THE HISTORIAN: III
Forgive me.
My pen doesn’t falter this time because of the hand holding it, but the heart behind it.
Some of what I could commit to this parchment would cross the boundaries of what my former master would consider acceptable. Some of it, honestly, I just have no wish to tell. Where is the line between what a storyteller must relay to those that read their words, and what is a pain so personal that it’s better never laid down for the eyes of others?
Some memories are so vivid I fear they’ll be the last things I think in the seconds before death finally claims me. Would that be a grim reward for a life of loyal service, or would it be fair punishment for the things I’ve done?
Once, I broke a mother’s face with the butt of my gun, so I could tear her child from her arms. History records this as a necessary act in a vile time, but…
I think that will be the one. That will be the memory I summon with my last breath. I’ll see her wide eyes again, excoriated of human sentience, fear-shot through with animal panic. I’ll hear her wordless, bestial screams again, and I’ll deserve it. Yes, there’d be justice in that.
If you’re reading these words, then you already know Amadeus lived, only to die later. What, then, should I write? The months of his regeneration? The gathering of the Armada at Elysium, to face the Storm Tide? Kartash’s truth?
Vadhán asked the same question, in a different way. He came to me again a few days ago, to read through the pages already written. He remained here as he did so, in this very chamber, his face scarred and scabbed from his most recent battles, his eyes flicking over each parchment with ruthless speed. So many chronicles cite the war-gifts of the Adeptus Astartes without fully realising the mundane means in which they differ from us: such is Vadhán’s cognitive speed that in the time a human might read a single page, he’s scanned and comprehended ten of them.
On several occasions, I saw him tense or give a bitter smile at the words on the vellum. I didn’t ask why. I just watched him read.
‘Those were dark days,’ he said at last. He looked at me curiously in the moments after reading. It was as if he didn’t know me at all, and hunted for some kind of insight into who I was and what I might be thinking. Strange, given that he’d just read my thoughts committed to parchment. He should know me better than ever before.
‘What? What is it?’
‘Amadeus.’ He said the name with a moment’s effort. ‘It’s strange to read, to know with clarity, just how you saw him.’
‘I didn’t hate him, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I don’t know what I mean,’ he admitted.
I smiled in the candlelit gloom, because I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard a member of the Adeptus Astartes honestly confess to a moment’s private doubt.
‘He was what his Chapter made him,’ I said. ‘Just as you’re what your Chapter made you. The Mentors demanded perfection, and he answered it by becoming a weapon instead of a warrior.’
‘Do you miss him?’ Vadhán asked suddenly.
‘No.’ I softened the truth by making my voice gentle. ‘No, I don’t.’
He had nothing to say to that. Instead, he gestured to the parchments on the table.
‘Dark days,’ he repeated.
‘Are these days any brighter?’ I countered.
‘We will make them brighter.’ Such belief. Such casual defiance. But his newest scars, on skin and ceramite alike, were from Arikeus.
‘Is the Exilarchy coming?’ I asked, meeting him eye to eye. ‘Arikeus has fallen. I’ve seen the hololiths. I’ve seen the dispersal of our fleets, drawing close to the Ophion System in defensive blockades. Is Nemeton next?’
‘Just keep writing, old woman.’
I ignored his fond tone. ‘Why not answer me? Do you respect me so little, after all this time?’
He looked around the stone chamber in which I write all these words. Winter on Nemeton is cold, even down here. And it’s dark beneath the oceans, so indescribably dark. If power failed in this fortress, men and women would go mad in the absolute black.
‘Nemeton will never fall,’ said Vadhán.
‘I’m sure the Lions once said the same thing about Elysium.’
Instead of chastising me, he nodded. ‘They did, aye, but they were wrong. I’m not. We’re mustering to break them before they reach the system’s edge. The light of Ophion will never shine on their warships’ corrupt hulls.’
‘You were never so poetic,’ I accused him. ‘They sound like the High King’s words.’
Vadhán chuckled. ‘They are the High King’s words.’
We sat together in the comfortable silence of two souls that knew one another well. I was the one to break it.
‘I’ll write the story you want, Vadhán, don’t worry. We’re close to the end of the first chapter now.’
He ruminated on that, running an armoured palm over his bearded mouth. ‘How will you end this first part? With Amadeus’ regeneration? With the fall of Elysium?’
‘No. Throne of the God-Emperor, no. I’ll write about those days, but the chapter won’t end with either of them. Elysium must come later.’
He grunted something that passed for agreement. ‘I suppose, in truth, there’s only one way to end it.’
‘Aye. With Ekene of the Lions.’