Hello all! Writing this chapter took a little bit longer than I expected mainly because I keep getting side-tracked. I've been binge watching 'The Boys' as well as playing too much 'No Man's Sky' recently. There's also the fact that this chapter focuses quite a bit on Aristriel.
Now, writing things from a female perspective when you're a bloke (and vice versa) is always going to be a bit difficult, but when the person in question is an alien with a different culture, religion, etc. That only adds to the complexity. Anyway, enough of me waffling on, hope you enjoy the chapter as always.
Song of the day: Ain't No Sunshine – Bill Withers
Chapter 11 – Laetius Nuntio
The edge of the blade rested gently against his throat, carefully nestled in the crook of his neck; light as a lover's kiss. A slight increase in pressure and a quick draw of the arm; it would be done in an instant. Aristriel stared down at the sleeping guardsman, carefully weighing up the options in her mind and the eventual consequences of her actions. How she wanted to be rid of this mon'keigh. To be trapped together with a member of the race that attacked her home and destroyed her family was truly a bitter pill to swallow.
Cegorach must be chuckling heartily at my misfortune. She surmised.
Everything about this human aggravated her. The ungainly way in which he moved was a prime example. The muscles of his body writhing underneath his skin as they inefficiently contorted and relaxed at irregular intervals. Judging by his overly exaggerated movements she was unsure if he was merely an invalid or if all humans acted as he did. From her superior perspective, the guardsman appeared to move through a denser medium than air; forever trapped in slow motion.
The noise though was something that grated on her unbearably more than anything else. Almost as if some sick deity had created humanity to be as subtly irritating as possible. Everything the mon'keigh did created noise: whether it was when he spoke incessantly in that accursed language of his or even when he simply breathed.
Regardless of whether the sounds he emitted were voluntary or otherwise, it still felt like an audible plague upon her ear drums, slowly eating away at her sanity. The very thought that she would have to spend many more days enduring this torture was not worth contemplating. It seemed that with every snort or grunt that fumbled its way out of the barbarian's chest cavity only deepened her longing for the comfortable silence of her brethren.
Another horrible reality of humans was their scent which seemed to seep into everything that they went near. Aristriel and this mon'keigh had only been in this large mossy plant carcass for a few hours and already the cloying smell of humanity covered its every surface, much to her disgust. At the back of her mind was the constant fear that prolonged exposure to him would permanently taint her.
If that nightmare scenario did come to pass, inevitably she would be an eldar apart from the rest: an outcast. Civilised eldar society would snub her as it did to all those outside of its regimented code of acceptability. What would she do if that happened? Join the liberal yet backward Exodites or the strange dancers of the Harlequins? There was a darker option of course, but Aristriel refused to countenance it.
These minor annoyances collected together inside the emotional cauldron of her heart, garishly gnawing away at her emotional endurance. That is why she sat there in the darkness, towering over the slumbering mon'keigh ready to slit his throat like a ghoul from half-forgotten legends.
Aristriel dearly sought to do it, the temptation was great and yet she still needed him for the task ahead. It truly was a terrible business that required a mighty and graceful warrior such as her to rely on a stupid barbarian.
Why me? What have I done to deserve this injustice? The more Aristriel thought about it, the more she was certain Cegorach - the laughing God, was playing a game at her expense.
Nothing lasts forever. The banshee told herself, in an attempt to take the sting out of this grand galactic insult. It was a comforting and familiar adage that she had heard many times, one that had accompanied her throughout her travels.
"Moments of hardship are like moments of bliss: they are finite. Empires rise; empires fall, stars are born, and stars die: an endless cycle of light and dark. All one can do is enjoy the good and endure the bad. Patience, ultimately, is the key."
How long ago had it been since she had first heard those very words? Aristriel had been just a youngling at the time, bright eyed and naïve, unknowing of the galaxy that she had become a part of.
Unnerved by thoughts of her younger self, she pushed them to the back of her mind. The human's pouch, containing her quarry, was nearby. Although she could not see the artefact inside, it was obvious it was there, the air around it distorted slightly as if viewed through impure glass. The Omnicron, a relic of a far-off past, forged from the souls of stars; encased within the Immaterium made real.
An object of unspeakable power left impotent and easily contained within the aura of this humble mon'keigh. How this guardsman had managed this impressive feat was confounding in of itself, although it had not taken long for the banshee to come up with several theories.
Is there something sinister at work here? A touch of the darkness, perhaps?
