Fulfillment is conclusion. In a conflict, two forces clash; and when one achieves superiority over the other, the battle ends and the lines of a new one are drawn. But that moment, that ephemereal time of domination and triumph- that is when the struggle and pain become worth it.
But some conflicts, Autarch Steiroel knew, would never be worth it.
He stood now in his magificent control room. As his eyes glazed over the tapestries and sculptures that adorned the bridge, he recognized their beauty once more. The Eldar commander had been so focused on war that now, when he finally let his appreciation out, it was magnified thousandfold.
"Autarch? The Council wishes to talk to you."
Steiroel shrugged. "I wonder if they regret their foolishness? We will need to continue the war for Xartassax soon- the landers are already being prepared. Perhaps the Seer Council will bow down and apologize. I wouldn't count on it, but why else would they contact us at such a time?"
The moment was a decisive one. Despite the seers' promises, an unrestrained force of mon-keigh cultists was burning and looting the Exodite world of Xartassax at the very moment. But their forces had already been defeated in several key engagements, and the planet's native defenders had isolated the servants of the Great Enemy in their base camp- for now. The Eldar had to strike quickly. For instance, right after this discussion was finished.
The image of Farseer Sremmeh appeared on the view-screen.
"Autarch," he said without further deliberation, "we were mistaken. An overwhelming opposing force has landed on Xartassax. You can defeat it, but you are needed elsewhere. I repeat, retreat."
Steiroel scowled.
"And leave these innocents to their fate?" he near-screamed, no longer fighting to contain his anger by the wisdom of his Path.
"Yes! Ulthwe itself is in danger. Your casualties in taking Xartassax will be as great as the number of lives you save. I repeat-"
Steiroel smashed the screen.
"We depart. Now." he proclaimed to a stunned bridge.
Further preparations were quick, but the Autarch- was he still an Autarch, really?- ignored them. He walked towards the landers instead, desperately trying to contain his temper with the promise of coming victory.
It worked. The command of a Warhost was his, and he would need to use it well.
He entered the same lander as he had during the first, disastrous descent to Xartassax. Its other occupants consisted of a Dark Reaper Squad; Tagolles, the Exarch, Ekallae and Irpatoln. They had watched, together, the flames that covered Xartassax, the desperate battle to protect the lander, devoid of much strategy, the draconic rescue, the demolition of the first group of mon-keigh, the audience with the Greater Council of Xartassax, the clashes circumscribing the Exodite world, and finally this return to the ships before the final battle.
Now, they were watching the obsidian hull of the Voidline Wheel and the other ships in Steiroel's fleet recede into the distance, fading to the uniform black of the infinite sky.
"Have we taken the Path of the Outcast now?" Tagolles asked.
Steiroel was silent; he still didn't know for certain what he, they, had done. He knew only that it had been necessary.
The lander fell into the burning atmosphere of Xartassax- scalding to a less well-designed craft, to something made by an inferior race. But within Eldar handiwork, Steiroel felt completely secure.
No, he didn't feel secure. He was secure, and logically aware of it; but any feelings were bent toward the upcoming war.
The lander hurtled down, and then it was hurtling no more. The Eldar came to rest on solid ground. Tagolles opened the hatch again, but this time there was no gunfire, no sound of agony and death. Instead, a silver-black grove stood in front of the lander, and as Tagolles exited, a landscape of amazing hues was revealed to Steiroel. He could smell foul incense in the distance, likely from one of the traitors' campsites; but they were there, and he was here, and it was... perfect.
"The Exodites are able," Ekallae commented.
"That they are," Irpatoln replied, "but we must fight to protect their ability."
Craftworlds were full of great things, and so were Eldar ships; but something in the glory of a incomprehensibly large silica-metal sphere spinning around an even greater ball of hydrogen could not be replicated by sentient hands.
The Squad ceased the talk of beauty quickly, though, as they fanned out towards the stench of smoke. It was insidious, something more than mere flames; the taint of the Great Enemy, the unforseeable, was inherent to it, seeping through the system of Xartassax. The Warhost was purging that unstable system, freeing it of its corruption.
