A/N: Woot, chapter 21! Let's go, go, go! :D

Book Two: Corruption's End

Chapter 21: Friends, Family, Honor

"You are the firstborn. The weight you have upon your shoulders is immense. I wish this were not the case, but rarely do the strings of Fate allow for personal choice." – The eldar Caelus Tou'Her, to his daughter.

"Ladders! Ladders!" The cry went up and down the walls of Shao-la, not two hours after the first assault. Gamma platoon was still recovering, mourning their latest losses and tending to their wounded. Delta had suffered the worst of it. They were down to half-strength, and there had been no time to rotate or reinforce.

The battlements rang with activity, boots by the dozens ringing against the stone as the Woadians manned their posts, ramming fresh cells into their lasguns.

"Emperor! They just keep coming!" Caolin cried, already spearing the enemy with the crimson lances of his long-las. The stubber roared to life, raking the advancing battle-lines with a torrent of high-caliber rounds. The weapon was murderously effective. Yang fed it as Theni fired, letting the ammo flutter through her hands as she guided it into the weapon.

Yet the black-green beetles continued their advance, weathering the Woadian's wrath with unnatural determination. Hundreds of heretics fell to the withering fire, but they still bore their enormous ladders aloft, a tsunami of muscle, steel and darkened wood.

"Get some!" Ros cried, pouring lasbolts into the crowd. It was like shooting fish in the barrel, except there were so many fish you couldn't even see the bottom. Their foul war-cries assaulted them, the words incomprehensible yet gut-churning all the same. "Shoot the carriers!" She shouted, pointing at the men who bore the crude ladders.

A burst of fire from the stubber cut down two of them, splitting the wood apart and churning the armored forms into chum.

"Fuck you!" Theni shouted, muted by the stubber's staccato cry. Further down the wall, a heavy weapons team set up a heavy bolter. Explosive shells tore into the lines, sending up geysers of dirt and human-ish meat. Bullets ricocheted off the ramparts, the untrained rifles of the heretics focused on the defenders. The noise of it all was tremendous.

"Stand firm!" Jorvis roared from within the gatehouse, his bolt pistol barking with unerring precision. An arrow whizzed past Yang, before another scraped her helmet.

"They're here! Bayonets! BAYONETS!" Ros cried, hurling a grenade over the ramparts. Theni adjusted, the stubber punching into the struggling attackers. For every ladder-team they cut down, two more took its place. A grappling hook arced over the battlements, scraping against the stone before finding purchase. Yang poured aura into her arms and tore it loose, hauling the rope and its thrower to the top of the wall. He screamed as Woadian bayonets tore him to shreds.

The ladders ascended, carrying aloft a cadre of frothing necrotic warriors at their tops. There had to be a hundred of them. Yang caught one of the warriors as his ladder came crashing down. Using his momentum and her tremendous strength, she tore him loose and sent him hurtling behind her, sending him to shatter apart on the streets of Shao-la.

She emptied her lasgun down the ladder, each shot throwing an attacker off its steps. Smoking and steaming, her lasgun coughed its last beam before dying away.

"Dry!" She cried, realizing. She'd spent the last of her cells. "I'm dry!"

"Me too!" Ros cried. "Where's our fucking ammo?" She slapped Kella on the back of his head. "Call in a resupply ASAP! I want a crate of cells on that elevator in the next five seconds!"

Mael's rocket launcher fired, ripping into another group of enemies. The ladder they manned broke apart, spilling its contents onto the grounds below. Yang ripped her power sword free of its scabbard, relishing the crackling hum as it activated. A berserk and rotting form crested the walls, a snarl spilling from his sharpened teeth.

With an arc of blue light, she decapitated him, and his lifeless body fell to the earth. With a roar of effort, she pushed the ladder over, where the warriors that ascended it crushed their comrades beneath them.

"It's jammed!" Theni screamed, his fist hammering the stubber. It's jammed!" Another ladder slammed against the walls, directly in front of him. "Oh fuck! Fuck!" Yang helped him, prying the gun open. She slapped it, and it spat out a bent casing. "Come on, come on, come on." Theni hissed, laying a fresh belt of ammunition into the weapon. He slammed the breecher down and racked it, just as the first attacker reached the ramparts. He squeezed the trigger and the man fell apart, drenching them in blood.

