A/N: Just like last time, my Patreons voted on which sidestory they wanted to see. This one follows one Michael Osmund, the King of Gladiators, as Firstborn of the Sensei and the destined Imperial Regent. It does not align perfectly with character creation, and some elements of what appears here will not align perfectly with what is going on in the quest, but it should be entertaining all the same. Hopefully.
Anyways, for those interested, as ever you can read the third Sidestory, Fire of the Gods, on Patreon here. As always, thank you to everyone supporting me there, and thank you to everyone reading this quest here. I hope to become as much of a shill as the average Youtuber in the coming days.
----
Gasp. Shudder. Retch. Quiver. The man on the sands felt the spiny scales dig deeper and deeper into and past his skin, agonising with pain as they dug into his flesh and organs.
It hurt, yet he could not scream. The scintillating faces on the monster's scales were an unnervingly bumpy detail, brought into stark detail by the hypersensitive properties of its poisons. The Guardsman was helpless to do anything but feel as he was snared in the coils of the hundred-headed hydra, this newest and most terrible masterpiece of the Haemonculi. Dozens of others were similarly being crushed as well, burned and melted and squeezed within an inch of their life in painful, stark hell.
Most were warriors. He was a veteran of many campaigns, and there were many like him. Others were fresh-faced recruits. Others still were Stormtroopers, or Sisters of Battle, or tribal assassins or other unscrupulous sorts. Some were aliens. Some were aliens he had fought before. One or two were even Astartes, Angels of Death. All died. All were helpless. Even the Astartes, who fought to the end, were now paralysed, and doomed to suffocate.
Only one remained. One who was untouched by acid blood or poison haze or lightning quick muscle. Untouched, masked, bearing only a hooked chain in one hand and a small ritual dagger in the other. He did not even move, yet the monster seemed unable to hit him despite all its efforts. The last man standing simply stood on the death grounds, serenely still. A dead man, amidst the dying.
Then, he moved. Chain whirling, dagger in reverse grip, he took one step forward. Two. Three. Suddenly the chain was out of his hand. Suddenly one of the hydra's eyes was blinded, filled with a hook chain. Suddenly the dagger was gone from his hand as well, a face-scale peeled off on the Hydra's body. It was impossible to peel off such a heavy and secured scale with such a flimsy dagger, but he had managed it with leverage alone.
And then suddenly, the Hydra died. And the Last Man Standing, the Masked One, remained perfectly still. One second. Two seconds. Five. Ten. Only after fifteen passed did he look up at the roof of the Crucibael and sigh.
Then, the Colosseum erupted in cheers that the man could no longer distinguish, all of it melding together into a single sound.
But, as the life slipped from him, as he and dozens of others were dropped onto the ground unceremoniously, he felt within him the name of the one who had won where all others died.
Malchion.
----
"MALCHION! MALCHION! MALCHION!"
As the crowds cheer, you remain silent. They scream your name, praise your accolades, and all of it means nothing. You are praised as King of Gladiators, Tyrant of the Colosseum, the Silent Wind and more, but names are simply words are simply noises carried along the wind. It does not matter what you are called. Nor does it matter what you have done.
This hundred headed beast is a new one, likely intended for Lelith Hesparax in an exhibition match. This execution was meant to raise anticipation and fill time before the Mistress of Death came to take her pound of flesh. How you wound up facing it is a question for others to dwell upon. You can already guess that it is another power play. Possibly even a reminder by Vect of who truly owns the Dark City.
You couldn't care less. This has been your life for twenty thousand years and more. You are simply waiting for the time when you can finally die and go where you are supposed to. What kind of man lives when they have been marked for death by the Gods?
So as those who watch on the rafters cheer your name, you return to your spire, filled with luxuries beyond appreciation, with fine food and fine drink and fine clothing and bedding. None of it to your liking, yet all of it to your specifications. It is little more than a gilded cage, yet you couldn't care less if you slept on straw and ratty floors instead. These accommodations are not to reward your success, but to exult your treatment to others. But you don't care. You haven't cared.