Whatever it was, she would have to watch this human closely. Realising that she was getting side-tracked amongst a myriad of thoughts, she let out a long sigh that seemed to linger far longer than it should have done. With a twitch of the hand, the blade was reluctantly withdrawn from the human's neck. You will live for a while longer Mon'keigh.
Indulging in her imagined scenarios was not the only reason that she had snuck up on the helpless guardsman. It had not escaped her notice that the wound in his shoulder was affecting his martial performance not to mention his travelling speed. If they were to survive in this place they were going to need every advantage that they could grasp. Currently, his injury was a major handicap that would have to be resolved.
Aristriel had tried to offer assistance earlier, but the ungrateful human had ignorantly denied her offer. Due to his most unobliging nature beforehand, she relegated herself to healing him while he was unconscious. Not that she minded of course. He was quieter than usual and as he was asleep there was no chance of him trying to start a conversation. Moving closer, Aristriel inspected the field dressing, taking note of the poor-quality material and substandard fastening solution.
With an insignificant shake of the head, she began to slice through the hastily applied bandages, periodically glancing at his face to ensure that he continued to slumber. The more arrogant part of her, wondered why she even cared if he woke up. In a contest of arms, she would win every time.
While undeniably true, it certainly wouldn't foster any kind of trust between them. For the time being, he was at least somewhat willing to cooperate. Undoubtedly, if the fragile pact they had was ruined, then it would only make her job that much harder. Brushing the unhelpful thoughts away, she prepared for the grisly task ahead.
It did not take long before the last of the bandages fell away, revealing the ugly gouge in his shoulder which started to weep at her rude intrusion. She eyed the wound for a few moments, drinking in the details whilst judging its severity. Eventually, Aristriel concluded that it would be repairable with her limited skillset. All craftworld eldar are psychically attuned to some extent, and while she would never walk the path of the seer, that did not mean she was totally bereft of psychic talent.
One of the first things an aspect warrior is taught, even before they are even given a practice staff, is how to access the Empyrean to selfheal. Once mastered, this is swiftly followed by tuition related to healing fellow aeldari. She flitted through her memory palace, remembering centuries old lessons that had helped her on so many occasions. Cautiously, so as to not wake him, she calmly placed her hands around the wound. Aristriel recoiled slightly in disgust as blood trickled onto her gloved digits.
Ignoring the crimson lifeblood coating her fingers, she felt the pleasant feeling of warmth from his body soaking into her hands. The skin of his shoulder was smooth to the touch, a welcome surprise after she had learnt how rough and calloused his hands were. The flesh underneath, however, was solid with hardened muscle: a clear indicator of a life of endless activity.
In response to her touch, the human shifted in his sleep, grunting and whispering something unintelligible in a bleary voice. Aristriel's hands immediately shot back to her sides; her heartbeat raced as she prepared to beat a hasty retreat. It turned out that this was not necessary, after a brief adjustment to his position, he soon stilled and snoozed happily, completely oblivious to the alien mere inches away.
The eldar froze, imitating a living statue. Suspecting a trick, she waited patiently for several minutes to ensure that he was truly in a deep sleep. Relief soon calmed her once his breathing had returned to a relaxed and methodical rhythm.
Satisfied that he was still asleep, her hands tentatively resumed their positions on the mon'keigh's shoulder. Mentally preparing herself for what was to come, Aristriel closed her eyes and concentrated. The trick to manipulating the material plane using the Empyrean was to find your centre. There exists a neutral point in all living beings where all emotions are neutralised; often described by Seers as the eye of the soul storm.
Aristriel as an experienced warrior found her centre in no time at all. Channelling the warp, she psychically reached out. Gradually, with quiet finesse, she bent the various threads of reality to her will and directed them towards the guardsman's lacerated shoulder. A golden glow soon swathed her hands in a cloak of radiance as she took up the mantle of healer.
It took copious amount of effort on her part, far more than she had suspected. Usually, a wounded eldar would be able to assist the healer with their own psychic ability while their wraith bone armour would further compliment the healing process. There was none of that here. The mon'keigh, like many of his backwards species, was not a psyker in any way that she could detect nor did his crude uniform offer any healing benefits.
With no assistance whatsoever, the banshee had to rely on her own limited ability. Frustration built up within her, which rapidly spiralled into curses aimed at herself for giving the human this injury in the first place. The aeldari language is a masterful thing with almost infinite ways to insult someone. Many of those slurs came to the fore through gritted teeth and panted breaths. This flurry of curses was soon followed by lamentations on her lack of foresight.
