A/N: Thanks to my friend SharkGlue for helping me out with this one. Enjoy the double-length chapter!

Book Two: Corruption's End

Chapter 73: Communion

"Who am I?" - Jauna, former Matriarch of the Tou'Her

Compared to the rest of the Black Library, the residential area in which Maion's Grandparents made their home was almost normal. She sat on the balcony of her own domicile, sipping at a flute of summervine as she watched the Soul-Wielder and her husband pack up their belongings. Even though she was across the way, she could still see the easy smiles they wore in each other's presence, see the way they loved each other.

Maion finished the rest of her drink. Of all the things she expected to find at the Black Library, her Grandmother and an impossible dilemma were not among them.

This was likely to be their last night aboard - according to Captain Ellamár, repairs to the Void-Whisper were approaching completion. Months of work performed in a matter of days.

Maion decided that she had her fill of the Black Library. Even so, she wished she could push away the decision that loomed over her like She-Who-Thirsts looms over eldar whose blood was free of human color.

The kasrkin woman was growing increasingly agitated, awaiting news on the Chariot. Even Yang was starting to pace, stalking up and down the endless rows of bookshelves. The assassin - her shadow - did not attend her person.

Grandmother had invited them all over for one last dinner before their departure. Even the kasrkin Lieutenant. Maion could hear her fretting two houses down, endlessly polishing her lasgun and whispering prayers to the Emperor.

Maion twirled the flute in her hands, watching the last scarlet drop dance across the glass. Smiling, she flicked it free, watching it soar into the air before it hit the gravity shift and fell upwards.

It landed in the fountain above her, a small drop of red swallowed by silvery gunmetal.

"Nice shot," Asillar called from the lift. As it dripped from him, he strode forward, his gait lacking its usual arrogance. He was haggard, his shoulders stooping as low as Yang's.

Another claimed by the Black Library, Maion thought with a grimace.

"Asillar," she said, greeting the Swooping Hawk. "You've made yourself scarce these past few cycles," she added, leaning on the rail of her balcony, summervine flute clenched between two fingers.

"Whatever passes for a cycle on this damnable ship," he added. A joke.

That he was joking with her spoke volumes about his mental state. Asillar stopped, looking up at her from the cobblestone path that wound its way through the residential area. He turned on his heel and made to leave, awkward and alone.

"Some summervine before dinner?" Maion asked, the words torn loose from her throat before she could reclaim them.

Asillar stopped. It seemed as if he was trying to decide if he had truly heard her words.

"I could use a drink," he admitted eventually.

"We are dining with the mon'keigh tonight," Maion reminded him. "Best have several."

The Swooping Hawk smiled, a weak upwards turn of the lips. "Perhaps the spawn of mon'keigh possess a measure of wisdom after all," he said. His words carried no teeth, not one ounce of vitriol.

Maion dropped her flute, letting Asillar catch it.

"Fill mine on your way up," Maion said. "The spawn of mon'keigh have powerful thirsts." She watched him pass below her, heard the door part to admit him. In the domicile that sprouted from the wall above Grandmother's house, she heard Yang talk her way through a memory, filling in the memory module on the of meeting her enigmatic mother - the Shapeshifter Raven Branwen. Pyrrha had not known her well - and subsequently, the Tou'Her had always found her source of mystery.

But Maion could not bring herself to listen. To care.

The sliding glass door behind Main parted, revealing a weary Asillar carrying two flutes brimming with summervine.

"Alaitoc vintage," he said, holding up one of the flutes. It was rich and red. "Hope you don't mind," he said, passing it to her. She accepted it with a nod of thanks.

"Generous," she noted.

"A gesture that means less than nothing, considering how it was acquired," Asillar said, joining her at the balcony.

"What are you having?" Maion asked, a poor attempt at polite conversation.

"My parents' creation," he said before taking a sip. "This place got it down to the atom," he remarked, shaking his head. "Isha protect me from the Black Library"

"Your parents brewed summervine?" Maion knew something was eating at him, but she could not help but ask.

"They did," Asillar said. "And they still do. Their creation is simple and plain, nothing like what you hold now."

Maion smiled politely and sipped at her drink.

"My family has always been... sedentary," Asillar said. "They walk the paths of artisans and musicians." A rueful smile. "My Grandmother walked the path of the Comedian."

