New chapter. As always, the next chapter is up on my P-a-t-r-e-o-n, here: h*t*t*p*s :/ w*w*w . p*a*t*r*e*o*n user - ? - u = 52718582 (remove the spaces and stars)
Khaine.
The Bloody-Handed One. The Master of War. The Lord of Murder.
Khaine, who had sought to annihilate her children to avoid his death and thus set in motion the very events that would bring about his downfall.
Khaine, who had tortured her and Kurnous for an eternity, trapping them in chains and subjecting them to torment even the gods dared not speak of.
Khaine, who had enslaved her brother, Vaul.
Khaine, her father.
Not in the mortal sense, of course. But her children had believed her to be the daughter of Morai-Heg and Khaine even before the War in Heaven, and so she was.
The nature of herself and her father had always been opposed, but she had not hated him, not truly, until the Sundering.
And as she looked upon his broken shard, it was as if millions of years had not passed since then. The wounds of the Sundering were as raw and bloody as they had ever been.
Daughter. The shard said, in words indecipherable to mortals. I am glad to see you, my kin.
Isha nearly struck at him then. She longed to destroy this shard, to erase every trace of his existence from the universe. How dare he show his face to her? How dare he be alive when everyone else was dead?
Why couldn't it be anyone but him?
"How dare you," She whispered, rage coiling like a serpent in her chest. "Glad to see me? You?"
I am. The shard affirmed calmly. To a mortal, the shard would have appeared as a burning titan of bronze and crimson, rage incarnate, clad in ancient armour.
But Isha saw beyond the surface, to a tall, pale-skinned elf, clad in long black robes inscribed with crimson runes. Those robes would have been the envy of the greatest and most wealthy mortals once, but now they were torn and ragged, marked with the blood of a god.
The creature that wore the robes was in no better condition. A hideous wound had been gouged across its face, destroying one eye and half its mouth. One arm was gone entirely, the black sleeve hanging limp and the other was a ruin, blood dripping still from the hand, burning as it fell on the floor.
But the eye that remained…that was exactly as she remembered it. A void of infinite darkness, absent utterly of anything resembling light or mercy.
This was a shard of her father's aspect as The Reaper of Souls. The Ender of Worlds.
Death.
It has been too long since we have spoken properly, daughter of mine. The shard continued. You have avoided me for many ages.
The aspect of Khaine that Isha had always found most difficult to deal with. It was always difficult to speak to her father, but it was easier when he was aggressive and callous, rough and furious.
But Khaine the Reaper was always serene in his rage and malice, and thus infinitely more difficult to deal with.
"We had nothing to speak of," She hissed at the shard.
Perhaps. But that has changed. Our kin are all dead, and now it is you and I alone who remain.
"And whose fault is that?" Isha spat. "Who was it that set in motion the events that would allow Lileath's prophecy to come to pass?"
Mine. The shard acknowledged, infuriating in its calm, unfazed by her anger despite its weakness. But the fact remains, you and I are all that remain of our kin. And you need my help.
"Your help?" Isha demanded, incensed. "Why would I ever need you? You tortured me and my husband, you enslaved my brother, and your pride and selfishness are the reason my family is dead!"
To slay the Abomination. You have grown lax over the ages since The War, daughter. But I am still Khaine. If you heal and restore me, then I will slay the monstrosity that your children birthed.
"I will never heal you," Isha snarled. "Never. I will fight and destroy the Abomination myself."
The shard paused for a moment, examining Isha closely.
…I see.
"See what?"
The shard was smiling now, revealing ruined, blood-stained black teeth. I see the rage in your heart, daughter. You have suppressed it, but it is there. I can see the thirst for blood and vengeance in you.
The shard laughed. You are my daughter after all, no matter how much you may wish to deny it. You may very well kill the abomination by yourself, but only if you embrace that.
Isha's eyes flashed, her hands trembling at the shard's words. The hate in her heart could no longer be contained, and so she let it pour out.
The shard had no time to speak before it was battered by the storm of icy winds her rage had become, cold enough to freeze the very stars, before her grief wrapped around it in chains, crystallizing into ice as dark and deep as the void, unbreakable even by the fragment of a god.
As she stood there in the frozen chamber, Isha wondered what it was she had been looking for when she came in here. Why had she let the shard speak instead of trapping it immediately?
Had she been hoping for some kind of catharsis?
For remorse?
Whatever it was, she had not found it.
Turning on her heel, Isha left the chamber. The ice would keep the shard sealed away from her children, and her children away from it.
She had other matters to tend to.
Making her way back up to the surface swiftly, Isha grimaced as she emerged and was once more struck by the Emperor's coldly burning light.
Her children had fled inside their buildings, hiding from the wrathful star hovering over their home, and she could feel the palpable aura of fear that hung over the entire Craftworld, even as it was mingled with the hope of her return.
Her children were happy to see her, but they were also afraid, confused at what had come with her.
"Mother?" Invaril asked. The bonesinger was pale as he braced himself against a wall for support, sweat making his hair stick to his scalp as he breathed heavily, but he still attempted to straighten at her appearance.