The process was insufferably drawn-out and maintaining her concentration was tiring to the extreme. How long she crouched there, willing the human's pathetic body to heal, she could not say. Tiny crystalline beads of sweat appeared upon her brow, dripping into her tightly shut eyes as she shivered under the mental strain.
The progress that was being made may have been sluggish, but it did appear to be working. There had been a worry that the skills she had learned healing eldar, would not apply to humans. Aristriel was glad to see those fears unfounded as blood vessels tentatively reconnected to one another, tendons and muscles reknit themselves and skin expanded to cover the gaping red gash.
Agonising minute by agonising minute ticked by until eventually the wound closed up entirely. Once completed, she finally released the various aethereal threads that strained against her psyche; desperate to be liberated from her machinations. Psychic thunder rippled through the earthy cocoon; a final cheer of freedom from the spirits.
The tension in the air disappeared instantly along with the strength in her limbs. Aristriel, exhausted by the ordeal, collapsed into a heap on the floor. Awkwardly, she knocked over the guardsman's lamp in the process. The weathered metal light clattered loudly as it went over on its side, but the human did not stir.
Weak from the exertion, the banshee pushed off the withered floor and allowed herself a few moments to recover. It felt as if her own life energy had been drained from her and now all she desired to do was sleep.
Nevertheless, drowsy as she was, Aristriel did manage to lift her head up in order to admire her handiwork. The horrible laceration from before had been replaced by a thin red line. While enflamed, the eldar was confident that that would lessen in time.
"You owe me for that, mon'keigh!" She whispered accusingly at the human's supine form.
There was a concern that the healing was purely superficial: the injury still present, merely hidden beneath the skin. Ensuring that the painful toil had not been in vain, she stealthily crept back over to the sleeping guardsman. However, on closer inspection, she could find no fault with the state of the healed wound.
Maybe I should have walked the path of the healer? She reflected smugly.
Interestingly, she became aware that her gaze kept shifting to the other scars and previously mended injuries that littered his upper torso like corpses on a battlefield. The majority looked fairly inconsequential while a select few, from the state of the healing scars left behind, looked positively diabolical.
Before she even realised it, her finger was tracing lightly through a rough canyon of scar tissue that went diagonally across his muscled pectoral. Dead on her feet, Aristriel entered into a trance like state fuelled by exhaustion and light-headedness from the psychic tribulation.
It was only when the mon'keigh started to writhe back and forth that the brief spell was broken. Sobering up in an instant, the banshee immediately sprang backwards, fearful that she had awakened him. He whispered half spoken words, in a helpless albeit groggy tone of voice, to the air.
He's having another nightmare. Aristriel deduced as the wave of negative emotions radiated off him like heat from the sun. Acting quickly, she decided to leave him to his troubled sleep and returned to where she had been sitting before. Casting one last worried glance at the squirming human, she too found herself also falling into a deep sleep.
Next morning, she awoke and found herself completely refreshed; ready for the journey ahead. Unlike her mon'keigh traveling companion, her slumber had been uneventful and calm. This did not last long; when she looked over to where she had left the mon'keigh, her heart stopped. The guardsman was gone along with all of his equipment. The calm permeating her mind evaporated like the dew in the morn as the reality of the situation became obvious.
Springing up in a burst of motion, Aristriel studied the entirety of their rotting sanctum, scanning the floor for any clues while her mind moved at the speed of light. The exhaustion from the healing process had robbed her of her usually keen senses allowing the mon'keigh to slink away into the early hours of the morning.
I heal him and he abandons me! Do these creatures know nothing of honour?
Gathering what little kit she had, Aristriel immediately extricated herself from the mossy refuge. Her mind was dominated by panic and promises of violence. As soon as she found that human she'd beat him within an inch of his life, that she swore by Asuryan's wrath.
Leniency and respect had failed to win the mon'keigh's compliance. Therefore, cruelty and brutal discipline would suffice; after all it was the only thing these pathetic savages knew. Their "commissars" were proof enough of that.
Pumping her limbs forward, Aristriel erupted out of the leafy hollow entrance and into the glorious sunlit morning. The mild winter air was the first thing to meet her, causing her to involuntarily release a cloud of vapour as she exhaled.
