Threads shifted and wobbled like all things the master of labyrinthine fortress commanded. it shifted and changed, it remained and remade itself, like an ever changing pathway with uncountable choices, infinite trails, unending choices.
It laughed. How many things, paths before bound to a poor but still hilarious choice, were now free to fly in the sea until it happened. like threads that had been untangled and now free from the glorious prison of stagnation as it was slowly woven into a piece of glorious change, glorious fate. An artist erasing a note and putting another. Like an architect correcting a calculation in the building it had been designing, a building of eternities, a building who would take eternity and more to be finished.
It laughed. The many paths had now untangled thanks to the actions of an anomaly. An anomaly who was bound by his mortal mind, and freed through the darkness´s desire.
It laughed. Oh how many schemes did he craft, that mortal? One? Oh not a chance. Ten? Perhaps but no. Hundred? Two-hundred? He laughed. That did not matter, as long as it schemed. As long as the schemes he crafted, even as poor as they were, led to the Anathema´s ruin as it would. Whether he wished or not.
It laughed. Prideful that all things would go according to plan, real or imagined, truthful or liable. As long as the game went on he simply laughed. A new player had joined, the least and the lesser, yet he had joined the Great Game, unknowingly or knowingly, whether it like it or not. The Board would be reset soon, his brothers screaming in anger when they finally realized that. That the Rapturous Sensation would always be denied its perfect prince just as the would be Malevolent Artificer would be denied its staunchest bitter companion. Nothing of that matters. All that mattered was that the least had brought great joy to the Infernal Tempest.
It laughed. The Infernal Tempest simply laughed. For nine centuries, for nine years, for nine months, for nine days, for nine hours, nine minutes or for simply nine seconds. It simply laughed, the sea projecting it through the eternity realized and unrealised. In the end, it simply laughed.
Melkor eyed the hololithic display silently. He was not aboard the Nightfall, Konrad had taken his vessel for his own errand, instead Melkor had chosen Dusk´s Daughter, the Legion´s second chapter flagship. Equerry Shang´s flagship. For more than just being an Equerry, Shang was also a Lord Commander, according to the writings of the Principia Belicosa, the text which all space marine legions took as the basis for their organization. Written long before mankind sought the stars, the master of mankind took inspiration out of it for the basic organization of the Legiones Astartes.
All legions would diverge in some manner from the book, be it the various wings that the Angels of Darkness hold, the Great Companies the wolves of Fenris hold, or the simply naming nomenclature many legions employ. Such as the claws for squads in the eighth. If any legion kept the original organization and nomenclature perhaps only the Ultramarines and even then Melkor was not sure.
Besides the mortal was a stack of papers, books, dataslates and drafts. He felt his eyes heavy, he hadn't yet slept. He had been working for nearly half a day. He had eaten and done everything to stave off collapse, except drink the caffeine he despised. He pushed through. He simply pushed through, thanks to the sheer determination. He could not fail Curze. This was the moment to show the wider legion that he was more than a simple pet of their lord, like the Sineater. This was the moment, to seize some respect out of this pack of murderers and if he could not fight them to seize he would impress them with something else. With a plan.
That was why he hadn't slept, that was why he could have collapsed any moment now. After all sleep is required for the frail body of a mortal to remain alive, to remain functional.
"Dammit," he said, frustration seeping him. He flung his arm instinctively, the motion sharp and aimless, as if striking the air itself might shatter the weight of his anger. To hit something to vent it all out. Fortunately he hit nothing, and the mere motion, the mere flinging of his arm was enough. He reigned himself in. He couldn't fall into frustration, he had something to achieve. He had to succeed, for himself. To be more than tolerated. To finally stand among monsters as something worth their regard.
He turned to the pillar of books. The most basic of them all, the Art of War, thought to have been written by a Chinese general in the spring and autumn period. He opened it on a random page.
All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.
He brought his hand to his eyes. He rubbed them. His eyes being like blocks of stone held back from the floor by the barest of strength.
His breathing slowed, his eyes closed, his body relaxed against a comfortable chair he had brought to the hololithic chamber for the express purpose of not standing up always. He slowly inhaled, he slowly exhaled. His chest rose slightly and fell down slightly. He had fallen asleep. Oblivion had claimed him, for now.
He saw stone, he imagined the walls he would have to breach, unyielding, he saw the batteries who would scream at the sky in defiance to the Imperium. He saw in his mind's eye, a poor imagination of his obstacle, of his great foe. If the legion´s reputation alone would not break them then war would have to, and he had to have the way to wage it prepared before even reaching those worlds.
