crackin’ carapace

The light of the strategium table was the only glow. Blue and red triangles blipped in and out of existence, the ancient archeotech embedded into the table barely able to keep signal through the thick immaterial clouds of insantiy. The vox was silent, if only for the moment, the only sound in the room the soft breath of the lone woman.

Wrapping her hand around her cold mug of recaf, she lifted it to her lips. Barely a dribble ran into her dry mouth and she smacked her lips, closing her eyes. The colors continued to flit behind her lids, dancing and spinning, flickering in and out of existence. The room was dark beyond that, the shutters sealed over the vast window stretching over a wall. Ancient banners still hung on the walls, a long rug gathered dust upon the floor.

She rubbed her fingers over a few buttons slowly, flicking through views and layers. Visual feeds fuzzed in protest, taking a moment to stabilize. Her lips pinched together, her brow furrowing as several allies ceased to exist. Skulls didn’t even replace them, they simply ceased to exist, consumed by the warp.

Even without psychic gifts, she could taste the bitter corruption in the very air. Even the Rock’s filtrations couldn’t keep it all out. She’d already seen the trapped storms raging, churning, severe in ways they’d never been. Void fields flared, ancient shielding she had no name for came to life, deflecting both material and immaterial threats.

They were a legion once again and, yet, it could very likely be at the cost of them all. She would outlive them all, but who would be there for her? Who would she confide in? Who would she look to for strength? Who would stand at her back, hand on sword, prepared to defend her without question?

It had to be them.

Her eyes opened, staring at the vast list of names. Ships and fliers, venerable and young brothers alike. Every breath, more skulls appeared, lives wrenched away from all they’d ever known. Most of them were still young in relation to their brothers, freshly delivered or ascended through the Rubicon.

The corner of her jaw twitched, betraying deep hate. If she was stronger, she’d be out there. She could be doing something more proactive. Her hands would be around Abaddon’s throat…

Even now, she didn’t know what happened to Nebet. Logic dictated she’d died. Perhaps she was still buried under the Palace, lost in the chaos that’d flooded the very halls, skeleton curled, empty sockets wide in fear.

She shook her head firmly, chasing away the thought. The vox crackled softly and she pressed the stud. Grand Master Nakir’s steady expression met her even gaze. The Consecrator bowed his head in deference to her, folding his hands over his chest in the aquila.

“Legion Mother, we request your presence if you have rested.”

She was supposed to be resting. She was supposed to be asleep, curled up in her vast bed, peacefully unaware of how many legioniares she was losing. The room would be sealed, the rest of the world silent to her. She could be unaware of enemies in the hall, firing heavy bolters.

Her lips twitched. “I’m well. I’ll be there shortly.”

She closed the line, bathing herself in darkness. How could she rest in a time like this? This could be the very end of the Dark Angels and she was meant to be asleep? As if. Nakir was too stupid to truly think that she could sleep through this.

Depowering the table, she took her mug and walked out. Her pace was quick, despite her human exhaustion. If she was weaker, she’d have already collapsed. She almost smiled. Ages ago, her legs would’ve collapsed under her.

Ages ago, she was a simple diplomat. Now, she had to strain every neuron in her pretty head just to try and keep up with all of the information around her. She couldn’t possibly keep up with every new report, but damn it all if she wasn’t going to try.

The bridge was a bustle of movement and reports. Once-failed aspirants barked orders to the human crew, keeping them in line. Servitors droned out information, numbers and names blurring together.

Nakir bowed as she walked to the command throne, standing beside it. She took her place, sitting nearly at the edge to cross her legs comfortably. Plush cushions padded the ancient stone, forests and leaves carved into it. A banner fluttered from the back, twitching in the movement of the rotating air filters.

“Your spiritual support is greatly appreci-”

“Speak another word of spiritual or emotional support and I’ll have you dismissed, Nakir.” She narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to continue.

He held his hands behind his back. “Apologies, my lady. We’ve lost contact with the Supreme Grand Master.”

Her slim fingers pressed several keys on the arm of the throne, the deep memory as familiar as breathing. The vox crackled and popped to life, spitting static for a moment. The bead in her ear vibrated dully and she cleared her throat. “Azrael, can you hear me?”