Aristriel shifted her head frantically from side to side, trying to determine the best heading to catch the treacherous human when suddenly something caught the corner of her eye. The banshee paused. In the little clearing a few yards from where she was standing, there was the mon'keigh, sat on a fallen log, bent over his stove patiently waiting for it to boil. At her sudden appearance, he looked up before giving her a curt nod.
The mon'keigh was wearing his helmet with the visor lifted up, and his rebreather hanging from his headgear. He looked haggard; dark and heavy bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. The nightmare had done its work, robbing him of his sleep; an astral thief in the night. Those grey eyes of his, piercing as always in their intensity, snuffed out her fiery rage.
The fury, that had previously enraptured her being, faded without protest. Her clenched fists relaxed as she smoothed her armour plates, playing off her previous behaviour like it wasn't out of the ordinary.
Aristriel could not help but feel an enormous amount of embarrassment at the assumptions she had made only a few moments ago. Not that she would take anything back of course, although, in future she would be more careful to jump to conclusions in regard to this human.
Her mind soon turned to other matters. The sun was only just about to crest the skyline far off in the distance which produced a truly magnificent view of the valley, now coated in a temporary blanket of gold.
It occurred to her that this was usually the time in which she would do her sword dance. Ever since she had joined the Howling Banshee Aspect Shrine, her life had consisted of endless training with the sword. Sunrise, zenith, and sunset; her blade would willingly leave her scabbard for a gruelling training session amongst her sword sisters.
No matter where she was, be it in Alaitoc or on campaign, the sword dance called to her to fulfil her endless training regime. In fact, so strong was her muscle memory that before she even realised it, her hand had gripped the pommel of her power sword.
Deep lines of thought etched his features as he mulled over various things in his mind. Two nightmares in a row, it had been so long since he had experienced that terrible occurrence. It was not until his third year in the Guard that the memories of what he had done had finally relented.
Now, it seemed like they were coming back with a vengeance. He had noted, however, that the nightmares that he was experiencing now were far more prolific than the ones he had experienced back then. There was a clarity to them as well that the older ones had lacked. The sense of fear was far more acute too.
What's gotten into me? Just rattled that's all. Too much to take in an' all at once. Locke reassured himself, in an effort to calm his nervous psyche. There were other thoughts too of course, bubbling away at his mind's periphery.
It's that fuckin' rock. There's somethin' off about it, look what it did to Doric! Locke forced the terrifying notions back. A man that followed outrageous ideas, more often than not, found himself on the path to ruin.
Shaking his head, he forced himself to shift his concentration back to the water in the stove that lapped around the MRE pack wedged into the tin. The stove was on full blast and yet it was taking an age to heat up the damned liquid.
Already he could feel his stomach rumbling; a clear demand for sustenance. He reflected on the fact, that not two days before he had been in the same position surrounded by his friends going about the same boring garrison duty that they had done for months on end. How quickly things change eh?
It was only when he heard the familiar sound of a sword being drawn did he look up. The alien stood at the edge of the clearing, stock still with her blade drawn in a classic swordsmen's pose. The longer he looked at her the more he found himself struck by her motionlessness. Time appeared to stand still around her when abruptly she sprang into life.
With grace and fluidity, she changed her bearing flawlessly. The xeno's body was perfectly balanced: her sword an extension of her arm, flashing as it caught the morning sun. The blade gleamed in brilliance as the alien put it through its paces: stabbing, thrusting and swiping at the empty air as she moved from stance to stance.
The banshee strode around the clearing where each step taken turned into another pose or sword form. An air of professionalism coloured her working, each pace: short, economical, and precise in its placements. The shear amount of discipline and muscle manipulation at the Eldar's disposal adroitly restrained her actions: controlling her balance with absolute dominance. This allowed her lithe body to twist and turn with the flow of the sword.
The speed at which she moved was remarkable, his eyes could scarcely follow her as she padded around the glade. In the space of a few heartbeats, the height of her guard had changed several times as her attitude shifted from offence to defence and back again.
Locke watched her, enthralled by her morning sword drill, for about half an hour until a burning sensation from his lower leg drew his attention away from the magnificent display in front of him. The water was finally boiling. Indignant at being ignored, the hot torrent of bubbles had spat a wad of scalding water at him.
Despite the minor stinging pain, he was glad that his food was ready as he moved to switch off the stove and open up the MRE packet. His face fell slightly at the watery fluorescent mush that stared back at him from inside the sachet.
Of all the sodding meals I could get, and I end up with sweet and sour grox. The galaxy is a fuckin' joke. He swore inwardly.