Maion could not help but laugh, nearly spitting some of her drink loose in the process. The thought of brooding, sanctimonious Asillar being the descendant of a comedian was almost too much.

"Truly?" She asked. "Which one?" The Path of the Comedian was one rarely walked in the halls of Il-Kaithe - there had been six in the last five hundred passes, and only two of them had been women.

"Relianna Bright-Smile," Asillar said, smiling genuinely for the first time since he had appeared. He drank deep of his parents' summervine, the only one they never had a hand in creating.

"Relianna?" Maion asked, astonished. "I adored her work when I was younger! Your Grandmother was a treasure."

Asillar's eyebrow went skyward. "Surprising to hear that from a Tou'Her."

Maion laughed, drinking once more. True to his word, Asillar had poured her a delicious vintage.

"Because she mocked us?" Maion said. "So what? Her wit was impeccable. Even they enjoyed her work," she added, gesturing towards her own Grandparents. "'Thin skin is a sign of a thin mind', Grandmother always said," Maion added.

"I would expect nothing less from a mon'keigh," Asillar said. They drank in peace for a few moments, reflecting on their ancestry.

"Your Grandfather must have had a quick mind," Main tried.

"I wouldn't know," Asillar said, red eyes meeting his redder drink. "Grandfather is here somewhere," he said, sweeping his arm across the residential area. "Wearing a mask," he clarified.

"Oh," Maion said. The only thing she could say. "I am sorry," she said. Part of her wanted to reach out to him and offer him a measure of comfort, but another, pettier part shouted it down. He has spent the entire voyage shooting me ugly looks and contemptuous sneers. What lets him enjoy pity now?

"I might join him," Asillar said, his gaze far away.

"What?" Maion gasped, astonished. "I mean... what? Here? Right now?"

"Duulamor cornered me. Offered me a chance to escape my hatred, my anger."

A thousand questions raced through her mind, half of them moving her lips but none of them coming forth. He is abandoning the mission? Has he lost all hope that his Path will alter?

"Joining the Harlequins is not the best way to cure your anger," Maion said eventually.

"So says the Tou'Her," Asillar said. "I have few friends, and my family is full of artisans and actors. A comedian," he added. "They do not understand what it is like to… what it's like to hate. To feel so much hate and anger that you cannot think of anything else. What advice would they have for me? 'Try our latest summervine?'" He sighed, twirling his flute between his fingers. "I did not expect you to understand. You come from a family of impeccable warriors. Isha be praised, you even told us the reason you walk. And you were right - it is alien to me."

"Do you really think it is best for you to join your Grandfather?" Maion demanded, stepping towards the Swooping Hawk. "When we are so close to leaving?"

"Garnet saw blackness in our future, did he not?" Asillar said before taking a long drink. "Perhaps mine was simply endless service to the Laughing God. There are worse fates," he said, with a gentle shrug of his shoulders. The feathers on his wings rustled, a pleasant metal tinkling.

Maion sighed, drinking deep of her own summervine. After the Black Library vanished back into the Webway, Ahriman would no longer be a concern, and the Chariot's location was known. In truth, the war-party no longer needed Asillar.

It only needed her to make a decision.

Asillar joined her at the balcony railing, leaning on it with heavy, burdened arms. Red eyes parsed each house, but he saw nothing, so focused was he on his own mental anguish.

"You have your own burden," he said, not turning his head to face her.

"I do," Maion allowed. And it weighs me down a good deal more than your own angst, she neglected to add. She drained her flute, frowning. That is not fair.

Yet it was not wrong.

She watched her grandparents prepare their house for dinner, setting dishes, plates, and modest decorations on a long wraithbone table. During dinner, Grandmother would ask her to make her decision. Maion knew this.

But she did not yet know her answer.

Yang was emblematic of what mon'keigh chould be, yet something they could never be. Perhaps for the best, but it was likely that she and Weiss would enjoy a meteoric rise through the Imperial ranks, and have voice in how it directed its efforts, no matter how small.

Could she secure a promise from Yang to use the Chariot responsibly?

And what about Weiss? She was an Inquisitor, after all. And what of the Mechanicus, who would scrabble and claw each other to pieces for little more than a look at the precious artifact? Who could say that Interlopers would even see it again after they recovered it?

If they even recover it.

Asillar drank in silence, content to let her ponder.