She heard a grunt of exertion and then he responded, “Loud and clear.”

Nodding to Nakir, he passed her a data-slate of reports. Her eyes flicked over the screen and she lifted her recaf to her lips, drinking a mouthful. “Allies just entered system, early reports read Blood Angel codes. It’s their flagship.”

He huffed, breathing hard. “Never been happier- to hear it!” His chainsword roared, muffled through the ceramite of his helmet. “You sound clear. How?”

She took a parchment from Nakir, frowning deeply. She pressed several buttons along the arm, a hololith appearing in front of her. She saw the verifiable hoard of Khorne berserkers rushing towards Azrael. He lifted his arm, never taking a step back as he fired Lion’s Wrath, plasma flaring.

“A modification requested by Lion. I can see through your lenses alongside your vitals.” Her smile turned a little wry. “I haven’t needed to use it until now.”

She watched Azrael’s chainsword come into view, cutting through the neck of another Space Marine. Blood sprayed, black and deep red. The berserker didn’t go down without a heavy swing of his axe, the teeth biting into Azrael’s pauldron. He kicked out, shoving the berserker back.

From the corner of his visual feed, she saw the familiar twin black forms of Asmodai and Sapphon. Their outer white robes were soaked in blood and dust, their rosarius fields flaring in defense, deflecting and dissipating bolts and plasma. Their voices rang out in catechisms of hate, leading their brothers to fight until their hearts failed.

Another parchment was passed to her and she scanned over it. The paper wrinkled in her hand, her breath catching in her throat. Azrael continued moving, his voice ringing out in her ear as he commanded forward. Always forward, never back.

She looked to Nakir, eyes narrowed. “This cannot be right,” she hissed.

He shook his head. “Already confirmed twice.”

She balled the parchment in her fist, breathing heavily. A gold, winged form dropped down, masked face an expression of agony and hate. Azrael’s hard breathing overshadowed her own, even as he briefly addressed Dante.

Pressing several keys, she stood as the hololith flickered out, supported by angelic skulls embedding into the arched ceilings. Nakir made no move as she brushed past him, her eyes locked onto Azrael’s visual feed. The lights flickered and flared across the bridge, rippling as though an unseen force cast a stone into an ocean.

A forest rippled to life and she felt her heart stop. It should be impossible, through the mechanical smoke and smog and despair. There could be no life on this shattered remnant of Caliban, yet it appeared through the smoke.

Out stepped a large form of green-black armor, winged helm cresting back. A red and gold shield was mounted firmly on one arm, the other carrying a sword with a blade as long as she was tall. He was flanked by warriors in black, red lenses piercing through the gloom.

She saw through Azrael’s lenses as he fell to one knee, his heart rate spiking. He looked to his lord, his voice failing him. Even she couldn’t find her voice, her hands trembling at her sides.

Lion looked to Azrael, but she felt his gaze pierce through to her. A missing, broken thing inside of her surged to life once more. Her dead heart hammered to life, slamming like the demonic pistons drowned by the visual of the forest. Ancient gears turned to life within her, her soul burning with life.

The world drowned out as he reached out to her. She felt the heavy weight of his ceramite gauntlet around her shoulder, lifting her to her feet. His gaze held her in place and her heart beat in time to his once again.

She choked on smog, smelling the old wind of Caliban. Forest green met ocean blue once again, changed yet familiar. Years and distance disappeared between them, armor abandoned in exchange for vulnerability. Nothing and everything had changed.

“I need you by my side.”

The words were said beyond Azrael, beyond the vox bead in her ear, beyond conveniental means of hearing. They spoke to her unsteady hands and hammering heart. They soothed the anxiety and fear in her soul, reminding her of happier times when hope was a thing they could accomplish.

Azrael responded, “I am by your side, my lord.” His voice was barely a breathy whisper, awe filling him.

Her voice left her lips as heat washed over them. A ground-shaking roar echoed and she flinched as her vox bead hissed in her ear, pressing her hands to her head. Nakir’s hands came up to comfort her and she shook her head, eyes closed tight.