It was corruption uninvited by any Eldar hand: the Exodites were pure, purer than the Eldar of the Craftworlds. They had seen, not psychically but with logic, the future dusk of the Eldar Empire and fleed ahead of time. Logic was a massive tool, a blade to pierce madness; this was what had always been taught by the Craftworlds, and Steiroel agreed with it. He had not rebelled against Ulthwe.
Only the seers.
"Enemy approaching."
Tagolles' voice swerved Steiroel's mind back into the present and the forest in which he now found himself. Chiding himself for getting distracted, yet making sure not to sink into self-hatred, the Autarch took his cannon and fired at a rushing mon-keigh. The human fell back, even as the shot pierced two of his companions. Ekallae and Irpatoln finished off the rest of the troupe; Tagolles hadn't even lifted his weapon.
The Dark Reapers moved forth. Steiroel did not follow them. Instead, he snaked back through the forest, meeting Wapemm, an Exodite leader.
"The disaun are coming."
"They will be useful."
As Steiroel said that, a massive disaun's thunderous steps resounded far to the Outcast-Autarch's right. They were musical, in a sense, though the creature likely had no idea what music was.
More shooting was heard ahead.
"We are needed."
They ran. Steiroel's heavy weapon was resisting, but that was beside the point.
"The battle started eariler than I expected. Move your warriors to the left, join them with the disaun. I will go with you: the sounds of battle seem to be echoing from there."
He wanted to join the battle, but wasn't yet sure he was ready. Without readiness, there could be no success; but without confidence, his doom would be assured. Thus, the Eldar emerged into the clearing that housed the mon-keigh's camp, moments after the shooting had started.
The sight immediately clarified the cause. The divergence from plan had been caused by another disaun, its crew killed, being mounted by the cultists. Even now they were trying to brand its neck, while eldar snipers were attempting to slay the crew without harming the beast.
"Banshees, Scorpions, Spears, to me!"
The three levels of Warriors swung in, while Steiroel made a dash for the dreadnought. The reptile turned, its unending neck pivoting towards its future savior.
"Kill the despoilers!" Wapemm yelled, and Steiroel could not deny the sentiment.
Steiroel leaped onto the beast's neck in one movement, his wings correcting any mistake his body could have made. The Banshees and Scorpions crushed the ladder onto the tortured behemoth, simultaneously climbing it to get a fore-spot at the devastation. The cultists fought back, though, and irreplaceable losses were being suffered.
"Fire Dragons!"
A cloud of flame enveloped the back of the beast. It was a soft kind, too weak to kill the Eldar inside their armor or injure the disaun. It was quite hot enough, though, to mutilate the mon-keigh. The branders had long run away, jumping off the disaun's back rather than facing Steiroel. Only one stood uninjured; in pink-black armor, the perverted and twisted Space Marine jeered at Steiroel. He had a foot firmly embedded in the disaun's back.
"Good-bye," he proclaimed in some Gothic dialect or another.
Steiroel answered by shooting him in the stomach. The reaper launcher enclouded the superhuman, but he merely laughed. Taking off his helmet, he revealed a perfect face- an Eldar face.
"One of you xenos left this on the ground, and as I'd lost my own..."
"Fire Dragons," Steiroel responded.
As the crippled Space Marine collapsed, as the firestorm cleared, the Autarch gazed at the battlefield. It did not yet firmly belong to the Eldar- the disaun's disturbance had confused many. But his plans were undamaged, and the Warhost's forces were still positioned perfectly.
"Finish them!" Steiroel screamed, and rode the disaun into the cult's heart.
On an unforgotten, lightless sphere of bone and iron, at the edge of total ruin, two Farseers gazed at Steiroel's victory.
"He could have been a great help."
The other shrugged. "He will be, Cejeran. He will be."
Fulfillment is conclusion. In a conflict, two forces clash; and when one achieves superiority over the other, the battle ends and the lines of a new one are drawn. But that moment, that ephemereal time of domination and triumph- that is when the struggle and pain become worth it.
And the true worth of any clash is not known until long after it ends.