At the door is a pitcher of wine, one you grab and down immediately, through the holes in your mask. The drink dribbles messily down your chin and over your cheeks but you drink it anyways. Alcohol does nothing for you, and the taste is rancid. Fine wine it might be, you don't taste or care for the nuances in its flavour.
What you care for is…
"Hah! Brother, look at this! 'Made with real Jarmod Grapes'. I can't believe we found this!"
"Why?"
"Because Jarmod blew up, remember? We helped evacuate the survivors! C'mon, help me finish this. I want to taste the fruits of our labour – hah! Fruits!"
"Stop laughing at your own jokes."
"Stop being a downer and laugh with me, dammit!"
"You don't even drink…"
…What you care for is irrelevant. In fact, it hurts more to contemplate it.
You finish the pitcher anyways. When it is dry and you throw it over your shoulder, another appears within your chambers. Wearing the svelte and revealing attire of a Succubus of the Wych Cults, bearing the self-same vain beauty of those wretches, is an Eldar with golden spun hair inked black and violet as is the custom of the Drukhari and their killers for fun and profit. You disregard the fact that she has a huskblade at your waist while you have nothing, or the fact that she's likely been in your room long enough to poison anything and everything she pleases.
If she wanted you dead, you'd welcome it. And not for lack of trying.
She speaks, as you walk past her and recline, still wearing your mask, still dismissive of her presence. "A well fought battle, Michael."
You raise your hand and a second jug of wine flies into your hand. Most Drukhari would recoil at the blatant expression of psychic prowess that used to be their birthright, but this one does not. You tip it towards your lips once more, not bothering to remove the mask again either. You drink until it is half empty, drenching your chest and furniture with most of the wine. Then, you set it down with a sigh before affixing her with a long-suffering look. Though your eyes are not visible, your ire is keenly felt. "And?"
The Succubus continues to look at you, her expression a complicated mix of disappointment and regret. "I have received a message, from our mutual friend. The time is nigh."
"…And?"
"And the Galaxy has reached a turning point, Michael. You are needed. Not only by your father or your siblings, but by your people."
You chuckled darkly. "And abandon my adoring fans?"
"They don't care for you, Michael. Only the blood you spill."
"Perfect."
The Succubus closed a hand over the pommel of her Huskblade. "Michael, you are not like them. The only reason you're here is—"
"—Because our mutual friend said so. I am keenly aware." You drink some more wine. Once the jug runs empty, you shatter it against the ground with a sharp shove. "So if he wants me to leave, he can tell me himself. But why should I?"
The Succubus is speechless. As you reach for another drink, though, she steps forward and slaps it out of the air. Then she reaches for your mask and knocks it aside, exposing your face to her. "Your mother would
weep at the sight of you, Michael Osmund," she said, her voice a low hiss. Teeth bared, she drew her Huskblade and pointed it at your throat. "Do you seek death so sincerely?"
You chuckled. An ember of anger, dull and smouldering, finally lights within you for the first time in a very long time. Still reclining, hands clasped over your core, you glared sharply at the Succubus. "Of course. I actually dislike what I've become. What about
you, Alianna? Would she even recognise you, Handmaiden?"
"…No. She would not. And I will carry that cross gladly. But
you don't belong here. You are not
like us."
You laughed again, a sharp angry bark. "I have
never been like you. Just a filthy half-breed. An
abomination."
"A
gift. You, more than all your other siblings, are the result of
love. You wouldn't be born were it not for the will of the Font of Life and the Anathema. You and your brother alike. And your brother understood that."
"Mhm." You gesture with your arms. "And where is he?"
The former Handmaiden of the Everqueen, attendant to your mother, holds her tongue.
"Exactly. He's dead. All because of our mutual friend. Just like
she is dead. All because of our mutual enemy."
"…Yes, indeed. And I intend to make amends. But you… You need to start over. You cannot stay in Commorragh any longer, Michael."
"Oh? And who's to help me leave?"