Spooning the Munitorum slop into his mess tin, he raised his head to find the alien sat across from him. Taken aback by her passive demonstration of stealth, he looked at where he had last seen her standing.
How in the seven hells of the abyss does she do that? Locke asked himself while the red lenses of her mask bored into him once again.
He swirled his compact fork through the horrible greasy mass that was laughably called food, a look of distaste plastered squarely on his visage. The smell of processed meat and limp vegetables wafted its way up to his nostrils. In the face of the vile gruel, he decided to procrastinate in the form of conversing with the alien.
"Quite a show ya put on, Xeno. You… uh, do that often then?" Locke asked, pointing with his fork at the xeno's sword.
The howling banshee's gaze nonchalantly turned to acknowledge her blade, but she said nothing. All the guardsman got in response was the vapour of her breath. Unsure as to how to proceed he changed the subject to other matters.
"I uh… well…" Locke briefly flicked his eyes towards her, noticing the dried blood on her fingers. "You… um… uh." He stuttered while the alien remained motionless. Embarrassed by his own sheepishness, he turned his eyes away and began scratching the back of his head.
"I just wanted t' say thanks for fixin' me shoulder." The guardsman blurted out, tapping his healed wound as he did so.
The xeno, understanding his meaning, gave him a brisk nod in response. It soon struck Locke, that this was the first true interaction that they'd actually had. Content that his words of thanks had been accepted, he soon set about filling his stomach as he shovelled the barely edible food into his mouth.
The eldar remained immobile, content to just sit and watch. However, after a few minutes of his mindless munching, Locke noticed that she deliberately moved her hand so that it was pressed against her abdomen. It didn't take a genius to work out what was wrong.
She's hungry. Makes sense I guess, never saw her eat anything. Doubt she's got any food on her either.
Locke swallowed the latest pile of sludge with a resounding gulp.
"Alright lass, ya want somethin' to eat?" The guardsman pointed to the yellowish food stuff swilling around his mess tin and then at her. She took a few seconds to respond, evidently weighing up the options in her mind.
What a choice, rancid yellow mush or starving to death?
Eventually she gave a small nod. It did occur to him that this probably counted as conspiring with a xeno; an act punishable by death… or worse. Despite the harsh accusations echoing from his nightmare, which he soundly ignored, he reasoned that by working with this xeno, he greatly increased the chance that high command would receive the artefact. It was a tenuous explanation, but it was the only thing separating him from being an Imperial fugitive, so he rolled with it.
Locke grabbed his spare mess tin and expertly spooned half of his food into it. Offering it to her, she took it graciously with a slight dip of the head in thanks. Just as he speared a greasy piece of unidentifiable meat onto his fork; a great realisation struck Locke. In order for her to eat anything, she would have to remove her helmet.
The idea of seeing the alien's face filled Locke with curiosity but also a deep sense of dread. He remembered how his friend Jaxx had described the eldar. The idea that he'd been travelling with some monster from a child's nightmare made him wince privately.
At present she was just a silent, faceless ghost with an unnerving mask. He certainly found it strange but at least he could tolerate it. However, knowing that the intimidating helmet hid the face of a dreadful beast was a great cause for concern.
Maybe I should look away? Give her some privacy? A click followed by a quiet hiss drew him back to the present as the xeno unhurriedly removed her war mask. Locke readied himself for the grim sight that he was undoubtedly about to witness. She elegantly lifted off the helmet from the front, the red plume of her war mask temporarily blocking his view as it billowed in the breeze.
He was about to shovel another spoonful of the sickening mush into his mouth when suddenly his arm went slack, and his mouth gaped open like a slack jawed oaf. His eyes grew wide at the creature before him. What he had thought she looked like in his mind's eye had been way off, by an incredible margin. A single thought flew through his mind.
Jaxx, you little bullshitter!
This was no foul monster from the abyss sitting in front of him, but a lovely fair maiden. Her hair was the colour of molten copper, done up lavishly in a large bun at the back of her head while her angelic visage was framed by thin bangs of hair running either side of her long-pointed ears.
An angular heart-shaped face complete with a thin Grecian nose flanked on either side by high cheek bones. A small mouth with full lips, no doubt she would be the envy of women in every high court across the galaxy.
The pale beauty before him was unbelievable but it was her eyes that captured his attention the most. Large glossy ovals stared back at him, her irises a lush green. The only blemish that detracted from her good looks was the open scorn with which she viewed him.