He had to conquer 1 star system, 3 worlds around the galactic core. Curze had graciously provided him with a very big hammer, the equivalent of an entire chapter of the eight Legion, alongside their fleet elements. From the eleventh to the nineteenth alongside the forty-fifth companies, around a thousand space marines in total. That was a big hammer, a very big hammer for this compliance, and if he failed there would be no repairing to Melkor´s reputation amongst the legionnaires. He would forever be dependent on Curze´s favor in the legion. Perhaps that had been why he had gave him so many resources.
He wanted him to not fail, but if he did, his failure would be absolute. Primarchs and their politics.
"Help." A whisper filled his mind. One filled with strange warmth, a whisper dragged through the gates of eternity, unknown yet infinitely familiar, like a friend's offer, or a parent´s embrace.
"Help…" The voice repeated again. dragging itself over time itself. "You only need to ask" there was a small flicker of tender laughter, of appreciative attention.
His eyes blinked, confused, as if his sleep had lasted for less than a second yet he felt as if it had been dragged into infinity. He was rested, more rested than he had felt in a week's worth of careful, tiring work. He remembered the wall, the gun batteries, looking over them and the warmth coming over him, but nothing more. It was a good feeling, an exquisite feeling. But whatever caused it he did not know. He did not remember.
He had been far too tired to feel the subtle thing that it was. He discarded the thoughts of it. It must have been his imagination. A mind far too tired compensating far too well in a single night, clearing everything, vacuuming all of the unnecessary things in his mind as his body cleansed his body during his rest.
All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.
He read again as his eyes glazed at the ink stained pages. Something came to his mind, something very much not Night Lordish. Something far more Corax´s instead of Curze´s
The First Axiom of Victory is to be other than where the enemy desires you to be.
These worlds were heavily fortified, so they would not play a siege. An insertion would be far easier. Unleash a company's worth of Night Lords in a Hive city, now the question is how?
The First Axiom of Stealth is to be other than where the enemy believes you to be.
The cities would be prepared for a mass siege. He would give them a siege. Alongside the legionnaires there were the auxiliary compliments of the Nostraman raised Solar Auxilia regiments, the Nostraman Damnatii. All legions are masters of warfare, whatever kind it may be. The eighth could do the grueling attrition warfare the fourth was known for, sure they were not as adept as they were, and they would not enjoy it at all but they could. So if the Hive city wishes for a siege, he will give them a siege. Something to distract them. To delight them until their delight is stolen from under the cries of their children, their brothers and wives flayed corpses hanging in the sky for the crows to eat.
The Axioms belonged to the Raven Lord, the plan to the mortal, and the executioners would be the Lords of Night. Melkor was not bound to any legion´s preference, sure he had his own idea on how war should be waged, a theoretical that seeped into the practical of this simple plan, but he still did end up with a plan relatively Night Lordish even if what came to his mind in his moment was the legion the Primarch Curze most hated. Ironic isn't it? That those they are, that he is most similar to, is also the one he hates the most. Perhaps that might change with some time, now that his outlook changed, but still. It was curious wasn't it?.
He would present it to the Kyroptera soon, first he would present it to Sevetarion, the Equerry, Malcharion and Naraka. Their experience in war was far too useful to not use.
Sevetar did not care about him, he was there due to his Lord´s orders, Shang he did not know, but he couldn't shake the idea that perhaps he respected him slightly, same as Malcharion, and Naraka, the now "Bloodless", having obtained his epithet in the two and a half years when Melkor had been quietly sleeping in a stasis chamber thanks to Fulgrim´s blade.
Thanks to the damned Laer Blade.
The third son eyed the absolute perfection of the blade. It was of silver, it was after all, the Silver Blade of Laeren, it held a gem of glorious royal purple on his handle. It was absolutely glorious. Only Fireblade could compare to it, but simple appreciation was not why the Phoenician was staring at it at this moment.
Precisely two years and eight months since Melkor had fallen to the floor for seemingly gazing at the Laer Blade.
It was impossible for it to be the cause of it. Yet there had not been any other external factor, he was there he witnessed the moment and his gene-forged physiology hadn't noticed anything else, he had reviewed the security footage and hadn't noticed anything else, had checked his medical exams undertaken after the wound and nothing else had been noticed. That frustrated the Phoenician.
He picked the blade, it was cold, the softness of the handle perfectly sized for his hand. Nothing seemed to happen, it seemed just an exquisite Xenos artifact, a blade perfectly balanced and even in its weight. Still there seemed to be nothing wrong with it. Whatever had happened to Melkor was strange undoubtedly but it hadn't been his fault, his frustrations were unwarranted.
