The shield or the maiden.
It starts, like many things do, with pain and sacrifice. An endless fight against the tide of ruin. An old,
old story of defiance. A holy site, the resting place of one who had shone with the true light of the ruler of mankind in ages past, beset by daemons. Much of the story was familiar, deception and treachery leaving the prize exposed. But this is a new age, and even old stories have new twists.
Cursed impalers spoke ruin and rot, only to break upon warpforged steel as the living shield stood fast, and traitors who had marched beside Horus died utterly to an unseen spear as the stalker of nightmares took his prey. Shield and spear, hunter and protector, stood against the dark and held it back. A pair of warp spawn, daemon princes of the devouring goddess, stood before the burial chamber, brought forth as the final sacrificial act of the Arctodons' Chief Librarian.
The great shield that can deflect any blow fights beside the great spear that can pierce any defense. An old well-worn dance, and for a time it seems once more they shall prevail, the spear drinking deep of the blood of prey while the shield guards its fragile shaft. But they are known, they have of late been too aggressive, too willing to dance their old dance. Their foes have learned the steps.
A long blast of stone melting bile aimed at the prize the shield has come to save, deflected with contemptuous ease, but in that handful of heartbeats, the shield is not guarding the spear. The Daemon strikes, plague iron biting deep, and an eternal hunt comes to a slow, rotting end. The shield does not scream, does not cry, does not hurt. It is steel, through and through, the wetness on its faceplate cannot be tears for steel does not weep. But the dance changes. Without the spear to strike down the foe they can rain blow after blow down upon the shield. The right arm is the first to go, shattering in a sacrificial blast of steel buying precious time. It is followed hours later by the left, the daemons' second exhausting itself to shear it from the shield, its effort repaid with a lethal head-butt.
Next, an eye is rotted from its steel socket, then a jaw melts from the unclean throat it has torn. A knee shatters, a foot breaks. At last, all that is left is the shield's will. Pure power burned to hold back all who would approach. It is this final barrier the daemons are battering when the tomb's guardians return, striking with faith and fury. The shield crawls on bloody stumps to bring its bladed rim down upon a broken daemon, ensuring it would
never threaten its charges again.
Next is a choice. As the shield's master weeps over its broken form, the sun approaches. The Shield finds the praise odd, it is a shield, it protects, but the choice is easy. She can be healed, made whole and hale, or she can be repaired. Remade into an unflinching unfeeling protector one that will not
fail again. The shield chooses, its master weeps anew, and those it bled to save begin a pilgrimage.
The way is long and arduous, and their guide strange. But they are mighty, and the reliquary they bear shines with holy light. The journey takes an age, a year, or perhaps a day. Time in the warp is fleeting, but they make their journey. Arriving at a crucible fierce and ancient beyond understanding, it is there they beg an audience with the Last Saint. They kneel before his wizened form, and offer him their charge. The sacred bones they had come so close to losing, telling him the story of their near failure.
The saint smiles, and forgives them. The bones are just that, bones. The good they do inspiring their guardians is more important than seeing them marginally safer. Then they tell him of the shield's choice, and the saint frowns. With utmost care, he removes the ring fingers of the reliquary, and anoints them each with a drop of his blood. He bids them be used for the shield's repairs, and gives them a message to pass along. The guardians return home, their strange guide smiling and their charge burning with renewed light to match the renewed faith in their hearts. The journey takes days, or maybe years, but they arrive home the day before they left.
Thirteen and one gifts are given to Valanar to see the shield remade. A drop of power from each surviving god, and one more. Bone and blood of the Emperor's saints, a rarity beyond rare in this dark age. He starts by reforging the shattered ankle, then he mends the broken knee, the jaw he replaces with the bones of a great beast, the eye with pure crystallized insight. Then he begins replacing the arms, a true masterpiece, and the greatest working. The shield's master had seen him free, and the shield had stood against the dark unfailingly for the good of all. His pride will not allow him to return such services with anything but his best work.
The shield wakes. Sharp new teeth feel strange in her mouth, and she now sees so much more as her new eye buzzes in her skull. Her arms feel warm. Her gauntlets have changed, highlights of gold mark the familiar black warpsteel, and a furious glow surrounds them. With a thought the warpsteel retreats, exposing her new arms. They are beautiful, a warm, subdued gold, etchings of every god's icons worked into them. They look almost alive - the joints are hidden, the etchings could be mistaken for tattoos, and the whorls natural as a woman's palms. She wonders at them for long minutes, before she notices the shadow.
The owner of her soul stands beside her. She looks human, wearing her oldest face. She'd been crying, pangs of something the shield should no longer feel pick at her heart, as she reached up to wipe away the tears. Her lord's face is warm, and soft and familiar, things that a shield would have no need to feel. As the shield stops frozen in confusion, an old man's words whisper through her mind. "She needs more than a shield to protect her." Then the maiden pulls Zahhak into a tight embrace and at last allows herself to weep for what she has lost, and for what she had tried to give up.
@Durin a thinkg about zahhaks blackened. many things to swordo, anders110, doomed wombat and Torgleson for helping polish this. 