And Grandmother's designs… if they came to fruition, what it meant for the eldar was tremendous. If she was successful, why not give the mon'keigh a fighting chance? Il-Kaithe would not care - it would be far away. Impossible to reach.

Even if Grandmother's plans failed, she could not deny that the fate of both mon'keigh and eldar were intertwined. If the Imperium fell, the craftworlds would follow, no matter what the bellowers from Biel-Tan argued.

Or leaving things in the hands of mon'keigh could mean that doom will arrive that much sooner. Grandmother was not omniscient, after all. She alone did not pull the strings of fate, and she was no farseer.

"Maion!" Yang called, hands on her hips. She was descending from her house, eyes dry.

Maion had been so deep in thought, she hadn't heard her. "Hello Yang."

"You okay up there?" Yang asked.

"Just having a few drinks before dinner," Maion answered. Asillar grunted in concurrence. "We'll be down shortly."

"More summervine?" Asillar asked.

"Please," Maion said.

/

Yang didn't know what the two of them were up to, but neither Striking Scorpion nor Swooping Hawk were in great shape. They disappeared back into the house after waving to her. She waved back, shrugging aside the troubled looks that plagued them both. It seemed as though the Black Library had gotten to them too. At least the communique they got from Captain Ellamár meant their stay would soon be at an end.

Still no word on the Chariot.

Pyrrha kept pushing the question back - she'd promised information, but hadn't delivered. Perhaps that's what this dinner's about. Chera couldn't be ignored much longer either - any longer, and the Lieutenant would probably explode with frustration.

Yang's knuckles rapped on her friend's door. She put on a smile, readied herself for what was to come. Hopefully Chera could keep her Imperial dogma in her pants long enough for the war-party to have a nice meal.

"Yang!" Caelus said as he opened the door. "Come in, come in!" He waved her inside with a wide grin. "You're early."

"Wanted to make sure I got a big plate," Yang answered. "You have no idea what months of guard rations can do to a woman."

Caelus shuddered, a histrionic show of sympathy. "I certainly cannot. Why don't you have a seat? Get something to drink?"

"I'll do that," Yang said. By the Emperor did she need a drink. She made her way to the dining room, where a long ivory table awaited her, laden with simple silverware and Mistralan folding cranes for decoration.

Pyrrha sat at the head of the table, deep in conversation with Amat. She twirled a crystal glass full of a dark red wine, curiosity written plain on her lined and withered face.

"Hey," Yang said, waving at her friends.

"Yang," Amat said, extending his glass to her. It was full of rich golden ale, and a thin foam moustache coating his upper lip. Yang giggled and tapped her own lip. "Hm?" He asked. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Your lip, man," Yang said. Amat touched his lip.

"Oh. I see."

"Having a beer?" Yang asked, pulling up a chair.

"I just asked the machine for the beer we had on Gartenwald," Amat said. "It's identical," he muttered, clearly displeased at the witchcraft of it all, but unable to deny that it was damn good. Yang smiled, patting his shoulder as she sat beside him. It warmed her heart to see him like this.

"Amat's been asking about life on Il-Kaithe," Pyrrha said, putting her glass down. "I have done what I can to enlighten him."

Amat nodded his thanks before taking another sip of beer.

"What are you having, Yang?" Caelus asked from the kitchen.

"Woadian mead," she answered immediately. She hadn't had the chance to try out the Black Library's food and drink dispenser, and the Woadians never shut up about their mead during their long transits between war zones. In the limited confines and resources afforded by the Ascendant Dawn, only amasec was possible.

Caelus placed an ice-cold mug on the table and slid it her way. Yang caught it and drank deep. It was sweet and rich, the taste of honey enriching it beyond simpler ales. A hint of bourbon was there too, likely a holdover from the barrels that stored it.

Well, stored the original drink. This was only a facsimile, but a damn good one.

"Fuck," Yang whispered, taking another swallow. "That's delicious." She passed it to Amat, who took a hearty mouthful. He nodded his agreement, eyes lighting up at the taste.

Pyrrha said something, but Yang didn't hear it at first.

"Huh?"

Pyrrha smiled wide. "Just wondering what you would like for supper."

"Eh, I'll think of something. Not too hungry, really." Not after Duulamor's play. Her smile faded. It was no simple play that the Harlequin had shown her - it was a vision, a heady, maddened, unforgettable dance full of truth and dire warnings. Still, the colors roiled in her mind, and She-Who-Thirsts' terrible horned visage mocked her with its empty black eyes.