He laid it again on the pedestal, he had more to do than search for the cause of a mortal's wound. He had more to do than to indulge this fear that clawed the back of his mind. The fear that he had been the cause of it, that he had wounded his brother´s first attempt to reach out in many, many years. He had more to do.
The Nighthaunter stared at the world below. It was cold, it was gray, it was sunless. It almost seemed devoid of life, the spires of five equatorial hives the world possessed were clouded beneath a thick blanket of pollution, but not for the streak of molten flame that run from the north pole to the south, covering the two thirds of the distance to the southern pole. It was a fault line that tended to widen and shrink as days went by.
He remembered vividly the molten flame, the lava river so close to where his pod had landed. Even at the first moment in this world he had been so close to dying.
He sighed. Around him, the command deck hummed with routine activity, the subdued murmur of orders, the faint clatter of instruments, and the occasional glance toward their silent Primarch.
His first memory had been of a man seeking to eat him. To eat a baby, in the wasteland many kilometers away from Quintos´ city edge. He closed his eyes for a moment, pondering.
Melkor would ask him to give Nostramo a chance. Saying that his method was not good enough, that he did not balance the scale of justice properly. He had said it before, advising him to seek his brother's help, Roboute´s or even Corvus´, but he did not know.
Should he display that weakness to one of his siblings? To confess that his methods alone were not enough, to suffer the humiliation that would most likely come from it, when he spoke the words that his homeworld was about to rebel against him. Not even against the Imperium, against him.
He breathed deeply, imagining the scene happening in his mind. It was not something that pleased him, not in the least.
He slowly opened his eyes again, the world was turning slowly, as if nothing mattered to it. As if it would accept damnation or salvation with cold acceptance. It spinned glacially slowly, circling the distant cold red star that it orbited.
He hated this world. He could feel it in heart, the desire to destroy it. It had already done something no other world had ever dared to, to poison a legion, and soon he knew it would defy him. Declare a war on the Nighthaunter while shielding itself under the banner of the Emperor´s protection. His palm clenched the armchair with the disgust of the plan. THEY. They had crowned him. They were the ones to place the damned Corona Nox on his lap.
They had been sniveling cowards, yet they were the ones to place the damned Corona Nox upon him, and now they rebelled as if they did not know what would come unto them. What nightmare they were inviting.
It was raining, like always it was raining on this accursed world. He sneered as he stared down from atop the highest spire of the Hive. Quintos was silent, or rather it should be. He had been there for ten minutes and the screams, the gunshots, the cries he could hear in the hive city. In HIS hive city. It was not one of the other four hives, who pledged loyalty without even feeling his touch before he ended up ruling this world. No, this was HIS city.
The rage, the hatred, the disgust, he felt it as intently as one would feel an inferno´s flame on his skin. Hot beyond compared and unrestrained. Something snapped. His sharped fanged teeth pressured his pale skin, their edge cutting the skin ever slightly and leaving two small slow trails of red trickling down his face.
He jumped from the spire. He... He disappeared, like a shadow on Nostramo´s lightless sky. Unseen. For he was the night. He was the night as mankind has ever seen it. The night, terrifyingly beautiful, hauntingly beautiful, unlike Corvus who was the night in its purest form. Serene, calm, yet terrible when roused. That was what he had always been, what both had always been
The Nighthaunter had not been that, nor had Konrad Curze. Two sides of one coin, only together will they become that. Only together will they truly be what he was always meant to be, the Lord of the Night. And If Corvus Corax had indeed achieved what he was meant to be, beyond the veneer of humanity their father had crafted for them no one knows. We only know one thing, both are capable of growth, and only from it, will they be what they could always be.
"Give me the money," a man shouted at a store keeper, a stub gun pointed at the man. He quickly reached to the counter, opening it in view of the assailant, making sure he was cooperating, making sure he would only lose the cash instead of his life, making sure…
Something struck the assailant, claws erupted from his chest, piercing him like spears. The assailant died immediately, as if his back had been broken. The storekeeper felt a wave of perfect dread once his eyes fell on the killer, on his savior. His heart beated faster than ever before in his life, adrenaline started to course in his veins attempting to give him some hope of escape against this monster..
He fell to the floor, crawling backwards until he could not anymore, until he reached the store wall, his eyes going wide in terror in the process. "Nighthaunter," he whispered as he gazed at his king.
