Mercy's Vow of Freedom
The chamber was quiet save for the soft, melodic hum of her mother's voice. Mercy sat cross-legged on the cold, polished floor, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders like strands of sunlight in the gloom. Her mother, the ever-poised Drukhari, lounged on a nearly chair. The Eldar woman's elegance was cold and sharp, her beauty a weapon honed through centuries of cruelty.
"Do you know what the humans of Commorragh endure, my dear?" her mother asked with a lilting tone, her lips curling into a smile that Mercy could not quite place—was it amusement or disdain?
Mercy hesitated, sensing the weight of the question. She had grown up with glimpses of her mother's world through the dark labyrinth of Commorragh. But she had never asked. She had never dared.
"They suffer, don't they?" Mercy ventured, her voice small, unsure.
Her mother laughed softly, the sound both musical and cruel. "Oh, suffer is such a small word. Humans in Commorragh exist for the pleasure of their masters. Their bodies are playthings, their spirits fuel for our darkest whims. They are broken and remade, over and over, until they are nothing but vessels for exquisite torment. And when they are no longer useful... well, their screams can sustain us for a time."
Mercy felt a chill run through her. Her heart, human and fragile, clenched in her chest. The images her mother's words painted burned into her mind—a tapestry of anguish, horror, and despair. For a moment, she could almost hear the echoes of their cries, distant but insistent, like the murmur of a forgotten dream.
Her mother tilted her head, her long, elegant fingers brushing Mercy's cheek. "Why the somber face, child? Humans are but fleeting things, like ash in the wind. Their suffering is a small price to pay for the eternal art we create."
Mercy recoiled inwardly at the words, though she kept her face still. Her father's voice rose unbidden in her memory, warm and resolute:
"We will bring liberation to all mankind. No one deserves to live in chains."
Cain had spoken those words often, his tone filled with conviction, even when his methods had seemed harsh and unrelenting. He believed in humanity's right to be free—even if that freedom came at a steep cost. Mercy had taken those words to heart, had clung to them in her moments of doubt.
Now, as she stared at her mother's smirking face, a sense of quiet defiance bloomed within her. Her heritage was a war within her—a union of light and shadow, of compassion and cruelty. She could feel the pull of both, but she knew where she stood.
Her father was already building his vision of freedom against the Imperium, carving a path for humanity as he saw fit. But Commorragh... Commorragh was different.
"I'll change it," Mercy whispered, more to herself than her mother.
"What was that, darling?" her mother asked, her voice dripping with condescension.
Mercy straightened, meeting her mother's gaze with a determination she hadn't known she possessed. "One day, when I'm older, I'll free them. The humans in Commorragh. I'll give them the liberation my father fights for."
Her mother's laughter filled the chamber, echoing off the dark walls. "How quaint," she sneered. "You truly are his daughter, aren't you? So full of impossible dreams."
But Mercy didn't waver. She turned her gaze inward, imagining herself walking through the streets of Commorragh, not as an observer but as a force of change. The thought terrified her, but it also gave her strength.
Her mother's voice faded into the background as Mercy held on to her resolve. She was her father's child, and one day, she would bring light to even the darkest corners of the galaxy.
Even Commorragh.
Many foes of the Dark Prince often assume that Slaanesh is incapable of patience, that the Prince of Excess is ruled solely by impulsive desires and immediate gratification. This belief is a grave misconception, one carefully cultivated by the servants of the Dark Prince. In truth, waiting can be the greatest indulgence of all, an exquisite torment of anticipation that heightens the eventual reward. Whether it was savoring the creation of a rare symphony crafted from the screams of mothers forced to watch their newborns burned slowly over hours, or the agonized pleading of souls stretched to the brink before their inevitable end, patience was another tool in the Dark Prince's endless repertoire of pleasure and pain.
And so, when Mercy whispered her vow—a promise to one day free the humans of Commorragh—the Dark Prince took notice. Slaanesh smiled, an action that rippled through the Warp with an intoxicating resonance. The neverborn, Slaanesh's daemonic children, felt the shift immediately. Many gathered in the Immaterium, their distorted forms writhing in anticipation. Their glee was palpable, their eagerness barely contained as they imagined the day when young Mercy would rise to fulfill her destiny. They hungered for the souls she would send to them, the sweet agony of those long denied.
Slaanesh's delight was not merely in the promise of suffering but in the delicious irony of Mercy's resolve. Her path, so noble and righteous in her own mind, would inevitably lead to a harvest of souls unlike any before. The Dark Prince, ever the connoisseur of twisted perfection, would wait. After all, the greatest pleasures come to those who let the tension build, the anticipation stretch, and the reward ripen into something truly sublime.