A/N: Time measurements utilized by Eldar are often kind of vague in novels, with various official authors using the same terms to sometimes signify different periods of time (or at least that was my impression while reading wh40k novels).
For the purpose of my story it would be as follow:
- cycle - craftworld's analogue to day
- longcycle - 40 cycles
- pass - 'year'; 10 longcycles
- arc - 100 passes
Numbers of the flickering echoes were dwindling, and so did the time we had to pick the fruits of their torment. Knowing that the opportunity to gather the spirit stones was passing, we redoubled our efforts, skills honed in pursuit of Khaine's art utilized to both save the future generations of the craftworld and to grant our wicked ancestors the sole chance at redemption they would ever receive.
+The enemy is upon us!+ Lirelle's mental warning reached me and utilizing the skills honed on my previous path I reflexively touched the minds of all Aeldari within my reach to pass the message.
And not a moment too soon, as some of those I brushed with were already forced to evade hail of bullets aimed their way. The mutants we have thought culled have returned in strength. The beasts were throwing themselves at us with wild abandon, more befitting orks than humans with whom they shared at least superficial similarities.
+With the heir's legacy retrieved, another obstacle presents itself for him and his entourage. Willing servants of the new regime? Or just fools, deceived by its lies?+ we all heard Amireth's narration.
The ethereal mist spread throughout the area, the shadowseer's sorcery bound to debilitate our enemies. However, even blinded, deaf and tormented by hallucinations, the hordes were pushing from all directions. They were dying in scores under the torrent of shuriken fire, unheeding of losses, forcing us to retreat against the tide.
To make things worse, not solely the mutants were swarming us; I caught a glimpse of a trio of troupers disengaging the horde, a grim-masked jester covering their retreat with a barrage of fire. Like a ship carried by the tide, a monstrous twisted caricature of a space marine charged through it, eagerly cutting and maiming allies unfortunate enough to come into his reach. Even covered by a haze of virulent toxins left in the wake of shrieker cannon's projectiles, the creature relentlessly run, throwing himself at the jester. The horde eagerly joined him, piling in a squirming mountain of bodies. Moments later a loud explosion scattered the mound with a shower of gore, and from an alcove another - or maybe the same? - Death Jester gave a mocking salute before retreating.
Guided by the warlock we moved to another part of the building, where a squad of Dire Avengers was being overwhelmed by even more mutants, this time joined by a group of revulsing daemonettes. With our timely assistance the enemy was pushed back to the entrance, and we quickly set into a fluid pattern of charging and fading, the enemy trying to breach the chokepoint constantly mowed by the shuriken fire of the other Aspect.
Stray shots from both sides reverberated all around us, crashing against the ancient walls of the abandoned temple. However, even as worn down as they were, they held strong. They survived for great arcs, and would remain standing for the next to come.
Our enemy has chosen this moment to prove me wrong. Unable to break through the entrance, they made their own. Lirelle's warning came just in time to let us disengage and retreat, our position engulfed in a cloud of wraithbone dust barely a heartbeat later. The sudden explosion ripped a hole inside the wall, and two hulking, humanoid walkers, covered with thick armor and equipped with heavy weapons charged through the breach. The Dire Avengers were in a worse position to react; two of them were too slow to scatter, and momentarily stunned by the explosion were mercilessly crushed by the machines.
Rhiodhna charged at the robots, ordering us to ignore them and continue thinning the hostile infantry. Soon she was joined by Cirith and Rhiel, the harlequins' silhouettes merely dazzling blurs of light, seemingly dancing along tightly-focused beams of intense, searing heat fired from fusion pistols of the nearby troupers.
The walkers' armor melted and liquefied on hit and the baleful intelligences governing their movements decided to stop futilely trying to crush the nimble, distracting combatants with their power-fists, instead choosing to aim their blasters against more threatening ranged attackers. Some of the troupers died, their bodies shredded into unrecognizable pieces but Rhiel utilized the opening to immediately leap on one of the automations, plunging his blade deep within its armored torso with unbelievable ease. Moments later the vehicle exploded, turning into useless chunks of metal.