"Eat shit!" Yang cried, hacking the man behind him in half. A berserker hauled himself over the battlements, landing among the Woadians closer to the gatehouse. He screamed an infernal prayer, his wicked sword whirling around without rhyme or reason. No opening presented itself within the man's crazed swinging, and her comrades' hesitation allowed a contingent of warriors to break through their defenses.

Yang dashed over, catching the berserker's blade across her chest. Her aura stopped the blade in its tracks where it scraped against her flak armor. It still sent pain flooding into her flank. Roaring, she sent a wild slash across his chest, splitting him from neck to navel. Caolin aided her, hauling his bayonet into an attacker, pinning him to the wall. His long-las barked twice, boiling away the flesh that sat on the end of its bayonet.

Asgeg neglected her bayonet, preferring to mash her enemies under the brutal strength of her augmentic arm. While her comrades fought tooth and nail to stem the attackers, Yang set about destroying the ladders, using her power sword to cut rungs and split frames. When a spear thrust itself under her flak armor, she felt her semblance broil to life, begging to be unleashed. This battle was a joke. Unbound, she could butcher these men with no effort. As it was, she was stuck fighting a war of attrition, doing her best to stem enemy reinforcements while her comrades bared their souls.

The enemy salient broke under the pressure. Flanked and outnumbered, the besiegers died by the dozen, torn apart by Woadian steel. Dashing forward, Asgeg clasped the last ladder, grunting and screaming as her metal arm strained to push it over. She succeeded, toppling the construct with a final agonized cry.

"I guess your new bionics come in… handy." Yang said, grinning through the blood that washed over her face and armor.

"I… Oh Holy Emperor that was terrible." Asgeg replied, sitting down with an exhausted breath, a wide smile on her face.

"Ammo's here!" Syvr cried, pointing towards the elevator. Ranshan children darted forward, carrying wicker baskets chock-full of recharged cells. The grateful woadians accepted them at once, scrambling to get their hands on fresh cells. Restocked, they opened up, cutting down the next wave of ladder-bearers with a resurgent fury.

Two of Weiss' Valkyries swept low, raking the crowded battlegrounds with explosive shells, cutting huge swathes of death into the attackers. Under the scream of their jets, the assault wavered and stalled. The ladders made easy, slow targets, and without them, the beseigers could not progress. As the bodies of their dead piled up, the heretics broke, running back to their lines. Jeers and taunts hounded their backs, hewn from the throats of relieved Woadians.

Yang took a deep breath, wiping the blood from her face. They're still just probing us. Grinding us down to our last frayed nerves. We must have killed thousands today, and there's still no end to them. She looked over her friends, and her face went pale.

"Mael!" The man was laying in a puddle of blood, stunted gasps of horror and pain escaping him. A blade had opened him up, cutting a deep gash across his chest.

"Unhhwaa!" He bellowed, half-tounge working. "Unnn! Unnna! Unna!"

"Medic!" Yang cried, running over and sliding down next to him. The wound was weeping profusely. She tore his armor off, peeling away the blood-soaked tunic beneath. "Medic!" She cried again. Her tongue ran over her lips. Battlefield medicine wasn't her specialty, but if a medic didn't show, she was all he had.

Her hands pressed against his flesh, desperate to stem the flow of blood. She pumped aura into the wound, for whatever good it would do. For those who hadn't unlocked their aura, it was like throwing a bucket of water onto a raging forest fire.

A pair of small, wrinkled hands fell on hers. She looked up in surprise. An old woman stood over her, adorned with a bloody aporn and nurses' grab. Determination and decades of age pulled the features of her face taught. A black band with a thick gold stripe wrapped itself around her arm.

"I care now." She said in broken low gothic. Barking orders to some similarly garbed civilians that had ascended with the ammunition, they placed the wounded onto canvas stretchers. Tearing a brush from her apron, the old woman marked Mael's forehead with a black line, and her lackeys carried him onto the lift. She rang the bell at the top of the elevator, and it descended, burdened with the wounded that lay upon it.

Yang approached the woman as she offered salves to the walking wounded of Gamma platoon, who accepted them with thanks. She tapped her shoulder.

"Is he gonna make it?" She asked.

"No know." She replied. "I gave him hurry-order." She said, tapping her forehead, the same place she'd marked Mael. "Best I do." She turned to administer more help before Yang rested a hand on her shoulder, desperate to get her attention.

