A Farseer Foresees Trouble? That Is The Nature Of Things.
Listen To What She Has To Say. This Is A Waste Of Our Time. We Should Wake The Warriors And Begin Their Training In The Dark Stalking.
“You are now a farseer. Such things will be your life, why do you come to me?”
“I am told that I am in error. The farseers, the council of Alaitoc, do not think my scrying will come to pass. They say I am inexperienced, seeing dangers that do not exist.”
They Are Right.
Pompous And Conceited, All Of Them. She Thinks She Sees Something They Cannot. They Cannot Conceive Of Being Blind To Anything.
Not all of them.
Yes, All Of Them.
“Likely they are correct, your powers are still weak, this path is new to you. I do not see my role; I am the exarch here, not one of the council.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“You offer me no proof, and there is none to give, belief alone is dust.”
Thirianna stood and walked to the pool’s edge. She dipped her booted toe into the waters, sending a ripple across the surface. The ripple disturbed Morlaniath. This was a place of calm and Thirianna had brought disquiet. He said nothing and watched as she allowed the droplets to fall from her boot, moving her foot so that they dribbled a swirl in the sand.
“I followed the fate of Aradryan.” Morlaniath spent a moment recalling the name. One who had been friend to Korlandril, unknown to not-Korlandril. He had started Korlandril on his path to this place. Thirianna continued without pause. “Our three destinies are interwoven. More than we have seen already. Yours is not ended, but will soon; his is distant and confused. Mine… Mine is to be here, to tell you these things to set in motion future events.”
Fanciful And Untrue. All Destinies Are Interwoven.
“What is it you have seen, what visions bring such woe, what do they mean for us?”
“Aradryan dwells in darkness, but there is also light for him. But his darkness is not confined to him. It spreads into our lives, and it engulfs Alaitoc. I do not know the details; my rune-casting is very crude at the moment. I feel he has done something gravely wrong and endangered all of us.”
“Your warnings are too vague, they contain no substance, we have no course of action.”
Thirianna snorted, a sound of bitter resentment and dark humour.
“That is what the council says. ‘How can we prepare against something so amorphous?’ they asked. I told them that more experienced seers should follow the thread of Aradryan. They refused, claiming it was an irrelevance. Aradryan is gone from Alaitoc, they told me, and he is no longer their concern.”
Who Are We To Argue?
This Is Not Our Concern. We Are Warriors, Not Philosophers.
Morlaniath listened to this, perplexed. The council were correct. They could no more act on such a vision as they could an unfounded rumour. Other memories came to mind, rebuilding his picture of Thirianna. She was always seeking attention, always looking to be the centre of things. It was no surprise that she had not yet removed this flaw from her character, and now sought to garner an audience by claiming some personal insight into Alaitoc’s doom.
“Continue your studies, delve further into this, to seek your own answers.”
“I fear there is no time. This is imminent. I lack the strength and the training to see far ahead.”
She Is So Weak, How Have Others Not Seen This Disaster?
That Is A Good Point. Her Story Is Incomplete. Send Her Away!
“Others have not seen it, your fresh cataclysm, who are stronger than you. I must concur with them, who have trodden the Path, who see further than you.”
“It is such a small thing, whatever it is that Aradryan does.” She stooped and took a pinch of sand, rubbing her fingers to spill it to the ground until she held a single grain. She flicked it into the waters of the pool. “Such a tiny ripple, we can barely see it, but a ripple nonetheless. The anarchy of history tells us that momentous events can start from the most humble, the most mundane of beginnings.”
“I have no aid for you, no council influence, and I agree with them. Go back to your studies, forget this distraction, I will not assist you.”
She looked at him for the first time, eyes misted, lips trembling.
“I feared the worst, and you have proven me true. Korlandril is not dead, but he has gone.”
“Which you once predicted, that both of us would change, for better or for worse. I am Morlaniath, you are Thirianna, Korlandril is no more. Seek contentment from this, do not chase the shadows, only darkness awaits.”
“Do you not remember what we once shared?”
“I remember it well, we shared nothing at all, I have nothing for you.”