Yang took a swig of her mead, basking in its sweetness for a brief, wondrous moment. Pyrrha's house was much cleaner than the last time she'd been here for dinner. The piles of books and towers of notepaper were gone, the mess of dirty dishes and laundry entirely vanished. Now there was little more than a few overstuffed duffel bags leaning up against the window that overlooked the residential area.

And through the window was Chera. Trepidation, disgust, and hope warred across her face, each one struggling for control, and none gained any ground. Yang sighed. As alien and strange as the Black Library was to her, it was doubly so for the kasrkin Lieutenant. She'd been raised to hate the alien her entire life, and now she was forced to live among them, have dinner with someone she'd been trained to think of as traitor to her very species.

It would be like being told to make nice with grimm, Yang realized.

Caelus welcomed Chera warmly, swinging the front door wide to admit her. Yang never thought someone could look more awkward or apprehensive than Amat in a social situation, but Chera was outdoing him handily. Poor woman.

Coming to the Black Library and being faced with everything here was a lot, almost too much for Yang. Never mind a kasrkin. Maybe it would have been better for the Lieutenant to stay behind.

"Something to drink, Lady Lieutenant?" Caelus asked, the embodiment of hospitality.

"I'll get it myself," Chera muttered. For a moment, violet eyes met their mirror as her gaze bored into Yang. But the moment passed quickly.

"Amat," Chera said.

"Lieutenant," Amat replied.

Pyrrha said nothing, sipping on her drink in amused silence.

"Just missing Garnet and Obsidian, right?" Yang asked. She was sure Maion and Asillar were headed in shortly.

Pyrrha nodded. "They are likely deep in debate, or sparring. Perhaps both."

Yang chuckled, sipping on her drink. "They sound like me and Ruby," she said.

"I thought much the same while I was raising them," Pyrrha admitted. "Garnet was a firebrand in his youth - much like someone else I know," she added, wearing a weary grin on her wrinkled face. "But Obsidian was ever the dour boy, always so serious and quiet."

She sounded sad when she said it.

"One hell of a family you raised," Yang said, raising her glass.

"We raised, thank you very much," Caelus said as he led Chera into the dining room. The Lieutenant was not amused.

"What is the purpose of this… dinner?" She asked, placing her hellgun on the table. Its tip was burnt black from countless battles, its grip stripped free of paint. It had seen a lot of action.

"We are soon departing," Pyrrha said gently, gesturing for the kasrkin to sit. She did, albeit reluctantly. "In a universe so prone to endless war, a moment of peace is always welcome, however brief. Especially among ones we love," she added as Caelus squeezed her hand. "Do you not agree, Lieutenant Marius?"

"Feh," was Chera's only response.

Pyrrha smiled. "Worry not, young Lieutenant. You have come here for information, information you shall not be denied."

"For your sake, it better not be," Chera replied, drinking deep of some blue-hued sports beverage.

The air went cold.

"Threats, Ms. Marius? Amongst my family?" Pyrrha said, her voice low and dripping with power. "Bold, if ever so foolish."

Yang's glass shattered in her hand, soaking her arm in Woadian mead.

The moment was lost.

"Uh… sorry," Yang muttered, brushing slivers of glass off her hand. None of them managed to draw blood.

"It's no problem," Caelus said genially, stepping around Chera with care as he dabbed at the spill with a cloth.

"I'll get another," Yang said, licking her lips. The sheer spike in Pyrrha's aura... it felt like my chest was collapsing in on itself. Judging by Chera's wide eyes and flared nostrils, she noticed it as well. At least it didn't escalate, Yang mused as she excused herself.

She-Who-Thirsts' twisted visage flashed in her mind once more, a brief vision of the Harlequins' macabre play.

Sighing, Yang filled a new glass with more Woadian mead. Through the slim kitchen window, she saw Maion and Asillar approach, apprehension and indecision ruling them both.

"And a shot of whiskey," Yang muttered. The machine obeyed, momentarily replacing the mead with a stream of chestnut-colored liquor.

When she returned to the table, things had quieted a bit. Chera's hellgun still dominated the table, but it went untouched. The kasrkin lieutenant sat with her hands in her lap, violet eyes focused intently upon them.

"It appears my Granddaughter is here," Pyrrha said wistfully.

