Isha waited as the ship of the Emperor approached; head and knees bowed. Hours passed, but she could feel the ever present weight of his gaze on her.

Meanwhile, her ancient mind cast out to remember what she could of the so-called Master of Mankind.

There were whispers that the Three, now Four, had always spoken of an Anathema to their existence. A thing that rejected them entirely, but was at the same time not seen as important as the Aeldari Pantheon.

It was a topic of small conversation among the Aeldari gods. A minor curiosity, a new primitive god thing of another newborn primitive race.

The one oddity it had was that it was not ever-present in the warp. There was no fiefdom of mankind in the Sea of Souls, no minor settlement.

'Lucky for the both of us that was.' Isha thought to herself, for with the Aeldari Pantheon gone the Sea of Souls was now the paradoxical Warp; nature changed by the shift in rulers from Pantheon to Ruinous Powers. Any lesser gods were most likely consumed by the Four, if they hadn't been eaten already. The Pantheon had lost interest during the long time of peace; the endlessly appearing and disappearing deities of lesser races quickly becoming repetitive and droll. Some of those more primitive gods were almost certainly devoured before the Three brought themselves to the Pantheon's gates.

Perhaps it was this tendency, to remain in the materium, that gave it so much power here, Isha mused.

Being eons older than humanity itself, Isha found the overbearing power this Emperor had to be confusing. With more followers, and greater age, her strength should have been above his. However, although far less terrifying than the aura Khaine gave off, she didn't dare to fight with the creature approaching her lightly.

Was it because of some sort of specialty? Some inherent nature to purge un-real from real? Did it find some artifact from the War in Heaven to empower itself?

'Does it even really belong to humanity?' She wondered, as there were many deceivers and usurpers who would take the myths and legends of others, eternally switching from one minor race to another, sucking them dry before moving to more numerous stocks.

'No.' She shook her head, thousands of years of memory playing through all at once. The Master of Mankind was a fickle being; appearing and disappearing at seemingly random moments in time, but usually appeared when mankind needed it most. Therefore, its nature was one of protection, or at least it should be. Its strange disappearance, during the Sundering of humanity and the loss of their artificial intelligence during the period they called the Old Night, did not fully fit its description. However, the Ruinous Powers and their minions had mysteriously reduced the number of attacks on the Pantheon during that time. Perhaps it was preoccupied preventing even greater threats?

The ship entered into geosynchronous orbit above her, and a lump built up in her throat as she remembered the infamous planet-killing weapons humanity has seemed to almost enjoy unleashing on one another.

'At the very least, this time it would be justified.' Isha thought to herself sardonically. What better place to kill an alien god? A dead world, with living dead citizens; victims of the psychic attack of that very god.

Then she felt the Emperor's presence shift to a much smaller transport vessel; still capable of carrying legions of soldiers, but magnitudes smaller than the orbiting dreadnought.

'At the very least, he seeks to meet me, face to face.' Isha allowed herself a small breath of relief, but she could still feel the oppressive walls and wards of psychic energy closing down around her. If anything, they were getting smaller, like a net being pulled in around her.

The way his power dodged the Necron pylons' effects concerned her. Surrounding the planet with wards was something she was able to do, before the Fall. But, to pull it in so tightly with no flutter or failing through the pylons' disruptive field was something she had never seen before. At the very least, it showed a much higher understanding of this ancient technology than her. Perhaps, it was that knowledge that granted him so much power outside the Warp.

A vestige of memory tugged at her mind; some rumor or tale that she's heard Khaine or Kurnous talk of somthing that happened near humanity's home. However, her attempts to remember were cut short as the Emperor's transport flew into view, a golden vessel with barely aerodynamic wings, held aloft by clunky grav-generators, jet engines, and noisy turbines.

Isha felt the proverbial hairs rise on the back of her neck. The hostile intent radiating from the Emperor had continued the entire way down. Was this some way to cow or threaten her?

Well, she snorted, the Master of Mankind had its specialities, and she had hers. If this was the only way it could think to bargain, then there ways to survive under it; undesirable as they were.

Dust and sand flew up as the vessel landed in front of her, and the side of the ship opened to reveal the golden forms of the Emperor's own soldiers in suits of bulky armor. A red tassel decorated their helm and the Imperium's mark, the aquila, was gilded onto their massive pauldrons.

Bolter-spears held in both hands, the Emperor's Custodes marched around her, surrounding her on all sides, before banging the butt of their spear into the ground in a united salute.

CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP

The footsteps of the Emperor echoed from the ship, before appearing from the top of the hatch. Only the bottom of his armored greaves were visible to Isha's lowered head.