Thirianna straightened and wiped a gloved finger across her cheek, a tear soaking into the soft fabric.
“You are right. I will leave and think of you no more.”
She bunched up her robe and strode up the encircling dune, heading towards the main portal. Morlaniath followed a short way behind and stopped on the dune’s crest to watch her retreating back. She reached the gateway and Morlaniath willed it open. Then she was gone and with a thought he closed the gate behind her.
The Teeth of Dissonance thrummed in Morlaniath’s hands, carving the air with beautiful sweeps. All in the shrine was quiet save for the sound of the blade and the tread of the exarch’s booted feet on the stone. His followers were all asleep, exhausted by the day’s training. Only their dreams broke the stillness, edged with blood, tinged with death. Morlaniath smiled.
He finished his practice and returned the blade to its rightful place. Taking up the stance of repose, he thought about Thirianna’s visit.
Were we too dismissive?
You Gave Her Full Chance To Speak Her Case. We Are Unconvinced.
We Have Other Concerns. It Is Not Our Place To Debate With Farseers. Let The Autarchs Do That.
She came to us as a friend.
We Are Exarch. We Have No Friends. She Came To Us In Desperation When All Others Had Turned Her Away. It Is Shameful.
Then I ask not for her sake, but for Alaitoc. If what she says is true, it bodes ill for us.
What She Says Is Fantasy. Do Not Give It Further Consideration.
If There Is To Be War, We Will Fight. We Train Our Warriors For Battle. There Is No More That We Can Do. That Is What It Is To Be Exarch.
There It Is Again: “I”. This Individuality Is Unbecoming.
I am still myself, Morlaniath and not-Korlandril both. I will make my own decision.
To Be Exarch Is To Know Sacrifice. Not For Us The Twilight Of The Infinity Circuit. Darkness Is Our Domain. If It Comes To Pass That This Body Dies, We Will Endure. That Is The Reward For Our Sacrifice.
Do Not Meddle In The Affairs Of Others. It Is Not Welcome And It Is Not Our Duty.
We Do Not Understand Her Motives. If What She Says Proves True, We Will Be Informed. If It Is Untrue Our Interference Risks Bringing Disharmony.
I am unsettled by this. If my fate and Aradryan’s is still entwined in ways not yet revealed, it would be wise to heed her warning.
Farseers Always Speak Of Fate. It Is Their Reason For Everything. Sometimes Things Happen Without Purpose. All Warriors Know This. We Train, Perfecting Our Art, But It Is In The Nature Of War That The Random And The Uncontrollable Appear.
It was Thirianna and Aradryan that set me on this course, to our rebirth, to the return of the Hidden Death. I conceive that it is possible my future and theirs are not wholly separate.
Then What Will Happen, Will Happen. Let The Farseers Chase The Possibilities, We Will Deal With The Consequences.
Now it is you that is willing to surrender to fate.
This Debate Is Inappropriate. She Is A Distraction. Ignore Her.
I Concur. Concentrate On The Training Of Your Warriors.
Morlaniath stripped off his armour, unable to shake the disquiet, annoyed by the conflict of thoughts raised by Thirianna.
While the direct thoughts of Morlaniath faded into memory, their effect lingered on, confusing him. The question of faith vexed him the most. He had seen her conviction, but had ignored it. Whatever the reality, she certainly believed something terrible was going to happen.
It irked him that he was powerless, or so it seemed. He was entirely in the hands of the farseers, and they had chosen to ignore her.
He focussed on this train of thought. His distaste was not with the actions of Thirianna but with the inaction of the council. Part of him was too willing to simply accept their judgement. It was against his nature to submit, to blindly concur, now more than ever. The vestiges of not-Korlandril struggled against Morlaniath, urging him to do something.
Still in a state of conflict, Morlaniath gathered his squad at the start of the next cycle and led them in the combat rituals. It diverted his attention away from the dilemma posed by Thirianna.
Nurianda was proving to be the most capable of his students. Her technique was impeccable and she had found her war-mask without trauma. She had mastered the chainsword and the pistol without drama, and was at one with her suit. The others still struggled. They seemed reticent to lose themselves fully, still clinging to fragments of their past lives, gripping tight to the last vestiges of their former selves. While they resisted their own temptations they would never be able to progress.