"There is no need," Isha said as he tried to bow, placing a hand on his shoulder to relieve some of the stress, quietly sending out a wave of her love across the Craftworld to mitigate the Emperor's presence. "You need not worry about the shard of the Bloody-Handed One any longer, I have dealt with it."
Despite his visible exhaustion, a burden seemed to lift from Invaril's shoulders at the moment. "Thank you, Mother," He whispered. "Thank you."
"Go, tell the council the news," Isha told him.
"What will you do, Mother?" Invaril asked, swinging from relief to fear in a moment, clearly afraid she was about to leave.
"I am not going anywhere," She told him reassuringly. "I will rejoin you all shortly, I simply need to speak to the Emperor first."
"Is it safe?" Invaril asked, his eyes shifting nervously yet unable to look at the false sun above, the light too hot and harsh even for an Eldar.
"He will not harm me," Isha said, with more confidence than she felt. But the Emperor had not struck at her when the vision first came, and she did not think he would do so now. "Now, go."
Before Invaril could protest any further, Isha rose into the air, flying towards the Emperor.
Even as she went, she sent waves of soothing love across the Craftworld as much as she could, but there was a limit to how much she could do. The Emperor's power surpassed hers, and she could not shield them from the effect of his influence entirely.
No, the only way this was going to end was if she talked him down.
As she approached the burning star, the flames swirled and crackled in response, preventing her from getting too close.
What do you want?
I need you to stop scaring my children. Isha answered, responding in kind to the way he was speaking, not with words, but with thought, with intent.
No.
This is unnecessary. Isha argued. You have already made your point, and they are afraid of you. Please, stop.
Their conversation would have been impossible for any observers to understand, nor should they have even attempted to do so. This was the language of the gods, their every gesture was the movement of a planet, every word the birth of a newborn star. They spoke not in mere mortal words, but through pure concepts and ideas, engraving their will upon the fabric of reality. Any mortal who tried to comprehend their talk would have had their mind shattered if they were lucky.
No.
Even if one of those wills was incredibly petulant.
These people are not a threat to you. Isha reiterated. They are refugees, the tattered remnants of mere trade vessels. Iyanden would never even be able to breach the many horrors that infest your Solar System, much less be able to fight against you.
Your people are legendary for their arrogance. I must make my point clear.
The Emperor's obstinacy was annoying, but at least he was responding in full sentences now.
Look at the Craftworld. Truly look at it. Do you think they are arrogant, or do you think they are afraid? I can feel their fear and despair, can't you?
…yes. The Emperor conceded though he was clearly reluctant. But that means nothing. The moment I leave, all their fear will fade. Your children spawned a Chaos God, their arrogance knows no bounds.
These are not pleasure cultists! Isha said, exasperated. You know this. They pose no threat to you or your people.
The Emperor said nothing, simply remaining as he was.
Isha sighed. This wasn't really about Iyanden, she knew. This was about her, and the fact that she had dared to breach the Emperor's trust, even in this small, harmless way.
She would not pretend at remorse. The Emperor would know she was lying, and she did not regret offering comfort and love to her children when they so desperately needed it.
But she did need to appease the Emperor.
What would you ask of me? She asked heavily. What do I need to do so that you will stop this?
The Emperor was silent for several long minutes as Isha waited anxiously for a response, praying he would not ask for anything too terrible.
At last, he responded.
Wraithbone. Teach me exactly how to make it.
Of course.
I also require cloned Thunder Warriors. Since you have insisted that Space Marines are a risk to produce, I require other soldiers to fill in the gap. A hundred thousand clones, fully grown, by this year's end.
Isha recoiled at the request. It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, but then she heard a prayer.
"Mama, please save us, please make the monster go away…"
It was the prayer of a child, too young to truly understand what was going on, only to be afraid and repeat the prayers of the adults around him.
…Very well.
Furthermore, I will require you to conquer one target for me. You will not hold back, you will not show unnecessary mercy or compassion, you will subjugate it, and if they refuse to kneel, you will annihilate them. If you breach any of these terms, your children will pay the price. Am I clear?
A heavy weight settled upon her shoulders, but Isha bowed her head. I understand.
…good.
The light faded away, until there was no longer a star in front of her, only the Emperor. But his eyes were still molten gold and cold fury was apparent in every line of his face.
"There will be other terms, but we can discuss those when we return to Terra." The Emperor said, speaking verbally at last. "You may go."
With those words, the Emperor vanished. He was not gone, Isha could feel him in the Warp, clashing with the daemons that dared approach him, sending thousands to a true death.
But he was out of sight of her children for now, at least.
Sighing in exhaustion, Isha started floating back down to the ground. Her children needed hope, comfort, and help, and Isha had to give it to them, as quickly as she could.
And prepare contingencies to ensure they would survive without her if the Emperor…if the worst came to pass.
Author's Note: This interpretation of Khaine and his titles is taken from Bane of Malekith, the third and final book in the Tyrion and Teclis trilogy by William King. In the novel, Khaine and Caledor Dragontamer engage in a metaphysical chess match on a higher plane, a reflection of the ongoing conflict between the Druchii and Asur.
Khaine is repeatedly referred to as Death in these scenes, appears mostly as I described him above (albeit obviously not wounded) and gracefully concedes defeat to Caledor at the end of the book.