Not far from the area where I fought, another space marine decided to bolster the forces of mutants assaulting us. Contrary to most of the Astartes we fought today, his armor wasn't purple, but mostly washed gray. Helmeted as he was, he might have even passed for the one still serving the Imperium.
I nudged the minds of the fellow banshees and four closest to me sprang forward as one. Our quintet broke through the enemy's ranks, Cailyth and Elain securing the flanks from the mob, with me leading the rest against the Astarte.
Our blades clashed, and I used the sheer strength of the marine's parry to redirect my momentum, twisting mid-air to avoid being stabbed by his off-hand sword. The speed of his counterattack blindsided me, but it shouldn't have mattered; through committing to attacking me he left himself wide open to attacks coming from the two banshees following me.
I could have sworn that I heard an annoyed 'tsk' amplified by his helmet's voice modulator when the warrior's blade missed me by inches, and the marine's stance suddenly shifted. Too slow to dodge or parry the incoming attack, he positioned himself to receive only a glancing blow on his armor. Without stopping, he lunged against the third banshee, locking their blades for a moment, before almost contemptuously slamming her with his armored fist, sending the eldar back a few paces. An opportunity quickly exploited by nearby mutants, who managed to kill her before either Cailyth or Elain could react.
The skirmish with the Astarte required my complete attention. Despite there still being two of us attacking him, he was always able to match our attacks. We tried striking from the front and flanks, brief clashes interrupted by moments of respite meant to break his peace before springing to action again.
We expected him to be overwhelmed in mere moments, but the Astarte turned out to be a much better swordsman than others of his kind. Leagues beyond what his chaos corrupted brethren had demonstrated earlier today.
I wasn't the only one who appreciated the opponent's skill; soon our skirmish was joined by another Aeldari. Having deemed the opponent worthy, the Exarch of Dire Avengers abandoned his ranged weapon in favor of his Diresword.
If I earlier thought that the human was a good swordsman, I was proven wrong. What he had demonstrated against us must have been merely probing strikes, judging by vicious attacks he performed when confronted by the Exarch. Their duel was becoming more fierce with each heartbeat, and soon any meaningful assistance we were able to provide was limited to joining remaining banshees in keeping the mutants at bay. I could only catch glimpses of the fight, the combatants almost too fast to follow their movements. Precise and graceful katas of the Exarch were countered by savage and brutal strikes of the Space Marine, who slowly, but surely was gaining the advantage. Finally, his strike broke through the Exarch's garde, his wraithbone armor unable to stop the blade from reaching his heart.
As he fell dead, a part of me guided by anger wanted to enact revenge on the Astarte. The warrior-me, seeker of challenges, yearned for another chance of clashing the blade against him. Even if a rational part of my mind knew the almost certain outcome of such a fight.
However, letting the marine continue unopposed would allow him to push towards positions occupied by the Dire Avengers. Would I be able to at least stall him for long enough for our Exarch or the Troupe Master to finish off the second automation? The walker was slowly but surely being taken down, it shouldn't be long.
Ultimately, the decision was made by Rhiel, who leaped towards the marine. I had a few opportunities to observe the harlequin's bladework earlier, and it wasn't something I'd call exceptional. The Astarte easily moved to intercept his attack preparing for a deadly counter, but was caught off-guard by Rhiel's weapon simply cutting through his blade. The harlequin pressed on, and the marine hesitantly gave ground, obviously wary of the weapon. He adapted, no longer attempting to block the strikes nor to receive them with his armor, evading them instead. Whenever he committed to his attack and saw the harlequin trying to block it, he halted the blade and feinted. However, as handicapped as the enemy was, the only thing Rhiel achieved was pushing him a little bit back.