Yang squeezed past her ancient friend, lightly tapping her frail shoulder. Pyrrha patted her hand in return. Maion shuffled over to the table, and Yang returned to her seat next to Amat. Asillar hesitated when he saw the hellgun on the table, begging off for a moment.

"What an odd company of fellows are we," Pyrrha said, once he had gone. Maion lovingly, stroked the Mistralan papercraft, pulling on its tail to make the wings flutter. At least, that's what they did on Remnant - this one let out an indignant squawk and fluttered from the Striking Scorpion's hands.

Yang watched it light atop Chera's head, plucking up strands of hair in its beak. A quick glance at Pyrrha's amused grin confirmed her suspicions - she had not folded the cranes by hand.

Chera did her absolute best to ignore the animated papercraft, and her fist shook with effort. Amat watched it all, entranced by the paper bird. Gently, Yang placed one in his hand. There, the bird nestled, at home in the synskin palm.

"A neat trick," Asillar noted, pulling up a stool for himself.

"Please get it out of my hair," Chera said.

Chuckling, Pyrrha stroked the bird's neck, and it ceased its attempts to secure kasrkin hair for a nest it would never build. Instead, it lighted on a single crooked finger.

"We are as this paper," Pyrrha said, the light of joy leaving her face. Her eyes locked with Chera's. "Outwardly simple, yet far more complex than appearances suggest. And we are fragile."

At her final word, a flame kindled into being on the paper-bird's wing. It shrieked in panic, desperate to extinguish itself, only serving to further fan the flames. In seconds, it was consumed.

And then it was no more.

"You saw the folly of the eldar, did you not?" Caelus asked, ignoring the smell of cinders that filled the dining room. No one replied. Both Asillar and Maion stared at their feet, radiating ancestral shame. "Yang? Chera?"

Yang blinked.

"We saw a play. More than a play," Chera answered. "Duulamor showed us the Fall."

"Then you know the price of arrogance," Caelus said. "The cost of self-indulgence and neglect."

"What's your point?" Chera asked.

"We understand your hatred of us," Pyrrha replied. "Of me. But you must realize that I do not belong in the Imperium."

"My Lady is no heretic," Chera countered. "And... neither is Yang. They're Witches, sure, but their sin is forgiven in light of their service to the Emperor. You have no excuse."

"You are correct," Pyrrha continued. "And I confess it fully - According to the Ecclesiarchy, I am a heretic. What was the punishment for heretics again?"

"To be ripped apart, limb from limb," Amat recited, still studying the paper craft bird that snuggled into his palm. "The remnants burnt to ash. And pissed upon, if Woadian traditions are consulted."

"My fate," Pyrrha said, nodding. A hint of a smile on her face. "Simply because I fell for a roguish eldar with no brains to speak of and a heart too big for his breast."

"Seems to be a weakness of yours," Yang said, to scattered chuckles.

"Even so, I am a heretic," Pyrrha said. "A heretic that has worked tirelessly to stymie the arch-foe, sweat and bled and sacrificed so that the dark gods would go impotent and unheeded, their power rendered pathetic and weak. I have killed thousands upon thousands of heretics, thousands more that thought they did the Emperor's bidding, but unknowingly served the arch-foe. I have broken daemons upon my spear, damned them in their thousands back to their accursed home. Tell me, Lieutenant Chera Marius, do I deserve to die for that?"

All eyes turned to Chera, who swallowed.

Pyrrha, however, ignored the kasrkin's plight, instead dragging a finger across the table, scribing a rune from the burnt bird's cinders.

It was an eldar shape, yet Yang could read it still - 'hope'. Judging by Chera's reaction, she could too.

"Your hellgun is right before you," Pyrrha said. "You are amidst xenos, witches and a heretic. Use it. Cut us down."

In the corner of her eye, Yang saw Amat reach for his exitus pistol. Gently, she laid her hand atop her friend's. No.

Amat's hand rested atop the grip, but he did not remove the weapon from its holster. Just in case, he seemed to say. Maion caught his movement, her emerald eyes shifting for a moment. For a moment, they glowed with concern. When she saw his hesitation, they were filled with something else entirely.

"Do I deserve to die?" Pyrrha repeated.

Chera opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted - "The Chariot is on the planet White Horses, in the Segmentum Obscurus," Maion blurted, standing.