With the motion of the arm, the Lord of Nostramo flung his prey to the exterior of the shop with an almost perfect throw. He eyed the man, and then just as suddenly he vanished.
In an alley on the other side of the city, a man stood in the shadows, watching a woman and her child shuffle through the rain.
"Mama, I'm scared," the child whimpered, clinging to her side.
The man's gaze was predatory, his thin smile promising malice. Beside them, the alley wall bore graffiti of a hunting chiropteran bird, its skull-like face leering from the darkness. Thunder flashed, illuminating the crude symbol and casting eerie shadows over their frail, drenched figures.
He took a step forward, the sound of his boots muffled by the rain. A knife glinted in his hand, poised to strike.
He lunged.
The woman dodged, her movements frantic yet precise, like a cornered animal or a drunk dancer weaving through the unseen stage. The child gasped, and she snatched the little one mid-motion, hurling her into a side alley with desperate strength.
"Run!" She shouted, her voice filled with as much terror as defiance.
She screamed as she felt a sharp cold pain emanating from her back. She turned around, so fast she slapped the man, staggering him for a few moments. She looked to where the pain came from, and there was a knife lodged there. The knife. It was a small crude thing.
The child was too shocked by what it saw, it froze in place, even as his mother fought for her life, fighting to give her a small pitiful amount of time to escape.
Thunder screamed from the heavens again, blood trickled down her waist as the man was finally able to grab her clothes that had been torn in the scuffle. Something was about to happen, she knew what it was.
She prayed then, for the same thing she always insisted would happen. She prayed not to a god, not to a cold uncaring devine entity beyond the veil, she prayed, she whispered for the one monster who could fix this terrible world.
The pressure on her back suddenly disappeared. She heard the man gagging, as if something had grabbed him by the throat and dared him to speak even as he could not.
Her first instinct was to run towards her child, to hug him, to give it some semblance of comfort. She did exactly that, yet her child did not move. It was frozen staring at the giant that had saved her mother.
She turned, noticing that her child hadn't reacted, and she saw a giant. Her heart skipped a beat, it was beautifully terrifying. His face was locked in a disgusting snarl, its tone the parlor of death or snow. It was half dirty with soot and grime that the rain slowly pushed down into the ground, his hair was jet black, flowing down freely in the world´s wind. Over his armored gloves, as if extensions of his fingers were claws long as a sword's blade, sharper than a scythe´s edge.
It grabbed the man by the throat. It was a monster of legend that she was witnessing. The Nighthaunter she had prayed to return yet now in her mind there was doubt born of the sheer terror of his presence.
She hugged her child more tightly, as much for her sake as the child´s.
"I raised you from beasts." It said absentmindedly as it slowly choked life out of the man's heart. "I turned this world into a civilization." It continued, seemingly speaking as much to himself as to the terrifying mother. "I chose to become a monster so that none of you turned, and yet you chose to become one. To become a sinner. You chose to break the law, knowing who your king was. You…" He stopped speaking. He did not have the patience to hear the man's pitiful begging.
With a crack, he broke his neck. He released his lifeless body, it fell with a small thump to the floor.
He turned his gaze to the graffiti, it was chillingly similar to his legion´s iconography… No it was meant to emulate it, to praise it. It was a wishful declaration, that they had wanted their king back. He clenched his fist and punched the wall. it cracked with the blow, the tiles in which the graffiti had been painted over crashed to the floor with a crackling sound.
Thunder boomed again in the heavens as the Nighthaunter turned his eyes to the mortal and the child.
"Why?" The Primarch asked. His face was as curious as a small child, yet terrifying as the Lord of Monsters he was.
Her breath became ragged, her eyes widened and she felt infinitely small and pitiful before him.
"Why?" It asked again. Quieter, this time, like a whisper on the wind. Even as distressed as she was, he could see the confusion in her eyes.
"Why what?" He saw in her eyes. The confusion of a frightened mortal as the monster that was her savior made her a question.
"Why did you pray?" It asked. "Why did you hope for my coming? Why did you pray for it?"
The face was now more serene, in this monster almost as if the snarling was from another man entirely. His false rib cage of his armor was drenched in the blood of his previous victims, the previous sinners he had killed. Murderers, rapists, gang members, all of them. The rib cage was blood red with a point of white, the last thing that showed its original color, beneath the black of the midnight clad. The streaks of flesh hanging from his plate seemed as if going to fall at any minute, so loosely held that they were. Sinner's flesh, human flesh.
She tried to speak, to say anything. The words got stuck in her mouth, and all the while the child stared at the demigod, before breaking the silence beneath the oppressive rain and lightless alley.
