaring. The Psion ceased all efforts. It slumped over, exhausted. Ikharos gasped for breath. Rivulets of sweat ran down his neck, his back, his arms. "I'm not here to..."
He braced. But the next Psion, the farthest one away, did not so much press the attack as it did slowly and warily probe its way towards him. It found the spherical fortress around his mind and he could taste its shock. It saw him. He saw it. Even wrapped in fear, even garbed in malnutrition, its mind was as bright as a star. Compared to it, he was merely a lost rogue planet making a play for fame by orbiting a growing black hole. No one would notice him. No one would know his daring.
But the Psion would be remembered for how brightly it shone. By all its ancestors. By all its descendants. Not for any great deed, but for simply being there. His adventure-filled life would go unstoried. The Psion would be treasured for mediocrity.
It wasn't fair.
It was more than fair. He was undeserving. He was blind. He was deaf. He was without ancestors. Without descendants. Without a past or future. He was nothing more than a misguided ape living through the muddied present, thinking only on instinct and petty greed.
Ikharos snarled and batted away the foreign thoughts. His dancing partner tensed up and fell back, taken off guard.
His daring orbit had earned him some skill in mind-dances. A sliver of star-brightness. A shred of sight. A touch of-
GET OUT
The Psion promptly left him be.
One remained. And, given how he could still hear himself think, Ikharos imagined it had to be the Flayer that waited for last. He shut his eyes and prepared as best he could for the tidal wave of psychic energy.
Nothing. Not immediately in any case. When something did reach out, Ikharos flinched out of sheer anticipation, but it was... weak. A wispy tendril of errant thought. Little more than a token effort.
Then it struck. A knife full of white-hot heat jammed into his nullscape and twisted, twisted, twisted, trying to pry him open. Ikharos fought back, but it was wrong, it was wrong, it was so very wrong, the attack was hollow of rich thought, there was only malice. His defenses buckled and curled out like an oyster shell. The knife cracked under the necessary effort. Thoughts spilled out between them unbidden. And they understood one another.
Nothing frightened him more. Because, in that moment, he saw her. And she him. He tried to call out, but it was just them. No Xiān, no Uluru, no one else but the two of them in a bastardized, unwilling metaconcert devoid of all the heartfelt things it was meant for. They weren't meant for it. It wasn't natural for them to connect. His soul and Light thrashed around inside him, yearning for the chance to rip her apart.
Ikharos physically trembled and-
She was on an arid island that might as well have been verdant and bountiful for all the love she held for it. ("Your city is small and broken and beautiful and waiting to be eaten.")
She was surrounded by the family to whom she had to say her farewells. ("Your kin are killers they are LOST.")
She wielded her mind like a weapon. ("You wield your Light like a crutch.")
Her foes were opportunities. ("Your enemies have matured you.")
She rose up through the ranks, a prodigy of infiltration. ("Your resolutions lend you strength, and strength lends you favour. Even the quietest voice can be heard, if it carries favourable weight.")
She broke away. Found a kindly, truthful mentor. One who would teach her and her family. ("You watched a Prince die.")
She swore to her purpose, known to her at last. She was not alone. There were others like her. Comfortingly close. ("You slew a King! How? HOW?!")
She was- ("Enough! This is behind us! Forget all you've seen!")
-sucked in great gulps of stale air. All was quiet. He sought the Flayer out, and when he found her he narrowed his eyes. Something was missing. A blank spot in his memory stretching only a few milliseconds wide, but it was there. She'd extricated herself from his mind and taken whatever had happened with her.
He couldn't remember what he saw. Not a shred. It was disconcerting.
"You'll kill the Hive?" The Flayer pressed with surprising urgency.
Their clueless audience muttered amongst themselves.
"I will." Ikharos narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The Flayer dipped her head. "I am Neuroc, of the Worldbreakers Legion. And you are Ikharos, of the Warlock Tribe."
"You saw me?"
"Partially."
He didn't like that. Not even a little.
The Uluru leader roused himself. "What are you talking about?"
Neuroc's eye glowed with summoned thoughts and intricate emotion. "The human has an offer for us, Zhonoch sir."
Ikharos reluctantly shifted to face the… Centurion? Gladiator? Something along those lines. "Your Psions will relay my honesty. I have questions to ask. You have needs to be met. Surely we can come to a compromise."
000
On the wide, sandy, psionically-conjured plains of Brand, Invoctol allowed the warm waters of the Miitzal ocean to lap at his feet. To his left, he could see the cluster of low-hanging cottages where each of his parts had been born. The salty tang of seawater mixed pleasantly with the sweet aroma of delicate sand-flowers.
He was home.
Invoctol separated. Three Psions occupied the space where there had been one. Only in the mind was this possible, for their metaconcert had been rendered permanent by the binding of bodily form.
"I've missed this," Orche strolled to the water's edge and dipped his fingers in.
Cadon grunted, unimpressed. The battlefield was all the home he needed.
Tlac couldn't look away from the small village. He saw no one milling about. No one out catching fish and crabs. No one harvesting the flax and cotton to weave into soft cloths. Cloths to soak into a warm spring and lay upon the head and will one's ancestors back into mind.