"Is there a hospital down there?" Yang asked. She should have gone with. The woman nodded.

"Heal-tent. Family runs clinic… now help run heal-tent." Yang sighed. Hopefully, these primitive people could help her friend. It had been a nasty wound.

The elevator returned, carrying even more civilians. They bore supplies and ammo for the Woadians, in addition to skins of water and gel-packets. They all wore black armbands, and set about their duties with all available haste.

"Thanks, by the way." Yang said, offering her canteen to the weathered woman. She accepted it with a small smile, and took a small sip of water.

"Our own thanks for defeating Yǒng-lo." Yang blinked.

"The what-now?"

"Yǒng-lo." The nurse repeated, gesturing out at the enemy. "No translate well. Best guess… 'those who sing with shit in their mouths'."

"Ah." Yang said. The old woman's deadpan translation would normally have her giggling, but she couldn't find it in her to smile. "We're happy to help." She nodded, looking out over Shao-la, her eyes flicking over the tents that spread themselves long the base of the walls. Yang could see a stream of wounded shuffling into a big tent close to the town square. Be okay Mael. Please.

"Us too." The old woman said. "It is Len-wu. We do not run from Len-wu."

The glittering glory that was Il-Kaithe greeted Maion as she returned through the webway. Though one of the most militaristic of its craftworld brethren, its spiraling wraithbone halls did not belie the crusading nature of its inhabitants. She breathed deep of the filtered air. Their mission to exterminate Josephus' advance party had been a success. The secondary objective to determine the his motives had been, according to her Exarch, a partial success. The war party shuffled along, bearing the spirit stones of their fallen brethren aloft on a ceremonial ark. Partial successes rang hollow in her pointed ears.

Those that tread on the Path of Grief wept for the fallen Scorpions, lilting voices carrying a lament to the artificial sky of the mustering ground. Their music flooded Maion's ears, singing of heroes' deeds and noble deaths.

The words, beautiful though they were, tasted like ash. Lorian had died a noble death, but many of his comrades had not. Some had their backs broken over the knee of an unnatural brute, others torn apart by boltguns, burst apart before they could strike. No Scorpion deserved such a fate. Not even Lorian, small-minded and foolish though he had been.

Her Exarch led them into an adjoining hall, the procession of warriors silent and purposeful. Their commander the Autarch must be informed of the results of their mission. A lift bore him to his meditation chambers, revealing the resplendent sprawling cities of Il-Kaithe through its plated windows. Maion's fingers caressed the glass. Seeing her home in its entirety never failed to provoke emotion within her. Two billion lives were encased within the craftworld, bustling and living and breathing in its magnificent wraithbone metropolises.

Gifted with uncommon skill, the bonesingers of Il-Kaithe had wrought grand cities with their craft. Spiraling towers reached towards the false sky, connected to their brethren by a nexus of sparkling white bridges. Smaller buildings filled them, packed within the soaring circular structures. White-barked trees lined the grand roads, their leaves a bloody crimson. Pylons studded the craftword, flanked with floating platforms that served as a hive for the craftword's fliers.

The sight was lost as the lift ascended, reaching the Autarch's chambers. He was alone, meditating. White scrawlings covered the floor, circling his seat of meditation. Long crystal windows let in a warm, glowing light.

"You've returned." He spoke aloud, to address the war party as a whole.

"We have." Maion's Exarch replied, his words uneasy and untried. It had been months since he last spoke.

"Have you dispatched Josephus' war party?" He asked. His speech was calm and measured, water given form as spoken word.

"Yes, Lord Elladar. After examining their corpses, I discovered a hint regarding their master's intentions." Her Exarch replied. Autarch Oron Elladar turned to face them. He was large among his kin, towering over his subordinates by several heads. Corded muscle shone through his loose-fitting stola, his eyes a fridgid blue. Among the warriors of Il-Kaithe, there were few more renowned then Elladar.

"A hint, you say? That is a careful choice of words, Celadel." She could feel her Exarch's mind roil at the use of his name. She smiled behind her aspect helmet. He's made him uncomfortable.

"Not even the mon'keigh spawn knew what his master's goals were… but he had a basic idea." Her Exarch paused. "They seek an artifact. One of incredible power." The Autarch considered this for a moment.

"Knowing he seeks an artifact is more knowledge then we left with. I must ponder this further."