Power surged through every system and her eyes snapped open as she flinched as servitors screamed. Blood drooled from the human crew’s eyes and ears. Weapons were drawn as failed aspirants trembled. The hololith flickered and red clouded the screen as the Red Angel himself stepped out, chainaxes roaring in both hands.

Nakir grabbed her, shoving her into the throne. Ceramite splintered as a bolt slammed into it and he stood in front of her, blocking her view. His iron halo flared to life, blue shield flickering to life around them. His brow furrowed in concentration and he fired off several shots from his bolt pistol.

The broad chest plate of Nakir broke her view of Lion, waking her from the dreamlike state she’d been drawn into. Panic flared into her mind and she saw the flicker of her Watcher from the corner of her eye, blue eyes glowing bright. Vashtorr won. It didn’t matter what happened next, the Tuchulcha Engine was out of their protection now.

She scowled hard, flinching at the loud bark of Nakir’s bolt pistol. “Azrael! Protect him!”

The hololith returned in front of her, shrinking in size to fit between her and Nakir. Azrael could see his lord as power flared from his shield, protecting him from Angron’s biting chainaxe. Berserkers swarmed around Azrael, a black-armored warrior at his left. They fought together, though Azrael’s focuse was torn between his enemies and his new ally.

“I can’t!”

Hate flooded her, threatening to fill her soul with bloodlust. She hated Azrael. She hated Nakir. She hated being trapped here, helpless and weak. She wanted their heads upon her own throne, their skulls under her. She could see herself, a queen of blood.

Then, there was Lion, cape fluttering wildly behind him. He swung his blade, cutting deep into Angron’s corporeal form. Blood sprayed over him, the feathers of his helm clumping messily and dripping. He followed Angron even as the ground split around him, shattering and cracking, releasing light and heat.

There were her sisters, standing by her. Philomena and Dafne, comforting her, reminding her of the family she still had. There was Evilynn and Soteria, looking to her for outward strength. There was Meditrina, running lost and frightened, seeking sanctuary for but a few days.

She stared down Nakir’s bolt pistol, following it up to stare at him. He looked down at her quietly, eyes clear of the hate that had threatened to overtake her, a prayer on his lips. No matter how much he worshipped her as his ancient Legion Mother, if she had been touched by chaos, he would put her down.

She reached up, sliding her fingers over the barrel to ease it down, away from her. He allowed her, resting it at his side but not removing his finger from the trigger. Silence had fallen across the bridge and she saw Astartes pushing bodies aside, disconnecting broken servitors and replacing them as swiftly as they could.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’m sane of mind, clear of heart.” Nakir nodded once and she saw the ground quake around Azrael, splitting with bright light. Raising her broken voice, she hissed, “Get Lion and get out of there. Get off of that rock.”

Tears welled at her eyes and Azrael muttered, “I’d love to.”

She swallowed down the choking feeling in her throat. She was going to kill Lion when he stepped aboard the Rock. She was going to wring his neck and deny the gods his soul. It belonged to her, not to Khorne, not to the Emperor, not the warp itself.

She rose to her feet, glaring out at the lost-looking human crew, blood of their friends splattered across their faces. “Get your shit together!” They looked to her, eyes distant and full of fear. “Our lord primarch has returned and we stand with him once again!”

His soul belonged to her, just as hers belonged to him.

Licking her lips, her voice choked in her throat before she could speak. A low voice was in her ear, familiar yet changed, rough with age that hadn’t been there before. “I am returned.”

A chill ran down her spine, her heart fluttering. There’d been doubt before, but not now. Her soul sang for him, her blood rushed in her ears. Her fingers tightened against the arms of a throne too large for a lone human, built for a primarch that’d disappeared ten thousand years ago.

She found her voice again, though it trembled. “I missed you.” Her voice was barely a whisper, inaudible over the cacophany of barked orders and ceramite boots.

Lion grunted, the roar of a chain axe muffled, grinding against ancient cermite and a power field. “I will see you soon. I will hold you again.”