"There will be a slave revolt in this sector of the Dark City soon enough," Alianna said certainly to you. She lowered her Huskblade, sheathed it, then looked out the screens of your spire overlooking the Crucibael. "In the chaos, you can escape. You know the Webway better than any Eldar alive. All you need is a ship – and there are plenty to steal."
You scoffed. A slave revolt. In Commorragh. "There are always slave revolts in Commorragh. Convince me that this one will be different."
"It will," Alianna said. "Believe me. Our mutual friend has begun to move."
"Has he? Come to finish the job?" You smiled, a frightfully cruel thing. "I hope he has."
Alianna frowned at you. Then, she shook her head. "You will see in fifteen minutes."
You closed your eyes, counting the seconds until you fall asleep.
----
Seventy-seven. That's how long it took for you to lose track.
But you awaken immediately, to a high-pitched whine and then the roar of a Dark Lance. Not only one, but many; you hear weapons fire across this part of the Dark City, the sudden outbreak of war.
But the one that woke you up, the loudest, throws up smoke in your chambers. Through the smoke, you see the silhouette of a giant cast in shadow and dust, wearing armour of tribal sensibility and carrying a large sabre on his hip. In his hands, however, is the very Dark Lance that tore through your walls.
"Sleeping?" The man asks in a little known dialect, before laughing with amusement and disappointment.
"Even now, still a slave in a cage."
"Better a slave in a cage than a slave with delusions," you fired back in that same dialect. Chogorian. As the smoke clears, the man strokes his wide moustache as he regards your words, before spreading his lips into a smile.
"Choice is what we make of it,
brother," Jaghatai Khan concludes as he extends a hand, which you do not take. "Right now, one lies before you: come with me, or be collected by destiny."
You frowned at the Primarch, the gene-forged Son of the Emperor who shares half your genes and one of the few to have ever won his freedom from the Colosseums. "My destiny is here. We talked about this." You glared at Alianna, who does not return your look. She is now blonde again, having washed the dye out of her hair, and the armour she wears is more modest and the greens and browns of the former Handmaidens. "Or did our mutual friend say something to you?"
"The Laughing God?" Jaghatai laughed himself, then shook his head. "I hear nothing from the Harlequins. I simply see a reason to finally act, because the signs are not for him alone to read. Vect knows who you are, brother."
"He's always known. I am treated more finely than most Archons for a reason."
"Only for half your heritage," the Khan said. "Now he knows the other half. Your mother's half." He inspected the energy on his Dark Lance again before returning to you. "You are no longer a trophy, Michael. You are a
threat. He will kill you the moment this distraction I've made ends."
"Good," you reply curtly. "That destiny is overdue."
"And your brother's dream, too," Alianna noted. "Yet you are content to languish."
"I have tried before. Each time, I was dragged back by Harlequins. What has changed?"
Khan and Alianna looked at each other, then back at you. "The Dominion fell," Alianna said solemnly.
"And apparently a sister of yours descended," Khan added, uncertain of what that truly meant. But your eyes opened slightly because
you did. "It is irrelevant. Cadia's already fallen. The Imperium is on fire now, and you are the only one who can quench that flame
and build something from the ashes."
"Like you." You scowled at Jaghatai. "Why are you doing this? You could have returned a thousand times over."
"And go back to the Imperium alone? You joke. The Dark City is still brighter than Terra." The Khan chuckled slowly. "Asides, I will not let this place stand if I can manage it."
"We both know you can't."
Jaghatai smiled at that. "Then come back for me, Firstborn."
"Piss off. We all know what he wants. He wants someone to run his empire for him. But I refuse to be his lapdog. Even I have standards."
"So don't be. You are Firstborn, not First Dog."
Alianna nodded at that. "George would have jumped at the chance to make things right."
You glared at her again. "George is
dead. I let him die."
"So make it right. Make it up to him. Rebuild the Imperium in your image." The Khan tilted his head. "What was it you once told me of? A Federation? There is no such thing now, but you can change that. You are more than his son or my brother. You are Son of the Everqueen. Heir to the Dominion." Considering his words, the Khan laughed. "Grandiose indeed… What a lofty lineage."
