Written while listening to Manowar. \m/

You are forsaken.

Andron sighed as long as his lungs would allow. He is a heretic, a blasphemous, filthy, treasonous heretic. Yet through the guilt storming in his mind, he feels another emotion begin to break through. He feels just, righteous, and clean. He feels more holy than he ever had as he burnt countless lives to ash. He has made a commitment, however. His life is now forfeit because he has chosen to spare the woman in front of him. His investment cannot go in vain, as surely his comrades… he is beginning to hate that… would find out. His lasrifle is still pointed at them.

She stares into his eyes, threatening to pull him from reality once again. He averts his gaze slightly, attempting to avoid her completely and, in an action that his body once again objects vehemently, lowers his weapon.

He looks back up to her, and relaxes his stance to a less threatening one, his rifle hanging at his side. She still weeps for the death of her kin. Andron's heart is wracked with guilt and sadness at the sight. He takes a step closer, now fully inside the room. She backs up against the wall opposite him, breathing faster. He stops his advance, a look of hurt on his face. To think that he is feared is no longer an empowering idea. Right now, he hates it. He raises both his hands in front of him in a calming gesture, and slowly reaches toward his back to unsling his rifle.

She sees his movement and gasps in horror at the evil of the human in front of her, deceiving her into thinking that she would be spared. She had abandoned the path of the warrior long ago, and as a follower of the path of the Artisan, remembered little of her past experiences as a Howling Banshee, her training and memories buried deep within the back of her mind, unable to be called upon on such short notice. This Mon'Kiegh was going to kill her in cold blood. She cannot say that she didn't expect it, however. She had little hope of surviving the war, and her time had come. Her only real fear was her fate after joining the Infinity Circuit. If it were destroyed, she would be consumed by She Who Thirsts. She closes her eyes and waits, knowing that fighting is a futile gesture being unarmed and nearly unclothed.

"I…"

Her eyes snap open. She sees him holding his rifle by the sling in the process of placing it on the ground, holding his other hand opened facing her. He places his lasrifle on the floor, the sound painfully loud in the oppressive silence between the two.

"I'm not going to shoot you,"

Andron feels like an absolute fool, trying to speak to a xenos in Low Gothic, but it is all he can muster. He tries to assume as unthreatening a stance and tone as possible. It seems to work, if only slightly. She removes herself from the wall and stands there, looking at him. He takes another step towards her. Their eyes lock. At this instant, there are only two people in their universe. Two people, supposed to be enemies, to kill and hurt one another, but destined to be something more. What was though impossible: peace between xenos and human, is being birthed into existence between these two torn souls in a maelstrom of pointless bloodshed.

It is evident that the Mon'Kiegh does not wish to harm her, though she cannot understand why. They were so simple-minded, devoted to their God-Emperor, doing anything and everything asked of them without question or hesitation. This one was different, however. He could have shot her; should have shot her, yet she was alive. The Mon'Kiegh looks nervous. It's ironic, given the fact that she is unarmed and unarmored. Doubts still linger in the back of her mind, however. She has seen the capacity that humans have for evil. He advances another step.

His heart is pounding. He feels like a damned fool, approaching a xenos with his lasrifle on the floor behind him. Still, what he is doing feels right, and he feels confident in his decision to make peace, if only this once, with what should be his enemy. He knows not if this is simply him trying to atone for the innocent lives he has taken before as part of the sledgehammer that is Imperial justice, but one thing is certain: he will bridge the gap between them both figuratively and literally. She holds her hand sheepishly on where his own heart would be, breaking eye contact and then restoring it once more. He cannot help but take note once more of how beautiful she is.

He is nearly within arm's reach. She is doubtful once again. She had never spoken to a human, or even interacted with one in any way other than killing. All she knows is that she stands a better chance here than with those outside. He holds out his hand.

Andron is approaching the end of his nerves, his mind a maelstrom of uncertainty. He has not the slightest idea what might transpire in the next minute. He realizes that this gesture is evidence of a faith even stronger than his faith in the Emperor. He has faith in good, in purity, and that is what he sees standing in front of him.

She looks at his hand. The entire world is shut out. The thunder of distant guns, the shriek of shuriken catapults miles away, and the bark of autocannon and stubber fire with the endless din of crackling lasgun shots. She swallows and takes a deep breath, holding it. She makes eye contact once more, and tentatively reaches out.

His hand begins to shake, and it takes all of his composure to keep his hand held out. The hairs on his fingers stand on end, and he feels the heat radiating from hers. The feeling of a presence on his fingertips grows stronger as the last centimeters of this millennia-old gap are closed. Their fingertips touch.

What is normally the most insignificant form of physical contact between any two Eldar, and most likely humans, feels like the most intimate act she can imagine. His fingertips are calloused and rough, his fingernails dirty. He retracts his fingers quickly with an almost inaudible gasp and moves once again to take hers. He slides his hand into further contact, their fingers running over each other.

He notes the contrast between them. His hands are gnarled, calloused, and dirty. Hers are immaculate, devoid of any imperfection, with skin smoother than anything he has ever felt before. Just like the rest of her: perfect. Their fingers begin to intertwine, the atmosphere of awkwardness finally beginning to dissipate. He looks at their hands, and then at her again, and gives a nervous huff of laughter. Her lips curve upward ever so slightly. They hold each other's hands, savoring a precious moment of total peace amidst the endless bloodletting that they have been forced to endure and partake in. There is no longer gunfire in the distance, or the thunder of Imperial guns indiscriminately hurling death into the Eldar forces and their homes. Only a young man, who has endured more horror than any should have to, who tries to atone for his sins, and a woman who, as her home burns, learns the true potential of forgiveness. It is the 41st millennium, and there is peace.