"More pondering, Lord Elladar?" The Exarch's words cut through Maion, as well as her comrades. She knew her leader's opinions on the Black Crusade, felt him roil at Il-Kaithe's inaction. She did not expect him to vocalize such musings. "Abaddon threatens us on an unprecedented scale, and even the Webway is under assault. The mon'keigh Ahriman seeks the Black Library, and is choking the Webway with Harlequin dead. Chaos is at large in the galaxy, and its bane, Il-Kaithe, stands by and watches. Ulthwé, as always, stands against its legions. You took the title of Autarch, yet you let its facilities grow stagnant. It is time for war." Her Exarch finished, impassive behind his helmet. Elladar turned away from the war party, once again gazing out over the cities of Il-Kaithe.

"We will march in due time, you have my solemn word. But, my old friend, your war-mask blinds you to the wider scope that encompasses this conflict. Rest now, for I will have need of your Shrine shortly. I regret that words are all that I can bring to bear at the moment." Bowing again, her Exarch spun on his heel and departed, the cue for the war party to follow.

The journey back to the Shadowed Sword Shrine was a long and silent one. Their Exarch's words had struck a chord within them. Maion agreed with him, and restlessness gnawed at her heart. That the armies of Il-Kaithe had not marshaled in strength worried her. If there was a better time to strike at the forces of Chaos, she couldn't imagine it.

She sighed. Autarch Elladar was wiser than she was. Perhaps he saw the red strings of fate that wound their way through the Crusade that was at their doorstep. Perhaps he had yet to seek the Farseers' judgment. Uncle Sylvis' last prophecy was dire, she remembered.

The shrine was waiting for her, an emerald wraithbone pagoda with ebony roof-tiles that reflected the stars. It sat atop a small stepped pyramid, surrounded by rock gardens and training fields. Ascending the storied steps, Maion took in the Shrine's ethereal beauty, the majesty of age and legacy. Within, the halls were sparse and soaring, lined with exquisite wooden floors. At the end of a long chamber, she found her storage unit, an empty jewel-studded rack.

She shed her armor, placing it in its storied container. According to the runes inscribed above the rack, she was the four-hundred and fifty-first Warrior to wear the armor into battle. Her war-mask was last, the aspect helmet sitting atop her armor and weapons, glaring at her with its cruel, furrowed eyes. Her days as a warrior were on hold until she donned her mask once more.

She bathed herself in the springs, scrubbing at the grime that had coated her. Maion relished the cleansing water as it soaked into her bare skin, her ruddy waist-length hair spooling around her as she bathed. Refreshed, she dressed herself in an immaculate white stola. Around her neck, she wore a jeweled scorpion emblem that declared her allegiance to her Aspect Shrine. The emeralds shone and danced as the light from the Shrine's ever-burning torches played off their countless facets. Beside it sat the crest of the Tou'Her, a moon clasped by two hands.

With a formal, unrequited goodbye to her Exarch and her comrades, she left the shrine, seeking out her home on the outskirts of Dolone. The crowded streets were dispersing as the night-cycle began, the sky growing dark as the lights that gave them their false sun dimmed. Still, music filled the streets, spilling out from the throats of a hundred singers, languid strings echoing against the wraithbone buildings. It was several hours before she came upon her family's compound.

It was a collection of twelve sprawling buildings, with four more planned in the near future. Unlike many of the neighboring estates, most of the buildings were squat and flat-roofed, with long panes of sparkling glass.

Wraithbone walls separated it from the rest of Dolone, elegant ivory spines that reached into the night sky. Aunt Rhona had built them, the bonesinger separating the compound with several decades' worth of lilting song. The Tou'Her family was in no danger, but the citizens of Il-Kaithe did not regard them well. They did their best to accommodate their neighbors and keep to themselves.

The doors swung open, revealing the atrium, the central courtyard around which the other houses were centered. Sculptured fountains trickled water into basins wrought from precious metals, covered with inscriptions and shining gems. Ivy hung from the walls and roof, her mother's rooftop garden overflowing with life. A soft tone filled the courtyard, the wooden fountain arm ringing against a wraithbone bowl.

Her home– never failed to bring her peace. The family patriarch strode the garden, his shoulder-length onyx hair bound into a braid, wrapped in golden netting. She went to join him, climbing the marble steps that jutted out from the side of the building. Reaching the rows of resplendent growth, her fingers caressed the luminescent flowers that bloomed in the night sky.