Silence. Chera's mouth hung open, while Amat's reaction amounted to a blink.

The door burst open, revealing a scowling Obsidian and grinning Garnet. "Hey everyone," Garnet said, "what did I miss?"

/

As artificial dusk faded into synthetic night, Yang relished the small moment of peace she'd managed to steal from the Black Library. The moment of success. Despite all the hiccups, they'd managed to learn the location of the Chariot, and now all that remained was the task of claiming it. Gently, Yang stroked her chin, feeling for any lingering damage. Nothing.

Her time here had accelerated her already speedy healing ten-fold. She grinned. After weeks of sitting around on her ass, it was finally time to kick Josephus' teeth in. It wouldn't be easy, but she'd learned the value of caution - perhaps far too late than preferred, but she'd learned it regardless.

For now, she could shelve Pyrrha's offer, push it to the back of her mind. Even if it was slight, there was a chance Josephus knew something about Ruby. Yang would beat everything she could out of the fucker before he died.

Then she could make a decision. The decision. Briefly, she pictured her life of Il-Kaithe. A life spent fighting for the eldar. With the eldar. Becoming like the Howling Banshees, reining in her compulsive, blood-spattered nature, replacing it with simple, easy grace. She pictured the blissful silence.

A small wraithbone cabin near the Tou'Her compound, and someone to share it with. She'd come home to some impossibly beautiful alien, run kisses along their elegant pointed ears. A little domestic perhaps, but that was the appeal - it was something different, something new, a way to explore the stars in a way that didn't come part and parcel with serving the Imperium.

A fresh start.

The hard part was knowing she could not enjoy a domestic fantasy for long. There was a good chance the higher-ups on Il-Kaithe would force her to fight against the Imperium before they departed. Fight against humans, humans who were just doing their best to survive. The thought of having to fight and kill people like the Woadians turned her synthetic stomach.

A sudden crash shattered her introspection. Instincts kicked in - location? Above her, Amat's place. Disturbance? Broken table, shattered light. Activating her aura, she sprang from her spot on the balcony, effortlessly rotating when the gravity shifted.

She smashed down Amat's front door with the heel of her boot, coming upon a sight she'd never thought she'd see - Amat was drunk.

How is that possible? When I left, he was fine!

He turned to face her, feet stumbling ever so slightly. The top half of his synskin cat-suit had been peeled away, revealing skin so pale it was nearly translucent.

"Yang?" He asked, puzzled by her sudden and violent entrance. "What are you doing here?" His words were slower than usual, but spoken with absolute clarity and confidence.

"I heard a noise," Yang started, trying to process what was happening. "I thought you were in danger... are you drunk?"

Amat scratched at his stubble. "I believe so," he said eventually. "Motor functions are heavily impaired. Ability to complete mission severely limited."

Yang started forward, reaching out for her friend. He looked lost, unsure.

He looked like he was in pain.

"I didn't mean to drink so much," he said, his voice wavering, his face as blank as ever. "Stupid. Irresponsible. Never should have happened. Xenos... Emperor-damned xenos wine," he mumbled, turning away from Yang before tripping over his own feet.

She caught him, hooking an arm around his exposed chest.

"Easy there, Amat," she said gently.

"I just... I just wanted to know what it was like," he said. At first, Yang thought he was referring to his drunken state, but as he tried to put his synskin back on, she realized it was something else entirely.

"I just wanted to be out of it. Forgot... forgot what it was like to feel air on my skin. I... oh Emperor, I'm a idiot."

"Hey now, none of that," Yang said, nausea overcoming her. She'd never seen Amat in such a state. He never let himself go, even when he let his guard down around her.

And now he was a mess.

"You know what," Yang said, "you were right. Take a shower, get that suit off for a bit. You'll feel better after, I promise."

"I hate this," Amat said. "I'm no Vindicare. No Vindicare would let this happen."

"Shower," Yang reiterated. "Self-pity later."

"Oh," Amat said. "I suppose you're right." He lumbered forward, leaning on Yang as he did so.

"How much did you drink?" Yang asked. "I didn't think assassins could get drunk."

"I thought so too," Amat explained as Yang led him to the bathroom. "Never happened before. It tasted good, so I just kept drinking. Thought I'd be fine, you know?" He sounded so sad. Yang hated that.