Morlaniath tried to remember what it was like when he had been Korlandril. It was unpleasant, full of conflict and fear. The memories of the other Morlaniaths intruded upon his recollections, blurring the line between what had been his life and theirs. He had welcomed becoming the Hidden Death, yet the vestiges of his former life clung to his mind; or perhaps he clung to them. It occurred to him that perhaps he had been right to dismiss Thirianna. She was a tie to the past that no longer held any relevance for him.
He dismissed the squad and was about to leave when he noticed Nurianda lingering next to her armour.
“There is something amiss, you are free to leave here, yet here you still remain,” he said, approaching the Striking Scorpion.
“I find it difficult,” she admitted, eyes downcast. “I tried to speak to my father, but he does not understand.”
“He cannot understand. Each of us has a Path, which only we can walk. I am merely a guide, the journey is all yours, you must walk it alone.”
“What if… What if the journey does not have an end?”
“It ends eventually, at one place or other, though I do not know which. Do not dwell on the end, but move along the Path, striving for your own goal. Know what you leave behind, the suffering and fear, seeking a place of peace. The love for your father, his affection for you, should act as your anchor. While you drift it remains, as it was at the start, so too at the ending.”
Nurianda smiled, wistful and thoughtful.
“Thank you. I will be patient with him.”
Morlaniath waved her to leave and stood for a while longer, gazing at the empty suits of armour. Each had belonged to many warriors. He could remember all of them—the ones that had lived, the ones that had died; the ones that had moved on, and those who had become him. He was all of them and none of them. What was he? Nothing more than dismembered spirits sharing a corporeal prison, unable to welcome the peace of the Infinity Circuit, unable to die because She Who Thirsts would claim him. He was nothing if he was not his experiences, his memories. He was the walking dead, stuck in the limbo of this body.
He could sense himself losing touch. This fresh body, it had stirred old feelings and old thoughts: memories of freedom and love; moments of pleasure and pain; moments of mortal senses and mortal thoughts. Its touch remained for the moment, but Morlaniath knew from several experiences that it would not last. Not-Korlandril invigorated him for the time being, but soon that spark would gutter and he would be Morlaniath wholly, the immortal servant of Khaine.
Let go of the past? That was foolish. Though many were the ways he had become Morlaniath, each was unique to him, each was a journey he had made. The Path had ended for him, but that did not eliminate the route he taken to reach this point. That route had meaning, and the people who had walked beside him for a while also had meaning. He had no future, save an eternity of violence and death, but they did.
He did not like unfinished business. The past was not irrelevant, but he had to leave it behind. Morlaniath made a decision and headed for the skyrunners.
“Perhaps you seek war, for that is your nature,” said Arhathain.
“I cannot make a war, if that is my desire, it is the council’s choice,” replied Morlaniath.
He knew the autarch well; had fought beside him on many a battlefield. Like all autarchs he was strong-willed, determined enough to tread the Path of the Warrior several times without being ensnared by Khaine’s curse. He remembered Arhathain as a young Dire Avenger, and a Howling Banshee in more recent memory. As an exarch he was far older than Arhathain, but not-Korlandril had been less than half his age. A dichotomy of feelings warred within Morlaniath, causing him to feel ancient and infant at the same time, unsure of his place and his time.
He had called Arhathain to the Chamber of Autarchs and spoken of Thirianna’s predictions. Arhathain defended the council’s decision, as was to be expected. Morlaniath tried to find the words that conveyed his thoughts, but it was difficult; he wanted to seize the autarch and force him to agree.
Keeping his temper in check, he listened to what Arhathain had to say.
“Every day our seers uncover a thousand dooms to Alaitoc. We cannot act on every vision; we cannot go to war on every doubt. Thirianna herself cannot provide us with clarity. We might just as well act on a superstitious trickle of foreboding down the back of the neck.”