"Greetings, Brother."

"Maion." He said, bowing his head. "Welcome back." Of the many Tou'Her that trod upon the Path of the Warrior, Mirodir was the most accomplished. He belonged to the Dire Avenger Aspect Shrine, a Shrine that exemplified the god Khaine's aspect of a noble and merciless warrior. "How fared the mission?"

"Well enough. Though not as well as I had hoped," she spat, relishing in the taste of anger on her tongue. Her war-mask too often kept her emotions bound behind its exquisite finish, and her comrades' practiced stoicism grated on her.

"I am sorry to hear that."

"How are our siblings, brother? I've been away for too long." Mirodir sighed, his long fingers curling around the garden railing.

"We are surviving. Phyladra and Asuirel have been called upon. Juros is recuperating from wounds suffered during a raid we conducted. Cilla, Suri, Amolos and Lauriel are in Guardian training."

"Truly, war is upon us." Maion replied. Many of her siblings were scattered across the Aspect Shrines of Il-Kaithe, preparing to receive Abaddon and his legions with fury and wrath. Some walked different Paths, but more felt the light of their soul drawing them to the Path of the Warrior.

"These are dark times, Sister. Soon, Elladar will gather us in force. Il-Kaithe will march to war, in a scale never before seen."

"As we should." Maion said. Mirodir shook his head, pointed ears flitting in and out of his ebony hair.

"I fear for the future. We -the Tou'Her- will be called upon as never before. Am I ready? Is Mother's trust in me misplaced?" Maion patted her brother's shoulder, brining a measure of calm to his countenance.

"We know she made the right choice. We would have no one else lead us." He smiled at this, teeth shining in the torches that lined their mother's garden. The wooden arm rang once more against the wraithbone basin, filling the gardens with its clear and calming tone.

"No matter what, we must not fall. The Tou'Her have a destiny placed upon our shoulders. We are the future of our race, even if the rest of Il-Kaithe is too blind to see it. If we are exterminated in the coming war…" He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I fear not only for the future of our home, but of the Eldar as a whole."

"That is partly why I have returned. I have no intention to join the Infinity Circuit any time soon... the time has come." She said. Mirodir nodded sternly.

"I agree. It is time you learned your Semblance." Maion smiled, looking out over the twinkling lights of Dolone. They were the descendants of the Traveler, the Soul-Wielder. Despite her brother's reservations, they would face down the coming doom with all their might and furor. To do otherwise would bring our growing family to shame and ruin.

A/N: There's heresy afoot... extra heresy. :D

Hope you guys enjoyed! What are your thoughts/theories/reactions? I always love to hear what you guys have to say! :D

The only real note I have is that I have no real idea what eldar society and family life is like, so if there's a problem with what I've written, please let me know. (Outside of the last pararaph... you're just gonna hafta deal with that! :D) I imagined the family structure to be very similar to feudal Japanese clans or the Roman Pater Familias concept, so that's what I've presented here.

Review Replies:

DanAbnettFan1997: Thanks so much, man! Always happy to hear from you! :3

The Walrus of Eden: Hahaha glad you're enjoying it! I guess we'll see what the enemy has in store...

OBSERVER01: Nope, definitely a Nurglite!

Gafgar: Yeah, they tried bum-rushing the city again... You know, I think something's awry...

Inquisitor Azreal: Oh wow, I'm blushing! hahaha thank you so much for your kind words! I'm really happy you're enjoying yourself so far!

reality deviant: Thanks!

RED Roman Pyro: I disagree. They don't really have the perspective about the guard that we do. They don't know that this is what the guard is like. Plus, it's not like they can just shut down their grief over losing friends because 'it's expected'.

Dayanne Rockstar: It makes her sad as well! Glad you're enjoying yourself!

Skepsis Forever: I answered this in RED Roman Pyro's response, but I'll repeat it here: the Woadians don't actually know what being a guardsman entails (i.e. horrific casualties), since they're pretty new at all this. Also, they're human beings, they're not immune to grief just because they're expected to die. I will admit, they have it much better than most Regiments.

Enuncia: Oh, holy crap, Enuncia! Thanks for dropping a review, I'm a big fan of Bunny and the Bully! Fans of Cardin x Velvet, look no further than here! :3

Thanks so much you guys! You rock! Can't wait to see you again next week! :D