Alianna nodded. "Michael, in you lies hope of reconciliation. Of communication, of understanding. Your father wanted that once. And your mother wanted that until the end. All you need to do is try. Not even for yourself, or for anyone else. But because George can't."
Your mouth is dry as you are faced with a decision you have tried to run away from for over twenty thousand years. But in the end, there is only one decision you can make.
How irksome.
----
It is as both the Khan and Alianna said. This sector of the Dark City is currently mired in heavy fighting as the full force of Jaghatai's Slave Revolt washes over it. You doubt it will last very long, but Primarchs have a way of making the impossible a reality. Why, then, is he bothering to help you?
Your party of three crosses the Dark City easily, beneath prying eyes and heavy fighting. Patrols pass you by, and those that do not are cut down easily. Little can stand against a Primarch and a Handmaiden. You, on the other hand, have no intention to fight. Not right now.
How pathetic. Fighting has been your pathetic excuse of a life for twenty thousand years and more. Now you find yourself unwilling to draw steel on the battlefield.
"We are approaching the docks," Alianna said, the former Handmaiden leading the group. "There we will secure transport, and then--"
Her thoughts are cut short by a whisper in the wind. Alianna withdraws her step abruptly, just in time to avoid being struck by a thrown sword, one that seems to hum an unsightly tune. It wobbles, then rips itself free of the ground and back into the hands of its wielder. Wearing a mask that exposes one eye and her mouth and full lips, wearing a dress of scintillating colour and clear provocative design, flanked by the Incubi of her Kabal, stands Archon Aurelia Malys.
"Oh, Alianna," the Lady Malys drawls. "Why are you leaving, when there is Vect's dirty work to do?"
"Spare me your poisoned words, Malys. I am Drukhari no longer."
"Oh? You think that is a
choice." Malys brandishes her fan as well, obscuring her mouth. "Dear me. The Old Crone of the Wilted Rose finally acts. Has the guilt of tormenting your Prince finally broken you?"
"Yes. And that it doesn't break
anyone else is telling." Alianna drew her sword as well. No Huskblade, but the enchanted blade that was given to her when she became a Handmaiden of Isha, alongside the bow that has since been lost. "I am done with the hypocrisy of this empire. I will repent. And you
will step aside."
Malys snickered, cruel and sharp. The clicks of her tongue echoed across the docks of this sector. "So eager to fight. Archetypical
Wych. I don't care enough to face you, I'm just here to deliver a message to the Prince. From our…
mutual friend."
Your eyes widened, as did Alianna's. Jaghatai did not visibly care to react. You clenched your jaw and gritted your teeth, getting ready for whatever sick joke is coming your way.
"He says not to worry. He'll take care of the pink one, whatever that means." A pause, then Malys stepped aside. "There is a ship waiting. Small, but fast. It should bring you to the Eternity Gate in time. There should be no one else at the docks."
Alianna's eyes narrowed. "Why are you helping us, Malys?"
"Help you?" Malys laughed. "I help
myself. Indebting the Prince is only to my favour, as is getting him out from the thumb of little Asdrubael. Unless you think I should take him as
my prize, hm?"
Alianna glowered, but said little else, for all words were incriminating. You, however, stepped forward and said your first words since you left. "...Tell him I don't care," you said to Malys. The pink one can take care of herself. "When I'm done, I'm taking him to task."
"Ugh, how droll. I only deliver messages
once. Leave, Prince, before you bore me."
She and her guards departed shortly, leaving you three alone to mull over everything.
You turned to Khan, waiting for his own reaction. The Primarch shrugged and turned back the way you came instead. "If the docks are clear, then there's nothing for me to help with," the Primarch said. "Good fortune to you, brother."
"The docks could still be a trap," Alianna said after him.
"You have the King of Gladiators, Eldar," the Primarch said back. "Simply get better."
----
The ship was moored at the dock, as Malys said. You and Alianna were underway in short order, blazing through the Webway with hardly any in pursuit. It would be trivial for you or her to lose them in the labyrinthine paths of the Webway.