Had the Exarch fought with his weapon - or even myself - the fight would be one sided instead of even. Curiously, even warrior-me hadn't desired for such an outcome. The sensation of overwhelming burden I felt when Rhiel picked the blade from the altar was still fresh, giving birth to a deep rooted conviction that the treasure was cursed and wielding it not something to be envied.
+The tide of the enemy won't stop until we are all drowned by them,+ Lirelle projected. +With each heartbeat that we struggle here, we are more certain to garner the attention of the True Enemy.+
+So you shall have your wish, Warlock,+ the Troupe Master answered. +Break the seals on the Gate. Retreat. And pray that Cegorach helps us.+
With the marine still focused on Rhiel, I had just enough time to retrieve the Spirit Stones of the Exarch and to pick his Diresword. I vaguely felt displeasure originating from the soul housed within it, but the promise of returning it to its Shrine calmed the dead.
However, both the body of our fallen sister and those of the fallen Dire Avengers were already too far behind the enemy lines; if we tried to pick their waystones, we would have surely shared their fate.
Being the warriors, they all knew the risks, yet even my War Mask was not able to prevent me from muttering a silent prayer for their lost souls.
We continued to delay the enemy until Rhiodhna ordered us to disengage and dash towards the Webway Portal. Silvery mist of cover fire from remaining Aeldari engulfed us, deadly shurikens passing us by a hair's-breadth in a masterful display of accuracy. Wails of mutants chasing us were joined by those produced by harlequins' shrieker cannons, accompanied by staccato explosions of plasma grenades. On our heels Rhiel was madly laughing while performing an impossible display of airborne acrobacy, the harlequin's opponent separated by a proverbial sea of daemons and mutants that the trouper was now using as his stepping stones.
We passed the lines of Aeldari arranged around the now active Webway Gate and were one of the first to enter it.
The webway that greeted us was wrong.
I swayed, caught by a sudden, immaterial burden. The crushing pain radiated from my Spirit Stone, the gem glowing with baleful, crimson light. A dreamstone, embedded close to it behaved similarly, the strain on it even more obvious. In just a few heartbeats minuscule cracks were spreading throughout it, tiny specks of dust falling from the gem, the stone slowly, but relentlessly crushed.
I momentarily closed my eyes, but it did little to help me forget what I already saw in front of me.
This part of the Webway was neither a corridor of color and light, nor a nexus serving as a city. Not anymore, at least. The surface around the Gate was a familiar platform of light, but after a handful of meters it suddenly ended. All around us shattered pieces of tunnels floated, upside-down or vertically, spreading in every direction. All broken, hovering bare open to the Immaterium.
And even if we were submerged only in its outermost layer, the sight was still maddeningly breathtaking.
I found myself standing at the edge of the platform, not remembering walking forward nor opening my eyes. I was staring into the Skein once more, kaleidoscoping patterns of intricate unlight playing across my vision. They unfolded before me, currents and pathways, omens and portents, alien landscapes and twisted, but familiar places, hallucinations and dreams more vivid than any I experienced during my time as a Dreamer. The cracks continued to spread throughout my dreamstone as it struggled to layer a framework of order between insanity of the Warp and my mind, but I was beyond caring about it anymore.
Sea of Souls, it was called in the old stories, and as I took the sight I thought I was close to genuinely understanding its name. The urge to take just take another step, let go of the body, truly unchain Mind from the shackles of Form. To let it become one with the Skein, cross it unbound by the physical. Not for the first time, but once more.
Something in the Skein was calling to me, stirring a yearning inside I never knew existed.
It wasn't a looming presence, vaguely felt far away; a blinding, cold, merciless light unable to be pinpointed. Nor was it the thunderous roar of the Eye that surrounded us, nor the reverberating anguish of its twin.
Those, while potent and forlorn, all laid superficially, and what called to me was elsewhere. Not so close, not where the Taint was still trying to suffocate everything. It awaited deeper, much much deeper…
A smack to the head broke me from my reverie.