Locke, acknowledging her contempt tried not to stare and utterly failed. Her wondrous eyes, like two jade emeralds, tugged at him with all the power of a black hole. The xeno was slightly perturbed by his unyielding gaze, drawing back while a subtle hint of discomfort coloured her features.
Luckily, the loud ping of slop hitting Locke's mess tin defused the situation and finally drew his attention away. He had lost so much concentration that he hadn't even noticed his spoonful of mush sliding off his fork.
Bloody hell; calm down. Remember she's still an alien. He coughed to break the silence between them.
"Sorry 'bout staring, I've… uh… never seen an eldar without their headgear on before." He said apologetically, gesturing vaguely in her direction. Her mouth formed a hard line at his words whilst the rest of her face became an impassive mask. He could already hear Reverend Robynson berating him for his reaction to the alien.
"The alien is the epitome of an abomination, a sickening parody of human form. Those that consort with the alien are forever cast aside by the Emperor's holy light. Remember that, so when the day comes, you might introduce these fiends to the unity of man and the Emperor's mercy!" Locke played the sermon again and again through his mind to dampen his instinctual desires.
Of course, in the brief time that he had spent in the xeno's company, he had noticed the curvaceous features iconic of all women. At least prior to this reveal, he had always been able to temper those observations with the incorrect assumption that behind that mask was the face of a monstrosity. That was impossible now that he knew what she truly looked like. Part of him wished that she had kept her helmet on or taken the food off to eat somewhere else.
Unsure what to do, Locke decided that discretion was the better part of valour and averted his eyes away from her. Instead, he focused his attention on eating the sickening gruel in his mess tin as quickly as possible. Try as he might, curiosity would play upon his mind like a foul temptress.
After some time, he briefly glanced up at the xeno who was inspecting the foodstuff jiggling on her spoon. The guardsman couldn't help but be amused at the alien as she fought to keep her facial features in check. Her disgust was obvious.
"It gets easier after the first mouthful." Locke said, leaning in as he gestured at the rancid fare on her eating utensil. Her eyes flicked over to him once again. The intensity of her glare struck him as sure as a sledgehammer, causing him to reluctantly shy away from the contempt in her eyes.
Her burning gaze rested on him before moving back to the smelly focal point of her ire. The xeno's chest expanded before deflating dramatically as she let out a long sigh. Without warning she put the food in her mouth, freezing abruptly as the foul taste sent shivers down her spine. Locke could tell she was trying to maintain an air of haughty superiority which all but cracked.
Her left eye twitched as she smoothly pulled the spoon out from between those perfectly formed lips. Locke couldn't help but smile, every new guardsman reacted almost the same way to their first taste of MREs. Finally, she could no longer continue the charade, gagging whilst her cheeks took on a slight green tinge.
Locke, unable to contain his amusement, roared with laughter as he rocked back on his haunches. The xeno, assuming some sort of joke at her expense, drew her dagger and leapt at him, aiming the point towards his throat. Seeing the anger that lit up her face, the guardsman's mirth came to a swift end as he held up his hands in mock surrender. The threat of the small blade, uncomfortably close to his gullet, was only reinforced by her unwavering scowl.
"H-hey now." Locke stammered, "I didn't do anything to it, army food's always been crap. Swear on me old nan." Slowly he moved his hand down to his mess tin, watched closely by the infuriated alien. Locke scraped a bit of the foul slop from the bottom of the tin before eating it. The eldar's sword arm stayed motionless although she did raise an eyebrow.
Used to the taste as he was, Locke still squirmed from the salty bitter tang of clashing flavours. Her gorgeous eyes moved up and down in time with his chewing before finally settling as he swallowed. Still, she wasn't convinced, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
What a mistrustful bitch. Locke thought, rolling his eyes in disbelief. He opened his mouth wide to prove his innocence.
She took several seconds to probe the inside of his mouth with her gaze before she relented. Her dagger was withdrawn and placed back in its sheath. Locke relaxed visibly once he noticed her face return to its impassive state.
"Guess you eldar folks ain't big on havin' a laugh." The guardsman stated, distant in his intonation. The banshee, detecting another weak jest, shot him an irritated glance in response. Not wanting to antagonise each other any further, both of them consciously decided to stop wasting time and eat the remnants of the MRE pack.
It didn't come as any surprise that Locke was the first to finish his putrid breakfast with the xeno finishing hers a few minutes later. Eating the MRE had clearly been a toil to her but she seemed to calm once she had eaten it all.