“She lacks the proper skill, the means to give you proof, hold that not against her. Give her the help she needs, to prove her right or wrong, she will keep her silence. This doubt will hold her back, it will consume her thoughts, until you release her. You have walked many paths, seen a great many things, lived a great many lives. That life you owe to me, I remember it now, so many cycles past. I was your guardian, the protection you sought, a true companion. I remember the debt, the oath you swore to me, it is now time to pay.”
Arhathain frowned and turned away, pacing to the far side of the rostrum at the centre of the hall.
“The one I made that promise to died ten passes and more ago,” he said softly, looking up at the circular opening at the top of the dome. A distant swathe of stars was strewn across the blackness of space. “I did not swear that oath to you. It is not Elidhnerial that asks me to repay that debt, it is Korlandril.”
“I am Morlaniath, Elidhnerial too, and also Korlandril. The debt is owed to me, to all the parts of me, united in spirit. Who save me remembers, can repeat the words used, heard them spoken by you?”
“If I do not do this?”
“Your honour is forfeit, and others shall know it, I will make sure of that.”
The autarch turned and directed an intent stare at Morlaniath.
“You will not call on me again in this way?”
“Your debt will be repaid, to Elidhnerial, and we shall speak no more.”
Arhathain nodded reluctantly and stalked up the shallow steps of the chamber.
Morlaniath smiled at his departing back; the part that was not-Korlandril was pleased. He did not know what would become of his intervention, what the future would hold for him or Thirianna. Yet he was content. As a last act before he wholly became Morlaniath, it was worthwhile. Soon she would be unimportant, just another one of the memories, no greater and no less than the thousands of others he had met and loved and hated and been indifferent to. This was his parting gift. Even now the memory was becoming lost in the haze.
By the time he returned to the shrine, he would no longer care.
TRANSFORMATION
When the Great Enemy was born, the Bloody-Handed God brought war against She Who Thirsts but was quickly vanquished by the newborn horror. The
Prince of Pleasure and the Lord of Skulls fought over possession of Khaine’s spirit, for the Bloody-Handed God was a child of both but belonged to neither. Great was the struggle in the remnants of heaven, but neither She Who Thirsts nor the Master of Battle prevailed. When both the rivals were exhausted, they drew up their boundaries and in the calm eye of their wrath Khaine fell into the world of mortals. Here the Bloody-Handed One shattered into many fragments, unable to exist as a whole in the material realm. His power spent, his body divided, Khaine’s wrath was finally diminished. Though suppressed, his rage lingers on in these fragments, drawn to war and strife, awaiting the time when blood awakens him and his vengeful essence gains form once more.
The shrine throbbed once, a frisson of rage that peaked in less than a heartbeat and was gone; a spasm of energy that distracted Morlaniath for a moment, causing him to almost miss his next instruction. He put the tremor to the back of his mind and completed the training period with his pupils, dismissing them abruptly when they were done.
He was uncertain of the cause for the momentary flux of psychic energy that had disturbed him, though he had strong suspicions. He took a skyrunner from the shrine and flew through the bowels of Alaitoc, following an instinct.
The tunnels he navigated were lit by the solitary beam of his skyrunner, a circle of light in the blackness. In the darkness around him, strands of wraithbone glittered occasionally with psychic force as the spirits of the infinity circuit pulsed to and fro. This was the life of Alaitoc—the heart and arteries, skeleton and nervous system, thoughts and feelings of the craftworld. The disturbance that Morlaniath had felt did not come again as he rode, though he sensed a residual after-shock of its occurrence, a tension that filled the air.
At the hub of Alaitoc, where the many psychic veins and nerveways of the craftworld converged, Morlaniath exited the service passage and brought his skyrunner to a halt inside a darkened chamber. The infinity circuit glowed with a ruddy light, the red of a womb. A gate was open before him, its two huge doors opened wide to reveal a wraithbone-wrapped chamber. At the centre of that room was a great throne of iron. Upon that throne sat a statuesque figure, twice Morlaniath’s height, its skin fused metal, its eyes black, empty sockets. The immense figure brooded, sucking the light from the throne room, iron fingers in fists, face contorted in a silent roar.
[Path of the Eldar 01] - Path of the Warrior Page 24