"Don't stare at the madness, follow my footsteps," the Troupe Master said. "We need to reach a different part of the Webway quickly."
He passed me without sparing another glance, leaping onto a platform a few meters in front of us.
I took a moment to reassert my War Mask, another part of my psyche busy with protective mantras I learned as a thought-talker. The sudden exposure to the Warp caught me unaware; now I let the seething fury of warrior-me encompass me, anger borne due to my momentarily weakness reflected back at it, my resentment forming another layer of protections from unbound sensations it promised.
I wasn't the only Asuryani affected by such lapse in control; some of the other warriors also had to be broken from their stupor by the intervention of harlequin troupers.
We've delayed for long enough; some of the more daring mutants emerged from the still active gate, along with the vanguard of the daemons.
I quickly joined the procession of Aeldari moving in the Troupe Master's wake. We leaped between shattered pieces of the Webway, doing our best to ignore allure of the broken landscapes conjured from the Skein. The trail he had chosen often required us to jump through seemingly impossible expanses of void; yet somehow the currents of this dimension always carried us forward. It was the easy vaults that turned out more deadly; small chasms whose crossing shouldn't pose an obstacle for any Aeldari, much less as fit as warriors or harlequins. However, it was those who inexplicably swallowed some unfortunates who never managed to reach the other end.
+Our presence is already sending ripples around. The pursuers we'll be the least of our worries soon.+
As if to emphasize Lirelle's warning, slowly but surely even more daemons started to appear in our vicinity. The glimmers of unlight began solidifying into matter, forming hideous caricatures the warpspawn wore as their bodies. Some we cut along the way, others solidified only after we passed them, joining our pursuers.
As we ran, with each step I could sense a grave danger approaching, the imminent feeling of doom vying for primacy along with the constantly present temptation to step from the path and plunge myself deep into the Skein. Were those solely my own feelings, or the denizens of the Immaterium were wearing down the protections layered onto my mind?
We've finally reached a length of a somewhat normally looking Webway corridor, when the Troupe Master suddenly stopped.
+No, this isn't a way.+
He turned and leaped back into shattered segments, with harlequins following him without hesitation. Unfortunately we, Aspect Warriors, were momentarily baffled by the need to return back to the broken part of the Webway. A second of hesitation, but it proved to be undoing for one of our sisters, who stayed in the corridor for a moment too long. She was about to leap back from it, but before she managed to, the corridor itself twisted and she found herself in a deathgrip of a colossal, pincered arm.
The fragment of the Webway was crumbling and squirming, layers of its broken wards straining to hold the creature at bay. While this particular region of the Webway was weakened, a part of its protections still worked. While lesser daemons were able to slip through the cracks in the wardings, this being was using its might to tore through them.
Even not truely manifested here yet, it easily broke our sister's body, filling our minds with her moribund agony and promising the same fate for us. Its presence engulfed us, like a shadow reaching for our souls. We all felt that to even try to oppose the creature was an exercise in futility, and that our only hope for survival was in finding a way to evade it.
+Foolish Eldar. You can run, but it won't change anything. I will feast upon your souls. Run, clinging to your hopes. It will only make your despair all the more exquisite when I crush your spirit.+
And the being knew it too, and was reveling in the perspective.
The Troupe Master led us to another more-or-less intact segment of the Webway. Even if he had decided to retreat from it too, it would be too late now; the daemon host was already short upon our heels.
We delved deeper into the passage. Soon it began to shake, ominous footsteps reverberating throughout. To make things worse, they were coming not only from the horde following us, but also from somewhere in front of us.
We took another twist of the corridor, and one more after this.
And then I saw it.
I immediately recognized the shape. Remembered the tales every Asuryani heard.
The feelings of revulsion and awe welled within the part of me that wasn't the warrior.