"I missed this as well," Tlac whispered. Oh, to feel his ancestors' embrace once more...
His brothers - one older and one younger - each placed a hand on his shoulders. Their grip was light. Comforting. Protective and supportive. With a tender smile, Tlac turned about and they pressed their heads together.
Invoctol formed once more. He was unified. He was at peace with each part of himself, even in mourning.
And he missed home.
The humans were agitated. Or so his Psions reported. They chafed under Cabal rule. Invoctol felt no remorse; they could chafe or they could crumble. The choice was theirs. But he was confident they would make the right choice. The boy he'd spoken to knew what options they had, and the other humans looked to the boy for leadership.
The same boy came by again, this time of his own accord. Invoctol tried to be surprised by the sight of the human returning to his camp, but how could he be surprised when he'd already mapped out all the possible thought-routes of the human's mind?
The creature stared up at him. There was fear, there was apprehension, but it was all shadowed over by his bravery and purposefulness. He even managed to impress Shu'av into stopping to listen to what he had to say.
Invoctol's bond-brother huffed and crossed his bulging arms. "Are you going to war, smallman?"
Roran ignored him. "Can I get her back?"
"Your beloved." Invoctol's voice was cutting to the human. Unintentional. But not unnecessary. He didn't soften it by any margin.
"Yes."
"Katrina is her name."
Roran flinched. "Yes."
Invoctol gestured him forwards. The human shuffled. "What do you believe?"
"That I have to get her back. The Ra'zac are monsters."
"And you know monsters, child?"
The human lifted his chin. "I am not-"
"A child? But you are by Uluru standards. Certainly by that of Psions, my people. Fret not, you will catch on. I see how your future unravels." Invoctol leaned down. "What did I ask from you?"
"Everything."
"Indeed. Everything. What do you think that entails?"
"All that I own."
"No. All that have."
He was lost. Invoctol saw it. "But those-"
"Are not the same thing, human. Keep up. You own baubles. You own a ruined farm. You own a meagre inheritance. You own nothing but the clothes on your back and the hammer at your belt. But you have soul. You have strength. You have dreams. Those are more valuable to me than all the glittering gold on this world. Soul and strength and dreams." Invoctol waved to Shu'av. "Here, see. A peasant child once, now a Valus. Born to nothing, gave up everything, earned it all back."
"Bit harsh," Shu'av grumbled. Invocotol ignored him.
"And what will you give to win back your beloved Katrina?"
Roran's mind whirled. He was blunt and weak, but there was a formidable force behind his dogged determination. Invoctol saw it with crystal clear clarity. "... Everything."
Satisfied, Invoctol straightened up. "On the next local day, you will come by and report to Bracus Cre'aet and Specialist Ozmoc. If any feel as you do, bring them with you."
"Why?"
"We will show how powerful your everything can be when honed to an edge. Know this." Invoctol's eye flashed fiercely. His voice rebounded within the human's skull. "We are Cabal. We eat the mountains. We drink the seas." He glanced to one of his waiting retainers. The Centurion strode forward. "You will understand in time, human. Take this."
The Centurion proffered a bell of ivory and gold. Roran looked it over with a critical eye he couldn't control and found himself impressed with its quality. Invoctol saw it all from within the human's mind, amongst strands of short-sighted thoughts.
"What is this?" Roran demanded. It was almost a challenge. Shu'av growled lowly, but the human didn't back down.
Invoctol narrowed his eye. "It is a mark of a soldier. You have already spilled blood, even if not in support of the Empire. It is your mark of honour. It is your mark of sacrifice. It is your everything. Cre'aet will explain all. Ozmoc will burn the meanings into your every waking thought."
Roran said no more. No nod, no salute, nothing. He turned about and marched back to his village.
"What was that?" Shu'av questioned. "What're humans going to do? They're too weak to be of any use."
Invoctol laughed softly. "That is just like you, to only think of the martial applications."
Shu'av shrugged. "It's what I am."
"Just as this is what I am. There are subtler routes to conquest, my friend." He patted Shu'av's shoulder. "I have conquered entire souls on this day."
"Ahhhh." Shu'av nodded slowly. He caught on quickly. That was why Invoctol chose him as bond-brother. "You're a negotiator."
"I am the Primus. I am father to Worldbreakers and Soulrazers. I will see my children victorious with their honour, pride, and lives intact. We will see Torobatl again, brother. We will march back to the capital with bounty and reforged oaths of allegiance to the Princess Imperial. I swear this - to all my ancestors and yours."
"Victory or death." Shu'av slammed a fist against his cuirass. "By Acrius's gleam, I will march beside you and hoist your valor-marked arm up before the Primus-of-All-Legions herself. Glory to Soulrazer."
Invoctol's eye brightened with soft joy. "Glory to Soulrazer. Death to Hive."
His guards cheered. "Death to Hive!"
AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!
Season of the Chosen has been incredible lore-wise. Got a lot on Cabal society, so yippee. And I think Psions are up there as being my new favourite race.