Nevertheless, from Locke's perspective, a relaxed eldar was comparable to a human with a broom handle shoved up his arse. Smiling at his own joke, he set about breaking camp. Efficiently as any guardsman, it did not take the scout long to clean and pack away the mess tins and eating utensils.
"I've been thinking Xeno." Her harsh eyes fixed on him once again. "I think we need to go off an actual heading rather than just wander around blindly like we did before. Would you agree?" She responded by blowing a stray hair out of her face, a look of disinterest colouring expression. ,
"I'll take that as a yes." Locke sighed as he began rifling through his pack.
After several minutes without finding what he wanted, he shoved his whole arm into the bottomless pit of his backpack while he stared up at the sky with his tongue partially sticking out.
"Now unfortunately, I 'lost' my compass way back when... or at least that's what people said. Nothin' but bullshit, it was a thieving bastard in 3rd Platoon who did it, guy called Glenns, real nasty piece o' work. Face like a grox's minge." The eldar vaguely interested in the unusual actions of the guardsman cringed at the tone of his words.
"Anyway Xeno, luckily for us, we don't need it 'cause I'm a bloody genius." One by one he pulled out all the items he needed: his lighter, a needle from his sewing kit, his ceremonial bottle, and his tired old mess tin.
"Well, I say 'genius' but it was actually Adept Doric who showed me this neat little trick. You might have seen him when you dropped in uninvited, remember him? He was the unconscious bloke with the crazy hair lying on the table. No? Never mind then."
Leaning over Locke grabbed a large clump of snow and shoved it into his mess tin. His lighter made short-work of the snow, quickly turning it to liquid water. Locke placed the mess tin at his feet before grabbing his ceremonial bottle.
The presiding Archduke of Narvos presented every new guard recruit with a small bottle of laetius nuntio or 'laetius' for short. Locke had heard from a few people it was High Gothic but what it actually meant; he did not know. He rotated the tiny decanter, watching as the amber liquor flowed round.
The soldier stared down at the wondrously made glassware, admiring the painted golden decorations in the shape of fenwick ferns wreathed around the body of the glass flask. At its centre was the embossed emblem of Narvos: the yellow gryphon on a red shield with an unsheathed sword under its right paw. Locke remembered seeing the bottle for the first time; just one small part of his graduation ceremony.
It had been a beautiful day at the Narvosi capital, Maygard. The sun was shining with not a cloud in sight, the banners were unfurled, the crowds cheering as they marched through the city in their crisp parade uniforms. Women and children weaved in amongst them, giving out kisses and handing out flowers respectfully.
Mile after mile of joyous celebration, all the way until they reached the crystal palace where the newly elected Archduke met them with all the finery fitting a head of state. After the ceremony, the men of the replacement companies of the 195th light infantry drank themselves silly while helping themselves to the many whores in every brothel and tavern.
That felt like a lifetime ago now. Unlike many of his comrades in the 195th who had downed the ceremonial liquor as soon as they were dismissed, Locke had held onto his. He didn't really know why he never drank it as soon as he was able, but something at the back of his mind told him to hang onto it and so he had. For seven years, that bottle had been an indispensable part of his kit, enduring the same bumps, scrapes and near misses that he had.
Ironically though, it was the cork that he needed. He almost felt bad about opening it after how long he kept it with him. Once opened, the supposedly delicious alcohol wouldn't keep. With a reserved sigh he took the bottle in his hand, eyeing the intricately designed glasswork before pulling at the stopper. The cork came away with a squeaky pop that was so out of place in the forestry glade.
"Bottom's up." He said, raising the bottle to the banshee in mock merriment.
The amber liquor was strong and did an amazing job at erasing the foul after-taste of the MRE rations. Initially sweet with a hint of summer fruit flowed around his mouth and then down into his stomach where a welcome feeling of warmth blossomed from within. Out of respect, he covered his mouth as he coughed due to the burning sensation at the back of his throat.
"Bloody hell, that's the good stuff alright." Locke noticed the intrigue in the alien's eyes and quickly followed suit.
"You want a taste, Xeno?" The guardsman offered her the small bottle. She made no move to take it, hesitant to try any more of human cuisine.
"It'll get rid of the taste, promise." He said reassuringly. Coaxed by his softly spoken words she took the small beverage in a cautious manner. After a great deal of reluctance, she took a small sip of the drink. As soon as the liquor met her taste buds, her eyes went wide which made Locke chuckle. Restrained as she was, a wavering cough did escape before she handed the bottle of laetius back.