As if stirred from its sleepwalking trance by our presence, the massive construct stopped its measured walk, turning towards us with a grace and nimbleness rarely seen amongst wraithkind.
I had only a moment to take the sight of the ancient Wraithknight, one so venerable that any visible markings that could have signified affiliation with any specific craftworld had been washed away during his endless journey through the Webway. A heartbeat later its anemic peace was completely gone, the construct charging past us, its twin Deathshroud Cannons already projecting a dense cloud of monofilament wire onto approaching daemons. Warp energies forming meatskins of the forerunners were inconsequential to the might of the weapons, and scores of them were turned into unrecognizable ethereal gore with short lived moans of pained ecstasy.
The Webway behind us shuddered anew as the Skathach Wraithknight proceeded to unleash even more baleful energies against the invaders, and they responded, trying to bring the Webway Guardian down.
+It isn't the fight for mere mortals to interfere.+ Lirelle projected, urging us to continue. +They'll keep breaching the Webway as long as they'll see us as the prey that might be caught, don't tarry any longer.+
And thus our retreat continued, with the echoes of combat following us for countless Webway segments.
The harlequins continued to guide us through winding tunnels of the Webway, and eventually we lost the sight of our pursuers. A few cycles later the troupe led us to some Exodite World and promptly disappeared in a typical, harlequinish fashion. We would have been stranded here, in an unfamiliar part of the Webway, far from the routes utilized by Il'sariadhians, if not for Lirelle's ability to call upon a passing corsair vessel.
We were assured that the voidship, Lanathrialle, was affiliated with Biel-Tan, however I had doubts about this claim; while Amharoc, the vessel's captain, was a craftworlder outcast, most of her crew definitely originated from Commorragh.
Still, Lirelle foresaw them worthy of our trust and, with no alternatives presenting themselves in her scrying, we were forced to accept their services.
The toll they demanded for ferrying us back to our craftworld was truly outrageous; ten waystones for every passenger. The demanded price was enough to make us hear Khaine's song louder; with still vivid memories of brothers and sisters falling, some of whom lost their souls forever in our quest to retrieve them. Only the worst scum would so blatantly exploit their sacrifices, but would you expect better from the corsairs and Commorrites? However, beggars can't be choosers; and convinced by our warlock, we agreed to the terms.
Maybe it was due to our means of transportation or simply because of returning from chaos-tainted Crone Worlds, but when we finally reached Il'sariadh, the craftworld greeted us with distrust. As I was about to learn later, those two reasons were only minor factors leading to our quarantine by fellow Aspect Warriors who for cycles refused to even talk with us. Another quarter of longcycle passed until we were finally cleared to enter Il'sariadh and properly perform post-battle rites within our respective Shrines.
After removing the armor and completing prayers for our fallen sisters, those whose souls we managed to bring back and those who met their True Deaths, I felt at peace.
The warrior within me was satisfied. Yes, I felt his presence at the back of my mind, content but ever watchful. The experience of consciously wearing my War Mask granted me understanding; one won't achieve peace by becoming devoid of aggression, anger or fear. It was a naive dream. But they could be accepted, controlled, guided and given a purpose. Khaine's mark was upon me, as it was a part of every Aeldari. However it was no longer something that threatened to enslave nor to drown me.
I realized I was free to pursue other avenues of life. Moreover, I felt eager to do so. My dawning realization must have become visible to other Howling Banshees inside the Shrine.
Rhiodhna nodded, "You've learned to wear your Mask proudly, a thrill of battle contained within, your past life left behind. You also found your purpose beyond war, allowing you to remove it, and to become a new whole. Some would claim your Path is complete, but remember that Khaine's gift is never truly mastered. You tasted the perversity of happiness that is found only amid the carnage. You experienced the celebration for life that only comes with the closeness of death. You are sated now, but is the hunger truly gone? Leave your arments and go to the Craftworld. The Shrine is open, should you ever wish to return."