But, all Isha could feel was her dilating pupils, and the small muscles under her skin tense; pulling up skin in goosebumps, as her heart began to race.

THUD THUD THUD

Metallic clanging turned into dull footsteps as the Emperor's feet stomped across the sand towards her.

As the Emperor approached, Isha's instincts screamed. Even as she bowed the knee and hung her head, she could sense no ceasing of his hostile intent.

'What would conflict between us serve?' She thought wildly to herself. Surely, it was better to parlay with her than slay her.

She lifted her head to lock eyes with him once more, and in that grim visage, she knew what he intended to do; and remembered the mocking voice of Khaine telling a story on some backwater planet.

—-

In the ancient past, before mankind had even reached the stars, an ancient enemy of all who lived awoke on the only planet man had. A single shard of the Void Dragon, Mag'ladroth, ancient Star God of the Necron; most powerful among their number and creator of the cursed green lightning that stripped matter apart. Its very presence was an existential threat to man, and so its protector rose to destroy it.

However, being of man itself, the protector was as cunning and crafty as any of its number.

Bringing the beast low with warp blast and flaming blows, he shackled it in great chains and then cast its mind into a deathly dream of empty victories and eternal battles. Forced to forever ponder methods of destroying potential enemies.

Then, the protector took the Dragon to the darkest depths of Mars, to the place they would name the Noctis Labrynthus. There the half-dead god would eternally dream, so men and women of similar mind could steal ideas and inspiration from its perpetual nightmare.

"Craftiness is but a sign of weakness!" Khaine snorted, finishing his tale. "Nothing can be learned from the mad-mind of those star-sucking parasites."

Beating his chest, Khaine rose, drawing the eyes of many gods. "We defeated them with our own power; our own skills, and Vaul's crafts. Let them learn of the weapons of our defeated enemies, and weep when our blades sing down upon them when they use them against us in their arrogance!"

Raucous laughter followed in her memoreies of the Pantheon, only to be reflected now in Isha's terror.

No wonder the Master of Mankind could use its powers within the dark pylons' field.

It had broken into the mind of the Star Gods greatest inventor; and taken the secrets it felt it needed.

The Master of Mankind did not intend to barter with her, but rip the very secrets out of her mind over the course of an endless sleep.

—-

As great chains of golden metal and red blood appeared around her, Isha lept back and sang the Wraithbone to form around her as her own mortal form shifted and cracked into a more war-like silhouette. Claws, fangs, and feline fur replaced the gentle willowy features that formed her; with legs and arms lengthening for greater reach and leverage.

The Custodes around her raised their spears, but lowered them again as the Emperor raised his taloned left hand. Then he leapt forward, with his flaming sword held in both hands raised high.

Isha sang a bone white spear, and swung with all her might only to have it shatter against the golden steel. But, the blow was deflected, and with the sword out of the way, Isha dove at the Emperor's throat with her mouth open wide; only to have a backhanded blow from a talonned fist strike her across the cheek, sending her sprawling to the ground.

Stunned, she barely had time to feel the chains bind her hands and feet, only waking as they dragged her battered form into the air.

As the sleeping spell that subdued the Dragon took form upon his blade, Isha let go of the flames of fury that changed her form, and cried out with one meaning from the depth of her heart.

Mercy.

Her voice sang of mothers covering their children as dark reavers raised their spears.

Mercy.

Fathers holding back shadowy forms, screaming to their spouse and children to run.

Mercy.

The cry of the poor, the sick, and the broken as the rich, proud, and powerful trod upon their backs.

Then the Emperor stabbed his blade under her ribs; tearing open the diaphragm, ending her song in a final pained gasp.

Isha gagged, as her lungs could no longer take in air, and then saw the blade inside her no longer glowed with the power of forced slumber and thought-stealing.

"It would do well…" The Emperor spoke calmly. "to silence yourself, Eldar."

Gasping for breath, she could not help but feel both an immense sense of relief and bitterness build up in her throat.

"Is the Master of Mankind, the Anathema that even the Four fear, so lacking in mercy to a desperate Mother's cry?" She whispered.

"Mercy is a tool to bind the fearful and desperate." He stated bluntly, and she felt the blade dig into her body a bit more

"Then…" she smiled bitterly. "it is fortuitous for us that I am both."

The Emperor tilted his head slightly before reaching down with his taloned hand, to grab the golden locks of hair upon Isha's head, dragging her up to his eye-level.

"Tools are only useful so long as they serve; and I doubt your species' pride will keep your head cowed for long."

A pained chuckle exited her mouth. Humans, so base, primitive, yet at the same time so painfully pragmatic and utilitarian.

"I will be fearful and desperate so long as the Four exist." She said with closed eyes, then looked at him. "What need of anyone will you have once they are gone?"