"Well for fuck's sake, you didn't know," Yang said, opening the door to the bathroom. It wasn't much different than the one in her place - a squat toilet beside a simple sink and open showerhead.

"Quit beating yourself up about it," she continued. "Nothing's gonna happen to me here. You're off-duty, as far as I'm concerned."

Amat considered that, eyes parsing his partially undone cat-suit. "If you say so," he said eventually. A pause. "Thanks."

"No problem," Yang said, leaning him up against the wall. "This is gonna be your first shower, isn't it?" She asked.

"I think so," Amat said. "I'm excited."

Yang laughed and turned on the water. It sprung forth immediately, crystal-clear and warm like bathwater. Say what you will about the eldar, at least they can make excellent amenities. On board the Ascendant Dawn, she'd be lucky to get hot water.

"You won't need help getting out of that, will you?" Yang asked, raising an eyebrow at her friend.

"Ah heh heh," Amat slurred, grinning ear-to-ear. "I don't think I'm that drunk."

"Disappointing," Yang teased, flashing him an impish grin. Even though his synskin suit left little to the imagination, she wouldn't mind seeing it off him. Or-

"Yang?" Amat asked.

"Right!" Yang said, patting his exposed chest. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."

"You're a good friend," Amat said as she opened the door to preserve his privacy. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Yang's heart nearly stopped. She didn't want to hear that kind of thing, not from him, not with Pyrrha's offer dangling over her head.

"There's a towel on the counter," she said.

She closed the door behind her, staring out at Amat's living room. Already, a handful of canvases sat on elegant easels, marked with brilliant paints and sketch marks. Different prayers, she realized. Even though she was artistically bankrupt, she knew good work when she saw it.

"Holy Terra," Amat exclaimed from his shower. "This is amazing!"

Yang stifled a giggle with her hand. "Drink some of that water man, it'll help you out," she shouted to him.

"N'kay," was his reply.

Yang turned her attention back to Amat's paintings. One grabbed her attention - it was her, confident and assured as she strode across a mythical battleground. Above her, the Emperor smiled gently, His light shielding her from harm.

A prayer to keep me safe, she realized. He cares. A lot.

She looked back at the bathroom door, wondering what she'd done to the Amat she met that fateful night in Shao-la. Is he happier like this? He looked so lost at dinner, robotically filling his mouth with food and wine. Xenos wine. The conversation washed over him like water, and he'd slipped beneath its surface.

Yang moved onto the next painting. What if the temple wiped his mind again? What would happen to Amat? Would he even be Amat anymore? She swallowed. What if he wants his memory wiped?

Would she let him? Was it her place to let him? Yang felt sick considering it.

The next painting stopped her thoughts in their tracks. It was an Imperial Naval Captain, a woman in a resplendent uniform and - Yang never thought she'd say this about Imperial technological augmentations - beautiful headwires, inlaid with radiant gold that complimented her soft brown hair. Though she stood at perfect attention, radiating power and authority, the master of her ship, the crucible of violent action… she wept. Long sparkling tears trailed down her face, each river of salt perfectly placed by a careful brushstroke.

Where every other painting was somewhere between a sketch and a full painting, this one was nearing completion. Only a few details remained absent: the bridge window showed nothing but black void, and the sheathe tucked into the Captain's belt lacked details.

Yang reached out, her gaze drawn to the woman's face. It looked… so familiar. The jawline, the eyes, those lovely, engrossing eyes. They were orange like a sunset, only notes of hazel left to-

"Yang."

Yang nearly leapt out of her skin. She spun around to see Amat, once more clad in his synskin. His hair was wet, his composure lacking the drunken affectations it had possessed mere minutes ago. His face was blank. How long had she been staring at the painting?

"Who is this?" Yang asked, gesturing at the painting behind her.

"Mother," Amat said. He sighed, a weight crushing his shoulders. "I barely did her justice."

"How did you…" Yang searched for the right words. She stepped forwards, hoping to comfort her friend. "She's beautiful, Amat. Looks just like you."

Amat smiled at that, dabbing at the studs above his eye with a towel. "Yes, I suppose so. You're too kind to me. Always so kind."

Yang recoiled. That was the first time anyone had told her that since she'd arrived in the Imperium. "You okay?" She asked, reaching out, offering the assassin a lifeline.

"Better. Augmented liver works fast," Amat said, accepting her outstretched hand at the wrist. "It was… stupid of me to worry. New situation. Panicked. Unprofessional. Unlike me. Who am I?" He asked.