"Aye that's the stuff that'll put a hair on your chest." He chortled again as he accepted the offering.
Knocking back the rest of the draught he savoured the last bit of the drink before it was empty, placing it gently on the snowy ground. Sad that it was all gone, he took out the needle. The xeno was still recovering from her first interaction with alcohol when Locke started rubbing the sewing needle up and down his arm. The alien's face resumed its emotionless state, although her eyes were filled with a mixture of fascination and confusion in equal measure.
Noticing her interested look, Locke spoke up. "I'm trying to build up static in the needle."
After several minutes of massaging the needle, he guessed that it was ready. He then pushed the metal splint into the stopper and placed the combined item into the pool of water lapping inside the mess tin. The impaled cork initially sank before it bobbed gently back to the surface; rocking up and down as it floated around the mess tin.
Steadily, as if it were moved by an invisible hand, the plug began to swivel as the needle turned about. After several minutes of slow rotation, the needle came to rest on a singular point even as the cork continued to move around the mess tin. Locke gazed off into the distance, through the trees towards a far-off mountain range that was barely in view.
"Looks like we just got our new heading. That way is north." He explained, pointing into the distance. The eldar followed his hand before giving him a nod of understanding.
"The sun's arc from our perspective is in the northern sky. Assumin' that this world has a perpendicular axis to the rotation of the sun... then I think we're somewhere in the southern hemisphere." Locke clarified, beaming with pride that he had managed to remember one of Doric's boring lectures.
I hope the old miser is okay.
"If I'm right we should head north towards that mountain range over yonder, more chance of actually finding somebody. What d'ya think?"
The alien only loosely understood his intentions, but after some thought she reluctantly nodded at his suggestion before placing her helmet back on. Within quarter of an hour, they had broken camp without another word. The eldar led the way as was her habit.
There was quite the journey ahead of them, with a hell of a climb at the end of it, but in spite of this Locke was in high spirits. After all, things appeared to be looking up. They had evaded the orks, his shoulder was mended and now they had a clear destination in mind.
What could go wrong?
Review Responses:
FaraamKnight – Thank you very much, I will do.
Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R – Always good to hear. Hopefully this chapter will be more to your liking.
AncientofDayz – You sir, are a star. Thank you very much, I was close to ripping my hair out trying to find that picture.
York52 – I think growth through adversity is always the most interesting way to do romance. No, he's my own creation. I try to stay away from named characters as much as I can.
Aaron Black – Probably quite heretical. Not looking forward to writing that scene to be honest but there's a decent way to go until then so I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
LordSolarMattius – Thank you.
Jim Jimmy – Thank you very much. Hope you enjoy this chapter too.
Soothsayer – Glad you're enjoying it. Unfortunately, there will be quite a few chapters that involve dream sequences due to the nature of the magic Mcguffin.
Look2019 – Happy days.
Shadowfire12 – Thank you.
Guest – Thank you very much and I'm glad you're enjoying it. I really do spend a lot of time on each chapter so it's nice knowing that it's worth it. In fact, I think I've learned a huge amount in terms of writing. I reread the first chapter of this story every now and then. I usually end up comparing it to the latest chapter I've written; more and more I'm shocked at how much I've improved. Think I might have to redo the earlier chapters to bring them in line with the rest.
Guest – I definitely see where you're coming from. However, some of the best stories ever are ones that make us fall in love with the characters to only then kill them off or put them on a downward spiral. I'm still not sure which ending I'll go with, but I'll take your point into consideration.
Guest – Thank you and I understand what you mean. I really enjoyed 'That which is forbidden' however if I'm honest I didn't really think that story was very grimdark either. Now I love dark and gritty media so there is always the possibility that I've become de-sensitised to a lot of it. No not all of Chapter 10 was a dream sequence. If the writing is in the standard format then the scenes are taking place in real time. If the writing is in italics, this can mean a few things: Character's internal thoughts, memories, dream sequences or warp shenanigans. In that instance it was a dream sequence.
Cakes and lies – Thank you again, you're too kind. I know, I wish I had more time to write but unfortunately real-life stuff comes first. I'm hoping to try and get a chapter out per month however I am heading back to university soon so whether I'll be able to stick to this, I'm not sure. I think so as well, thank you very much for your criticism and I've altered the last few chapters because of your input.