As you flew, however, Alianna's eyes remained glued to you.
"...Yes?"
"That was an entire Kabal. You took down an entire Kabal."
"Was it?" You genuinely were not certain. Those forces were pitifully simple to deal with. "I doubt it. They would have brought out more firepower if it was an entire Kabal."
"They
did. Did you miss the tanks, or the Trueborn, or all the Beasts you took down?"
You shrug. "I have a lot on my mind."
Alianna continued to look at you for some time. Then, she sighs. "Fair."
"The Eternity Gate will be more trouble than Commorragh. And everything beyond that moreso."
"Do you have a plan for it, then?" The Handmaiden asks.
"If destiny wants me to rule the Imperium," you say, "Then it will provide. Otherwise, I expect to be gunned down. You're free to leave before that."
The Handmaiden looks at you for one last time before shaking her head and muttering under her breath. You continue flying.
----
What awaited you past the Eternity Gate was not a fortified gunline manned by paranoid Custodians, like you'd hoped, but a force that was clearly awaiting your arrival. You and Alianna were swiftly escorted to the Golden Throne above the Gate by the Companions of the Throne, allowed to keep your weapons about you but kept under the watch of six Custodians nonetheless. They understood who you were, clearly. But you were still not trusted.
It seems the Custodians still remembered when the Harlequins killed some of their number to deliver a message, back in the days of the War of the Beast. If only they knew how little you cared for the company of the Laughing God yourself.
As you stand before the Golden Throne, however, you find yourself comparing it against your memories. The one before you is a mess of cables wound about a towering figure both literal and figurative, pathetic yet glorious, gleaming gold yet putrid to see. The robed skeleton in gold leaf and talismans sat upon a Throne too immaculate and vast for the tastes you knew him by, with none of the elegance and restraint that your more extravagant mother was all too happy to lavish her attentions upon.
Gone is the man who was both humble yet prideful, who was wise yet foolish in the company of his love. Gone is the father who both abetted your childish adventures and taught you discipline, who raised you well yet let you roam free. The Emperor is not Adam Kadmon, and the man that Astarielle loved is gone forever.
But the Golden Man remembers you, for all you would rather he did not. He speaks, his voice a booming commandment, familiar and omnipresent, everywhere and nowhere, powerful and powerless.
[You have finally returned, my child.] His attentions turned upon Alianna, though his eyes did not. Fitting, for he had no eyes.
[With one of the Aeldari.]
"She is a Handmaiden of Isha. She served mother, when she was recalled from exile."
Your father watched her for exactly as long as it warranted and no further, discarding Alianna from his mind promptly.
[Your return is timely, Michael Osmund. The creation of the Great Rift has split the Imperium apart and given the Four newfound influence into the Materium. This cannot stand. Mankind cannot be allowed to fall.]
"Can't it?"
[Do you disagree with my assessment?]
"Hardly," you glowered in reply. "I simply question whether it is a bad thing to let the Imperium fall."
[Its existence is necessary. No other force can resist the tides of Chaos. It must hold until my victory is assured. You are to ensure it does.]
Not even a choice. You chuckled darkly. "Then tell me. What is the principle weapon of Chaos?"
[The Warp,] the Emperor responded bluntly.
"Silly mouse. The Warp isn't all bad. It's down to intent. The real weapon of the Four is Fear. And it's a shame, because they don't even need to aim it to hit something important."
"Then… How do we fight fear?"
"Understanding. Compassion. Sympathy. Honestly, anything but more fear."
You snorted. "I see."
[So you do.]
"I am your oldest son. But I am not only your son. I am also my mother's son. Do you remember her name?"
[Astarielle. The Last Everqueen.]
Alianna gasped quietly. You pressed on numbly. "And I had a brother as well. A twin. Do you remember his?"
[George Osmund.]
"Correct. As he is dead, I must take on both our duties." Though fulfilling them will be a question for later. All that matter is you end this conversation quickly. "Do you understand what that means?"
[It does not matter. Will you be Regent?]
Your smile became strained. He truly does not care anymore, does he? "What do you think?"