She glared, reading reports as the hololith steadied. Countless errors filled the screen, casting a sharp glow across the bridge and reflecting off the wide window. Standing, she crossed her hands behind her back, her shoulders squared. “And, I will kill you. Once you step foot upon this bridge, I will kill you with the sword you gifted me.”

There was a smile in his voice, a certain lightness that betrayed the effort he was exerting to survive against his demonic brother. “Once more, I stand upon a burning Caliban while my wife cries. You would be within your rights.”

She snapped orders at the humans who stepped into the bridge, sending her hate down to them. They were a flurry of movement at her words, regret and pain clear on their faces as they pulled away the corpses of their friends or family. “And, you will die by my hand. Not Angron’s. Not even Ezekyle’s.”

He grunted, his growl echoing. Her knees locked in place and her breathing stopped, her heart missing a beat. Beside her, Nakir extended a hand to steady her but she dismissed it. “If I am, it will be by your hand. There will be more to dicuss once I am finished.”

She nodded, pain biting at her eyes. “Return to me so I can kill you.”

He disappeared, silence her only response. She breathed in slowly, looking up as tears rolled down her cheeks. An ancient pain, long buried and forgotten, drowned out and abandoned, surged forward.

A gauntlet guided her to sit once more and she did not fight it. She allowed herself to be sat down, a warm mug pressed into her shaking hands. Her throat was tight, her vision unfocused and blurry. She pulled her feet up, curling herself sideways in the command throne. She pressed her face into the back cushion, breathing into the fabric.

“You’re staring”, he chides me, but his tone is amused. My eyes trail once again over his form. Dark attentive eyes, the hooked nose, the curve of his lips, the lush curls flowing past his cowl over his gray armor.

„Let me see you”, I demand.

Xanthomonas smiles at me, radiant as ever. It hurts when he steps closer. The nails punish the proximity to the psyker and his warp-touched armor, but I am familiar with the pain. After all these years, I’ve grown more than used to it. “You see me just fine, my champion.”

I snort with fond annoyance. “Don’t play coy. You know exactly what I mean.”

His smile only widens. I have to force myself not to smile in turn or he will drag this out even further. For a few seconds we hold each other’s gaze. My head pounds.

Then I feel the pressure growing behind my eyes, pain boring even deeper into my skull. The illusion dissipates, like smoke over a battlefield, accompanied by the faint crackle of warp energy and a wave of almost unbearable pain. His true face is a war-torn ruin.

Flames had kissed the right side of his face, the skin stretched thin over the bone. Warped like badly dried paper. The golden script that had adorned his face, from temple down to his jaw had almost completely been eaten away by the promethium. Where his eye once had been, only an empty socket remains. The other flickers with the soft orange warmth of a candle.

His black curls have turned an ashen grey over the years. Jagged horns of bone sprout from his left temple and forehead.

His smile had been warped by time and the gods’ blessings as well. The ragged scar in corner of his mouth – an old wound gifted to him during the long war – extends it almost up to his ear, the gash overflowing with teeth. Predator sharp and gleaming in the low light.

A hunger rises within me at the sight, like the restlessness before battle, to feel those teeth break the skin of my neck, feel them tear and rend the flesh and sinew beneath, let him drink of my blood, claim what is already his.

I abandon the thought before the nails can sink their teeth in too deep. He must have noticed the way my heart rate has picked up. There is not much I can hide from him. Not that I would want to.

“Do you like what you see?” His voice is rough. The teeth make speaking clearly hard. I know he is only teasing. Still, I answer truthfully. “Yes.”

He laughs, caught off guard.

“I don’t understand why you hide yourself like this” I continue. Xanthomonas simply shrugs. “Appearances.” “It’s not like I follow you for your pretty face.”

He grins, remaining eye shining with intrigue. “Oh? Then why do you, my champion?”

“Loyalty. I did not take my oath to you lightly.”

Xanthomonas pauses. The look on his face is the same as the first time he took my confession and the many times after. “Do you regret it? Swearing yourself to me?”

“Why would I.” It’s not even a question. He does not seem convinced.

“Don’t you miss your brothers?”, he asks. “The ones you lost when you choose to bind yourself to me? The ones you’ve lost on the path that I’ve led you on?”