The Emperor's brow furrowed as he caught the double meaning of her words. He was the Protector of Humanity, only present for as long as he was needed, and later forgotten to the annals of history and legend. That was how he had always acted. Once mankind was safe from Chaos, and the echoes of its own Sundering; he would have no need for Isha as well as no need for himself either. That was, unless Isha gave him a reason to remain.

"Mark my words; Prideful Xeno." The first ghost of emotion colored his words.

"The time for man has come." Contempt, whispered in the tone of his voice. Angry that this alien anima made flesh had pointed out his purpose.

"Forever forget your dreams of grandeur and progress; and your people may live in my domain."

Isha winced as the Emperor's blade twisted slightly on the second to last word in his sentence.

"What choice do we have? It is the fate of empires to both rise and fall."

The Emperor snorted, once again understanding the double meaning of grudging acceptance and bitter warning in her words. His taloned hand let go of her golden hair, and she grimaced as she sagged back into his chains; causing the sword to move in the wound once again.

Suddenly, searing heat erupted from the blade, and she had one shock filled moment to gasp at him before golden flames seared her insides.

Then, the moment was gone and she was unceremoniously dropped to the ground with a thud as the chains fell apart; and the blade was pulled out of her body, leaving a golden scar.

"Then come." The Emperor spoke, as he turned back to his ship. "Your fate, and that of your people's will be decided in the morrow."

Isha glowered at him as she inspected the damage. This was no binding spell or curse; merely a tracking mark, a wisp of his power that would show where she was to him at all times.

'Of course.' She snorted to herself. 'Bested and broken, with nothing but enemies on all sides. Why waste the power on someone with no-where to go.'

Even if she went to the last ever-laughing Clown God, she was just as likely to be shunned, if not find only ghostly guffaws and empty stands. For the Emperor could track her through even the labyrinth of the Webway; and Cegorach was always the surprise and not the surprised.

Slowly, she picked herself up off the ground, and limped after him. The Emperor only paused once to give her a sideways look before striding forwards again. No doubt, bemused and annoyed by the obvious appearance of weakness she was portraying.

'Arrogant pup.' Isha thought, but swiftly silenced the growing growl in her throat. The Emperor was the Protector of Man. He could show no weakness. She was the Goddess of Life, and the gentle carer of the unfortunate. Weakness was a part of her, as much as strength was his. Not to mention the battle moments before had sapped most of her strength. Better to store what she had left, and let the non-lethal wounds heal naturally.

Cold metal sapped the warmth from her bare, dusty feet as she finally entered the ship of the Emperor; the golden retinue of Custodes marching past her on either side as the hatch closed shut behind them.

For now, she would be the obedient tree in the orchard, delivering harvest at season's end. But, even the most docile flower only needed a few generations in the wild to develop the spiniest thorns.

The biting cold of the wretched Warp that had been her home, had forced the fate of her people beneath the ground. But, this was merely the beginning of a long winter. Many seeds would die, but when spring comes those that remain would regain some shadow of their previous growth and grandeur.

At least, that was what she hoped.

If time was cyclical in nature, then the least it could do was repeat the good and bad in equal measure.

—-

—-

In the depths of the Webway, Cegorach was laughing as Isha had imagined.
Cruelty and suffering were but two parts of comedy. Deadpan and slapstick; and reality TV if a more modern media was required.

As the Clown God laughed, a single Harlequin twirled and rhymed before it.

'Immortal man and mortal god,
striving to break Chaos's great rot,

But bitter foe and bitter slave
What precarious friends they make

Care not does he whether she lives or dies,
but to give Chaos such a prize would be most unwise.

So, tally ho my performers so,
Let mother Isha's blessings flow!'

And the empty audience murmured with whispers of various scripts and shenanigans.

Farcical, satirical, and restorative comedy were all brought up, with the last one being treated with equal measures of mockery and muffled laughter.
One actor was both while the other was neither.

Theaters of Cruelty, and the Absurd came second, but the leering crescent mask of the Mad God sent those suggesters scurrying.

In the end, the muses were muted and only the disappointed snigger of the First Fool echoed across the stage, as the sole Harlequin stamped its feet in mock frustration.

'Let the 12th live.' A revolting scratching voice, like nails on rotten floorboards, echoed in the theater leaving a moment of silence before more hurried whispers filled the stands. 'Give him the Sword of War, and let different slaughter fill his blood.'

A series of act-like gasps erupted across the room, and the Great Clown fell backwards off its feet in raucous laughter; the Harlequin bowing in thanks in its master's stead.

A great gamble had been made, threatening the separate tortures of two different gods. But, what does a damned race have to lose?