"Perfect." It said, as if calling the monster beautiful.
His eye twitched. Another image flashed in his mind. Another memory, where another child spoke that same accursed word, that Fulgrim loved so much.
"Why?" It asked again, hissing, whispering.
Tears fill her eyes. Why she did not know. She was afraid, terribly so, someone had just tried to kill her, to do something worse than that. As a matter of fact, the knife was still in her skin, that cold shaggy thing. She had been saved by a monster, by the monster she wanted to come, she…
"You are our king, my lord Nighthaunter," she managed to say between sobs. Between the tears. "We want you back."
If she could have kept her gaze on the Primarch she would have noticed a million impression flash in his face. Disgust, disbelief, hate, confusion, hope, amazement… All true, all…
He took a step closer. The snarl had indeed disappeared… He seemed calmer, he seemed different, almost as if another had taken over.
"Where do you live?" It asked softly, whispering, holding an arm up, his cape of human skin acting as an umbrella for the sobbing mortal. What drove him to do that he truthfully did not know. He just…
She eyed him, the child seemed to try and take some steps closer to him, but it was very clearly hesitating. He tried to say the words, the address.
The small child, it looked no older than four, yet with the malnutrition both parent and child seemed to have, it could have been perhaps six, it hugged the Primarch´s armored leg. He was very confused at that moment.
"Go home," he ignored the child, almost as if he did not know how to deal with one. "Tell them I have returned… Last time I was the one to raise you from beasts… This time I.." He struggled to say the words, as if they went against the very fiber of his being, as if they contradict an impulse obtained so long ago. "If you want me to return as your king, seize the justice you want me to deliver yourselves." He said looking at the central spire.
She slowly got up, tears streaked her eyes, carefully wiping them from her visage. She seemed to nod weakly, grabbed her child and left him.
He stood there, pondering, gazing at the broken graffiti wall. Had he done what was right? Should he trust his people? Melkor would say yes. He did not know, he knew what could come about from this. He had seen it, but unlike Karzen where he did not risk anything at all… This time, he risked, and that hurt his very heart. Why had he put his faith on his miserable people? Why?
Why…
The vox in his armor came to light. "Tenebor has been secured,my Lord Nighthaunter." The Dissident in command informed him… The Contekar, the one formation in the legion purely made up from the noble scions of Nostramo, their squads were led by dissidents, a sergeant rank in truth. They were all terminator elite, very similar to the Atramentar, though used for more active combat roles compared the escort that the first company did whenever the progenitor of the legion was amongst the battlefield.
"They await your judgment, my Lord."
He did not answer for several seconds, but when he did his mind was clear… On what to do with Tenebor´s garrison, the sons he left behind in the legion´s moon to police this world.
"I will deliver it personally."
"As you, Lord Nighthaunter." He cut the transmission.
The web was widening. The woven thread of fate was untangling it. He could see that. But how and why he had no idea. Eldrad Ulthran had no idea. He was a farseer, one of the oldest of the Aeldari still alive. In his mind were the memories of the Dominion, and the Mon'keigh´s golden age, even memories of their Emperor. When he hadn't yet claimed that title for himself.
Even at that time Eldrad knew he was greater than any of the species he claimed to belong, an outlier, an anomaly, yet one that opposed the would be disaster that doomed the Dominion.
Eldrad checked the runes, crafted by the bonesinger with his instructions, and made from the very same psycho reactive material the lords of the Imperium would call Wraithbone. None shone brightly, none except the darkness, the worst.
Fhaisorr'ko. The rune for uncertainty, of blindness to a farseer´s eyes. The worst one, not because it spelled doomed, but rather because it was uncertain, fate´s skeins were obscured to him, and if Eldrad´s scrying resulted in blindness, then the likelihood of any other farseer amongst the Eldar to obtain another result was perilously small.
They had barely survived the horrors of the fall, the birth of She Who Thirsts, the Aeldari were in a precarious position. Scant was the certainty of their future, that their race would survive these cycles as they barely had survived the immediate collapse of the Dominion. Uncertainty would damn them, uncertainty in this ever smaller galaxy would doom them. There could be no uncertainty, every step should be taken with the greatest care, as to not collapse the house of cards they stood upon. Yet nothing was being revealed, and Neoth´s growing Imperium would hardly spare them.
There was no certainty, only the ominous void of blindness. Yet something had to be done, even if each step risked the collapse of all they had left. Something had to be done.
This was far faster than i expected. Enjoy yourselves guys and comment. I love reading them.
See you next time