"Amat-"

"What am I?" He asked. "I'm no Vindicare. I'm not 'Amat'. 'Amat' isn't a real name. It's a moniker. I drink xenos wine and break bread with xenos. I consort with witches. I have thoughts I shouldn't. I get drunk. I-"

"Amat!" Yang said, throwing her hands up. "Amat, stop it. It's okay. Breathe deep. I'm… I'm here. I'm here for you." Emperor protect me, he looks like he's about to start crying. "What's wrong?"

"Duulamor." Amat said, spitting the name out with ample contempt. "He made me an offer," he explained, disengaging from Yang, looking over the painting of his mother. "An offer to stay in the Black Library and learn of my past."

"Amat… you…" she wanted to tell him he couldn't take the offer. That she needed him.

He turned to face her, eyes watery yet free of tears. "I won't accept it. How could I?" Before a wave of relief could crash through Yang, he continued. "He knew it the moment he asked. So did I. But he knew that I'd want to. Fucking xenos," he said, picking up a paintbrush and inspecting its hairs. "He just wanted to watch me suffer."

"Pyrrha wants me to live on Il-Kaithe with her," Yang blurted before she could stop herself. Amat said nothing. He didn't move either - a perfect, silent statue of synskin. "But… I don't know if I want to take her up on it. I should know, but… I don't." She said.

Amat put his paintbrush down. "Three years ago," he started, before lapsing into silence. He shook his head. "A year ago, I would have turned around, put my pistol to your head, and pulled the trigger. That is Amat, that is who the Vindicare temple built. That is the person I was. Now I'm something else. And I don't know what to do."

"You're not gonna kill me, I hope," Yang said with a hint of a smile. Amat shook his head, a slight smile to match Yang's.

"Not for that. I'm not that Amat any more. I'm something new." He looked so much like his painted mother, it was uncanny. "It's frightening. And I don't know what to do with fear. It's all so foreign to me. Feeling, emoting, being. Now the only thing I can offer you is platitudes and prayer. Things I know you detest."

"Not gonna beg me to stay?" Yang asked. "Gotta say, I'm a little disappointed."

Amat chuckled, before blankness returned. "Sorry Yang. I wouldn't know how. I… don't want you to go, of course. But I won't stop you if you decide to leave. Every fiber of who I used to be is screaming at me to try and stop you, but that would only succeed in driving you away. I just want you to be happy, I guess."

Yang flung her arms around him, if only to hide her face away. Once more, Amat said nothing. Instead, he simply put a hand on the small of her neck, a comforting, relaxing weight. He did not shy away from her sudden touch, accepted her closeness without a word of protest.

A million things pulled at her, thoughts that demanded her attention - Pyrrha's offer, Ruby, the Imperium, the Thirteenth Black Crusade, Weiss, the Warp… they all melted away. Here there was just Amat.

"This Library sucks," Yang said. She was happy to see Pyrrha, but couldn't imagine that it would bring so much pain to the both of them. Was it even worth it?

"I agree," Amat replied. "At least we'll be free of it soon." He mumbled something else, but Yang wasn't sure what it was. He'd started mumbling, and his face was fading away, too blurry too see.

Haha what? He seemed so far away.

A massive spike of pain had filled her mind, one that stole every ounce of strength from her soul. Her legs crumpled, the will to support them vanishing. She couldn't even scream. The pain said things too, told her that victory was at hand. Finally, finally, finally

FINALLY.

Blood spurted from her nostrils, and she slumped in Amat's arms, falling away from her friend.

"YANG!" Amat screamed.

Amat. Amat the Vindicare Assassin. Her friend. Yang reached out for him, but found her arms strangely disobedient.

"Yang, are you okay? Emperor protect me! Yang!" He shook her.

SUCH ARROGANCE.

No, that thought wasn't hers. No, no, no… no, it belonged to

"Ahriman," Yang whispered.

A/N: Well fuck a duck, look who showed up.

I want to take a moment and thank everyone for sticking with me over this longer, more dialog-focused arc, and hell, over this story's run so far. We'll be returning to the ultra-violence shortly. I really appreciate you guys being here, it means a lot that you guys enjoy my story so much.

I'll see you guys on the 28th, for the four-year anniversary of the fic! (Four years!)