I said my farewells and was about to leave the Shrine when something prompted me to turn around.
"In time, the Bloody-Handed will reach for me again. I will join you then, sisters, once again," as soon as the words left my mouth I knew it wasn't merely a possibility, but a future that was eventually bound to happen.
And Khaine must have listened to me back then, because the time when I needed to don the War Mask again would come much faster than I believed...
Leaving the Shrine, I had my next Path already clear in my mind. I remembered the writings on Belial, the troves of knowledge that remained out of my reach due to my deficiencies. Something I wished to rectify. I was set upon becoming a scholar, a linguist more specifically. I would never again be denied learning something by a barrier as mundane as not knowing the language.
I touched a nearby node of Infinity Circuit, planning to ask for patronage in one of Il'sariadh's libraries, but as soon as I connected with it, I sensed familiar Asuryani reaching towards me.
Searlieth wished to meet me almost immediately; curious, as I remembered her telling me she'd be leaving for a 5 passes-long expedition; had they cut it short? Moreover, it wasn't just her, but also my parents and some of my friends. Their mental touches were also filled with barely restrained sense of collective relief; the feeling more pronounced than I'd expected it to be, especially from those who had journeyed the warrior's path before.
With my curiosity sufficiently peaked, we agreed to meet on a short notice in one of the more picturesque Domes which they reserved for the occasion. Arrangements for my new Path could wait a cycle or two, after all.
"Iriath! You are back!" Searlieth threw herself into my arms the moment I entered the dome. "We thought the worst happened…"
"Khaine was with me, my dear. The journey was hard and cruel, but I braved the challenges set before me. I left my blade and armor in the Shrine, ready to begin another Path," I said solemnly for the benefit of all Aeldari who gathered to greet me.
Then I took a better look at Searlieth, and cocked my head in a mixture of amusement and pride.
"I see you kept yourself busy over the past two longcycles, darling. It's been your fifth trading foray, and Eldren already recognize you as one of their own?" I gestured at her dress, one of her arms draped in an opulent sash which the members of the House used to proclaim their position within it. "It must be quite a story. I can't wait to hear it!"
Her expression became hesitant. As did expressions of others who heard me. Now that I had a moment to look at them more closely, it wasn't solely Searlieth who progressed on her Path; my parents wore robes signifying great mastery in their chosen disciplines, so did many of my friends, some of whom have already changed their Paths…
"Two longcycles…" she muttered, her pose full of disbelief.
"When Varael Praie returned with his crew and you weren't with them, we thought you had died," my father added, as if it explained their strange behavior.
"Ah, so they already returned? Good, for a moment I was afraid they might have been still waiting for us…"
"Yes, they did," Searlieth said dryly. "Like the true heroes of the craftworld, bearing a bountiful yield of waystones. So great that even with the apparent loss of the whole four Aspect Shrines the expedition is still remembered as one of the biggest successes in recent arcs."
"Even if the Seers refused to give us the clear answer about your whereabouts, it was hard to remain hopeful as the passes went by…" my mother said.
"Well, we had brought a fair amount of waystones too, even with those prince-cursed corsairs exerting us on the trip back… Wait! What with those passes?"
"Varael Praie returned 27 passes ago; he claimed that his journey took five longcycles."
It was my turn to stare at them in disbelief. It might have been an elaborate prank, yet I knew that it wouldn't be the strangest thing that could happen when the Warp was involved. Still, it was another thing to academically know something was possible, and another to really experience it.
A part of me kept refusing to believe it; it was hard to accept that I missed over a two dozen passes just like this. Another was glad it wasn't anything worse; after all we weren't humans or another pitiful, fleeting race; being displaced for such a measly amount of time had much lesser consequences for us.
However, out of all implications of the revelation, what constantly kept resurfacing in my mind was a certain mundane realization.
"If 27 passes have gone by since we left, it means I'm 112 passes old now. I missed my 1st arc-day!"